Pondering Truth in History and Fiction

It's been a month since my last post--but that's not because I've stopped writing. It's just that there's been nothing good enough to post, or anything I would consider progress. More words, more sources, more obsession? Yes, yes, and yes--but still not enough.

Currently, I'm very excited about securing digital copies (suck on that NYPL!) of two potentially enlightening sources, one primary and one secondary. Published in 1872, James McCabe's  Lights and shadows of New York life; or, The sights and sensations of the great city. A work descriptive of the City of New York in all its various phases will serve as my cultural guide to postwar New York--just as it did for McCabe's audience. Although it will hardly be an objective account, it seems awfully comprehensive and detailed in areas of particular interest--especially those necessary for creating an accurate sense of daily life in the city at the time. 

And I realized a few weeks ago, that while I attempt to decipher and depict the emotions and psychology of a young prostitute, I ought to have a better sense of what her life and experience would be like. So I found Their Sisters' Keepers: Prostitution in New York City, 1830-1870 by Marylinn Wood Hill, and discovered both that I knew little about prostitution in this city and that I would need to know a good deal to give Charlotte both depth and a realistic context. But just beginning the Introduction has confirmed that I'm on the right track with all the complexities and, especially, contradictions that would have been present in her life. And I'm always on the look out for more authentic details. Answers to a big question about a little thing came from The Humble Little Condom: A History by Aine Collier. Anecdotal, yet detailed, her history gave me a sense of the common usage, materials, and popular opinion of prophylactic birth control in mid-19th century America. Fascinating stuff, and more ancient than I thought. 

And in other research news, I finally finished a classic source on life in the New York City tenements: How the Other Half Lives by Jacob Riis. Yes, he does rely on some pretty glaring ethic stereotypes that almost undermine the work. But in the context of his time (1890) these would have seemed apt characterizations. And there's no denying the influence of this work toward improving the conditions of the poor in New York by popularly depicting their plight in a pioneering work of photojournalism. Although he writes about conditions 15-20 years later than my period of interest, his anecdotes and photographs from visits to the tenements are invaluable records of street life and the hidden lives of the indigent. While the conditions are specific to this city and this time, Riis is able to show something universal, sadly enough, that's recognizable among impoverished people of all places and ages. 

Now, for some thoughts on writing.

First, on writing--literally: http://lifehacker.com/5738093/why-you-learn-more-effectively-by-writing-than-typing Here we have the results of studies on the psychological affect of handwriting versus typing. Needless to say, despite your penmanship (or lack thereof), writing something by hand gives you a stronger connection to the words, thus better retention (in the case of note-taking), accountability & drive (in the case of goal/task statements), and fluidity of thought (in the case of creative writing). I have been writing by hand for about the last month, and while the flow of the pen is nice, beholding an actual page--and filling it with ink scribbles--is the more satisfying part of the process.

Then I found two interviews in Guernica Magazine that spoke to me, the first with noted writer Lore Segal. Although she's had a long and illustrious career, I've not read any of her works. Nonetheless, one of her answers struck me as particularly relevant to my attempt to write:

I’m always amused by the way questions are asked. “What did you intend?” That’s not even a recognizable verb. You don’t intend when you write. You sit down and you’re thinking things and dreaming things and someone says something and you think “Ah!” That’s how it happens. Intention is not part of the game.

I too often make intention part of the game, when it clearly doesn't belong. It just happens. Sure, thinking about the reader is one thing, but doing a critical analysis of your own novel before it's even finished? That could very well lead to a book that a) doesn't get finished, and b) isn't worth reading. Something to ponder ... but not too much.

This interview led me to one with my favorite fiction writer, Aleksander Hemon. Now, I've actually read and re-read several of his books, articles, and short stories--and even gone to a book signing. So I was surprised I hadn't come across this interview earlier. I suggest you read the entire thing. By the end you might be fed up with his personal opinions or his cynicism, but he's prone to some profound reflections on story-telling.

Exhibit A:

You devise ways to tell a story that complies with your sensibility. Style and method are really extensions of your present sensibility. The beauty of literature—also its limit—is that it is inescapably personal, even if you’re writing science fiction. Even if your story takes place on a different planet, it comes out of your personality, your personal experience, your sensibilities, your interests, your passions, the whole of you. Even if you tried to extinguish your personality, what is left in the story will reflect it, perhaps by its negation. Our lives provide the bricks from which we build these cathedrals.

Exhibit B:

I like to blow up this notion that all we have to do as writers and artists is represent reality, which is presumably solid and self-evident, with no negotiation of the gap between myself and the world, between this body and this space, which needs narration to close it. You have to figure out a way to cover that gap. It seems self-evident because we do it routinely. It’s a condition of being conscious. But what fiction and art can do, particularly narrative art, is construct consciousness—in a sense, we have to do it for the first time, every time. We, as writers, have to figure out a way to create a consciousness in language. It’s crazy even to attempt to do that.

Exhibit C:

Guernica: What has been the most surprising thing about living as a writer?

Aleksandar Hemon: I don’t know if surprising is the word, but I learned a hard lesson in Bosnia about art and its ennobling aspect, or the absence thereof. But despite all that I know rationally, and everything that I can put into words, I can say that I have difficulty giving up the notion of the nobility of art. I make money doing this, and I want to make money, and I would like to have a lot of money, but I still believe that the only reason to write is that somehow it will make something or somebody better. I do believe—and I know I shouldn’t—that art transcends money and success and any of that. You can still do it if you’re not clinging to the notion of nobility. But I am, I’m clinging to it by my nails. I really can’t justify it intellectually. I’d argue against it rationally. Yet, if it wasn’t for that—what would this life be? What would this world be? What the fuck would we do? I’m fully aware that it’s something that cannot be accomplished by me or anyone, but it’s something to strive for, and fail at, daily. 

And finally, to add to the discussion of the role of the artist, I'll leave you with an excerpt from a speech by James Baldwin. Take it as you will, but to me it is both daunting and inspiring to really consider the exclusive duty and unique ability of the artist.

In the Gutter, February '72

I don't know how I got home that night. As I recall, I hardly felt the cold at all. I was never dizzy, but my feet moved as if frozen blocks ... My head hurt when I awoke. It didn't hurt that night though ... No, not until they knocked me out. He did. And robbed me. She did. Two of them, maybe more. I wouldn't know. The woman came up to me all of a sudden. She was was just right there in my face with her tits, her story, her breath ... A favor her request; money his demand. Never saw the bloke, but he missed on his first swing. Not entirely: the blackjack caught the scruff of my neck, took me down a peg. More to his level, I reckon, 'cause his next blow was true.

A horse pissing a Hudson-like current by your head is a rude awakening, but no less than I deserved. I cried then. Not 'cause I lost all I earned, or from the pain, but because I'd come to a place I never thought I'd stray. In fact, I kept such a clear eye on it--stepping as far as I could manage from its slippery slope--that I thought I'd be well far from it for the rest of my days. But I guess I was short-sighted. All roads led there eventually. And the truth of that stung like the cold wind. And the tears came. I was my father's son: Aedan, son of Seamus--son of shame.

I vomited on the steps of the tenement. It burned my throat. The wages of an hour's labor spent and spewed just like that. The lump above my ear was tender and nearly throbbed. My jaw clicked and clacked. It hasn't closed right since.

The night was a dark cloak wrapped tight on the streets. In the building that darkness would be smothering: with windows few, and the walls coated in black grime inches thick--years of scum, the residue of lives spent in this inescapable squalor.

Make it more like a play, huh? Okay ...

“Aedan! Over here, my boy.”

            Aedan turned at the shrill cry of his name. Few men knew it, and one that did, Jim Daly, wouldn’t have used it. To him, a slap on the back, or a spit plug of tobacco, or a “Getovahereyoubasterd” was a standard greeting. So he was surprised to see Dr. Smith balancing on a plank, holding a wooden crate under his arm.

            Aedan excused himself, with no regret, from the sand pipe, and maneuvered between the planks and entry shafts, tools and mud to reach Dr. Smith near the foot of the air lock.

            “Dr. Smith?” What the hell is he doing here? And why does he have birds?

            “Let’s go to section four. There’s no work in there today, am I correct.”

            “Yes, sir. We’re working here in the middle today.”

            “Good. Take this and follow me.”

            Aedan had become accustomed to odd jobs in the caisson—a stranger worksite could not be found in New York—but he could not understand what a man of medicine could possible want down there. Patients came to him after all. But Aedan accepted the crate and followed the surgeon.

            They ducked through the doorway cut in the thick wooden supporting wall, bouncing along the planks spanning the muck. They crossed the chamber and into the next. It glowed with a peculiar white light. Seldom had Aedan seen an empty section with not a single laborer or engineer at work. There was almost a serenity to be found there, although it was a setting wholly unnatural--and one could hardly forget the immense weight bearing down. 

            Dr. Smith followed the wall and paused at one of the massive brackets angled between the wall and ceiling. “This will do.” Aedan wedged the crate between the bracket and the wall. Hanging his medicine bag from one of the tall hooks usually used for whale-oil lamps, Dr. Smith proceeded to pull out an instrument.

            “Alright, please open the cage and pull one of them out. Loosen the wire there and it should just … Mind the other doesn’t escape!”

            Aedan stretched his hand through the narrow opening, grasped a fluttering feathery thing, and pulled it out in a flash. Looking down he saw the beady eyes of a bewildered pigeon. It struggled against his fingers for only a second, but Aedan could feel its nervous heartbeat.

            “Attaboy—now just hold him still a moment …”

            Aedan watched as the doctor stretched out one of the bird’s wings.

            “Now, the pressure down here this week is about twenty-pounds per square inch. As this caisson descends, the river and river bed increase their weight on the frame. Consequently, the compressors must increase the pressure of air inside the frame to counter that weight. The current trend is about two pounds—that is, an additional two pounds of air pressing on each inch of surface in this chamber—for every foot the caisson descends. The compressors can handle it. And the Chief Engineer assures me the caisson can handle it. ‘Twice as strong as the Brooklyn caisson—four times stronger than it need be,’ he says like a proud father.”

            Aedan tried to comprehend this sudden rush of information hitting him like the pressure in the airlock just an hour before. How can someone know all that and talk so easily about it? Like it was just something he heard on the street.

            Dr. Smith noted Aedan’s look and its resemblance to the confused, slightly petrified, but otherwise content pigeon. He carried on.

            “But the pressure of this air can be difficult for you and the other men to handle. And if nothing else, you know exactly how that feels. And that’s why, with your experience, you’re qualified to assist today—and in the future if you like.”

            “I would, sir. If I can help someone else avoid that same kind of pain from working down here.”

            Dr. Smith smiled. “The conditions present are well known, but what occurs to the body in them—that is still a mystery. I want to see if the concentration of oxygen in this atmosphere …”

            How am I supposed to know what any of that means?

“Oxygen: the molecules of the air that you breathe to give life to your flesh.”

With a nod Aedan feigned understanding, and Dr. Smith continued.

“I want to know how the excess of oxygen affects the natural healing process of the flesh.”

With a movement swift and sure, the surgeon made an incision under the birds wing. Aedan saw a smear of blood on the scalpel edge.

“There. And the next, please?” Dr. Smith wiped his brow with a damp shirtsleeve. “Let’s hurry up, now. The idea wasn’t to experiment on myself.”

They repeated the procedure.

“How will you know what happens? Or what it means if something does?”

“There’s a pair of birds in the hospital. I've made similar incisions on them. At the end of the week, I will compare the wounds with these birds. If there’s any difference down here from the natural healing process at the surface that might help me understand what this air does to you.”

Aedan paused latching the crate door.

“To you workers,” Dr. Smith continued, his brow damper still.

“Aye. God knows we need someone looking out for us. Otherwise, we’re just … little bleeding birds stuck in a crate. Not knowing thing a damn thing outside of what we are, what we were born to be.”

Dr. Smith was silent. He reached for the crate, but Aedan, the taller of the two, grabbed it first.

“On the hook, right?”

Dr. Smith removed his bag, and Aedan looped one of the slats over the hook’s end until the crate was firmly affixed. Aedan peered into the crate, now at eyelevel. “What are you going to do with’em?”

“After I examine the wounds and take blood samples, they will be exterminated,” Dr.Smith said, regaining his professional detachment, as he made for the chamber exit.

“You reckon I could have’em then? All ov’em?”

Dr. Smith paused at the doorway.  

“Even after a week down here,” Aedan continued, “they’ll be good eating yet.” 

On Bridges and Forces in Harmony

Today’s Big Thought came inspired from—where else?—David McCullough’s The Great Bridge. In opening chapter he lays out the dimensions and functions of the completed bridge before going into the history of its making. Summing up John Roebling’s design, he concisely reaches the crux of the bridge: “The way he designed it, the enormous structure was to be a grand harmony of opposite forces—the steel of the cables in tension, the granite of the towers in compression.”

I had read this phrase a few times before in my (re)reading of the book, but today I was at a place in considering the development of my characters where it seemed particularly applicable. I knew this was potentially a fantastic metaphor. But even more so, it could structure the nature of the relationship between Aedan (the protagonist) and Charlotte (the love interest). Aedan’s life possesses the tension: being pulled between past and future, duties and desires, the comfortable and unfamiliar. Charlotte faces pressures and conditions that I would classify as compression. (This is still in early stages, and I’m just making things fit the scheme—it could all change.) So, I believe their relationship can be built around the “grand harmony” they achieve together—and only together. Despite their own issues, they discover a sense of balance together: they can escape from the pressures they face and enjoy a freedom to be themselves. Kinda sweet and touching, right? But, me being me, I can’t just sit down and execute this idea. Oh no, I have to think just a little more. 

Old solutions (and some new) to new (well, kinda old) problems

Thomas Pope's 1811 vision for a trans-Hudson bridge

New York may not be as synonymous with bridges as Amsterdam, Hamburg, Pittsburgh, or even San Francisco. But with almost three times as many people as those three cities combined--and 2,000 bridges in the five boroughs--New York probably should be the de facto "City of Bridges". Without an intense network of bridges, the city wouldn't function as a metropolis, regional hub (22 million people live in the tri-state area), or global nexus. These are historical roles for this city, and creating the best infrastructure to effectively function in them is not a new problem. The harbor was the entry point and chief advantage to New York at it's founding, and the port and defenses followed suit. A certain upstate canal intensified the transportation of commodities--imports and exports--and the demands on that port. The prospect of real estate development and a growing populations led to an organized system of streets and properties. Then rail lines and ferries and more growth, then Brooklyn Bridge, then other bridges, then airports and Robert Moses and ... Basically, the infrastructure of New York is essential to New York's existence, functionality, and identity. (There are other factors, of course, but since I'm writing about bridges, we'll ignore them.)

So then there's a recent article about what to do about making the recently (2004) public-ized Governor's Island more accessible. Currently a free ferry serve visitors from May through September. And new construction on the southern portion of the island will make their visits more enjoyable and more likely. But, as Mark Vanhoenacker opines, a pedestrian/bicycle bridge would make the island accessible year-long and for the majority of the day, just like any other city park. How this bridge would be designed and funded are the next important questions after the obvious, "do we really need one?" Even if you (or the majority of New Yorkers, or the next mayor) think we don't, this potential bridge is a great opportunity to reconsider the movement of people in cars and goods in trucks throughout this city. And this then entails the locations of tolls on bridges and tunnels and how that influences transportation in the city.

In 1867, the New York York Bridge Company faced similar. They sought to replace the system of ferries on the East River with a bridge that allowed for foot traffic, roadways, and a trolley system. And it was assumed the fares and tolls would pay for the construction of the bridge in three years (and continue to fatten the coffers of both cities). But the project ran seven years longer than assumed, and more expensively than imagined--not least because of certain "gentlemen" either extracting bribes for influence or gleaning exorbitant construction contracts. See, nothing's new. And with new New York bridges on the mind, it seems like there might just be an audience entertained by a story of the first one.

On Writing: recent Inspiration & Advice

Sometimes I find things, sometimes they are given to me. But over the years my collection of writing advice seems to outweigh my actual writing output. I'll share the latest, for your own benefit and to keep them at hand for my use ... to bludgeon me of the head each time I come to my on blog.

Witty, but useful rules from McSweeney's: http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/the-ultimate-guide-to-writing-better-than-you-normally-do


And some of my favorites from Chekhov:

"There's no need to chase after a crowd of characters.  Only two should be at the center of gravity: he and she."

"Best of all, avoid describing the emotional states of your protagonists;  one should try to make these apparent from their actions."

"The more emotionally charged a situation, the more emotional restraint one must use in writing, and then the result will be emotionally powerful.  There is no need for laying it on thick."

"My advice:  try to be original and as clever as possible in your play, but do not be afraid of appearing stupid.  Freethinking is essential, but to be a freethinker one must not be afraid to write nonsense."

Reflections on September

"Progress" is not a word I would apply to my ... Okay, "efforts" is not a word that should belong in the context of this project, either. But here are some of my recent thoughts, considerations, hang-ups, issues, distractions ...

1) Story. Is there a strong enough story to compel me to write this novel? Isn't that what I value in writing above all else? It's without a doubt what draws me to my other historical-based projects. I find the stories of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, the creation of the Rite of Spring, the exploration of the Grand Canyon to be terribly fascinating. And the challenge is conveying that to a reader. But why do I want to write about the Brooklyn Bridge and 1872 and all that? Where's the story? I have just characters and context. Why do I want to write this story? I know why I want to write stories in general: to educate, to delight, to inspire. But why this story in particular? Why is it just a lingering idea, and not a burning obsession that I have to see finished? There are so many parts that I need to write still; and many parts that I have no idea I’ll eventually write. And there’s an exciting facet to each of those. The drive to flesh out what is just a vision—it’s not always easy or brilliant, there’s no other way to get it out of my head. And then in that action, I can take turns and twists I would never have planned.   

2) Writing. I thought I had a break through a few weeks ago. Or rather a new perspective. And I thought this might develop into a strategy. It hasn't. So, I don't highly prioritize the act of writing in my life. I put more effort into things like work, hobbies, sleep, relaxing, reading, listening to music, depressing thoughts, planning ahead to avoid indecision, general procrastination, "doing things" in the City, the Internet ... stuff like that. This would all be great and necessary to balance out my disciplined writing--except that doesn't exist. I would rather do what's easy and most readily gratifying. But writing is one of the few things I kind of really good at--and also like doing. You'd think that combination would be like a spark to fuel. But you and I know that oxygen is necessary--that's the life blood of a fire. And I starve my fire of oxygen. I thought I could just substitute writing for those moments when I might gravitate to another activity. Sure, the novel won't be finished today, but the little bit you do now--even if it's crap--get's you that much closer. It's entirely about considering the long-term value of what I'm doing with my time versus the short. Until now, I've only lived with a short-term mind-set. Because it's easy, and I have the luxury to do that (I also happen to have the luxury to lead a life free of war & famine & poverty & and illness ... which is nice.) Call it laziness or "following the path of least resistance" or whatever. I know it well. I even wrote a play about it, sort of. Writing this novel is not just an opportunity to tell a story, but to figure out what it is to lead a life worth living.

3) Overwhelming sources. I recently purchased a fantastic book at the Strand, something I really wanted but didn't know existed: an anthology of nineteenth-century illustrations of New York from the pages of Harper's Weekly and other newspapers. These engravings are amazing depictions of the exact period I'm trying to evoke. But suddenly I'm flooded with information about culture and daily life than I was ever aware of--and I feel that I somehow need to include it all. I need to reference such and such event, set a scene in this cool location, reference this song or activity or individual that was in vogue, or relevant, or embedded within the cultural consciousness of the time. In this book I flip a page and learn something or see an entire scene to be written--yet feel paralyzed with the thought of how to transcribe it. But as a novelist this shouldn't be my job anyways. If a reader wants a history lesson, they can find it somewhere else in another book. What should be inspiring, stymies me instead. 

I recently read a brief essay on Shakespeare by an actor who claims to have written the entire oeuvre of the Bard. Impossible, certainly (even for a hundred monkeys at a hundred typewriters). But it's actually a clever observation on Shakespeare's dramatic writing. Shakespeare not only assumed that certain stories were common knowledge, but description is sparse in the text. The audience of a play would be provided with costuming and just a semblance of setting, and of course live actors performing the characters. But a reader of Shakespeare's plays has to bring all that to the page himself. And thus, you end up being Shakespeare's writing partner. Tim used this to bring to my attention what may be my tendency to create a fully-fleshed out, three-dimensional sense of place and time and context with each page of the novel. He's read only little of what I've written, but I'm sure he's still right. Even though this is a historical time period that may be unfamiliar to a reader, I have to trust that they would be able to meet me part-way. By relying on their imagination, there would be less of a burden on the words, and the writing could have a freedom and lightness. This isn't a movie. I can't show everything. And to attempt to do so would be unproductive, and bad writing. Simply, with an engaged audience participating, less is more.

4) Make it more like a play. Although I never finished the last two three few plays I attempted to write, I still have an interest in dramatic writing. Most of my ideas (that don't necessarily entail kick-ass illustrations) are developed, at least initially, as a play. There's something about putting two people in a situation and just saying "go." They have personalities and motivations and backgrounds, but that's all revealed in dialogue and stage action, which keeps it interesting and active and succinct. Well, that's at least how good plays work.

What I'm trying to say, it that in situations when I just don't know what to write (which is pretty much every time I sit down to work on this project) I should consider a potential scene as part of a script. It can be fleshed out with details and such during editing, but to get the thing written and characters developing, this is one possible trick I could use. 

Fender-bender at the intersection of Bowery and Canal

Before he heard the screams, shattered wood, or wrenched metal, Aedan felt a sudden pulse—a shudder in the ground. When he turned, the scene was still in motion, but eerily slow, startling him almost as much as what he saw.

            Broken horses writhed on the street, tethered still to the omnibuses. Their drivers could not be seen, having been thrown from their perches during the collision. A wheel spun. Arms waved from the toppled coaches, the passengers' desperation painfully evident. Where one car ended and the other began he could hardly tell at a glance.

            Traffic halted all around, the sudden congestion nearly spawning more accidents. Solitary riders slipped past the wreckage and carried on their way unfazed.

            Monday morning and already some people would not live to the end of the day.

            The crowd was quicker to relate their account of the incident (and assign blame to both parties in equal measure) than to aide those trapped within their would-be transports.

            Aedan stood there too, sickened, and paralyzed with inaction. He knew Kyla traveled uptown on a similar omnibus at this very moment. ‘She could just as easily be the victim of such a tragedy.’ He could keep her fed and clothed and safe from their father, but against the sudden ill wind of fate he was powerless. 

Recent History

I'm sure I've mentioned this before in a post, but I'm still captivated by the density of history in New York--Manhattan especially. And even though New York has a reputation for razing the historical urban landscape in the name of Progress, that is itself a legacy of the development of this city. New Yorkers, whether they recognize it or not, encounter their history anytime they venture above 14th Street. Designed 200 years ago, the grid is still at the heart of Manhattan's structure, still defining public spaces, residences, traffic patterns, businesses, and socializing. Like any rigid format, it inspires as much as it hinders.

Sometimes, it may take a bit of deliberation--imagination, if you will--to conjure the past from the present city. Like trying to picture the peddlers and tenements of the 19th Century Lower East Side amidst the hip kids, clubs, and cafes there now.

Sometimes, the city's history surprises you with a hidden plaque. Or else, you actually walk up to a statue just to see who it really is you've been walking by this whole time. Why do they have a statue?

Sometimes an iconic bridge carries you to the era of its creation, and you sense what it meant those who built it, to their society, and why it's still there for us.

And sometimes, you exit a PATH station on a sunny September morning, and you're struck by an uncanny sensation that you can't shake. And you stop, actually stop, and think about what it was like to be in that exact spot exactly twelve years earlier. But many people you pass on the street, or share a subway car with, already know. For them it's not recent history--it's part of their life. Lives that continue despite those lost. Or rather, for those lost.   

And that's all I have to say about that. 

One person will recognize the first paragraph from their own life. The rest is my initial attempt to convey the hellish conditions of the cassion.

The sweat pooled on Aedan's hatless head. The reservoir crested his brow then, with gentle deliberation, rolled down his forehead and poured off his nose in one long, stringy drip. The perspiration seeped into the river muck between his gumboots.

He tried to summon the chill winds plunging down the river overhead. A cruel and icy whip to those working the docks, he sought its refreshing embrace. But as he returned to his own labors, the humid air clinging at his wiry frame reminded him of the city in August. A ripe peach and its sweet juices never seemed farther away as he wiped the salty residue from the corners of his mouth. There would be cool lager flowing in every beer garden along First Avenue--but none of that now for his parched throat.

Be the change ...

It's hard to believe that it's been nearly two years since I had what you might call an epiphany, or perhaps just merely a coincidental realization.

Late December 2011: I had been shopping for Christmas gifts in Dumbo that evening, and I decided to cross back to Manhattan over Brooklyn Bridge. Twas breezy as always, but not as chilly as you'd expect on the old bridge that night. Repainting and minor repairs (the bridge has never required anything more in its 130 years) were being done on the center portion of the promenade; sheets of corrugated metal wrapped the construction area, creating a cattle chute of sorts for the herds traveling on foot and wheels. Both had cause for complaint: cyclists had an even more restricted path over the bridge, while camera-toting tourists were denied a spectacular view of the city, and especially, the harbor.

The promenade was one of the original—and unique—features of Brooklyn Bridge. Engineer/designer John Roebling was particularly excited to compliment the trolley tracks and roadway with an elevated path for casual foot traffic. Pedestrians, now as much as then, could enjoy the exposure to fresh air and an unparalleled view of the natural and urban environment.

But the new limitations on enjoying the bridge have fostered a creative response: graffiti—both an art and an act of defiance. The Wall Street Journal this past spring reported on the graffiti, as well as the mixed responses it elicits. I, for one, see nothing wrong with defacing these barricades, and here's why.

Gandhi? Uh, sort of.

That night on the bridge, I noticed among the collage of colors and words, a message of action and hope, pragmatic and optimistic, simple and containing multitudes. "Be the change you wish to see in the world" was not spoken by Gandhi, but it sort of seems like it, right? But he didn't. It's probably the best known example of a false quotation attributed to the likes of Gandhi, Thoreau, and Mandela. Author Brian Norton considered this phenomena in The Times a couple years ago. His final paragraph I found particularly insightful (italics added):

But ours is an era in which it’s believed that we can reinvent ourselves whenever we choose. So we recast the wisdom of the great thinkers in the shape of our illusions. Shorn of their complexities, their politics, their grasp of the sheer arduousness of change, they stand before us now. They are shiny from their makeovers, they are fabulous and gorgeous, and they want us to know that we can have it all.     

He's certainly correct that "it’s believed that we can reinvent ourselves whenever we choose," but this has been an American notion since ... America was just a notion. It's fundamental to this country's saga--both in the recorded history and in the enduring mythology. But I will agree that simplifying the subtle or multifaceted words of inspiring figures is a modern trend, and abets the perpetuation of the belief in our abilities to transform ourselves. And some, in the vein of the "Gandhi" quotation, believe that doing so will also trigger a rippling wave of change whose effect will broaden as it grows wider. A notion paradoxically selfish and selfless? Maybe, but maybe I just haven't thought about it enough. I'm sure I'm missing something.

Back to my story. I realized upon reading this graffiti quote that I had discovered my theme. This was a message that I could both convey to a young adult audience and effectively portray with the characters and circumstances I already had in mind. Excited, I sent Tim a text before I even reached the Manhattan tower. Naturally, he replied with something like, "Yes. Good. Now go do it!" And even if this is a misquotation attributed to the enigmatic Timothy Decker, it still's pretty damn true.   

Writing about not writing

This daily writing thing has become dangerously undaily.

Book thought: what is it like to be under the East River? Something to ponder there.

Also to ponder, these Andrew Wyeth quotations:

Inspired by a candlelight dinner on my roof the other night …

During the summer of ‘63, the shantytown mirrored the night sky. Each hovel tended a fire, and in the blackness between the river and the Central Park, these points of light were a veritable galaxy. Desperation fueled the flames—hope burning bright, yielding little more than ghostly smoke. But like a star to the Sun, these feeble hearths were dim compared to the menacing glow downtown.  

Craptacular writing day ... but you get a picture of an historic landmark

St. Patrick's Old Cathedral in the Lower East Side

The old church caught the dying light of day, but the ringing of its bells had caught Aedan’s attention. The cross was small, as if the building itself defined its purpose—this is a house of the Lord, you knew it and felt it without being told. The granite walls towered over the streets, but the tenements--rising with the stability and audacity of card houses--hemmed the cathedral in on all sides. The cleaner residents among them could be accepted as parishioners, but the majority could only accept the trickle of charity that leaked into the neighborhood. Aedan hadn’t entered the churchyard in years. When they moved downtown after Seamus returned from the War, his mother attempted to restructure their lives around the church. Aedan only remembered a few stories of the Bible ...

His father said she was buried there. Kyla believed this, and insisted on stopping outside the gates to greet their mother, ask her about heaven, cry a bit. But Aedan knew better. The man his father had paid to handle his mother’s body had no connection with St. Patrick’s, nor any parish. For all he knew, his mother had been dumped in the East River, and drifted out to sea just as easily as she’d come.