Why I Lightened Up About ‘EDM’

Music has always been one of our favorite ways to disagree.

Nothing turns a pair of faces over 40 sour faster than the buzzing beat of electronic music, colloquially known as EDM, crashing through the windows of their Toyota Prius as they pray for the light to turn green. It’s the kind of music that shakes stuff – the kind of music you can’t really ignore. And to a pair of classically trained ears, it can sound like a power generator imploding on itself in a chaotic mess of synthetic sound.

I used to hate it. Like many of EDM’s critics, I saw the music as a reflection of the audience it drew. As a writer, I was artistically offended (if something that lofty and pretentious even exists) by a genre of expression that seemed to fuel and profit from the mindless head bobbing of sweaty college crowds.

For certain performers this might be closer to the truth. The very use of the word “performer” to describe electronic artists reveals how co-opted the music has become by the rave and festival scenes. But this isn’t true of all EDM artists, or even most of them, and the reason it took me this long to notice is so obvious, it’s frightening:

I wasn’t listening.

More accurately, perhaps, I wasn’t listening very hard. I was too thrown off by the rude novelty of the sounds to care if they worked toward any meaning underneath. In retrospect I see how superficial that approach can be. It’s a little like throwing a book in the trash because it starts with a word you’ve never heard before.

Anybody with a morsel of creativity knows that’s the kind of book you want to read. Good writing, like good music, is challenging to us – we can only tell the same stories, in the same tired language, for so long. But while styles may shift and evolve, it has always been the intention of the writer – or composer, or artist – that matters most.

The things you really care about are the things you should write about. And the things you really care about can’t be tailored for an audience. What’s most important is the idea you have, and the energy you can put behind it. It’s so easy to fall into the usual traps, thinking you have to produce something people will like. There are a thousand ways to make art, but seeking the approval of others isn’t one of them.

It took me a long time to understand that, and even now it’s a lesson I’m struggling with. I think it’s the kind of lesson you never fully learn. Writing is beautiful because it has the power to transport us, to whatever dewdrop or universe the mind might conjure up – but we must be careful not to lose ourselves along the way. We must abandon hope of somehow finding the “right words,” and settle for the words that come to us. In time, we may realize this isn’t really settling at all.

The words that come are the words we need.

Failure is not an Option – It’s a Requirement

Whenever I start a new writing project, I do it with the burning desire to “write something great.” Never mind what any of those words mean, or in what order – the feeling is all that really matters. Of course, that’s poetic nonsense. The logistics of editing and revising will eventually crush those colorful daydreams under reams of drafting paper. But it’s nice to indulge them, as fleeting as they might be, for as long as that writing “honeymoon” might last.

Sometimes you can ride that wave for a while.

Other times, the storyline collapses under your feet. The walls and structure of the plot cave in, leaving your protagonist in the midst of an existential crisis: laundering money for no apparent reason, hatching conspiracies that unravel long before they reach a target. You need direction in your writing, or at least the notion of a destination. Without it, the pen will stagger over the specific cobblestones of your story like the archetypal village drunkard trying to find his way home.

Like most things in life, writing boils down to control. Just how much control should a writer have over his subject? Hemingway will move mountains in a single sentence; Tolkien will do it in a chapter or two. Of course, moving mountains is like sitting through an hour of TLC: It’s impressive, however you manage to do it. The question is not concerned with style, but with what mindset best enables an author to develop that style and grow.

The answer to that question is far less transparent. It’s confused by the fact that mindset is not something we choose for ourselves, like a pair of shoes in a store window. It’s the sum of various life experiences, a conglomerate of competing attitudes and beliefs, and once these things have entered our heads they smooth and solidify like freshly poured concrete. It follows that attempting to change your mindset is more an act of construction than leisurely window-shopping. If mindset were something we could simply “pick out,” we could remedy life’s challenges like we do the common cold.

That’s not to suggest we’re hopeless to reconfigure our mental outlook. Carol Dweck is a preeminent figure in the field of education research, and is well known in academic circles for pioneering the concept of “growth mindset.” If you’ve ever participated in team sports, you’re probably familiar with this concept already. It’s the idea that an individual’s level of skill – from football, to writing, to tying one’s shoes – is flexible, and capable of being improved.

The caveat, of course, is that in order to make those improvements, we must first attempt whatever it is we’d like to be better at. An athlete must sweat through months of grueling practice; a writer must churn out pages of descriptive garbage (It’s true what they say – the road to a successful novel is paved with dead ones). Improvement isn’t something we can wish into existence. It’s a matter of construction, jackhammers and heavy lifting, breaking through that base of assumptions and prejudice that rests in our minds like an unused parking lot.

Above all else, it’s the willingness to fail. Centuries of conflict and struggle for survival haunt the human psyche to this day; we avoid taking risks we consider unnecessary. But failure is not a risk, and it’s certainly not unnecessary – it’s an integral part of personal growth. Without failure, we have no way to contextualize the effectiveness of our current approach. Moreover, we have no way of knowing when we’ve actually succeeded.

For the try-hards of the world, there is a stubborn sort of solidarity in the expression “Failure is not an option.” But I would contest that in whatever task or challenge we face – from writing a novel to literally jumping over hurdles – the phrase could use an addition:

Failure is not an option. It’s a requirement.

Confessions of a Lifelong Pessimist

Sometimes I doubt that free will exists. Sitting alone in my dimming apartment, streaming the evening broadcast on the latest mass shooting, I wonder if the success of our democracy has come to rest entirely on the mindless compliance of consumers. I wonder if the commercials that intersperse this broadcast are the social equivalent of poking an animal with a stick. I wonder if the recent violence our country has witnessed isn’t the result of people metaphorically throwing themselves against the bars.

Then I think of Ambrose Bierce.

He is perhaps the most cynical American author (and considering the field, that’s a lot like naming the drunkest member of the Jersey Shore). His best know work, “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” follows the improbable escape of a Confederate sympathizer from execution by hanging over a bridge; when the noose snaps, the man swims to shore and escapes his executioners by fleeing through the woods. It isn’t until the man reaches home, and is falling into the arms of his faithful wife, that Bierce reveals the whole escape to be a figment of the condemned man’s imagination. The story ends with his body dangling lifelessly over the water.

In 1906, Bierce published “The Devil’s Dictionary,” a collection of words defined in the most pessimistic way possible (for laughter, Bierce writes, “An interior convulsion, producing a distortion of the features and accompanied by inarticulate noises”) Also named “The Cynic’s Word Book,” the dictionary was a self-conscious testament to the bitter worldview championed by its author. Bierce summarized his own legacy prior to his departure for Mexico in 1913, writing to a family member, “If you hear of my being stood up against a Mexican stone wall and shot to rags please know that I think that a pretty good way to depart this life.” He was never seen or heard from again.

Living and writing in the 19th century, Bierce was undeniably a product of his time. The Civil War became the bloodiest conflict in American history, effectively shattering the Romantic worldview and all the enlightened notions that went along with it. Nonetheless, Realism has become more than a distinct period in American literary history – it has lingered through the years as a syndicated ideology. To this day, cynics will defend their perspective by invoking the word in its descriptive form: “I’m not a pessimist, I’m a realist.”

Of course, this statement is predicated on the assumption that whatever views or opinions a pessimistic person has are based on a more “realistic” understanding of the world around us. It’s easy to see where this logic derails. The belief that a negative interpretation is more valid than a positive interpretation because it is more “realistic” only shifts the burden of proof from one subjective fault line to another. It’s a perfectly encapsulated delusion, reaffirming its own truth through an endless language loop, not unlike the statement “I believe God exists because he does,” or even more transparently, “I know that I’m right because I am.”

In reality pessimism is not so grounded. In some ways, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. I was midway through a political conversation with a friend (and fellow pessimist) when he exclaimed in frustration, “Intelligence is a curse!” At the time, I was inclined to agree with him. In our modern society it often feels like the threads of things run off a cliff; follow them long enough, and you’ll find yourself face-to-face with the abyss. Then again, there is no statement more quintessentially pessimistic than one that willingly confuses intelligence for thoughts. We might think of the capacity for sight in the same way, if we always chose to stare at horrible things.

As an application of intelligence, pessimism is a choice. At its heart, it is a means of coping with reality. The cynic is searching, in his own strange way, for a thread of consistency in things. He is scared, in a characteristically human way, of the doubt and uncertainty that characterize living. By believing in a world in which the underlying causes and outcomes of things are negative, he can stitch together the disparate parts of a mechanism not so easily understood.

That’s what pessimism is: not a way of seeing, but a way of understanding. It’s an ideology I have fallen victim to myself, and even as I write these words, struggle to overcome. That’s the frightening nature of a delusion: sometimes we don’t see the trap until we’re caught in it. Pessimism is an ingenious trap, and one that takes more than simple recognition to escape. It’s a cheap and dirty shortcut to peace of mind, knock-off brand Enlightenment, and the consumer pays the difference – one way or another.

Institution of Marriage Obliterated after Landmark Supreme Court Ruling

Dainesville, MO – First responders arrived at the Institution of Marriage late Friday morning after receiving multiple reports of a fire engulfing the building.

Upon arrival, firefighters discovered that the blaze had already consumed and incinerated the building and its inhabitants, leaving a vacant lot where the revered Institution once stood.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Dan Ramos, a Lieutenant with the Dainesville Fire Department who was among the first to appear on scene. “Even the worst fires leave something behind – walls, foundation, an ashy residue. This one swallowed the building whole. It’s like it never existed.”

Witnesses described a roaring, funnel-shaped plume of smoke and flames erupting at the base of the building and rising to tower high over city streets. According to neighboring resident Ryan Glover, the inferno sparked to life of its own volition as the Supreme Court’s ruling on gay marriage was televised that morning.

“I saw the verdict on CNN, and the next thing you know, whoosh!” said Glover. “The whole place went up in smoke. Which is weird, because I always thought it was supposed to crumble.”

First responders were soon rushed away from the scene by reports of a quickly unraveling Moral Fabric.

How to Fix a Broken Record – In the Aftermath of Charleston

The Charleston church shooting left broken lives, and the reminder that racism is still a potent and malignant force in American culture. I wouldn’t pretend to blame the tragedy on anyone other than the shooter, or on anything other than the warped ideology that compelled him to act. But in the midst of the fallout that has become so much a ritual in our society, with the buzz and blare of the 24-hour news cycle, and the social media frenzy surrounding gun control, race, and privilege, it’s hard to feel hopeful for the state of our civil discourse. As a nation sounding more and more like a broken record, we need to reexamine the way we discuss our most contentious issues – particularly race.

Getting to Know Your Neighbors

I’ve had my share of noisy neighbors. I grew up across the street from a convicted felon, who routinely gunned and rumbled the engine of his motorcycle without moving it from the driveway. As a sophomore in college, my upstairs neighbors hosted what can only be described as coke-fueled Fight Club orgies. That’s not to mention the thumping bass that has haunted me ever since I started renting year-lease apartments with their trademarked, tissue paper walls.

If At First You Don’t Succeed …

My high school track coach was always telling me to pick up my feet.

“You’re six foot two,” he would remind me. “You should be done with the race in fifty steps. Stop running like there’s a rubber band between your ankles.”

My race was the 100-meter dash – the shortest sprinting event. Tall, lanky and white, I was about as out of place in this event as a person could be. But when I put my coach’s advice to work, the results were instantaneous. I shattered my personal record by nearly half a second.

“See what you just did?” he shouted. “Remember that. And do it in every race for the rest of the season.”

I nodded, thanked him, and went to stand in a bucket of ice. But when I tried to reflect on the race, something strange happened: I found myself drawing a total blank. I finished the race in eleven seconds, and I couldn’t remember a single one.

My Year Without Facebook

My year without Facebook lasted eight months. I could talk for hours about everything that happened during that time – from moving to a new city to starting a new career – but I doubt that anyone would really care. It isn’t on Facebook. What I’d like to talk about is why I left, and if I can find the words to express it, why I returned.

Writing for the Future is a Thing of the Past

I find that I cannot write about something until I have given it considerable thought. As an aspiring writer of fiction I have often been told to write every day. “Set a timer for three hours, mold your ass to the chair, and don’t touch delete,” was how a mentor once described his process to me. Right now, I’m trying very hard not to delete this entire paragraph.

Unwanted Relatives

ISIS has been active in the Middle East since 2006, but it wasn’t until the Internet release of American journalist James Foley’s execution last August that the group achieved household infamy.