How can a writer judge progress on a manuscript? The problem is that the writer can be his only true judge of progress, as much of the ‘work’ he does is indecipherable to others. So, he is the ultimate judge, and he is also the harshest critic. He judges not only the work, but the creator. Forget objectivity. The spectrum of judgement flows from Manic Optimism to a feeling of Wildly Irrational Doom.

The contemporary-gothic-cinderella-pop-music-new-england-island novel fills me with excitement and, at times, dread. The pages are not writing themselves, for sure. Mistakenly, I thought I was at a point to chug through scene-writing, when in fact I am now drowning in research and complex lists of questions for my characters. I have a chunk of the manuscript written, but it is half as long as I’d planned it be by this date, this time in July.

My friend Stephanie, over at Natural/Artifical, posted recently, “Oh Yeah, That Writing Thing.” I could have written many of her words. Stephanie writes,

In other words, Second Novel has suffered — from both a lack of attention and too much attention. From endless brooding and constant avoiding. From comparisons to award-winning work, comparisons to my friends’ work, comparisons to my own work.

It’s safe to say that I pretty much beat the crap out of Second Novel.

It’s no wonder I felt beaten in return.

As writers, we are the dictators of our work. We are the slayers of our work. We build nations. Then we let our people starve. It is because we are ambitious and confident. It is because we are lazy and unsure. Doomed to fail! It can all seem doomed at times. With creativity and creation there is euphoria. With euphoria there’s always a down. We can’t escape the oscillations, and we never will.  Stephanie, clear-headed and not doomed, writes,

I’m learning that sometimes I need to cut myself a break. Which doesn’t mean giving up or taking a vacation, but it does mean going easy on myself when the writing isn’t moving as quickly or as smoothly as I’d hoped.

This is true. Our hopes for our work are always overly ambitious. We just have to remember that, and then we can calibrate our emotional reactions to how we perceive our progress and give ourselves a break. Maybe we can do this, or maybe we will always be falling into holes and then diggind ourselves out again. I’m trying to move forward, as is Stephanie:

I keep asking them questions, scribbling down their answers, and trying to make sense of it all. And I’m not there yet, but certain aspects are becoming clearer. I just have to keep moving forward. I have to remember that I don’t need all the answers yet.

Today I put a wildly huge amount of notes into a black three-ring binder in an attempt to organize (or perhaps quantify?) my work, a big chunk of which is questions, scribbles, and more questions. Most of the  questions will not be answered today, but the mere conception of the questions was a type of work: progress.

My father could command a room, entertain a table of friends. But also, he was a private person: sometimes quiet, always considerate of others.

He had an interest in, and an aptitude for, many things: science, agriculture, language, music. What fueled his days was a keen interest in the world around him, a hyperactive drive not only to understand things, but to create things.

Not only a chemist, an inventor. Not only a gardener, a master of heirloom tomatoes. Not only a husband, a true partner. Not only a father, a figure of influence and inspiration.

I remember Easter egg hunts based on riddles, each egg containing a word puzzle leading to the next hiding place, each riddle more complex than the next. He taught me everything about playing pool when I was 12. When I was a teenager, a time when many children are pulling away from their parents, my house was a gathering place for my friends. My father made everyone feel welcome, and he would engage my friends in lengthy conversations and late-night scrabble games. He took me to use the equipment in the labs at his work for my school science experiments. Undoubtedly, my investigations were elementary to him, but he knew what was important was the expereince: the process, the time spent, the energy exerted, the thinking and the doing, not the end result.

I have with me not only these memories, but what my father has given me: a deep investigative, yet compassionate, interest in the world.

Some of us may think, at times, that he was considerate to a fault. But, who can fault he who only wants to present others with excellence, aptitude, and consideration?

We will remember him at his best.

We will experience fully, look deeply, and create all that we can for ourselves and those whom we love.

I’m Not There is an incredible film. Granted, it demands the viewer be invested in the context, the history, and the impetus for creating the film as a creative study of a life and a time.

This movie received stellar as well as dismal reviews from viewers. I’m not surprised at the poor reviews; some people will always want their books and movies to spoon feed them story, to not ask them (reader/viewer) to do any intellectual work whatsoever. Viewers who have no prior knowledge of Dylan or of the history of the time will probably be disappointed; those viewers should do their homework before viewing, then they’ll have a context for making the connections so many  amateur reviewers say are missing. What do folks want? Voice-over narration explaining the context and extended meaning of every scene? Todd Haynes: nice piece of work.

Below is a reprinting of a recent article from The Chronicle of Higher Education:

Section: The Chronicle Review
Volume 55, Issue 28, Page B6
March 20, 2009

CONSIDER THIS
The Humanities’ Value
By GEOFFREY GALT HARPHAM

Why should society support the humanities when so many people are suffering from the effects of the economic crisis? What claim do the humanities, or scholarship generally, have on increasingly limited resources? Shouldn’t such pursuits be considered luxuries at a time when we should be focusing on essentials?

I hear those questions all the time, in part because I ask them myself. When I bother to answer myself, I say that of course we should focus on the essentials. The alleviation of human suffering, the restoration of opportunity, and the resurrection of confidence must be our top priorities. But the present crisis must not be the horizon of our thinking; our most immediate concerns cannot be our only concerns. While we are struggling through the morass of the present, we must retain both our memory, which sustains us, and our imagination, which must light the way forward.

Memory and imagination place us in the general domain of the humanities. And that leads to my main argument: The humanities are, if not the top priority right now, at least one of the areas that must be recognized as crucial, and supported accordingly. The present crisis does not eclipse the humanities but rather reveals the need for the skills, dispositions, and resources that the humanities, and only the humanities, cultivate.

No need to shout. I can already hear you (indeed, I can hear myself) saying that we are dealing with money, not metaphors, and that we will not get out of this mess by entrusting our fate to English majors. True — but I am struck by the recurrence of two statements in the numerous analyses I’ve read: “It is all so obvious in retrospect,” and “Our models failed to predict this.” Put those two together, and it becomes clear that the most sophisticated tools developed to analyze and predict movements in the economy failed spectacularly to grasp some very large, crucial, and — in retrospect — fully visible facts.

How did that happen?

What was missing, some analysts have concluded, was a deeper understanding of the relationship between value and confidence. It was presumed that the value of, say, houses was always going to rise. Beneath that assumption was another, that the value had a certain solidity, like the house itself. However, as Paul S. Willen, a senior economist at the Federal Reserve Bank of Boston, recently noted, “The price of an asset, like a house or a stock, reflects not only your beliefs about the future, but you’re also betting on other people’s beliefs.” He went on, “It’s these hierarchies of beliefs — these behavioral factors — that are so hard to model.”

The key factor, then, escapes abstract models because it is human and social, not mathematical — a vast imaginative construction composed of hopes, fears, illusions, calculations, judgments. Unlike the house, the imaginative construction that determines the house’s value can be destroyed by a pinprick — hence the term bubble.

So our models failed not because they were imprecise but because they were too precise, too neat and crisp to take in the imaginative and social nature of value. Nor did they take in the fully human character of the behavior of lenders, borrowers, analysts, shareholders, or traders, all of whom were driven by largely unconscious and partly irrational beliefs, including the simple desire for social approval, even as they were persuaded of their own powers of analysis and of the underlying “rationality” or “efficiency” of the market.

It all seems so obvious in retrospect that retrospection itself can be dismissed as a worthless activity. The real gift is to see in advance the things that will, in retrospect, prove to have been obvious. Where is that apparently rare gift cultivated, developed, rewarded? How does society foster that valuable trait?

Well, consider this: When we read a novel, watch a play or a film, listen to a concerto, or read a historical narrative, we are not just attending to the moment but forming expectations about what will come next. Surprise endings surprise only because they do not conform to our expectations.

Comparing our anticipation with the actual unfurling of the work or the sequence of arguments is part of the distinctive pleasure we take in such activities, and that pleasure keeps us returning for more. Such anticipatory or projective retrospection always involves speculation or guesswork, for every piece is unique. But being able to engage in such anticipation is an essential part of general intelligence, and developing that ability is one of the primary goals of teaching in the humanities.

I would suggest that the reason that our models and modelers failed to predict the current economic crisis was that they did not engage in what I call “projective retrospection,” nor did they try to anticipate the diffuse effects of nonquantifiable, shifting collective beliefs. They were, I presume, simply trying to be as rational as possible in plotting their moves. Their imaginations were constrained by their assumption that the economy was a kind of game with arcane rules rather than a human activity embedded in the general human scene.

In truth — as may perhaps by now be obvious — I have no understanding of the “dismal science” of economics. But I feel on firm ground in saying that any discipline that studies human behavior without taking human beings into account must be leaving something out. That something is the imaginative character of human society, which is supported only by collective confidence in its reality. As I write, many analysts are saying that the most urgent task is the restoration of confidence in “the system.” If only people were confident that the system was sound, then banks would lend, people would spend, and the crisis would abate. The truth is that while cash infusions might produce local benefits, a general confidence cannot be bought, for it is a basic attitude about one’s prospects in the world. Irreducible to formulae or algorithms, such confidence nevertheless stands at the top of that hierarchy of beliefs that determines value.

And here we come to the humanistic heart of the matter. The economy in which people do or do not have confidence can be understood as a persuasive fiction that is, in critical ways, not fully responsive to rational analysis. Indeed, the financial instruments whose implosion we’ve been watching — the notorious credit-default swaps and derivatives and securitized mortgages — were so complex and opaque that not even those who staked their fortunes on them understood what they were.

At the deepest level, money itself is a fiction. Money signifies value, which is, presumably, located elsewhere — in the basement, say, of Fort Knox. But gold is only valuable because of a collective belief in its value. Now, with the collapse of financial markets worldwide, we see that all value, everywhere, is a function of confidence, or a belief in fictions. The immense cash infusions on which we now pin our hopes are simply fictions that we hope will be more persuasive than others — not because they are real, but simply because a large power insists that they be taken for real: They are, as the phrase has it, “backed by the full faith and confidence of the federal government.”

Our material lives are sustained by our belief in such fictions, and when we stop believing — as we now have, temporarily — we see revealed the immaterial foundations of the real world. When, a generation ago, a few “postmodern” theorists began to talk about the fictional character of reality, they were laughed at by those who considered themselves hardheaded realists; nobody, not even the most doctrinaire postmodernist, is laughing now.

So why support the humanities? The answer is not just that the humanities deserve no less than Citigroup, AIG, or General Motors — in fact, the humanities do not need a huge bailout, only predictable support — but that the humanities elicit and exercise ways of thinking that help us navigate the world we live in. For my money, that’s about as essential as it gets.

Geoffrey Galt Harpham is president and director of the National Humanities Center. His books include Shadows of Ethics: Criticism and the Just Society (Duke University Press, 1999) and The Character of Criticism (Routledge, 2006).

I haven’t ceased to be baffled at some people’s self-centered nature and lack of courtesy, never mind lack common sense and basic driving ability. Today I was sitting on my couch grading a pile of literary analysis essays when I witnessed another instance of this. My living room has a ten foot wide picture window which allows me a great view of the outdoors…and passing traffic.

We have a new mail-woman, who I don’t know personally but simply adore for the basic fact that the mail now comes daily, and also before noon. Before, the mail came around six at night and only a few times a week.

On the street I live, our mailboxes are on our front porches, which requires the mail-person to stop the mail truck on the road, then get out and deliver the mail by foot. This is the case in plenty of Atlanta neighborhoods. Trucks stop in the right lane, and sometimes they pull a bit onto the sidewalk. Everyone knows mail trucks, just like UPS and FedEx trucks, must stop on the street to then make deliveries. Mail trucks even have fast flashing signal lights on the back to remind you of this fact. It is a pretty basic concept. So, today our mail-woman pulled over and delivered some mail; at least, I got my mail before I witnessed the confrontation.

The mail truck, stopped with flashing lights, is then rear-ended by a woman in a giant dark blue SUV. Now, this road is a long straight away and four lanes. This driver had plenty of time to see the stopped mail truck and change lanes. Instead, this woman, set to smash into it I guess, swerved and rear-ended the back left side of the truck. This road is also residential, has a 35 mph speed limit, and is littered with traffic lights and crosswalks. Suppose someone was driving too fast?–that would be the courteous excuse to give this woman. So:

Pink Shirt Woman does a u-turn after hitting the truck and stops her gargantuant boat in the right lane on the other side of the road and puts on her hazards. Pink Shirt Woman gets in  the mail-woman’s face, points her finger at her, and is obviously yelling. This is when I open my window. After screaming at the mail-woman about it being her fault and how she shouldn’t have her truck in the street, Pink Shirt Woman stomps back near her car to make a phone call. I hear every word of her end of the call.

Even though she is across four lanes of traffic, I can her because her voice is so shrill . She calls some man named Lance and informs him that she has had a wreck because a “Stupid Ass mail truck” was stopped in the street. She screams “Stupid Ass,” so loudly that I, and certainly the mail-woman can hear. Then, to my chagrin, she begins screaming at this Lance: “Why do you think it’s my fault? Why are you assuming it’s my fault? You’re not even here!” I think Lance is familiar with Pink Shirt Woman’s driving skills.

Before a cop is able to arrive, Pink Shirt Woman crosses the street twice more to come yell at the mail-woman. I consider going outside because it seems like such a ridiculous thing for the mail-woman to be putting up with, but the mail-woman appears young and un-rattled, so I just watch.

The cop pulls up and Pink Shirt Woman runs to him to tell him her sob story. Long story short, as this encounter goes on nearly forever, Pink Shirt Woman argues with the cop and the mail-woman. I couldn’t hear anything the cop said, but he looked at the back of the mail truck and wrote Pink Shirt Woman at least one ticket. I’m sure he looked at the truck and said, Well, you rear-ended it. You ran into a parked mail truck, lady.

I couldn’t help but note the irony of the fact that Pink Shirt Woman had her SUV parked in the right lane with its hazards on. I wanted to say to her, How about I come rear-end your car and then claim it is your fault because your car is stopped in the road? Although, she might not understand such a comparison, as her Me-Me-Me! blinders are squishing her brain.

Guilty as charged: terribly remiss in my blogging. What have I been doing? Cool projects like this one:

It is amazing how breaking crayons and organizing the colors into various patterns can occupy a four-year-old for days. 200 degrees, six to eight minutes, and you’re all good. Additionally, I’ve been grading many essays and working on the NOVEL. And then, for some reason, I’ve gotten all hyped up again my non-fiction project, the proposal for which I had shelved close to a year ago.

To get my feet wet again, I thought I’d review some recent goods. 

The Chieftains were awesome. Thanks to some fabulous folks, we also had incredible second row seats at the Fox.

The Pogues show was great, but a show at the Tabernacle following on the heels of a show at the Fox got me a little down about the acoustics at the Tabernacle.

Itty Bitty Titty Committee = worst movie ever. Maybe it was written and directed by eighth grade drama students?

Joe Strummer: The Future is Unwritten is an impressive documentary. I must get me some Clash.

I read Katherine Anne Porter’s Old Mortality, the first of three tiny novels in Pale Horse, Pale Rider. I enjoyed it, and I admire the size: plenty of impact compressed, generations tied into a little bundle.

Two of my friends, Liane LeMaster and Christopher Bundy, have stories and interviews published in issue 23 of Smokelong Quarterly.

Check out Christopher’s “Earthrise.” I can’t wait to read the novel he mentions in his interview:

The novel BIG IN JAPAN, which I’ve just finished, is a satire of celebrity set primarily in the mountains of central Japan, where I lived for several years. The novel chronicles the struggles of American Kent Richmond, has-been gaijin-tarento (foreign talent) on Japanese television, after the loss of his celebrity and the disappearance of his wife. The book alternates between tabloid articles, letters, YouTube video, excerpts from an unfinished memoir, manga story boards, botched interviews, notes scribbled on napkins, and the primary text, a third-person narrative.

Doesn’t that sound fantastic? Liane’s “Alien Lunch” made me laugh out loud, and I’m still thinking about it. Take a look; it will definitely take less time than a smoke break.

The other evening Keegan was playing with his hair in the mirror after his bath. He had brushed it into a mess and it was sticking out every which way.

He said, “I look like a girl who has already worked out at the gym today.”

I couldn’t not laugh. I was curious so I asked, “Keegan, where did you hear that?” He said, “You. You’re the girl.”

Not to get all sappy, but today has been a truly joyous day with my son. No one was over-tired, no one had impulsively cut holes in their socks with their new red scissors, no one had been bullied at school, no one was asking impossible questions.

It all began with rain, rain which disallowed the status quo, the status quo which was to play on the playground after school. Now, considering my son is the third youngest of 22 kids in his class, and he’s only one of 4 veterans that were previously indoctrinated into Montessori civility, playground time hasn’t always gone smoothly this year.

It began with rain. We rushed to the car, and being a Friday we had the blue folder of his work for the week. Every Friday, parents are to empty the work from the week and then return the folder on Monday. He sat in his carseat. I climbed in the back seat with him and shut the door against the rain, and he began pulling out his work, telling me in detail what every single page was all about. Some pages were alphabet connect the dots; on one he noticed he’d skipped “I” and we had to talk about how that was really OK. Some pages were coloring pages and he told me about the colors he chose, always some colors he chose for Daddy and some for Mommy. He showed me the stencil inset designs he had made, which I know he is incredibly proud of because he’d been watching the older kids do stencil insets last year.

Then, he showed me a couple of frail pages of tracing paper with the cursive (!) alphabet written on them in a shaky hand. (He’s three!) I knew he had traced the letters since it was the first cursive I’d seen from him, and the lines were really straight, and it was tracing paper. So I said, “Oh, you traced letters in cursive. I’m so proud of you! That’s new work, right?” (So far, all of his handwriting work had not been cursive.) He looked at me and said “I didn’t trace them. I wrote them all myself from my head.” Well, we know this wasn’t exactly true. I told him “I am so proud of you. This is such wonderful work.” He grinned so hugely it made me melt. I had to give him tons of kisses.

Yes, take pride in your work. The best feeling is seeing your child have pride in his own accomplishments. I want to encourage him to be prideful, because I want to encourage him to have self worth, to value his pursuits in all aspects of his life. Sure, pride on some level is supposedly to be a sin, but if cultivated in the right way, in the right aspect of the self, it is a life force. Live for what you know is true and good and right and have pride in yourself for doing so. So many of us, especially women, let things happen in the world that we know are wrong because we don’t take pride in our own morals and beliefs. I do not want to raise my son to just let things happen, whether they are to himself or other people. I want to raise him to be a brave and loyal man who will stand up for what is right when he sees a wrong being committed, who will follow what is right when the wrong is tempting, who will be able to trust his immediate assessment of the difference between the two in any given situation, wholly. This all begins with having pride in ones self.

In his one bout of moodiness, he did request that I “please turn off the news so he could have some quiet” on the ride home. He asked in such a reasonable way that I did turn off the NPR. But, after a few seconds of quiet he put a hat on of his that was randomly in the backseat; it was blue, black and gray. “Guess what I am?” He asked. My guesses were wrong. “I’m a policeman,” he said, “An adult policeman!” Well, he did have on all dark blue: his uniform pants, and that hat.

Once we got home we played a lengthy pretend-game dictated by him, which had something to do with “checking our website” to “see what we earned.” Now, I know he doesn’t understand the intricacies of affiliate marketing. Checking the website had to do with peering at a piece of paper on which he had sketched a geometric design, then making checks on it with a marker. This was “seeing what we earned,” but then he turned and asked me “Mommy, what does earned mean?” So I tried to explain earning gold stars at school and earning money at work.

Then, knowing we had a birthday party to go to the next day, I pulled out the brown paper bag he needed to decorate for the party gift. I was floored by his consideration for the girl the gift was for: “Do you think she’d like Pooh stickers, or ladybugs, or honeypot, or, What do you think she would like BEST?” I told him he could put as many stickers on the bag as he wanted. He also drew, cut out, and pasted a few shapes. My error was trying to write Happy Birthday on the bag. Keegan screamed “NO! I want to do it.” He went and got me a fine black pen and asked me to write Happy Birthday lightly. Then, he traced each letter, painstakingly, with a purple marker. He was almost finished when he said, “I am so tired of this, can you finish it?” I said, “Honey, it is only four more letters. You can do it, and it will be all done by you.” He finished the tracing and we sealed up the bag.

We made dinner together, he sitting on the kitchen counter. We sauteed mushrooms and made organic mushroom mac ‘n cheese. He cut the cheese pack open and poured it in. He picked out his own dip for his carrots. Out of the ten choices we had he chose ketchup. He had peaches too, asking why don’t they please sell peach juice in big jars just like orange juice. Sorry, kiddo.

After dinner was bath time, which he always likes. He even washes his hair by himself now. It’s amazing how they grow in leaps and bounds; it feels like just yesterday I was trying to convince him to use the potty. After his bathtime he always likes to play the exact same game that goes along with getting dried and dressed. It’s a no-fail thing; ALWAYS this is the routine. I bundle him up in his oversized towel and he requests I put him on his bed and make sure all his parts are covered so he is bundled up like and egg. Then he requests (while hiding under his towel) that I make driving noises and go to the doctor to have the doctor hatch my baby. So, I make the driving noises, I arrive at the doctor, and then Keegan dramatically hatches out of his egg and clings to me talking in baby talk. Luckily, I have convinced him that newly born babies need to get dressed right away in awesome undies and jammies. Then he picks out four books, but keeping with his ‘baby’ role, he will only sound out a couple of the syllables of the titles phonetically, then look at me at little mischieviously to see if I’ll get what he’s talking about. Yes, I know you mean Harlold!

Once we cozy up for books the baby-act is all gone and it is now all interest in the books. About Harold and the Purple Crayon he at first said, “I am so scared he’s going to get in trouble for writing on the wall!” We’ve been working on explaining pretend premises and artist’s renditions…we’ll see. Then we read The Giving Tree, which is always a little bit sad. Today: “Why is that boy leaving his apple cores on the ground? That’s littering.” These two were followed by Do Unto Otters and The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

After teeth brushing, sips of water, potty, and tucking in again, I tried to sing him the only song I ever really sing him, the one that begins with “Hush little baby,” but he requested the “ABCs.” Now, I’m no singer in the first place, so the ABCs over and over and over is not great. But he likes it. After he had his song, we made sure he had his elephant, his lion, and his funny-shaped red stuffed friend. And then we said goodnight and gave each other kisses.

Flight of the Conchords: You rock my world. Where have you been? Oh, I love you Netflix, for your spot on recommendation. And, Stephanie and Adam, if you are reading this, I know you recommended these dudes too!–but I failed to make the connection until Matt told me so. But now I know. Everyone: rent season one.

Harold and Kumar Escape From Guantanamo Bay: You were a waste of time, I’m afraid. I was disappointed in you. You could have done better.

El Tesoro: You have such a nice little location in that old house where the Decatur Jake’s Ice Cream used to be, next to Twain’s. I was going to eat at Twain’s, but then I saw you. Your tomatillo salsa is delicious. Your tacos are wonderful, especially the three mushroom kind. Your vegan chipotle tacos are impressive by their mere existence.

Taj Majal Imports: I finally came to you, after recommendations by friends years ago. You have the best deal on authentic nag champa in the whole city. I bought the last 12 pack box you had. I will be coming back.

White Oleander: You are the best juicy escapist novel I’ve read in a while. I know a good friend gave you to me, probably years ago, and you sat on a shelf with all the other unread orphans. BUT, I love you now that I know you, now that I finally took the time. Dear reader, if you gave me this wonderful book, do speak up.