Today it is fairly easy to make a feature film for, say, $10,000…earn the money, don’t wait for financiers. Don’t waste your life to promote your project.

Herzog says that he’d rather see filmmakers working for half a year to earn the money to make their films working as “a bouncer in a sex club” or as a “guard at an insane asylum.” He says there are fringe benefits to working day jobs beyond just scraping together money to self-finance films.

When I was in the fiction writing program at Columbia College, we were encouraged to write about our day jobs…the more menial and tedious, the better. Jobs were seen as the source of material for fiction. It’s the drama of everyday life that inspires us as storytellers. Maybe that’s why sophomore efforts by writers and filmmakers are often somewhat tepid: once they retreat to lives on the comfortable side of success, perhaps they lose touch with the source material that first inspired them.

The same is true for film: your menial job can keep “your finger on the pulse” of the origins of story. Herzog echoes this, adding the pragmatism of self-financing to the notion that having experience in everyday life can be more interesting that being isolated in academia or caught playing the financing game in LA. Of the latter, Herzog says:

[chasing financing is] a waste of time; it’s loss of life, not only waste of life. When you’re into filmmaking, you have to have your finger on the pulse of real life, of real, raw, essential life. So do that: work for half a year and then you can make the film.

And as for the technological advantages of making films in the digital age, Herzog says:

The instruments, the cameras are inexpensive and high-caliber. You can edit at home on your own laptop. So just go out and do it. There’s no excuse anymore, today there is no excuse.

Herzog is famous for making his own rules in filmmaking, and his biggest successes seem counter-intuitive, from Grizzly Man to Encounters at the End of the World, both unique and atypical documentaries. He drifts from nonfiction to narrative film, always changing genres, making his films on his own terms. It’s refreshing to see that he’s passionate about encouraging others to do the same.

Preparing a meal is perhaps the quickest and most effective way to give someone a sense of place. Eric showed up at the Greyhound station on a redeye bus, so I sent him to the Coast for the day. He’d already offered to buy steaks, but I upped the ante by sending him to a favorite seafood shop on the bayfront in Newport. He returned with fresh halibut, scallops and crab meat in a bag of crushed ice, plus a bottle of pinot noir from a local vineyard. We added asparagus, scallions and fish sticks for Bailey and the result was quite nice.

We then headed to the Cascades for a couple days of hiking and fishing the Deschutes. We didn’t land any trout large enough to grill on the fire, but we were fortunate enough to pass a stand in Sisters selling salmon jerky and fresh blue chanterelle mushrooms, which I’d never tried before. We cooked them in oil on a camp stove and ate them with of Painted Hills beef tenderloin filets next to the cerulean blue of the Metolius River burbling and hidden in the darkness just beyond the propane lantern light. The chanterelles were, if anything, cleaner and more earthy in taste than their pale cousins, and they glistened black in the camp light. We drank Black Butte Porter in the shadow of the actual Black Butte, reminding me of why Oregon is perhaps the best place in the world for beer.

Eric is an avid traveller, eater and Anthony Bourdain fan, the sort of fellow to snap photos of what he eats, wherever he happens to be in the world. When someone visit’s it fine (and easy) to take him to your favorite restaurant, but I think that cooking something local is even more effective. And when your guest snaps a photo of what you prepared together, then you know you’ve had at least some measure of success.

And if Eric decides to return to sample some more of Oregon’s offerings, we’ll know we’ve made a lasting impression.

Her book Temple of Air is coming out this fall.

She was also recently kind enough to include me in her blog series, Views from the Keyboard.

I don’t think either of us truly think that books are going away. I see too many kids absorbed deeply in books for that to even be a remote possibility. But we are going through changes.  A couple quotes that stood out from Keller’s piece.

When people say they love writing, they usually mean they love having written.

Writing is terrifically hard work. For me it’s like exercise – terribly painful when your doing it, but afterwards it gives you a healthy glow of accomplishment and allows you to not have to suck wind after running to catch the bus.

Another quote talks about the importance of life experience. This resonates with me, because as I cross the big four-oh with limited publishing success, I suppose the one thing going in my favor is the accumulation of additional years of life experience. For example, as I write this, I’m contorting my body in such a way as to fend off the most excruciating back pain of my life stemming from a day spent in the rather low impact activity of painting the house:

…there is no better qualification for writing about life in all its complexity than having lived it.

The whole article is worth a read. I think Keller and I would agree that books aren’t going anywhere. People may slow down on the consumption side, but writers are going to keep writing regardless.  And a few of the books will turn out to be pretty good, too.

They descend on our fields, neck-deep in crops dusted with pesticides, the spore of new construction, bringing life to otherwise dying small towns in Kansas.

Many have the audacity to bring their families, to stay, sometimes for generations, and to speak the language given to them by the Conquistadores for a while before eventually losing it.

Often, they sing.

And they’re singing now. A family, several families, maybe thirty of them have rented a rowboat on a crystal lake that drowns a hidden forest amid frozen lava flows, an ancient reminder that this part of our country is still considered young by geologists, changing, heaving, convulsing beneath our very feet, reducing the idea of maps, borders, to a silly notion.

Eight of them crowd into the rowboat while the rest wait their turn on shore. The oars squeak as they zigzag, leaving little whirlpools from each kiss of a blade on the water. They draw sideways stares from the other fishermen, but they don’t care.

My daughter is fascinated by their joy. The smiles on the faces of the children. So much more compelling than my insistence on fish that never materialize. She sings along. It’s all one language after all.

And we’re both glad that they’re here.

All of us who prefer reading and writing in the long format rather than in sad little electronic dibs and dabs are staring at an unfolding revolution. I’ve come out on the side of this digital tsunami of change having a positive impact on storytelling.

But others aren’t so sure. The latest post on this subject that has taken my attention is this one by Johann Hari where he says:

The book — the physical paper book — is being circled by a shoal of sharks, with sales down 9 percent this year alone. It’s being chewed by the e-book. It’s being gored by the death of the bookshop and the library. And most importantly, the mental space it occupied is being eroded by the thousand Weapons of Mass Distraction that surround us all.

I’ve been hearing this for years and paying special attention given my own (albeit fading) preoccupation with making the list of top American novelists under 40. I turn 40 this year and other things, which include movies, work, a kid, red wine and fishing, are all conspiring to sap my energy for the sort of literary navel gazing required to write the type of novels I’m interested in. I’ve done the dance with agents and heard their lament all too often. They’re wonderful people, but they’re challenged by the state of the publishing industry. Here’s what one nice agent recently wrote me about a novel manuscript I sent her:

So I think you’re a strong writer – I have to say I enjoyed reading this and was very impressed by your talent which is obvious throughout.  You’ve written a difficult novel but made it engaging and tense, and kept the reader wondering.

But I feel that there are some big problems…at a different time I might have encouraged you to think about a rewrite and to show it to me again, but now it’s such a difficult climate for fiction, that I’m not going to do that.

I used to get that “difficult climate” line a lot.  Maybe it’s a way to let someone down easy…to pass on a manuscript but encourage a <40 writer to keep his chin up and keep at it. Maybe it’s a polite way to say I suck. Or maybe it’s an earnest reflection of the pressure they’re feeling as this era we love so much, that of the long form story in print, goes gently into a good night lit by glowing rectangles in various sizes. If it’s the latter, this tells me that in a previous era I probably could have had a shot at landing that top agent and staking out a modest career in the low stakes world of literary fiction.

But instead I’ve moved on to making documentaries and other distractions, and I’m finding less and less time to write.

But I’m still a reader. If I don’t have at least two books on my nightstand in various stages of completion, I feel a hole in my existence that can’t be filled by either the lesser experiences of social media or the Great American Lobotomy Machine. And being a reader of both long stuff and very old stuff gives me several distinct advantages that make me relavent in a tightening marketplace:

Advantage one: Russian novels and endurance

If you can read a long, rambling Russian novel with a myriad of characters each of whom inexplicably has three or four names, all of which sound similar to those of the other characters, and if you can concentrate long enough, and hard enough, to get through a thousand pages and then be so moved that you weep like a child when it all comes together in the end…then you can pretty much analyze any situation, no matter how dark and tangled, and find your way through to the other side.

People who don’t read Russian novels might reach points in their lives or careers where they feel stalled or impossibly entangled. What you learn from Russian novels is that if you just plod through, if you just focus and turn the page, eventually it will come together. Through sheer brute tenacity, you can reach the conclusion of any given situation.

This has helped me survive any number of challenges, from persisting through numerous creative obsessions to surviving crazy bosses and any number of seemingly hopeless situations of the personal or professional variety.

Persistence pays off. And if the reading of long-format books is truly dying in this age of 140-character interpersonal communication, then I’ve got a secret weapon the next time I face that brick wall and start slamming my forehead against the mortar. I can keep myself sharp through this long slog of life and career, and the fewer folks out there who know this Secret of Dostoyevski, the better the chance that I’ll reach the other side first.

Advantage two: the “creative guy”

I’ve acquired a reputation, not quite honestly, as being something of a creative guy.  I’ve heard it over the years at various corporate and institutional jobs. “Hey, you’re the creative guy, you go figure something out.”

It’s always felt unearned. Mainly because I’m not that creative. My creativity stems largely from stealing things written by dead guys who can’t sue me. That advertising copy? That was a riff on Dylan Thomas or Ovid. That story concept? Straight out of a letter by Flaubert, with imagery from Rilke. The latest commercial script? Heavily influenced by Walt Whitman, whom I read a snippet of daily to help me earn that creative guy label.

Of course, I’m not the only one who “collaborates” with Walt Whitman – the best advertising people all do this, and some aren’t afraid to admit it:

Advantage three: a refuge

Some folks spend small fortunes on psychotherapy or golf, trips to the Far East, yoga classes, you name it, all to achieve some sort of meditative balance in their lives. I’ve got my own distractions that cost me in both time and treasure, not the least of which are wine and fishing. But a paper book is the perfect, portable, inconspicuous, low-cost way to slip into a different plane of existence in order to achieve that distance from the electronic cacophony that is our daily lives.

A novel habit could be the very thing that keeps you sharper than the competition, especially with fewer and fewer folks out there who hone the same required level of concentration that allows you to read something good. If you have an easy, accessible, inexpensive place to retreat for a few hours or moments at a time, then you don’t need that trip to the day spa or those pricey extra eighteen holes to get away. You can save your coins for more important things such as red wine, vitamins, or maybe an MBA degree.

I’m not afraid of books going away. I can go to our local library book sale and load up on really good stuff for five dollars a box. There are so many classic works going back some two thousand years that I have yet to read that, should the practice of writing books cease tomorrow, I could still map out a lifetime of reading.

So I’ll always have this refuge, this bargain retreat that can take me to the Great Russian Steppes or down the Mississippi on a raft with that pesky Huck and my long-time hero and mentor, Jim.

In closing: Seek and Destroy

So in the end, I’m not afraid of the cessation of publishing or the disappearance of reading from mainstream culture. Why? Because it’s always going to be my thing. I frankly don’t care if other people (other than my wife and daughter) continue to read stuff or not. I want my kid to read because it will give her the same advantages that I perceive reading gives me. I don’t have to worry about her, because at seven she is obsessed with collecting fairy books and she begs to hear more chapters of Little House on the Prairie every night. She’ll be just fine when it comes to reading.

If publishers stop publishing and people stop reading, maybe the box loads of books at the library book sale will drop from five bucks to two-fifty.

If publishing and long-format reading collapse, I’ll retain my secret advantages. I can remain the creative guy thanks to Walt Whitman. I can retain my strategy for plowing through difficult situations.

So if long-format books become “my thing,” I’m fine with that. I recall listening to this little known band from the Bay Area when I was a kid. They were called Metallica and they had this album called “Kill ‘em All” that none of the radio stations ever played because it was too raw and angry and poorly produced. This meant that the only way to hear their music was to read about it in some photocopied, pathetic little music zine or to have a friend hand you a copy.

Once you’d discovered Metallica, you became part of an underground movement, a sort of greasy, black tee-shirted clan of socially awkward individuals who possessed this power of frothing, addictive music that they only shared with others of their kind.

To connect with this clan, all you had to do was hum, in a nasal falsetto, the opening bars of “Seek and Destroy” and you’re fellow clansmen would begin banging their heads: “bwananaa, bum bwananaa, bum bum bum bum bum bwanahh!” You then knew that you could safely talk about music and anarchy with them.

Later on, when Metallica’s fame grew and and you could find them in records stores and on the radio and in music videos, our desperately awkward clan lost our secret muse. When the band ceased to be underground, they ceased to interest us. When they stopped eating sandwiches of stale Wonder bread smeared with stolen ketchup packets form fast food chains, their mystique diminished. They were now “lame.” By virtue of earning a living, they had “sold out.” We had to look elsewhere because we now shared the secret with the general populace, and that wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all.

So if books go underground…if they become the purview of a few strange individuals sitting around staring at bleached pulp for hours on end, I will not be afraid nor saddened. Instead, I’ll know who I’ll be safe to sit next to on a bus when I don’t feel like talking – someone engrossed in a book is less likely to start some inane conversation. I’ll know who I can trust. I know who I can safely talk to without being bored to tears. I know what I’ll be able to look for on park benches or in airport lobbies to find others of my kind.

If books finally begin to disappear from mainstream culture, maybe I’ll find my tribe again.

Ultimately, it’s about building an audience as much as it is about raising a few bucks so that we can travel to places and shove cameras in peoples’ faces.

Since our subtitle is “An American Wine Movie,” and we are trying to tap into a national personality trait that makes folks in the New World chuck everything to follow a crazy dream, we decided to end our campaign on July 4th.

What does it mean to be Powered by Orange?

It’s who we’ve always been

And here’s the finished TV spot, pulled together  by our multi-talented team and interns: