For my part we were a bit short on handouts so I wanted to make sure if you wanted to look it over, you could. This also gives me a chance to correct some typos that made it through the rush to prepare the pamphlet. If you find more feel free to alert me. Start here with the link to Meat Puppet which was never meant to be Meet Puppet.

After the conference and all the jawing on about poetics I want you to think about the conversations you found memorable. The inspiring and the insipid, the boasting and the boring, the gut busting guffaws and the disheartening gaffs. If you remember it, it is important. After all remembering is repetition and repeated things are important and important things are repeated.

Click here to view the embedded video.

As a special education teacher I think of teaching as non-invasive brain surgery. I hear voices of teachers in my own noggin and I wonder what quotes of mine students will hear reverberate in theirs. My skull is crowded. My mother’s words, my father’s silence, sibling lectures and jokes, friends laughing, teasing, insulting. Advice, ridicule, warnings, each with a decidedly distinctive voice. This is not schizophrenia. Schizophrenia is the malfunctioning of this ability. When this ability functions it is more like cognitive behavior therapy, it is what results from the Socratic Method.

In the Janssen’s Mindstorm schizophrenic simulation the voices frustrate, undermine, constrict and isolate. Voice in literature has a different effect. Actually, people with schizophrenia often report that reading quiets the voices. What if the brain uses the same regions to create a character’s drawl as it does to bombard someone with paranoid ranting? The key difference between the auditory hallucinations of reading and schizophrenia would be in the ability to differentiate the source and reality of the voices. Schizophrenic hallucinations with their paranoia, fear, and derision may be coming from another part of the brain and passing through the synaptic voice box. Malfunctioning parts of the brain may be pumping the unfiltered chemicals and electricity like a fire hose through the same region or regions used to create voice from writing. So when someone with schizophrenia reads are they occupying the part of the brain that gives voice to the paranoia and using it to create the written voice?

Writers in their attempt to marshal that same brain space, that synaptic voice box, succeed at various levels. The ability to inspire the creation of an articulate voice in the reader is a challenge. To supply material for multiple voices complicates things. To have those voices converse and to converse in an entertaining and enthralling manner is still more difficult. To enable the conversation to include the reader, for a writer to supply material and elicit a conversation that allows space for the reader’s input to actually listen to the reader, well, that is the sort of mastery writers aspire. Think of it in terms of dimensions. One dimensional would be one voice, two dimensional dialog, and three dimensional, conversation. Removing, as the thespians say, the “fourth wall” and listening to and getting input from the reader would qualify as the fourth dimension. Just as the visual arts trick us into seeing depth and space, writing sets readers up to hear auditory hallucinations that are deep, rich, and ultimately immersive.

This is a new way of thinking about reading for me. Will it help me write more immersive poetry? Do you think it will help you write better? Will it help one to read more insightfully? How does this change our way of looking at dramatic monologues, play dialog, abstract poetry? Or is it like explaining a joke or diagramming ballet? I am deeply curious to know. Especially, from those with more knowledge, first or second hand, about auditory hallucinations.

A year ago I wrote about abandoning a solitary existence and joining two writers’ groups. It’s time to follow up. What has this move done for me?

I can say confidently that subjecting my work to peer review is the best thing I have done in the last 10 years.

I had been giving myself too much leeway. Allowing myself too many easy choices. Just because something rang true or interesting, I would use it without questioning the reader’s ability to share my reaction. I had not bothered to take responsibility for every word I used.

Now I found myself subjected to the scrutiny of other writers, with their distinct views of literature. They were unwilling to give me a free pass with one or another of my arbitrary choices just because they liked my work in general. This increased my demands of myself. I could see my work more critically. I developed more respect for the reader. I was given an opportunity to improve.

Much of my prose and poetry has been significantly optimized after being “Gutted”. It’s amazing how, as authors, we may overlook the most glaring errors in our plots that others will immediately notice. The most egregious typos! Other eyes help. Educated, creative minds behind the eyes help tenfold! And by no means is this limited to detecting the problems I missed. It’s also about pinpointing the opportunities I might consider, alternate developments that might make more sense. Every now and then, a work will take on a new dimension after I incorporate all the feedback.

I hear voices. The voices of my fellow writers, commenting on one or another decision I make, sentence I use. Although one might feel insane with so many voices in one’s head, I feel enriched. I have the wisdom and the experience of a dozen other creative minds in my toolkit. Often, I don’t even need to have them read the work to gauge their reactions.

And there is more. Giving constructive feedback is also a challenge and a learning process. Do I speak about the work from my own point of view as a reader? Do I adopt the view of the author’s “target reader”? Do I find a good balance in between? Do I propose a major change if one seems warranted to me? Is there more of myself or of the author in my feedback, and which is best? Are my literary theories and writing recipes sound, interesting, well thought-out?

But it’s not all about discussing one another’s work. There is more to discuss. I have become exposed to so many fascinating thoughts, brilliant works, talented authors – enough for two lifetimes of reading. Thought spurs thought. Information exchange spurs enhanced creativity. We step up to become small players in a larger world. I’m no longer a solitary writer stewing in his own isolated universe. I’m part of a larger context. I have escaped into the outer realm. In doing so, I have obtained not only a strong team dedicated to helping one another grow, but a wide frame of reference, and, last but not least, a lovely bunch of friends.

I have upgraded to a better version of myself as a writer while having a lot of delightful interactions.

I would love the Guttery to pour over every word and every punctuation mark I have ever set down, but one gets only so much reviewing time. I await my next opportunity to be Gutted and whatever that entails in my growth, as a writer and a person. In the meantime, I am inspired by the others: their thoughts, their favorite literature, their participation in life as creative beings, their ways to string words together, their emotional worlds, their particular ways to tell their particular stories.

The world is full of voices, and only one of them is my own.

Got this email from Writer’s Digest selling critique services with the heading “Polish Your Writing with a Professional Critique from Writer’s Digest!” I thought they had mispelled “Publish” or that it was making fun of the Poles. I sent them an email asking if the Polish joke was intentional.  This was while I still thought it was a mistake.  Laura from customer service wrote back, “Are you kidding?” Here is Laura’s phone message on my voicemail.  The greeting for my phone says “Hello you’ve reached David Cooke The Lawn Guy…”

A. Molotkov–Producer, poet, vocals, handsonic, duduk, percussion
Bruce Greene–poet, percussion
Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk–poet, vocals
David Cooke–poet
Ragon Linde–Music Director, music
Shawn Austin–poet, percussion

My Book Group

I am certain that everyone has stories. I’m equally convinced that everyone is capable of writing these stories up into novels, short stories, articles, letters, notes, emails, blogs, texts, bumper stickers, billboards, songs, or graffiti. Writing is the legacy of our opposable thumbs and our ridiculously labyrinthed brains.

However, just as not all runners are equal, nor all athletes, all writing is certainly not equal. At some point during my college years I promised myself to never, ever waste my precious time reading junk. Never. Unless it’s a magazine. Then it’s all bets off.

For several years I only read the classics. Only the names bound in those Literary Anthologies you read in college: Hardy, Whitman, Woolf, Shakespeare. Under my definition of “classic”, Steinbeck was a bit of an upstart. Then after living in Nepal, I went through a long bout of only reading Indian writers—preferably ones who used magic realism. Do you know how difficult it was to make a steady diet of this writing? Salmon Rushdie hasn’t written that many things, nor has Gita Meeta, nor Tagore. It was like eating a very limited diet of only orange vegetables.  Yummy, but limiting.  My creativity, like a body on such a diet, was grinding to a halt.

Then I befriended someone who existed on a diet of everything, with a generous helping of sweet reading candy. Marianne read several books a week, reading them to sleep and waking to them before work. She read whatever was in front of her, whatever she found, whatever, whatever, and loved it. Marianne was a sweet novel addict and, as such, had the enviable ability to talk books with whomever she met. She called me a book snob and I called her a book whore. We were best friends. We parted—listen up Red and Blue voters—by mutually respecting one another’s views.

After meeting Marianne, I expanded my views. Here’s my adjusted creed: If for entertainment purposes only, and if (this is my caveat) the reader is intelligent enough to know the difference, and game enough to throw in superbly written novels, then the average reader may read crap.  The aspiring writer, though, is an exception.  To become exceptional, a writer must read more like an Olympic athlete in training.  A great writer must, like an Olympic athlete, read a well-balanced, varied diet. I know, I know: it works for Billy Bob Thornton to only eat orange food (okay, to set the record strait, he eats only raw food, not necessarily orange. Big difference), but not for the writer.  Sorry.  Even a straight genre writer should cross train.

With my new creed in mind, I joined a book group. It was kind of like the Nutrisystem for me. A prescribed diet of someone else’s food, just enough to pry me from my old habits, and get me on the road to a healthier diet. I’ll admit that I didn’t like all the books my group chose. I don’t care if he does write a pretty sentence; Jonathan Franzen struck me as a pubescent boy stuck with a nasty god complex. Mostly, though, I read wonderful books I never would have chosen with my own sensitive nose.  I was introduced by Mandy to Iris Murdock’s The Sea, The Sea, by Maureen to Peter Carey’s Parrot and Oliver in America, and by Tracy to Jennifer Vanderbe’s Easter Island.  The camaraderie of a group to gush over or trash a book is added fun I didn’t take into account when I joined.

Like many people who have kicked an eating disorders, I maintain my Nurtisystem support group, but I also go on my own hunts. These days I’m like a reformed meat-eater who now leads groups on urban mushroom foraging. I will spend my late hours on the Internet searching the Independent Publishing sites such as Dranzen Books, Algonquin Books, Other Press. This search has led down some strange paths, such as The Mullet: Hairstyles of the Gods, or Shitting Pretty. It has also put some gems in my hands.  On these excursions, I have found Galore by Michael Crummey and The End of the World by Sushma Joshi.

While most of my college promises to myself (big hair, stonewashed jeans, cheap beer, Nihilism) are better off dead, my promise to stay away from bad writing has solidified like cement beneath the post of my own writing.  I have many coaches.  Thomas Hardy and Virginia Woolf will always be there, but so, too, will Louise Erdrich, Orhan Pamuk, Gao Xingjian, and Cormac McCarthy.  I may not make great art yet, but with the help of these Olympic coaches, I can strive for more.  Who knows, with time, practice, and lots of good reading, I could break the record–or put a deep scratch down it so it won’t play on the record player any more.

Recently I wrote a list of books that influenced my writing and I thought it would be interesting to pose a question to this writing group.  Tell me about a book or author that inspires your writing.  The Guttery responses were (not) surprising.

Bruce Greene‘s writing scratches like fingernails down the vertebrae of class and culture.  Listen to the performance, Love Outlives Us, and you’ll appreciate that the writers who influenced Bruce were Kenneth Patchen and John Steinbeck.  Bruce claims that he likes them both because they tackle “big ideas and are thought provoking.” Bruce does too.  His “Goldfish” piece read in the Moonlit Guttery’s reading  of Love Outlives Us uses the metaphor of a harmless goldfish to pry open the box of the Vietnam war. My mother, whose brother’s life was shattered by his three tours in Vietnam, could not sleep after listening to Bruce read his piece. She told me that Bruce’s story gave her a new perspective on her brother’s life and the cultural forces that led to his decision to do three tours.  Bruce has published his memoir of his Vista years on the web,  Above This Wall.  Here is an excerpt from Bruce’s memoir. It is a section of  his statement of conscientious objections to his Vietnam Conflict draft board:

To be sure, I have been influenced by the great thinkers of non-violence, Gandhi and Martin Luther King, however, my increased interest in poetry led me to my most profound influence, the American poet Kenneth Patchen. Patchen’s works encompass the totality of my religious beliefs.

There is only one truth in the world:
Until we learn to love our neighbor,
There will be no life for anyone,

Force cannot be overthrown by force,
To hate any man is to despair of every man,
Evil breeds evil—the rest is a lie:

There is only one power that can save the world—
And that is the power of our love for all men everywhere.

When A. Molotkov (Tola) told me that Milan Kundera was his one author, I felt a thrill of recognition.  Tola said of Kundera, “I love his capability to be modern and innovative, to play with the narrative and with character development, all the while discovering poignant human truths that are relevant to all.”  This, is Tola’s writing.  He’s pushed and sifted enough sand to create a world in which all his character and two in particular, Zungvilda and Goombeldt, attempt to stand.  From Tola’s work The Melting Hourglass:

Goombeldt walks in

folding his umbrella

why is he carrying an umbrella?

it’s not raining.

As with Kundera’s writing, that’s the point–why do we carry an umbrella when it is not raining?  How is it that we stand on such sticky, stilted ground?

Cameron McPhearson Smith writes that his favorite book is Craig Childs and his book The Secret Knowledge of Water. If you haven’t read Childs’ book, it is a fascinating, poetic adventure of man’s inexhaustible pursuit of  water sources in the desert.  Cam writes that Childe’s book is “inspiring because every word is so carefully picked; the book is a lesson in craftsmanship.”  Cameron is an adventurer whose writing includes the reader in Cam’s own sense of  wonder and fascination with nature.  In this recent excerpt from Cameron’s blog, his prose is as haunting, poetic, and evocative as Childs’:

Funny that when the stars come out, we go in, and sleep, and dream…sometimes of the stars or of impossible distances, or of near-infinite energies, or of other infinitudes. Then, as the stars are winking out, we wake and step outside, the lit sky blocking our view and thoughts of a larger universe.

David Cooke was the last to share his favorite writer: Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakoy’s Master and Margarita.  This book was called THE masterpiece of the twentieth century by The Times of London.  Having not read it yet,–I ordered it at Powell’s Books online yesterday–I can’t speak to the parallels between Bulgakov’s writing and David’s; however, in reading about this novel I found a similar trait.  Allusion.  One of the novel’s predominate themes is good versus evil made through heavy allusions to Faust.  This reminded me of David and his use of allusion and his love of grand themes. In the first stanza in his prize winning poem Edges, the allusions transcend the experience of one life to an exploration of our lives.

I don’t know where to start.  Far before the moon pulled the tide
to your chin.  Before your groin became a grotto.  Before the brine
washed away the haloes your feet squeeze into the sand.  I don’t
believe in the alchemy of eels and their mud.

The first eight chapters of Three Cups of Tea are an intricately wrought work of fiction presented as fact. And by no means was this an isolated act of deceit. It turns out that Mortenson’s books and public statements are permeated with falsehoods. The image of Mortenson that has been created for public consumption is an artifact born of fantasy, audac- ity, and an apparently insatiable hunger for esteem. Morten- son has lied about the noble deeds he has done, the risks he has taken, the people he has met, the number of schools he has built. T hree Cups of T ea has much in common with A Million Little Pieces, the infamous autobiography by James Frey that was exposed as a sham. But Frey, unlike Mortenson, didn’t use his phony memoir to solicit tens of millions of dollars in donations from unsuspecting readers, myself among them. Moreover, Mortenson’s charity, the Central Asia Institute, has issued fraudulent financial statements, and he has misused millions of dollars donated by schoolchildren and other trusting devotees. “Greg,” says a former treasurer of the organization’s board of directors, “regards CAI as his personal ATM.”

Those who know Mortensen well, know that he’s a bit quirky. They know too that when memoir is written, sometimes events are compacted in time. Dialogue is spiced up a bit, and longer, detailed scenes are gutted in favor of action. Action…just the action ma’am. What bothers this writer more than anything about this scandal is the book tour. Allegedly, Mortensen is picking up $30,000. speaking fees, globe trotting on private jets, and avoiding questions of the media about his integrity. Thus far, we can’t pass judgment on all of this until it sorts itself out and a public accounting of the money and facts occurs. But it does beg a few important questions for writers in general and writers of memoir in particular. Are we being asked to forgo accuracy for action? Is our audience so fickle or so dependent on sensationalism that we must knowingly tweak the substance of our personal stories in order to gain favor with a mass audience? In my recently completed memoir, I constantly grappled with these issues. I found myself responding to constructive criticism with ethical replies. My inner memoirist was screaming, but that’s not what happened. But that’s what you want to happen, or If I wanted to say that, I’d have written a novel. It is the job of the memoir writer to find the action and the sensational within the truth. Our stories, as they actually happen, have the power to captivate even the toughest audiences. It’s our job, our ultimate challenge to tell them in ways that do just that. It ain’t easy. But it’s oh so necessary. Otherwise we end up fabrication. We end up prostituting ourselves to a popular culture that often sacrifices the deepest personal or political for the glitter of overt violence. A publication industry that sometimes panders to the quick buck with no regard for ethics or substance. This explains why Snookie of Jersey Shore, in my view the most inane TV offering of the century, gets a book deal. Bleak as all this looks, there is another side. I recently received an email from an old friend. In fact, a very special old friend. After 40 years, I found myself talking to one of the VISTA Volunteers I served with in 1970. He’d heard I’d written a memoir of that year through some of the folks I’d contacted and decided he wanted to read it. His note to me mentioned that he’d been up all night reading it from Preface through all 12 chapters and the Afterword. He’d found it compelling and well written. (Thanks Boo) and mentioned that it brought up all sorts of issues and recollections. GOAL! I realized early on that it would take more time, money, and inclination for me to sell it to a publisher. My goal was for many of my former students to read it, so I put it online. (Readers of this blog will find it connected here) Now I may not be doing too many speaking appearances, or soliciting funds or appear on the most popular top selling lists, but I can say that my memoir is accurate, it occurred…all of it… the beauty and the hatred, the racism and the wonder, the violence, fear, horrible alienation and brutally authentic music of the oppressed..all of it…as it happened.