On writing and facehuggers: in eight parts

If you decide to read this, beware: there is a vicious alien in the end. That will fuck your face.

***

This is the You Should part.

You should judge a book by its cover—but only used books. The more worn-out it is, the higher the probability it was enjoyed and read from cover to cover, mangled and dog-eared repeatedly by the loving hands of its readers.

You should be able to tell if any piece of writing is good by the first sentence. If it doesn't grab your attention, the rest of it probably won't either.

A short-attention span is not a bad thing, but rather a good characteristic to have as a reader and even as a writer. Because good writing should be able to grab your attention and, like a facehugger from the Alien movies, latch onto your face and shove its message deep inside you where it gestates into something—a xenomorph or inspiration—that bursts from your chest.

You should write briefly. But if you absolutely have to write something long, you should fill it up with as many short paragraphs and sentences as possible. Fragments are preferable. Like this.

You should like your readers, even if you don't know them. Even though you may not be related to them or friends in real life. Give them a break. They're tired, they're going through it. Don't punish them with long, convoluted writing. Don't hate them. They're mostly good people. Hell, many of my own friends are readers.

You should think—or remember—that many of your readers lead busy lives and only some did well in college. In fact, it's probably better you think of your readership as if they were the kids who thought they were too smart to finish high school or college. The ones who watch French silent films as well as Nicolas Cage movies. Who write free verse and read German philosophy.

***

This is the I Should part.

I should read more.

But it's hard. I've never been diagnosed with ADHD, but I've always found it difficult to start and finish a long piece of writing or reading, more so reading. Especially books. Especially books that are more than 120 pages. The older I get, the more difficult it gets.

At first it was depressing. My routine for picking something to read has always been to:

1. Pick up the book.
2. Turn it over and read the back.
3. Then flip it over, thumb through the pages and if something didn't grab my attention I'd put it back.

It used to be that I found most books interesting. I wouldn't read all of them but I could have if I really wanted to.

Nowadays, what I pick up is doomed to be returned to its shelf or to be disappeared after having read a sample on Amazon. Barely read, barely acknowledged, never truly given a chance.

So I found myself going back to the books I own and already read—which were mainly the classics but there were some new authors in there, too. I had no problem reading and enjoying any of them. Even the books that were 200 pages or more. No, it must be that my mind was becoming dull.

Mental illness runs in my family—depression, dementia, PTSD—so I thought maybe this was early onset dementia or Alzheimer's. But it didn't make sense because it wasn't as if I had lost my ability to read or to enjoy reading. I just couldn't get into a new book or a new short story or even most new poems or flash fiction. I was getting pickier and lazier.

At first I was a little mad about it but then I quickly came to accept it. Fuck it. So be it. If I'm lazy, I'm lazy. If I'm crazy, I'm crazy. I can learn to live with my lazy, crazy brain. So if I'm going to read, I'm going to read stuff that's short or at least that can hold my attention. If I'm going to keep writing, I'm going to write as briefly and succinctly as I can—which, by the way, is far more difficult than it may sound. Anyone can type away in a furry of Adderall-induced creativity hundreds of words per page and soon enough fill up a books' worth. But to write concisely, to the point, to say everything that you need to say and not a single word more—that aint easy. To condense complicated ideas into something quick and simple. Much of my writing—especially from my hazy Bukowskian 20s and regretful 30s—is proof of how true that is. Maybe this is more proof still.

***

This is the Never Mind, I don't Know What I'm Talking About part.

Then again, maybe being lazy, crazy and picky isn't good. You can't expect instant gratification all the time. Some things take time and it builds commitment and discipline to see something through to its end. Reading and writing are like that. Also, just because a person can't get into a book doesn't mean the book's author is necessarily bad at his or her craft. Everyone has his or her own taste. Those tastes are categorized. Maybe the reader is in the wrong category. Maybe the reader should be in the philosophy section, not the fiction section. Or the "how to" section, not the poetry section. Maybe I don't like literary fiction anymore. Maybe I like mystery and thrillers now. Maybe I like young adult now. Or fantasy fiction. Sci-fi. Crime noir. But, truthfully, I think I'm in the middle of inventing a new category for myself: inconsistent and lay literary criticism.

***

This is the A Kurd, a Persian and a Chicano Walk into a Bar part.

A Kurd, a Persian and a Chicano walk into a bar—that also serves burgers.

All three of us had dinner in Studio City, which isn't a city at all but a fancy neighborhood in the San Fernando Valley. Panorama City, also in the Valley, which is Studio City's complete opposite, isn't a city either. The Valley of lies. Anyway, the three of us had come to the agreement we were socialists. So we decided to have burgers and beers to celebrate. I had a Coke because I didn't feel like relapsing. Still, things didn't turn out so well.

Because both the Kurd and the Persian have been politically persecuted, even imprisoned, and none of them wanted that anymore, this is how I'll be addressing them.

The Kurd said his people are oppressed, not just in Iraq, Syria and Turkey but also in Iran. The Persian friend was annoyed at his analysis, however true it was. You're a nationalist, then, he said. You a nationalist, too, the Kurd said, you want great Persian empire, you don't care for my people, we have own language, culture, land, own government in Kurdistan, our own nation! The Persian looked at me and rolled his eyes without saying anything but I knew what he was thinking, can you believe this guy, comrade? It's so divisive—we're all the same, we're all human beings! I tried to interject but they were switching between English, Arabic and Farsi.

Out of frustration I said, "¿Y por qué no hablan en español, cabrones? ¡Estamos en Los Ángeles!"

But they kept on arguing about nationalism and socialism. The Persian said his people don't want Marxism or any other ideology. Even though he thinks Maxim Gorky—the famous Russian Marxist writer and founder of socialist realism—is one of the greatest authors of all time. Which I agree with. We also agree that Mother, his 1906 novel of the Russian revolutionary movement, is one of the greatest books ever written. Which, albeit, is my sweeping, amazingly underdeveloped argument.

"They're tired of ideology. They say, 'fuck that!'"

"Bullshit," I said.

"They don't want Marxism!"

"And if they say they don't want to be evicted or fired and fucked with nothing, no help, nothing?" I said. "What they gonna say? 'Oh, we don't want any of that!'"

"Yes," the Kurd said, "rent is expensive fuck!"

But the Persian had an ace up his sleeve. He looked at us, flagged down the waitress, flirted with her and ordered another beer.

"I tell you what they want," he said and drunk from his beer, doing us the favor of spelling it out because we evidently were idiots: "D-e-m-o-c-r-a-c-y."

The Kurd and I looked at each other. I knew there was no point in continuing the conversation, but the Kurd didn't know any better. And, so, they argued some more, only stopping to eat the burgers while they were still warm.

***

This is the A Kurd, a Persian and a Chicano Walk into a Bar Part II part.

Afterwards outside, after the Persian left, the Kurd started smoking. He told me he was making another documentary. Apparently he was well-known in Kurdistan and Iraq. He's written, directed and produced several films and documentaries. He's been living in the U.S. for about seven years, having fled Iraq because of political persecution. But because he can barely speak English, because his legal status is iffy, and because he may or may not be on some black list, he's been only able to find work as a delivery and rideshare driver. He tried construction work but his back problems prevented him from continuing. He said he wanted to make a series of documentaries about American capitalism, homelessness and religion. It's been done before, I thought, but whatever, maybe he'll make one better than Michael Moore, who knows.

"But," he said, "different. Not telling, but showing."

I think about that. I think that is the greatest advise I have ever been given for writing, even if he didn't mean it as such. Writing shouldn't be about forcing something down your reader's throat like the proverbial facehugger phallus. It's not enough to say or write something like, "Capitalism sucks!" For one reason, most inhabitants in the world share that sentiment. But, also, saying it doesn't change anything. It's lazy and obvious. A hollow declaration into the annoyed void which echoes it back annoyingly.

But you watch a movie, you don't read it. How can you "show" people when it comes to writing? Can you?

***

This is the Book Report part.

One day I searched online for the best books from small presses—I figured I wouldn't like whatever the big publishers were focusing on. I read the reviews. Read a few sample pages on Amazon. One stood out: Potted Meat by Steven Dunn, published by Tarpaulin Sky Press in 2016. The 107-page novel (a big plus!) follows a young Black kid growing up poor in southern West Virginia as he struggles through abuse, alcoholism, poverty and racism, but fully aware every step of the way of the beautiful moments—however sparse and fleeting—of happiness and reprieve. It's like Catcher in the Rye if Holden Caulfield wasn't roaming around on the east coast being white, rich, spoiled and arrogant—basically if he wasn't Holden Caulfield. Dunn's book, which is all in the first person, is divided up into short digestible chapters. Another big plus. His writing style matches the content: it's brutal, honest and cuts deep. It's realism. There is no magic, no lying. It's the world—real, ugly, hard but also vulnerable and even endearing.

Dunn wasn't telling me about his childhood, he was showing me how trash juice tastes when the bag rips over your head and spills into your mouth, how it feels to get stomped on by your friends wearing football cleats, how your own blood tastes. He wasn't saying, "I felt angry" or "I felt sad" or "that shit hurt!" He was showing, not telling. I think that's how you do it.

***

This is the Book Report Part II part.

When I first read Ito Romo's 2013 collection of short stories, The Border is Burning, I didn't like it even though it had met one of my criterion of being a short book (at 92 pages!). I thought some of the stories were too cold and indifferent to the people of the Borderlands, which is where he comes from. There's a story of an abuelita who finds a two-headed baby in a jar and then tries to give it a proper burial. Another story about a father smacking one of his kids in the car for throwing up right before he drives them straight into a kamikaze deer, killing all of his kids. But not all the stories were like that. Some stories portrayed the characters with more introspection and feeling—often with fright and anxiety—as they ran for their lives from the narcos. Romo painted a dark picture—accurate, poignant, unforgiving—with nothing else but the raw and gritty brush of his type of American social realism or what the academics call "Chicano Noir" or "Chicano Gothic."

***

This is the End part.

So now I look at things differently. I've come to like Romo's book—like how I like Dunn's book. I've been recruited to the "show-them" school of thought. Your characters don't have to be constantly expressing what they're feeling or thinking—in italics or with or without attribution. Just give them a place to exist on the page, let them be honest, put them in the motion of everyday life, the way you know it, the way it really is. I've come to appreciate that approach more. I've come to dislike sentimentalism, which is how I've been writing my entire fucking life. Oh well, better late than never.

I think Romo/Dunn's approach—that dark realism—which is the method of "showing," ironically, is more effective in getting your message—be it social commentary or whatever—across. You're not belaboring your point, you're not exactly "telling" people something. You're showing them a picture you've painted of your world. Maybe they already know your world, maybe they don't, maybe they don't even care, but you have to try to make them care, goddamn it. Because if you're a writer, you're obsessed. You can't help it. You are compelled to write, to show them—to unleash your facehugger onto the unsuspecting mouths of your unsuspecting readers.