Did you ever know that you're my hero?

Everyone likes to talk about the writers that influence them. That being said, no one likes to be told that they write like one of their influences. The key is in burning down the ladder that took you to the top, and, once there, pretend as though you had been there the entire time. Kind of like Clark Kent in every episode of Superman...ever.

Me? I like to think that my ladder is still very much in tact, that my life's work will always be a work in progress. After all, masterpieces are for latter years. Youth is for experimentation.

And without further adieu: My ladder...

JOHN IRVING

This is the man that made me want to write. I wrote a bit about him on medium.com a few months ago. You can find that article here.

Though his work is mostly in a serious vein, it is John that taught me how to laugh with literature. I spent most of my nights in college laughing as I read and reread The Cider House Rules--one of the best titles of all time. That book was also the first since Harry Potter to make me cry at the ending.

WOODY ALLEN

Everybody who's anybody wants to be a somebody, and that isn't necessarily the somebody that they are in the present. They want to be an icon. That's Woody.

I came late to the Woody Allen game. He was already well into his winter years, and I was still yet to see Annie Hall or Manhattan or even The Scoop, which came out when I was a teenager...and idolizing Hugh Jackman, so how could I miss that, right?

But what came from my exposure to Allen was the work ethic that it takes to be an icon. It doesn't just happen overnight. Image is cultivated to practice and hard work. In many ways becoming an icon is like writing yourself as a novel. Your body is the text, main and supporting characters. And it is exhausting.

TRUMAN CAPOTE

There are good writers. There are great writers. There is Truman Capote.

If only you glance at his short stories, you will feel that you are in the presence of a writing genius. Capote's prose are the cleanest, most precise, and most labored of all the 20th Century writers. And that's saying a lot considering all the greats in the 20th Century. But when asked why I think Capote is so good, I need only give you three words: Breakfast. At. Tiffany's.

or: In. Cold. Blood.

or four words: Other. Rooms. Other. Voices.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY

I love short fiction. I especially love Hemingway's. (I also love beards and fancy hats, of which Hemingway has in spades.) I also love his work with the Toronto Star. If ever you wish to see how a news article should be written, you need only look to Papa for an example. He serves as the standard of what 100% useful words represents. Even when his prose run on the flat side, Hemingway's work is still a wonder to behold.

THE HONORABLE MENTIONS

Neil Gaiman--enchanting prose, enchanting fantasy

J.K. Rowling--moved me in ways I never could have imagined

Patrick Rothfuss--only time and his next two books will prove if he is truly a thing of legend

J.D. Salinger--great writer, though I still haven't gotten through "Catcher in the Rye"

Gore is Vidal!

It depresses me when I think of all the writers I am yet to read. Just when you think that you are catching up, along comes another great voice in our literary heritage that has the nerve to be completely unknown to you! Not only that but he is also a massive Olivetti fan! That's enough for me.

I am talking, of course, about Gore Vidal.

The first time I heard of him was an episode of Family Guy, to my eternal chagrin. But the show didn't tell anything about him, other than he didn't want to be on Brain's talk show. Stewie shot a hot dog in his mouth and that was the end of Gore's spot on the show. Once the credits rolled, I forgot all about him.

There are so many great voice to read and watch:  Kerouac, Updike, Woody Allen, Coppola. Vidal fell beneath the radar. It wasn't until I came across a photo of Vidal on an Australian blog that I started to pay attention.

The photo was up an aging Gore Vidal. He was at his desk with none other than an Olivetti Lettera 35l by his side. It was the first refurbished typewriter I bought, and my first Olivetti. The search that I was performing was for modern writers that used typewriters. Vidal was just one of the many, and that gave me heart, being the only person I know who is a journalist and still uses a typewriter instead of a computer.

Note the rounded steel body. That's a 35 without a doubt.

I still haven't read anything or seen anything by Gore Vidal. My backlog is just so massive that it wouldn't be possible with my current work schedule. Nonetheless there it is--an Olivetti at the hands of one of the greats. What more could I ask for in my little 35?

Another Kind of Manifesto

     Confession: I use a laptop, and I use it a lot. A Dell Latitude D410, it doesn't have a widescreen, and the OS is still Windows XP. I bought it last year from a tech resale shop called PC Guru, not too far from where I live. It's one of the earliest "netbooks" though it isn't actually one.
     I know that I'm a Luddite at heart, but this is the 21st century; nobody has got time for a small time scribbler and his idiosyncrasies. A deadline in 2013 does not adjust for inflation. No one wants to set typeface for a hard copy, especially in the age of online content, digital magazines, and phones like this.
     So I still submit using digital means.
     Another confession: I love my Dell laptop.
     It's compact. It boots up when I need it to. Though its shell is ridiculously bland, that utilitarian aesthetic makes me feel safe knowing that this single core processor is here to work.
     Most important, I think, is its keyboard: a subtly tactile interface. Reading up on, and testing modern laptops, it is blatantly apparent that Apple, HP, Toshiba, Sony, and all the rest are willing to sacrifice keyboard comfort in the name of thin and light.
     When did we become such wimps that any device weighing over four pounds isn't considered portable. Our parents used portable typewriters anywhere from ten to forty pounds. I've used them both, carrying them all over in the name of art.
     My Dell isn't ten pounds or even close. It rings in around four, without an optic drive built in, which allows for this little machine to have a keyboard that doesn't suck. Sure, it has its draw backs, but--I cannot stress this enough--the keys press down when you press down on them! A notebook or ultrabook today yields a paper thin keyboard, practically non-responsive--whether audibly or physically--to human touch.
     They have attempted to compensate. Sony and Apple have the best multi-touch pads. Acer and Toshiba--and most others now--have multi-touch screens.
     But none of that makes up for the keyboards. Not to me. Not all the cores, and processing power in the world can make up skimping the most regularly engage part of the computer.
     So I guess the long short of this is another kind of manifesto: Give writers a writer's laptop; that takes advantage of shrinking technology to make room for a writer's keyboard; one reinforced and rigid so it doesn't bend; with keys that are felt under the fingers; that respond to our touch and to our ears; that don't leave us fumbling for the backspace, instead hitting the backslash, or trying to shift and instead returning eleven lines before noticing.
     So I want a digital typewriter. 

     I want a machine made for writing first and all the rest second.
     That's all from Elliott at the Kitchen Table
 

Hipster Manifesto: Thoughtful Writing

Sky Ferrante and his 29 Royal

A Continued Defense

     There is something just so magical about typewriters: they were so indicative of their time. For instance the early Royals and their gold decals, made with real gold and glass sides show the decadence and prosperity of the 1920s, before the Depression. Then look at the war time and post war models and their utilitarian simplicity: function for the sake of quality, when metals were becoming too costly. Keep in mind that, during the war, whatever metal could be spare was in order to help fight the war in Europe, and Royal (like so many American typewriter companies of the day) turned many of their factories into weapons manufacturers.
     Now, let's look at the sixties and the seventies. Stylish and futuristic, there is also a seedy under current. All of the once great manufacturers begin, around the year 1970, to simply relabel Japanese machines as their own, stopping production of some of the hallmark brands, like the Quiet De Luxe, the real Remington Streamliner, and anything under the Underwood name.
     I know that this isn't really going anywhere, but what can I say? I am a sucker for sentimentality. There is real magic in these machines that you can't get in a Mac Book or a Dell or HP. A picture of Neil Gaiman sitting at his iPad just isn't the same as seeing Francis Ford Coppola sitting with his Olivetti Lettera 33, or Tennessee Williams at his Studio 44. Does anyone care that Ian McEwan uses an Apple computer? Does that seem nearly as cool as when you found out that Cormac McCarthy still uses a Lettera 32 that he bought before going to Europe? How about when John Irving said that he has six or so IBM Selectrics that he uses to write his novels, and they are all in need of repair.
     It is sublime, knowing that the function of the tool, and its form are just as important as what these people make with it. And that's all I have to say about that.

Wait! I've got one more...Sylvia Plath.

Okay. Now that's all I have to say about that. 

Update: a special thanks to Retro Tech Geneva for buying all those awesome machines, and posting them online; and to Mr. Typewriter, of whom I bought my first Olivetti from.

On Writing

     I hate writing about writing; no matter what, it feels (and, I am sure, most likely is) completely self-indulgent. It's like being the surgeon at the party, or college professor, who--regardless of this rich life spent in higher learning--cannot talk about anything other than: the brain, impressive though it is; arrogant college students, who have so much that you didn't but aren't as clever, smart, hard working, etc.; wonders of the undiscovered; the complexity of human identity. All of these are fine topics when administered in proper doses. But, like too much dessert or reality TV, they can become taxing and tiresome on those who, maybe, just want to shoot the breeze or hear how the kids are doing.
     Now, I might hate writing about writing, but that doesn't mean that I don't like stories that have writers in them. A Widow for One Year is possibly one of my favorite novels to date, and one cannot help but appreciate Ian McEwan's masterful craftsmanship when reading Atonement. And the movie Ruby Sparks? genius.
     It's when the idea of writing takes over; when the characters have to take a back seat to the craft; they must bow to the author's Might of Words--that is when the work stops being fun or clever, and is just plain pretentious.
     So in the spirit of ducking pretentiousness, I am going to preface the rest of this entry with a warning: I am going to write about writing. It may be boring, but certainly some parts of it might be interesting.
     The reason for this entry comes back to my old fashion way of writing. As an early Christmas present, my girlfriend bought a restored Olivetti Lettera 32. Some of you might recognize that brand and model as the favorite of Cormac McCarthy--No Country for Old Men, The Road, All the Pretty Horses. Now, mine may not have been Cormac's, but that doesn't make it any less special. After all, mine had a previous owner, too. I even have his name; he typed it on the instruction manual, probably on the first day that he bought it sometime in the early 70's.
     I won't put his name here, because that just isn't right. However, I did look him up. I even mailed him a letter, typed out on his old Lettera. I just wanted to let him know that it was in good hands. Also, I cannot help but wonder as to the history of this little machine.
     So, what does that have to do with writing? I will tell you.
     The Lettera 32 is not my first typewriter. It's not my second typewriter. In truth, I could not tell you just how many I have to date. But it is this typewriter that really gets me thinking about writing: the act of and the art form. It reminds me of how massive a book really is. You may not think much of a children or YA book while you plug through it, but believe me when I tell you: rewriting 40,000 words is nothing to sneeze at.
     As an aspiring novelist, the most terrifying part of writing a book is knowing that you'll have to go back and revise the entire thing. Even on a computer, the thought of revision--of all those hours ruining your vision--is a heart sinking affair. It is why I have so much respect for John Irving, Tolkien, McCarthy, and Dickens. They wrote (and still write in the case of McCarthy) massive works and braved the world of rewriting when cut and paste wasn't a function, but two verbs and a conjunction. It was a time when one's mind had to compose quickly and elegantly, and the idea you were about to lay down must be complete. If it wasn't, or if it was just plain bad, it would mean either a fresh page for your machine or testing your skills with the Wite-Out.
     I think that I will break this one up for now.

     ...To Be Continued