CarrollBlog 3.31

The novelist Douglas Coupland (GENERATION X) made an interesting observation in a recent interview. The interview took place at an indoor restaurant. At the next table, a woman was talking on her cell phone. Her voice was very loud, as is often the case when people are on their phones in public. Coupland became annoyed and said he wished she’d pipe down and talk with her ‘indoor voice’ and not her ‘outdoor voice.’ As soon as I read that I thought—exactly! No one wants to hear others gab on their phones. But these devices are so handy and ubiquitous now that it’s impossible to avoid the many foghorns standing near us on a bus, subway, next table.. hollering into their iPhones or Nokias. Yes, the phones are great and we all use them when we’re underway. But why do so many insist on speaking into them in outdoor voices—that necessarily loud voice we often use outside when the noise of the world around us needs to be talked over. It reminds me of people using a telephone-- any kind of phone—for the very first time. Almost everyone talks way too loudly into them because deep down we’re suspicious of the machine, secretly believing it doesn’t work. If we yell, perhaps our words have a greater chance of getting through.

CarrollBlog 3.30

DID I MISS ANYTHING?
Tom Wayman

CarrollBlog 3.29

Samurai Song
by Robert Pinsky

CarrollBlog 3.28

A Man Alone
by Stephen Orlen

CarrollBlog 3.27

I’m intrigued by clothing designers who make identical copies of vintage styles right down to the same buttons, zippers and thread that were used in the originals, but then charge a fortune for their ‘updated’ versions. For example you have the Levi’s company reproducing jeans made in the 1940/50/60’s. But the company markets them today as “classics” and charges $200 for pants exactly like ones that cost $22 decades ago. Sure, you can factor inflation into the equation, but ten *times* the original price? I don’t think the cost of cotton or metal buttons has increased that much over the years. It all strikes me as a clever and cynical updated version of The Emperor’s New Clothes. The British designer Nigel Cabourn has made his reputation recreating British military clothing from World War 2. He “designs” exact replicas (down to the same deadstock material) of such things as a khaki “Battledress jacket” which all troops wore back then; only Cabourn charges $1000 for his. If you were to find an original of this jacket in a surplus or second hand store it would probably cost, what, $30? I could name four or five of these very successful designers but what have they designed? Is someone a designer who only copies an original? And what does it say about a consumer willing to pay the crazy price for it? Maybe we should stop calling these individuals designers and give them a new moniker like trend decider.

CarrollBlog 3.26

One of the most terrible losses man suffers in his lifetime is not noticed by most people, much less mourned. Which is astonishing because what we lose is in many ways one of the essential qualities that sets us apart from other creatures.
I'm talking about the loss of the sense of wonder that is such an integral part of our world when we are children. However as we grow older, that sense of wonder shrinks from cosmic to microscopic by the time we are adults. Kids say "Wow!" all the time. Opening their mouths fully, their eyes light up with genuine awe and glee. The word emanates not so much from a voice box as from an astonished soul that has once again been shown that their world is full of amazing unexpected things.
When was the last time you let fly a loud, truly heartfelt "WOW"?
Not recently, I bet. Because generally speaking wonder belongs to kids, with the rare exception of falling madly in love with another person, which invariably leads to a rebirth of wonder. As adults, we are not supposed to say or feel Wow, or wonder, or even true surprise because those things make us sound goofy, ingenuous, and childish. How can you run the world if you are in constant awe of it?
Of course there are exceptions. One need only look at the astounding success of Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and the novels of Neil Gaiman (the list is much longer, thank god), to see that people really are hungry for wonder. Still, most adults wouldn't fess up to that hunger because they don't want to admit how gorgeous it feels to sit transfixed in a movie theater or reading chair, thoroughly absorbed in a world ten times more interesting and vibrant than their own. The human heart has a long memory though and remembers what it was like to live through days when it was constantly surprised or enthralled by the world around it. Unfortunately we have been taught control, control, control all our lives by parents, society, and our education. If you can't control something, then get rid of it or get out of it or get away from it.
Yet we know that both the heart and the imagination really are most alive when they are *not* in control of things, flying through the air without a safety net below to catch them. To live immersed in wonder means both the unknown and the thrilling surround you, as in a great love affair.

CarrollBlog 3.25

What Teachers Make, or
Objection Overruled, or
If things don't work out, you can always go to law school

CarrollBlog 3.24

Yesterday I was talking with someone about motorcycles.They really knew their stuff and it was interesting to hear about that world from an expert. Along the way I casually asked if he had ever read ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE. He smiled ironically, as if I were kidding with that strange title. No, he'd never even heard of it. Something inside me immediately lit up. For the next few minutes I described what that wonderful book was about, saying again and again he really should get a copy asap. The experience reawakened something inside me that's been sleeping a long time:that crazy reader's enthusiasm you get when you've read a book you want the whole world to read immediately. I used to have it all the time when I was younger, especially in college when books were needed and ingested like air. But not so much in recent years. The last book I recommended with such zealous fervor was Gregory Roberts' SHANTARAM but that was a few years ago. At the heart of our matter as human beings, really the best thing of all is passion. Passion for another person, passion for a job, a cause, even passion for a book. Perhaps that's what IT is all about-- our Purpose: trying to furnish your life with so many different kinds of passion that everywhere in it there is something that fills you to bursting and makes you want to tell the whole world about it.

CarrollBlog 3.23

My neighbor is a pleasant man but one of the worst drivers I have ever seen. The fact he has not died or killed someone in a car accident is astonishing. Stupidly I once accepted a lift from him. By the time we reached the destination I had aged six months. Reckless, obnoxious, dangerous, he drove as if he were on fire and there were no other cars on the road. Today I saw him speeding down a busy street and without a second's pause, blow through a traffic light that was changing to red. Not long ago I asked his son if Dad had ever been in an accident. No, never.

CarrollBlog 3.22

I used to write fan letters to people whose work I admired. I don't do it much anymore and that's wrong. It's a very important thing to tell someone that what they do genuinely matters to you. Especially artists, who work so much of the time in solitude but receive little feedback other than reviews and if they’re lucky, sales. I read about a film being developed from a Charles Bukowski novel. That reminded me of the letter I received from Bukowski years ago. While in college I'd written to tell him I'd been reading his work nonstop and had joined his throng of rabid fans. Like so many people, I happened onto one of Bukowski's poetry collections in a university used book shop. I stood there a long time, drinking down his poems for the first time like they were cold Coca Cola on a hot day. I'd never read anything like them and it was a thrilling experience. In my college boy "I want to be a writer too someday" voice I wrote him all that. A few weeks later I received an envelope from the Sunshine Inn Motel in San Pedro, California. Not knowing anyone in San Pedro, I was puzzled. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper stained all over with beige coffee cup rings. Whoever had written this letter was a sloppy coffee drinker. There were three typewritten sentences.
"Thanks for the kiss, Jon. Hearing that you like the work means a lot to me. Keep your pen moving. Buk."
It took a while to figure out who "Buk" was but when I did, I floated on air for the rest of the day.

CarrollBlog 3.21

In school I was always terrible in math. If I passed I was thrilled, but I usually didn't pass and had to repeat or go to summer school. In tenth grade, my parents shipped me off to a difficult private boarding school because I was doing so poorly in public school. It was a disaster. That first year I flunked math and other classes as well. Summer school loomed. Not only that, but summer school there which meant I would have to live on campus. I didn't like school but my best subject was English, so I decided that since I had to be there anyway, I might as well take a creative writing course. It was taught by a man who had published a couple of stories in THE NEW YORKER years before, so he was considered the school's writer in residence. I liked him as a man but as a teacher he was boring. After the class had been in session for a couple of weeks, he came in one morning and said today we're going to do something different; I'm going to read you a story. I don't know if we groaned but we probably did. It was summer. It was hot. We were fifteen. There were a million other things we would rather have been doing. Most of us read only for school and then only because we were forced to.

CarrollBlog 3.20

“Cherish your solitude. Take trains by yourself to places you have never been. Sleep alone under the stars. Learn how to drive a stick shift. Go so far away that you stop being afraid of not coming back. Say no whenever you don’t want to do something. Say yes if your instincts are strong, even if everyone around you disagrees. Decide whether you want to be liked or admired. Decide if fitting in is more important than finding out what you’re doing here. Believe in kissing.”

CarrollBlog 3.19

I was reading an article about what rich people do with their funny money these days. Most striking was the $600 haircut the really cool women in Beverly Hills have done at least once a month. $7200 per year seems a bit steep for blond streaks, but more than anything that item reminded me of where I used to go to have my hair cut when I was living in California in the 90's. I discovered the place because in front it had an actual old time-y striped barber pole that whirled round and round. I hadn't seen one of *those* in years so I had to go in and investigate. The place was owned by a Russian family, none of whom seemed to speak English. There was a father and two grown sons who all looked like hard case refugees from some gulag prison camp. They were incredibly sullen and would glower at you when you came in for one of their pretty good $9 cuts. The haircut itself took about three minutes from start to finish because they only used electric shavers and when you're like me, there aren't a lot of hairs to cut. But the interesting thing was that no matter how much they glowered, the barbers always offered you a cup of tea before cutting your hair. And not only that, but black wonderful Russian tea that came in those marvelous Middle European cups called-- I kid you not—zarfs. They consist of a glass sitting inside an ornate metal frame with a small lip on the side to hold it. No matter how hot the weather was outside, there was always tea in a zarf. Although I don't like tea, I always drank it. I can't remember now if I did that as a courtesy or because I was afraid they would murder me if I didn't.

CarrollBlog 3.18

I was reading an issue of MEN'S JOURNAL magazine. The lead article was "100 Things To Do Before You Die." On the list were things like climb Mt. Everest, parachute from a plane, hand feed a shark, etcetera. I skimmed the other things they suggested should be on everyone's list. I had no desire to do even one of them. So then I thought is there anything I'd like to do before I die that I haven't done yet? Hypothetically if someone is living fully, they're doing what matters (or is important) to them whenever and however they can. There's something pathetic about having to make lists of tasks to do before you die so you can be sure that by doing them, you will have really "lived." The Japanese say "live every day as if your hair was on fire" and within realistic bounds, that sounds just about right. Most of the time we know almost as soon as a situation arises whether we will later regret not doing it. We also know most of the time that despite the many fearful, well behaved inner voices telling us not to do something, that we should ignore those voices and just go ahead and do it. Because when we do it and it works, it makes us bigger and life richer. If it fails, we hurt for a while but generally then heal and move on. You don't need to climb Mt. Everest to have led a fulfilled life. You only have to have the courage, and usually it is only small courage, to say yes. Say yes and do something when your first, second and third instincts may be to say no because that frightens me.

CarrollBlog 3.17

“Each one of us is alone in the world. He is shut in a tower of brass, and can communicate with his fellows only by signs, and the signs have no common value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain. We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but not together, unable to know our fellows and unknown by them. We are like people living in a country whose language they know so little that, with all manner of beautiful and profound things to say, they are condemned to the banalities of the conversation manual. The brain is seething with ideas, and they can only tell you the umbrella of the gardener’s aunt is in the house.”

CarrollBlog 3.16

from an interview with Leonard Cohen:

CarrollBlog 3.15

Falling in love is like owning a dog
by Taylor Mali

CarrollBlog 3.13

For those who have asked I've got two new short stories appearing this spring. The first, called ELIZABETH THUG, will be in the spring issue of CONJUNCTIONS magazine due out in May some time. The second, LET THE PAST BEGIN, is in the big new anthology Neil Gaiman's editing called STORIES. He's got some terrific authors lined up so the book should be a treat. It's due from William Morrow in June.

CarrollBlog 3.12

Retriever
by Faith Shearin

CarrollBlog 3.10

The wonderful writer Barry Hannah died last week of a heart attack. If you've not read his short stories, you're missing a great treat. He was loved by many, both as a writer and as a mensch. The good words about him are coming in from all over. One story is particularly telling, especially for those of you with artistic aspirations but who spend too much time procrastinating. In case you don't know, a 'galley' is what a publisher sends you to make final corrections in before your book is published. One of Hannah's writing students drank too much. Everyone knew about it but didn't say anything until Hannah met this student late one weekday night in a downtown bar. The student was drunk.Hannah went up to him and said, "You shouldn't be here; you should be at home editing your galley."
The student said "But I don't have a galley-- I haven't even finished writing my novel yet."
Hannah said, "There you go."
-------------------------------------
here's a link to one of Hannah's most famous stories, "Water Liars"

CarrollBlog 3.9

Gate C22
By Ellen Bass

CarrollBlog 3.8

A small thing that makes me sad: years ago I bought a tattered postcard at the Vienna flea market for the equivalent of five cents. From the moment I saw it in an old shoebox, it was so captivating that it held me in its thrall a long time. Eventually during a move to a new apartment the postcard was lost and I never found it again. The photo on it was of beautiful young woman wearing a 1920's hairdo and clothes, sitting flanked on either side by two handsome men in wrinkled French Foreign Legion uniforms. Real BEAU GESTE or THE ENGLISH PATIENT stuff. The sepia photograph must have been taken in the 20's or 30's in a barren desert camp somewhere, judging from the background. I always wondered what the backstory of the picture could be. Was one of the men her husband or brother that she had journeyed from Paris or London to visit? Or were both men Legionnaires who had met and fallen in love with her out there in the middle of that desolate nowhere? Naturally the eventual resolution of their triangle had to be tragic or triumphant or... Perhaps she was a nurse who volunteered to work in that end of the world spot-- One of those impossibly brave and adventurous women like Beryl Markham, Lee Miller, Tina Modotti or Isak Dinesen. I loved that photograph. Often I played with the idea of writing a book around it.
----------------------
interesting concept for a book:

CarrollBlog 3.7

One of life's small sad facts is there are people we no longer see who nevertheless gave us some of our best or most important experiences; but they don't know it and never will. That's because we didn't know it ourselves until much later, looking back. She thought about the summer in Greece almost thirty years before when they were together and flew from island to island on cheap rattle'y propeller planes whenever they felt like it. They stayed in ten dollar rooms with the toilet outside down the hall.They read wilted, water-stained books while sitting next to each other on the small balconies off the rooms. Or they sat silently together in complete peace while staring at the sea. No matter what kind of accomodations they rented, there always seemed to be a view of the sea. Every day they ate salads of tomatoes, olives, and thick chunks of chalk-white feta cheese drizzled in fresh olive oil for lunch. They rented a blue Vespa. They walked on black volcanic sand. He bought them baseball caps because the Greek sun was so intense. She was happy then and knew it. But her heart needed three decades more to understand just how happy she had been-- Hall of Fame-happy, once in a lifetime-happy. By the time she came to that realization he was many years gone. One of her final wishes was that she could tell him, thank him for those days together. And if life were magical, which it is not, to sit together again in one of those outdoor tavernas at sunset watching the harbor, the boats, the stars coming out above them, their dinner being prepared, but most especially him.

CarrollBlog 3.6

If You Knew
by Ellen Bass

CarrollBlog 3.5

"People don't want things to make sense, although they always say they do. Know why? Because if things made sense we'd all be in trouble. You drive too fast down the street because it feels good or because you're in a hurry. Now if things made sense, a cop would stop you every single time and give you a ticket. Now what happens if a cop *does* stop you? You get angry and say that's not fair! Of course it's fair. It also makes sense. But if life made sense we'd either behave ourselves a hell of a lot better or we'd be walking around scared, waiting to be punished for all the bad things we do every day. We want life to make sense only when it's to our *advantage.* Otherwise, it's interesting not knowing what's coming next. Maybe you'll get heads, maybe tails. People do wrong things all the time and get away with them. Good people get their necks broken. Would you prefer it if only the good people got rewarded? How often are you good? How often do you deserve the good *you* get? Wouldn't you rather have an interesting life than a fair one?"

CarrollBlog 3.4

“Sprezzatura. This is an archaic Italian word for being able to do your craft without a lot of visible effort. It’s a combination of elan and grace and class, sort of the opposite of loud grunts while you play tennis or a lot of whining and fuss when you help out a customer.
“Many people are unable to put their finger on it, but this is a magnetic trait for many of us. We want our lawyer, dentist and waiter to demonstrate sprezzatura, but of course, not particularly try to. This is one of the secrets of Danny Meyer’s top-rated restaurants in New York. It doesn’t have to be flashy, it doesn’t even have to be the very best there ever was, but sprezzatura is enough to get us to return. As long as this light-footedness is scarce, it will remain valuable.”

Seth Godin

CarrollBlog 3.3

"Felice believed it is almost always something small or unexpected that ends a relationship. In general the hammer blow does not come from things like finding out your partner has been unfaithful or because they become unbearable behind closed doors. Those discoveries may knock you to your knees, but it is actually seeing the secret snapshot of your partner together with the other person, both of them looking so happy, so completely stoned on love or sex, that finishes it. Or the slight wicked smile on their face after they have been intentionally cruel to you. Or a long silence when many words are needed. The end of love, like God, is often in the details."

CarrollBlog 3.2

We spend our lives learning how to rationalize our imperfect behavior, but let me tell you something: It all boils down to the three sizes of guilt.
When it's small, we can slip it into our pocket and not think about it for the rest of the day. Didn't do your exercises? Or write that letter to your mother? Make the phone call? Fix the nice soup for the family you had planned? Screw it--the day was hard enough and you did enough.
Medium-sized guilt doesn't fit into the pocket and must be carried awkwardly in the hand like an iron barbell or when it's really bad, a squirming live animal. We know it's there every minute, yet still find ways to lessen or shift our discomfort. Having an affair and aren't so nice to your spouse because you're spending too much energy on this new love? Go buy the old love some obscenely expensive, thoughtful gift and what time you do spend together, be so passionate and concerned about them that you glow in the dark.
Large sized guilt either crushes or bends you so far to the ground that, either way, you're immobilized. No shifting *this* weight and no getting out from under it.

CarrollBlog 3.1

A smart ass book collector-friend sent me an entry they'd noticed in a rare book catalog. The dealer was selling one of my early novels autographed and was charging an obscenely expensive price. Why? Because I’m dead. Part of the catalog description reads, "Carroll lived in Europe in the 1980's and wrote three novels. He returned to the US and died a few years later." I wonder what this dealer thinks when he sees or tries to explain how Carroll has published thirteen new books since he died? Maybe he believes it's another JC. Or it is the same Carroll, only the guy wrote so much while alive that there have been enough to keep releasing them years after the author was six feet under.