Premiere Issue! October 1, 2002

WHY I WRITE

TC Boyle, Roger Ebert, Lawrence Block, Tod Goldberg, Will Leitch, Claire Zulkey, Rob Walker, James Norton, Jade Walker, John Scalzi, Bob Sassone and Marty Beckerman on why they put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard

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Roger Ebert

I write because it is my job to write, and the only job I ever wanted. I published a hecktographed neighborhood newspaper in grade school. In high school, a mimeographed science fiction fanzine. In high school and college I was editor of the student newspapers. It was never a conscious decision on my part to write. It was what I did, and needed to do.

The experience of writing is another matter, one hard to put into words. I find myself in what is called the "zone," and the words come out in orderly and quick procession. I am not in a trance, but am riding a train of thought fueled by instinct and long habit.

I think all professional writers sooner or later get to the point where the words appear as the result of a conspiracy between their skill, their knowledge, and their experience, with a minimum of conscious thought about the writing itself. Of course, rewriting and editing are different matters.

When I was 15, I got my first newspaper job, covering high school sports for the Champaign-Urbana News-Gazette. I labored over every lead, endlessly, until my fellow sports writer Bill Lyon (now at the Philadelphia Inquirer) told me: "Why don't you wait until you get to the end to revise? Until you know how it turned out, how can you know how it should start?"

Using this advice, I found I was not so self-conscious about writing, and was not trying to pre-think every word and sentence. I learned that ideas came to me unbidden when they were needed. The best advice I can give a writer is: The Muse visits during the act of composition, not before.

Roger Ebert is film critic for The Chicago Sun-Times and the host of "Ebert and Roeper and the Movies." His book "The Great Movies" is available now.

-------------------- Will Leitch

I cannot fix cars. I have tried many, many times, mainly because my father is an expert at fixing them, and I am an expert at breaking them down. Once, I killed a cat on the road. I swerved in time to miss it. That was good. My muffler then fell off and crushed it. That wasn't.

I cannot tend bar. I tried this once, at a friend's party. I tried to make a Cosmopolitan with tequila, grape juice and rubbing alcohol. Apparently, Cosmos are not supposed to be on fire. For that matter, neither are Budweisers. Or bar stools. Or waitresses.

I cannot broadcast baseball. When I was younger, I thought I could. I would turn down the television set of Cardinals games and pretend I was Jack Buck. My pre-pubescent voice would crack every time I tried to call a particularly exciting play, and my parents would make fun of me, and I would then stomp off and sulk in my room. Wait - does 25 count as younger?

I cannot carve ice sculptures. I cannot insulate your house. I cannot speak Arabic. I cannot bale hay. I cannot figure out whether I should cut the blue, red, or green wire.

The only trade I have in this world is writing. It's the only craft I've ever shown any particular proficiency in. I know I should have some inspiring words that illustrate why my work will someday be studied as the very foundation of literary journalism. But I don't. This is just the only skill that has ever inspired a girl to tell me I'm good at it. Shoot, why wouldn't I devote my life to that?

Will Leitch's "Life as a Loser" column runs weekly on TheSimon.com. He has written for Salon, The New York Times on the Web, New York Press, Nerve, Ironminds, Playboy.com, and The Sporting News.

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Marty Beckerman

"So are you going to kiss me or just sit there?" she asks.

I'm comfortably occupying the front seat of my Awesome 1984 Dodge MiniVan. She's in the seat next to me, wearing a skintight pink shirt that shows vastly more than it hides. We're parked in the driveway in front of her house: The engine is turned off and I can't help but feel excruciatingly awkward. Our first date has gone pretty well, judging from the sound of things. But Jesus, I just met this girl. A fan of my writing, no less. Do I really want to throw myself into another one of these meaningless carnal escapades?

"I ... uh ... well, let's see," I stutter. "I don't know, should we?"

Yeah, I sound like a real fuckin' Romeo.

"You don't like me?" she asks.

"No, I like you a lot. It's just ... I'm sorry, I broke up with my girlfriend a week ago and it just seems too soon to be doing this, you know?"

"Oh," she says.

Silence.

"It was really the first deep relationship I've ever been in," I confide. "I guess it would be a little weird, going from that end of the spectrum to ... I mean, you're nice and all, don't get me wrong, but obviously we don't share some kind of deep emotional longing or anything."

"Yeah..." She smiles and unbuckles her seat belt. "Well, it was nice meeting you," she opens the door. "Call me, we'll hang out again sometime. Unless you want to come inside, but I guess you wouldn't."

MEMO FROM BRAIN TO PENIS: Hey Penis, let's not go inside!

MEMO FROM PENIS TO BRAIN [Re: "Bad Idea"]: Ha! Ha! That's a good one, old buddy!

"Sure!" I joyously shriek. "Why not?"

We stroll up the walkway to her front door, which she unlocks very quietly. She holds her index finger to her lips, alerting me to the fact I shouldn't make much noise; after all, we wouldn't want to wake Mommy and Daddy, would we? No, we wouldn't. Goddamn, something about the possibility of getting caught just sends a warm shiver down my testicles. Not yet, Penis. But soon. Very, very soon.

The door creaks open. The house is dark and the girl's parents are fast asleep. My heart is pounding; adrenaline is coursing through my veins like black tar heroin. The girl leads me down the stairs and into her small bedroom, tiptoeing all the way. At some point in this mad process we lock hands, and I presently feel her grasp tightening. Our bodies subsequently commit to each other in Luscious Teenage Passion; her lips come closer as we fall onto the soft bed. Yes Penis, your time has come! Rise, Penis! Rise, I say! Rise, damn you! Rise!!

MEMO FROM BRAIN TO PENIS: For God's sake, Penis, don't you remember the beautiful relationship we've been in for the last three months? Haven't you realized that Love is more fulfilling than Lust in every way that matters? Goddamnit, Penis! Tonight's Squirm-Session won't make a single difference to you tomorrow, but if you don't give in˜if you prove just once that you're more than a slave to your own hormonal impulses˜wouldn't that be the true victory? The true "score," as it were?

MEMO FROM PENIS TO BRAIN: Whatever, dude.

"Wait," I say, still holding the girl in my arms. "Wouldn't this mean more to you if we actually cared about each other a little bit? Jesus, don't you want something deeper than this?"

(Long, awkward silence)

"You make me so wet," she explains, proceeding to wiggle her tongue around the inside of my ear for a good ten minutes.

MEMO FROM PENIS TO BRAIN: Nice try. Sucker.

Marty Beckerman is the 19-year-old author of Death To All Cheerleaders and the forthcoming Generation SLUT. He lives in Washington, D.C.

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Jade Walker

Being a journalist is easy. Making stories up is much tougher.

Journalism is not "literature in a hurry." It is just the art of writing what you know at a sixth to eighth grade level on deadline.

This is why I think going to journalism school for longer than a year is a waste of time and money. Sure they can teach you history, perhaps even ethics. But to learn the craft of journalism, you must do it. You have to get out in the field and practice, then return to the office for some expert editing advice.

On the street, you will learn to hone three skills:

* Observation
* Investigation
* Regurgitation

Some folks are amazing observers. They can look at a scene of a crime or survey a political climate with eyes set to Unsharp Mask 50. They memorize license plate numbers, note the details of an interview subject's appearance and read upside down.

Investigation is my particular brand of excellence. Being a good investigator requires the ability to ask questions and follow gut instincts. It's about being an unstoppable hurricane in the face of slammed doors and "no comments." Research is second nature to good investigators, as is the ability to understand the smallest fact and the big picture.

The final skill is writing. Contrary to popular belief, journalists do not make shit up. They watch, they ask and then they regurgitate. Some use notebooks or tape recorders to help preserve accuracy, but in truth, writing a story is simply a matter of taking all the facts and putting them on paper with as little slant or spin as possible.

A few journalists have a knack for penning beautiful prose; they can turn a profile into a masterpiece. The rest of us just try to inform and educate the public with crisp sentences and useful commentary from the sources on hand.

Yet, being a journalist can also cause your imagination to atrophy.

When I sit down at the computer and attempt to fictionalize, I find myself at a loss. I feel like Natalie Wood in "Miracle on 34th Street," vainly attempting to pretend she's a monkey when inside she's convinced she's just a little girl.

My next goal is to become a novelist, a successful one, but the practice of making stuff up is almost alien to my journalism-trained sensibilities. Even when I write senryu, a bastardized version of haiku, I'm focused on turning an observation into a moment captured in poetry. No pretending involved.

Writing fiction is much harder than journalism. I know how to observe and I can research anything. It's the deadbolt on my imagination that leaves me stumbling over hooks, sagging middles and conflict resolution. How does a story get from Point A to Point B when everything has to be pulled from thin air?

Most writers come up with a plotline and then flesh out the characters and writing style. Not me. As a journalist, I'm used to covering people and events, so that's where I always start.

Last October, Winter Christensen interrupted my walk to the subway station. He was tied to a chair and beaten to a pulp. He wearily lifted his head and demanded that I get him out of his unfortunate situation. I didn't know anything else about Winter, but as soon as I got home, I obliged.

Recently, Mark Branson popped into my head. A 34-year-old Miami native who was severely injured while committing a heroic act, Mark appeared and asked me to share his story with the world.

I simply couldn't turn him down. Hell, I couldn't even wait until I got home to help. Instead, I pulled my notebook out of my bag and began scribbling his commentary. He dictated; I wrote.

I originally intended to turn Mark into a short story, but apparently he wants his own novel. The idea of writing another novel thrills and terrifies me. It's challenging to start from nothing and create a sellable book. On the other hand, I've spent so many years as a journalist that I don't know if I can write this story. Particularly since it won't be a simple genre tale.

Writing the "Mark" novel would involve heading into unknown territory without a map. It's like a woman who walks her dog every day suddenly thinking she should run in the Boston Marathon.

Can I make up a story at a leisurely pace rather than pound the truth into a computer on deadline? Who knows. But perhaps I can find a way to take the skills I've learned in journalism and apply them to Mark's story.

It's a novel idea. I'm certainly willing to give it a try.

Jade Walker is the overnight editor/producer of The New York Times Web site and the editor of Once Bitten, the monthly magazine for readers of vampire and paranormal romance. She has published five books, including the dark poetry collection, "Sex, Death and Other..." (paperback, Metropolis Ink, Jan. 2002). .