Chaos and Creativity

The act of creation is often chaotic.

As Marilyn Ferguson said, “The creative process requires chaos before form emerges.”

Artists work with chaos—a truth embodied in Sharon Hubbard’s observation that “The creation of true art requires some mysterious innate ability to thrive in chaos.”

Art is an attempt at creating order out of chaos—or at the very least a way of searching for and assigning meaning to the chaos itself.

There’s a random, mysterious, sometimes chaotic element to the universe that I think those of us who spend our time engaged in creating art are particularly sensitive to. Perhaps that’s why chaos theory so appeals to me, and why one of my favorite sayings is: “God created order out of chaos, but sometimes the chaos shows through.” This is also why, for me, any religion, philosophy, or worldview that claims to explain everything is simplistic, shortsighted, and suspect (seriously lacking in credibility).

In dealing with the chaos of existence, there seems to be two approaches—those of us who welcome, even invite, it in, and those who attempt, with all the defensiveness they can muster, to keep it at bay.

My own approach is one of openness—honoring the random, the chaotic, the humbling that reminds me just how not in control I really am—all the while careful to avoid manufactured drama and the destructiveness of unnecessary anarchy. But regardless of the approach, the artist and spiritually open person can’t afford not to embrace the whirlwind.

Like everything else, there are counterfeits for chaos, and some people get addicted to the rush and so continually create circumstances so that their lives resemble a Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Some artists suck on chaos like it’s a crack pipe, and so recklessly and routinely set fire to their own lives.

Guido Contini, whose story is told in Rob Marshall’s musical, “Nine,” appears to be just such an artist—a gifted writer/director who’s lost all control of his life and appetites. In fact, at one point his estranged wife, Luisa, tells him that that’s all he is—an appetite.

Guido Contini (Daniel Day-Lewis), famous Italian film director, has turned forty and faces a double crisis: he has to shoot a film for which he can’t write the script, and his wife of twenty years, the film star Luisa del Forno (Marion Cotillard), may be about to leave him. As it turns out, it is the same crisis.

Luisa's efforts to talk to him seem to be drowned out by voices in his head: voices of women in his life, speaking through the walls of his memory, insistent, flirtatious, irresistible, potent. Women Guido has loved, and from whom he has derived the entire vitality of a creative life, now as stalled as his marriage—his mistress (Penelope Cruz), his film star muse (Nicole Kidman), his confidant and costume designer (Judi Dench), an American fashion journalist (Kate Hudson), the prostitute from his youth (Fergie) and his mother (Sophia Loren).

As Guido struggles to find a story for his film, he becomes increasingly preoccupied—his interior world sometimes becoming indistinguishable from the objective world—and his producer suggests he make a musical, an idea which itself veers off into a feminine fantasy of extraordinary vividness.

“Nine” is the film adaptation of a musical inspired by Fellini’s mesmerizing classic, “81/2.” Ordinarily, I’m not much on musicals, but because of the subject matter here and its connection to Fellini and “81/2,” I wanted to see “Nine” from the moment I heard about it. And the film did not disappoint. I expected to like the story in spite of the musical intrusions, but found myself really responding to a few of the numbers, and appreciating the masterful way Marshal stitched them into the seam of the narrative. I really enjoyed the musical performance by Fergie, which is not surprising, but what I found shocking was just how talented a singer Kate Hudson is. But it’s not the musical but the dramatic performances that make the movie something special, and though all are particularly strong, Daniel Day-Lewis is again amazing, and Marion Cotillard is absolutely heartbreaking.

Being creative involves chaos. But nothing is as chaotic as the frustration that results from the chaos in an artist’s life becoming so out of balance that it no longer allows for creativity. Few films embody these truths as dramatically and powerfully as “81/2” and “Nine.”

Saul Bellow said that “Art is the achievement of stillness in the midst of chaos”—something Guido has yet to learn.

In life, as in art, there’s real skill involved in managing chaos. Of course, chaos can’t be controlled. I’m not suggesting it can. Maybe it can’t even be managed, but we can. We can manage ourselves, our responses.

Maybe managing chaos is like trying to make a movie without a script or maybe it’s an altogether absurd notion in the way “talking about love is like dancing about architecture.” And in the end, that’s what “81/2” and “Nine” and life are all about—love. Love that drives us to create. Create connections—with our words, our bodies, our beings, our art—and, in doing so, touch the void, approach the whirlwind, open our belts and minds and hearts to chaos. A chaos that, depending on how we respond, can lead to creation or destruction—to art, to a more artful life, or to even more chaos.

Film Criticism

I’m not an expert on film (or anything else), but I am a student of it, and I’ve dabbled in it enough to know just how difficult it is to do well. I’ve taken a few film classes, I’ve written and sold screenplays, I’ve made a half dozen short films and one handheld, no-budget feature, I’ve read hundreds of books on film, and watched thousands of movies—just enough to know how very little I know.

Of course you don’t have to be an expert in or even a student of film to know just how challenging it is to make good ones—even the most casual moviegoer can tell you that more mediocre movies are made than anything else, and far, far more bad films are made than great ones.

Still, I find it a bit uncomfortable to criticize the state of American cinema. Part of the reason is in the difference in knowing and doing. I know a little about film, but I’m not a working filmmaker—and there’s an enormous difference between the two. I feel far more comfortable speaking about the state of American publishing or criticizing novels because I’m a working novelist. But, here again, because I do it, because I know how difficult it is to do well, I find it difficult to be vitriolic or violent in the way so many haters online and in print are.

I recall a challenge John Mellencamp issued to haters years ago. “You make your best rock record and I’ll make mine,” he said, “and then we’ll compare the two.”

The point is well taken. Criticizing is easy. Creating enduring art isn’t. And making an attempt at making authentic art gives us greater appreciation for all who do—regardless of the relative failure that results.

And it will fail. Everything does—particularly art. I understand this all too well. As Joyce Carol Oats observed, “The artist, perhaps more than any other person, inhabits failure.”

This same sentiment is echoed in a remark by TS Eliot. When someone commented to him that most critics are failed writers, he responded, “So are most writers.” I would say all. It’s just some books fail less than others.

My approach to this column has been to reflect on life and meaning as I’m inspired by exemplary works of art, and with few exceptions—a few books and movies so bad I had to comment or mediocre works that nonetheless provoked thoughts I felt worth sharing—I’ve done just that, which casts me in the role of appreciater far more than criticizer.

But the state of Hollywood movies in general, and summer movies in particular, is so bad, I’m compelled to write about it, so, having said all the above, I will now step out of my role as appreciater and into the ill-fitting clothes of criticizer.

What’s wrong with Hollywood?

It all comes down to character and story. We come to movies wanting an experience of what it means to be human. Whether in ordinary or extraordinary circumstances, we hunger for humanity—everything else is secondary. Everything—visuals, stunts, explosions, chases, spectacles. What’s missing is humanity—people we can relate to in credible (if extraordinary or even unrealistic) situations.
And here’s why: money.

Art for profit becomes entertainment. Entertainment produced to make the most money possible becomes hollow, shallow, silly, bloodless, lifeless.

Like politics and our “free” market, greed has largely spoiled the entertainment industry. Blockbuster-driven studios produce absurdly big budget movies that, like other entities in our society are “too big to fail,” and so try to be all things to all people, attempting an even more watered-down version of what worked before.

Sure, there are still a few auteurs around working within the studios, but most are forced to make independent films—something becoming increasingly difficult to do, with fewer and fewer means of distribution.

In the same way chain stores, blockbuster and celebrity books have negatively impacted publishing, cineplexes, blockbuster movies, and star vehicles have hurt the film industry.


Here’s my Top 10 list of What’s Wrong with Hollywood.


1. Illiteracy. Too many people at the top making the biggest decisions don’t read—not books and not even the scripts they’re greenlighting.


2. Gatekeepers. Interns are doing most of the reading, writing coverage, and, therefore, deciding.


3. Risk aversion. Art can’t be made without risk.


4. Money. See above. Things are out of balance. Too much business, not enough show.


5. Sequels. Enough!


6. Old TV shows. Even if something happened to work as a television show, chances are it won’t as a film. TV and film are different mediums—and it has little to do with the relative size of the screen.


7. Video games. Really? Really?


8. Pyrotechnics over people. If we don’t care about your characters, we’ll soon be bored with your explosions.


9. Skewing tween. By attempting to make PG-13 movies for adults that appeal to tweens, too, you do neither.


10. 3D. Gimmicks can’t distract us from seeing that you have only cardboard characters and a preposterous plot—and having to see that in 3D just makes our heads ache all the more.

Lawyer Lit

I’m willing to bet a not insubstantial sum (or would if I had it) that the vast majority of the reading public not only not make a distinction between literary and genre fiction, but couldn’t care less that some people do.

Mostly the people who make such distinctions are critics, academics, writers, agents, and editors—in other words “insiders” or “industry” people—and I hear them do it all the time.

In general—and these are gross generalizations— they say genre fiction is more about plot and entertainment, literary about character and the writing itself. Genre fiction is more mass market driven, popular, transient; literary fiction, more serious, sophisticated, elite, enduring.

But these are false distinctions.

To say that all genre books are poorly written or that all literary books are well written is akin to racism—a dangerous prejudice. Lazy. Easy. Thoughtless. Careless. Ignorant.

Certain genre fiction is as literary as anything being written and published. What matters most is if a book is well written, if it’s worth the investment of our precious reading moments, not where it is shelved.

Graham Greene, a great novelist and one of my mentors, made the distinction in his own work between what he called “entertainments” and his more serious novels, but both were well written.

In my own work, I attempt to develop character and use language in ways that are considered literary, but plot for suspense and to entertain in such a way so that readers rapidly turn pages and stay up late reading the way they do genre books.

Scott Turow does the same thing.

Over two decades ago, Turow virtually invented an entirely new subgenre of crime fiction—the legal thriller. Sure, there had been other novels about the law and lawyers before his, but none that so reveled in the practices and procedures of our culture’s most reviled profession. And no one had ever written about it quite so eloquently—or with such mystery and suspense.

The novel was “Presumed Innocent,” and though many legal thrillers by Grisham and company have followed, none—including Turow’s other efforts—have ever equaled it.

Now, Turow is back with “Innocent,” the sequel to that genre-defining, landmark bestseller that inspired the hit movie starring Harrison Ford, and it continues the story of Rusty Sabich and Tommy Molto.

More than twenty years after Rusty and Tommy went head-to-head in the shattering murder trial of “Presumed Innocent,” the men are pitted against each other once again in a riveting psychological match. When Sabich, now over sixty years old and the chief judge of an appellate court, finds his wife, Barbara, dead under mysterious circumstances, Molto accuses him of murder for the second time, setting into motion a trial that is vintage Turow—the courtroom at its most taut and explosive.

Implicit in “Innocent” is the question: Are people capable of true change? I know we like to think so. I honestly think I’m growing and evolving, but maybe this, like so much, is merely an illusion. I believe change is possible, but know how very difficult it is to achieve. In the two decades since we’ve seen him, Rusty has changed very little. Maybe I’m not nearly as different from my twenty-year-ago self as I think I am. Maybe I’m not meant to be. I do believe that the most valid, worthy, and possible change is that which brings us back to our original selves, to our essential core—which might be far less about change and far more about restoration. Removing the layers of dust and rust, of karmic particles, until we can once again see the face we had before we were born.

Interestingly, the person who had changed the most from “Presumed Innocent” to “Innocent” is not the protagonist but the antagonist. Throughout the book Tommy Molto marvels at the ways in which he has changed. And it’s true. He has. And yet, he gets pulled right back into the situations and scenarios that mirror those of twenty years ago. Not only is change not easy. It’s not permanent. Like an addict working a twelve steps program, we have to walk the walk of our change, realizing it’s a process, a journey, not predetermined, not a destination.

With his characteristic insight into both the dark truths of the human psyche and the dense intricacies of the criminal justice system, Scott Turow proves once again he knows how to write a book that compels us to read late into the night, desperate to know who dunnit. But he does this with graceful good writing, with a style that has substance.

A worthy follow-up to “Presumed Innocent,” “Innocent” is a well written character study, an exploration of a family and its secrets, a marriage and its mysteries, a look at how little has changed in the lives of the characters we found so compelling two decades ago.

Unlike most attorneys turned novelists, Turow excels as a writer first—worth reading even without the mystery, the suspenseful plotting, the intricacies of the law, the inside view and insight into the criminal justice system his books offer.

Is “Innocent” literary fiction or a genre book? Ultimately, it doesn’t matter—and the fact that it is a hybrid, part literary novel, part mystery/thriller, proves just how much. The best books are both. The most enduring books are well written, with multi-faceted characters, and a compelling story with plenty of drama and conflict. “Innocent” is just such a book.

A Million Young Poets

Last week, I traveled to New York for “Double Exposure” and “Thunder Beach” signings and meetings as part of Book Expo America, the publishing industry’s largest trade show, where hundreds of publishing organizations meet to promote their upcoming summer and fall titles, and every branch of the industry converges to discuss and plan for the future.

Over 22,000 attendees crowded into the Javits Center, where, in spite of the current economy and the state of reading in America, there was genuine excitement and optimism. Books were signed. Deals were struck. Contacts were made.

It was a quick, but extremely successful trip for me. Had great meetings with my agent and editors and publishers. Had two signings for “Thunder Beach” and ran out of books at each.

This was only my second trip to New York, but I love the city—particularly walking down the streets in the middle of the night where there are so many other night owls like me bringing energy and excitement to the city that never sleeps.

Being one person in a city of over eight million is not unlike being one author at an industry event of over twenty thousand, but I felt completely at home in both places—comfortable, relaxed, open to the experiences offered.

People come to New York for many reasons. It’s a special place, and in some ways seems the center of the world. As Jay-Z says, it’s a “Concrete jungle where dreams are made of. There’s nothing you can’t do. These streets will make you feel brand new. The lights will inspire you. One hand in the air for the big city. Street lights, big dreams all looking pretty. No place in the World that can compare.” But as I reflect on my BEA experiences, it’s a song by John Mellencamp and not Jay-Z that seems most fitting.

People come to BEA for many reasons. Publishers to promote their lists and authors, authors to promote their books, agents to cut deals, readers to get books and the autograph of a favorite author, and scores of aspiring writers come looking for a publisher.

At my publisher’s booth, like all the others, part of the constant parade of people passing by included self-published authors, clutching their books, hoping to get a publisher to take a look. It’s not the way to go about getting a publisher. It’s an impatient person’s way of attempting a shortcut that nearly never works, but I understand the drive.

People want to be published for many reasons. Some have visions of grandeur, of fame and fortune—all of which are absurd. There are far better and easier ways to become rich and famous or infamous. The most recognized authors aren’t a fraction as famous as a B-list movie star or national politicians. And as far as money, it’s laughable. The only sure way to make money as a writer is to write ransom notes.

Some people want to be published because of ego, because of needs inside them that having their name on a dust jacket can’t even begin to meet. For others, it’s perceived as a way of cheating death, of leaving something behind when the curtain falls on this short life. Maybe a portion of all these things is in every writer, but for some of us, it all comes down to our way of being in the world. I (like so many writers I know) write because I have to. It’s how I process, how I express.

It’s how I give, what I have to offer.

What I want more than anything is to be a great writer. It’s why I write and write and write and write and write, why I read and read and read and read, why I study and seek and listen and discuss and long and yearn and crave. And secondly, I want to be read.

That’s it.

I want to write good and great books—getting better and better all the time—and I want to be read widely and deeply.

I don’t want to shortcut the process or cheat the system. I want to work hard, to sacrifice and invest and grow and become. I want to bleed on the page. And all I’m asking in return is for lots of readers. I, like so many writers, just want to be read, just want to be heard.

Which is why these words from John Mellencamp’s song, “Check it Out” have been echoing around in the chamber inside me.

A million young poets
Screamin’ out their words
To a world full of people
Just livin’ to be heard
Future generations
Ridin’ on the highways that we built
I hope they have a better understanding

I guess I’m not particularly, literally young (could I pass for youngish?), but I’ve never felt younger. I’m not a screamer, but “a young poet living to be heard, screaming out his words to a world full of people who can’t hear because of all the noise” feels right to me.

And there are millions of us. And whether it’s in New York or at BEA or in the wide, wide world, our little words, our weak voices get drowned out, are missed, are dismissed. Yet, we keep writing, keep publishing (or trying to). In spite of rejection or bad reviews, or the insult of indifference, we don’t stop because we can’t.

I can’t not write.

I’ll never write a perfect novel, but I’ll also never stop trying.
This is why I went to New York, to BEA—and why I was just one among millions. A million young poets.

It’s (or appears to be) a Cruel, Cruel Summer

Summer has officially begun—at least as far as movies are concerned, and I saw two of the biggest releases so far this past weekend—“Robin Hood” and “Iron Man 2.”

Both movies were better than I expected—which is not to say either is great—just that they exceeded my relative low expectations.

Neither film fulfills its respective potential, neither delivers on the promise it makes, but both are entertaining and not without merit.

“Iron Man 2”

With the world now aware of his dual life as the armored superhero Iron Man, billionaire inventor Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) faces pressure from the government, the press, and the public to share his technology with the military. Unwilling to let go of his invention, Stark, along with Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow), and James "Rhodey" Rhodes (Don Cheadle) at his side, must forge new alliances—and confront powerful enemies.

“Iron Man 2” is neither as good as “Robin Hood” or the movie it is sequel to. Still, Robert Downey, Jr. is perfect for the part and plays Tony Stark with credible snarkiness and charm.

Ultimately, Tony Stark is a shallow man—limited, juvenile, vain, his bad playboy attitude and brilliance the only things to recommend him. Because of this, there’s very little exploration, soul-searching—even the few self-discoveries he does make are unearned and unsatisfying.

It occurs to me that both Batman and Iron Man are rich kids with superhero suits, but unlike Batman, who’s dark, tortured soul and the journey it drives him to is inspiring and instructive, there’s a big gaping hole in Iron Man’s chest—leaving only a little room for heart and soul. Take away the suit, and batman remains a fascinating, eccentric, engaging man, but Iron Man is just a man—and not even—rather a spoiled man child with egomania and expensive toys.

Christopher Nolan (with help from his brother, Jonathan, and others) has set the standard for comic book and superhero movies with “Batman Begins” and “The Dark Knight,” and watching a movie like “Iron Man 2” only serves to remind us how good they really are.

“Robin Hood”

Far more primitive, but every bit as heroic, the flawed archer and freedom fighter, Robin Hood makes Iron Man look cartoonish.

Following King Richard's death in France archer Robin Longstride, along with Will Scarlett, Alan-a-Dale and Little John, decides to return to England. They encounter the dying Robert of Locksley, whose party was ambushed by the treacherous Godfrey, who hopes to facilitate a French invasion of England, and Robin promises the dying knight he will return his sword to his father Walter in Nottingham. Here, Walter encourages him to impersonate the dead man to prevent his land from being confiscated by the crown, and he finds himself with Marian, a ready-made wife. Hoping to stir baronial opposition to weak King John and allow an easy French take-over, Godfrey worms his way into the king's service as Earl Marshal of England and brutally invades towns under the pretext of collecting royal taxes. Robin rallies the barons and the king in an attempt to thwart the invasion, but do they have what it takes?

“Robin Hood” has the gloss of historicity about it, but it is as truth and not as fact that the film excels. A story is true not because it is factual, but because it is credible, because the humans experiencing it can identify with the humans in it and the situations and circumstances they find themselves in. Thus the oft quoted intro to a tale, “The following story is true though none of it really happened.”

“Robin Hood” had far more character development than I expected, far less frenetic action and endless battle sequences. This has led some moviegoers to complain that the film is sluggish and slow-paced, but there’s plenty of action—and it’s made all the more thrilling because we know and care about the people involved.

Ridley Scott, like his brother, Tony, is one of the best big-budget Hollywood directors working today, and he does an outstanding job here, showing far more restraint than I expected, remaining largely invisible in service of the story.

As you would expect, “Robin Hood” is about tyranny and corruption, the need for lambs to become lions when the rich and powerful abuse their position even more than usual, and the heroic individual who leads them for “cometh the hour, cometh the man.” But it’s also about love, a romance between two adults neither looking nor particularly open to romance discovering its irresistibility when attraction, character, and circumstance offer opportunity.

Though I enjoyed both movies, I can really only recommend “Robin Hood”—and not even it highly, which is far more troubling for what it portends about the prospects for this summer at the local Cineplex than the relative disappointment of these two movies. And, sadly, that’s not all that surprising—or, frankly, surprising at all, but what’s wrong with state of motion pictures in America, particularly ones released in the summer, deserves a column all its own, which gives me an idea.
Stay tuned . . .