Archive
Writers

Photo 18

 The author, circa 2008, sitting at the table where he wrote much of his first novel.

 

In 2005, during my senior year of college, I petitioned one of my literature professors to allow me to do an independent study in fiction.  Over the course of a semester I wrote a handful of short stories that he would then review.  Among these were a science fiction tale about a young girl who effects a dramatic escape from a futuristic brothel by means of an enchanted flying bathtub, and a few other less memorable pieces, several of which were in fact so unmemorable that even I, the author, cannot recall them.

One stuck with me though, wedged like a popcorn kernel in the molars of my subconscious. A couple of years after graduating, cloaked in blissful ignorance, I set about the task of expanding it into a novel.  I would spend six years working on the book, eventually completing ten separate drafts. Towards the end of draft nine I began trying to find an agent, embarking on an ignominious journey that the prevailing wisdom indicated would be disheartening at best.  

Read More

In the naked quest to forage inspiration for myself that my “editorial responsibilities” at Ragged Band generally constitute, I regularly find myself reading, viewing, or otherwise consuming the work of men and women more talented, recognized, or well-compensated than I am and daydreaming about how they got to where they are now. The bright-eyed search for an answer to that question is the guise under which I have secured several of the interviews on this site. “Care to share with other younger aspirants about how they can attempt to follow in your footsteps?”

But in reflecting on that strategy over recent weeks, and on the focus that comes with it, I’ve been reminded of how trying to zero in on how others have done what they’ve done can quickly become an exercise in despair and envy. While I remain confident that the niche aim of this blog, to ferret out information and inspiration about the art of making art, is a worthwhile endeavor, I’ve also been reminded that part of trying to foster endurance and hope while getting sandblasted by the storm-clouds forever hovering above the creative path demands that we not only get down to brass tacks about the practical aspects of how lofty goals get accomplished in the real world (“How do I put myself in the right place at the right time?; …actually get the first draft of my novel out onto the page?; …pursue an internship?; …build my network?; …figure out where to start in making a film?”), but also remember to continually surround ourselves with good work.

You know, garbage in garbage out. You can only read so many blog posts about how to develop your personal network or increase your creative output before starting to wonder how the tines of that fork lying on the counter over there would feel if you jammed them into your eyeball.

Enter Brian Phillips, a staff writer for Grantland operating in his own self-contained nexus zone at the edge of mainstream American sports reporting. Folks, this is the kind of writing that makes me want to keep writing. Phillips combines Grantland’s colloquial style with his own ephemeral touch to create work that is honest without being self-important, and funny without feeling vacuous. The site, a subsidiary of ESPN, offers up long-form reporting and features on pop culture and sports. In addition to an expected focus on the most popular topics in modern American sport—football, basketball, baseball, and the personalities and exploits of the athletes and owners who populate their respective national leagues—the editors make room for a healthy range of fringe coverage. This is the realm Phillips operates in.

His first passion is soccer, which he covers with vigor and pathos for both Grantland and The Run of Play, where he serves as editor. But Phillips is not daunted by the constraints of expertise. He seems up for anything, bringing the same razor wit and eye for humanity to his coverage of the National Rodeo Finals as he does to his take on the current state of world-wide soccer in the wake of Europol’s recent damning report on match-fixing. Two of my favorite pieces he’s written over the last year include his reflections on Felix Baumgartner’s mind-blowing astronaut skydive, and his epic five-part series of dispatches from Wimbledon.

Read More

img_3491659_620

My draft board, I am told (although it may be myth), had, of all draft boards in the United States, the highest proportion of men killed in Vietnam—where, incidentally, my godfather, the photographer Robert Capa, was the first American to die, though he was a Hungarian and had nothing to do with the Hudson. The area was salted with military institutions—West Point, military academies, veterans’ hospitals—and old soldiers, including even, when I was young, some from the Civil War. The play of the boys was guerilla warfare in the extensive woods. Every stranger was a threat, an enemy. Indeed, there were a lot of bad apples around—escaped convicts from Sing Sing (twice as I remember), standard criminals, gangs in the fifties, child molesters (a beautiful little girl was taken from my third-grade schoolyard and raped and beaten over a period of many hours), and hoboes (not Shakespearian woodwinds) on the rail line that was the geographical locus of my childhood. I ran wild through all this, protected by my paranoia, by my sharply-honed guerilla skills, and by a rather extensive arsenal. Had you turned me upside down and shaken me, the floor would have looked like a military museum after an earthquake.

- Mark Helprin, The Paris Review

^ ^ ^

As an interviewer, the art of asking good questions, drawing out reticent interviewees, and eliciting Thoughtful Thoughts is a source of constant interest for me. I am fascinated by the strategies employed by well-known hosts, journalists, and at-large interviewers as they seek to alternately woo, cajole, flatter, and berate their subjects.

I mean, did you watch Oprah’s Lance Armstrong interview? Did you feel, like me, that she gave him a pass on the option of whether he was going to “talk about other people,” or fail to press him on when, if ever, he was going to offer real, honest-to-God personal apologies to the people whose lives he knowingly and viciously sought to ruin?

Or maybe you’re a Larry King guy, or a Charlie Rose gal. Maybe you listen to a lot of NPR and have become a cataloger of Tom Ashbrook’s (On Point) idiosyncratic tics, or a devotee of Jian Ghomeshi’s (Q) velvet delivery, or a rapt consumer of Terry Gross’s (Frrrrrrrrrrrresh Air) intimate moments with Famous Voices (did you listen to the one where Maurice Sendak wept on air?)

Whether we read The Seattle Times in the morning, watch FOX News each evening, or devour every issue of The New Yorker, we all get much of our information about the larger world through sources that have been interviewed. People ask other people questions, and the answers they elicit inform us about what is happening down the street or across the globe, or at least reveal something of what it means to be inside the interviewee’s head. Interviewing, it turns out, is but a formalized version of that most basic human relational act, the conversation.

Read More

contact_pic

My piece about Patrick deWitt is running in the current issue of Willamette Week.  The Sisters Brothers, deWitt’s stark western novel about a pair of fraternal assassins, is very good.  But, in the words of Levar Burton, don’t take my word for it.  Take the word of D.V. DeVincentis.

While working on the article, I corresponded via email with DeVincentis, one of the writers responsible for adapting Nick Hornby’s novel High Fidelity for the screen.  It was DeVincentis who, following a chance encounter, started a chain of events that eventually connected deWitt to a literary agent.

DV laid out the story of that night, and the subsequent experience of getting deWitt’s manuscript in the mail, in some detail.  Editorial constraints prevented me from using all of it in the newspaper, but I immediately knew it was too good to keep to myself.  I asked DV if he’d be open to my posting it here, as a bit of bonus material.  He said, yes.

Read More

With Ragged Band, my focus has historically been on emerging or recently established artists. Their struggles, their successes, their specific stories. In speaking with folks who are still early in their careers, I’ve pursued the hope that connecting readers to the reality of what it’s been like for the normal, mortal, flawed men and women we profile and interview to try to make their dreams come true, in hearing what they’ve had to go through and what wisdom, if any, they’ve gained on the journey, there might be encouragement for those still dreaming into the void.

What’s become apparent over the course of many conversations is that there are three realities linking all “successful” artists. Three common threads running through the stories of every writer, painter and photographer who ends up sticking with their craft over the long haul and enjoying some level of success, as defined by compensation and recognition for their work, those threads being luck, talent, and discipline. The novelist Michael Chabon famously stated that out of these three there is only one that an artist has any control over.

Read More

I went to grad school with Joshua Longbrake, but I never got to know him.  We said hello in passing a few times, but didn’t ever get around to sitting down to a substantive conversation.  Then he moved to Chicago shortly before I left town for Portland. I’ve kept tabs on him through his blog.

And what a blog it is.  Quixotic, unapologetic, often poignant, occasionally weird. A runaway winner for the Ragged Band 2012 Blog of the Year Award.

Longbrake is a talented photographer who has made his living taking pictures, but he’s also passionate about writing and speaking.  He’s got a particular facility for examining the interplay between art and faith; those gray lines delineating the space between hope and despair, depravity and holiness.  Lines that weave like a drunk and at times disappear completely.  He’s the kind of dude who loves Tom Waits.  In fact, he’s recently given a series of lectures that included one devoted to old Tom.

If you’ve ever had cause to revisit why it is that you make art in the first place, or found yourself grinding and grinding, doing shit work in the hopes it will lead to something bigger and better, all with the dream of someday getting your big break, you need to read his essay on the idea of giving up.

Read More

So, my brother and I are going back and forth on upcoming movies the other night, what we want to see, what trailers have left us spooked, how we feel about Brad Pitt’s hair in Killing Them Softly, etc. A few rounds of texts and e-mails ensue about Cloud Atlas, the forthcoming Wachowski-helmed adaptation of David Mitchell’s novel which, when I first read it back in 2005, I assumed was patently un-adaptable.

I inform my brother that I’ve recently read a New Yorker piece on the making of the movie. The next day he e-mails me a link to a Grantland review of the New Yorker review (yes, a review of a review) with the following passage highlighted.

There’s always the moment in these extended New Yorker profiles where the writer, drunk on bottomless word count, climbs to the top of a stack of Marshalls and starts playing a seven-minute reporter’s-notebook solo…

Read More

Laura Kasinof did not set out to become a reporter for The New York Times. Which is probably good, as the success rate of young journalists gunning for that prize is surely abysmal. As is often the case with great adventures, Kasinof came to find herself sending dispatches from a closed country torn by unrest to the desk of an editor in America’s most prestigious newsroom through a series of unexpected turns and unforeseeable developments. She fell into her pot of gold by means of what is often the only way; backwards and without trying.

“It’s a really funny story,” she told me. “It all began at this party one night.”

Read More

There’s this idea that floats around — the one where critics are mostly just snobs and know-it-alls, the people who have heard everything and live to tell you why your taste is bad and what you should be listening to instead. But that isn’t really the goal, right? – Nitsuh Abebe

It can be difficult to grasp the speed at which the internet has moved, and, in moving, changed our perceptions of what is both normal and possible. Just ten years ago the web was a very different place. Blogs were only just gaining traction, and if you wanted any kind of group interaction with someone, small web boards and e-mail listservs were sometimes your best bet. No Twitter. No Facebook.

Ten years ago, current New York Magazine pop music critic Nitsuh Abebe was toiling away at a desk job, spending his lunch breaks and free moments sifting through threads on various message boards geared toward fans of independent music. Laboring in obscurity like any young twenty-something with literary aspirations and a boring day gig.

Over time he became acquainted with another young man, Ryan Schreiber, whose small music website, Pitchfork Media, would one day grow to become the most influential taste-making site in the history of internet-based music criticism. The Rolling Stone of a web 2.0 generation. Abebe began writing for Pitchfork in 2002, when it was still a fledgling startup. He still contributes regularly to the site, most recently in the form of his insightful “Why We Fight” column.

Read More

With each book, especially if you’re a novelist, I think there’s always going to be a feeling like, “If this book doesn’t get published I’m going to throw myself off a cliff. And I hope a shark eats me on the way down to make the pain worse.”


In the spring of 2002 my brother referred me to an article on suits that he had come across online. The piece turned out to be the first in a four-part series on men’s fashion written by the editorial staff of a website simply titled The Morning News. At once down to earth and tongue in cheek, the series read like a guide to pragmatic decision making for working class dandies. I was hooked.

For the last decade I’ve continued to follow the online publication’s trajectory. In 2005 they rolled out their first annual Tournament of Books, in which novels are pitted against one another in a March Madness-inspired bracket tourney and judged by TMN’s staff writers along with a smattering of guest judges (including, um, Andrew WK). The winner was promised a live rooster. TMN quickly became a fixture on my daily tour of the internet. I became particularly intrigued by the work and mythos of one of the site’s co-founders, a man with a name so quirkily romantic it seemed lifted straight out of a Quentin Tarantino film.

Read More