Tag: writers

5 Times I Fell in Love with James Joyce

Bailey Gunn2 Comments

Okay, the title of this blog post should actually be “5 Times I Fell in Love with James Joyce and Was Also Sort Of Creeped Out By Him” but brevity is the soul of wit. So, I shortened the title (and it’s still not that funny.)

On June 15th of this year, we celebrated Dubliners’ (notice the lack of the “the”) centennial anniversary. That’s 100 brilliant years of Joyce’s collection of 15 short stories that express themes of loss, nationality, and awkward pubescence. I can talk about Joyce’s work rather nonchalantly now, but that’s because I’ve wedged some time between me and my undergraduate thesis. I dedicated a solid four months (when we had about eight months to write) to the small volume. In all, I wrote 22 pages about two stories from the collection, the first and the last. I was incredibly proud of what I had weaved and teased from the stories when I was finished with them, but I could not go near any of Joyce’s work after that.

But what was my initial attraction to JJ’s Dubliners? I had read the stories in high school, and they had influenced me. Probably not like other authors had, like Hemingway or Tim O’Brien. I enjoy books that have a bit more going on under the surface. But Joyce’s work seemed to pull back the veil on reality for me, if it did not also submerge me into his own version of things. He wrote people how they were and illustrated their dark underbellies. To this day, I can’t go to a funeral without thinking about Joyce’s The Dead. And so, unironically, Joyce haunted me throughout my literary career and my life.

But before I reiterate my entire thesis, let’s check out some interesting tidbits about the man who would come to openly hate and champion his own country and who would become one of the greatest writers of the 20th century.

#5-He Really, Really Loved His Wife

Joyce loved Nora Barnacle (what a name!) but like most writers he suffered from a debilitating sense of negative self-worth. As a result, he was an incredibly protective and jealous husband. So, why did Barnacle keep him around? It might have to do with these very NSFW (not safe for work) love letters he wrote for her. Read at your own risk. Remember, somethings can’t be unseen or unread. For whatever reason, this makes me love him more. Not that I want to be the object of his rather explicit affection, I just like a person who says what they mean. Especially when a writer who can do that.

#4-Joyce Was Very Persistent

While every writer experiences some sort of rejection, Joyce seemed to have enjoyed a fair amount of it in comparison. Dubliners was submitted a total of 18 times to 15 different publishers (!!!). Mostly, the publishers believed his work to be too obscene. Joyce tried to stand up for himself by asserting his poetic license, but many of the publishers would not budge, even when he omitted several of the offensive instances in question. MentalFloss does Joyce’s publishing journey justice. In the end, Joyce was able to preserve the integrity of his work. And for that, we cannot fault him, but we can celebrate him.

#3-His Last Words Were Rather Profound

Now, this is a little unfair. All last words are profound because they are the last things you ever say. If you don’t show emotional depth and insight on your death bed, then where will you? However, Joyce’s final question, “Does nobody understand?” seems to accurately capture his entire life. I think he was an incredibly troubled man, and he used his writing to help people comprehend. Not him, per se, I don’t think he wanted to be put under a microscope, and I don’t think he was asking if anyone understood him in that really annoying, cliched teenager sense. But rather, he wanted people to acknowledge their own follies and shortcomings, as individuals and as a population. Not exactly the person you’d invite to a party, but not everyone can be charming. Actually, it’s what I love most about Joyce. He was what he was, and he was absolutely unapologetic for it.

#2-He Asked Hemingway to Beat People Up for Him

One account of Joyce recalls the fact he would pick fights at bars, and Hemingway would finish them. Due to his frail frame and his rather bookish personality, Joyce was hardly the one to initiate violence, but that doesn’t mean he would keep his mouth shut. You would think that this would make me dislike Joyce because he seems to be fearless in every other aspect of his life. But for me, this fact gives him a bit of dimension. Like most writers, he wasn’t the hero of his own life, but unlike most writers, he didn’t seek to write books with main characters bearing similarities to himself but with much bigger brawn and a lot more ladies circling. Joyce saw things as they were. And if he saw that you had about 3 inches on him, he would call Hemingway over for the intimidation factor.

#1-And He Once Said This, “Your battles inspired me–not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.” 

We are all our biggest enemies, and history tells us it was no different for Joyce. This quote speaks to the man he was, valuing intelligence over sheer might, but I think it also represents what kind of man he was when no one else was looking. He was troubled, but tender. In this quote, we can all relate, and we can recognize that we all have a little bit of Joyce inside of us, staring out.

There you have it. The reasons I completely adore James Joyce but sort of abhor his behavior. He wasn’t a particularly kind man, but he was a character. In life, sometimes the best thing you can have is a bit of personality and some quirks. I’m not saying he wasn’t a troublemaker, I’m just saying he’s my troublemaker. Cheers, JJ.

On Behalf of All Writers, I’m Sorry, We’re All A**holes

Bailey Gunn3 Comments

I Know What You Are, But What Am I?

Not much can bring me down on a Thursday night. Especially when I am with my best friend (my sister) on said Thursday night, and we are eating sushi at our favorite restaurant. Sushi, in itself, sends my endorphins racing like twin fireworks to the top of the night sky. If you want to tell me some bad news, pop a Godzilla roll in my mouth, and pour some soy sauce into the side of my lips like the Tin Man’s oil can. Just fill my mouth before you fill my ears. But I deliciously digress…

Now, in the midst of this tobeko laced euphoria, I hear a young lady speaking to her parents in an incredibly haughty manner. At this point in the story, I would like to assert that I am not usually an eavesdropper, but you probably don’t believe me, so let’s move on to the part where I start eavesdropping. I was overwhelmed by this young woman at the table next to me. She barreled on in her conversation like a runaway train, and her parents’ silence was so tangible, I almost asked if they wanted a fourth chair. They must feel, I thought, like Dr. Frankenstein, paralyzed by a mixture of terror and awe in her wake. The young lady sped the conversation along so fast that it was not soon before I realized that she was actually having an argument with her parents, although an incredibly one-sided one.

Yet, this was not what pulled my attention from my feast of the senses. It was the following sentence that I am both amazed and sorry that I heard: “But I have always loved the English language and writing,” she said, as if that was an excuse for the world’s longest filibuster she had been performing for the last half hour.

And that was it. I mushroom clouded. How was it that this absolutely detestable human being, who had been defiantly yelling at her parents as they tried to satiate her with sushi and shushing, was a writer, like me? Why couldn’t she be discussing her love for pig farming!? I fumed. Why did it have to be writing? And then, it clicked. I’m an a**hole, too.

Ay, The Rub

So, what is it about writers that makes them predisposed to the a**hole gene? What was it about this particular girl that swapped my raw fish bliss for horror? Well, put a roll inside your mouth and open your ears, for I have some bad news.

Every writer is an a**hole in one way or another.

And thank God we are.

Take Hemingway. If you haven’t, read the (absolutely phenomenal) novel The Paris Wife, and try to tell me that he isn’t the scum of the earth. But also try and tell me that he wasn’t a master at his craft. He thrived in isolation, slaving to write the most precise, concise sentences possible. And when he emerged from his writing world, he absolutely wreaked havoc on his loved ones. Like all writers, he exhibited a strangely inflated ego. And yet, like all writers, he was ruled by his insecurities, living and dying through other’s compliments or criticisms of his work. He existed on the outskirts of his own society, and yet captured the human condition so profoundly in his writing. Sound familiar? It should.

All truly great writers will undoubtedly endure this paradox to become great. And eventually, we will all murder everything we love in the process. Because if we didn’t, if we weren’t able to completely push everyone away, even alienate the complete strangers sitting and eating sushi next to us, then how could we be productive? How could we set aside the time needed in our lives to write the next greatest novel if we let life barge in? Our insensitivity and yet our sensitivity to the world around is, simultaneously, our triumph and our downfall. Kill your darlings, as Stephen King says.

So, be kind to the writers in your life, for if history serves, all writers die by alcoholism, anyway. But we’ll go down swinging. Maybe even in flames, if we manage to spill enough vodka on the front of our shirts and stand near enough to a burning cigarette we forgot to put out in our fervor to just get this one line down…

In the end, show me a writer that is successful, and I’ll show you one that is a complete a**hole. It’s that simple, and it’s that problematic.

I Salute You, NanoWrimers

Bailey Gunn1 Comment

I don’t know how you do it, budding novelists of the world, but somehow, every November, you do. You write until the keys pop off your computer, and you torture yourself with any number of devices that will help you to keep your focus. A friend of mine was swept up last year by National Novel Writing Month and eagerly showed me her methods. “This website turns red when you haven’t been typing for awhile, and if it gets to be too long without you producing something new, it deletes your progress.” Trying to find the right word again after its been deleted by a machine feels a bit like a fresh hell to me. But every night she dug deep and met her goal without too much of her work erased.

For those of you unfamiliar with what I’m even talking about, we are deep in the throes of National Novel Writing Month. As I understand it, although I have never tried it myself, a participant completes 50,000 words by the end of November, thus creating a short novel. You can break it up into sections or, for you procrastinators, you can write the full 50k in one shot. There is no prize at the end; simply self-satisfaction, and a couple of new friends who have slaved alongside of you.

Thus, I will take a moment of my time to salute those who are able to complete this monumental task, or even start it. I will also congratulate you on the fact that you are almost at the middle of the month, and therefore, possibly in the middle of your respective work.

I can only imagine that you are only taking a few minutes out of your strict schedule to read this blog. Eating and going to the bathroom can wait.

If you are at all a follower of this blog, you’ll know that writing about 500 words a night for me is not even feasible, so 50,000 is quite unfathomable.

So, be kind to those word warriors. I have no doubt they are out there, living among you, tired and red-eyed from staying up the night before to really “flesh out that foil character.” And when they ask you to listen to a section of their masterpiece, sigh and giggle at the appropriate moments, for that is their blood and tears on a page. And when November is over, tell them to keep going. Keep editing, keep imagining, and keep writing.

After all, as I once heard: “Writing when you are inspired will make you a great poet, but it will never make you a novelist.”

Write on!