1/3, 1/3, 1/3

1/16/12 Café Arabica, Seattle, Washington, afternoon

Sitting here reading Richard Brautigan's Revenge of the Lawn for the second time, the first time this side of 20 years old (26), I realize from where I received the notion and love of collaborative literature, how this vague concept developed into a purpose ingrained in my self like a spice infused and inseparable from a dish. 1/3, 1/3, 1/3.  

Reader, writer, text. Past, present, future.  Idea, writing, revision. 

Brautigan's frankness, innocence, transparency—whatever you'd like to call it—beckons collaboration.  His epigraph to the Abortion —a novel I read at age 18 in several sittings upstairs at the Monterey Public Library, and again in Big Sur last August—reveals he finished it, left it for a friend, and would be back in a few hours to discuss it.  And the story itself reinforces this notion of a social reciprocation between author, reader and publisher: the narrator works full time (that is 24 hours) unpaid (he receives food, lodging) at a library that accepts and houses the works—what we are led to believe are the only copies—of everyday people.  In other words, the voice of Richard Brautigan asserts a responsibility to read unfamous work, to give it a dignified place in the world, and, in the case of the narrative, a literal place.  The more that is read, in general, the better, of course, the greater the mutual understanding, empathy, connection.  But what is argued here is not rushing to Barnes & Noble for the new John Updike, or any other traditional notion of reading more—it is receiving, understanding and editing the work of a neighbor, starting a literary scene on your block; it is valuing uniqueness, localness over "genius," "significance," the national literary fad.

BUT IT SOUNDS SO FUCKING NAIVE!

This is Richard Brautigan.  And "1/3, 1/3, 1/3" is quintessential RB—an innocent voice, indistinguishable from that of the author himself, narrates how he submits to a hair-brained scheme to do the typing in a 3-way partnership:

It was to be done in thirds.  I was to get 1/3 for doing the typing, and she was to get 1/3 for doing the editing, and he was to get 1/3 for writing the novel.

The editor is on welfare, in her late 30s and on her last ideas.  All we know of the narrator/typist is that he has been heard typing at night on his typewriter by the editor (also he is 17 and obviously RB).  "The novelist lived in a trailer a mile away beside a sawmill pond where he was a watchman for the mill."  He is also borderline illiterate.  So there they are.  1/3, 1/3, 1/3.  As we learn of the content of the novel we are transported via misspellings into the world of the novel—a "young logger" meets a pretty waitress in North Bend, Oregon—and suddenly the voice returns to RB and ends with a line that unsettled me in that it was once a—now forgotten—personal credo indistinguishable from who I considered myself to be.

While we were all sitting there in that rainy trailer pounding at the gates of American literature.

"...pounding at the gates of American literature."

In the process of forgetting that I internalized this short story as a part of myself, I have reworked its motif a half a dozen times. In chronological order (starting 3 years after first reading "1/3, 1/3, 1/3")

1. "Hooray!  We're gonna write a novel"

A short film starring me and my friends about our collective fictional decision to write a novel.
A. Epiphany B. The Submarine Thought Closet (stop motion metaphor for creativity in my closet) C. Journey for supplies (me on bike buying paper and beer) D. Coffee break E. revision 

2. Apples to Apples

An improvised version of Apples to Apples leads me to proclaim that our random pairings of home-scribbled words and phrases were avant-garde poetic compositions.  My friends' enthusiasm for the game quickly transferred to other things.  

3. Swimming Lessons/Radio Showlocke Holmes

1/3, 1/3, 1/3... Greg, Marina and I held meetings every Tuesday for three months ultimately creating The Swimming Lessons, the abstracted account of the creation of a non-existent television series.  We went on to do a weekly improvised mystery radio show for a year.

4. Tom and I

Exactly as RB was enlisted to type this older man's story, I agreed to transcribe and Ed-it the life story of a homeless man (Ed) to disastrous effects on my nerves. 

5. One time I went to Eugene, Oregon with a friend.

We went to her friends' house.  After getting settled and before going out we smoked pot and decided I would write down everything my new friend said. All I can remember now is all that is left of this spontaneous absurd project— "We're going to the honey comb of life—the sweet stuff." And  

Kill poetry with a rusty knife.
Kill it with a monster truck.
No!
I love poetry.

6. Bocce Balling on the West Coast

In January 2011 I journeyed with a friend to Seattle and back to Monterey for to collaborate with old friends, first, with a game of the ancient sport of bocce, and then with a collaborative narrative containing the perspectives and voices of all involved.  I ended up writing the thing mostly myself.

The house described in the Surrealist Manifesto certainly comes to mind—"Hooray! We're gonna write a novel" certainly captures this enthusiastic notion—but collaboration, community and feedback isn't all about bringing the subconscious and the unexpected into the process of composition.  There is something greater to the Surrealist processes and games—something that stems from how integral creativity is, and sharing a sense of play, linguistic, visual, philosophical, with those around you.  A writer doesn't have to be famous, or even good, for you to devote your time to the work created—that notion leads to the reading of vast amounts of mediocre writing passed off as "good" by a broken publishing system—and, to deconstruct and interact with a work, its author doesn't have to be bad, easy to pick apart, or a personal acquaintance who you can imagine making certain literary choices for reasons you understand.  All writing is the product of social processes.