blankity blank

Jun 082022
 

I was recently watching a MasterClass with Salman Rushdie and he was talking about being intimidated by a blank page, and that resonated with me . . . . because of the opposite!

I LOVE a blank page! It’s irresistible, inspiring, tantalizing. I can’t wait to put a pen to a paper one, or start tapping at keys on a digital one, to mark it up with my inane prattle. I see empty lines or a unsullied notebook, and I’m compelled to sully it—

At the weekly “Shut Up and Write” meetup (one uninterrupted hour of creativity that has resulted in what you’re currently reading), I often go old school and write with a pen and notebook. In approaching it like that, I’ve learned that writer’s cramp (remember that?) feels so satisfying. “My hand hurts so I must’ve done something, right?”

Hmm . . . .

Doing something worthwhile, however, is always the challenge, right? I don’t take for granted how as soon as I start scribbling or typing, my pulse quickens, my chest becomes flush with adrenaline, and ray’s brain kicks into an ecstatic state that simultaneously seems like genius and idiocy. [*Insert ‘Why not both?’ meme*]

I’ve read that artificial intelligence (AI) programs are being developed to mimic creative writing, but churning out words and sentences and ideas without passion seems to be a soulless endeavor. Why say something if you’re not really saying something?

I am, therefore, I write.

At the beginning of the day, I guess it really is about letting my ego run amok. When it’s just us here—me, ray’s brain, a pen/keyboard, a blank page—that party can kind of go anyway it wants.

To wit:

He sits at the desk in his bedroom, just after sunset. The dying light of the day still has an ember or two of magic. The edges of the bed, the dresser, the pile of dirty laundry piled on the chair in the corner, all blur a little. Or soften (he’s got his reading glasses on, after all).

It’s one of those quiet, unremarkable moments that stack up and fill a life when he’s not particularly watching. He’ll probably never fully register this slice of time since there’s nothing noteworthy happening to mark it. But as his fingers continue across the keyboard, spilling thoughts into a digital document and moving around the pixels, the nothing becomes a little bit of a something. It’s granted a weird immortality of sorts, a recorded memory from his sliver of existence . . . .

If a bedroom sits empty at sunset, does it get dark?

“Look at me, I’m a philosophizer . . . .”

Maybe I’d still struggle with writing more if my brain wasn’t this never-ending tilt-a-whirl of stupid. Like, it’s easy to fill up a page if your inner monologue doesn’t ever stop to take a breath or have anything resembling a boundary. Quantity over more quantity, I’d say, is my biggest sin.

I’m glad that I’m on a first-name basis with words. Not that it helps me string any together in a cohesive or particularly useful manner. Kind of like that monkey hammering away at a mental typewriter in the hopes of stumbling upon a worthwhile thought or two after a century or so.

I suppose that any received instant I hold a romantic notion that I’m capable of crafting something beyond gibberish. “Crafting” is the emphasis here as it suggests a modicum of skill and intent that there may be significant evidence doesn’t exist in my efforts. “Honing my craft” is another ego-stroking cliche I could toss out here.

I talk about eliminating my expectations as a key to trying to be happy. That should be applied to writing as well. Expecting to create something worthwhile beyond polluting a clean page or blank screen may be a bar set too high. Sometimes, maybe the treasure is just the writing we do along the way.

Okay, hour’s up. Now I have to go shake the satisfying cramps out of my hand.

what i did on my summer/winter/never-ending pandemic

May 032022
 

Like pretty much everyone else, the past two+ years have provided an opportunity to determine what kind of “I’ve been meaning to do that!” tasks I might actually get done if given ample amounts of free time and nowhere to go.

As it turns out, not ticked off on the “accomplished” list:

  • Bake bread/cake from scratch
  • Go through and organize old files/documents/photos
  • Transmogrify lead into gold
  • Learn to play a didgeridoo
  • Find Bigfoot
  • Fix the sock drawer of my dresser
  • Watch the entire Ernest oeuvre
  • Convince Salma Hayek to leave the billionaire husband she loves for some random 167-year-old guy from Connecticut
  • Write the Great American Novel—

Wait! So on that last one . . . .

SATAOTBEF cover

I’m not saying it’s great but it’s a novel and I’m American, so that’s like two-thirds of the formula. Close enough, right?

Oh, and before typing a letter more: Shoutout to the amazing Sammi Lewis of Poltergeist Soup for the cover!

So yeah, I’ve been working away on this for a while, and now it’s time to emerge from my writing cocoon to share it. Although I’m scared out of my wits to put this out there, tbh. Like a lot of people who write, I’ve gone to bed thinking, “This isn’t terrible,” only to wake up the next morning and be like, “I’m an idiot, I should delete this, smash my laptop, and stab myself in the eye for even thinking of publishing it anywhere, ever.”

And I might (should?) have, except I now feel I owe it to Sammi because their work deserves an opportunity to be seen. I only hope the way I’ve hammered together 100,000 or so words does it justice.

For what it’s worth, this is somehow the best and stupidest thing I’ve ever concocted, and I mean that in the best way possible (I think). Here’s the back-cover blurb:

Sportswriter Nick Brooks is covering yet another boring baseball game when he inadvertently encounters Sarah Rypien, an extraordinary young woman who immediately spins his existence downside up and cattywampus. Before he knows it, the prerequisite chaos/hilarity ensues, dragging him into one of those absurd irregular-Joe-meets-possible-psycho-and-saves-the-world brand of adventures, replete with action, intrigue, mysterious men in Volvos, a very special FBI special agent, 1.5 romances, and a healthy dash of the LOLs. (You know, like Mom used to make.) 

Oh, and on a semi-unrelated note: Nick just happens to be sharing his life with an incarnation of the entity commonly beloved as “Satan.” 

In this fun, satiric sci-fi romp—packed with enough pop culture references to give the intrawebz a nosebleed—Ray Bendici vaults readers through an entertaining jaunt that bends brains, time, reality, and genres. On the plus side, no one gets turned into a newt.

Clearly, an autobiography then.

Ultimately, the lighthouse guiding this journey to completion has been to create something that will be as fun to read as it was to write. Which is not a low bar to clear as much as it’s a chalk line on a playground to skip over. Still, I hope you all find it entertaining.

For what it’s worth, the title is like Snakes on a Plane—you already know if you’re in or out, and that’s probably for the best. No offense taken at all if you’re out, I get it.

And if you’re in … well, that’s on you at this point. Peruse/purchase it on Amazon, either paperback or Kindle, keep your hands inside the ride, and enjoy mucking about in rayality!

i feel spiffy

Mar 102019
 

Neat-o. Ducky. Peachy keen. Copacetic.

I’m feeling all of these words right now, ya’ dig, daddy-o? Because they all used to be far out, groovy, the bee’s knees, and even the cat’s pajamas!

Although I’m not quite sure what’s so terrific about an insect’s leg joints, or why a feline needs bedclothes. Ditto the appeal of edible seeds that grow in long pods on certain leguminous plants which are no longer warm but not stone cold, either. (I’ll pause here while you do the math on that one.)

So as you might suspect, I like to think twice about the phrases, words and terms we use in everyday conversation and don’t normally think twice about. For example, it’s always great to have options, but why is anyone skinning a cat in the first place? Wouldn’t a strongly worded ferral be more effective than a referral? And why do people insist on taking a dump when it’s better to just leave one behind, and preferably in the proper porcelain receptacle?

Part of the fun of language—and English, in particular—is that it’s always evolving, which means some words and terms get left behind. For example, in high school, my favorite English teacher Mrs. Scinto used to lament that we don’t praise others enough for having couth, but instead only point it out when they lack it.

Speaking of word-appreciating favorites, here’s some sung-word play from Pete Seeger.

 

 

[Side note worth noting: You can’t have “crazy” without r-a-y.]

Anyway, in the spirit of the aforementioned folk legend—who shares my birthday, or should I say, shares my calendar birth date, as I came along a few years before he did—here are a few of my own word-play observations.

  • Fact: A dentist doesn’t put a dent in anything … other than your wallet!
  • Does anyone practice second, or even third, aid?
  • Catching a cold makes it sound so much more intentional than it usually is.
  • Why do roosters crow but crows caw?
  • How many incomplete strangers have you met? Also: Most strangers aren’t all that strange.
  • When was the last time you ordered the irregular-sized coffee or fries?
  • Not sure there’s a market for it, but it’d be fun to write for misfortune cookies.
  • So where exactly is Not-So-Great Britain?
  • On the surface of it, a kidnapper sounds like someone who should be welcome at daycare centers.
  • From what part of the tid does the bit come?
  • By the laws of prefixes, shouldn’t construction and destruction be the same thing? Should a new building project be a prostruction? And speaking of, should you project something if you agree since you object when you don’t?
  • I’m still waiting to have licit sex. I think.
  • If you hear something for the first time, is it dundant? Related: Do you have to fute a statement before you can refute it?
  • Why are type A personalities never described as laid-forward?
  • If a “prelude” is something before the beginning, and an “interlude” is something in the middle, than why is “conclude” a verb?
  • I’ve been happy to thus far avoid numerous mitigated disasters. Tangentially, if there were more gruntled workers, there might be less incidents of workplace violence. And it’d probably help if we were more chalant when it came to the feelings of others.
  • For the record: I have never seen fire come out of a fire hydrant.
  • I’ve used the phrase, “This isn’t my first rodeo” numerous times when I’ve never actually been to a rodeo. And I’m still waiting for the first time I’m feeling over the weather.

Alright, time to wrap this up .. you know, because who the heck wraps something down?

 

words words words

Nov 042013
 

So as part of my gig, I find myself thinking a bit about words and expressions—and sometimes more about the ones we don’t use so much.

For example, I was standing outside of the offices of the New Haven Register and I saw a sign pointing the way to “Human Resources,” which made me wonder if that somewhere in the building there’s an office of “Inhuman Resources.” I don’t think anyone would be happy about being called down there for a meeting … especially for a breakfast meeting.

Speaking of journalism—we always hear about “breaking news,” but how come no one is ever “fixing news.” Or is that what they did back in the days of Yellow Journalism?

I was also considering the term “prehistoric,” which is often paired with the word “creatures” and almost always invoked in dinosaur discussions. Other than the obvious point that anything we can look back on is technically “history”—and therefore anything prehistoric can only be something that occurred before the existence of the known universe—I’m intrigued by the idea that by the very definition of it, we will never know what “posthistoric” creatures will look like. Sort of sad, really, because I’m thinking herds of giant zombie tardigrades roaming the abandoned streets of Earth will be kind of cool to see.

"We're the most badass indestructible creatures on the planet ... and we'll be here to play in the dust that once was you poor lesser organisms. So there's that."

In the same vein, I often visit a deli that proclaims it’s food as “world-class“—is there an alternative? I mean, our whole existence is pretty much confined to this world, so everything made here is automatically “world-class,” right? Of course, this deli proclaims to create its fare with “only the freshest” ingredients … you know, to differentiate itself from the scores of eateries that serve up cuisine concocted from the oldest crap that they can find laying around. Chew on that next time you’re watching an ad from The Olive Garden.

Why is it that Autumn is the only season that has a second name—Fall? I suppose that comes from the leaves falling, but then why don’t we also call Spring “Grow” or “Renew” or even “Warmer”? Then we could call Summer “Hot” and Winter “The Death Season of Cold, Ice and Misery That Only The Mentally Ill and Kate and Steve Frank Could Like.”

Let’s talk about how actors and actresses are almost always referred to as “stars”—stars are supposed to be the brightest lights in the night sky, but there are other heavenly bodies up there, too. So if the leads or the most famous actors and actresses are the stars, doesn’t it stand to reason that the supporting or character actors that revolve around them should be referred to as planets? Like, “Curtis W. Armstrong and Clint Howard are two of the finest planets that Hollywood has to offer.”

On a completely different subject: If you’re for something, you are “pro” that issue—pro-life, pro-abortion, pro-capitalism, pro-cannibal … Yet, a “protest” is something staged when you’re against something. Interestingly, a “contest”—which it seems like what you *should* call it’d when you’re staging an event against a particular issue—is a competition staged to bring about a positive resolution. Really, the “con” is sort of superfluous and it could just be called a “test,” which is already a competition of sorts. I suppose a contest then is in the same vein of conjoined twins in that it involves two … but then shouldn’t it be called a “bi-test,” if we’re sticking to proper prefixes?

Speaking of proper language and grammar, I always remember my high school English teacher Mrs. Scinto used to point out that although many people are described as “uncouth,” not many (like myself) are complimented for being imbued with oodles of couth.

I also find it interesting that when we describe something as “awesome,” it’s usually because it’s got more than “some” awe in it, but yet if it was completely full of awe—and thus “awe-full,” or “awful,” well, that’s the opposite end of the spectrum. I mean, when we’re regretful, we’re full of regret, or beautiful, full of beauty, but this just doesn’t follow.

Not hard to understand why so many who immigrate here prefer to keep English as a second language—because it’s been proven to be crazy.

But it’s the only language I know … so I guess I’ll keep using it.

 

word games

Apr 082013
 

Stop me if this sounds too Seinfeldian. (Seinfeldish? Seinfeldesque? Seinfelafel?)

So the other day, I was standing in line at the local lunch place waiting for my sandwich, when I noticed the sign hanging over the counter that proclaimed the establishment to be “A World Class Delicatessen.”

Other than the missing hyphen (“world-class”), it occurred to me that “world-class” is a bit of an empty boast that we hear a lot—”world-class entertainment,” “world-class speed,” “world-class asshole.” But when you think about it, by the mere fact that this deli is in the one and only world we know, it automatically qualifies as being in the class of the world.

I mean, no one brags about being having “Earth-class” food. And expanding the idea a bit, no advertises themselves as being in possession of “underworld-class swimming skills” or “galaxy-class juggs.” Ultimately, calling something “world-class” is about as an empty a claim as you can make.

But that’s key in promoting yourself, isn’t it? Attempting to sound better than you might actually be, even if it means inventing terms or using phrases that ostensibly sound great but in reality, don’t mean a damn thing.

A few examples I’ve come across in my years of working in a world-class publication:

• fresh – If I had a dollar for every restaurant out there who claims to make their fare from “only from the freshest ingredients.” Right. Because all those *other* restaurants usually use old, rotting crap that’s been festering for months to serve their customers. Who in their right mind would say “we only use the oldest ingredients” as a selling point? Ridiculous.

• brand new – Because you can actually buy “brand old” products somewhere, so it’s important to distinguish.

• the latest – Again, because people are usually clamoring for the “older, most outdated” version of something, so it’s important to avoid confusion.

• well-appointed – You usually hear this description in regard to hotels or other accommodations, suggesting an air of elegance. It literally means “having a full array of suitable equipment or furnishings,” so really, every hotel room that has a bed to rest the night is technically “well-appointed.”

• eclectic – Another that sounds a lot more interesting than it is. Most times it’s used to imply that the style or decor of an establishment is imaginative or creative or even *whimsical*, but eclectic literally means “composed of elements drawn from various sources,” so guess what? Unless you’re talking about Abe Lincoln’s log cabin, a mud-brick hut in Southwestern Mexico or that ice hotel that they build every year in Quebec, pretty much every structure on the planet is “eclectic.” And considering that very rarely does every item used for decor come from the same exact place—the windows, the carpets, the doors, the furniture, the paint on the walls, the light fixtures, the tables, chairs, curtains, phones, etc.—you can essentially call anyplace “eclectic” and not be lying.

• sneak peak – Pssst …. If something is eagerly promoted and available for everyone to see, like a movie clip or trailer, there’s nothing “sneaky” about it.

• award-winning – Here’s all you need to know about this one: one of my Connecticut Society of Professional Journalism awards came when I was the only writer nominated in a category. So I am technically “an award-winning journalist” even though all I did to “win” was submit a story. It could’ve been, “All work and no plays makes Ray a dull boy” 80 times in a row (it wasn’t, for the record) and BOOM! I can now claim the title of award-winner.

I should point out that winning places other than “FIRST” technically qualify as “award-winning.” You know, as in, the award-winning Jackass: The Movie … which “won”a Golden Raspberry for “2002’s Most Flatulent Teen-Targeted Movie.” Ditto the award-winning Mike Myers abomination against nature The Cat in the Hat—the only movie my son ever begged we walk out of; it took home the Razzie in 2003 for “Worst Excuse for an Actual Movie.” An affront to civilization and intelligence, but technically an “award-winner.”

By the way, I do bill myself as “award-winning writer,” but that’s because I have had pieces win against actual competition. Oh, and DamnedCT.com actually won a Webster Award that we had no idea we were nominated for until halfway through the voting. Hard to believe but true.

• award-nominated – See “award-winning,” but to an even lesser extent. Think about this: With so many “awards” out there, from stinky shoes and dumb lawsuits to most sexist comment and weird-ass pictures, anyone can be nominated for anything.

Heck, right here and now, I nominate myself for the I-just-thought-of-this “best of rayality” award. So now I can  “award-nominated” blogger to my resume. Sweet!