Food: My Teacher, My Mother, My Secret Lover

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Okay, I borrowed the line above from The Simpsons. Homer was referring to television, but at this stage, I think it applies to food for me. I’ve been bouncing on and off a vegan diet and I’ve watched how important food is in my life. Food is important. Yeah, frakkin’ newflash for me. But I’m slow. Very, very, very, very slow.

Eating, essential, is about refueling. At the most basic level, food is just fuel for our muscles. Now, I’ve met people who have used Coors Light and Marlboro Menthols as fuel, but it just doesn’t work in the long run. Gotta eat at some point. Even Tracy Gold. Or should I say Karen Carpenter. Ugh, I can’t go there. Eating disorders are rough. I’ve known heroin addicts straight outta San Quentin who’ve had an easier time of it than those with eating disorders. So God bless Karen Carpenter, where ever she is. My prayers are with ye.

I’ve spent months at a time in the food-as-fuel mode. I eat. I exercise. I sleep. Wanna donut, Aaron? Nope. That ain’t fuel. That’s poison. Want the best fuel around? Nuts, berries, green leafy vegetables, and quinoa. Mix liberally. And then go bike up Mount Evans, 10,000 feet of climbing. Yee-haw.

I’ve been there, food-as-fuel. Ain’t there now. I want a donut. Yes, a donut is eating death with a hole in it. I feel the death in my blood stream. I’m dying, I’m dying, help me. Somebody give me some kale, quick. Donuts are so good. They are deep-fried joy. Like funnel cakes. Funnel cakes are donuts unleashed. Funnel cakes are the next logical progression in human evolution. Whoever invented the funnel cake needs to win a Nobel Peace Prize.

So there is the pleasure of eating. And there is camaraderie. Lemme tell ya, you go out to dinner with a bunch of carnivores and you’re a vegan, well, it ain’t happy and pretty. I once read a story about a teetotaler in the 1800’s who wandered into a camp of whiskey-slurping cowboys, and guess what? Yeah, they got the proverbial rope and strung him up for not drinking. Like in the Pace Picante commercials. Which is a vegan product. Hmm, vegan cowboys on Mars free cattle and duke it out with the local carnivore law enforcement. Ian Healey, there’s a book for you to write.

And this all leads us to food as comfort food. I was alone at college, ostracized because I ostracized myself. Ain’t gonna let nobody reject me first. I suck, and let me tell you how much, right away. Anyhow, I was far from home, I was eating ice cream alone , and thinking about my mom, and I got weepy. Food as mother, comforting us when life is cruel.

So for us crazy humans, food ain’t just fuel. Maybe the trick is to learn how to balance the different faces of food. So on a busy day, when food is just fuel, you eat like that. And when you go out with friends, you celebrate. And when you need some chocolate, you eat chocolate.

But my problem is that every day I want to comfort myself with food and run away from life with food and eat and eat and eat. Or I flip the switch and get all monkish. I’ll have the brown rice and mineral water, please.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ve had some wonderful, healthy meals that were divine. It’s not either\or. I think in those terms, because I have black and white thinking. But it doesn’t have to be like that. You can eat healthy and eat deliciously, but it does take some creativity and time and open-mindedness. Hamburgers are easier in the short term. In the long term, it’s death between two buns. The name of my next book. DEATH BETWEEN TWO BUNS. It’s gonna be a romance. Oh, snap!

Ideally, I’d love for us to celebrate the vegan, the vegetarian, the healthy eater. That when I order the salad, with oil and vinegar on the side, the beefy, bearded biker dude says, “Right on, Aaron. You go, boy.” Instead, he generally ties me to his hog and does donuts around the parking lot while I lose skin. Donuts in the parking lot. Yum. Donuts.

Why I Have To Be Better Than You, or Remember the Alamo!

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I love the Alamo, the story of the Alamo, the massacre at the Alamo, all things Alamo. It was American tragedy at its best. Most American tragedies deal with slavery, genocide, or unrestrained greed. The Alamo was just a group of men, outnumbered, defending a fort against overwhelming odds. Please ignore the imperialism behind the story, just concentrate on the men, William Travis, Jim Bowie, Davy Crocket and a line in the dirt. You know the story, William Travis drew a line in the dirt and made it clear, “To cross this line is to fight with me to the death.” Those that wanted, could leave, but those with the courage had to cross the line though it meant certain death. But oh what a death it would be.

In America, we don’t like the idea of losing. We’re winners. When was the last time you saw an American mainstream movie where the hero loses? We don’t like it. But we love the Alamo because it was a few against many. We love the underdog.

I love the underdog.

Which is probably why I write books. Mario Acevedo says being a writer is most likely harder than being a navy seal because it takes years to become a writer for most of us. How long does it take to be a navy seal? Google it, baby, ‘cause that’s not my job today.

Writing a novel is like standing on the ramparts of the Alamo: my little book is just one book facing the hordes of books out there, one against many. Most likely I’ll die, but the line has been drawn in the dirt. It’s up to me to cross it and try. It’s a romantic idea. In reality, it scares the PB&J out of me.

I have a deep seated belief that I have to be the best, that if I’m not , I might as well not play. I have to be better than you, or I’m worth nothing. This is an insane idea and it fills me with suffering.

I like writing books. Other people have said they like reading them. Should I stop writing because I probably won’t be rich and famous? Should Davy Crockett have run off when he knew to stay was certain death?

Life is showing up, doing what you love, and struggling forward. Always. Fighting the good fight when all you want to do is cry and give up. I can do my crying in the grave. Now is the time to cross the line and fight.

And if I’m not better than you, well, I had a good time, and God bless ya.

One man fled from the Alamo. He failed to cross the line. His name was Moses (Louis) Rose. He died uneventfully. I won’t let the same be said of me.

So let us cross that line together, my friends. Let us make our stand in the words and sentences we write and let our paragraphs be our citadels, our books our fortresses, against despair and death.

http://library.flawlesslogic.com/alamo.htm

Montagues, Capulets, Genre Fiction, Literary Fiction and Me, Trapped in the Middle with You

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There’s a weird dynamic that happens when a genre fiction writer meets a literary fiction writer. A suspiciousness. Like we’re two dogs from different packs circling each other. Now this is crazy! We both fish out of the same water. We’re both trying to do the same thing which is to write words for an emotional\spiritual reaction. And in the end, I’m not sure how much we get to choose what we write. It’s the old thing with Stephen King and Robert Frost, looking at a New England pond. One will have monsters. The other inspiration on the beauty and truths of life. Both will string words together to capture the experience.

Okay, now, this is a complete generalization, that genre fiction writers and literary fiction writers are constantly battling like Montagues and Capulets. I had dinner with a fiction writer, Eleanor Brown who wrote The Weird Sisters. We didn’t duel with steak knives. Well, we were at a Mexican food place. We shattered Corona bottles and tried to slash each other with the broken ends. Kidding.

However, after Saturday night, at the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers conference, after I blew it with a nice literary fiction writer, I had to figure out what happens when I meet someone writing literary fiction. Me. Only me. My reaction as a soon to be published genre writer. Let’s say I’m the Mercutio, caught between the Montagues or the Capulets. Or Friar Lawrence. No, Mercutio, he was so much more mercurial.

This is what happens when I meet a writer and I ask, “What do you write?” And they answer, “I write literary fiction.” My immediate reaction is, “Yeah, right.” Yeah, I know, I’m horrible, but this is the truth. If I can’t be honest with you, World, who can I be honest with? I’ll share all of my dirty secrets. Except maybe for two or three that only Chris Devlin knows. And she is a vault, baby.

So there I am, thinking, “Yeah, right, you can write literary fiction? Who do you think you are?” In essence, I think THEY are saying, “I can write better than you, genre fiction boy. Wanna go up against the champ?” And I don’t. I get afraid.

So after I scoff, I get afraid. Maybe they do write better than me! Oh my gosh, maybe I can’t write at all. Maybe I should give up and never, ever write again. I hear there are other things to do with one’s time. Collect stamps. Photography. Maybe join the Elk’s Club.

All the while, the literary fiction writer is inching toward the door because I’m losing it. Usually, I keep this all to myself. But not last Saturday night. Oh boy. Total and complete meltdown. And if you know me, once I start to blow it socially, I don’t stop digging until we’re all buried.

Now, there is some historical precedence to the whole literary versus genre fiction thing. I wrote a paper on Science Fiction as Literature in college, and one of the things that happened during the 1950’s is that science fiction became so incredibly popular that publishing houses opened up the doors to anything, and I mean anything. I heard a story recently that since the writers got paid by the word that they would sometimes overwrite scenes just to get more cash. Five pages of a guy brushing his teeth. True story. And so, a lot of junk hit the market. And maybe you could say the same thing about romance novels, fantasy novels, mysteries, et cetera. There have been booms and busts for genres. How many cut-rate horror novels were there in the late 70’s and early 80’s?
So, yeah, maybe there was been trash published in genre fiction.

And yes, there is still a stigma. I was talking with a college professor who was also a famous novelist. I shan’t name names. I told him I wanted to get published. He sniffed and said I should dash off a mystery. They’re so easy and they seem to sell.

But the truth is, writing is hard, whether you are writing mysteries, romances, or literary novels. It’s hard. My friend says that it’s like building a table with 23 legs. It’s all hard. We should be supporting one another.

But I will learn from my experience. No more scoffing. No more fear. The next time I meet a literary fiction writer, I’m going to hug them and cry into the crook of their neck. I’m going to weep and say, “My brother, my sister, my soul, my heart, my fellow writer. Let us journey together for we are both bound by blood, ink, and sweat.”

Yeah, then they won’t think I’m weird at all.

P.S. A friend of mine from a writer’s workshop long ago has asked me to critique her literary novel because she said, and I quote, “You know your sh*t.” I’m so excited. I love books. Whether they be literary, genre, dripping wet in the bath, or bone dry boring. I love books.

P.P.S. A last dirty little secret. A last confession. I want to do both. I want to do genre and literary in the same stories. And not just a little magical realism. No, full on, in your face, genre stuff but with a beautiful, literary bent. Think Margaret Atwood. Think David Lynch meets Stephen King meets frakking Shakespeare. Hey, that’s my first novel. Anyway. Oh, to dream. All writers are dreamers because to write is to dream, and perhaps Mercutio put it best. Maybe he is talking about all writing in the passage below because all fiction, all stories, are dreams.

True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.