Kenkoi

   This past weekend I went to a birthday party of a friend’s twin sister in an affluent neighborhood of Huntington Beach.  I suppose I should have expected the majority of the guests there, apparently obsessed with spondulix (yes, this is a word…look it up, I certainly had to) over the age of thirty would most likely be conservative republicans.  I never thought, however, that this party beneath the star-lit sky with the fragrance of late Summer Sea would become a forum for heated political debate before the cake-cutting-ceremony.   

   As most of you know I used to be as apathetic as the rest of my colleagues in the fashion industry when it came to politics.  Sure, I’d turn up at the poll every four years, but I usually went with the liberal candidate just to spite my own upbringing as a conservative Catholic.  Truth be told, it really was not very important to me then.  I am quite aware of all that is at stake in this round of American politics with the war, the terrorists, immigration, gay marriages, etc., and that apathy is NOT something we can afford as a people right now.  I hate writing about politics in my journal—if you recall all the fundamentalist freaks who left threatening messages after that entry about “killing in God’s name”—because of obvious reasons.  And, yes, today, it is impossible to separate religion from politics in spite of those sagacious well-intentioned men who created our constitution. 

   I am not going to discuss in detail the content of the “polarized”discussion that transpired at this party, much to the dismay of the birthday girl who just wanted to shoot some tequila and have fun.  One thing I am willing to discuss is the true nature of the Iraq war.  It is not about the theological conflict between the Judeo-Christian West and the Islamic- fundamentalist Arabs as the “shrub” in Office would have you believe.  OMG! I know I am going to get so much “flack” for this, but hey, I have to get this off my chest for my own emotional and mental wellbeing.  What makes this entire diatribe so insidious is the lack of sincerity on the part of our so-called leaders.  A writer/editor friend put it best when he wrote: “George W. Bush, who probably doesn't have a sincere bone in his body, manages somehow to fool an amazing number of people into thinking that he is sincere.  But that's politics, where faking sincerity is something of an art form.” 

   So, what is the “real face” behind the mask of this “theological conflict?”  It is the blueprint for the future of our economy, which by the way, does not include the oil producing economies, as drafted by the multi-national conglomerates that are behind the puppet politicians whose masks of insincerity most of us fail to see through.  The Arabs in particular, finally having realized that they have been “had” by these Western corporations—AMERICA, as they are known in their world—are understandably upset, especially since they are no match against the military might of their perceived enemy.  Their solution?  TERRORISM.  There, I said it!  Hopefully, this will be the last time I’d have to write about it here.

   Now, PLEASE do not think that I sympathize with the terrorists, or try to lasso me in with that “either you are with us or against us” nonsense.  Remember, “only a sith deals in absolutes.”  May the Force be with you, and God Bless America because we really can use a healthy dose of Grace right about now

   About half-way through the routine, Cho made it clear that she was quite miffed at the Korean American community in general that did not accept her unconventional humor, and a Korean American reporter in particular who asked her whether or not her Korean parents would be ashamed because of the things she’d talk about on stage.  Her answer was that “…yes, they’d be ashamed, but not because they are Koreans.  Any parents would be ashamed.”  I’m not sure I’m getting the quotes hundred percent perfect, but it was something to that effect.  The point she was making, I think, is that there is no clearcut definition of, or a way-to-be, an Asian American.  Towards the end of her routine, she illustrated how she made the mistake in thinking that because she failed as the first Asian American sitcom star, that she had failed at being who she was, and that she was not good enough to aspire to her own dreams.  She made that common mistake we Asian Americans often make: We define ourselves first and foremost by our ethnicity.  But, WHY?

   I can sit here and let my digits type away some smart-ass explanation that points to the mainstream American media as the culprit.  Or, I am quite certain, I can make a reasonably sound case on the prevailing lack of understanding that is the sad but undeniable result of our system of education.  Instead, I’d rather talk about what it all means to me, personally.  How do I want the world to perceive me?  What defines me?

   As an aspiring writer, I have already encountered numerous alarmed reactions from the “industry people” when they find out that I’m a gay Asian American.  They immediately try to contain you into a category so that they can market you in a more convenient manner.  I know it’s an honor to be mentioned in the same sentence with Amy Tan or Chang-Rae Lee.  However, I am positively certain that they would be horrified to be categorized only as Asian American writers.  I’m not even going to open that “bag of worms” by talking about my sexual orientation here.  That’ll have to be an entirely separate session.  I understand that we are all slaves of our sensory perception, and that what we see is what makes the greatest and most lasting impression on our brains.  I know that my wasp neighbor can’t help herself when the first topic of our small talk is which Japanese restaurant I’d recommend.  I know that I can’t escape all that my ethnicity entails, but I will most certainly assert my individuality to the best of my ability.

   I know I don’t yet have all the answers.  I only know that I am proud to be an Asian American, but I do not want that to be the only defining aspect of who I am.  Yes, I am the one that I want, but I want you to want me for my work as a writer, as a person who appreciates the beauty of nature, an individual with at least a unique talent, a lover of life, a peaceful traveler, a thinker and a cynic, just me period, damn it!  So, how do I merge the chasm between my proud heritage as an Asian American and my need to be an individual?  I’d be sure to let you know when I figure it out.  Until then, “oh me so horny, me love you long time?”

   The most daunting part of writing for me is finding my “voice.”   In the beginning of my “writing career” I thought a writer’s voice was something that would surface naturally as I gradually develop my own style.  Yes, style has a lot to do with “voice” but it’s not the same thing.  I’m writing about this because I’m trying to figure it out for myself, and writing about it always does the trick for me.  If I babble on long enough in writing the answer I’m searching for sneaks up in there somehow, even if I don’t happen to see it right away.  

   When I first realized that I could not define my own voice, of course, I began reading voraciously on the subject.  Every writer has his/her own theory, or at least an opinion, about it.  Some writers say it’s like the colors a painter chooses to put on the canvas, while others say it’s like the melody of a song.  In a “how to” book on writing I read that novice writers should look for their writing voice by listening to their own speaking voice first, then move on to your inner voice.  So I tried that for a while.  I surreptitiously recorded my phone conversations and listened intently, hoping to come upon the first clue.  At first, I was very surprised by how different the tone of my phone voice sounded from the tone of my “natural” voice.  I also discovered that I often ended my sentences with a nervous sort of snicker which sounded kind of condescending.  Of course, that was not my intention at all, but if I were the person on the other end of the line I would have wondered silently, what the hell is he snickering about?   I became so flustered with that bit of self discovery that for months afterwards I consciously tried to control my vocal tone when ever I spoke on the phone.  But, that didn’t help me with finding my writing voice.  Then, I remembered the part about the inner voice, which perplexed me even more.  I knew about the importance of introspection, having read the sage advice of Rilke.  Knowing about it was one thing, but actually applying it in my work was far out of my reach.  Yes, nothing great comes that easy.

   I suppose we do live our lives on the surfaces, but as a serious writer one must reach down deep and expose the "un exposed."  Most people I know, including myself, would rather not visit the bleak core of our inner self because our comfort zone exists on the familiar surface.  The only way, then, to find my true voice is to somehow go down to that unspeakable place within and turn the unspeakable into words.  The true color, or the tone, of my voice can only come through what I dare bring back from that place.  So, courage is vital in finding my voice, it’s as simple as that.  Do I have that kind of courage?  I am really not sure yet, but let’s keep that thought aside for now and talk about the kind of voice I want to have.

   In Paulo Coelho’s novel Alchemist, an old man tells the main character Santiago that “in this world there is one great truth.  If you desire something with all your heart, it will happen.”   I desire the effortless lyricism of F. Scott Fitzgerald, the ferociously beautiful diction of Annie Proulx, the suspended prose style of Yukio Mishima, the magical imagination of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and the measured, morally right voice of E. M. Forster!  I really, really, with all my heart desire all that.  I know, don’t hold my breath, right?  I hope the old man in the Alchemist is right about the “one great truth in the world” because I’m going to keep trying, wanting, and desiring all that.  In the mean time, all I can do is to concentrate on the narrator’s voice of the piece I’m working on at the moment. After all, my story is not as ephemeral as all that.

   Oh, about having the courage to take that plunge deep into the core of my inner self.  Well, I’ll make sure my ankles are secured with a strong enough bungee cords.

                        "I know of no other advice than this:

                              Go within and scale the depths

                     of your being from which your very life

                                            springs forth."

                                                                      -Rilke                           

   One of the most often heard replies to the question "what's up?" in online chats is "just killing time."   Yes, the concept of time is usually relative and subjective, and one of the most mysterious and malleable elements in the ordinary course of our lives.   It can make us the apathetic and laziest couch-potatoes, or the inventive and busiest work-a-holics.  Sometimes there's enough of it that we can frivolously kill some of it, and at other times there's so little of it that it can nearly kill us. 

   We all have spent the obligatory Sundays with some relatives we can't stand and experienced how time can simply stop; it takes the entire life-span of an elephant just to sit down to dinner.  In Joseph Heller's Catch-22, one of the characters is so convinced that he was going to die in World War II that he devises a scheme to do only the things that he "hates" so his life will last longer.  I can positively attest to the fact that it took a lot longer for me to reach the legal drinking age of twenty-one from the time I got my driver's license at sixteen, than from my twenty-second birthday until I was able to take part in the "experienced drivers" program through the Auto club at age thirty-two.  

   On the other hand, we all know that time is passing us by, and sooner or later we'll all regret the times we tried our damnedest to "kill" some of the life's most precious commodities.  We are always trying to make time, or beat it, or spend it or kill it.  In the long run, however, it always outfoxes us.  Moreover, because I am not a fatalist or a pessimist, I won't stop trying to outrun time rather than let the time run out on me.  It really is the proverbial double-edged-sword!!

   When I am sailing smoothly through page after page of my novel, I forget all about the passing of time.  In those truly transcendental moments, I can forget the ticking of the clock, the trials and the tribulations of my ordinary life as a struggling writer.  More often than not, however, I'm laboring like a sweatshop worker just to get through the impossible hours with every ticking second ringing in my ears.   Where am I right  now?  Well, I'm somewhere between the ecstasy of the  possibly brilliant outcome, and the misery of trying to figure out a way to get there.  So, here I am, taking a piece of the precious time to clear the clogged passages of my brain in one of my usual sessions of cerebral diarrhea.   

  "...but, you must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.  The fundamental things apply, as time goes by..."  Play it again, Sam!!

   A couple of weeks ago I decided to join a writers' workshop at a local University.  I can't explain the reason behind my "frivolous" decision, since I am working against a deadline on my novel and have barely enough time to eat and sleep.  All I can say is that this is a desperate measure born of pure panic.  I got stuck in a particularly messy part of my novel that needed a major reconstruction and did not know how to get around it.  First, I tried "Frankensteining" by cutting and scotch taping my manuscript the old fashioned way.  All that had accomplished was a house full of orphaned paragraphs precariously dangling from the edges of the dining table to bathroom mirrors, and a more-than-miffed room mate who did not have any sympathy for my struggle.  Next, I enlisted some advice from my usually helpful draft editor, who helped me out of a rut once with a brilliant idea of "first-person-once-removed" narrative voice, and began reconstructing the time line in a synopsis format, but that did not work out either because the process ended up creating more confusion in the time line than the first draft.  I realized then that the problem was much more formidable than I thought.

   Pinned under this seemingly insurmountable challenge, I became depressed and lethargic.  I lost my appetite, forgot to shave for more days than I could count on one hand because I did not bother to look at a mirror (granted, it was covered in disjointed paragraphs from my "Frankenstein-job").  I avoided my computer like a failing student would his report card. I was slowly being cut off from the rest of the world, and by the very thing that I love the most: My writing.  It was do or die time.

   So I showed up at this workshop (scheduled during the hours when normal people would be having their dinner) showered and shaved with my designer tote bag full of enough writing paraphernalia for the entire class.  More than a dozen people showed up for this first session, and I was relieved to see that they all had that "deer-in-the-headlights'' look on their faces.  After I took my seat up front (my bad eye sight) I noticed a paragraph written on the board;

              While passing through an obscure nook of Notre Dame Cathedral, Victor Hugo noticed the Greek word for "fate" carved in stone.  He imagined a tormented soul driven to engrave this word.  From this single word sprang his monumental novel "The Hunchback of Notre Dame."

   We were given an hour to introduce ourselves to one another, and to discuss what that  paragraph on the board meant to us.  The prof leading the workshop later explained that a fiction writer must keenly observe the human complexity outside of him/her self, and develop a personal tool that can be used to "see the unseen."   As soon as I heard that statement, my face reddened with embarrassment.  My novel thus far have been an exercise in egocentric indulgence of an elaborate yawn loosely based on my own childhood.  By the end of the first session my embarrassment turned to quiet anger.  All these years I was focused on this maxim on writing: "Write what you know from your heart."   I felt betrayed, but by whom?

With no one to direct my growing anger toward, I turned to the book I selected from the reading list for the workshop: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.  For the rest of that week after the first workshop I read and read, and not just the Marquez's Nobel prize winning book of "magical realism" but several others as well (guilty pleasure reading)  in order to avoid facing my own work.

   In the second session of the workshop we were lectured on the "human complexity" and the prof gave us an assignment.  We had to write about the "worst thing that's ever happened to me" in the context of human complexity.  At first I considered a past relationship gone wrong idea, then my nearly fatal bout with a chronic blood disorder which left me with one of my eyes in a legally blind status.  After a day of agonizing introspection, I decided to write about the daunting realization regarding my current novel in works--how I was mislead into "as long as it's from the heart, it will be good" mentality.  Around three in the morning I finally sat in front of my computer again and wrote "from the heart."  By the time I finished it, I realized that the "maxim" I held so firmly all these years was not the source of my failure to produce great work that I can be proud of.  The main culprit had been my inadequate skill as a writer all along.  I lacked the understanding that is so vital and necessary: a tool to help me see the unseen human complexity.

   I am not naive enough to think that such a tool can be acquired by attending few sessions of a workshop.  I also know, however, that I am not going to give up on my dream either.  So, it's back to the drawing board time, a "bird by bird" time, a "thousand words a day" time.

"If I'd 'a' knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't'a' tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more!"   --The Adventures of huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain