how hard could it be?

Long-standing readers may recall that I started keeping a blog mainly as a writing exercise. Once upon a time, I wrote short stories; having fallen out of the habit, I wanted something to goad me into daily writing, and blogging seemed to fit the bill.

Recently, however, I’ve again been seized by the desire to write short fiction, and I’ve consequently spent the last few weeks mulling ideas for my first post-hiatus piece. While several interesting ideas have hit me, they’ve all seemed to structure themselves in my head as screenplays, rather than traditional prose. So, having no real reason to do otherwise, I’ve decided to give in to that urge, and draft my first short script.

I’ve banged out a bit of it today, but suspect it will be a while still before I’m ready to share with anyone. I will, however, pass along the root of the idea, an old zen parable:

One day, walking through the wilderness, a man stumbled upon a sleeping tiger. As he tried to sneak past, the tiger awoke, and began to chase the man. The man took flight, running as fast as he could until finding himself at the edge of a high cliff. Desperate to save himself, the man climbed down a vine and dangled over the jagged precipice. As he hung there, two mice, one white and one black, appeared from a hole in the cliff and began gnawing on the vine. Suddenly, the man noticed on the vine a plump wild strawberry. He plucked it and popped it in his mouth. It was incredibly delicious!

In short, the screenplay is a rough retelling of that story, set in the world of high-finance New York, and focusing around an unhappy young investment banker trying to adjust to life in the city. I can’t promise it will be any good, but I will say it’s certainly a bit out of the ordinary. You might as well stick around to see how it turns out.

college application essay

Looking through my hard drive, I came across this essay, which I wrote for my Yale application. Apparently, it worked. By and large, I still like it, although some of the language grates on me now as obvious pandering to the admissions committee.

(Moment of unapolagetic egotism: the essay also appears in The Best College Admission Essays.)

I am an addict. I tell people I could stop anytime, but deep inside, I know I am lying. I need to listen to music, to write music, to play music every day. I can’t go a whole day without, at the very least, humming or whistling the tunes that crowd my head. I sing myself hoarse each morning in the shower, and playing the trumpet leaves a red mouthpiece-shaped badge of courage on my lips all day. I suspect that if someone were to look at my blood under a microscope, they would see, between the platelets and t-cells, little black musical notes coursing through my body.

On many occasions I’ve woken my family (and perhaps the neighborhood) composing on the piano early in the morning. Other times, my mother will admonish, “It’s too late to play the trumpet.” But I can’t understand why people wouldn’t want to hear music any time of the day. Keeping the music bottled up is more than I can bear. “I never worry about you sneaking up on me,” my friend once admitted to me. “I’ve never seen you walking without humming or whistling to yourself.”

For me, playing the trumpet is the opiate of music in its purest form. I love to play in all types of ensembles. I’m not just addicted to one kind of music; I couldn’t imagine limiting myself like that. Choosing just one kind of music would be worse than choosing one food to eat for the rest of my life. Playing orchestral music, for example, I become a sharpshooter. Waiting, I hide behind rows of string players, ready to jump out with a staccato attack that pierces the hearts of the audience. Playing in an orchestra, I can be Atlas, holding the other musicians above my head, or Icarus, flying through a solo in a desperate attempt to reach the heavens.

Completely different, small jazz ensembles are like a conversation with your closest friends. “So,” someone asks, “what do you think about . . . ” We mull it over together, and then each have a say. I build on what the piano proclaimed, or disagree with the saxophone. Playing jazz like this makes me giddy; jazz musicians know that music isn’t little dots on a piece of paper, but a feeling that makes you want to stomp your feet, shout for joy, or grab a partner and swing. Taking a solo, I extend my wings, a baby bird jumping out of my nest for the first time. Flapping madly, I hope that by some act of seeming magic my music will fly on its own.

Not only am I an addict, I am also a pusher. The schools in the neighboring community are unable to afford musical instruction, so each week several other high school musicians and I teach music at East Palo Alto’s Caesar Chavez Elementary School. I work with all of the trumpets for an hour before we join the other instruments to play as a band. Having tutored since freshman year, I’ve seen my students gradually improve. Four years ago, few of them could read music. This year, one of my best students won a scholarship to the Stanford Jazz Workshop. Many students in East Palo Alto never continue on through high school. At our last homecoming game, all of my students came and played with the Paly Pep Band. One student, who had been struggling in school, confided in me that playing with us had made him excited about attending high school for the first time. That afternoon, I saw a new music addiction forming; it was almost better than being hooked myself.

how to be a good writer

Received a few complimentary emails today regarding my writing and the site’s design. While flattered, I was a bit surprised, as I consider myself a rank novice on both counts. None the less, one writer was seeking words of wisdom – not having any of my own, I’ve appropriated those of beat poet Charles Bukowski:

how to be a good writer
by Charles Bukowski

you’ve got to fuck a great many women
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.
and don’t worry about age
and/or freshly-arrived talents.
just drink more beer
more and more beer
and attend the racetrack at least once a
week
and win
if possible
learning to win is hard –
any slob can be a good loser.
and don’t forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.
don’t overexercise.
sleep until moon.
avoid paying credit cards
or paying for anything on
time.
remember that there isn’t a piece of ass
in this world over $50
(in 1977).
and if you have the ability to love
love yourself first
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
whether the reason for that defeat
seems right or wrong –
an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.
stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be
patient –
time is everybody’s cross,
plus
exile
defeat
treachery
all that dross.
stay with the beer.
beer is continuous blood.
a continuous lover.
get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window
hit that thing
hit it hard
make it a heavyweight fight
make it the bull when he first charges in
and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.
If you think they didn’t go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you’re doing now
without women
without food
without hope
then you’re not ready.
drink more beer.
there’s time.
and if there’s not
that’s all right too.