The Day Before November

Ciao, Tutti!

Happy Halloween.

Good, now that’s over with.

This is the last day of October, and therefore the last day I will be posting in a while. I’ll be hard at work on my novel and I don’t really see any time in the foreseeable future when I’ll be able to make a post. At least not a post of this proportion. Possibly on election day. We’ll see. Depends on if I’m on a plane to Florence or not, which depends on who wins.

A Brief Word About The Election

Vote.

That is the brief word. VOTE!!!!!!! Please? If you don’t vote you are conceding your right to complain about problems within the government. If you don’t vote, it’s like saying things are all right no matter what happens, so you’d rather leave the future of the country up to other people. If that’s what you think, okay, but then I don’t want to hear any complaining afterward.

A Freelancer’s World

Thank you so much everybody who has responded so positively to my first posted short story, “Cliché Central.” People have been receiving it very well and I have been so encouraged that I have started to look up places to publish it! The New Yorker might be shooting a little high, but if I’m rejected, I’m rejected. So what. It’s not like it would be the first time. If you haven’t read the story you can find it in my archives under “Art Sharing Day.” Trust me, you’ll like it.

This is a very strange world we live in, much different than it ever was ten, even five years ago. Here is what I mean: I have been a musician for a while and a writer for, well, a while, but not seriously like in music. So now I start writing again and have some pieces I’m getting serious about publishing. So what do I do? I go to Google and search “Publishing short stories.” Bam. First hit, a comprehensive eight-step guide to putting together submissions for literary magazines. Made for people just like me!

I had been toying around with the thought of writing a screen play, that is, before M. Night Shyamalan took the medium I wanted to adapt (Curse you, man with a hard last name to spell! And you better do a good job with that movie!), so I Googled “How to write a screenplay.” Bam. First hit, a comprehensive tutorial for writing in screenplay format, complete with suggestions for how to pitch your idea to a producer.

Some of you know I like to make up games. I made one two summers ago at summer camp and people really liked it. I’ve been thinking about pitching it, but it was more of a fantasy. The other day I figured I’d look online to see if there was a site for people who made up board games and were looking for publishers. Bam. First hit, a comprehensive guide for play testing and development to the point of presentability to a publisher, complete with all sorts of links to sites that would custom make dice, counters, boards, or cards for your game.

Wow.

This is the world of the amateur. Now anyone with an idea, no matter the training or experience, someone like me, could go online and learn the basics of what they need to know to make the idea happen. Think about it. Five years ago I would have to take my stories to people I knew who would know something about publishing, or someone would have to fall in love with my work and produce it, as happened four years ago with my CD, “Summer Victory Dance.” It is so easy to find the information required to make an amateur project, projects I have oodles of, into a real object for serious consideration by professionals. Professionals!

You can see this in music with so many musicians self-producing and recording. The result is strange. There is more music out there than ever at any point in history. And there are more famous groups and people than ever. And they don’t have to be particularly good! This is bizarre. People without formal music training or with a minimal amount can become huge stars! This is much different than back in the day when Chopin was depressed because Liszt could play so much better than him. Folks, we don’t really have many pianists as good as Chopin these days. Now you don’t have to be a master to be recognized.

Before, as in Chopin’s day, musical mastery was a requirement. So was making good ideas. Liszt was an exception in the early part of career since his music wasn’t very innovative, just flashy (reminds me of young pianist Eldar). The point is that musicians in history have needed to have both great ideas and great skills to become more than unknown, and in Bach’s case that wasn’t even enough. Now all you need is one of the two things. A good idea is enough if you know how to use it. Skill without innovation is good enough if you know how to use it. You don’t need both anymore.

It almost makes me feel sad for my old teacher Stefon Harris and my future teacher (fingers crossed!) Kenny Werner. Both of these men are undoubtedly masters at their instruments and they are of a dwindling breed. Stefon demanded mastery out of me and I couldn’t do it. It’s not my way in the world to be a master at any one thing. But I worry at times that people are having such good ideas these days without the skill necessary to execute them. Good musical ideas deserve to be played by those with the skill level of mastery. I will never be able to play my music at the level of mastery. The same is probably the case with the writing and making games or taking photographs. I will always be an amateur at a lot of things, and it’s that kind of person who drives Stefon and Kenny crazy. Kenny wrote a whole book trying to bring people out of mediocrity and into mastery. But this is the age of mediocrity. In the time of YouTube and online communities, production value is not nearly as important as the quality of what is being produced.

In my first lesson with Stefon Harris, he asked me why I was taking vibes lessons from him. He wanted to know what I wanted to get out of playing music. I couldn’t answer him. He told me that was a question I would have to deal with my whole life as a musician, and if I couldn’t answer it I would have no focus and become “mediocre at everything.” Those words stuck to me. “Mediocre at everything.” I think it’s coming true, and I think I don’t mind. Stefon was one of the greatest teachers I ever had, though I never put in the work for him and I came out with a completely different lesson than the one he meant to teach me. Oh, well. I have a reputation for giving my teachers hell. And for that reason I will be one of these anti-masters, one of those people they all say, “He had good ideas, but it’s too bad he wasn’t better at what he did.”

It’s a freelancer’s world. Never before has it been easier to go out on your own and simply do what you feel like. And I plan to take advantage.

Second Story: The VideoMag Proposal

I know this post is becoming epic in proportions. Move over, Homer! If you don’t feel like reading the rest, I understand [wipes away tear].

This is my second installment of short fiction. I decided to go hard on myself and write in a style I’m not used to, and I think it turned out rather well. Again, this is the second draft, so if you have any suggestions for me just go ahead and let me know. I don’t usually write in the first person unless it’s actually me, so I figured I’d try getting out of my comfort zone here. Enjoy!

The VideoMag Proposal (2576 words)

You are funny.

Don’t be modest. You have quite an impressive wit. I admire your sense of humor. I really do.

It’s a shame that you choose to keep it to yourself and your circle of close friends instead of sharing it with the rest of the world.

Actually, it’s quite selfish.

I rubbed my eye with my left hand and lifted my steaming mug of coffee with my right, relieved that it wasn’t burning my tongue anymore still but annoyed at the mark it had left from the first sip.

My cell phone rang. The ring tone was something I had written a few years earlier for a General Motors campaign that turned out rather successful. I plugged it into my phone so that strangers would recognize it when people called me. Someone would surely approach me and we would have a dialogue like this:

“Mr. Jefferson?”

“Hold on for a moment, Mr. Gates. Yes?”

“You’re the fellow who wrote the tune for that GM advertisement.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I think that tune is fantastic. A true work of genius.”

“Thank you, good sir. It’s always nice to know my work is appreciated.”

“How would you like to work with me on a feature film? I’ve been looking for a songwriter like you.”

“Who’s the producer?”

“Steven Spielberg.”

“Count me in.”

So far that dialogue hadn’t happened yet. I was starting to feel like this dialogue would be more likely:

“Mr. Jefferson?”

“Hold on a second, Mom. Yes?”

“You’re the guy who wrote that car commercial.”

“Yes, I did.”

The man punches me in the face. “You prick! That tune has been stuck in my head for years! I hate it so goddamn much!”

I wipe blood off my nose. “It’s always nice to know my work is appreciated.”

I looked over to the caller identification and saw Harry’s name. I looked at my watch. 12:37. What Harry was doing calling me at this time of night was a question I didn’t care to answer at the moment.

“Harry, you better have a fucking good reason to be calling me this late.”

“I just knocked up your wife,” he said in his rapid, nasally voice. “Reason good enough?”

“I haven’t had a wife for six months,” I grumbled.

“Right. Sorry,” he said. “It’s about the campaign. I just can’t seem to come up with anything at all.”

“Really?” I said with sarcastic concern. I sipped my coffee loud enough to hear through the receiver. “I’ve got a little something, but I don’t know if I like it.”

“Nice,” said Harry. “Read it out to me really quick.”

I read it out to him really quick.

“I don’t know,” said Harry after a short pause. “We’re not supposed to tell the customers they’re selfish.”

“We’re telling them to not be selfish,” I said.

“Then our slogan should be: ‘VideoMag: Don’t be selfish.’”

“Hey, At least I’m coming up with ideas.”

“I’ve been trying,” yawned Harry. “I just can’t think of anything I like.”

I stared at the computer screen, my fist boring into my forehead, my jaw slack. I could have read everything I had written five times and understood nothing. The coffee wasn’t working.

“Look at us, Alex,” said Harry. “VideoMag does the sort of thing we used to do all the time back in college. This is exactly the kind of product for us and we can’t figure out how to make it look interesting.”

“I don’t think any of our old home movies would have been good enough for an online magazine.”

“That’s not the point,” said Harry. “We would have submitted them anyway and we would have logged on to see the others.”

I sighed and closed my eyes, instantly becoming dizzy with fatigue. I opened them with my fingers. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I kind of like the thought of a video magazine for everyone, or the people’s short movie theater, or something populist like that, but I can’t ever get it to sound right.”

I yawned, not bothering to exaggerate. “I think we should go to bed. It’s too late to think about anything.”

“We’re two days from the deadline,” said Harry. “And haven’t you been drinking coffee? How are you going to get to sleep?”

“Coffee doesn’t help,” I mumbled. “I’ve been drinking twice as much since the divorce but it feels six times as weak.”

“All right,” sighed Harry. “Get some sleep if you can, but we’re going to need to work on this big time tomorrow. No more three-hour night sleeps, okay? I need you at your best tomorrow.”

“Uh,” I mumbled in consent.

“I mean it, Alex. As long as we don’t fuck up, VideoMag could be our biggest hit since GM.”

“Only hit,” I said sourly.

“And let’s end this negative attitude right now.” Harry yawned.

At 3:23 in the morning my cell phone rang again. I had just fallen asleep. Tossing and turning for hours had been something I had grown used to, and no matter how tired I was during the day I was never able to calm my restless body at night. Too used to another body lying there next to me, I guess.

I couldn’t even speak into the receiver my throat was so groggy. I tried to form words of greeting but only an incoherent growl came out. I felt the instinctual urge to make a pot of coffee.

“David figured it out, Alex,” said Harry faster than I could process at the moment.

“What?”

“He figured it out,” repeated Harry. “We’re saved. He has the perfect idea.”

I kept my eyes closed and turned over. “That’s great. What is it?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“What?”

“It defies words,” said Harry like he was describing a love affair with a Hollywood actress. “That’s what David said, anyway. He has a whole presentation to show us tomorrow at work.”

I groaned. “So why’d you call me?”

Harry laughed and I felt like punching him in the glasses. “I guess I was just so excited. I’ll see you tomorrow. Try and sleep.”

“I’m turning my phone off.”

I nearly forgot to hit the brakes at stop signs on the way to work. Made me glad there weren’t any cops around. My eyes were so watery from yawning that I couldn’t see clearly. I jerked into my parking spot at the office, the jolt sending coffee flying onto me pant leg. It was hot. I would have reacted but instead I shrugged at life and tried to feel thankful that I had worn dark pants. I didn’t feel as thankful when I hit my head on the roof of the car. That was one problem with GM vehicles. They were the wrong size for tall, skinny guys like me.

Harry, as always, looked great.

I mumbled a hello and tried to be a person. He smiled warmly and gave me an unwarranted hug, causing more hot coffee to spill, this time onto my wrist.

“So where’s David?” I asked, scratching at my stubble.

“Called in sick,” said Harry, looking me over. “You look like you went out drinking too long.”

“Thanks. He’s home sick?”

“He was coughing on the phone when I talked to him last night.” said Harry. “I’ll tell you, Alex, when you’re up all night working it can really take a toll.”

“Yeah, it really shows on you,” I said, rubbing my eye.

“I know, but I’ll sleep better tonight,” said Harry, missing the sarcasm entirely. He pulled on his overcoat. “Well, I’m off to David’s house to check out the proposal. See you.”

“Wait, can’t I come?”

“Someone has to look after the office while I’m gone,” said Harry with a wink that made me want to spill coffee on his head. He patted me on the shoulder on his way out. “Take it easy, champ.”

Harry left me at the main desk where I made sloppy paper airplanes out of the documents from the inbox. I was supposed to be waiting for the phone to ring. It never did. About a year after our success with GM it had stopped ringing all together. I was a ceremonial secretary, paid to make paper airplanes out of memos. I tossed the coffee cup into the garbage can and rocked back and forth in the chair. This was my life. And it was boring. If David’s proposal was half as good as Harry said, the phone would be ringing soon enough and important people like Bill Gates and Steven Spielberg would end the boredom.

My cell phone rang, interrupting a game of solitaire. Harry. I had the compulsion to throw it into the wastebasket and waltz out of the office, unannounced and for good.

“Hey, Harry hair ball, what’s up?” I said.

“Alex, this is incredible,” stammered Harry. “Best ad campaign since ‘Just do it’ or
‘Got milk?’ I’m serious, Alex, this is gold!”

“That’s great, Harry,” I yawned.

“It is so perfect,” he went on, even more excited than his usual self. I wondered how his wife could put up with it, but then again I’d never been very good at being able to tell what women can put up with. “It’s just a work of genius. Pure genius! We are going to change the world with this ad campaign!”

“Change the world.“ I said, tossing a paper airplane into the air and watching it fall to the floor. “Sounds like a plan. So what is it?”

“Well, there’s this guy, and there’s a girl, and there’s this hilarious music… I can’t do it justice, Alex. You have to see it yourself, but believe me, this is incredible!”

“Great. Bring it over so I can take a look at it.”

“Sorry,” said Harry unapologetically. “I can’t exactly do that. You see, with David sick and his wife at work he needs me to help take care of his kids until she gets back.”

My head hit the desk. “You’re fucking kidding me. Please tell you me you’re fucking kidding me.”

“Look, now that we’ve worked out the ad campaign we don’t need to do any work for the rest of the day unless that phone rings, so I’ve got some time to take care of David and his family for a bit. You should see little Helen, Alex. She’s just starting to walk and it’s simply adorable.”

“Great,” I grumbled. “While you’re witnessing the miracle of life I’m here making paper airplanes.”

“Hey, don’t waste our paper! It’s not like it grows on trees.”

“Right. Wait, what?”

“When it’s time for lunch you and I can trade places, okay?” reasoned Harry unreasonably. “Just as long as you’re awake enough to take care of David’s kids while you’re here.”

“I’ll see if I can get some sleep while I’m waiting.”

I couldn’t get some sleep while I was waiting. I wondered what this proposal was that would make our phone start ringing again and bring important people like Bill Gates and Steven Spielberg into our office. Then my life wouldn’t be so boring and I would have dialogues like this with strangers on the street:

“Mr. Jefferson?”

“Hold on one second, Mr. Spielberg. Yes?”

“You’re one of the guys who did that VideoMag ad that made them so famous, right?”

“That’s me.”

“I really admire your work.”

“Thank you, good sir. It’s always nice to know my work is appreciated.”

“Listen, I work for Microsoft and we could really use a new ad campaign. You should come over to Mr. Gate’s office with me so we can work out a deal.”

“I’ll see if I can work around the movie deal.”

I had been lying on the floor staring at gum wads on the ceiling for nearly three hours by before lunch. It was dizzying to look at all those spots on the ceiling and to think they had all been in mouths. Mouths that had shared lips and tongues with other human beings at some point. Those pieces of gum had touched one of the most intimate parts of the human body and now they were stuck on the ceiling, chewing gum heaven, looking down on me like guardian angels.

I stepped into the car, nearly hitting my head on the roof again. A fresh cup of coffee sitting in the cup holder, I turned the keys and realized I forgot to hang up the “Out to lunch” sign. I felt like driving on anyway, far away, all the way to Reno where I could take off the invisible ring and pretend I was never been married.

After hanging the sign on the door I drove off to David’s house. This proposal had better bring Bill Gates and Steven Spielberg into the office or I was going to jump out a window. I watched women walk their dogs, children running in parks, men playing basketball on the roadside courts, some wearing sleeveless shirts despite the chilly late fall weather. Watching people took my mind off things I didn’t want to think about. Like the road. I slammed on my brakes and a pedestrian shouted at me through the windshield.

David lived in a mansion. His wife was an oral surgeon. She had been to all the same places as the pieces of chewing gum and she was paid a fortune for it. My apartment could fit in the master bedroom of David’s house. I didn’t have a family. I didn’t need the extra space. I sighed and knocked on the door.

“It’s open!” called Harry’s voice.

I turned the handle and was sprayed by confetti and showered by the sound of party kazoos. Harry and David were in the middle of the room holding a chocolate cake, a candle in the shape of a 35 stuck in the center. Harry’s wife and nine-year-old were on one side and David’s wife and three kids were on the other, all singing Happy Birthday at the top of their lungs, joyously out of tune like an ill-prepared Christmas carol group formed by a college fraternity short on cash.

I jumped back and scalding hot coffee flew into my face. They smiled at me once they had finished singing, showing their perfect white teeth. Coffee dripped all over my burning skin.

“Wait,” I said, trying to stay calm in front of the children. “David’s not sick?”

“I feel fine,” said David cheerily.

“And Harry, you weren’t coming over here to take care of David’s family while he was sick and his wife was working?” I looked over at David’s smiling wife who was definitely not at work.

“I took the day off,” she said amid the giggling of children. “I didn’t want to miss this special day.”

“And what about the ad campaign?” I asked David. “What about this perfect proposal of yours?”

“It was just to get you to come over here,” laughed David.

“So we still don’t have anything for our deadline tomorrow,” I said. The coffee was finally starting to cool down on my face.

Harry shrugged. “Nope.”

I stared at each of them one by one, scowling with all my might. “I think I’m going to shoot you both.”

Fine

So, there you have it. A much more conventional style for me. More of a character portrait than a plot, actually. Which is really not my style, but I think it really came out well here. Let me know what you think and what I should change, other than the length of my posts. Trust me, the posts will get shorter, if they exist, after November starts.

Last Word

VOTE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

-Sam goldsmith