Blue Bastard and the Hollow Symphonies, by Josh Stallings

 Q: How rough or polished are your first drafts? Do you dare show us?

A: Im gonna use this essay to show my process (Note to Editor: Please only correct finished piece.)(Note to keep it real, I use this for fection not essays, until now.) And I didn’t us anegg time I used my phone, dangerouse because it can suck me away from work.

Step one, Word Vomit. *Egg time set for 2 minutes (*I didn’t use an egg timer I used my phone.) Spelling as you type off. Fingers on keybard. Go!

blue bastard tall tale think angry killing suearsl open see candy tree aple anglers trusth be old maid o mty please dream  hallow symphonies sucker puke treats a plenty gold angels tall tipping peircing clodd hopping be my only  only dream a blue sorta copper plated gallon for slippy sky blanket

Step two, pick a title from vomit.

blue bastard hallow symphonies or maybe gallon for slippy sky blanket

Step three, write title at top of page and type for 20 minutes without l stopping to think.

Blue Bastard and the Hollow Symphonies

Why oh why is life kicking my ass today? I survived life in america is some of it’s ugiest years, note thats bull shit. Reading a letter in the NY Times about Cormac McCarthy and how the publishing corprate business would never let him publish to day. It broke my heart to think of how many of us will not get to read the up andcoming McCarthy. BULLSHIT, come one Josh tell the fucking truth. I am massively depressed today. It hit me the best work of my life may be behind me. And if im honest if my “carreer dies today it will be not with a band but a wimper, or tow mix my peotry mediphores it WILL go gently into the night.  I don’t say this for any “oh sad day wo is me bullshit. It is how I feel today.  Tommorrow I may wak and have a book in my head to write. Ore not. Who the hell canm tell. Past track record has Shhhh. I lived in a strange belief that what I had to say might oneday matter. I am coming to see that I may be erilivant to all but a few. and that’s ok. Or would be if I could get books out to those few. Waa waa… what ever. Maybe it’s just my natureal depression looking fpor a reason. “Natural High, why don’t they talk about natural depression? Yes? (Note to self, I love words and word play. Puns are the highest form of humour.)  (KEEP FUCKING TYPING YOU LAZY BASTARD>)

Write asny thing. So lifer ios hard. Got it. And you a kidd with dyslexia chose to write books about p[etty criminals you know, and how the police treat intiluctually disabled citizens… You choes a path that makes no sence to any corpiration, hell it only makes sense to yoyur self.

I hate whiny writers. I do, no be acurate I hate when whiters whine in public. Readers dobn’t care. They have existental and non existental problems they want to read our books to escape. Escapeism takes many forrms. For me reading to escape is a moving target, some days I just want to read an old familar voice a writer willed with anger and despare. Some days I need a hopeful novel. Soems days I need a smark fucker who will stretsch my brain. I wonder if ofther writers are like this? I wonder if I’m alone in my head and this whole life is one character play. No thats my fathers line.  Mamet said never trust a writer they are all theives — The timer just buzzed. Fingers off keyboard 

Step 4, edit this steam of gibrish and hope like hell you can bang it into something useful. (Note to editor AKA Erika, the actual essay starts below.)

Blue Bastard and the Hollow Symphonies, by Josh Stallings.

Life has been kicking my ass for the last couple of days. Wait, stop Mr. Dramatic. That’s way too big of a statement. Closer to true is, I’ve been solo boxing the last couple of days. Yesterday I was working on my truck trying to remove a stripped bolt by making it worse not better. Some days it’s zero fun being me. I did remember to wear gloves, so I didn’t bust a knuckle when my grip slipped on the wrench. That’s progress. Then again Cormac McCarthy said “Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.” So maybe I should leave the gloves off.

McCarthy died last week, at 89 years old. With a style all his own he spoke of pain and violence and love and life with the honesty of a writer who felt all these things. At our best we fiction writers are truth tellers, reporters sending dispatches out from our inner workings. I was raised a Quaker hippy kid in a home where sometimes the non violent parents knocked the kids about. I was left a legacy of rage, depression, wild humor, deep passion, and love. This is my truth to speak from.

 

Today I read Dr. Sinykin's opinion piece in the NY Times*** about McCarthy and his relationship to the publishing industry as it became corporatized. Not until “All The Pretty Horses” did he have a book that sold well. In 1989, McCarthy wrote to a friend, “I’ve been a full-time professional writer for 28 years, and I’ve never received a royalty check. That, I’ll betcha, is a record.”

McCarthy, an un-agented college drop-out submitted a poorly typed first novel “The Orchard Keeper,” to Random House. Had not editor Albert Erskine found it in the slush pile we might never have heard of the book or the writer. Dr Sinykin makes a solid argument that in today’s corporate publishing world McCarthy would have died in obscurity.

I worked in the film business during the corporate takeovers. One day I’m working for Universal, the next it’s owned by PepsiCo. The crazy moguls that started movie studios were replaced by corporate suits. I witnessed the rise of middle management MBAs who knew covering your ass was more important than solving a creative problem. Plausible deniability trumped speaking truth every time.   

When I moved from working in film to writing books full time I thought it would be different. Silly ol’ bear.

None of this is news to me, so to quote the Joker, “Why so serious?”

Why did depression choose this day to kick my ass? 

My brain scrambled up some facts and came up with — “The best work of my life is behind me. If my career dies today it will not be with a bang but a whimper — or to mix T. S. Eliot with Dylan Thomas — I WILL go gentle into that good night.”  

I don’t say any of this to garner pity. This is how I feel today. Tomorrow I may wake with endless optimism and a book in my head that needs writing. 

These feelings may be and likely are brain chemistry glitches. My natural depression looking for a reason. Cue the Bloodstones Natural High.

I'll take to the sky on a natural high (I wanna take to the sky) 

Loving you more till the day I die (oh, natural high) 

Take to the sky on a natural high (I want you to be mine) 

Loving you more

Where are the songs about natural depression? ENOUGH. I hate whiny writers. No, to be accurate, I hate when writers whine in public. Readers don’t care about our problems, or they shouldn’t. Readers have existential and non existential problems of their own. Readers read to escape those problems, at least I do.

Escapism takes many forms. For me reading to escape is a moving target. Some days I just want to read an old familiar voice, a writer like Crumley or McCarthy filled with anger and violent despair. Some days I need hard hopeful books. Some days I need a smart fucker like Plato talking about Socrates who will stretch my brain. I wonder if other writers are like this? I wonder if I’m alone in my head and this whole life is a one character play. No that’s my father’s line, “I always thought this was a dress rehearsal, and one day when my real life began I’d do it right.” 

If I stole from my pop, that’s cool. Mamet said never trust a writer they are all thieves. Did Mamet say that or did I make it up? I could Google it, but let’s just say he said it. Is stealing the same as falsely attributing?

 

As for how rough my first drafts are? I never try to make them rough, they just turn out that way. When Albert Erskine read McCarthy’s rough first draft he was searching for gold in a silt clouded river. Today most folks are searching for a precut perfect diamond. So outside of my wife, I try and only let the world see my polished stones.

*** Here is a link to NY Times piece with thanks to Deborah Beale @MrsTad for pointing me toward it. https://www.nytimes.com/2023/06/19/opinion/cormac-mccarthy-publishing.html