No title yet. Sometimes I have a title before I start, sometimes I can’t think of one at all. I might give this a one word, character’s last name title, like a Louis L’Amour Western. I just read his novel Matagorda, which was a lot like a lot of his books: Good Honest Man Gets The Job Done, with lots of repetition about how he came to Texas to be a partner on a cattle drive, not get involved in a feud, but, would you believe it—he got involved in the feud, and his fiancé came from Virginia to Indianola right before the hurricane destroyed the town, and somehow, she knew about the feud before she got there, but he hadn’t. Still, I’d love to be able to write about landscape the way he did.

First person or third? I started with third person, but I’ve been reading Dashiell Hammett’s Continental Op stories and like the style of having anonymous first person narrator (though that would interfere with the idea of a last-name title—or would it?).

As a book designer, I would be curious to see a study that looks at good writing with a good page design vs. good writing with a poor design, and bad writing with a good design vs. bad writing with a poor design. Yes, good writing is subjective. I would have to be in charge of making that distinction.

MRI of the head, from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:MRI_head_side.jpg

It turns out that reading fiction is actually good for you. Not that I didn’t already believe that, but I’ve met plenty of people who don’t read fiction, because they say they only want to read real things. This piece by Annie Murphy Paul in the New York Times discusses some recent research into the imagery of fiction and its effect on the brain.

Paul quotes Dr. Keith Oatley, professor of cognitive psychology at the University of Toronto and a novelist (including The Case of Emily V, a mystery that involves Sigmund Freud and Sherlock Holmes). According to Oatley, fiction “is a particularly useful simulation because negotiating the social world effectively is extremely tricky, requiring us to weigh up myriad interacting instances of cause and effect. Just as computer simulations can help us get to grips with complex problems such as flying a plane or forecasting the weather, so novels, stories and dramas can help us understand the complexities of social life.”

Paul mentions Oatley and other authors of various studies. When I looked up Oatley I discovered that he has a book from August 2011 on the same subject: Such Stuff as Dreams: The Psychology of Fiction, which is described as exploring “how fiction works in the brains and imagination of both readers and writers.”

I find it odd that Paul’s piece failed to mention Oatley’s book. I don’t know what that omission means (most likely nothing), but it bugs me. It distracted me from the making of a simple blog post on an interesting subject, sending me off into myriad speculations, none of which are worth noting in this post.

Here’s a group blog that Oatley participates in: OnFiction: An Online Magazine on the Psychology of Fiction, which I will look at more thoroughly when I get a chance, and I’m curious to read his book.

I hope the findings of Oatley and other researchers will encourage more people to attempt the reading of fiction. It will help your brain.

Jon Langford painting from exhibit at the Garde Rail Gallery, 2007

I grew up in Texas, I watched a lot of westerns on TV, I read a lot of westerns, I roped cows, fought bandits, rescued children from mountain lions, etc. I’ve been wanting to write a western for a long time, thinking about bits here and there, settings, characters. But what brought the elements and the idea to the front was getting Jon Langford’s Nashville Radio. It’s a book of his artwork, along with his writings about his life, music, what inspires him in creating art. The book also includes a CD of his songs, acoustic re-recordings from solo work, Waco Brothers, and Mekons.

From the publisher’s website:

Langford’s “song-paintings” fuse publicity-shot portraiture with imagery derived from folk art, Dutch still life, classic Western wear, and the cold, cold war—all instilled with sharp, sardonic wit and a Constructivist sense of the power of language. He applies his completely distinctive style to the depiction of American music giants such as Bob Wills, Hank Williams, and Johnny Cash, and also to more ghostly, marginalized figures—blindfolded cowboys, astronauts, and dancers—jerked around by the forces of success and exploitation, fame and neglect.

The book is available direct from the publisher, Verse/Chorus Press, or from Bloodshot Records, or the usual internet book sellers.

I’ll be using the artwork in the book as a source of inspiration. Once I’ve made some progress I’ll post some writing here.

Please note that this photo displays on the Right.

The film details some of the bands and history of the music, tying the appearance and disintegration of the scene to Ronald Reagan’s first term. One of the musicians interviewed talked about the crazy-fake back-to-the-1950s look that came out after Reagan was elected, and how the bands were reacting to that, saying that’s not us. An idea that maybe works better in retrospect.

There are interviews with various musicians: Henry Rollins (of course), some good talks with Ian MacKaye, and lots of others. One oddity was the interview with Mike Watt of the Minutemen. The Minutemen’s music didn’t fit the hardcore image, and the filmmakers didn’t try to make it fit, but also didn’t explain why they interviewed him. The band was on the same label as Black Flag, played the same clubs and such, so inclusion makes sense as a way of discussing the origins of the scene. A little more of a connection would have been useful. The Watt interview scenes in fact felt like outtakes from the excellent Minuteman documentary (We Jam Econo: The Story of the Minutemen).

I was in college for much of the period referenced in the film (on election night 1980, I went out to hear Gang of Four—as un-Reagan a band as you could ask for). I was into a range of music, local bands, national, which included bands that could fall into the hardcore punk category (though most of the bands I liked didn’t like categories).

It was a great time for music in Austin. New live music clubs were opening and older ones were allowing more interesting bands to play. The same thing was happening in other cities throughout the U.S. Bands set up touring networks, trading information with each other, erecting the structure for the popularization of so-called alternative music that came later.

The American Hardcore film makes it seem as if the profusion of bands and sharing of information was exclusive to hardcore. My recollection is that a many-faceted explosion of bands was happening; some were similar, some were different, most congenial with each other despite differences. Michael Azerrad’s Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground 1981–1991 presents the expanding touring networks and inter-dependence in a way more like how I remember it. He talks with bands included in the American Hardcore’s purview and others outside of it.

The possibility of seeing Austin’s The Big Boys was what drew me to the film. I knew there was at least a mention of them (which turned out to be one very short snippet of a live performance).

The first time I saw Big Boys perform was February of my freshman year. I still have a poster from the show. They opened for a band called the Uranium Savages, who played satirical/humorous music, often set to the tunes of other songs. I had been wanting to see them. I had never heard of the Big Boys. Afterwards, I forgot about the Uranium Savages.

My sophomore year, I took a creative writing class. I decided I wanted to be a writer. Not knowing how to go about that, I became a journalism major. In my first journalism class, one of our assignments was to interview someone and write an article. As a subject, I chose Tim Kerr, Big Boys guitarist. After that initial meeting, I would visit Tim often to hear the latest music he was listening to, talk about bands he liked, borrow albums of bands that were coming to town so I could write articles about them for the college newspaper.

The Big Boys encouraged everyone in their audience to start their own band, fanzine, something. Their shows were parties; anyone who wanted to could get on stage and dance (as long as they didn’t damage the equipment). Sometimes they would open for a lesser-known visiting band, to give that band more audience (behavior that makes friends but not fame).

There were many (many) bands I listened to before (and after) the Big Boys, but the kind of band they were and the timing of my introduction to them increased their impact. The band helped me begin the soundtrack of my adult, creative life. And they taught me that I could be a creative person. I didn’t start a band or ’zine, but I started writing fiction. It took me a long time to figure out how to write fiction that represented the music I was listening to, duplicating a punk ethic by writing what I want to write, following my subconscious instead of market trends. Which is what I still do.

Traveling in Italy, 1984, I went into a Florence record store to browse. The store carried a number of indy-label released from the U.S., including the Big Boys Fun Fun Fun EP. In the long-ago pre-internet age, how could someone have even heard of it? I couldn’t help feeling that it had been placed there for me to find.

The song (in case anyone out there doesn’t know) is an epic tale in four sections, with four different singers (technically, many more than four singers because the fourth section is sung by a choral group.  “Ancient and Modern” is a song that does what a good work of art is supposed to do, slide past the thinking-brain and into the subconscious.

It would be nice to know who the voices are (as a parent, I’m supposed to know everything, and having to tell a four-year-old “I think that’s X…” is most embarrassing. But the band’s liner notes aren’t very revealing. The first vocal is, I think, accordion player Rico Bell. I’m less sure of his voice because he doesn’t sing as much as the other members. Next is a spoken part by either violin player Susie Honeyman or bass player Sarah Corina—it’s definitely not Sally Timms. I’ve never heard either of them speak and can’t place the accent. Honeyman is from Glasgow, but the accent doesn’t sound like Glaswegians I know, mainly writer-friend Neil Williamson. The third part is easy, founding-member Tom Greenhalgh. The song ends with vocals by the Burlington Welsh Male Chorus—also obvious, because they’re credited [updated below].

A note on the arrogance of reviewers. Here someone says “The song begins with Jon Langford….” and here: “The three vocalists—Jon Langford, Tom Greenhalgh and Timms”. I also found a reviewer who said the song faltered toward the end, but at least he didn’t add to his lack of taste by attempting to identify the singers. Were these people really so certain? Or is it because they know that the main singers are two men and a woman, so any men and women have to be from among those three? They could spend a little more time listening before they begin the pontification process.

And in closing, having mentioned Glaswegian Neil Williamson, I’d like to tell people about the ebook version of his very fine but out of print debut short story collection, The Ephemera, now available in the various ebook formats from infinityplus.The ebook edition has four additional stories plus notes on all the stories. I recommend that those of you who posses the modern ink-substitute called an e-reader get yourselves a copy.

[Update]

From a source involved with the proceedings: Lu Edmonds starts, then Jon Langford and Rico Bell join in, Susie Honeyman talks, Tom Greenhalgh sings, Sarah Corina talks, Tom Greenhalgh sings again, then everyone and the choir finish. Reviewers: see, it’s not hard to find things out!

To go with this interview, iambik will be offering a give-a-way. Please check their blog for details.

Keiper began his theater career in the fifth grade, singing in operetta and acting in child roles with the Cleveland Playhouse. He studied theater at Ohio State University, and has directed educational television, toured the country as a platform speaker, worked as an actor in New York, and directed and wrote shows for the stage, one of which has had 2500 performances.

He took a 30-year break from theater to work in business, and returned to acting because of his daughter, Alex Keiper. Since getting back into acting, he has worked in stage plays and film, training people in businesses to improve their presentation skills, and, of course, as a voice artist, including commercials, audio plays, and audio books.

Keiper is appearing in a new movie, The Sophmore, with Amanda Plummer and Patrick Warburten, out in January 2012.

Laconic Central: Hi Bob, thanks for doing this interview.

In your bio, you say you got back into theater because of your daughter’s love for acting. I’m assuming that her interest was sparked originally by your past–or did you stop before she was born?

Robert Keiper: My daughter got the theater bug all on her own. Then, taking her to an audition landed roles for both of us, and I got bitten again. So she’s more responsible for my theatrical aspirations than I am for hers.

But some of my fondest memories—and hers—are her childhood hours we spent in the living room working on monologues.

LC: Your bio mentions a theater piece you wrote that has had 2500 performances. Please tell me something about it.

RK: The piece was a one-man-show entitled Sons of Liberty. It included the voices of several characters, re-living events of the first year of the American Revolution. Patrick Henry speaking at the House of Burgesses, a British soldier at Lexington and Concord, a New England farmer telling what happened at Bunker (Breed’s) Hill, Joseph Reed, secretary to General Washington, and Nathan Hale. I wrote and produced it, but most of the performances were done by other actors on year-long Chautauqua circuit tours of high schools, colleges and clubs. Tours included mid-west, southern states, Pennsylvania, New York and New England. It also had performances at Lincoln Center, Faneuil Hall, and Williamsburg.

LC: How does working as a voice artist on audio books differ from performing a play on stage?

RK: The immediacy of feedback on stage is galvanizing, a creative condition when all my resources are simply there without effort. In film work there’s always crew, director and other actors to bring about that same “heightened state.”

Narration is a solitary effort as, I’m sure, is yours. The opening of resource paths requires more and more consistent effort. I am my audience, my admirer and my critic.

But the rewards are delightful and amazingly identical, so long as approbation doesn’t creep in. It’s never about me, it’s always and only about the story.

LC: I’m pretty thrilled that someone did an audiobook of my writing, and I love how it came out. But I have to say I was pretty apprehensive at first. It was very strange hearing someone else read my words. How did voicing The Painting and the City compare with other narrations that you’ve done?

RK: Even though I’d done several books prior to yours, I was still fairly new to this performing art as I started The Painting and The City. So I was making lots of mistakes, backing and filling, getting disgusted with myself and swearing I’d never finish the darned thing. Then I’d come to one of the interesting plot twists and get hooked all over again. I particularly remember the first time the puppet appears in the story, and the galvanizing effect that had on me. I was delighted with the character and my choice for a voice for him—but I knew he would appear again later, so I made a short recording of his voice and kept it handy as a reminder when needed again. Consistent character voices are as fundamental to the story as any other character traits, but when their appearances are far apart you have to take special care.

Yours was also the my first venture into fantasy/science fiction. I particularly enjoyed the story transitions from here-and-now to there-and-then. Altogether, it was a delight to work on, very different from some of the others, such as Franklin, the Essential Founding Father by James Srodes. That history was fascinating and I hope to do more of that sort. Not a fun romp, but gratifying. Give me more like that, but then one like yours to lighten my spirits.

LC: Interesting, because I know you as a voice and not a face, that the trailer for The Sophmore has you doing voiceover. Is that the case throughout the movie, or was it put together just for the trailer? Hearing the voiceover got me wondering if you voice work (invisible acting) has changed/influenced your screen/stage (visible) acting.

RK: My voiceover in the trailer is lifted from my on-camera lines as Cap, the history teacher, and were done, I suspect, to give continuity to the trailer segments. The audience must endure watching me in order to hear me in the actual movie.

I don’t think my voice work has influenced my stage or film work—but as I pondered your question I realized that my daughter’s acting work has. She is preparing for her opening in the lead in Proof, at the Walnut Street Theater in Philadelphia—an extremely demanding role. As we discussed her approach to it, I’ve appreciated again how much her strong work ethic has incented me to work harder and be more creative over the years.  And people think we influence our kids.

LC: What’s next for you?

RK: I have one little piece of an audiobook to finish. I’ll be giving presentation skills workshops in Oregon, then Costa Mesa, then Anaheim over the next few weeks while waiting for other audiobook or film opportunities to pop up. My wife and son and I will be going to see Proof next week, and I’m having lunch with my golfing buddies tomorrow.  I wouldn’t be surprised if something else interesting appears unexpectedly, too.

And last, here’s the trailer for the new movie that Bob is appearing in.

Crushed can from from http://smashedcan.tumblr.com.

Good article by C.A. Belmond in the Huffington Post last Wednesday: “Writers Wednesday: 5 Lies They Tell You About Writing.”

I particularly liked number 2: “Many writing instructors routinely discourage new authors from describing their characters and the world they inhabit. Why? Two reasons are usually given. One is that it isn’t “modern” to do so (Hemingway is often cited here); and the other is because it’s so darned hard to describe stuff (like sure, what are you, a writer or something?)…Perhaps that explains why so many writers use brand names in place of original description. Let’s call this for what it is: mere product placement, for which the authors didn’t even get paid.”

Aside from the vague statement “many writing instructors,” (how many? how surveyed? residential/non-residential programs? undergraduate/graduate?), I agree with what she’s saying. Brand names bore me. Brand names in fiction bore me. Including the name of a particular beverage doesn’t improve a story.

A critique of an early draft of Circus of the Grand Design by a writer I respect included the suggestion of using brand names in part one (which is set in the real world), to anchor the story because after part one it dives into the land of What the Fuck? and stays there till the end. The suggestion made sense, but I chose to ignore it; the final version did (I hope) convey the real-world better than the version he read.

“…do we really need to hear from yet another desperate housewife about her mind-numbing collection of Manolos and Choos, or the brand of bottled water she drinks?”

I learned from the comments to Belmond’s piece that she is referring to shoes. Maybe writers who use brand names etc. should have to pay licensing fees to the corporate owners.

Besides brand names, I don’t like to use pop culture references, contemporary jargon, sayings, and clichés. I find it jarring and uninteresting to read a story with, say, Facebook or YouTube in it. I’m even hesitant to use computers and cell phones in my fiction. I don’t need the world that I see every day to be reflected in fiction.

Grandiose it may be, but I would like the things I write to have meant something before current brand names, jargon, and fads existed. Yes, that’s unrealistic. English is always changing. There are words in common use now that originated from brand names or jargon. The main point would be that I’m not writing for the current moment.

But like any creative exercise, everyone is free to do what they want. If brand names get you exited, then pile them in. Fortunately for you, not all readers will have tastes as rigid as mine.

I’ll close with an example from Michael Cisco’s novel The Narrator, where you’ll find description that makes the familiar alien. No brand names here!

“Oh look another one of my outdoor cafés what about that. A handsome girl and brave asks me what I want and goes inside to get me whatever it is I’ve ordered.  Everywhere, the same thing. I see mouths in motion on all sides. Incessantly in motion, on all sides. There’s another; and now two more have joined us. They eat, and their jaws work the food around among the teeth, between the jaws, pressed this way and that so that the different kinds of food find the teeth specialized to destroy them. The tongue does this, and also churns saliva into the food, so that everything tastes like saliva. Although the tongue naturally tastes, while having no taste of its own to speak of, not that I’d notice. I watch this or that patron lifting a cup or glass to the mouths they come here to honor with this fine food and drink, and the mouths stretch themselves out toward the cups or glasses, reaching out to meet them before the hand has finished bringing it near, as the eye judges. These people, like me, are marked for death.  But not entirely like me. They can run.”

Here’s something Mansfield said about Aickman, which I would have said in my Aickman post if I had thought of it:

Aickman never spells out his meaning. His stories end abruptly and inconclusively, and in fact the “meaning” is less important than the utter mysteriousness of what happens. Like a true poem or a vivid dream, Aickman’s stories hover on the edge of being understood, but never quite are. They are meant to be listened to and wondered at, and their mystery grows stronger the more one puzzles over them

And an interesting interview at The Center for Fiction with a writer I’m unfamiliar with named Steve Almond. I like his attitude toward big publishing and the need for doing it yourself sometimes but not all the time. Some good bits like this:

That’s the fundamental design flaw in the publishing industry: It pairs an artist with a corporation. Occasionally, this produces a great piece of art that makes all parties involved dough. More often, a literary book loses money—all but one of mine have—and the writer winds up feeling like a loser because his piece of art didn’t move more units. That’s a pretty crazy way to measure success.