Jeff Ventura - surprisingly has never been called 'Ace' before.
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Zadie Smith on David Foster Wallace

Zadie Smith, author of the acclaimed Changing My Mind, writing about David Foster Wallace in the Five Dials tribute to the late author:

In a culture that depletes you daily of your capacity for imagination, for language, for autonomous thought, complexity like Dave's is a gift.  He recursive, labyrinthine sentences demand second readings.  Like the boy waiting to dive, their resistance 'breaks the rhythm that exclues thinking'.  Every word looks up, every winding footnote followed, every heart- and brain-stretching concept, they all help break the rhythm of thoughtlessless -- your gifts are being returned to you.

If you don't have the Five Dials celebration of David Foster Wallace, get it here [PDF].  It's free and delivers thousands of dollars worth of emotion and power and literary awe directly into your spinal column.

One tip: don't read on a computer.  Go old school and print this out and read it off the reconstituted pulp of felled trees.  Trust me.

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Filed under  //   DFW   writers   writing  

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Speaking of David Foster Wallace

Finally, know that an unshot skeet’s movement against the vast lapis lazuli
dome of the open ocean's sky is sun-like – i.e. orange and parabolic and right-to-left – and that its disappearance into the sea is edge-first and splashless and sad. — from A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again

One of the most beautiful sentences DFW ever put to paper.

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Filed under  //   books   DFW   writers   writing  

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It's in the Fingers, Not the Mind: Making the Clackity Noise

I’ve learned that my job is to just sit down and start making the clackity noise. If I make the clackity noise long enough every day, the “writing” seems to take care of itself. On the other hand, if there’s no clackity noise, no writing. No little stories. The stories may be in there, alongside God knows what else, but there’s no way to know. You must make the noise.

Merlin Mann, God love him, nails it. If I were to post here on this blog about how much I wanted to write something more meaningful and then list the terrible excuses I have for not doing something other than Twitter and Facebook and Buzz and all that other impertinent bullshit, it would be called what it deserves to be called: whiny, self-absorbed, tortured soul jerkoffery.

So maybe Merlin's right. Maybe obsessiong about writing and planning and searching deep within David Foster Wallace to find literary inspiration isn't the point. Maybe worrying that I might sound too much like John Gruber or Jason Kottke and lamenting the struggle to find my own voice is just a bunch of chaff, a self-indulgent parade of happy horseshit.

Maybe it's as simple as this: stop whining and write. Write, as Merlin says, until a story falls out. Write until you hit upon something sad or funny or poignant or whatever.

Write until you're not thinking about writing, but actually writing.

Thanks, Merlin.

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Filed under  //   personal   productivity   writers   writing  

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How to Shovel Fucking Snow

Put on a hat and gloves. Next, throw on a light jacket. Not too heavy moron; you're going to get sweaty. Also, it's gotta be loose so nothing you bought at H&M. Armani? ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME? Next slam your feet into your boots. No, WITH PURPOSE. What, you don't have boots?! (Rolls eyes). Okay, put on your Aldo dress shoes and put each foot into a few tall plastic bags, doubling or tripling up. Duct tape those fuckers on around your calves. You do have calves, don't you? Yell to nobody in the house in particular, "I'm going out to shovel!

I laughed like an idiot through this entire thing. If you do too, I strongly suggest How To Cook a Fucking Steak, also by the fine folks at The Awl.

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Filed under  //   humor   writing  

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Mark Pilgrim on Writing (For Real)

I'm a three-time (soon to be four-time) published author. When aspiring authors learn this, they invariably ask what word processor I use. It doesn't fucking matter! I happen to write in Emacs. I also code in Emacs, which is a nice bonus. Other people write and code in vi. Other people write in Microsoft Word and code in TextMate+ or TextEdit or some fancy web-based collaborative editor like EtherPad or Google Wave. Whatever. Picking the right text editor will not make you a better writer. Writing will make you a better writer. Writing, and editing, and publishing, and listening -- really listening -- to what people say about your writing. This is the golden age for aspiring writers. We have a worldwide communications and distribution network where you can publish anything you want and -- if you can manage to get anybody's attention -- get near-instant feedback. Writers just 20 years ago would have killed for that kind of feedback loop. Killed! And you're asking me what word processor I use? Just fucking write, then publish, then write some more. One day your writing will get featured on a site like Reddit and you'll go from 5 readers to 5000 in a matter of hours, and they'll all tell you how much your writing sucks. And most of them will be right! Learn how to respond to constructive criticism and filter out the trolls, and you can write the next great American novel in edlin.

Bingo.  Do yourself and read Mark Pilgrim on The Setup, which is interesting way, way beyond this little quip about writing.

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Filed under  //   internet   social web   technology   writers   writing  

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Anil Dash on Remembering Brad Graham

These days, I very rarely get into pissing contests with other bloggers or butt heads with commenters on other sites. Sure, some of it is having grown up and become a bit more of an adult. But most of it is due to the example of Brad (and those whom I met through him) showing me that there were real people on the other end of the line.

Even though I didn't know Brad Graham, this lesson hopefully becomes part of his enduring legacy moving forward; it's a lesson we could all stand to be reminded of every so often.

I strongly encourage you to read all of Anil Dash's remembrance of Graham; it's one of the most human and real I've seen.

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Filed under  //   blogging   humans   social web   websites   writers   writing  

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'Anything that doesn't take years of your life and drive you to suicide hardly seems worth doing.'

I hear people talking about going on a vacation or something and I think, what is that about? I have no desire to go on a trip. My perfect day is sitting in a room with some blank paper. That's heaven. That's gold and anything else is just a waste of time.

Fantastic interview with Cormac McCarthy by the WSJ's John Jurgensen.

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Godzilla's Food, Exercise, and Dream Diary

12:58 AM: Breakfast: Two schools of fish from Tokyo Bay. Calories: 782,000. How I was feeling when I ate this: confused, irradiated, hating my size.

Kate Hahn again shows me why I look at McSweeney's every morning.

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Lost in the Waves

Swept out to sea by a riptide, a father and his 12-year-old son struggle to stay alive miles from shore. As night falls, with no rescue imminent, the dad comes to a devastating realization: If they remain together, they’ll drown together.

Stories like this are at once fascinating and terrifying to me. Terrifying because, as every father knows, the idea of losing your child is the most horrible thought on earth. Fascinating because I've loved the ocean since I was a boy. I used to have tomes on every kind of shark imaginable and full topology maps of the Marianas Trench. The oceans are another world entirely, living here right alongside ours.

This story marries both sentiments in a powerful way.

Read the whole thing.

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Filed under  //   damn nature you scary   humans   writing  

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Skeletons are terrifying. Plus the best of the Internet this week.

I have a preternatural fear of skeletons.  The origins of this fear go like this: when I was 8, on some nondescript day leading up to Halloween, I was walking past my father’s darkened den, which was situated at the end of a long hallway.  Back then, house phones were beige and weighed the same as a mature watermelon.  As I was walking rapidly down this dark hallway – convinced, on some level, that something was shambling after me – I glanced into the office at the huge beige phone that normally sat perched on the desk next to the door.  All at once, in what to this day is the most bizarre visual trick I have ever played on myself, the phone morphed into a giant skull, its jaw disturbingly askew, with horrible eyes too large to be human.  I remember literally yelling and running down what was left of the hall into the kitchen, convinced beyond all reason that there was a huge, wet-eyed skull sitting on my father’s desk, waiting for me. 

Fast forward 32 years.

Strange, then, that I decorated my house for this Halloween in an almost pure skeleton motif.  I have a 4’ skeleton hanging from a tree outside my office with landscaping twine, an unintentional, amateur approximation of a noose.  My walkway is lit with little plastic skulls, their frozen grimaces chained together with electric cord.  I have a latex pirate skeleton – or at least half of one, as he has no lower body – perched on a stone bench leading up to my porch, a strobe light situated underneath him.  I basically have skeletons and skulls everywhere, mainly as a result of my son going as a skeleton for trick-or-treating tomorrow night.  And something being wrong with me.

The confession comes like this: when it gets dark and I’m outside amongst this spectacle, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t recall The Desk Skull.  I’d be lying if I said I don’t get a little irrationally afraid.  I’d also be lying if I said that I’m not embarrassed by this and wonder what deep-rooted unexorcised demon made me go whole-hog with the skull business.  I’d also be lying if I said I’m 40 years old and if you think any of this is funny, then you are sadly mistaken, because once you see a giant skull on your home office desk, nothing is quite the same.  Ever.  I don’t wish this curse upon anyone, so get that smirk off your face.

So.

In non-skull related news, I have decided to parse the Internet for its most precious harvest this week, so you don’t have to.  Here’s the bounty:

 

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Filed under  //   internet   personal   writing  

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