writing

One year ago today, I wished Ray Bradbury (along with Dorothy Parker) a Happy Birthday. On October 2nd last year, Ray went to San Bernardino to speak to fans of his work at an event organized by the San Bernardino Public Library. It was originally going to be at the Feldheym Central Library downtown, but due to high demand wound up being moved to the Sturges Center for the Fine Arts down the road.

I managed to score a stand-by ticket, meaning I might or might not get in, depending on available seating. So I went to the theater, not knowing whether I’d get in, although any overflow would still be able to watch the event on projected television outside.

Dozens, seemingly hundreds of people queued up and went inside while I and others in the stand-by line stood by.

But luck was with me. I got inside. After brief remarks by various functionaries (including, if I recall, the mayor of San Bernardino). Soon enough, Mr. Bradbury came out, the lights dimmed, and he began telling stories.

The talk was the culmination of a community reading of Fahrenheit 451, a favorite of librarians and readers for over 50 years now (and yours truly for that matter), so he spoke of writing the book, of becoming a writer, of creativity. Much of what he talked about I remember reading in various books of his, but to hear it from him in person, not to mention witnessing other people hearing him, was truly a magical experience.

It had been announced that Mr. Bradbury would be signing autographs for whomever wished it, for as long as he could. Given his infirmity and age, I was frankly surprised he was going to attempt it at all.

Since virtually the entire auditorium wished it, two great queues of people formed going down both aisles of the theater; they got things a bit organized, taking a handful of people from each line, alternating back and forth. So there was this slow advancement, as the crowds watched the lucky ones at the beginning get their copies of 451 signed.

It took a long time to get to the front of the auditorium, then around to the side and up to the stage. Over the next hour or so, I texted Denyse a few times to update her on the progress.

As I finally got closer I could hear fans telling Mr. Bradbury various things as he signed, getting photographs with him. He took the time to acknowledge every one of them, especially the kids, shaking hands, replying graciously, and always signing, signing, signing. Scores of people went before me, but he was still going strong by the time I reached the stage.

I’d been running over and over in my head, anxious as can be, what I wanted to say to him.

It isn’t every day you meet one of your heroes. What are you supposed to say?

How are you supposed to encapsulate decades of joy and profound influence into 15 seconds of prattle? How do you summarize how much he influenced you, both to become a writer and to keep writing?

I handed my copy of Dandelion Wine to the attendant (in my nervous haste to get there, the only volume among the several of his books I own that I could find) and snapped the above picture. I told him hello, which he returned as he smoothed the book out to sign.

What did I say to him as we shook hands afterwards?

“Thank you so much, sir, for everything.”

He brought his other hand on top of mine, “Thank you,” he said with heartfelt emotion. “Thank you.”

As I left the theater, he was still at it with dozens of people waiting their turn.

I’ll bet he got through every last one of them.

Ever since, I had intended to pick out a few of the pictures, write a few things, and post this very entry. But whenever I came to do it, I just couldn’t. I’m not sure why.

I think it was a version of that sense of profundity I mentioned earlier. The moment was too special to grasp quite yet. Months passed.

Then on my calendar this week I noticed it was again Mr. Bradbury’s (and Mrs. Parker’s) birthday on the 22nd. A perfect moment.

So, on this August 22nd, Happy Birthday to Ray Bradbury!

Thank you so much, sir, for everything.

John Steinbeck’s In Dubious Battle is a novel describing the Great Cotton Strike of 1933 by farm workers in the California Central Valley. I’ve not read it, but it has been criticized at times for the author’s choice to focus almost exclusively on white Okies rather than the Mexicans who formed three-fourths of the workers in the real event.

The Village Voice has an article by Tony Ortega, who began researching the question at the behest of his mentor, novelist Louis Owens. As he digs deeper, Ortega is stunned to realize that members of his own family, still living, were there during the historical strike.

It was in the small farm town of Pixley, for example, about two weeks into the shutdown, that the most harrowing event of the strike occurred. The organizers, who included a man named Pat Chambers and a woman named Carolyn Decker, had called for a meeting at a hall in town. So many strikers showed up, however, that many were unable to get inside. As the crowd tried to get word of what was going on in the meeting, someone managed to snap a couple of stunning photographs: About a dozen farmers with rifles in their hands were sneaking up on the Mexican workers.

The farmers opened fire on the unarmed crowd. Miraculously, only two men were killed; several other people were injured, including a woman. The gunmen then jumped into their cars and sped away, but were almost immediately pulled over by California Highway Patrol officers who had actually witnessed the attack (the farmers’ weapons were literally still smoking). The officers took the rifles and then told the men to go on home.

Read “Louis Owens and John Steinbeck’s Ghosts”, by Tony Ortega.

(Found via “John Steinbeck’s migrant workers” on the LA Times’ Jacket Copy blog.)

I love how Orwell punctuates abstract thoughts with startling, concrete imagery in this excerpt from “Politics And The English Language” (1946):

In our time it is broadly true that political writing is bad writing. Where it is not true, it will generally be found that the writer is some kind of rebel, expressing his private opinions, and not a ‘party line’. Orthodoxy, of whatever colour, seems to demand a lifeless, imitative style. The political dialects to be found in pamphlets, leading articles, manifestos, White Papers and the speeches of Under-Secretaries do, of course, vary from party to party, but they are all alike in that one almost never finds in them a fresh, vivid, home-made turn of speech. When one watches some tired hack on the platform mechanically repeating the familiar phrases — bestial atrocities, iron heel, blood-stained tyranny, free peoples of the world, stand shoulder to shoulder — one often has a curious feeling that one is not watching a live human being but some kind of dummy: a feeling which suddenly becomes stronger at moments when the light catches the speaker’s spectacles and turns them into blank discs which seem to have no eyes behind them. And this is not altogether fanciful. A speaker who uses that kind of phraseology has gone some distance towards turning himself into a machine. The appropriate noises are coming out of his larynx, but his brain is not involved as it would be if he were choosing his words for himself. If the speech he is making is one that he is accustomed to make over and over again, he may be almost unconscious of what he is saying, as one is when one utters the responses in church. And this reduced state of consciousness, if not indispensable, is at any rate favourable to political conformity.

Thanks to Merlin (via MetaFilter) for linking to a great essay by Kurt Vonnegut: “How to Write With Style”.

Why should you examine your writing style with the idea of improving it? Do so as a mark of respect for your readers, whatever you’re writing. If you scribble your thoughts any which way, your readers will surely feel that you care nothing about them. They will mark you down as an egomaniac or a chowderhead —- or, worse, they will stop reading you.

The most damning revelation you can make about yourself is that you do not know what is interesting and what is not. Don’t you yourself like or dislike writers mainly for what they choose to show you or make you think about? Did you ever admire an emptyheaded writer for his or her mastery of the language? No.

He sums up:

1. Find a subject you care about
2. Do not ramble, though
3. Keep it simple
4. Have guts to cut
5. Sound like yourself
6. Say what you mean
7. Pity the readers