David Foster Wallace, January 11th @ The Strand, 6:30 PM
Even more than I want to play a game of catch with Jonathan Franzen and David Means (who're best friends), more than I want to play Hemingway to an addled F. Scott as we drive France (I've never been to France), even more than I want to walk around this city with Campbell McGrath as he reminisces about bars and the angels of Manhattan, I want to have a pitcher of quality beer with David and hash out whatever it'd be we ended up hashing out. As to the reading, if you can be there, you should be there.
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I'm having a devil of a time writing more words for Good Ground. I've spent about a hour and a 1/2 sitting here, rereading some sections, thinking about which section to write next. Perhaps I need a more rousing soundtrack (Iron & Wine's Our Endless Numbered Days is beautiful, but something of a soporific.) As I've just finished rereading The Great Gatsby, to write anything in my developing Frankenstein of a novel seems like an act of especial sacrilege. There are more characters than I know what to do with, for one. That isn't quite true: I know what needs to be done with (and to) them. But I don't know which story, which character, to attend to first. There's just so much to be done.
Bellyaching about it never gets novels written. So enough.
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Jon liked to peel out of our driveway, no matter where he was going and whether or not he was late. Our driveway's steep and somewhat long, as the house sits on top of a small hillock; there's an elevation gain of about 2 ft. as you walk up to the house. So Jon would rocket backward in whatever car he'd wrangled the keys to, and upon hitting the gutter and street would jounce the car as he turned it, looking something like the driving exercises stunt drivers must practice as they develop the spin-the-car's-front-end-around maneuver, and once he was in the street with his vector set he'd floor it. Rarely did he actually set down any rubber, but he tried. Mainly he did this to rattle my mother, who knew he would do something like this. Which makes it something of a chicken / egg situation: would he have peeled out without my mother watching? Would my mother watch if he didn't peel out? I don't know why this came to me. Something about speed, maybe; something about getting somewhere; something about being seen going.
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I'm having a devil of a time writing more words for Good Ground. I've spent about a hour and a 1/2 sitting here, rereading some sections, thinking about which section to write next. Perhaps I need a more rousing soundtrack (Iron & Wine's Our Endless Numbered Days is beautiful, but something of a soporific.) As I've just finished rereading The Great Gatsby, to write anything in my developing Frankenstein of a novel seems like an act of especial sacrilege. There are more characters than I know what to do with, for one. That isn't quite true: I know what needs to be done with (and to) them. But I don't know which story, which character, to attend to first. There's just so much to be done.
Bellyaching about it never gets novels written. So enough.
*
Jon liked to peel out of our driveway, no matter where he was going and whether or not he was late. Our driveway's steep and somewhat long, as the house sits on top of a small hillock; there's an elevation gain of about 2 ft. as you walk up to the house. So Jon would rocket backward in whatever car he'd wrangled the keys to, and upon hitting the gutter and street would jounce the car as he turned it, looking something like the driving exercises stunt drivers must practice as they develop the spin-the-car's-front-end-around maneuver, and once he was in the street with his vector set he'd floor it. Rarely did he actually set down any rubber, but he tried. Mainly he did this to rattle my mother, who knew he would do something like this. Which makes it something of a chicken / egg situation: would he have peeled out without my mother watching? Would my mother watch if he didn't peel out? I don't know why this came to me. Something about speed, maybe; something about getting somewhere; something about being seen going.
posted by Wil at
7:32 AM
2 Comments:
The main reason he could not lay rubber down is because the cars we had or have are so underpowered that they could not. Of course, if Mom let him use the Max, that would be another story. That's the reason she would never allow him to drive it. Do you recall the go kart? Now that he could lay down rubber, only after getting up speed and turning the wheel 90 degrees... Rebel? Understatement.
By
Anonymous, at 3:31 PM
Hi Will:
This is Alana. I was in the MFA Program one year ahead of you. We never spoke much . . . once, intensely, at a party. I understand you lost your brother, Jon . . . Email me if you'd like, if you feel so inclined. alananoel@comcast.net In the meantime, I'm adding your blog to my "Favorties" menu and will check back in. Did you happen to read "In Search of David Foster Wallace" in the current POets & Writers?
Peace.
By
Anonymous, at 8:41 AM
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