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You

Inevitably, you will go somewhere, some informal gathering of friends, perhaps a party of some sort. You will discover that you are surrounded by people your age who all seem to be doing pretty well in life: active, successful, progressing in their art (whatever that word may be construed to mean), and content in a non-complacent way. And it will slowly make you feel like crap. Particularly the morning after.

You look squarely at your day ahead, at your day-job-slash-career (the thing you do for money), your achievements (or things you hope to achieve within a certain time period) and you have realizations of which many are negative, self-critical, sometimes despairing.

You know the colder months do not treat you well. You know that you suffer silently from something which begins with a “d” and rhymes with “repression”, and that there’s sweet-dick you can do about it short of spinning the midway crown-and-anchor wheel of pharmaceuticals. You also know that there is no cure, that winter has only begun, and that your public transit reading material is a collection of essays written by someone who suffered similarly and recently committed suicide.

It is one of those moments when the warmest of jazz songs on the radio does not warm you, that despite the windows in your apartment the January daylight is too cold. It is one of those moments where you look outward for signs of optimism, but in doing so you also make yourself susceptible, where both good and bad pass freely through your unarmed perimeter. That, given your disposition, you see more bad than good (or even worse, emptiness; after all, even “bad” is a symptom of humanity). You know the good is there, but for some reason it is not as visible or vibrant as “good” should be.

You find solace in writing about it in second-person (a format you’ve been wanting to try) and by an unfinished roll of film in your camera and the possibility that there are things outside that could be captured as means to portray these unanswered questions. And that a long walk will do you good.

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Miscellany: November 18, 2008

  • Ingrid is approaching world domination. Her plaudit-winning reinterpretation of the cover for Cormac McCarthy’s The Road has not only received international online acclaim (Bookninja, The Guardian, Boston Globe), but her work was featured in Sunday’s New York (bloody) Times Book Review. Print and online editions (with the unfortunate misspelling of her last name in the print edition – needless to say this took a little of the shine off of the accolade. They will, however be printing a correction in an upcoming edition and the online version has her name spelled correctly).

  • I’ve sent the first revised draft of my novel to a few selected readers. Unofficially looking for feedback and consensus that what I’m doing is worthwhile. Nervous. Anxious. Perhaps as a result of this and other things, I’ve been struck by some interesting what-if’s regarding a new book idea. I must be a masochist. At least it doesn’t hurt.
  • I turned 38 on Saturday. I share that day with Ed Asner and Tilda Swinton (they were not in New York, unfortunately – I tried).
  • Two films I worked on opened within two weeks of each other. One is a franchise horror film (of the “moral error leads to violent suffering” kind) which traditionally draws massive audiences and box office gold (if not good reviews). The other is (wait for it) a gore-Goth rock opera which is only receiving an eight-theatre release (if not good reviews). They represent what I’ve been working on for the last twelve months. Working in film/TV is “what I do for money”, a distinction I wish I didn’t have to make, save for the fact that the quality stuff (often Canadian) doesn’t pay my rent. It’s a quandary punctuated by background horror-movie funhouse screams.
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Place Post Here


(author pictured above, with new cellphone)

Dear readers,

Sorry for the lack of posts lately. Been working hard completing one film and drumming up new jobs in the meantime. All is well here. I promise to provide no less than two book reviews in the next while, as well as assorted thoughts for your perusal.

It’s a long weekend in Canada, and Tuesday is a federal election (!)…and we’re having a couch delivered! So, yes, new posts will be coming…just not quickly.

Hang in there.

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Art & Suicide

As reported in the news over the weekend, spilling into the papers this week, American novelist/essayist David Foster Wallace took his life. He had hung himself in his home, only to be discovered later by his wife.

To be honest, I’ve only read one piece by Wallace – an essay in an issue of Harper’s almost ten years ago on the release of the revised Oxford English Dictionary – and yet it left an indelible impression on me. It made me laugh out loud with its quirky honesty and his style was unique and strong; in short, it made me take notice of writing and writers at a time when it simply was not on my radar (for various reasons). I always swore I would read one of his books, but the prospects of picking up the one he is best known for, Infinite Jest, all 1,000 pages of it, was intimidating. It still is, but that has more to do with the fact that I’m in the middle (or, factually, just past the middle) of War & Peace with Joyce’s Ulysses staring at me from the bookshelf longingly.

Wallace’s suicide is the second in the last few years by an artist who’s work I’d kept an eye on. The first was that of American humorist and performer, Spalding Gray, who – it is assumed – leapt from a ferry into the Hudson River and drowned. I saw him at Massey Hall (one of the most venerable venues in Toronto) many years ago. As with Wallace’s essay, I remember crying with laughter during Gray’s droll monologue.

Which brings us to the question of artists and suicide.

Someone on Bookninja had this to say in reaction to the story:

In my work (psychiatry) I’ve seen so many creative people who are so tortured inside. I’ve often wondered if, given the choice, they’d choose peace over creativity. Maybe suicide is exercising that choice.

I thought about this. I wanted to respond, because I had something to say, but in the end I decided it would only be a tangent and while tangents are allowable in most online situations, an obituary is not exactly the place for one.

The answer is that artists do not want peace, or at least an artificial peace. To do so would be to abandon the tension which is inherent in art (and science, for that matter). In their art, over the course of their lives, artists attempt to resolve this tension; to articulate what it is that is at the centre of a storm which motivates them to create. The tension is the artist. Them against an outside world which does not work. Art becomes a philosophical expression of an existential dilemma. With this as the case, how many artists would willingly barter peace for creativity if such a trade were even possible? Not many, I would wager. What is peace when art allows you to reach higher than ever before, to touch the cookie jar of euphoria with your fingertips?

Like Wallace and Gray, I too suffer from depression. Their passing gives me pause, to put it lightly. Last night over dinner, Ingrid and I had a long talk about this – Wallace, Gray, art, and suicide – and she used a quote from Wallace that she’d read in one of the obituaries, that suicide happens very slowly. He is right. It is not, as commonly portrayed, an impulsive decision, but rather something which gestates very gradually within the mind of the sufferer. The danger is that this internalized dialogue, over the course of years, may eventually lead to the rationalization or acceptance of suicide as a logical option or self-fulfilling prophecy.

Art, however, is not depression, and depression should not be construed as something which only afflicts those in the arts. When you are depressed, anything can inflame the situation. Both the fire and the water used to douse it. It is for this reason that I take a moment to bring this up. So that people may understand what is, for lack of a better term, a mental illness. Allow me to suggest a wonderful series in the Globe and Mail, perhaps the best collection of stories and first-person recollections on the subject to be found in any newspaper.

I tip my hat to Wallace, to Gray. I mourn for the grief experienced by their loved ones.

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Work and Therapy

My “day job” in film and television (which often bleeds well into the evening, depending upon what part of the process I’m involved with) is to supervise what is known as “post production” (sometimes hyphenated as “post-production”). This is the rather Deconstructivist (as opposed to deconstructionist) process which involves picture editing (which virtually assembles the footage and sound back into a comprehensible story, if all goes well), sound editing (including sound effects, dialogue replacement, foley – that’s the man with the track pants and high heels – and music), and, depending upon the project, visual effects (whether they be corrective or something more snazzy involving CGI and goblins running down an exploding volcano).

It can all be extremely interesting – even if you’ve done it for years, sometimes you just can’t wait to see the end result – or nightmarishly absurd. It really depends on the project, the people involved, and the budget. Working in post, as opposed to working on the set during production, I get to see the various bits that were shot slowly congeal into what eventually gets delivered to the broadcaster or film distributor. I end up seeing the shows I’m working on many, many times before anyone outside gets to see it once. Regardless of whether it is a sensitive, intelligent Canadian documentary or a Hollywood torture-horror film, they all kind of dovetail into one another. I sometimes wish the sensitive, intelligent people in the documentary were in the horror film. Sometimes I wish the people who work on horror movies were profiled in a sensitive, intelligent documentary.

Big or small, there is a lot of money hanging on any given project, so the pressure put on those, like myself, overseeing the process can be profound. Stress is like alcohol; it can be habit-forming as a motivator, but it can also engulf your better reasoning. Thankfully, I don’t think I’ve worked on a project where I haven’t been able to openly poke fun at it with my peers. Laughter is a wonderful antidote, particularly when you don’t have a creative stake in what you’re laughing at; the important thing is making sure that it isn’t the mirthless, bitter laughter of someone whose sanity has been frayed by deadlines and intermittent bullying. If the latter is your case, you need to step away. Soon.

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Getting Better: Take It Outside

Writing programs, whether they be of the one-day or the week-long-getaway variety, can be good or bad things. In particular, I think anyone who is a closeted writer (ie. short stories and poetry hidden on your computer like pornography) and feels the need to affirm (or reaffirm) their direction should consider – at least as an option – a writing program. Provided you do some research and find a good course, a writing program allows you to unload your craft in front of others, receive honest feedback, and illuminate your shortcomings as well as your strengths.

Of course, there are always risks. Your teacher/mentor may not get along with you at all, for stylistic or personality-related reasons. You could be a poet in a room full of prose writers. You may find your peers to be full of themselves. You may find yourself an unintentional participant in a Self-Congratulations Society, where no one will accept or voice constructive criticism.

I lucked out, to put it briefly

Many years ago, I hooked up with a Toronto-based group, headed by someone who ran a web-based forum for local writers. It was ok. It wasn’t what I wanted then, though of course I can articulate it perfectly now. The person coordinating the meeting I attended (and as an aside, being someone who coordinates a couple of groups now, it can be a thankless, dispiriting job) was not, at least on the surface, someone focused on the art or spirit of writing. She seemed more interested in writing events (contests and the like) rather than writing itself. This, I contend, is not wrong, but rather – being the sensitive philosophical type I am – it simply didn’t jive with what I wanted. But even this is good, because the more you investigate the more you learn about what you need versus want. As a result of trial-by-error, your desires become less metaphysical and more concrete.

Fast-forward years later…my then-fiancée, Ingrid, who works in publishing, recommended the Humber College School for Writers’ Summer Workshop. I had a novel. I didn’t know whether it was good or bad, and it wasn’t helped that I had no writer friends to bounce it off of for feedback. I looked into the program and decided to attend (financed by American Express). I ended up spending a week in a classroom of eight, with poet/novelist DM Thomas (The White Hotel) as our mentor. It was perfect. I could not have asked for a more seminal experience. Everything clicked. I walked away at the end, having attended seminars, Q&A’s, and forums, with a much more evolved viewpoint of both the art and business of writing.

That week I learned to love and respect the art of revising/editing, something I’d always treated like poison. I met some great people who, for the first time, I could actually talk to about writing without having to explain what writing was in order to help them understand me. I was publicly confronted with a then-serious illness (habitually using it’s when I should’ve been using its). I was flattered by the positive feedback I received but not stung or made sullen by honest critiques either.

As a result of that single week, my outlook, philosophy, and activity in writing was immensely deepened. I started a monthly writers’ group – the very same sort of group I was searching for in vain before – which carries on successfully to this day (we celebrate our 3rd “birthaversary” this summer, in fact). The novel which had consumed so much of my time back then has since been shelved, having realised that it needed so much work that it was better for me to start from scratch and return to it later (under the axiom, “if you love someone set them free”). Now, of course, I have a new novel which I’m very happy with (along with a nice collection of short stories).

I write this because sometimes – particularly when you are an artist, alone, in an environment seemingly bereft of people who can empathize with what you do – it’s important to look outside for that next important step: getting involved so as to help yourself. As writers, we can’t allow ourselves to fall into the trap of thinking we are failures if we do not wake up at 5am, complete four chapters by lunch, followed by spending the afternoon staring solemnly out of our 3rd storey “writing nook” windows while we wait for the absinthe to kick in. That’s mythology.

I should also mention an extremely good (short) book, called Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking, by David Bayles and Ted Orland [ISBN: 0961454733]. I recommend it to anyone from any artistic background who is looking for some objective advice, written by people who truly understand. Lastly, even though I mention this book and provide a link to the Humber College course previously, it’s just as important for people to discover what’s right for themselves – there are many options out there. Please do your research.

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Writing on Writing

I would like to say that I’ve been prolific in my writing over the last few weeks, but that would be a lie.

My first focus has been the novel. It is complete (in the sense that I don’t believe it requires anything new to be added: chapters, characters, story arcs, etc..), yet requires a good revision to smooth over the parts which were put in place (not unlike a temporary glue or kludges) so that I could carry on telling the story without getting bogged down with detail work. Thankfully, the amendable bits are easy to recognize and not too draining for me to clarify.

A few weeks back, my tangential focus was on submitting two stories to two separate entities (one a contest, another a lit mag). Again, revisions were needed, as I don’t think it’s very safe to blindly submit something, even if you were perfectly happy with it previously.

In other words, the novel’s coming along very well, submissions are submitted (and the inevitable lottery entered). There’s just not a hell of a lot of “new” writing happening these days, which bugs me.

It would bug me more if it wasn’t for the fact that I seem to be in a “research” period. Quite involuntarily, I find that I’m following leads which present themselves to me without my seeking them: clues, ideas, conjectures. Most influential, at least currently, is Karl Popper, whose “Unended Quest” I have been devouring for the last while. His insights into the theory of knowledge and its application across the spectrum of art, science, and politics is – if anything – thought provoking. The goal of philosophy, I am reminded when reading someone who understands exactly what he or she is talking about, is not to blindly adopt beliefs because they sound good, but to digest them. To try them on like a pair of garish sunglasses and look at the world through them; rarely will even the most profound philosophy not require adjustments made to it in order for you to still be and think like you, and not someone else.

I’m reminded of Hesse’s Siddhartha, where the protagonist, upon meeting the Gotama Buddha, rejects his offer for Siddhartha to join his group, stating that the Buddha himself came to his wisdom not by following others, but through making the necessary mistakes needed to attain wisdom.

Somewhere, far away, I am *this* close to something.

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Update – July 7th

A slightly bitter-tasting but substantial smörgåsbord for you today, dear reader…

  1. The last week and-a-bit has been a little hard on me. Found out over a week ago that a good work-friend I hadn’t been in touch with for a couple of years had passed away in his sleep. By the time I’d found out, the memorial had already happened. Everything that could be done or said had been done and said. And so, one has no choice in this situation but to simply accept the fact that, like it or not, sad or happy, the last chapter in a sub-plot has been written without my consent or input. I think the thing which upsets me most about sudden deaths is the lack of control. I’ve had relatives who have died of cancer or carried on weakly after a stroke, and it was clear to everyone that the pen nib of fate was scratching out the last bits of their narrative; as the living bereaved, we had time to digest what was happening in our own way. With Trent – my friend and workmate – I was left with nothing but the unavoidable metric truth of his death.


  2. Foolishly, perhaps owing to my Chinese astrological tendencies (Dog), I’ve been patiently waiting for a response from a Toronto lit mag to get back to me on a short fiction submission I’d mailed to them almost a year ago. Owing to fatigue, I finally emailed the editor last week, only to find out from his response that “We would have responded to that a very long time ago, so I’m assuming it got lost in the mail/E-mail. I’m also assuming it was our response that got lost, and not your submission, as the title sounds familiar. “. So, in other words, I’d wasted a year not submitting the (admittedly solid) piece elsewhere. This upset me to no end. Nobody likes to be rejected – something I’ve accustomed myself to – but in this case I was left wondering whether they’d actually bothered to send anything out. I don’t lose incoming mail, nor is my email spam filter so prejudiced as to reject anything addressed directly to me (unless of course they put something like “rejection letter for Cialis” in the subject header). I drank a lot that night and complained bitterly to friends who consoled me, particularly those who caught my Facebook status message: “Matt wonders what could be worse than finding out a form rejection letter with your name on it got lost in the mail.”


  3. Not willing to let “the shit” (he says, in the collective sense) get me down, I continued to revise the novel, having finished going through to the (current) ending, thus completing my first full pass on the book as a whole. I immediately went back to the beginning, which I’d barely looked at in months, and started full-revision #2. I think it’s coming together nicely, and the feedback I’ve received on excerpts given to my peers in the writing group I run have been very positive. I just wish there was someone I could bribe in order to get one of my short fiction pieces published, because it’s a bit of a hindrance approaching an editor with a novel having a big fat “0” in the previously-published department. I’m also looking at doing more story submissions to non-Canadian publishers, as I find the atmosphere in this country a little stifling. Make of that what you will.


  4. A good tonic for these doldrums was to be had when my wife and I took a drive through the Niagara peninsula (after an absurdist trip to Niagara Falls – don’t bother asking – thankfully, we had two good friends to help us drink away the memories). We both love wine, and as firm supporters of Canadian wineries it was great to get out (only an hour’s drive from the city) and see the vinyards, the countryside, and quaff vast amounts of the best vino North America has to offer. So much so, in fact, that I’ve considered starting a new blog specifically geared towards Canadian wine. We shall see.
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May (pt. 3: Revision)

I took a train to Montréal for the second-last weekend in May.

I love the city, in particular its colour, zest, and architecture. There are also some great bands coming from there. However, to be fair, taking the train was a substantial part of the reason; four hours each way with which I could exclusively devote to reading War and Peace and, most importantly, working on the novel.

So, it was a work/reflect/relax sort of trip – the sort of thing to help tie up some loose threads in my head while occasionally practising my French. I caught a couple of bands at a cool venue called Zoo Bizarre, went to the Museum of Contemporary Art, ate, slept, drank, and mostly walked around with the aimless ambition of understanding how the city is laid-out.

As I write this, the novel is in good shape. The ending is almost complete and I’m beginning to see it more clearly in my head from beginning-to-end (as opposed to visualizing it as a bunch of sorted chapters). I also managed to get through a good chunk of War and Peace – such a good book, yet so heavy on the everyday details.

I wish I could say that I entered June with revelations and wisdom, but those are two things you can’t just extract from the ether. I still have a lot of things rolling around my head that need figuring out, creatively-speaking. For me, sometimes it’s better having several balls to juggle rather than one to contemplate soley. I know, from previous experience, that (to paraphrase the witches from Shakespeare’s Macbeth) doors open for those who decide to knock.

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