I have an Internet addiction. In fact, I wrote an entire novel about Internet addiction. You would think, after several years, I would have developed the proper coping mechanism for said addiction, but alas, I have not.

And so, during a particularly devastating period of writers' block, in which procrastination levels, and thus Web surfing, were redlining, I bought a precision screwdriver set and played a game of Operation with my laptop.

I followed some random instructions that I found online, cracked it open, removed the internal wireless card, put Band-aids (electrical tape) around the two loose leads, and closed up the machine. The operation was surprisingly uneventful and successful, and I have been going to coffee shops with the eunuch ever since, my writers' block gone and my spirits elevated. Addiction-free.

It seems like there's a moral to this story, but it's not coming to me right now. Maybe, someone can suggest one in the comments...

Labels: Writing Process

My former advisor and good friend, Lewis Buzbee, who authored a much acclaimed book of essays about bookstores, called The Yellow Lighted Bookshop, likes to tell the story of a lunch he had with Ray Bradbury, back when Lewis was a college freshman. A few interested students were invited to dine with Mr. Bradbury after a reading he gave at UCSB, Buzbee among them. After they were finished, the rest of the students scampered off, leaving Buzbee alone with the author.

It turned out that Mr. Bradbury didn't drive, and that his train didn't leave for several hours, so he invited Buzbee to join him on the lawn. After a lengthy conversation, Buzbee asked Mr. Bradbury the secret of his success. Mr. Bradbury hesitated for a moment, looking over the lagoon, and then gave his answer:

Sandwiches.

You see, you can eat a sandwich with one hand, and read with the other, so you never lose the story. Bradbury might have a screw loose, but you can't argue with an author that prolific. Since hearing Buzbee's story, I've taken to turkey, swiss, mayo, and a well-salted tomato.

Labels: Writing Process

Not too long ago, in places like London and Paris, books weren't merely entertainment, but also a way to make a record of a place and a time. Local writers were revered because of this—they were writing history—and Londoners and Parisians kept of with their writers' work, and felt, in some way, that their lives had more meaning because they kept these writers around.

These days, not so much.

Of course, it's not that nobody writes local interest books anymore, or even that nobody publishes them, but that people don't know about them. (Let alone read them.) A case in point is Citadel of the Spirit, a Bible-sized anthology edited and published by native Oregonian Matt Love.

This is an amazingly exhaustive book of essays about Oregon, written by an equally exhaustive list of Oregon's writers. (The back cover reels off some of the book's topics, in a rather humorous bulleted list. The first six are marijuana, blackberries, stripping, view-master, Oregon lottery & rain.)

I've read most of the book. Parts of it are brilliant. Parts of it are average. This isn't the point.

The point is that Citadel of the Spirit is about us. It's written about the place we live, by authors who we might very well run into as we walk down the street, and who, if we're forward enough, we can quite easily track down and have a cup of coffee with.

Every Oregonian should own a copy.

Labels: Portlandia