Of Steinbeck and Writer’s Block

John Steinbeck is my inspiration as a writer. In college, I read The Grapes of Wrath as part of a Freshman sociology class and I never looked back. Soon afterward I got hooked on Cannery Row and its sequel, Sweet Thursday; Tortilla Flat; the revealing road journal, Travels with Charley; The Wayward Bus; The Winter of Our Discontent; his compendium of short stories, The Long Valley; and on and on.

My John Steinbeck collection

As a Sophomore, I was privileged to take a Steinbeck course in which I specialized in the author’s epic semi-autobiographical novel, East of Eden. If you can only read one Steinbeck book in your lifetime, this is it. Set at the beginning of the 20^th century in the vast farmland of California’s Salinas Valley, the novel cleverly interweaves the story of two families: the Hamiltons (Steinbeck’s maternal family); and the Trasks, a fictional family whose travails are a modern-day retelling of Adam and Eve, and Cain and Abel. This story unfolds in Steinbeck’s inimitable prose which is direct and uncluttered, yet so masterful in the author’s understanding of the motivations that drive the human condition.

But the purpose of this blog is not to give an essay on John Steinbeck. I want to focus instead on the author’s modus operandi, his work ethic and the way he disciplined himself to write his novels. Make no mistake. Writing a book is one of the most daunting tasks anyone could wish to attempt. It took me more than six years to write my first book, Keep the Fire Burning. I am now reaching that same mark in the writing of my sequel, From Mountains High.

For the past six years, I have been working on and off on my second book – mostly off. The major difference between the first book and the second (besides the particular decades of each book’s story) is that I was a freelancer during the whole time I was writing Keep the Fire Burning. I had the luxury of creating my own schedule as the muse inspired me. It was not unusual for me to be writing well into the wee hours – sometimes until 3:00am – because I had no appointment or commitment the following morning. Oh, how I miss those days!

But now I am back on the OCP staff, working full-time as a Music Development Specialist. I cannot do my writing for From Mountains High during office hours; and I no longer have the freedom to stay up all night and write because I have to be at my desk by 9:00am. Since I come home tired from my nine-to-five job (who doesn’t?) I often do not have any motivation to work in the evening on my sequel.

That doesn’t mean work has not been happening. I have been doing research and interviewing composers all these years. The Internet and libraries are my friends! But the actual writing has been slow, although I am happy to report that I am already halfway through my projected twelve chapters.

So I need writer’s discipline, and that’s where John Steinbeck comes in. Several years ago, I discovered this gem of a little book: Journal of a Novel – The East of Eden Letters (©1969 by The Viking Press). 

It’s basically a written record of how Steinbeck wrote his epic novel. The Publisher’s Preface has inspired me:

Emerson has said that when his writing was blocked, he would sit down and write a long letter to a friend whom he loved. John Steinbeck, in writing East of Eden, unblocked himself for the daily stint ahead by writing a “letter” to his close friend and editor, Pascal Covici. It was written on the blue-ruled pages of a large notebook, size 10 ¾” x 14 “, which Covici had supplied. After the two opening letters, which filled the first few pages continuously, the letters appeared only on the left-hand pages; on the right, when Steinbeck felt ready, he proceeded to the text of the novel. He usually filled two pages of the text a day with a total of about fifteen hundred words. Both the letter and the text were written in black pencil in Steinbeck’s minute but clear longhand. The writing covered the period from January 29 through November 1, 1951. There was a letter for every working day until the first draft of the novel was finished.

Fifteen hundred words a day for nine months that resulted in a novel of 600 pages in the 2003 edition. That’s inspiring! So now I have a reason to go back to blogging: to get myself unstuck from writer’s block. Hopefully, my regular exercise of doing a blog will set me up to doing the actual writing of my book.

Thank you, John Steinbeck. You’re my hero!

More to come . . .

NEW DIRECTIONS

It has been a LONG time since I have blogged. After a few years of regular entries, I suddenly stopped in 2014, unsure of what use I could make of this unique forum of expression. In 2014, I had begun to embrace Twitter, with its easy 140-character conciseness. Because my Facebook pages are linked to Twitter, that conciseness carries over into the ubiquitous Zuckerberg platform. (More about Twitter in a future blog.)

Let’s talk about Facebook. I suppose it was fun at first, but now I find it incredibly annoying. Facebook has become an unfortunate forum for venting, for spewing blind political vitriol, for trolling and, yes, for stalking.

I don’t deny Facebook’s utility as an effective way to link together far-flung family and friends. And I don’t begrudge some people’s use of this social media platform as a means to vent about politics. Hey, Facebook’s strength lies in the way it can be used in whatever way the user sees fit.

Personally, I prefer to use text messaging to stay in touch with family and friends. As for politics, I would rather discuss the issues of the day in person with trusted amigos. Therein lies my major beef with social media in general and Facebook in particular: the sense of false intimacy.

I am an intensely private person. I am very uncomfortable with sharing my thoughts and feelings even with my own family and close friends. I need to be asked before I can open myself up. So why in God’s name would I share personal stuff with total strangers or casual acquaintances on Facebook? 

So that’s the reason my Facebook posts tend to be full of puns and jokes, or are filled with non sequitur nonsense or obscure references to some song or TV show from long ago youth. That’s why I shy away from posting photos of myself or my family and friends. Instead, I share my love of abstract art. That’s why I despise #ThrowbackThursday and instead post my own warped alternative, #PopTartThursday. If I want to be intimate, I’ll share my life with those closest to me, not with some nebulously random Facebook “community.”

In short, I use Facebook in my own quirky way, as is my right. Enjoy it! I certainly do.

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!

Truthfully? In 5^th Grade I was not paying attention to pop music. Oh, sure, the radio was a wonderful source of favorite childhood songs in the early 60s: “Puff the Magic Dragon” by Peter, Paul & Mary; “Tie Me Kangaroo Down” by Rolf Harris; “The Clapping Song” by Shirley Ellis (“3-6-9, the goose drank wine…”). I did not really know who Elvis Presley was because he had been absent from the charts since his Army days, but I did love “Rag Doll” by the Four Seasons.

In 4^th Grade, we all sang along enthusiastically with the Beach Boys on their monster hit, “Surfin’ USA,” even as we dodged neighborhood fights when bullies asked the infamous question, "Are you a surfer or a hooded?" But in January 1964 I was concentrating on getting good grades and still grieving with the rest of America over the assassination of President John F. Kennedy just two months earlier.

So I was surprised by the breathless excitement of my classmates on the first week of February. “What do you think of the Beatles?” “Have you heard ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand’ yet?” “Are you gonna watch the Beatles on Ed Sullivan this Sunday night?”

Huh? What are the Beatles? What the heck are you talking about?

On that Monday the Beatles were the only thing my friends were talking about. That night my next-door neighbors, Melissa and Melinda, were blasting “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and “Can’t Buy Me Love” from their family radio. My younger sister Desi was equally enthralled. At first, I dismissed the group and their music as just a trendy teen girl thing, but the music caught my ear as the Los Angeles stations played Beatles songs over and over. I could not deny there was something exciting and new about their sound.

On Tuesday, I began to pay closer attention to conversations about the Beatles. On Wednesday, having had two days of listening to their music, I began to weigh in, not wishing to be seen as a straggler. On Thursday, I admitted, perhaps reluctantly, that I would be watching Sullivan on Sunday. On Friday, my friends and I were all looking forward to the show.

Please understand that I had still not yet seen a photo of the Beatles. There was no Internet and, as the eldest in my family, I had no older teens in my circle from which to wean information. So, although I had an earful of the group’s music during the past week, I was unprepared for their visual impact.

 My family already watched Ed Sullivan every Sunday night, so there was no change of plans or fighting over what show to pick. At the time, Sullivan was appointment television in America, THE showcase for new and established talent in all entertainment fields. Dour old Ed wasted no time in introducing the act that everyone in the country had been talking about.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . . the Beatles!”

What was that unearthly noise? Hundreds of teenage girls screaming at the top of their lungs! Having had no previous experience of this teen idol thing with Sinatra and Presley, I was taken aback by the sound and images of teen girls throwing themselves in wild abandon at the feet of these four young men.

They were certainly dressed presentably: four guys in dark suits, white shirts and thin ties, three in front on guitar, and one guy on drums behind them. But their hair! What was wrong with their hair? It wasn’t crew cuts or flat tops, like my classmates and I were wearing. And it wasn’t the greased pompadours that I had seen on some early-60s rock’n’roll groups. The band's hair was not short but also not girlishly long. The word “androgynous” had not yet entered the popular lexicon but, looking back, it would seem to fit the Beatles’ hairdo to a T. And they combed their hair forward in bangs. Guys don’t do that, do they?

But forget their looks! I was finally seeing a live performance of the songs I had heard on the radio all week. The guitarists did not perform in the unison choreography that I had seen by groups on American Bandstand. From left to right, Paul, George and John were all bobbing and swaying independently of each other, shaking their mop tops, and occasionally coming together at the microphones for harmonies. And behind them, Ringo was a wild man on the drums, shaking his head and banging away on his toms and cymbals with rowdy abandon, yet somehow maintaining the steady beat that defined the group’s name.

“All My Loving.” “Till There Was You.” “She Loves You.” “I Saw her Standing There.” “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” These songs were unlike anything I had ever heard before from any other pop group. Coupled with the loud adulation of their teen-girl audience, the overarching effect was one of unbridled joy and enthusiasm.

Yeah, yeah yeah!

I was particularly drawn to that left-handed singer with the violin-shaped guitar. At the time, I didn’t know a bass from a six-string guitar but Paul McCartney’s energy and melodic voice had a profound impact on me. I was only playing harmonica and flute in school band but after seeing the Beatles, especially Paul, I made a fateful decision: I want to learn guitar! I want to do THAT for a living!

But another powerful force was also pulling at me in 1964. This was the year that the Roman Catholic Church promulgated the Second Vatican Council’s Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy. I was already a “church kid,” actively engaged in the Latin Mass at my parish, but now there was incredible excitement over the prospect of the new English Mass that would be celebrated on the upcoming First Sunday of Advent. The Church was wooing me in one direction even as the Beatles were yanking me in another. Dichotomy? Contradiction? I didn’t even know what those words meant when I was 10 years old. But somehow, I would eventually bring those opposite forces together – secular and sacred -- in my life’s work.

And you know that can’t be bad.

Walter Cronkite Remembers . . .

2013 Christmas Letter to Family and Friends

Dear Family and Friends,

Welcome to my blogsite, where you’ll find occasional ruminations from my uniquely focused mind. 2013 was an incredible year! I now write a monthly column for Ministry and Liturgy magazine. I’m also in the beginning stages of writing the sequel to my book, Keep the Fire Burning: The Folk Mass Revolution.

Travel was a highlight of 2013. I do a lot of workshops around the country to promote my music and writing. This year I did events in Buffalo, NY; Wichita, KS; Carlisle, PA; Richmond, VA; Sacramento, CA; and Glendale, CA. But the most memorable trips were to Ghana, Africa in June, and to Turkey and Rome in October. Here are links to my series of blogs on each trip:

Ghana

A music ministry journey with fellow spiritandsong composers, sponsored by Catholic Relief Services and OCP

Turkey and Rome

A joyful faith pilgrimage where my friend, Fr. Paul Wicker served as chaplain and I served as musician

Other highlights of the year included:

Pope Francis

This year the Catholic church rejoiced in a new pope who has quickly charmed the world with his simplicity and dedication to serving the poor and forgotten. He reminds me so much of Pope John XXIII, who also inspired hope and optimism back in the 1960s. I had the privilege of attending a General Audience with Pope Francis when I was at the Vatican in October. Truly one of the highlights of my life!

Godspell, Jr

A terrific spring musical put on by the junior high teens in my parish school, Holy Trinity in Beaverton

Music Ministry: Holy Trinity and St. Mary Magdalene
This year I find myself involved in music ministry at TWO parishes. Holy Trinity is my home parish and I began there in 2005. We have several great music groups. Here is a photo of our 9:30 Choir that rehearses on Wednesday nights.

At Holy Trinity I'm also part of an informal band called the B-Side, made up of fellow folk music enthusiasts. We do parish events and occasional Portland gigs in support of my book on the Folk Mass.

My "second" parish is St. Mary Magdalene in Portland. The pastor is Fr. Mike Biewend, an old college friend who has been trying to snag me to do music at his parish for many years. I help out at Saturday Vigil Mass and at the weekly school Mass on Thursdays, so it doesn’t really clash with my Sunday ministry at Holy Trinity.

Portland Filipino Catholic Community Choir
Another great joy is my involvement with the choir of the Filipino Catholic Community of Portland and SW Washington. We sing at special liturgies throughout the year, including the Feast of San Lorenzo Ruiz and the Simbang Gabi Christmas Novena. The music is lively and Spirit-filled, and I have a deeper appreciation of my cultural roots through my friendships in this vibrant community.

Mom’s 80^th Birthday

My family celebrated together with mom in Los Angeles in June.

Seattle Canedos
My brother Keith settled in Seattle back in the late 1970s. His oldest daughter Micaela is now doing graduate studies at the renowned Loyola Marymount School of Film and TV in Los Angeles. Youngest daughter Kelsey is in 10th grade of high school in the Seattle area. I try to visit them during the summer and for sure during Thanksgiving.

My own Landmark Birthday

Took time out in July to celebrate with friends in San Francisco, my favorite city in the world!

Through all these adventures I am grateful especially for the love and friendship that we share. Whatever your faith tradition, may the blessings of the Christmas season remain with you throughout the New Year!

Peace, joy, love!
Ken

My cat Neo at our aluminum tree

John-John's Salute: Promise Unfulfilled

I watched President Kennedy's funeral on Monday, the viewing as somber in 2013 as it surely was 50 years ago. November 25, 1963 was a national day of mourning — no work, no school.  I played tag with grade school friends and roller skated the neighborhood as the events unfolded in Washington. I also remember wishing I could see the funeral but our family TV was broken. Thanks to this week's retro coverage on CBSNews.com, I finally did.

The Kennedy funeral was a uniquely American blend of pageantry and simplicity. We're talking about the President of the United States, so a certain protocol and decorum were required. And yet, this was not the funeral of a king or emperor, with the pomp and circumstance of royalty. The President is elected from the people and for the people. In life and in death, he is one of us, and we have a right, no, an obligation to honor our President when he departs from this world. Still, there was cruel irony in the fact that it was John Kennedy's accessibility that got him killed.

An estimated 250,000 people filed past President Kennedy's casket as he lied in state under the Capitol Rotunda. More than 300,000 lined the streets of Washington as the funeral procession made its way around the city. 93 percent of America saw the funeral of television, the largest viewing audience ever recorded to that point.

There is something to be said about how the time between death and funeral is so important to a grieving family. From personal experience, I know the planning, the creative remembering, and the preparations keep the family busy and focused during a very difficult time. Mrs. Kennedy is to be commended for putting together, in a stunningly brief time, a funeral that went a long way in helping America to heal.

There are elements about the funeral that are forever seared into the collective memory of the Boomer generation: the simple and stark Rotunda service, as Mrs. Kennedy and daughter Carolyn knelt and kissed the flag-draped casket while soldiers stood at attention and wept; the clop-clop of the six white horses as they led the wheeled caisson that bore the casket while the military color guard followed, bearing the flags of the United States and the Presidential seal; feisty Black Jack, the riderless horse modeled after a similar equine who marched in Abraham Lincoln's funeral; the mournful tunes of the military bands and bagpipe brigades, whose drummers twirled their mallets with impressive precision. And then there was that funeral beat the drummers played to fill out the silence between band numbers. It echoed hauntingly throughout the streets of Washington:

Rum-pum-pum.
Brrrrr rum-pum-pum.
Brrrrr rum-pum-pum.
Brrrrr rum-pum-puddy-bum. . .

I was fascinated to see how President Kennedy's funeral liturgy was conducted in 1963, exactly one year before Mass in English was promulgated in the United States under the mandate of the Second Vatican Council. The Latin Mass was rarely televised in the early Sixties, and there it was in all its glory. The majority of dignitaries packed into St. Matthew's Cathedral were probably not Catholic and were surely puzzled by a liturgy they could not understand. But for Catholics in the cathedral and watching on television, the Mass was a source of solace and consolation.

Mrs. Kennedy asked family friend Richard Cardinal Cushing to celebrate a Low Requiem Mass instead of the customary High Mass celebrated in parishes during a funeral. She was probably concerned that the length of a High Mass, where just about everything is sung in proper sequence, might be too much for the non-Catholics. There was usually no singing at a Low Mass but in those pre-Council days music could be sung "to foster the devotion of the faithful" throughout the liturgy. Interestingly, there was no requirement at Low Mass to match the music to the ritual action.

For example, at the Kennedy Funeral Mass, a soloist sang Schubert's "Ave Maria" during the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar, the pre-Council version of today's Penitential Act. The Schubert composition was so long that it spilled over into the Epistle, which was read quietly by the cardinal in Latin and not proclaimed as readings are today. "Dies Irae," the Gregorian chant funeral masterpiece, was sung during the Gospel!

English was heard only twice at the President's funeral Mass: during a planned post-Communion reflection by Auxiliary Bishop Philip M. Hannan in which he quoted Kennedy's Inaugural Address; and during the rite of Final Commendation, when Cardinal Cushing spontaneously departed from the official Latin text and proclaimed the words in English, his voice shaking with emotion.

"May the angels, dear Jack, lead you into Paradise. May the martyrs receive you at your coming. May the Spirit of God embrace you, and mayest thou, with all those who made the supreme sacrifice of dying for others, receive eternal rest and peace. Amen."

Throughout that weekend of shock and heartache, Mrs. Kennedy was a model of composure. Surely, of all people, she deserved to be beside herself in grief. She cradled her husband's bloody head on her lap, after all. Yet, there she was on national television, quietly leading a grieving nation with poise and dignity.

Perhaps the most iconic image of the weekend was the President's son, little John-John, whose 3rd birthday was that very funeral day. At the conclusion of the liturgy, as the family and the funeral cortege departed from the cathedral, the worldwide audience was deeply moved by a touching and unforgettable moment. Author William Manchester captured it well in his 1967 book, The Death of a President.

It lasted but an instant. The momentum of the pageant had caught them up again, and even as Mrs. Kennedy put John to her left, in front of the Attorney General, the band struck up "Hail to the Chief." This was the last time it would be played for President Kennedy. Soldiers snapped from parade rest to present arms. Officers, policemen, and the lead rider of the matched grays saluted. The clergy folded hands; laymen straightened. Jacqueline Kennedy, remembering how the boy loved to play soldiers with his father, leaned over and said, "John, you can salute Daddy now and say good-bye to him."

The small right hand rose stiffly. Behind him Robert Kennedy's face crinkled in pain, and Bishop Hannan, glancing across the street, saw the spectators there crumple as though struck. Of all Monday's images, nothing approached the force of John's salute. Mrs. Kennedy, standing erect, missed it, and when she was shown the photographs afterward she was astounded. She had expected an unimpressive gesture; in the past his saluting had been both comic and, in her words, "sort of droopy."

But not now. Somehow the mood and meaning of the day had reached the President's son. His elbow was cocked at precisely the right angle, his hand was touching his shock of hair, his left arm was rigidly at his side, his shoulders were squared and his chin in. His bearing was militant, and to see it in a three-year-old, with his bare legs stiff below his short coat, his knees dimpled and his blunt red shoes side by side — to hear the slow swell of the music, and recall how the President had idolized him — was almost insupportable. Cardinal Cushing looked down on the small face. He saw the shadow of sadness crossing it and felt a burning sensation in his chest. Eight months later he could barely speak of it. "Oh, God," he whispered hoarsely, "I almost died."

Didn't we all?

John-John's iconic salute to his slain father. Cardinal Cushing is at far right, wearing biretta.

President Kennedy did not have the time to carve out a meaningful list of accomplishments during his all-too-brief tenure in office. And yet, his sudden unexpected death still haunts and defines my generation. Perhaps his legacy is one of promise unfulfilled. It would be up to our generation to keep Kennedy's fire burning, despite the sad repetition of death that would later visit upon his brother Bobby and even his own son John, Jr. If nothing else, President Kennedy inspired hope, and hope will never die.

"The torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans . . . and the glow from that fire can truly light the world . . ."

— Inaugural Address of President John F. Kennedy