Casper the Hungry Ghost

It’s that time again boys and girls! That special day is approaching––when spooky revelers get dressed up and tasty treats are offered at the door. Yes, I’m talking about the Chinese Hungry Ghost Festival.

Okay, technically, the Ghost Festival is in August, but it does bear a striking resemblance to that other superstitious holiday. You know, the one started back in AD 834, when Pope Gregory the Something moved All Saints Day to November 1st, thus paving the way for All Hallows Eve (Hallowe’en). But, centuries before Celtic villagers tanked on mead began leaving fruits and nuts on their doorsteps to ward off evil spirits, Chinese villagers were doing something similar.

Tradition has it that on the 14th night of the 7th lunar month, the gates to hell open at midnight allowing ghosts to swarm the world in search of food and money (two things obviously lacking in hell, though I hear they do take VISA). These ghosts you see, have been starving for a whole year, and will enter households if they can’t find what they’re looking for on the street. So people in southern China traditionally leave chicken, meat, vegetables and rice on their doorsteps. Consequently this holiday is quickly becoming known as the Hungry Stray Dog Festival––prompting some people to burn joss paper or hell money in lieu of food.

Let’s see. Western Halloween = sexy nurse costumes. Chinese Ghost Festival = opening the gates of hell. Is it any wonder Halloween is becoming more popular in China? Though, come to think of it, the Reverend Pat Robertson would probably argue that sexy nurse costumes do in fact lead to the gates of hell.

More on costumes tomorrow, sexy or otherwise.

I surf like white people dance

Okay, semi-random moment of truth time. Are you ready?  Here goes. I suck at surfing. I lived in Hawaii for six years and spent plenty of time on or beneath the water. I got my scuba certification. I bought a used Hobie-Cat for $500 that was the equivalent of a Ford Pinto on pontoons, and sailed it. But I utterly suck on a longboard. It’s like I’m riding an anchor.

When it came to surfing, I just plain overdid it. Instead of going for 45 minutes, I’d frustratingly try for five hours. Until I was so sore I couldn’t “go beach” again for two weeks. I’d be in such bad shape a chiropractor would probably recommend euthanasia. Then of course, I’d heal up and being the stubborn guy I am, I’d repeat the cycle.

So with my mildly obsessive-compulsive personality, it was no surprise that I did the same thing when it came to writing. I’d write 10,000 words in a weekend (most of which were terrible). Then *poof*, my brain would put up the “Be Right Back” sign for a few weeks. Like a lot of aspiring writers, I have a collection of "brilliant" unfinished novels that…just…sort of...go…elsewhere…

Only when I learned to allow myself to do less, did I actually do more. So when someone recently asked how productive I was these days––well, just productive enough. I try to average 2,000 words a day when I’m really writing. If I keep it around 2,000 words, give or take 500, I feel satisfied and I don’t write so lazily that I end up having to rewrite it the next day. If I quit when I’m ahead––at a moment when I’m still dying to write more, it makes me want to get up early to write the next day. If only to see how the story ends.

( My apologies to all the white people that really can dance. All seven of you. )

The oh-so glamorous life of a writer

My home office. Who needs a Mac when I have this snazzy new Dell PC? Someone recently asked what my typical writing day was like, so here goes:

I wake up at 6:30 and wander to my office, usually wearing my favorite Mariners hoodie. (They choked and blew the wild card lead, but hey, I ain’t mad at ya, I ain’t got nothing but love for ya). My hair typically looks like my 8-year old son’s—just a bit less of it. Bubby hair, we call it. Sort of that, toddler-just-woke-from-a-nap- and-doesn’t-know-what-day-it-is look. Sexy, I know.

I work on outlines—some rough, some very loose. I write a little, and edit what I wrote the previous day, scratching my head and often wondering, “Who wrote this crap?” And when I feel like procrastinating, I do research, which almost doesn’t feel like work. Or blog, which almost doesn’t feel like procrastinating.

I swill Diet Coke and suck on Litchi candy I stocked up on the last time I was in Seattle. Yes, my dentist loves me, but I make up for it by using a $100 toothbrush designed by NASA that does everything but set the clock on my DVD player.

Around eleven, I head to the gym to play basketball with an assortment of pre-middle-aged guys like myself, still pretending to be 16—occasionally getting schooled by someone on the court that actually is 16. (That’s okay kid; I know who your real father is).

If there are not enough geriatric ball players to run full-court, I’ll jump on an elliptical machine for an hour. The whole “get in the car and drive a few miles so I can run in place” irony is never lost on me. Nor is the array of suspended TV monitors near the treadmills that always seem to be set to The Food Network––where chefs are making crème brulée.

Then it’s back to the office. Where I repeat the morning routine, but clean-shaven and sporting better-looking hair.

When I get so tired of writing that I’m slurring my words like a stew-bum with a bagged bottle of MD 20/20, I chill out by reading—usually non-fiction, if I’m really busy writing. Though I just finished House Without a Key, an old Earl Derr Biggers classic I snagged off of eBay. It probably should have been called Book Without a Plot, but that’s for another time.

And how was your day, dear?

A public service announcement: Would the last short story writer please turn off the lights?

In Sunday’s New York Times Book Review, Stephen King sounds off on the woeful state of the American short story:

“Last year, I read scores of stories that felt ... not quite dead on the page, I won’t go that far, but airless, somehow, and self-referring. These stories felt show-offy rather than entertaining, self-important rather than interesting, guarded and self-conscious rather than gloriously open, and worst of all, written for editors and teachers rather than for readers.”

Let’s call it what it is folks. A lot of what gets published in literary journals is “Performance Writing”—writers writing for other writers. It’s a form of literary inbreeding that is killing off an art form.

Think of your favorite authors––the books you can’t put down, the stories you can’t wait to talk about. The ones that make you late to pick up your kids because you have to read one more chapter.  Is it because of their style first, or their story? Would you rather be entertained or impressed?