Feeding Your Facebook
Ah, Facebook, where would we be without you? How else would we waste away our days digesting unnecessary and superfluous information about the lives of our friends and acquaintances? I’d especially like to thank all of you selfless posters who help keep me posted about what you had for dinner. Really, it’s fascinating. Here’s a novel idea; use the time you spend dissecting the evening’s meal actually talking to someone.
Facebook is insidious because it gives us the illusion that we are keeping in touch with our friends; actually we’re standing outside their bedroom windows, peering in. The fact that they purposely pulled the curtains back for us is irrelevant.
Facebook is the modern equivalent of drunk dialing. But before you make that next post to the old flame you’ve been pining for, stop. Think a minute. There’s a reason your ex is your ex. If she was so crazy about getting back in touch she would have done it. A long time ago.
Of course it is kind of a kick to hear from old friends. But for everybody that gives you a charge when you get their email, there’s the one that makes you cringe when you read the name. There he is, that kid you couldn’t stand back in high school, leering out at from the past and demanding to be brought up to speed on the events of your life. Sure, you can just ignore the request but I have an issue there. Does ignoring a friend request make anyone else feel guilty? Like you’re shutting the door in someone’s face? I have a problem with that, can’t help it. And this from a guy who has no problem telling almost anyone to fuck off as long as it’s live and in person.
I get the most fun out of Facebook when I play the memory game. You connect with someone you haven’t heard from in years and then ask them what they recall about some event that you thought was significant. It’s amazing how differently other people remember things. Or sometimes, it’s disconcerting to find that a moment that has plagued you for the last twenty years didn’t even register on your friend’s conscience, as if it never happened at all.
Memory is an elusive companion. Memory is the reason that stories exist; what is a story but a retelling of a memory? We all remember – and we strive to remember things correctly, or long to have someone tell those moments in a way that recaptures their essence. That’s when a story is great – when it rings true to some inner or collective memory that we all share, when it hits a chord that makes us say, That’s it, that’s how it was; even when the memory is not our own. One of the best closing sentences in all of modern literature is Fitzgerald’s – “And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” The more we struggle forward, the stronger the currents of memory, of things lost and time passed, surge against our progress.
It’s hilarious when the kids who work for me at Sheffield’s start pulling the nostalgia card. They get all dewy eyed about the good old days; like when they were ten. But then again my nine year old nephew talks wistfully about summers when he was a baby. I guess it’s all relative.
It’s often said that those who don’t remember the past are doomed to repeat it. As a writer, I don’t just remember the past – I mine it for ideas, for patterns, for ways to tell a good story. We’ve all got stories to tell; what separates the good ones from the monotonous are the ability to parse out the significant details and arrange them in a way that makes the reader want to know what happens next. I remember a day when three friends and I were sitting around a bar in Tampa, Florida and at one o’clock in the morning it somehow became a good idea to head down to Miami with a bottle of Three Fingers Tequila between my knees and a couple ounces of substantial weed on the seat in back. It’s a good story, but some of those memories have served to prevent an encore.
So the next time you’re eating the heart out of a perfectly fine afternoon, telling the world about your laundry and all the other things you should be doing, reach out to an old Facebook friend and throw them a memory. Then ask what they remember best about it. I bet you’ll find a surprise or two in what they have to say. And if you’re a writer, use that experience to try to see things through another person’s eyes, to understand why they remember that event differently. It’s time on Facebook that’s at least sort of productive. It’s not the same as actually accomplishing something, but it’s more interesting than writing about last night’s dinner.
— Ric Hess, 22 days ago
Walkin’ in Memphis
I’m here in Memphis, Tennessee, diving ever deeper into the cult of ‘Q. Barbecue is more than a meal down here, it’s a lifestyle, and nowhere is that exemplified more than in the annual Memphis in May BBQ Grill Off. Teams from around the country, and even around the world, assemble to present their best ribs, butts, and whole hogs; there’s even a category for “anything but” wherein if you can grill it and smoke it there’s folks who’ll eat it. The judging concludes on Saturday night and the winners walk with bragging rights, big, oversized trophies and a not inconsiderable chunk of cash. The Memphis riverfront turns into a circus, with people pouring into town and the smell of wood smoke hovers on the air. I’m here because of Sheffield’s and our renewed commitment to serving authentic and excellent barbeque. There are as many ways of spelling bar-b-cue as there are techniques involved in its production, but at the end of the day, determining what’s really good Cue is like the old definition of what constitutes pornography: you just know it when you see it.
I love Memphis. I’m a tourist so I don’t have to deal with all the problems that the town’s newspapers screech about daily. I just walk around and revel in the history, the gentility, and the really good food. I first discovered Memphis courtesy of an old girlfriend who once attended the University of Tennessee. She walked me around, we toured BBQ joints and Beale Street, and we wound up, very early in the morning, in some afterhours bar hastily constructed in someone’s living room, where beer was being served out of coolers set up on sawhorse tables and a clutch of ladies huddled in the kitchen cooking up burgers on the stove. I forked over a few bucks for a can of suds, drinking in the atmosphere of an operation that was clearly illegal (and just as clearly a whole lot of fun) and I left Memphis smitten, determined to return.
That first afternoon my girlfriend took me to the world famous Rendezvous Rib-house and my life was changed forever. You can argue all day about whether or not the Rendezvous has authentic BBQ and who has Memphis’ best ribs, but you can’t beat the smoky, cavernous, subterranean embrace of the ‘Vous for character. We sat at the bar and drank beer and ate smoked sausage and cheese and I fell in love. The girl is long gone but my affection for Memphis will endure as long as I’m walking around above ground.
One of the elements that make this town great is that there are such lovely pockets of rich authenticity, where the gracious and sensual old Southern lifestyle grates hard against the abrasive advance of American homogeneity. Beale Street could be a commercial nightmare – and parts of it are – but somehow, in the midst of the neon-lit garishness there are shadowed corners where the ghosts of tobacco farmers and cotton brokers seem to hover, sipping whiskey and nodding along as a thumping bass and electric guitar wail the blues.
Of course there are other areas, mostly in the blocks that spill out from Beale that are alternatively pathetic and tacky. A TGI Friday’s sits on one corner, just down the street from a restaurant that calls itself the Kooky Canuck. That a TGI Friday’s exists here is bad enough, but at the Canuck, diners are challenged to choke down a seven and a half pound burger in under an hour. This gustatory abomination weighs in at more than 12,000 calories and your prize, should you finish it (other than a heart attack) is that your burger is free and you get your name on a plaque that hangs from the wall (I didn’t actually see this plaque – there is no way in the world I’d go inside – but their website says it’s there so I’ll take their word for it).
I look at a place like the Kooky Canuck and I wonder just who thought it a good idea. Some businessman (or woman) sat down and not only considered this a practical venture, but spent thousands of dollars and many hours to see it through to fruition. And not only did they think that, but people go there! I walked past and there were customers! These people are in Memphis, with some of the best blues and BBQ in the world at their very fingertips, and they make a conscious decision to dine on hamburger and bad domestic beer in a storefront carved out by some expatriate snowbird with bad taste in both food and interior design? Just down the street there’s Texas de Brazil a “Brazilian Steakhouse”. Huh?
A thing that is not true to itself and does not occur through a natural evolution can never be whole. Like those sad Jimmy Buffet bars constructed in a strip mall in the Midwest, anything that’s forced into an uneasy relationship with its environment will always seem awkward and stilted. Think about Jake Gatsby. This applies to everything – people, business and art. We’ve all heard it so many times it becomes more background music than wisdom; you can’t be something you’re not. I write like a pissy, sarcastic, Midwestern, cynical male because that’s what I am. When I started to write I always tried to copy the style of other writer’s I admired, and the results were predictably dismal. Copying too exactly another’s style only works in parody.
Everyone has their own unique voice and the journey of any art is to discover more truly what that voice is. People started to read James Patterson’s thrillers because he was a pretty good workman in that genre. Now he phones in his books; usually they’re written in conjunction with another author and I would bet Mr. Patterson’s participation is limited to concept and plot points. As anyone who’s read any of these recent efforts knows, they’re pretty bad.
The Rock n Soul Museum claims that there have been more songs written about Memphis than any other city in the world. Hoagy Carmichael and Johnny Mercer crooned about it. More recently Marc Cohn reminisced about Elvis and his blue suede shoes. It’s the kind of place that inspires song. The places that work here work because they reflect some little slice of all the rich tapestry of history that imbue this clubby town on the banks of the Mississippi. The places that ultimately fail do so because they neglect to properly acknowledge that heritage. I’m down here learning about Barbeque because Chicago is the lucky recipient of much of the culture that flowed north when the old South started to dry up. I want to learn about that transition from its roots.
When I build a restaurant, I want it to fit into its place as comfortably as a foot goes into an old shoe. I want a place that’s going to be around for a long, long time. I try to approach my writing from that same space, from the perspective that I’m bringing the things that I know to the table and I try not to add to many things that I don’t know enough about. I just think that any other approach would be like forcing a pseudo-Canadian restaurant into the land of BBQ and Blues; uncomfortable for everyone involved. It’s the only way I can work and feel that there’s some integrity to what I’m trying to do, that maybe I’m getting closer to saying what I really am trying to say.
McDonalds is one of the most successful restaurant chains in the world but you can’t get me to spend money in one for love or money. A McDonalds doesn’t even think about its environment, it just plunks itself down and looks exactly like every other McDonalds from Memphis to Moscow. Worse than eating there, I could never approach my business with that kind of disregard for place and setting. It just smacks of what’s wrong with the typical approach to business, where it’s all and only about money.
That kind of thinking might work in a dollars and cents way, for a while, but it’s not satisfying on so many other levels. And if I have to try and cram down a seven pound burger to have fun, there’s something wrong with my approach. I’m in Memphis to learn about the art of BBQ and the whole culture that goes along with it. I have to do it right or not at all. To me it’s the only way to do things, cooking or writing, the only way it feels satisfying, the only way that really works. I know that there are a lot of people that don’t consider those elements all that important, a lot of people whose first question about the Kooky Canuck would be whether or not it makes money, but to me that’s the least important aspect. It’s just the way I’m wired to look at things and I think that some element of that philosophy is what we feel when we stumble over an author (or any artist for that matter) whose work resonates with our experiences. I really believe it’s that important. Or maybe I’m just a little Kooky.
— Ric Hess, 51 days ago
Sometimes lonely but never alone
Writing is a solitary business. There’s no way around it; in order to write you have to spend a lot of time sitting by yourself in front of a blank page. That’s good, up to a point – introspection and contemplation and all that.
But the classic stereotype of the writer as a neurotic loner, separating himself from reality isn’t totally undeserved. Yes, you have to be alone to write, but it’s equally important that a writer get out into the real world so that they have something to write about. In my case my day job won’t let me retreat in splendid isolation to some ivory tower. In fact I’ll throw this idea out for free: if you’re spending too much time talking to the mirror, try opening and/or running a couple of restaurants. And, as a bonus, put your ass so far in hock that you wear a rut in your office floor, pacing back and forth, jumping every time the phone rings. If it’s stark reality that’s lacking in your prose, this course of action will give you a little dose. I might caution though, it may not be for everyone.
But let’s say you don’t need that kind of stress in order to write and you’ve actually struggled your way through your first draft. And let’s assume that you’ve lived your life enough to give your writing a dash of zing and authenticity; that you’ve written something that someone will actually want to read.
Another problem that writer’s face is that of perspective. It’s important to put some distance between you and your work so that you can look at it with a critical eye. That’s why it’s never a good idea to dash something off and send it out to an agent or publisher, or even your significant other. Let your pages season a while and then go back and revisit them. Chances are that you’ll be surprised, not just with technical errors that you missed before but with logical gaps. After all, when you’re having a conversation with yourself, you already know where the train of thought is going, and it’s sometimes hard to see where you’ve forgotten to describe your process in sufficient enough detail that your readers can follow the tracks. Even when you’re working under a deadline put your pages aside, if just for a few hours, and then read them again. You’ll almost always end up with something better than the original.
Another thing that’s important is to find readers – before you attempt to become published. This is harder than it sounds. Consider that you’ve written a 85,000 word novel and it only exists on your computer and a couple of back up drives. It’s essential that you find someone to comb through it, offer good critical advice, and turn it around and get their comments back to you on a timely basis. And the word good in that last sentence is imperative. It doesn’t help to have someone review your masterpiece and then discover that their notes are complete drivel. You’re not going to find subjective criticism from your mom. You have to respect your critics as writers and as readers if their comments are going to help you get the most out of the process.
That’s why writer’s groups can be invaluable. Again, a good writers group. A regular meeting with other people who can actually write and who are comparatively well read; who care about the craft. That can put you leaps and bounds ahead of the competition.
The other night I had dinner with one of the guys from my old writing group. Darwyn Jones went to Columbia College with me and we wound up in the same class – Patricia Pinianski teaches an excellent course on writing thrillers and from it she, from time to time, culls a few prospective novelists who meet and discuss their work. So when I finished a draft of my novel, it was a natural that I seek out others in my group for advice. The title of my book is Opening Day. It’s a heist romp set around Chicago’s Wrigley Field. Darwyn read it and then we sat down together and the first thing he pointed out was that the critical, climatic scene happened away from the ballpark. Many, many miles away. DOH!
Like I said earlier; as a writer you’re often so close to your work that you don’t see obvious errors like that one. You do your best and then you’ve got to trust your friends. But first you have to have friends that you can trust. So as I wrap this up I want to give a final word of thanks to my group and the readers and writers who have helped me so much in this whole journey. And a special thanks to Darwyn and Sharon (and Patricia) who not only read my manuscript but saved me from sending it out with huge problems.
Yes you need experience (and experiences) and yes you need to get to work and set your thoughts to the page. But the next step – at least if you’re serious about this whole thing – is to cultivate a group of people that you trust to share your work with and then to use that input to make your writing better. It’s the only way to get your work to the next level and it’s also a way to meet people and get out of the house. That’s something many writers could use more of. Unless you’re in the restaurant business.
— Ric Hess, 63 days ago
Running Faster Just to Stay in Place:
Today I posted my day’s intended activities on my Facebook page: I’m going to post this blog, review my friend Darwyn’s note’s on my novel, work on the outline for the Jeanette Esposito-Braun biograpy, go over details for Sheffield’s and the impending Sheffield’s River Grove with those involved, review financials with our bookkeeper, and then I’ll have breakfast and look at the rest of the day…
That’s just nuts. The biography or the novel alone should demand my full attention. One of the problems with having an addictive personality (and there are many) is that you don’t know your limits. Well, that and you become addicted to things (like Facebook), which detracts from your ability to focus and then, with all the balls in the air, juggling becomes even more precarious which leads to more problems… Anyway, it’s time to clear out the distractions and get to work. But on a prioritized and case by case basis. One of the quirks of my own personal dementia is that I sometimes delude myself into believing that I can actually do all these things at the same time, and then, of course, nothing gets done. Or at least nothing gets done right.
I’ve found that committing myself financially helps grab my attention. When I know that there is cash involved I tend to look at things with a bit more clarity. Obviously Sheffield’s River Grove has got me on the hook in a big way. The daily demand for checks and the growing mountain of bills juxtaposed with the declining mogul of cash has me sweating. Which can be a good thing but more on that another time.
This blog is supposed to be at least tangentially about writing and as writing project go, the Jeanette Esposito-Braun project is in first place. I hired a research assistant and I gave him a check. Mr. Patrick Duvall, another Columbia College alumnus, is on the payroll and if I don’t take advantage of his talents over the next few weeks, it’s money down the drain. That will make you sit up and take notice. I’ve also invested time and money in working with the author and literary agent Wendy Rohm on this project and she’s expecting pages from me. Put your ass on the line, throw some money you don’t have into the pot and you’ll start writing. It may not be the perfect approach but it works for me.
Too, it’s just time to get this done. This is a great story and my subject isn’t getting any younger. Jeanette’s family is waiting impatiently for something to happen. Her son, Frank has been a great help in trying to answer my many questions. Diamond Joe’s nephew, John Calfa Sr., is watching and waiting too. I haven’t yet met John but they all have one thing in common, they want this story to be told. I hear you.
So today I’m going to keep this entry short and get to work. Patrick and I met on Friday and he supplied me with a summary of all my notes and interviews to date and a stack of questions; that stack is sitting here next to my keyboard and that’s next on today’s agenda. One project at a time.
— Ric Hess, 74 days ago
Reblogging
So if anyone’s been checking this site, you’ve noticed that I’ve been absent for some time. It wasn’t that I didn’t have anything to say it was more that
A) I had too much too say and
B) I was just too busy
I made a promise to myself that I would be putting the finishing touches on my Novel, Opening Day, before I logged back on. I thought that that would be in January. I was wrong. Then, too, we’re opening a new restaurant. That takes a little time and attention. And last but not least I was feeling guilty about spending time writing a blog because I was trying to get things going with another one of my current projects, the story of the daughter of Chicago crime boss Diamond Joe Esposito. After a few weeks went by, I just didn’t know where to start. Then the longer I dallied, the more intimidating it became. And so here we are.
Then too, I wasn’t really happy with what I was producing on this blog. It was a lot of self-indulgent crap that wasn’t really relevant to anyone but me. And that doesn’t warrant the kind of time and attention that writing a blog requires. So I took a little time off to think about it. Now I’m back.
The content from here on out is going to be whatever is on my plate that day. It may relate to writing and it may not. Frankly, I think that reading about work on the new restaurant – another Sheffield’s – would be a lot more interesting than drivel about finding plot points and character motivation. We’re deep into construction on that project with a target opening date of early June. It’s an exciting and kind of scary time. My partner and I have put everything on the line for this business. If it doesn’t work I have to go and find a job. I haven’t had a job in like twenty-five years. I wouldn’t know where to start.
As far as writing goes, I finally put those wonderful, satisfying words The End on the final page of Opening Day. Now it’s in the hands of the kind and generous Scott Hoffman of Folio Literary Management and the lovely and talented Barbara Poelle if Irene Goodman Literary Agency. They are both very busy people so I don’t expect to hear anything for a while. It’s enough for me that it’s done, that every spare moment I have there’s not some small nagging voice in the back of my head asking what I’m doing having a beer and not working.
Not like that voice isn’t still there. My current writing project, a biography and memoir based on the life of the daughter of Chicago gangster Diamond Joe Esposito is on a hard track for completion. Last week I hired a research assistant to keep me on course. Since the new restaurant is slated to open in early June, I want to have the proposal in a publishers hands by then. It’s an ambitious goal but totally achievable. As long as I don’t sleep.
Jeanette Esposito-Braun is ninety-three or four, or maybe even five. She knows the clock is ticking. She’s been incredibly patient with me, but now I’m giving her my undivided attention. She’s got a great story and it deserves to be told. And, humble guy that I am, I think that I’m the one to do it justice. So I’m bearing down, at the detriment of all else and writing this. And working on the new Sheffield’s. And rolling out the new menu at the original Sheffield’s. And…. Oh never mind, you get the idea.
I’m going to try to put my thoughts out once a week again. It helps to keep me on track. And it’s good to look back and see where I’ve been, and to note what lies I told myself about where I was heading. If anything, it gives a prospective publisher something to look it if they’re wondering about my intentions. I’m going to open the new Sheffield’s and then I’m going to go off and write books. That’s the plan. At least until a new one comes along.
I’ll keep you posted about my progress. I don’t know where this is going to go but sometimes it’s best to just start traveling and not worry about the destination. Sometimes it’s all about taking that first step.
— Ric Hess, 92 days ago
