May was positively filled with articles discussing Gatsby, and rightly so. The discussions were dis-jointed: some focused on the novel, while many others centered on the film, the parties, the adaptive difficulties, or the cultural intrigue of the work. And indeed, Fitzgerald’s novel is also quite frequently the case in point when anglo book-fiends re-kindle the flames of debate surrounding the “greatest” of the American novels. Yet, it seems, the public — as a collective conscience — takes its greatest interest in Gatsby when headlines are made by other media sources. The last time Gatsby made headlines, it was 2011, and a large portion of the (as of May 2013) now more than 36,500 current Goodreaders had reviewed it with just one star. Now, Baz Luhrmann has resurrected this Great Debate with his star-studded film, and we are again flooded with rhetorical opulence as we all claim our share of the decaying Gatsby estate.

There are excellent points and tidbids abound everywhere you can see: Huffington Post has posted 15 Inspirational Quotes by F. Scott Fitzgerald, as well as analysis of Gatsby’s greatness, countless outlets provided reviews and previews for the film , Buzzfeed posted a fun quiz comparing lines from Gatsby to Tumblr turns, The Atlantic challenged us to consider the appropriateness of “Gatsby parties,” Columbia University Press on Haruki Murakami’s Japanese translation of Gatsby, and countless more have wondered aloud whether Gatsby is indeed a “great American novel,” and if it is possible to appropriately translate Fitzgerald’s words to film.

These are all appropriate questions, and well timed at that; but they aren’t the question that interests me. The Great Gatsby has fascinated me since I first encountered it in 12th grade English, and its lasting allure for me are not Fitzgerald’s words, nor the plot. What I enjoy considering is why it (The Great Gatsby) is universally considered to be the Great American Novel.

For the benefit of this discussion, I’ll list the obvious responses one might come across, because all of them are tried and true: flawless prose and novel construction, Fitzgerlad’s demonstration of wealthy and reckless debauchery, the plot, which chronicles the rise and fall of Gatsby as a man, the self-made social identity of Jay Gatz, Gatsby’s enduring hope, a hallmark “American” naivety of the novel’s central characters, and the fickle nature of the American social conscience. Even the ideas and ideals of love from an American perspective. Yet all of these account for only a portion of the debate, and in that light, each response must remain inadequate to answer the question of why the novel is Great.

The truth is, Gatsby (the novel) is special to those who enjoy it for all of those reasons. AND thus, none of them. In fact, by my estimation, all of these reasons (and the 36,500 one-star ratings on Goodreads) are the only proper justification and argument of The Great Gatsby as the Great[est] American Novel. It’s a confusing thought, but it’s also the only one that addresses the best answer of “what it means to be American.”

Because the answer to that question has definitely changed over time. Being American in 1776 meant something different than it did in 1865, and both of those things were entirely different from Fitzgerald’s American Jazz Age. In 2013, our country only resembles these past assemblages of America at its core. The rest has changed. We have changed.

For instance, today, Americans hold almost no values universally. It’s a testament to our massive geographical, cultural, social, and religious diversity. And it’s the main reason I believe Gatsby is the Great American Novel. Because almost no two people can quite agree on why (or if) they like it. Not all of us even want to (or have) read it. It is, in all of its splendor, flexibility, and diversity, the perfect microcosmic example of our country.

We cannot agree on if it is the best any of us have ever written. We cannot even agree on if it is a novel at all (some do contend Gatsby is more appropriately a novella). When we enjoy it, we each have our own reasons. We can argue almost any discussion point in the book, and we can point to dozens of inadequacies or triumphs, depending on our individual perspectives and moods. Some of us might refuse to read it, and some of us might call any attempt at a film adaptation blasphemous. Yet, all of these things only further support Gatsby’s claim: because whether we arrive at Fitzgerald’s party with an invitation or not, whether we love the intimacy in the vastness of his vision or find it impossible to relate to, the American-ness of the novel shines: we are talking about it. It will come and go, and endure long enough to come again. And, if I had to name just one universally American characteristic, it is that we are enamored by discourse. The longer the better — and this discussion has been going on for eighty years.

When it comes to The Great Gatsby, we talk — about IT, and HIM, and THEN. We always have. I do not know of any other novel that has, for so long, sparked so fervent a debate over such few (and proportionally uncontroversial) words. And whether you feel love, or hate — boredom or excitement, at the thought of Gatsby, the point has been made: Fitzgerald’s work has made you feel something. To do that, all of these years later, must, above all else, make Gatsby great. And if you’re thinking to yourself that somewhere along the Mississippi River, Huck Finn is throwing stones from under a tree in Hell or Paradise, while Twain counts and re-counts until he arrives at 219, you’re probably correct.

I hope you disagree with me. I hope you can point to something I’ve overlooked. I hope you never ever have to read that trash, or that after reading it three hundred and ninety four times, you’ve figured out what “it” is. But until then, all that’s left now is for us to come together and drift apart, pointing to this book or that, edging towards the infinite (or ceaseless) current of time with the handful of stories that we’ll never quite know how – or where – to place, imagining (or, blindly hoping) for the wondrous moment when we can all agree on what the Greatest American Novel of All Time is. For now, I’ll leave you with one final thought:

No matter what the ink on the pages say, and regardless of who wrote it, Americans are aware of the importance of literature. And we all fight to protect the words we love — encrypting work so it cannot be erased, and protecting our pages from that famous flash point: Farenheit 451, when words melt into an abyss. Perhaps it is then, and only then, that a thing can become great.

You can visit Radha on her website, www.closetlands.com, and you can “like” and follow her on her Facebook fan page. Radha’s stage adaptation of her screenplay for Closet Land is available on CreateSpace.

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If someone googles you, the first thing they’re most likely to see would be Closet Land. Can you tell me a little bit about what that experience was like, looking back on it over 20 years later?

It is as rich and passionate an experience as when I first wrote the screenplay and directed the film. I felt an enormous commitment to the material—that it was bigger than me, that it had its own voice—and my task, after I finished the script, was to really be its guardian & shepherd it as best as I could.

That said, I feel the same passion and commitment to all my work, and the goal is to have other work that the search engines can identify me with.

I write to express something within that won’t be quelled. Ultimately, it’s like a song I sing for my own personal evolution — my own journey as a person. At its best, it’s spiritual. And if what I write resonates with other souls on their journey, all the better.

Your main credits on your website and on wikapedia are as a director and screenplay writer. Yet, it’s clear from your recent publications that you’ve been at least dabbling in short stories. Is that accurate?

I have been writing short stories and poems for a long time. It’s been a way to stay limber. Only recently did I decide to get the stories out. I was very fortunate in finding excellent publications like yours that responded enthusiastically to my work. And the encouragement of editors like you has spurred me to write more short fiction. I hope this trend continues! All creative activity is equally valuable, and my decision to get my short stories published came from that belief.

I’ve unfortunately been a bit lax with my website. The best way to follow me would be on the Facebook page for Closet Land.

This is probably the most important question I’ll ask, and yet it’s the one people so often overlook: Why do you write?

To express something within that won’t be quelled. Ultimately, it’s like a song I sing for my own personal evolution—my own journey as a person. At its best, it’s spiritual. And if what I write resonates with other souls on their journey, all the better.

Is there anything particularly appealing to you about short stories as an art form, or do you prefer writing novels and screenplays?

I enjoy all equally. Writing “pure” prose (short stories, novels), demands more from the writer. It grows you more, as a writer. Screenplays are often treated as blueprints (for the director and producers and stars to do what they will with it), and hence are seen as more functional. That is not to say there aren’t screenwriters whose scripts read like fully developed books. Ernest Lehman (The Sound of Music) always comes to mind, as a case in point. But screenwriters who have a strong point of view, an original take on things, a unique perspective, might find writing books and short stories develops their ideas and characters more, and that prose is a better forum to showcase their unique visions.

The Last Rite was a striking piece to us for everything that it was, and everything that it wasn’t. Can you talk a little about trying to balance telling a really compelling story to a western audience about a traditional woman from India? How do you reconcile her basic, human concerns and the “religious reality” of living in a rural, (seemingly) third-world environment?

Bharadwaj on the set of BASIL with Claire Forlan

It’s therefore a special thrill to me when Western readers spark to the same emotions in the story. Because their reaction validates what I’m trying to do: I want to strip the veneer of “the other” that typically shrouds characters from non-Western cultures, in books and other works that are intended for a Western audience. We are all the same. We carry within us the same palette, the same disposition towards good or evil. The differences—culture, skin colour, faith—are minor compared to what we share in common.

In The Last Rite, is there anything particularly interesting to you about water as a literary symbol, or is it just a means to an end?

Water is a basic necessity, but I wanted to elevate it into something rarer than gold. Which it would be, in a desert. When something that is so essential to survival is as scarce as it is in the story, the stakes go up, and the possibility for conflict, for tension, for suspense, all increase. All rich turf, for the story-teller.

Did growing up in India influence your art when you came to the U.S.? Did you notice a distinct difference between Indian fiction and Western “art”?

I create because I grew up in a rich cultural environment that was filled with the most incredible stories and myths from Hinduism. Nothing I’ve read, to date (and there are a lot of books I love)—comes close to The Mahabharata, in my estimation. Added to the literature was Indian classical music and dance (not Bollywood!) that we were exposed to as children. I think all of those influences contributed to anything I now do.

I was also exposed to Western art and literature since early childhood. But my roots are solidly in Hindu culture. My themes and philosophy spring from Hinduism’s Vedanta. It influences my best work. And since my roots, in the faith and culture of my own forbears, are very strong, I can look and admire and even participate in Western art and media—without losing my sense of self, my purpose, my distinct voice.

What’s next for you in your career as an artist? Can we expect more short stories, a short story anthology, more films, novels…?

All of what you mention! Why not? I believe in abundance. One thing leads to the next. Most films these days are based on books. Short stories lead to TV shows or plays. Once you create a product—be it a story, a book, a screenplay—the possibilities for the shapes it will take are endless. And writers have to be open to these opportunities for their work, and utilize that critical moment when one door opens, to unlock other doors.

Writers have to be open to these opportunities for their work, and utilize that critical moment when one door opens, to unlock other doors.

What’s more rewarding for you: the journey (i.e. writing a piece) or the destination (ie. Seeing it published, seeing the finished product)?

Writing the best one can is always an enormous reward—no one can ever take that away from you. But I’ve also chosen to show and share my thoughts and writing with the world. So the publication of works, production of films & plays, is a key step for me. It’s necessary to finding and connecting with like-minded kindred souls.

Do you have a favorite book, author, film, or artist?

My favorite book is The Mahabharata. I love Hitchcock’s films — I learned a lot about suspense and creating tension in plot from his films.

What do you when you’re looking for inspiration?

My stories come to me from issues or ideas that for whatever reason, intrigue me. The Last Rite, for example, came out of a desire to create a Hindu Indian woman, who—though poor and unlettered—shows formidable strength and survival skills. Not the pretty dancing Bollywood heroine waiting for the hero to save her, but a real heroine — with a tough life and few resources, and only enormous courage for company.

Do you have any advice for writers and artists looking to make their mark in the world?

Believe in yourself. And it always helps if that belief is rooted something larger than yourself: an ideology, a principle, a way of looking at the world, a belief. That’s the anchor in unsafe waters, the compass when the way ahead seems unclear.

READ The Last Rite NOW!

The one thing I want to do is let Western audiences know that people living in India aren’t really that different from them.

Dystopia is defined by the Oxford English Dictionary as “an imagined place or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad,” usually as a result of environmental degradation or totalitarian government. In short, these books are a societal pessimist’s prediction of where we’re headed.

Dystopian fiction has existed in some form or another since the 19th century. Some of the earliest examples are Oliver Bolokitten’s 1835 A Sojourn in the City of Amalgamation, and more famously, The Time Machine, by H.G. Wells. Wells’s novella, which was published in 1895, is a shining example of our society gone wrong. With a future that seems nothing short of backwards, Wells popularized a trend of dystopian literature that would include roughly 8 books per decade over the next century, including some of the most popular books of modern times.

Those books, which include George Orwell’s 1984, Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, and Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange (each belonging to a different decade) stand as testament to both the resonance of dystopian literature and compelling reflections on the fears of a society at a particular moment

Continuing to track the release of dystopian books, however, reveals a pronounced boom in the 2000’s. With 37 books published from 2000-2010, and 17 in the two years since, it seems that more authors are imagining a world/future where something isn’t quite right than ever before. At any rate, the genre seems poised to completely eclipse the preceding century with regard to the volume of books published. But now, as then, a certain book within the genre seems to have emerged as the “people’s choice” for posterity.

That book is Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games. A dystopian trilogy, Hunger Games recently celebrated its theatrical release by shattering nearly all box office records. With such popularity, Collins has virtually guaranteed a long-term readership, as generations to come will surely “volunteer as tribute” to engage this perfect example of modern dystopian fiction

And her readership will span decades. That’s another unique aspect of the dystopian novel – it has a pronounced shelf life; a sustainability worth considering. Most novels have a shelf life of roughly 15 years. Yet, a generation’s “dystopian pick” is seemingly elevated to a literary canon spanning generations. The books are taught in schools, and widely cited in political circles. And truly, dystopian novels create an environment of caution.

Perhaps “caution” is the greatest strength of dystopian literature. These books are passed on from generation to generation, after all. As they are, phrases and axioms seamlessly fuse with our social vernacular, despite the best efforts of Big Brother. From dystopian lit., we learn about our past as well as our social fears. And still, because perceptive youths are asked to digest these lessons, the importance of both [our past and social fears] as crucial tools in building for our future cannot be overstated.

That is, however, only the surface resonance of the dystopian genre. There are other arguments to be made, and contrary rationale to consider. To begin, there is a Candide-ian argument that would have us believe our world is the best of all possible worlds, and thus, we should be grateful for our struggles. Even in war, this argument goes, it-could-be-worse.

Running congruent to this hypothesis is the idea that by heeding cautionary tales, injustice can be overcome. Predatory Violence (A Clockwork Orange) the dangers of our reliance on technology (Fahrenheit 451), and censorship (1984) might all be problems we never have to confront, we hope, so long as their potential is fully understood by future generations.

Finally, there’s the fact that dystopian literature is changing. This generation’s exemplar series, Hunger Games, is not about a decline in morals, nor does it seek to temper the sacrifices of combat. Instead, it should be looked at as a very humanistic belief in the palpability of hope in the face of insurmountable obstacles. It’s a powerful tool, and one that seeks to depart from “dystopian classics” that offer no escape from a flawed reality.

It is this singular distinction — that The Hunger Games offers hope for people to change or re-claim their future, that is ultimately responsible for the book’s (and movie’s) success.

After all, the newest generations to take control of our society have read all of the classics. They’re keenly aware of what to avoid, and have been trained to spot and oppose oppression. They care for their environment and they value the middle class. Yet, in spite of all these lessons, they’ve never been offered an opportunity to fix a wrong in a Dystopia.

Finally, however, that once steadfast rule is becoming flexible. And when a story affords flexibility, when it allows a reader to solve a problem created by someone else at some other time, it becomes an interactive experience, rather than a cautionary one. Perhaps it is simply more commentary on the present generation, but I for one would welcome a future where the darkest part of the night is followed closely by the rising sun.

Follow Mike Vidafar on twitter @mikevidafar

It’s a fascination many of us haven’t even bothered to consider. After all, when most of us grew up, the question was “Batman or Superman?” – not “Superheroes or Regular People?” And that distinction is a great place to start a discussion of the place of “super-power” in our world, where it comes from, and how we interact with it.

In different variations, superheroes have been around since the beginning of stories. Warriors like “Swift-Footed” Achilles and villains like the mighty Cyclops dominated the Ancient Greek landscape, and are among the earliest “main stream” examples of super heroes. The trend is consistent throughout time though – from Beowulf and Grendel, to the Viking tales of Odin and Thor, and into modern day.

There are notable heroes who were not “super” as well: Sherlock Holmes is a prime example. In the modern canon, Batman is the most famous of the power-less heroes. Each hero, of course, highlights different aspects of what I like to think are the “heights of humanity.” Holmes’s intelligence and problem solving ability make him the man for London’s toughest crimes. Batman, on the other hand, stops evil-doers with his own brand of vigilante justice.

Moving beyond the natural, Gods (Zeus, Odin), mutants (Spider-Man, Wolverine) and aliens (Superman, Green Lantern) all seem to captivate us in the same way. They are (by all measures) extraordinary, and thus, are capable of accomplishing things most people cannot. However, it’s interesting to consider that superheroes are, most prominently, pit against equally powerful adversaries. We’re left with the question: What’s the point?

It would seem likely that if a person was indeed all-powerful, their power would be used for the betterment of society. Yet, we see examples over and over again (through epic) that “society building” is not done by Gods. It is not done by Superman. It is done by people. In Virgil’s Aeneid, Aeneas – the founder of Rome – is not even a demi-god. In The Odyssey, Odysseus – King of Ithaca – overcomes and rules without any supernatural ability (though he faces supernatural opposition in his quest). Similar accounts in early stories are common. Gods and other extraordinarily powerful creatures may inhabit, shape, and influence the world, but they are curiously never the ones founding cities or winning wars.

I don’t mean to imply that Gods are galactic spectators either. I just mean to say that the most powerful creatures tend not to be the ones granted the greatest societal prestige in early stories. Yet, those stories have evolved. Though they are similar in ability, Greek Gods are (at best) distant ancestors of today’s heroes: the earliest incarnations of modern marvels like Superman and Iron Man.

There is a long list of “requirements” for super-heroes. Qualities like a moral code, secret identity and “Achilles heel” are major topics addressed by Wikipedia, for instance. These traits belong at the forefront of our mind, because they are what define heroes for us. For example, we know Batman will not kill, and that a hero’s identity is a precious gem to be guarded, for in the wrong hands, it can lead to destruction. What gets overlooked, however, is the story itself.

We know that superhero all stories have evolved over time. Whether you want to “buy in” to Hades, Poseidon and Zeus as the predecessors to the Fantastic Four or not, it is true that at some point, all superheroes were born in stories. And we know that stories have evolved in a specific manner.

First, tales were oral. There were dedicated story-tellers, and they used heroes to recount episodes of extraordinary will, destiny, freedom, and pride. In other words, heroes began (quite literally) through word of mouth. Beyond that, their tales dealt so firmly with humanity that even when faced with a treacherous Siren song, a simple wax-plugging of your ears would render you victorious where others had failed.

The appeal is obvious: it’s something any of us could do. We could be that hero. Try to imagine that sort of mentality, and couple it with the freedom of not having an image to distort your dream. Hearing a tale of Achilles wasn’t accompanied by a painting. The tale lived in the audience’s imagination, and was given life by their own hope.

Fast forward to the written word, and still, the same holds true. Except that paper provided a “permanence” to a story that words alone couldn’t maintain. To be able to read of a hero’s plight over-and-over-and-over, to give it to another and have them experience the story exactly as you had, and to imagine someone (or something) greater was integral in the experience.

And finally, there is our modern superhero text: the comic book. For the first time, heroes were given faces. And with those faces came extraordinary powers, which (sort of) put the whole “it could be me” thing out of reach. Or did it? After all, there were secret identities and costumes, so if it isn’t me, it could be you. And then there’s the fact that many heroes were “average” once – before a metamorphosis of spirit or of ability.

With regard to environment, we are again encouraged to superimpose ourselves into the lives of our heroes. That’s because in many comic-realities, the world at play is our very own. There are recognizable countries, Presidents and histories. And in some instances (think: Captain America) the hero was even so much as a product of historical circumstance. What’s important to remember now – in the comic book era – is that heroes were fundamentally fighting for humanity, yet they almost never sought to rule over humans despite the wide-held belief that rulers should be the most powerful members of society.

And the truth is, their help was welcomed, embraced, and celebrated. After all, we could all use a hero. We’ve all wished one might come and solve our problems – fix our printers, cure cancer, or lift our car past scores of less fortunate onlookers in grid-locked traffic.

Our embrace has directly led to the current state of super-heroes. They made their jump to the silver screen because of the same desires that kept them alive throughout the evolution of the story. We want them to be real. Movies, especially in 2012, have enabled heroes to not only occupy our world, but to do so realistically. Ambitious cinematic projects like The Avengers are the result of years of careful planning, and showcase not only heroes that are plausible, but whom we identify and believe in. For all intents and purposes, they are real.

Though we – people, audiences, humans – may thirst for super powers, for the extraordinary, it is imperative that we also heed their lessons. If we all possessed an arbitrary power (let’s say flight), we would still have the same problems. Life wouldn’t improve, and we’d be praying to the stars for something else. The same is true of magic in general, and of power. Nothing will ever be enough.

That’s why the “rules” of super heroes have remained a constant over such a long period of time. It’s a driving force and belief that people are free to govern themselves (though help is always appreciated when monsters are abound). Heroes can’t solve problems or build bridges. What they can do is defend us, much in the same way we are expected to defend ourselves.

“Good guys” triumph because the alternative is oppression. It may be an overly democratic judgment, but to say that today’s heroes are simply the personification of societal values is a valid argument in my eyes. The final task, however, is for us to realize that super heroes are not an answer or a solution. They are simply a representation of our potential, and a reminder that anything is possible. And though they fight the battles that none of us want to fight, they are bound by our expectations. Our codes of responsibility, honor, free will and justice inspire “super-culture,” and thus, if you ever really need a hero, you can find one. They exist within all of us.

Follow Mike Vidafar on Twitter @mikevidafar

“A gift is not weighed and measured, nor can it be bought. It can’t be expected or demanded; rather it is granted, or it is not. In theological terms it’s a grace, proceeding from the fullness of being. One can pray for it, but one’s prayer will not therefore be answered. If this were not so, there would never be any writer’s block.” – Margaret Atwood, Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing

Folklore would have us believe that when the clock strikes midnight – the witching hour – that anything is possible. But for a writer, the realization of midnight is not always enchanting. Instead, especially when “keeper” sentences are at a premium, midnight can insight panic. For the men and women who make their living with words, no hindrance is as debilitating as an empty word processor, blinking menacingly atop an empty page. That space, the area where our panic, our disconnect from our words, and our frustration at not being able to perform a “simple” task, is where writer’s block lives.

While we can all (more or less) define writer’s block, and what it means to us personally, (and it is certainly a term we’ve all heard before,) for me, the task of writing about writer’s block carries with it the promise of the aforementioned. Yet, it is reasonable to consider that at least some part of writing about writer’s block should involve difficulty writing. If it didn’t, then as a writer, I would not be doing my enemy justice.

As is often the case, my writer’s block was helped by a change of perspective. I thought not of the in-action, but rather, of writers, and how they are constantly parrying the symptoms of this affliction. Ultimately, it is writers (the transcribers of the written word) who must discover their own definition (and solution for) writer’s bock by first discovering themselves.

The first thing every writer should always do – regardless of writer’s block – is to become familiar with the concept of “writerly” identity. When we do that, we force ourselves to come to terms with what our job implies. In that way, we are reminded not to overlook our identities as writers. We aren’t story tellers who are forced to get it right the first time. We are intellectual hoarders and hermits, with thousands of pages that were never good enough, and thousands more that join and separate during revisions.

Yet the first pitfall into the blank page of writer’s block lies in the despair of not knowing who we are, and the uncertainty of step that looms overhead as we struggle to shine in the shadows of our predecessors (or even our previous work) that immediately puts a “period” to what a writer might (wrongly) feel is ‘the most poorly considered words ever to be put down on paper.’ It’s a difficult realization to come to, but once we understand our “job titles,” we can comfortably get past the initial onset of writer’s block. Despite the protests of our inner critic: we are good enough to do this.

The mantra may seem cliché, and certainly among writers, there are some whose work really won’t ever be any good. But even they should be able to overcome a truant pen, if they can get in touch with their better half.

The idea that there are two halves to the writer is nothing new- there are a plethora of artists throughout history that have postulated the two halves of an artist: authors whose work is the personification of the struggle a writer faces internally, centered around the question of “who does the writing.”

From Ancient Greece through the Renaissance, writing was done not by authors, but by the Muses. Even the word “inspiration” literally means “breathed upon”- again implying that the source of writing comes from someone other than the writer. And for those who find themselves cut off from the Muses, or who try to force words when they have none would certainly agree that there is something almost alien about the creative process.

The trick, however, is to accept the alien, and to be nice to it during the writing process. As for the moment of writing itself – the crucial question of “when writing takes place”, Margaret Atwood has described her “best guess” using a metaphor of Lewis Carroll’s Alice and her infamous mirror:

The act of writing takes place at the moment when Alice passes through the mirror. At this one instant, the glass barrier between the doubles dissolves, and Alice is neither here nor there, though at the same time she is all of these at once.

That description, that there is a foreign element to our creative conscience, does illuminate the writer’s inability to always create compelling work. The trick then, to overcoming lackluster work, is to find a way to sacrifice the right sorts of ourselves to our work. That way, our creative doppelgängers will never lack inspiration, and we (the halves of ourselves who do not do the writing) will never have to venture into the realm of artistic dishonesty (where we have all surely wasted time and effort).

The last hindrance to a writer occurs when they confuse or neglect their only two obligations: to him or herself, and to the reader. Too often are we concerned with ‘what audiences/professors/readers want to hear’ and still, equally often, are we not concerned with anyone but ourselves. Leaning too heavily towards one side or the other will surely mean your work is doomed to lack balance, and worse, may remain unwritten in the first place (because you’ve spent so much time agonizing over the prospect of imperfection that you’ve lost the will to write at all).

Ultimately, all there can be, in my estimation, is a story that you think is worth telling. Whether it’s worth is measured to you by money or appreciation, however, is a different story. The simple fact, however, is that as writers, we need to write in order to avoid writer’s block. We need to constantly work and re-work and treat our task as a job, or we will simply fall in and out of favor with ourselves too often to sustain the discipline needed to improve.

My earliest brushes with the phrase “Writer’s Block” had it referred to as an affliction- as a disease. But when we do that – when we take the blame away ourselves, and place it over there – with the “virus,” we fail to examine the reds, blacks, blues, and yellows that we are made of- the essence of who the writer is.

Yet, if we can better understand who we are, then it serves to reason that we can likewise avoid the debilitation that comes with our trade. It is a constant struggle to cultivate the will and effort to expel our thoughts onto pages. And when we manage to do it, it’s rarely done perfect the first time. But that’s why we get to revise. In the end, if you believe you can do this, if you even so much as think you have what it takes, then stop reading and start throwing words down. We’re all waiting to see what you’re made of.

Follow Mike Vidafar on Twitter @mikevidafar

“…It may be that some great masterpiece that deserves immortality has fallen still-born from the press, but posterity will never hear of it; it may be that posterity will scrap all the best sellers of our day, but it is among them that it must choose.” –W. Somerset Maugham

When Amazon introduced its “peer review” (customer comment) section in 1995, they may not have anticipated how it (and they) would change the way books are consumed. They may not have realized that some writers, like Adam Mansbach (Author, Go the F^$% to Sleep) have taken off because of positive reviews, while countless others (the “still-borns”) have failed because their work (which may or may not have been good) did not meet the requisite “star rating”.

I’m not trying to say reviews are revolutionary; the reality is quite the opposite, actually. Reviews are nothing new. However, their influence has recently become something much more impactful then a single well-read critic could ever hope to garner. The “viral” nature of all things available on the internet has effected books much in the same way it has movies, music, video clips, networking, and the lot…that is: it’s completely altered the playing field.

When Lev Grossman, author and literary critic for TIME Magazine, wrote last week about the changes in his own critical theory, he brought to light the unspoken and uncomfortable reality facing us as readers:

“…Before the Internet opinions about books were a relatively scarce commodity in our culture, and they came from a relatively small group of sources. We didn’t have access to hot and cold running book reviews twenty-four seven, and therefore we weren’t exposed to millions and millions of passionately held, diametrically opposed opinions about books. The wild diversity of readerly responses was not all up in your grill all the time. You went to school, and somebody told you that The Great Gatsby was a masterpiece, and if you didn’t like it, well, something was wrong with you, not it.”

Grossman’s perspective, which is much closer to correct than any one opinion on any singular piece of literature, gives rise to an entire field of questions without providing any sort of sound starting point (which is for the best). Grossman’s whole premise is, in summary, that the individual experience of reading will lend itself to an invariably singular judgment (whether good or bad), and that the opinion you arrive at is entirely valid, despite the [varying] opinions of “other readers”. In the end, Grossman simply calls for an articulate and well-conceived discussion about why we don’t like books, so that we may begin to establish a standard off literary merit.

In and of itself, Grossman’s argument is compelling. What’s more compelling, however, is the response Grossman received (and gladly shared) from Regina Small, who is an assistant literary editor at America, as well as a writer for AWL.

That response, which is articulate in addition to being well thought out, echoes Grossman’s point and further expands it to include a discussion about when certain books are read (and by whom), as well as the impracticality of changing the way we (as reviewers) present our opinions of books. On her blog, she states “It is impossible for criticism of a particular work to exist in a vacuum, to exist apart from your opinions and my opinions.” And of course, the ironic beauty of this argument is that in responding to Grossman’s article, Small is engaging in exactly the sort of open-ended and “illuminating” response she is talking about. And as she continues, Small reminds us that reviews are

“…more accurately an articulation of an overwhelming need for confirmation that our thoughts are reflective of a world that actually exists. The intersection of literature and philosophy…So maybe rather than fear the grey void of aesthetic relativism, we should…keep talking… — and if there is any way to transcend the crippling fear that you are but a tiny, isolated transient bit of consciousness, the first step might be the weird decision to accept that…you are a tiny, isolated transient bit of consciousness, who needs to hear the plaintive one-star cries of all those people who might be/definitely are/definitely aren’t wrong.”

At first glance, it seems like a lot to sink your teeth into. In summation, Grossman thinks we should re-think the way we review. Small thinks we should instead embrace the chaos and the current critical climate. But what do the rest of us think? And are we really even being heard?

In all honesty, that is just as important a question as any we might ask when it comes to book reviews. According to Helen Coster of Forbes, who wrote a 2006 article on Amazon book reviewer for hire Donald Mitchell, some Amazon reviewers, like Mitchell, are paid to write reviews. Mitchell, who had (at the time) earned over $20,000 for his book review time has been extremely influential, and in her article, Coster acknowledged the significance of a positive review on Amazon, stating “Oprah Winfrey and the New York Times can elevate an obscure debut novelist to a best seller, but Amazon provides the shortest path between a good review and an actual sale: The two are just a click away.” And in all honesty, Mitchell is a fair reviewer. According to her article, his prose resonate with readers, and lead to favorable results, yet he is unbiased even when paid.

But should we be so naïve to assume that all paid-for-hire reviewers are so altruistic? Just last week, David Streitfeld, of the New York Times revealed that some companies were exchanging discounts and free merchandise for favorable reviews. Does this sound shocking? And is it a far stretch to consider that such practices have found their way to Amazon’s book section, which is possibly the most make-or-break department at the online retail giant?

Whether or not you believe in the merits of Amazon’s review system, or agree with the opinions of 29,000 people on Goodreads who disliked The Great Gatsby, the simple fact is that literary criticism is changing. With new tools like online publishing, and trends leading to increased literacy, it serves to reason that in the coming years, the lines will only continue to blur; the field will become more muddled.

When that happens – when we can no longer discern what is worthwhile from the reviews and opinions of strangers – what will we do? Will we return to the esteemed literary critics, who pretend to know a version of “quality” literature (although they themselves seem unclear on a definition of it)? Or are we past those questions, and have we arrived at greater ones?

This entire debate hinges on the assumption that there is value in talking about literature – that our emotions and expectations as they pertain to books are something real, and thus permanent. However, should we consider the alternative: that because the ultimate love or hate for a book comes from its resonance (or lack thereof) with a particular reader, that reviews are worthless to all but the reviewer, and that each of us must ultimately stumble upon books based on chance?

The daunting task of blind navigation in the galaxy of literature (past, present, and future) might turn you off. But not knowing what to think, or foregoing subjectivity in favor of intuition is nothing new.

Intuition, after all, is the only standard of measurement with which we can discern beauty. Speaking to this idea, W. Somerset Maugham, who was a “middlebrow” novelist circa 1930, wrote in his semi-autobiographical Cakes & Ale:

Beauty is an ecstasy; it is as simple as hunger. There is really nothing to be said about it. It is like the perfume of a rose: you can smell it and that is all. That is why the criticism of art, except in so far as it is unconcerned with beauty and therefore with art, is tiresome.

And his point is still well taken. Criticism cannot account for all of us because our identity is continually being re-shaped by the literature we consume (and for the first time, the ways in which we consume it). And to that point, the task of navigating literature – of discerning quality – falls squarely on our shoulders. Whether or not reviews serve as honest representations of the books they discuss, and irrespective to the dialogue any comment can create, we must read.

No one can be certain when they will browse over that one line that might change the entire way they consider a particular subject, and it is in search of that magic that we continue to defend, or condemn books. We long for the magic of stories, which hold us together, and are the collective life-blood that flow throughout history, connecting us in primal ways that even facebook and twitter could not understand. And so, we take chances on the books that might one day re-shape us on a molecular level, even if we are the only ones who would rate them five stars.

Follow Mike Vidafar on Twitter @mikevidafar

The E-Reader “craze” cannot really be classified a “craze” anymore. Craze was last year, or maybe the year before. Craze was before one in four Americans owned at least one tablet or e-reader. Now, there is clearly something larger at stake. Experts across the literary community, who were scratching their heads as they gazed into their crystal balls last year, are now rolling up their sleeves, choosing sides, forming alliances, and preparing for the war over literature.

There are champions on both sides of this battleground, and as the warriors who will ultimately decide the future of books, it is our job to weigh in on the argument, and to fight its battles with our wallets. The debate, which was discussed at a May 2011 lecture sponsored by the Wall Street Journal, essentially hinges on a universally accepted prediction: that within five years, e-books will comprise 50% of all book sales in the United States.

That Wall Street Journal panel, which included authors, columnists, and publishers, and who discussed the future, potential impact, and sustainability of e-books on May 17, 2011 in New York City, provided a glimpse into the minds of the people who truly love books. The problem, they agreed, was that simple love wasn’t enough. The industry, as it is, has forced people to choose sides. The “Adapt or Die” mentality of the Big Six U.S. Publishers, many writers, and upstart youths has, however, created an equal opposition to the seemingly unstoppable rise in e-book sales figures.

The primary concern of anti-e-bookers, which has been compellingly argued by authors such as Seanan McGuire, is that the less privileged will be forgotten. In September 2011, she openly questioned the impact of e-books and e-readers on lower income families. Those concerns run congruent to statistical data, which estimates that 31% of households with e-readers earn between $30,000-$75,000 annually. Ignoring the huge difference between the high and low of that range, one must still keep in mind that $30,000 is nearly double the minimum wage in most states. And, as McGuire has said:

I grew up so far below the poverty line that you couldn’t see it from my window, no matter how clear the day was. My bedroom was an ocean of books. Almost all of them were acquired second hand…if books had required having access to a piece of technology – even a “cheap” piece of technology, I would never have been able to get them. The up front cost would have put them out of my reach forever.

The potential for an entire class of people in the U.S. to wind up without access to literature is alarming, and what’s more: we must acknowledge that these concerns are genuine. That means that people who are living below the poverty line will have reduced access to books, since library funding is also decreasing, and in states like California, has been entirely eliminated. Therefore, it stands to reason that a particular group of people in the U.S. will actually have a more limited access to information since the civil rights and women’s suffrage movements of the 1960’s.

Still, though, technology is not entirely harmful. In fact, above the poverty line, it has helped to improve literacy- with technologies like e-readers, and twitter providing more accessible and “cool” forums to boost reading. To that end, authors like Neil Gaiman have reminded us:

We write. We read. That’s literacy. And [technology like] twitter is simply a medium for communicating in words…It’s not long since the death of the written word was being touted. Instead, we write more and we read more.

And thus, the great divide is being made. In the simplest terms, those who love the look, feel, and smell of books are being labeled “traditionalists”, and those who enjoy the portability and convenience of e-books are propagating the death of the codex book. But the truth is, it’s not that simple. To be certain, there is something amiss with the publishing industry, and the divide that booksellers are creating between readers is almost as ugly as the one that e-publishing has created for writers (but that is a story for a different day.).

Adding to the fodder, however, are new concerns arising from government proposed censorship of the internet with proposed bills including SOPA and PIPA (both of which met a firestorm of opposition from internet users). The potential sort of unchecked power is what has made still more authors wary of digital books. Jonathan Franzen, who is a New York Times best-selling author, has weighed in on e-books in recent weeks:

I think for serious readers, a sense of permanence has always been part of the experience…Someone worked really hard to make the language just right, just the way they wanted it. They were so sure of it that they printed it in ink, on paper. A screen always feels like we could delete that, change that, move it around.

Franzen’s argument, originally published in The Telegraph, is the most compelling yet, amidst a laundry list of concerns over this new technology. Still, though, when it’ is “in the cloud”, a book cannot be censored for long. It cannot be symbolically burnt, or withheld indefinitely. While concerns of censorship or change threaten the permanence of books, they also provide a level of accessibility, and with that accessibility comes the potential to re-engage readerships like never before. Even now, publishing companies are working to re-present stories to readers in new ways. These innovations, they hope, will help to engage readers and bring aspects of the book that have been “limited” to the imagination out in the open.

At the end of the day, however, the book war, like most wars, is rooted in money, but masked in ideology. It will be won with sales figures, and with commitment from readerships. Whether younger generations embrace the technology will not be a question: they will use only what is available to them, or what seems fashionable. The question is, however, who will make the first mistake. Just as technological giants such as Twitter and Google have been criticized for censorship, if an e-book distributor or government chooses to censor book content, the potential resulting backlash could be so detrimental that it ensures the survival of codex books. On the flip side, however, if e-books can form a symbiotic relationship with institutions like libraries, and communities could find a way to weather consumers’ financial burdens, then there is a real chance that print books may have their pages numbered.

Further Reading:

Use the hashtag #bookwar to discuss e-readers on Twitter

Read Seanan McGuire’s full article on E-readers, Across The Digital Divide here

Read the UT-San Diego Pew Institute’s Findings here

Read The Telegraph’s Full Article on Jonathan Franzen and E-Readers here

Watch the full video of the WSJ Lecture on The Future of the Book here

Follow Mike Vidafar on Twitter @mikevidafar

Struggling writers, who are echoing each other’s despair across the country, are facing the culmination of issues brought on by new technology, the limitations of education, and an unpredictable economy that have made “the real world” a volatile environment, where many aspiring writer are longing for the safety and permanence of their written words. Part of the problem is a result of our changing world. Today, more than ever, educational institutions view art as an abstract luxury because of the country’s difficult economic times. Indeed, with our education dollars and our businesses, the United States has clearly shifted its cultural emphasis from humanitarian disciplines like English, Art, and History to more “practical” concentrations with clear applications such as Economics, Engineering, and the Sciences. Their rationale has always been to “get a student a job.” And because of that, from the top down, our culture is being re-shaped to exclude opportunity for young people who want to pursue writing, journalism, and their related disciplines, because jobs are becoming less likely to come by.

Although it may seem puzzling to consider that educated youths are struggling to find employment, we must consider that Americans are graduating college at the highest rates in our country’s history. The resulting surplus of individuals with higher educational experience has led writers and journalists to a job market that has become super-saturated, and therefore generally uninterested and unwilling to gamble on the potential impact of their contribution, because of the risk it entails. This pessimism is unfortunately practiced almost irrespective of an individual’s abilities, education, or potential.

However, the hardships associated with entering a volatile job market are hardly a deterrent for high school students who enter college unsure and unprepared for a continuation and specification of their academic studies, who view a job as a distant worry. And because of personal uncertainty relating to their education, many students seek refuge in humanitarian disciplines like English- one of the few majors where individual thoughts and opinions are not only allowed, but encouraged throughout one’s academic career. In fact, the central premise of many English programs is to provide an outlet for students to express themselves both in class and through assignments.

And, generally speaking, English students are satisfied with their degree. However, there is another, harsh reality awaiting them once they leave the comfortable confines of their college classrooms: English majors have a very difficult time finding jobs.

The knee-jerk reaction of an outsider who hears of an English major is to venture a guess at the most “logical” career path: teacher. However, an informal survey conducted on 120 English majors at Stony Brook University in 2010 by Stephen Spector, who is a Professor and Chairperson of the English Department at Stony Brook University, revealed about 50% wanted to pursue teaching. What many of those aspiring English teachers face, however, is a lack of job openings (which echoes the fissures in our education system). Most secondary schools have few or no job openings for English teachers. Additionally, current (and tenured) secondary-school faculty are choosing to continue to work because of the current economic climate and a rising uncertainty concerning government retirement plans.

And then, of course, there are the other 50% of English majors. These students, whose interests and career goals carry a wealth of variety, are left to compete against a current job force that are willing to work for less or equal pay, have no college debt, and who have more experience “in the field”, as well as against each other. In contrast, humanities majors rarely “compete” until after school, focusing instead on cooperation while at school.

This job environment may seem like a perfect storm of adversity, and indeed, it is not helped by technology as much as one might think. With the advent of e-readers, and the popularity of online book retailers like Amazon.com, aspiring writers are facing new challenges, since agents and publishers have become unwilling to “take chances” on first time writers who may not meet wild success with their debut work, and because of the surplus of available work that readers have available to them. Because of this, traditional publishers are putting pressure on agents to pitch “can’t miss” books. Agents are then forced to stake their reputation on the authors they introduce.

That risk more readily illuminates why agencies are not quick to hire or take on writers, either. And while the recent graduate might argue for the strengths they hold in using digital media, as well as their talent, passion, and willingness to work, the truth is that employers are not so sure.

Uncertainty is another driving force behind the failures of job seeking writers, and it may not even be their fault. Some form of thought has risen, an experienced Risk Professional at a large financial services firm based in New York disclosed to me, that some companies have expressed concerns over hiring “unproven” workers:

Many employers feel like they can’t be sure of the motivations of a recent college graduate today. When I was just starting, many of us were hungry, and the consensus was that you would be willing to work extended days [to get ahead]. Now though, you see kids coming out of school and they are content working their eight hours and going home, because there has been a shift of emphasis in our children from getting ahead professionally to getting ahead in a private life.

The Risk Professional, who asked to remain anonymous, added that because of this, many businesses might feel more comfortable entrusting a new position to an older employee who had an established personal life. The emphasis that he highlighted, however, is a shift in our youth from professional hunger to personal fulfillment.

That perception, whether right or wrong, is compounding the complexities of navigation and success for writers who have focused on their education. Alone, this would be a formidable perception to overcome, but as more and more graduating students are finding, adversity is a many-headed monster. From the time students begin their studies, many who have not had the luxury of attending an “arts” school face the looming prospects of cuts to departmental budgets, which translates into fewer faculty, and fewer classroom resources.

For writers, the trend (of low budgets and few resources) continues when they leave school, having been educated and trained in a variety of skills like rhetoric, prose, and analysis, but with nowhere to call home or apply those abilities. Some might say that the discipline [of writing] itself is too broad to provide proper direction, and others might question the value of the skillset students learn. However, as a noteworthy 2008 presidential candidate proved, there is something powerfully resonant and universally appealing about the ability to articulate oneself.

Because of their struggles to find paid work, though, many writers have turned to the internet, where blogging and small “boutique” websites have emerged as viable commodities for aspiring writers to seek an audience for their thoughts. However, pay for such work is rare, and thus, the education of writers seems to be closer to perfecting a hobby then preparation for “a real job”, despite the fact that writers comprise some of the most generally well read, widely knowledgeable, and articulate members of any college campus and work environment.

Ultimately, however, technological advances – from the internet to e-readers, have hurt writers, because despite positive stories from writers whose blogs have gained huge followings, the failures of the masses far outnumber the successes of the few. Simply put: because of competition and lack of work, the life of the “starving artist” is becoming the standard of living for those who wish to study and pursue writing as a career.

The ultimate risk then, of choosing to be a writer, must be born of a love for reading, writing, and voicing one’s opinion. The truth is, this profession holds no promise of certainty or comfort. Rather, you as a person must cultivate thick skin and a competitive nature as you begin pursuing your future. Because all that you are guaranteed upon graduation is a degree, and a chance to pursue your goals, armed only with the knowledge that your education was worth something. And even if no one knows it but us, you will be heard.

Follow Mike Vidafar on Twitter @mikevidafar

The chilled and frosty stillness of early winter morning seems to crystallize dreams and ideas, drags them forth from the damp fog and suspends them before the minds’s eye. There they appear to be so solid and mirror-clear that it is easy to believe that you only need to reach out and grasp them with naked hands; pluck them from the air and lay them out on a table. Seeing your creative imaginings in such stark, raw clarity and honesty can be terrifying. They are so fresh and delicate that it is easy to fear their new life may be painfully brief, or that they are useless and unworthy of exploration. You may even come to think that your pre-dawn ideas will dissipate—wash away into nothingness with the first cold spill of milky winter sunlight.

However, the watery, grey-white cast of a winter day makes them appear all the brighter; makes their colors richer, their edges stand out in almost aggressively bold and crisp relief. Winter tugs up the lids of the mind’s eye and allows it to really see, with unblinking focus on every fledgling creative idea that stumbles and toddles before it. And you find that, perhaps you were too quick to shy away from them. Instead, a fondness grows warm and sharp inside you for their lovely awkwardness, and with that comes an aching desire to give them give them life and purpose. In the quiet of winter, when you are alone and tending to your imagination, you can develop patience for yourself, your creativity, and your creative process.

Now, for all that winter may have its harsh, frosty layers, there is still sweetness to be found. This season has many sensual aspects to explore. Worlds exist in the warm, velvety sip of good hot chocolate and the heady, smoky tang of wood burning in the fireplace. Mystery in the pockets and lapels of a pea coat. Emotional resonance in the tail of a scarf flickering in the wind. And you never know what your fingers may discover in the bumps and curves and creases of hearty winter vegetables. The prickling sensation on your pallet from spices found in a mug of hot apple cider or mulled wine, or a bite of fresh gingerbread can conjure up playful and exciting ideas, carry you away to places real or imagined, and add flavor and zest to any characters or scenes of yours that you feel are too bland. On that note, when you are feeling slumpy and frustrated, think of winterberries. There is something rebellious and voluptuous about those bright red clusters of fruit, thriving—vivid, resilient, and alive—in weather that seems to preclude the survival of most plant life. So, should you find yourself suffering a particularly grievous bout of self-pity, despairing in the belief that your writing will never bear fruit, and merely thinking about picking up a pen requires herculean effort, picture winterberries. See them rich in color and life, all the while thickly covered in snow. And come to trust that both you and your writing are stronger than you think.

Reading and writing plays can be an interesting way to hone your craft in a genre you may not have considered. Schools have always taught Shakespeare in literature classes because of his development of plot and characters, even inside the specific mechanism of the play, are so phenomenal. These are tools that are necessary no matter what you are writing.

The role of the narrator takes on an interesting shift in a play. In fiction, you choose a first, second, third, or sometimes even omniscient narrator (or a combination) to pull everything together and make clear what is going on. In a play the audience can see the events and action, so the role of narrator falls to the author as the one who silently brings everything together, slipping in hints and background where necessary.

The nature of drama brings to the relationship of writer and receiver to the forefront, allowing you to consider the power of the audience as real human beings experiencing the words you write. Because the words in a play are heard and not read, the visual component is on the action and not on words on a page. This also influences how you write a character. While your characters should be as rich and psychologically real and complex, the audience sometimes won’t have access to their inner thoughts as often as they would reading a first person account in a story. This puts a renewed importance on dialogue, and you’ll want to consider whether long, revealing monologues or shorter, more declarative statements are in order. Words in a play are not just words, they are speech. You’ll want to pay extra attention to tone and repetition, as your audience will be hearing these things out loud instead of reading them. The pace, passion and wit of a play is especially important-the audience’s attention must be held throughout. In his book, The Art and Craft of Playwriting, Jeffrey Hatcher invokes the idea that throughout one’s theatre going life, it is likely that by the time they reach 80 they will want some of that time back. As Hatcher says, “Our job in the theatre is to make that octogenarian regret not one moment he’s spent in the dark.”

While the language is the driving force, as a playwright you’ll need to consider the visual as well. It is important in fiction to set the scene, to describe reality and settings. Playwrights do this too, but the fruits of their effort are present in the set. Consider putting these ideas or descriptions in the stage directions. Instead of describing the scene, you’ll need to populate it with both real items and real emotion.

While the art of theatre is as old as writing, the themes and issues in modern playwriting are as dynamic and diverse as the writers who put them forward. Modern plays such as Tony Kushner’s Angels in America, Suzan-Lori Parks’ Topdog/Underdog, and John Patrick Shanley’s Doubt all connect with audiences by presenting issues both modern and timeless through prose that is both dynamic on stage and transformative on paper.

For more information and advice on playwriting try Hatcher’s book, The Dramatic Writer’s Companion: Tools to Develop Characters, Cause Scenes, and Build Stories, (Chicago Guides to Writing, Editing, and Publishing), by Will Dunne, or The Playwright’s Guidebook: An Insightful Primer on the Art of Dramatic Writing by Stuart Spencer.