Notes from a Native Advertiser

When The Piedmont Virginian asked me to shift from strictly writing and editing into the advertising realm, I was perplexed. Especially around my specific role: “native advertising.”

As a writer and editor, I was in command of the magazine’s voice; I wrote articles that I felt were consistent with our brand, and in turn edited others’ articles to fit our stylistic constraints.

Whenever I’m unsure about something new, the first thing I do is read and research. I saw John Oliver’s diatribe against native advertising, which criticized the form for weakening boundaries between editorial and advertisements.

Now, I love John Oliver in equal proportion to my disdain for DRUMPF 2016, but something about this felt off. Sure, some of his attacks were warranted, but I disagreed with the core principle that there has to be a sizable wall between content and editorial.

Our lives today are increasingly seamless. The boundaries between us and others are drastically reduced through social media, why can’t the same be true of our products? When a reader picks up a magazine like The Piedmont Virginian, aren’t they doing so because they trust and admire the brand?

Then it hit me: If products are such a large part of our everyday lives, why wouldn’t they be a part of our everyday reading.

In an excellent article about native advertising and the root element of trust, author Sam Slaughter explains:

Owned and paid media are kind of like a great teacher and a substitute. You see a great teacher every day; and most days you learn something new and useful from them. You build up trust with this teacher over time, you listen to what they have to say, and as with the best teachers, the relationship continues even after you’ve left the class. That’s the kind of relationship brand publishers can create with owned media.

This realization has helped me understand my new job. It’s still all about voiceIt’s still the same voice. Only now it’s saying a little more.

 

 

The Art of the Short Story: Goodbye, My Brother by John Cheever

For a copy of the text, click here.

Quick Summary

The Pommeroys gather at their beach house on the Massachusetts coast for the first time in years. The house is a rundown money-pit, though that doesn’t diminish the nostalgia that the mother and her children (Diana, Chaddy, Lawrence, and the unnamed narrator) hold for the place. The family has not seen Lawrence, a successful lawyer and black sheep to the family, in many years.

The narrator is a high school English teacher with no hopes of promotion. Diana is recently divorced. Chaddy is married to Odette, who flirts benignly with the narrator. Lawrence, a successful lawyer in Albany, nicknamed Tifty, Little Jesus, and Croaker, is the last to join the family at the beach house.

Lawrence voices his disapproval of Diana’s love life, remarks upon the dilapidated condition of the cottage, and harshly judges the family’s drinking and gambling over backgammon. He is estranged from the family, having cut ties in high school. Though he is the most distinguished and successful of the children, he is attributed a pessimism by the narrator (only partially through his own word or actions).

Lawrence and his wife, Ruth, refuse to go to the dance one night. The theme, “dress as you wish you were,” shows the aching nostalgia of not only the other Pommeroy children, but also of the island’s other visitors. Nearly all of the women wear their bridal gown, and many of their husbands wear their high school football jersey.

The next day, the family sans narrator and Lawrence attend a flower show. The brothers go for a walk, and in a bout of anger, the narrator strikes his brother with a log of driftwood. Lawrence, injured and silent, walks back to the house and leaves the next day.

Notes and Observations

  • Goodbye, My Brother is the first story in The Stories of John Cheever, which won the Pulitzer Prize and National Book Critics Circle Award in 1979, and later a National Book Award in 1981. I’ve heard writers refer to the collection as “The Big Orange Book” the way Bible-beaters reference the “Good Book.” wp-1456951619654.jpg
  • The “Chekhov of the suburbs,” John Cheever spent a lifetime peering behind the white picket fences, exploring the human condition that hid itself under layers of conformity.
  • Told from a third person point of view, the titular brother has surprisingly few lines dedicated his dialogue or actions. Rather, he is supplied dark thoughts by his “optimistic” brother, the narrator, who over the course of the story undermines his reliability.
  • The gloomy thoughts are really the creations of the narrator, a professed optimist who can’t stand Lawrence’s perspective (e.g. “The wind and the sea had risen, and I thought that if he heard the waves, he must hear them only as a dark answer to all his dark questions; that he would think that the tide had expunged the embers of our picnic fires.”)
  • Lawrence is the most successful by far. Perhaps Cheever is suggesting that there are two ways to view life: one of stoic resignation and truth, the other of blissful enjoyment and unabashed happiness. There is a stalemate in the story, both views have their benefits and costs.
  • These outlooks, and climactic scene, are foreshadowed early one: “Our dislikes are as deeply ingrained as our better passions, and I remembered that once, twenty-five years ago, when I had hit Lawrence on the head with a rock, he had picked himself up and gone directly to our father to complain.”
  • The family’s nostalgia is illustrated by the longing for what they once were, evidenced at the ball. Not only do they all dress the same, implying a conformist experience, but that someone decided on that theme is telling as well.
  • Lawrence is the anti-nostalgic foil to the story. He isn’t incorrect though. The house is falling apart. The family does do the same activities, over and over and over again. The dance is corny. They are drunks. They are unsuccessful.
  • The narrator describes the accuracy of Lawrence’s anti-nostalgic outlook: “I heard him say, years ago, that we and our friends and our part of the nation, finding ourselves unable to cope with the problems of the present, had, like a wretched adult, turned back to what we supposed was a happier and a simpler time, and that our taste for reconstruction and candlelight was a measure of this irremediable failure.”
  • The sheer poetry of certain lines is enough to qualify this story as one of Cheever’s best. (e.g. “The naked beach, like a  piece of the moon, reached to invisibility.”)
  • Cheever’s prose fluidly mixes the mythological, the biblical, and the intellectual. Perhaps the best example of this is the last paragraph (no spoilers: “Oh, what can you do with a man like that? What can you do? How can you dissuade his eye in a crowd from seeking out the cheek with acne, the infirm hand; how can you teach him to respond to the inestimable greatness of the race, the harsh surface beauty of life; how can you put his finger for him on the obdurate truths before which fear and horror are powerless? The sea that morning was iridescent and dark. My wife and my sister were swimming–Diana and Helen–and I saw their uncovered heads, black and gold in the dark water. I saw them come out and I saw that they were naked, unshy, beautiful, and full of grace, and I watched the naked women walk out of the sea.”
  • In his essay “Against Epiphany,” Charles Baxter cites this paragraph, and the story as a whole, as one of the few noteworthy examples of epiphany since James Joyce began the “mass production of insight.”

    Read somewhere that Hunter S. Thompson typed out "The Great Gatsby" to see what it felt like to write something masterful. Well, this is my version of that technique.
    Read somewhere that Hunter S. Thompson typed out “The Great Gatsby” to see what it felt like to write something masterful. Well, this is my version of that technique.

 

 

 

My March/April Piedmont Virginian Music Profile

Untitled_1.2.2

Be on the lookout for the Will Overman Band in our March/April 2016 issue, on newsstands the first week of March.

In the meantime, enjoy their performance of “Gravedigger,” filmed at Dickie Brothers Orchard in Roseland, VA.


Filmed and edited by Echard Wheeler. All words and music property of Will Overman Band.

How To Get Back Into Blogging?

That’s a question I’ve asked myself numerous times over the past few weeks.

Sometimes I posed the question abruptly to catch myself off guard (as though such a thing were possible) and hear my knee-jerk response, some sort of subconscious truth. Other times it was more of a mediation. I interrogated myself as both good cop and bad cop, I pleaded with myself, and I even briefly considered a bartering with the Devil a la Dr. Faust. Needless to say, none of these methods proved very useful. My answers ranged from the practical (“I have a job now and less time to blog.”) to existential-crisis-inducing (“If I am a floating speck in a colossal cosmic accident, how am I supposed to blog?”). The only thing these answers all had in common was that none of them were enough to get me back into blogging.

I kept thinking the answer was out there, or rather, within me, and I was just not being totally honest with myself. I’m sure others have asked themselves the exact same question and wondered why the answer was so elusive, why it had that perpetual tip-of-the-tongue feel to it.

My big revelation was simple: it is the wrong question to ask. There is not a single correct answer to it. So I framed the question differently and once I did, I felt like I could begin to answer it. So now I ask, “Why did I get into blogging in the first place?”

Well that has plenty of answers, all of them true. All of them, I wager, can be distilled into a single word: perspective.

I started because I have a unique perspective, we all do. I have a dark sense of humor. I’m nostalgic. I’m sarcastic to a fault. I have strange opinions on everyday matters. Everyone, including me, has stories, thoughts, memories, and feelings that are contained within them and shape them as an individual.

The real essence of blogging comes from this perspective, the way that we as individuals encounter the world. On that note, I’d argue that blogging has two fundamental, deceivingly simply, purposes.

The first purpose is to put my thoughts out there so that I can see them from a distance, look at them from different angles, twist and turn them until I uncover something about myself. E.M. Forster once wrote, “How can I tell what I think till I see what I say?” Although I am writing for an audience, I myself am part of that audience. Only once I get these thoughts out of my chaotic about-to-derail train of thought can I begin to look at these thoughts and appreciate them for what they truly are, the most basic parts of my existence.

The second purpose then is to share my outlook with others who have a totally different worldview than me. True, your thoughts and my thoughts might overlap in places, but they are still distinct and separate entities. It is through blogging that we express and allow others to experience what it feels like to be us. To illustrate this point, think back to a time when you read something brilliant and the barrier between your own thoughts and the words on the page dissolved. The two lines, your thoughts and the author’s words, converged into a single stream of consciousness. To use a technical term, what you experienced was a “suspension of disbelief.” That feeling was the alignment of your perception with another’s perception. In effect you temporarily became what you were reading. You escaped and welcomed this escape.

There are a million reasons to stop blogging. Each time the circumstances are different but the solution is the same. Instead of looking at the ending, the fallout, look towards the beginning. You have a perspective. Put it out there to hear yourself speak and to share with others your remarkably tiny yet irreplaceable piece of the human condition.

A Simple Writing Exercise

Recently I have been reading The Shadow of Sirius by W.S. Merwin and listening to Rabbit, Run by John Updike in the car. Though I have read both works before, something about the language, previously unnoticed, struck me as odd. Merwin’s language is simple, often monosyllabic, yet somehow renders emotions and scenes more accurately than drawn out descriptions. Updike breaks up the monotony of his story by using a broad, yet simple, vocabulary. 

Then it hit me. There are so many great words that I have never used in my writing ever. After that I realized that even words that I have used possess so many more meanings, so many different shades. 

So I came up with the following exercise to do two things. First, to increase my writing vocabulary. This is distinct from vocabulary in general as I, and surely you as well, know many more words than you use in your writing. Therefore, this exercise is aimed at bringing those words into your writing. Secondly, to use the same word in all of its myriad meanings. Look up any word in the dictionary and see how many different “meanings” the word has; more than one. This is what separates synonyms from each other. Though two words mean, more or less, the same thing, one is always just a little bit better suited. Having said all that, here is the exercise. 

1) Pick 5 words (and try to do this daily, I’m trying as well) that you do not use or do not use often in your writing. They do not need to be big 10-cent words, just words you don’t use. 

2) Look up the dictionary meanings of these words and write them down. 

3) For each of the 5 words, come up with 5 sentences that use the word in a slightly different way than the other sentences. 

The best way to pick words that I’ve found so far is to just circle words you recognize as rare as you are reading. 

So, don’t wait! I’m about to start with these words: pallor, diffident, tense, sallow, oblivion. 

 

How Triptychs Can Improve Your Writing

Have you ever had one of those short stories that begins with a clear, intense, glowing idea that loses its brilliance after a few pages?

Maybe the plot dwindles. Maybe a character’s motivations get confused. The language falls flat. You get too far away from the incredible idea you started out with.

Now look at the Bosch triptych above. The panels don’t tell a sequential story necessarily. Rather, they are united by theme. Each panel tells its own story, and together, the panels add up to a fourth story.

Nestor advocates for this technique in Writing Is My Drink  as her writing often derives from a feeling or idea that doesn’t translate into a plot/traditional story. Rather than create a story, she comes up with three impressionistic sketches, all of which share a common denominator. The differences in the stories only help to narrate a fourth, overarching story. Consider the following excerpt about using the tripartite structure centered on the theme of “detachment.”

A single golden thread of the theme of detachment wove its way through the three scenes- magically holding the scenes together, but just barely. It was the barely that thrilled me. Barely was exactly what I was trying to say; maybe barely was hat I’d been wanting to say for awhile. 

Thus, the disparate elements are united by the small similarities that unite them. Whereas we often find a theme in a story, why not try beginning with a theme and forming a story from that?

How To Write A Triptych

1. Brainstorm of list of ideas/feelings/concepts (e.g. loss, detachment, lust, birth, insomnia) and select one.

2. After picking one of the words, spend 15 minutes “riffing” on it. Try free-writing to see what comes out. Think of the word as a mantra repeating inside your mind as you pour out ideas that spawn from it.

3. Finally, look at what you have so far and find 3 incidents that are complete enough to write a “panel” about. Then just go for it.

Finally, check out these different triptychs for inspiration. See how loose or tight a theme can be.