American Writers at the Fringes of Reality

I like realistic writers. The World is so very strange that I seldom see a need to embellish and most lack enough imagination to add anything worthwhile to the mix. But, as with everything, there are exceptions and I would like to mention 2.

First, William S. Burroughs. For those who may not know, Burroughs is usually, along with Kerouac and Ginsburg and a few others, is considered one of the 'Beat' generation writers. I have never figured that out since he has almost nothing, as a writer, in common with them. Burroughs lived on the edges of reality, not surprising since during the 40s, and 50s  he was fairly openly homosexual, not acceptable at all in those days, a heroin addict, a heavy marijuana user, an intensely heavy drinker when off junk, and a seeker of the then little known hallucinogenic drugs. He certainly was not in the mold of the average working guy. In fact, he was not really acceptable in any aspect of society at that time. Later, he gained recognition for his brilliance as a writer  deservedly, and, shamefully, something of a role model for disaffected youth (he was, after all, called the 'godfather of punk,' a title he loathed).

Burroughs was obsessed with the phenomenon of control, and he studied old cultures that lasted for long years, notably the Egyptians and the Mayans to learn how the priests kept the populations under control, to him, the greatest of evils. Then, he looked at our culture and saw the same things developing. He was right on the mark; if you do not believe that, just research MKUltra and after a few days in that abyss look at todays media, at the worlds of advertising and political propaganda. Look honestly at how we are manipulated and you will begin to understand Burroughs' brilliance.

As far as his writing, well, that is a bit tricky. First, he is extremely funny, in a dark sort of way. Second, his writing is not linear, plots do not proceed in a straight line. Rather, they twist in and out of each other. In a sense, there is almost no plot, just a series of skits, related in a way, sharing some characters,  but it takes a while to see connections.  I guess I would describe his works as hallucinatory science fiction/journalism. His books are not for the faint of heart; in truth, they are, in places, gross, but that is all part of his effort to report the World as it is. His view is not mine, and I hope it is not yours (if it is, seek counselling immediately), but his distance from the World, gave him many legitimate insights. Also, he was astonishingly prescient. In 1959's Naked Lunch, he mentions and epidemic sweeping the world that came from the Green African Monkey. A couple of decades later AIDS, originally caught from the Green African Monkey (or so we are told) swept the World. In Cities of the Red Night, he wrote of lost, advanced civilizations buried over time by desert sands. In recent years, archeologists have uncovered, in Turley, a vast temple complex that pre-dates Egypt and Sumer by several millennia. Read Burroughs; it is difficult and often nauseating, although hilarious, but his insights are worth the effort.

Second we have Phillip K. Dick. PKD was a prolific writer, often, it is said, writing 50 or 60 pager in 1 night. That is remarkable and, to be blunt, he was not a great wordsmith. His writing suffered some from his relentless drive but, that is understandable. In those days, science fiction writers made a penny a word for short stories and not much more for novels. He had to crank them out to pay his bills. Also, to keep up that pace, he turned to amphetamines, which did not help matters. But, they did not affect his ideas.

Dick was consumed with the question of reality, its flimsy nature and how it can be manipulated. Those doing the manipulating are generally governments and/or monolithic corporations, and, in his later works, inhuman intelligences. In Dick's books, the line between living and dead blurs, as in the wonderfully weird and funny Ubik.  Time is played with, for example in Minority Report, which deals with the conflict between pre-cognition and free will. Memories are manipulated with ease, as in We Can Remember It for You Wholesale. In his books, it is entirely possible for you to go to sleep as, say, a New York ad executive and wake up the next day as a Kansas farmer; nefarious agents can easily slip in remove your old memories, the keys to your identity, and replace them with new ones so you believe you are that farmer and recall all of  that life. Your old life, to you, never existed. Or, maybe both exist, or maybe neither does and both are illusions. This is the kind of fascinating, and not impossible, game Dick plays.

Or consider Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? later made into the fine film Blade Runner. Here he asks the question, what is human and what is soul? The humans in that World are either cold, technocrats or impoverished people beaten down by oppressive poverty. They are hunting and killing certain rogue androids who dare to want to live past their expiration dates. The androids are said to be soulless, yet they behave with far more courage and, ultimately, with more compassion than the  humans. Which are truly human, which is machine, and ultimately, why is one better that the other? Are we born with soul, or do we develop it and, having developed it, do we constantly have to struggle with keeping it? These are the kinds of questions Dick forces you to face.


Psychedelic experience are  difficult for writers to describe. Poets, maybe, but few of them cope with the subject well for a couple of reasons. First, on psychedelics, the dividing line between you and the rest of the World gets very flimsy. Second, psychedelics make time slippery. Time, in altered states, may seem linear, from past to present to future, or it may become cyclical, endlessly repeating. It may move fast, it may move slow, it may even stop, On occasion, it may just cease to exist. Strangest of all, every one of those things may seem to happen at once. Dick dealt successfully with all of that in The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch. I have not touched anything psychedelic in roughly 40 years, yet when I read that book (it is short and can be read in one sitting) I felt like I had done a touch of acid.

When he grew older, Dick suffered a sort of breakdown mixed with a deeply mystic experience (actually, those two types of experience are often two sides of the same coin). He lived his normal life usually but, here and there, experienced the World of a persecuted Christian in Roman times. This led him to a sort of Gnostic Christianity. He later said he was not sure if the experiences were real, or if he was somewhat schizophrenic. In fact, one cultures schizophrenic is another's shaman. Its is surprising and a shame that no one pointed that out to him.  Unfortunately, he died after 2 strokes at the age of 54.

There are few unexplored place left on Earth and the few that are, require a whole lot of money to get at. Our Space program seems to have been abandoned. We Americans have always been restless explorers, frontiersmen at heart and, right now, there is nothing left to us but inner space. Before you rush off there, check out these 2 writers for a few pointers that may keep you safe and, at least somewhat sane.

 

American Writers - Short is Often Better

I have often heard folks say that they just do not have time to read. Understandable, since many authors feel compelled to write lengthy tomes. I once was advised that I just had to read Thomas Pynchon's Mason Dixon. It was said to be a work of vast importance. Well, the vast part was correct and it mat have held the secrets of the Universe but, alas, I shall never know. The darn thing was about 1200 pages and weighed so much it hurt my hands to try and hold it and read. I made about 300 pages and decided that whatever its charms and depth, I would have to muddle on throughout my life without Pynchon's artistry.

But, there are many writers of wonderful short fiction. Now, short stories are very hard to write and, while most writers make a stab at them, few are good at it. In short stories you have to keep the plot moving, develop characters and get to the point without seeming to rush through to the finish. Many short stories I have read seem more like  ideas for novels or, simply little vignettes, little snapshots of slivers of lives. In both cases, the writing may be fine and the idea interesting, but something is lacking, kind of like French fries without salt. America is the birthplace of the short story and we do have some masters. Try Poe, Lovecraft, Ray Bradbury, Elmore Leonard, Steven King, Sherwood Anderson, Hemmingway (short stories were perfect for his lean prose), Faulkner (writing short fiction kept his wordiness under control; it is a shame he did not write more of them), and, the undisputed champion of the short story, Flannery O'Connor.

There is a middle ground between short stories and lengthy novels, the novella. I love the novella because the writer can stretch out a little but still does not have room to become self-indulgent. One of a writer's worse sins is to become enamored of his own writing and begin rambling on and on with descriptive prose and psychological analyses. Shorter fiction requires the writer to get to the essence of the story and most often, not always but usually, shorter is far better. Think of the wonderful nature paintings of the old Chinese masters.  With a few brush strokes of black ink on white paper, the capture the beauty and power of Nature. It is much the same with writing. Clear and crisp beats long winded almost every time. Almost, not always but it takes a true master of words to write lengthy stories that maintain pace and hold interest. You might enjoy some of the following: Hemmingway's The Old Man and The Sea, any of Phillip K Dick's short science fiction, Louis L'Amour and Elmore Leonard short Western novels, 2 of Cormac McCarthy's early novels Child of God and Outer Dark (both very short and very dark), and any of Henry James' short works (especially The Turn of the Screw). I especially recommend Jack Kerouac's Tristessa, a novella bout a doomed love affair he had with a young, Mexican woman. For once, Kerouac restrained himself and avoided long, rambling passages of nonsense and the book is wonderful. Also, try Poe's wonderfully strange The Fall of the House of Usher.

I have learned 2 lessons about writing. First, always be ready to cut about a third of your original draft and, second, the parts you most hate to cut are usually the ones you most need to cut.

 Think in terms of music. Nothing is more boring than a long drum solo, unless it is done by a true genius like Buddy Rich or Ginger Baker, and there are very few of those around.