Location! Location! Location! or Does it Really Matter Where You Plant Your Ass?

A recent article in one of The Economist’s blogs, Prospero,  concerning the “literary Renaissance” in Brooklyn (something that has actually been going on for nearly two decades now) got me thinking about the idea of location and creativity. Does it really matter? Can a person only create anything if they’re surrounded by other artists, living in some sort of “artist’s community”? I explored this idea in my first novel “November Rust”, where the plot line involves a would-be writer, finding his home environment in New York increasingly stifling, running off to Paris in order to be able to follow in the footsteps of his literary heroes. It worked for them, right? So it should work for him. It’s a cliché I wanted to riff about (as well as a plot line that had been done to death) but in the story, I wanted to illustrate that no matter where one goes, they bring all their baggage along with them. In other words, one can just as easily create where they happen to be. There’s no real need to go dashing off to some exotic location in order to produce anything. Sure, it could help inspire, could rev up the creative juices somewhat (just as a trip to Paris enabled me to write this particular story), but ultimately, I did 99% of the writing at my desk, in my apartment in Queens, New York. 

I’m not here to bash anyone or even offer up an “us vs them” kind of nonsense concerning this issue (we have too much of that already in the world) but I have to be honest and say that the whole idea of “location” being all important to the creative process bores me to tears. It’s another one of those myths conjured up by old fiction, Hollywood, or other sorted fantasies. If you are a creative individual, you should be able to do your thing no matter where you are. But this is how I think. Others obviously feel differently. That’s okay. I just don’t agree. 

New York City has always been a magnet for creative souls around the world - but it’s not the only place. I happened to grow up here, in Flushing, in the borough of Queens, the most ethnically diverse borough of the five, a place where over 400 languages are spoken on a daily basis, a place where you can literally find a community of some sort from every corner of the planet. There has always been a lot of history here and a lot of people had chosen to make the borough its home (Louis Armstrong, for one, as well as a host of other Jazz greats, the Marx Brothers - or at least one of them; the artist Joseph Cornell, who’s home wasn’t far from where I grew up in Flushing; the list is numerous). While it may not be the most “exciting” place on earth it’s where I came from and like it or not, its streets and its people had their effect on me and it does work its way into my own work from time to time; and being that I’ve been a life long New Yorker, the city as a whole often does, although I no longer really choose to write about it. In my earlier years it did, when I was writing my poetry, but as the years went on and I was exposed to many other things, I felt the desire to reach out and write about those things as well. The world is a huge place, with a lot of interesting people, places, events, cultures - a literal goldmine for a writer and any artist in general. There is no rule stating that a writer from New York City must only concern himself with New York City things - unless that’s what he/she chooses to do. It’s all up to the individual and we each have our own “calling” so to speak. 

Artists circles in New York are too numerous to count. There is no one enormous circle that one needs to be a part of. One doesn’t need to be part of any if he doesn’t want to. The artist “community” in New York City is as varied as its residents - and that’s what makes New York a very exciting place to be and to create. However, there are some who get this idea into their heads that their little sliver of the huge pie this fair city has to offer is the only one that matters - and most of these types are usually those born and raised somewhere else, having only come to New York in recent years - a very different New York from the one I was born and raised in, I may add. Concerning the Economist article, I can remember a time when Park Slope was not the “literary Mecca” it has become, and the army of baby strollers didn’t exist. I can remember a time when the Lower East Side wasn’t the high-end playground it’s become in recent years, where you literally took your life into your hands when going down there. The so-called “grit” and “grime” a lot of young artists gravitate towards today in these areas is a joke when compared to the way it used to be. But that’s okay too. Today’s young artists have a right to the city as much as any of us. Whatever it is that fuels your creative juices, I’m all for it. However, it is not the only place on earth and it sure as hell isn’t the only place where one can create a work of art. To think so is not just being realistic. Regarding my own work, I found myself able to write in places such as St. Lucia, Paris, Baltimore, Toronto, El Paso, or wherever else I happen to be. Wherever I go, I always bring along the laptop to keep working on whatever project it is I’m working on. For fiction writers, most of the “world” that they create is in their heads and the outside surroundings shouldn’t make a difference. 

Over the decades, a huge fantasy had been created, the idea of living “the artist’s life” or “the Bohemian life” as it’s alternatively known. We’ve all read the accounts of some of our greatest artists living in New York City, getting by on what little they had, living in their low-rent cold water flats, actually being able to scrape by with their art. Those days are long gone and so is that portrait of New York City. The former “artist enclaves” are now million dollar properties and whatever “Boho” community that does exist often comes with a very high price tag. So unless you have parents paying your rent, or you have some kind of trust fund, you can bet your bottom dollar that many an artist has to contend with a job of some kind. The old idea of living the “artist’s life” is dead and gone and any artist that desires to live in one of these communities better have a very well paying job or else contend with a horde of roommates in order just to make the rent. The idea of living somewhere else, outside that community, seems to be a nonstarter for a lot of people - as if they can’t create their work anywhere else but there, a notion that seems ridiculous to me. I think a lot of the cache behind living in the “artist community” is often drummed up by real estate agents and agencies in order to capitalize on the “value” of these enclaves. It’s big business for them to somehow make one feel that one’s zip code is equivalent to their worth as an artist or as a human being, which I find really sad, to be honest. But to each his/her own. One must do what they feel they must do. 

At nearly 46 years old, the whole notion of living a “bohemian life” means absolutely nothing to me anymore, not that I ever really lived that kind of life to begin with. It would be nice to kick around and do nothing but create all day but reality is what it is and unless one is extremely fortunate to be able to make a living off their art, the necessary evil of holding down a job is one reality a lot of artists have to face - or else live in a cardboard box on the street. The notion of living that kind of life in this city - and especially in its artist’s communities - is nothing more than a fantasy unless you have some sort of independent means of survival. But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that no matter where you are - even if you live out in the most remote parts of our country - you should be able to create your art. It isn’t about “Location Location Location.” It’s about what you have within you to bring that work to life.  

Impressions: "Baise-Moi" by Virginie Despentes

I had one question going through my mind while reading this novel. Is Virginie Despentes the “female Chuck Palahniuk” or is Chuck Palahniuk the “male Virginie Despentes”? The styles of these two authors are remarkably similar, as is the sensibility in their work. But it turns out this novel was originally released in France in 1993 while Palahniuk’s debut, “Fight Club” was released in 1996. I have no idea whether Chuck Palahniuk was influenced by this novel or not but I can say that fans of Palahniuk will really enjoy this stripped down, violent, transgressive work, which at times is extremely disturbing, as I’m sure it was meant to be. Another author comes to mind while reading this as well, the American Kathy Acker, who’s novels often stirred up as much controversy as this one did nearly twenty years ago. 

The title alone should already clue you in for what’s in store. “Baise-Moi” translated into English is “Fuck Me” (not the “Rape Me” as it’s translated subtitle in the American edition says). It is the story of two women, one a victim of a brutal gang rape and the other a nihilist prostitute -  who watches and masturbates to pornography incessantly, often times in full view of another -  who decide to go on a murderous rampage, literally killing anyone who gets in their way, often times for no reason other than to watch them die (as the old Johnny Cash song once said). 

They are in search of “the ultimate freedom” but you don’t really get the sense that they are seeking anything at all other than wanton destruction and mayhem. Pure nihilism. You can’t - and don’t want to - sympathize with either of these characters and I don’t know if the whole controversy stems from the fact that the author wants you to do just that or not. It could be the book’s graphic sex scenes that caused the big stink. As a story, it’s okay. Not a great one but a good one, very reminiscent of the blood and carnage you’d see in a Quentin Tarantino film and there is no doubt in my mind that this novel was influenced by the filmmaker in some way. 

Think of this as a “Punk Rock Thelma & Louise”. That is the best description I can give to this highly charged and at times highly disturbing novel. Like it or not, you will remember it. 

Rating: * * *   

The Digital vs. Print Controversy, or Some Thoughts on the eBook Revolution While Shamelessly Plugging My Own

I think I’m like most traditional readers. I like books. The mountain of them I have around my small apartment is definitely a testament to that. I love the feel of an actual book. I love the feeling of turning actual paper pages. I love the many different designs and formats, the cover art. To me, the actual, physical book will always be king (just as I will always feel that an actual LP will forever be superior to a CD or an MP3). I guess I’m just old school. I was born in a time where there was once no such thing as a personal computer, a CD, the Internet, MP3 players and there certainly wasn’t anything called an eBook. When the eBook first arrived on the scene, I have to admit I had a knee-jerk reaction to them. How is that a “book”, I asked myself. Its just words on a screen. With them, you lose all the things that make physical, paper books special - and for a long time I avoided them and for a long time I had no intention of entering the eBook fray with regard to my own books. If I was going to release my novels, they were going to be actual, physical books, the way they were meant to be. 

I had the same feelings about magazines as well. During my involvement in the small press scene in the 1990s, poetry and literary journals were physical objects. During my music days, zines and other music magazines were tangible, print copies, which you could carry around with you and read on the subway (or the toilet, if you preferred), something you had to hold, fold back and hold up to your nose to read, often times leaving a mess of newsprint on your hands (like Maximum Rock-n-Roll often did). When the Internet came along and many of these poetry, literary and music journals and zines became on-line only affairs, I thought something was missing. It just wasn’t the same thing. 

But eventually, I came around. As much as I still prefer the physical object, I decided it was essential to move with the times or else be left behind. It’s a simple fact of life. But as I began to delve into the whole idea of eBooks, I began to discover that they weren’t so bad after all. They still aren’t the same as a physical book for me but they are an important thing to consider if you are a writer, publisher or an Indie author who is seeking to get his/her work out to the general public. A whole new generation is coming of age that does everything digitally - from reading books and magazines, to watching television and films. It’s just the way it is and like it or not, you either get on board or be left behind. 

One of the first major authors to embrace the eBook revolution was Stephen King - not that he is any real huge fan of the format (in fact, he has a new novel coming out in which there will not be an eBook version, forcing his fans to actually buy the book. Granted, it’s not a book issued by his major publisher, but a small paperback issued via a “pulp crime” series). Ironically enough, it was stumbling on a Stephen King story while perusing Amazon one day that gave me an idea for my own writing as well as illuminating me to the possibilities of the eBook in general. His story, “Mile 81”, was an eBook only release. If you wanted to read it, you had to download it. Plain and simple. A brilliant marketing strategy for pushing eBooks. It was the same thing the music industry did in the late 1980s and early 1990s in which they began to release albums from new bands that only appeared on CD. There was no old school vinyl copy to buy. You wanted it, you had to buy the CD or else not be able to listen to it. The industry basically forced it upon you and for a long time, my fear has been that the publishing industry was going to try to do the same thing; and I can’t ever imagine a world in which physical, printed books would no longer exist. Twenty-first century or not, that would be a horrifying thing. In the music industry, it’s no longer even necessary to have a physical product. The advent of the MP3 has made it possible for bands to sell their music directly to people, cutting out the middle man - the record company - altogether. One can just go to their website and download their album. In a way, it’s brilliant. There’s virtually no cost to produce and for independent musicians, can potentially gain a world wide audience without ever setting foot in a record label’s office. Can the same thing begin happening with publishing? That time is coming and the signs are everywhere. 

Getting back to the eBook, it was seeing Stephen King’s “Mile 81” short story eBook that gave me an idea for my own writing and potential avenues of getting your work “out there.”  For short stories, a writer normally goes through the process of seeking out literary journals to submit their work - mining the Writer’s Market or various Internet sites for journals seeking work from new and upcoming writers to get their stories published. You’d submit your story, wait the allotted time to find out whether or not a particular editor will find it suitable for their journal. Sometimes it can take months - many months - and it could potentially take years for your story to wind up in a magazine or journal, if it even winds up being published at all. Your work is at the mercy of an editor or an advisory board and they are going to be the ones to decide whether or not your story makes the cut. That’s the way it was always done. The eBook has changed all that. Now a writer doesn’t have to take that course of action if he/she chooses not to. They can now go directly to the reader, just as musicians can go directly to the listener; and the eBook format is ideal for short story writers. You can issue the one single story on its own, as a stand alone project. Brilliant idea, I thought, and seeing Stephen King’s story illuminated the light bulb over my head for the various short stories I had written over the course of last year. Instead of going through the hell of the submission process, why not issue them as stand alone, short story eBooks? There was enormous potential there to possibly gain readers; and for Indie authors, this is a no brainer. A single story, sold cheaply, can be a great way for a reader to sample an author’s work - and for a very low price, that is, if you even want to charge anyone at all. You could simply give them away if you so choose. 

So I began this experiment with one story I had written, “The Algerian in Room No. 4”, a short, Noir-ish tale about a man who becomes obsessed with a prostitute in modern day Paris. I began to advertise it on my blog, via Facebook, Twitter and other on-line sites and waited to see what happened. Much to my surprise, I began to sell them, more than I ever thought I would, to be honest. It occurred to me right then and there that issuing these short stories as stand alone, short story eBooks may be the way to go. So I did and I haven’t looked back since and have since issued a number of short stories via eBook. If you’re interested in having a look, you can find them here. 

I’ve since bought a Kindle - something I’d been holding out on for a long time but I thought the time was right, mainly because there are some interesting books becoming available that are only being released via eBook format. Two that immediately come to mind are from Garry Crystal, “The Last Busker in London and Other London Tales” and “A Relationship: In Pieces”, both of which are highly enjoyable reads and I, personally, would highly recommend them. It was the main reason I bought the Kindle in the first place, in order to own these two collections, not only read them. 

Naturally, this all comes down to personal choice. eBooks are going to be part of the process whether you like them or not. You, as an author, are cutting off a large potential audience if you don’t have digital versions of your books or stories. The future is here, whether we like it or not. 

Impressions: "I Hadn't Understood" by Diego De Silva

On the book’s cover: “Vincenzo Malinconico has a chance to make a fresh start. The Italian mob is going to help.” This is a very misleading quote because although the novel does have something to do with the mob, the bulk of the story has more to do with the main character, Vincenzo Malinconico, a 42 year old lawyer who is struggling with his life as well as with his job. Essentially a down and out lawyer, with hardly any real knowledge of criminal law, an office space furnished with Ikea furniture (as is his apartment), dealing with an ex-wife (a psychiatrist, who has taken up with a yuppie architect), a teenage son who likes to follow around juvenile delinquents and interview them, and a college age stepdaughter who he clandestinely meets once a week to eat Burger King (away from the prying eyes of his ex-wife); it’s safe to say that things aren’t going so well for him. 

Then one day he is called to appear at a magistrate’s office as a public defender - something he had forgotten he signed up for - to represent a member of the Camorra (the Mafia in Naples) who had been arrested because they found a hand buried in his back yard. He wants nothing to do with them and decides that he is going to turn down the case but much to his dismay, he learns that he can’t, since it’s his duty as a public defender to take on the case. For some reason, the magistrate decides not to hold the man and sets up an appointment for a future hearing. Feeling relieved that he is now free of them, he concentrates on the other things in his life - like trying to figure out where the hell he is going. An affair with one of the city’s most alluring lawyers then disrupts his plans, not to mention that in an incident with a street tough, another Camorrista, a short but brutally tough man who had been following him, comes to his rescue, then invites him to a café to discuss how they wanted to hire him to help them win the case against their man.  

Vincenzo tries to go about his business and his life, all the while being followed by the short, tough Camorrista, acting as both bodyguard and in a way a guardian angel. The narrative, by this point, is an oftentimes hilarious riff on modernity, with Vincenzo’s story often going off on many digressions about society, love, sex, relationships, marriage, fatherhood, friendship, and even music. Witty, insightful and hilarious, you can’t help but be drawn in by it all. You soon learn that it is also a commentary on how much the Camorra’s influence and presence has impacted life in Naples and how perilous it is to navigate the Italian legal system. 

This was an absolute joy to read, often finding myself laughing out loud and actually relating to the insights of Vincenzo as he tells you his story. It’s fun to watch him change throughout the story, and in a strange way, the ominous presence of the Camorra over his life - lurking like a shadow - helps him realize that he had basically allowed people to walk all over him and you cheer for him as he, little by little, begins to regain the reigns of his own life - in a way. We are actually left wondering - but it’s clear that something has changed in him by the novel’s end - and how it actually ends will be up to you to find out for yourself. Another highly recommended read. 

Rating: * * * * *   

Trafficking in Make-Believe

A friend of mine once told me, referring to the creative act, that “people have taken something that should be joyful and turned it into a fucking science.” I liked that - because it’s true. No matter what medium you practice, no matter what form of art fills that creative desire you have, some, somewhere, have taken it upon themselves to provide us all with the “correct” way we all should be doing things. The problem is that quite often the “correct” way is something different, depending on who you ask or who you choose to listen to. We engage (hopefully) in the creative areas we like because it fulfills this need, this sort of intangible thing that is often hard to explain to those who either don’t delve into creative endeavors, or simply don’t care for them at all. In other words, we do what we do because we love to do it. Plain and simple; and unless you’re one of those out there who think the arts is merely a meal ticket, a quick way to become rich, then I’m afraid you’ve been sadly mistaken. The truth of the matter is very few people - in relation to all those who are doing something - make an actual, comfortable living at what they love. 

The reasons why people write fiction are as various as the number of those who actually do it so there is no point in trying to spell it all out here. If you’re a writer of fiction, you know why you’re doing it, but I bet, over everything else, the love of doing it is the main reason why you do. You love to create stories, to express yourself, perhaps even relate an event in your life that may actually connect with someone, hoping that our words will move someone, in some way, make them think about something differently, or perhaps provide an experience they never had before. I know many of the great authors have done that for me - and even the not-so-great ones as well. It’s something that’s not easily explainable but there’s a reason why human beings love to tell stories to one another and have been doing so since the beginning of time. It’s part of what makes us human. In fact, it is human. 

Unfortunately, as my friend pointed out, there is a tendency for those of us who write stories, poems, novels, etc to take ourselves just a little too seriously at times. Take the work seriously, sure. Try to make it as good as you can make it. Please yourself first and perhaps you’ll be able to please others. Writing is not an easy thing and all one has to do is try it and they will soon learn that it’s not something you can just pull out of a hat (although many of the great authors throughout time make it seem that it is). What I’m getting at is the “making it into a fucking science” part my friend had said. I totally got what she meant. It wasn’t about the craft of writing, or the mechanics of it, or the difficulty of putting something together cohesive enough for others to enjoy and relate to. No, what she meant was those who took something that should bring the creator joy - i.e. something that should be fun - and turned it into an endeavor of stress and quite often self-doubt. 

I got to thinking about how we all, as children, begin to create something, whatever it may be. A crayon scribble on a piece of paper; a hodgepodge of cut construction paper, a macaroni collage, an attempt to draw your mom and dad standing outside your house with a huge sun hanging over their heads; I think you get the idea. When a child is engaged in such an activity, most likely he/she feels some sense of happiness as they are creating whatever it is they are creating. The time has not yet come when there are self-appointed guardians standing at the gate, ready to rip the child’s drawing to pieces, destroying their self-confidence and making what was once an act of joyful play into the head banging, stressful, neurotic thing it eventually becomes for most of us. Who would take their child’s drawing and tell them to their face that they suck, or they are doing something wrong, or perhaps tear it up in their face and tell them to give it up, there’s no hope for them. Only a monster would - and put more simply, a fucking prick. 

However, we are not children anymore and have moved into the adult world, where pettiness, envy, or merely the desire to destroy something for the sake of making oneself feel better often rules the roost. Hierarchies were imposed and others allowed them to exist - either willingly, or by default. You can argue until the end of time whether or not these hierarchies are needed, or whether or not there is a need for gatekeepers to filter out the “crap” from the “works of genius” but art by its very nature is so subjective, in all seriousness, who’s to really say with one hundred percent certainty that something is worthy and something is not? But that is beside the point. It’s another argument I tire of having the older I get. We like what we like, we don’t like what we don’t like, and rarely, if ever, does anyone agree one hundred percent. 

Writers of fiction, at least from my point of view, are in love with storytelling. Why else would they do it? Writers of fiction are participating in something that has taken place since time immemorial, since humankind were an oral culture, long long before the Sumerians invented writing. Tens of thousands of years of storytelling behind the first Sumerian cuneiforms, people told stories to one another, some so engaging that they became the myths we still read today. Religions were even founded on it. Writing and storytelling is a very very powerful thing. So those of you out there who are writing fiction and telling stories are participating in something really heavy when you think about it. You’re in a very very very long line of other humans, who did the same thing. As I said, it’s part of what makes us human. 

Thinking of this, I try to imagine the first storytellers, sitting around a campfire at night, perhaps, the whole clan or tribe huddled together for warmth, while the group's storyteller spins another tale. Oh, I am almost certain, at times, one story was received better than others or even that one storyteller was loved more than another would have been; but people still did it, they still told their stories, making up things, perhaps to help understand things that weren’t easily explainable, or perhaps to merely entertain, to allow those in the group to escape a little while after hunting all day or gathering other forms of food, or taking care of the children. I am also almost certain that there wasn’t a group of people standing around, listening to the stories first, then deciding whether or not one should be allowed to tell it to the group. In the end, some stories endured, while others - perhaps most - were long forgotten, never to be heard of again. Things aren’t much different today but the difference is now there are those who decide to become our culture’s storytellers and take themselves - not their stories - way too seriously. Back then, storytelling was an essential part of the human family - but it certainly wasn’t more important than hunting down that animal so the clan could eat for the day, or keeping predators at bay in order to live to see the next morning, or caring for an infant who had gotten sick. I somehow can’t imagine the group's storyteller standing up and saying, “Hey! I’m the storyteller. What I do is the most important thing in the world! And since I am the supreme storyteller, what I have to say is more important than you who hunt for our food every day! I know all things because I tell stories!” What storytellers did then - just like they are doing now - was traffic in make-believe. 

Trafficking in make-believe? Yes. We writers of fiction are making shit up - perhaps throwing in bits and pieces of our lives and experiences into the mix, but we are just making up things that don’t exist, no matter how realistic our stories are. Some of these stories today - as in days past - are universal, stand the test of time, connect us with what it means to be human beings - or should, anyway. It doesn’t always have to be that, though. It can be for mere entertainment but what often entertains us, can be important as well. It helps us forget the hardships of life, the real important things - but a good story can help us through those trying times as well. But these days there is a whole different dynamic taking place. Storytelling, for writers, has become a business, and big business at that. Unlike our “primitive” ancestors, now there are those who make a damn good living filtering what we “should” read and what we “shouldn’t”, as if one doesn’t have a mind of their own to decide that for themselves. But business is business and it is what it is, no matter how much we love it or despise it; and when there is money to be made, and people’s livelihoods depending on it, you can bet your bottom dollar that they will make damn sure to filter out what they perceive as garbage from the culture - and for a long time, those at the gates had an essential monopoly on the trafficking of make-believe. 

But things are changing now and with the advent of new technologies the gatekeepers are slowly, little by little, losing that monopoly. Anyone - and I mean literally anyone - can now tell their story and have it read by someone; and like our “primitive” tribe, not all the storytellers are going to be liked by everyone and what will endure will endure and what won’t will be forgotten in the long river of time. (What will and what won't is up for grabs and only time will be the determining factor). That’s only natural; but the fact remains that nowadays - for better or for worse - everyone can now have a chance to tell their story around the campfire. And we/they do it because they want to participate in something that is naturally human. They do it because they feel that same urge they did as a child to pick up that crayon and put it to paper - to get that feeling of fulfillment by creating something that is uniquely their own - something, anything - that reveals a part of themselves, to have a chance (at least) to perhaps connect with someone else if they so desire. That innocence in creativity, what I think is the “true” purpose of it all, is lost in the noise of those who feel it is their duty to determine what goes in and what goes out; those who “turned it into a science” rather than the joyful, pleasing and most importantly fun thing it’s supposed to be. Is there a way, as fully grown adults, to recapture that “I don’t give a shit, I’m going to do this” feeling one had in their innocence? I don’t know and sadly, probably not. So long as there are those out there who feel it is their duty to destroy rather than create something, I think the chances are pretty slim. But this is all up to us, individually. Are we creating because we love to create, or are we creating to - first and foremost - gain the approval of others? This is a question I haven’t answered yet for myself. Perhaps, all artists, in a way, are all those people out there seeking some sort of approval they felt they were lacking since they were children, I don’t know. I can’t say. I’m not everyone. I’m merely myself. 

Imagination and creativity are two essential ingredients why we are where we are today and not still sitting around a fire at night, hunting animals with sticks and stones; but in a lot of ways, we aren’t much different from that either. The only difference now is that the art of storytelling has fallen into the realm of commerce and big business and so long as it remains there, there are always going to be those who feel it is their duty to let some people tell their stories and disallow others from doing the same. But they can’t stop you. They can only stop you from becoming famous. They can only stop you from going to fancy cocktail parties and hobnobbing with the so-called “important people.” They can only stop you from becoming a “celebrity”. They can’t shut you up. They can’t keep you from doing what you love to do. So for young traffickers in make-believe (and even old ones) take advantage of the technology and tell your story. Stand up around the campfire and just sing it with all the joy and fun you can. If some don’t like it, so what. If others do, all the better. The important thing is to just do it, no matter what anyone else says. If it’s something you love, if it’s something that can perhaps bring a little more joy into your life - and perhaps others as well - then get to it. 

Be human. Tell your story. 

Italian-American...But Not: Some Thoughts on Cultural Influences in Writing: Moving Beyond the Clichés

Recently, I’ve gotten word about an interesting book called “Essays in Italian-American Literature and Culture” - a book I have every intention of reading. I suppose this would make sense, being that for one, this is a topic that interests me greatly, and two, being of Italian/Sicilian descent myself, this is something that would naturally interest me on a level beyond my interests in writing. Seeing this book got me thinking about a couple of things. First, the fact that there are very few works of fiction out there about Italian-American culture that isn’t mired in the stereotypes about being in the Mafia, or reflect the inanity of recent television programs like “Jersey Shore” and “Mob Wives.” The good ones do exist, or course, but oddly, they have to be sought out. There have been some very well known ones: “Christ in Concrete” by Pietro Di Donato, for one; Mario Puzo’s “The Fortunate Pilgrim” (a by far superior novel to his best known “The Godfather”); and of course, there's John Fante. Not too many others that come to mind but I’m sure they are out there. Unfortunately there aren’t too many Italian-American writers writing about the Italian-American experience and those who have, often relate stories rooted in the past, dealing with the issues that their ancestors had dealt with: immigration, the hardships of immigrant life, etc. Anything else you’ll be able to find quite often has to do with the Mafia, which is unfortunate, and only perpetuates the long held stereotypes. 

I got to thinking about how my cultural background informs my own writing. Does it? Well, yes, it does to a certain degree. In all my novels thus far, the protagonists have all been of Italian descent, even those characters who had been born in South America. In “November Rust”, the two main characters are Italian-Americans from the United States; in “Nadería”, the main character is of Sicilian background and the two main women protagonists are Italians via Uruguay (This was my way of showing how Italian immigration didn’t all come through Ellis Island); in “Be Still and Know That I Am”, the main family is of Italian descent; and in my latest, “Mediterráneo”, the two main characters are Italian-Americans in search of their roots in their (fictional) ancestral town - and the whole story takes place in Italy.  Out of all of these books, “Be Still...” is probably the closest I ever got to actually writing an “Italian-American novel”, and even that one is only informed by it, not about it, and there was a specific reason for this. I do not see myself as an “Italian-American writer” - but a writer who happens to be Italian-American. (Just like I don’t see myself as a “New York writer” but a writer that just happened to be born and raised in New York).  

There are a few reasons for this, the main one being, that I never want to put myself in a box. I want to be able to write about anything I want to write about. The main reason why my protagonists tend to be Italian-Americans is because I, in my own way, want to contribute stories in which Italian-Americans are the main characters without falling into the trap of the clichés and stereotypes one normally sees when confronted with Italian-American characters in fiction. I feel they are underrepresented, or more often than not, caricatures, reminiscent of “Snooki” or some other half-wit the general public usually associates with Italian-Americans. But my stories are not “Italian-American” stories. Far from them. Although the characters are Italian-Americans, and quite often their background often informs who they are and many references are made about the culture throughout, my characters are who they are, and sometimes they aren’t all that heroic. I have to admit that in my latest novel, ‘The Mafia” does rear its ugly head - the ‘Ndragheta - but since the story is essentially a crime story (or thriller, or something akin to it), it managed to work its way in, although it is not emphasized or explicit. It’s implied more than anything else and the focus is more on the characters than any nefarious organization. Sometimes there is a need for it, if the story calls for it. I’m not against Italian-American stories that include the Mafia, only those that tend to glorify them, which my new novel certainly does not. 

Although I wouldn't exactly call myself an "Italian-American writer" I would love to see more novels written by Italian-Americans which don’t necessarily adhere to certain clichés that have arisen that have nothing to do with organized crime or the Mafia. For instance, there are plenty of novels where the protagonist is a young Italian-American female who vacations in Tuscany then suddenly falls in love with the local farmer, or whoever, and there she is, a fish out of water (because she’s an American) trying to navigate the space between her ancestry (and her Americanism) and the local population and customs; or those novels where the protagonist is a lover of food and find a paradise by heading off to Italy to learn all the culinary treasures the culture has to offer. To my mind, an Italian-American writer does not necessarily have to adhere to Italian-American themes in an overt way. There is one Italian-American writer whose work is informed by his background, but doesn’t overtly write about it: Don DeLillo. It seems to me that Italian-American organizations - including those who specific purpose is to highlight literature written by Italian-Americans - often give attention to those books that are overtly “Italian-American” in theme, more often than not, those books written like what I mentioned above, or those that are written that reflect their ancestor’s immigrant experience when first coming to America. Nothing wrong with these stories at all - I would read them if I could find them - but what I fear is the danger of falling into a certain “sensibility”, which often leads to a certain kind of orthodoxy, which would, in my opinion, shut out those writers of Italian-American descent who’s work may be informed by their cultural background in some way, but not necessarily be about it. This, in some way, is what I am trying to do with my stories (although there will be times what I write will have absolutely nothing to do with Italian-American themes). The last thing one should want to ask is, "Is this 'Italian' enough?" 

The current fiction coming out of Italy itself has been amazing in my opinion. The current crop of Italian writers are working very hard to come up with a modern literature that reflects their culture the way it is, in a highly realistic manner, devoid of all the clichés an American reader of Italian descent would expect. Writers like Niccoló Ammaniti, Massimo Carlotto, Diego De Silva, Margaret Mazzantini, Sandro Veronesi, Domenico Staronone, Stefano Beni, and a host of others, are, in my mind, seeking to come up with a specifically Italian literature, one which reflects their culture today. American readers of Italian descent should read these novels. While their “Italian-ness” is clearly evident, ironically, many of them seem to be influenced by American writing, although they are obviously trying to put it all in an Italian context. Perhaps Italian-American writers can take a cue from the current Italian writers. In my mind that would enrich the stories being told in an American context. While stories about grandma’s cooking and grandpa’s struggles when first coming to America are important themes to cover in Italian-American fiction (all of us of Italian-American descent can easily relate to them), there should be room for those stories that want to push it in another direction; works informed by their cultural heritage, but not necessarily about it. 


The Italian-American experience as changed a lot since the days our grandparents entered Ellis Island. It would be nice to see more attention paid to works written by Italian-American writers that are not about that but are still, in some sense, Italian-American in theme. As it is, fictional works that are in some way "Italian-American" in theme are in short supply and the bigger question is, why is that? An even larger question is, out of those that are being written, why is it that only those that have to do with the Mafia and organized crime or are in some way rooted in the past? Is there room for a thoroughly modern "Italian-American" novel? Are there those works of fiction that are written by the children of immigrants that reflect their own experiences rather than those of their parents and/or grandparents? Perhaps the issue is purely generational - the children of Italian-American immigrants being so thoroughly "American" now that these themes are no longer relevant? I don't have the answer, but for this one reader, it would be nice to see. 

Impressions: "Don't Move" by Margaret Mazzantini

I love the novels that have been coming out of Italy the past decade or so and “Don’t Move” by Margaret Mazzantini is no exception. This is a wonderful novel - both heartwarming and severely disturbing at the same time. It’s one of those novels that keep you thinking about it long after you read it. 

In the story, a middle-class surgeon has what seems like the “perfect” life. He is successful, is married to a beautiful career woman and has a fifteen year old daughter. Even so, there is something that Timoteo, the narrator, is missing. The novel begins with him learning the disturbing news that his daughter was involved in a motor scooter accident and she is badly injured, her life literally hanging in the balance. While she lies in a coma, Timoteo sits beside her and decides to reveal a dark secret about himself - about the affair he had with a down and out prostitute about a year before she was born. The bulk of the novel is this tale, with Timoteo pouring his heart out to his critically injured daughter, revealing things about himself to her that would be devastating had she been able to actually hear it. You also get the sense that this affair - which straddles the line between being obsessive and unhealthy to being warm and loving - is the first time that Timoteo actually lives. As a reader, you are pulled into this story, and are very disturbed by it, as you follow Timoteo through this trying moment in his life. I won’t give away anything here - this is something that you must read to see and experience for yourself. It is guaranteed to keep you turning the pages, wanting to know how it’s all going to turn out. 

The only minor issue I took with this novel was the fact that the character was a man being written by a woman. Not that this, in and of itself, is a problem. It’s been done before many times, but there are moments throughout the story where you can tell it’s being written by a woman. There are certain passages and a certain sensibility that are clearly female - things a man wouldn’t say, or even think. For example: "I lay awake, staring at the wooden ceiling, with no regrets. I had led my wife over the rapids, down through the waterfall of my ghosts, and onto the warm sand, where pleasure flooded her." However, this doesn’t take away from the power of this story. This is one story that will remain with you after reading it. I guarantee it. 

Rating: * * * * 1/2

MEDITERRÁNEO Now Available!

What would they do once the fire goes out?  

Two lifelong friends, Gianni Mazzaro and Matteo Radicci, set off on their summer travel, an annual ritual since their college days. This year it’s the Mediterranean, the first stop being a small village in the mountains of southern Italy - a town in which both their families hailed from. They soon discover that their ancestral town has one foot in the twenty-first century, one foot still firmly rooted in the past, where some of the locals are still clinging to ancient folkways, vendettas and superstitious beliefs. Something dark had taken place in the village some three decades earlier and the mere arrival of the two friends - and Gianni in particular -  sets off a chain of events that will shake this sleepy village to its very core.

I’m pleased to announce that my new novel, “Mediterráneo” is now available in paperback, ePub and Kindle Edition. Just follow the links for more information and for purchasing details. Don’t let the “sunny” imagery the title invokes fool you. This is probably the strangest, darkest thing I’ve ever written and it certainly may not be for everyone. It’s a little hard to describe what kind of novel this is but let’s say that it’s something of a cross between a “Mediterranean Noir and a Gothic thriller with dashes of “Transgressive Fiction” thrown in for good measure. The story here is totally fictional, of course, but it’s origins lie in my own genealogical research regarding my own family who also hail from southern Italy, Sicily and North Africa.

Naturally this is the point where I shamelessly hawk my previous three novels: “November Rust” (2007), “Nadería” (2011) and “Be Still and Know That I Am” (2011). All three are available in paperback and eBook editions (both ePub and Kindle). I want to take the time to thank those who bought these three novels over the past couple of years and I am eternally grateful to you for it. For more information about these three previous novels, you can find them via review/interviews conducted by the talented Garry Crystal, who is an author in his own right with two eBooks currently available. You can find them here and here.

Impressions: "Season of Ash" by Jorge Volpi

Mexican author Jorge Volpi has come up with something truly original here. Volpi is known in Mexico as the founder of the “Crack” literary movement, a movement that calls on Mexican authors to move away from Magical Realism and the notion of “what a Latin American novel is supposed to be” and find their own voices. Volpi certainly achieved this with this novel, epic in scope, a sort of hybrid work which takes its cues more from Borges and Cortázar than it does from the Magical Realist authors. 

The novel follows the story of four women and how their lives are impacted by the historical events over the past fifty years, concentrating mainly on the collapse of the Soviet Union and all the events that lead up to it. All the events are here: the Soviet invasions of Hungary and Czechoslovakia, the end of the Stalinist period, the rise of the Cold War, the invasion of Afghanistan, Perestroika and Glasnost, through today. Not only are the lives of these four women affected by these historical moments but in a lot of ways are a part of them. Volpi mixes fictional characters with real historical figures throughout the entire narrative and what you get is sort of a hybrid fiction-history book, the detail of which is astounding. One gets the impression that the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union is somewhat akin to the fall of Troy - or any other civilization which did not see itself as ever succumbing to such a fate; something for the American reader to think about as he/she ponders the events that have taken place over the past half-century. It is a story about the end of an era and the beginning of a new one, one in which things are as uncertain as they ever have been. 

Once in a while a novel will come along that tries to push the boundaries of what is expected of fiction and “Season of Ash” is definitely one of them. It’s engaging, unique in its mission, and most definitely original. This is Volpi’s second work translated into English. I definitely look forward to more. Highly recommended. 

Rating: * * * * *