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Languages change. Modern English stretches back to roughly the time of Shakespeare; before that was Middle English, Chaucer’s language. Middle English was not so different from what we speak today. But before Middle English was Old English, and that was a very different creature.

Old English was what the Anglo-Saxons spoke before William the Conqueror took over the island in 1066, before some Norman dog put an arrow in poor King Harold‘s eye at the Battle of Hastings. Old English was a rough, Germanic language, the stuff that was around before the influx of French (with its Latin roots) turned it into Middle English. Most of the long words used by today’s bureaucrats and businessmen come from Latin or French through Middle English, whereas many of our shorter, more basic words are Old English.

We got “precipitation” from the Norman Invasion; but Old English gave us “rain.”

And the very oldest surviving poem in Old English is Cædmon’s Hymn, a song praising God, composed by a man who couldn’t read or write. Here it is in its entirety:

Nu sculon herigean      heofonrices weard,
meotodes meahte      and his modgeþanc,
weorc wuldorfæder,      swa he wundra gehwæs,
ece drihten,      or onstealde.
He ærest sceop      eorðan bearnum
heofon to hrofe,      halig scyppend;
þa middangeard      moncynnes weard,
ece drihten,      æfter teode
firum foldan,      frea ælmihtig.

(Source)

This is it. This is the earliest poem we have that’s written in anything we could still call “our” language.

To the modern reader, of course, it’s almost completely gibberish; we no longer even recognize all the letters. But this is English. In its earliest, most primal form, this is English. Even today, you can pick out bits that remain virtually unchanged after thirteen centuries: “æfter” for “after,” “ælmihtig” for “almighty,” the same three letters for “and.”

Old English fascinates me for a lot of reasons. Partly I’m intrigued because Tolkien loved it, and his love for it permeates The Lord of the Rings. Partly I’m intrigued because Old English is the language of Beowulf, England’s original epic. But mostly I’m intrigued because I, myself, am deeply in love with modern English, and Cædmon’s Hymn is its cradle.

The test was nearly two hours long. I performed four kata, two bo staff kata, and dozens of sequences of punches, kicks, blocks, and throws. I sparred for three minutes and broke four wooden boards with three different parts of my body. I answered questions and wrote an essay.

It’s official: as of Saturday, May 28, I have a black belt in karate and jiu-jitsu.

Which, you know, is pretty flippin’ sweet.

I’ve talked before about the similarity between writing and karate. It’s probably no surprise that I see a similarity, too, between getting a black belt and getting your first book published.

In both cases, it’s the culmination of years of work (three and a half years for my black belt). In both cases, it’s a major milestone, something worth busting out the champagne for, something you can point to and say: see? See? I never gave up. Something you will have forever. Something you will tell people about forever, whether they’re interested or not.

In both cases, it’s also a sort of validation. It says, all right, look: you’re not totally crazy, you’re not just screwing around, this isn’t just some hobby we’ve humored you about. This is a real thing. This is something you’re actually pretty good at. For someone with infinite reserves of self-confidence, that might not matter, but for me, it’s pretty damn rewarding.

And finally – most importantly – it is, in both cases, only the first step. Getting a black belt really only means one thing: you’re not a beginner anymore. The intro is out of the way; you know the basics. You may not have mastered the basics (and trust me, I haven’t) but you more or less know what’s up with this thing. You’re ready to start for real; it’s, like, on. Let’s see what you can do.

Well, I have a black belt. What I don’t have yet is a published novel. Let’s see what I can do.

How was your Memorial Day weekend?

Second-pass revision progress on The Counterfeit Emperor – 88%.

No post today (except this post saying: “No post today”) but here is a poem if you’re looking for something to read.

It is a good poem.

Burlap Sack
Jane Hirshfield

A person is full of sorrow
the way a burlap sack is full of stones or sand.
We say, “Hand me the sack,”
but we get the weight.
Heavier if left out in the rain.
To think that the stones or sand are the self is an error.
To think that grief is the self is an error.
Self carries grief as a pack mule carries the side bags,
being careful between the trees to leave extra room.
The mule is not the load of ropes and nails and axes.
The self is not the miner nor builder nor driver.
What would it be to take the bride
and leave behind the heavy dowry?
To let the thin-ribbed mule browse in tall grasses,
its long ears waggling like the tails of two happy dogs?

See you tomorrow!

The greatest foe of the artist is mediocrity. You start each new project with an unbounded canvas of infinite possibility, electric with potential. Yet all too often, you end up settling for something safe and comfortable. You color inside the lines. You pull your punches.

I know. I’m as guilty as anyone else.

Example. Say you wanted to write about a thunderstorm: a full-blast, rainy, wailing monstrosity of a storm. How would you describe it? Maybe you’d pull out adjectives like “towering” or “ominous.” Maybe you’d throw in a metaphor or two, comparing the storm to a dragon or something. Maybe you’d do something else entirely. Think about it for a second.

Now look at how G.K. Chesterton described a thunderstorm in his poem “The Last Hero”:

The heavens are bowed about my head, raging like seraph wars,
With rains that might put out the sun and rid the sky of stars,
Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above,
The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love.

I don’t know what your reaction is, but me personally? Damn.

Chesterton’s storm is vast, apocalyptic, beyond anything he could have achieved just by using the words “vast” and “apocalyptic.” He’s got whole worlds going on in the sky, a civil war in heaven, the Almighty tearing apart the stars.

Mr. Chesterton is not pulling his punches.

(By the way, full text of the poem is here. Or, for a very different but equally powerful description, try Archibald Lampman’s “A Thunderstorm.”)

Should all art be loud and over-the-top like the example above? Of course not. Subtlety is just as powerful. For contrast, here’s Anne Sexton’s “The Fury of Rainstorms”:

The rain drums down like red ants,
each bouncing off my window.
The ants are in great pain
and they cry out as they hit
as if their little legs were only
stitche don and their heads pasted.
And oh they bring to mind the grave,
so humble, so willing to be beat upon
with its awful lettering and
the body lying underneath
without an umbrella.
Depression is boring, I think
and I would do better to make
some soup and light up the cave.

No seraph wars here; this poem feels “smaller,” quieter. But look at the vivid imagery, the red ants, the corpse without an umbrella. She’s wrapped a topic as big as life and death into an action as small as making soup. I contend that Ms. Sexton, likewise, is not pulling her punches.

Maybe you’re not much impressed with one or both of these poems. That’s fine; look toward your own inspiration, whatever that is, and create something better.

Or maybe you’re intimidated by these examples and don’t think you can make something as good. That’s fine too. I’m not saying you have to succeed at this level; God knows, I don’t. I’m only saying you should aim this high, attack the canvas with this much energy. It’s fine to fail, only – as Samuel Beckett said – “Fail better.” Fail spectacularly. Fail hard with a vengeance.

Stop pulling your punches.

(UPDATE: It didn’t occur to me till afterward, but given the tornadoes that have hit the South recently, this may not have been the best timing for this post. No disrespect intended to anyone affected by those disasters.)

Picture me, profound intellectual that I am, cruising home from karate class last night, radio turned to the station that plays Lady Gaga, Eminem, P. Diddy and Katy Perry. (Feel free to judge me. However, it’s either that or Classical, and after practicing how to break a man with my knuckles for an hour, Papa Haydn is not my most natural segue.)

So there I am, rolling down the road, cranking out tunes, keeping it classy in my 2006 V4 base-model Honda Accord. And what am I doing? I’m cheating on my book.

I’m sorry, Counterfeit Emperor. It’s not you, it’s me. I’ve found somebody new, and, well, we’re happy together. All those plot tangles and character issues you have, that I’ve been so patient with for so long? This new book doesn’t have those. It’s fun. It lets me do what I want. What? No, of course I’ll finish revising you.

It’s dangerous, of course, cheating on your book. You do it too much and eventually you start thinking, hey, my new book sounds like so much fun, I don’t need to finish this one I’m on now. And that way lies madness, because there’s always a Next Book to cheat with when the honeymoon phase wears off.

Right, so anyway: there I was, cruising home like a badass, rockin’ 30 in a 25, rain gushing down, and I’m trying to think of the perfect ending for my next book. For me, it’s important to figure out the ending very early on. I want to build the whole story with the ending in mind. I want something both shocking and satisfying, something totally unpredictable that’s nevertheless a perfect fit.

And I’m getting nowhere.

So I thought, okay, next song that comes on the radio, whatever the opening lines are, that’ll be the inspiration for my ending. (And in the back of my mind, I’m thinking: yeah, right. But it’s worth a shot, no?)

And the next song comes on:

Written in the stars
A million miles away
A message to the main
Seasons come and go
But I will never change
And I’m on my way

I thought, hey, that’s not bad! It’s no Keats, but if you’re looking for sci fi inspiration, you could certainly do a lot worse (I roll up / I roll up / I roll up / Shawty I roll up / I roll up / I roll up / I roll up). So I ponder these lines for a few minutes, and next thing you know, voila! The ending I’ve been looking for.

All of which is to say: writing is strange. And also: thank you, Tinie Tempah.

What’s the strangest place you’ve ever found inspiration? Tell me in the comments!

I stopped by a Half Price Books this weekend (my favorite place in the world) and grabbed two more for the bookshelves: A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller Jr., and a single-volume set of all four Rabbit novels by John Updike. Both were pretty cheap, and both were on my list.

Yes, I have a list of books to buy.

Not a list of books to read. For now, at least, I’m pretty open to whatever I feel like jumping to next. But I need a book-buying list, for three reasons.

First, books are my crack cocaine. Given unlimited money and unlimited storage space, I would walk into a Half Price Books and make a list of everything I didn’t want. I need focus.

Second, I find more and more that I don’t enjoy books I buy impulsively (i.e. intrigued by the cover, intrigued by the description). I guess I am getting sort of snooty?

And third, I spend a lot of time on the interblogs, and I keep finding these books that sound amazing. You write down the titles of enough amazing books, and, you know, pretty soon you’ve got yourself a list.

Now, I’m flexible. I’ll still buy books that aren’t on the list if they look cool enough, and sometimes I’ll even decide not to buy a book from the list if it’s too expensive or it doesn’t seem as cool as I thought (which happened this weekend with Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook). But more and more, I find myself sticking to the list.

So here’s what I’ve got:

Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace
Gravity’s Rainbow, Thomas Pynchon
The Tao of Pooh, Benjamin Hoff
Snow Crash, Neal Stephenson
The Dream of the Red Chamber, Cao Xueqin
On the Road, Jack Kerouac
The Arabian Nights (and The Arabian Nights II), Husain Haddawy
The Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler
Of Human Bondage, William Somerset Maugham
Three Men in a Boat, Jerome K. Jerome
Gormenghast, Marvin Peake
Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, Stephen R. Donaldson
Matterhorn, Karl Marlantes
Howl’s Moving Castle, Diana Wynne Jones
Star Maker, Olaf Stapledon

Hm – that’s shorter than I remembered. I guess I’ve actually crossed off quite a few lately. Making progress!

So, what’s up, Reader? Care to share any books on your own To-Buy list? Or, if you’ve read any of the books on mine, have any thoughts? Let me know in the comments!

Norman Mailer was one of the most critically-acclaimed authors of the twentieth century. He won two Pulitzer Prizes. He was (I am told) innovative in the way he blended fiction and nonfiction. He was, like Ron Burgundy, Kind of a Big Deal.

Until fairly recently, that was all I knew about him. He was a Big Name in the literary world, so I’d made a mental note to read at least one of his books and see what the fuss was about.

Here’s something else I learned about Norman Mailer:

In 1960, he stabbed his second wife – Adele Morales – with a pen knife, just missing her heart. After that, he stabbed her in the back. As she lay bleeding, a friend tried to help her. Mailer said, “Get away from her. Let the bitch die.”

Yeah.

I am told he was drunk at the time. I am told he was later diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. However, he apparently never showed any remorse (and was generally a jerk the rest of his life), so I am not inclined to feel much warmth toward him on either account.

My first reaction to all this was “F*** you, then, see if I ever read any of your books.”

Except – does that even make sense?

The man’s been dead for four years, after all. It’s not like he’s going to see any benefit from book sales. Adele Morales is still alive, but I don’t know her, and I don’t suppose it would affect her life in any way if I read one of her late ex-husband’s books. It doesn’t seem like it would hurt anybody.

And yet – it feels like a betrayal, doesn’t it? A sort of tacit approval? To read a book by somebody like that, when so many other, perfectly decent authors go unread? Like you’re saying “Here you go, you fail as a human being, gold star.”

The odd thing is, I think I’d be much less conflicted about reading Hitler’s Mein Kampf. After all, Mein Kampf is long, badly written, and boring. Nobody’s reading it for any other reason than to try and understand the mind of a mass murderer, to play some small part in fighting atrocities like that. Aside from a few neo-Nazi idiots, nobody’s putting Hitler on a pedestal.

But Mailer was a good writer, by all accounts. He is on a pedestal. There’s a good chance that if I read his most famous work, The Naked and the Dead (what a title), that I would learn from it and be enriched by it, and even have praise for its literary merits.

That just feels wrong. And not wrong in some abstract sense, but wrong in that deep-down, sticky, I shouldn’t be doing this kind of way.

He wasn’t especially high on my list anyway. There are lots of great authors I still haven’t read yet; I’ll get to them first. Maybe someday I’ll decide about Mailer. Maybe it’ll just never come up. But I’m really not sure what to think.

What’s your take on it? Should I boycott? Am I over-analyzing? Tell me in the comments.