To help illustrate the point of this blog (“why every writer needs to study Sherman Alexie”) I have to lay out a few things that seem totally unrelated at first:

1.
My dad has a new golf foursome, all retirees down in Florida. He was explaining how the retired engineer has to keep score: “‘Alright Doc, how many strokes?’ he’ll say, and I’ll tell him ‘ah, put down six.’ He’ll start writing on the scorecard, then look up and say ‘wasn’t it eight?’ and everybody laughs. Nobody cares about the score except for him, but I realized it’s because he was an engineer and sees the world through numbers. I was in medicine: we don’t care about scores or how you get there; all that matters is that you get there, that the patient gets better.”

2.
It got me thinking about how people see the world and how my own views have changed (or haven’t changed) depending on where I was and what I was doing. In high school I was always pissed and took it out on the punching bag and by lifting weights and studying my ass off. I was the only kid in all advanced classes who could bench-press 300 lbs and everybody thought I took steroids but it was really just a high-protein diet and a shit-load of my break-yourself-down-and-you-only-come-back-stronger-philosophy.

3.
Predictably I went from one extreme to the other in college, abandoning my studious tough-man strategy and focusing instead on drinking, smoking, and guitar-playing, as this seemed more effective in attracting girls.

4.
It wasn’t until my sophomore year that I figured out what I was really supposed to be doing—whitewater kayaking. Heading up to the Nantahala, the Ocoee, the Chattooga River: these seemed like my first real travels. And yet they brought me back in touch with myself when I was 7: that little kid who used to explore the creeks and the forest behind the house.

5.
The more time I spent on the river, the more I began seeing everything in terms of flow. I started basing life decisions on river-running strategies. I worked with kids at different camps and schools and lived in inexpensive places, paddling, and later (when my girlfriend was tired of my flow) exploring other rivers and waves throughout central and south America, to the point where I was basically just a perma-baked surf-monkey living on bananas, coffee, and beans and rice.

Which was way better than lifting weights.

6.
As much as I’d like to say I’ve forgotten or at least outgrown these characters, listening to Sherman Alexie speak at the Boulder Bookstore the other day brought them all back.

7.
Alexie is one of the most successful writers in America, a full-on-rags-to-riches story: he grew up on the Spokane Indian reservation and didn’t have indoor plumbing until he was seven. Growing up that way (daily realities: malnutrition, alcoholism, friends and families’ houses and cars burning up in crashes and fires, etc.), he transformed his anger and imagination into poetry, short-stories, novels.

8.
Instead of reading from his new book, Flight, Sherman spoke about the realities of being on book tour, how he missed his wife and when he called her up she’d know by his tone if he wanted phone sex and how that right there—knowing what our partners wanted or needed before they even told us—was what marriage was all about. He talked about how much he hates flying, and how on the first flight of the tour they hit crazy turbulence and he reached across the aisle and held a woman’s hand. And all the while he wove in social commentary that spared no one such as:

A. “There are critical cases of nostalgia, like you men who run around with grey ponytails but you’re balding. A balding grey ponytail: that’s critical nostalgia. It might be terminal. Just a bit of advice: it’s been a long time since you ‘fought the man.’ You’re pretty much the man…

B. “It’s funny how there are still certain people who show up—and I can tell who you are—expecting wisdom. And it’s because you’ve seen far too many ‘public-figure Indians.’ And there’s a couple of those public figure Indians that live here [reference to Ward Churchill, infamous ex-CU professor.] Backstage they’re just like me. Backstage we’re all telling dick jokes. . . So here’s the ‘public figure Indian.' [Walks to back of stage, then reintroduces himself.] And now presenting Native American leader. . .political activist. . .academic scholar. . . all-around good guy. . .Sherman Alexie. [Walks back out with “wooden Indian” face, raises hands, palms-upward, bows to the audience, then begins talking in extremely slow, monotone, television Indian-style voice.] My name is Sherman Alexie. . . My Indian name. . . is Squawnoose. . .In your language. . . it means. . . fuck. For the next five hours. . I’m going to detail the long list of crimes. . .you have committed . . .against my people. I’m going to on and on. . . about how horrible . .. you white people are. . .and you will love it.. . . I’m going to explain to you that white people .. .and white culture. . are evil. This despite the fact . . that three of my grandparents are white.. . And I will speak. . . .slowly. . .and make it appear. . as if I’m having difficulty. . . with your language. . .this despite the fact . . that I have a PhD in English. . .”

9.
Over the last few weeks I’ve wanted to say something about reading and publishing people’s work as the Editor at Matador without sounding like a totally condescending prick. Hearing Sherman helped me define what it is I’ve been trying to say: good writing comes from those who’ve totally accepted who they are.

10.
Which is not to say you have to know exactly who you are to write something real, but if you’re still searching, write from that place of searching. Because as soon as you write from some fake personage—somebody you wish you were or delude yourself into thinking that you are—the bullshit comes right through on the page

link to Sherman Alexie's website: www.fallsapart.com