More Phil Keeling
PART 2:
Writer, Author, Word Count Enthusiast
Welcome back! Let's pick up where we left off shall we? Why write?
God, I have no idea. I suppose I enjoy it. I mean, I’m proud of what I create, but it gets damn frustrating in this day and age. Writers are better known for their lifestyle than their actual work. No one looks at a guy downing a bottle of wine and exclaims, “Ah! You drink like a physical therapist!” It sounds like a cliche, but I suppose it’s an impulse: the need to write. I probably wouldn’t if I could avoid it. It’s like something in my brain said, “You know, I’d really love to create a form of art that hardly anyone will get through: but at the same time, I sure hope I can make basically no money from it.”
I’d trade it for the ability to understand nuclear physics or speak Mandarin. Maybe that’s why writers have a reputation for being depressed: we’re saddled with a talent that people admire outwardly, but rarely get around to actually appreciating. I don’t know: sculptors probably have it worse. At least people buy books, even if they don’t always read them.
Do you have a creative process or specific style you prefer? What do you do when you feel stuck creatively?
No process to speak of, really. If I’m writing a book, I try to force myself to write a certain amount of words a day. That’s what I’m doing right now. I’ve been sitting on a book for years now, and I’ve finally started writing it, so I’m forcing myself to 1,000 words a day.
It’s not a matter of inspiration striking. An idea sits inside of my brain, and I give it legs and arms and eyes and an adorable little mouth. And it sits in my head walking and talking and getting to know the neighbors and always it’s growing and growing until I can feel its toes wriggling out of my ear canals and I finally snap and start drawing the idea out just so I can be done with the damn thing.
This is starting to sound like I hate writing. I really don’t. I love writing. I love writers and words and books and poetry and plays. I love it all. I own far too many books. They’ll use them to build me a funeral cairn after I’m dead. But I think I don’t want to put across some sort of romantic idea of why I write or how. I spent a lot of time reading the sort of “How And Why” books of creative writing when I was younger, and they all spoke of the process of writing like it was a sort of magical spell. A way of winnowing the shadows and shades of your ideas onto the page. Cast the ideas down like Norse runes and dance naked under a full moon while reciting the opening pages of lesser-known Fitzgerald books. And then, as the sun rises, you’ll find your completed novel nursing on the teats of a dead she-wolf under the morning dew.
Admittedly, I may have been reading the wrong books.
It’s a lot of work being a writer. It’s about as non-artistic a process as you can possibly imagine. It’s headaches from staring at a glowing monitor. It’s not as noble and foggily artistic as it looks from the outside. An empty bottle of wine looks romantic on the screen. Somewhat less romantic when you’re peering at it through the pine straw haze of a hangover. That’s what being a writer is like.
That’s probably true of other people’s lives to a certain extent.
Is there a piece that you are particularly proud of?
I wrote a book called Drunken Vampire Hunting For Beginners. It isn’t ready yet, but I’m proud of it. It’s my first finished book. I have a stand up comedy album called Conquistadork that you can get on iTunes. It isn’t as good as I remember it being, and I’m not really the same guy I was when I made it. But, again: it took a lot of work and I made it.
Who are some of the writers that you admire?
I read mostly nonfiction these days, largely because I have the attention span of a fruit fly and the need to learn as much as I can about any passing topic that even somewhat interests me. I’ve always been like that: I was an insufferable little know-it-all when I was a kid. Still am, to a certain extent.
A lot of essayists. David Sedaris and David Rakoff, of course.
Charles Bukowski is a writer I’ve never been able to shake. I adore the man. And he’s a tough one these days because I’m a feminist and I know that he can be particularly divisive, depending on who you’re talking to.
I just got finished reading The Sellout by Paul Beatty which was an extraordinary piece of satire. I’m a huge fan of graphic novels: Saga by Brian K. Vaughn and Fiona Staples is breathtaking. Jeff Smith’s Bone and Sam Keith’s The Maxx probably inspired my writing more than I can adequately describe.
Putting yourself out there, both physically and creatively, is definitely not easy. Do you ever experience fear or doubt? How do you manage those feelings?
There is always fear and doubt. My life is a tiger’s pelt of fear slashed with black stripes of confidence and bravado. Crow T. Robot once said, “I calculated the odds of this succeeding versus the odds that I was doing something incredibly stupid, and I went ahead anyway.”
I think that sums up my process for fear. I just barge ahead anyhow, like a bull in a china shop. If I think too much about certain activities I just won’t do them. Sometimes you have to trick yourself into having a good time.
In times of stress, how do you relax, take care of yourself, or indulge yourself?
A good glass of gin, or a bad glass of wine. You’re not supposed to go straight to alcohol when people ask you how you de-stress, are you? Or have we gotten to the point as a culture when people can admit to that sort of thing in polite company? Oh well. I keep a stack of books and graphic novels by my bed. Lay down, open a bottle, and try to read while the cat invades my personal space. That can be very nice. Friday nights I get drunk and listen to podcasts while I play games. It’s my night. That sounds very millennial and sad to some people, but it’s my time to be a garbage person and burrow into my little hermit hole. I quite enjoy it.
What makes you feel confident, or at the very least good, about yourself?
When I worked as a concierge and I was feeling depressed about my lot in life, I would hide in one of the bathroom stalls and pose like Superman for 2 minutes. Hands on hips, shoulders back, chin thrust outward in a very manly way. This pose is actually supposed to boost your confidence: give you your bounce back. It completely worked until I started to wonder how many people could see me doing this pose through the cracks in the stall. Or wondered why I went to the bathroom and stood but never dropped my drawers or anything.
People probably never wondered that.
If you’re ever at a comedy show and you liked even a single joke that one of the comedians told, find them after the show and let them know. There’s a good chance that comedian is teetering on the verge of quitting the whole business, and you have no idea how much a single “I think you’re funny” can sustain one of us.
You have your hand in so many things, it’s hard to imagine there’s time for you to do anything else. Is there something else you like to do besides your projects?
I’d really like to take up gardening. I make my own gin and the idea of growing my own juniper bushes and roses and other botanicals to go into my booze seems like a worthwhile thing to explore. I’ve also started making wine, but the first batch didn’t go so well. On a completely unrelated note, would you be interested in purchasing several bottles of red wine vinegar?
What is something you wish you knew before you started any, or all, of your projects?
Nothing, really. I think the point of projects is to be surprised by the outcome. That can be a happy surprise or a nasty one, but even failing at something can be fun if you do it in a way that is completely you. Part of me wishes I’d taken some time before recording my comedy album. I was still very young in the business, and a lot of those jokes are either unfunny to me or just don’t represent me at all anymore. But at the same time, if I’d put it off, I wonder if I would have done it at all. There are positive things about being impulsive, sometimes.
Given all of your projects, is there any one outlet that you seem to gravitate towards more than the others?
Writing. I’ve been writing stories as far back as I can remember. And I did say that I would trade it for something more practical. Maybe I mean that. I don’t know. Crafting sentences, characters, words: it’s just something that I do. Like eating and composing drunken tweets. Maybe my writing is special, maybe it’s not. But it’s definitely linked to me as a person. So I love it, and it frustrates me daily. It’s like country, family, and creed: if you’re going to love it, you have to love it warts and all.
What’s the most challenging and the most rewarding part of starting/ finishing that project?
It really is like that old quote: “I don’t like writing. I like having written.” Like a lesser version of childbirth: the process is arduous and filled with self-loathing and, if you’re lucky, several sorts of mind-altering substances. But after all is said and done, you’re left with a little seven pound bundle that you want to show off to everyone, however they might feel about it. Maybe it’ll take up wings of its own and go on and do great things. Maybe it’ll kill you in your sleep.
I could probably take this metaphor further: should I go on?
What is the best advice you've been given? (Career or otherwise).
First story about a father figure:
My first name is Stephen. As a young writer, I was signing my work as “S.P. Keeling” or “S. Phillip Keeling”. There was something so serious about the idea of being a writer back then. “I am meant to be taken seriously. These initials will get the point across. Also, instead of “Phil” I am now “Phillip”, despite the fact that no one calls me “Phillip” except for mom and my sister.”
It was a small affectation on the surface, but I think it influenced me more than I thought. I was a sophomore in undergrad, taking a playwriting course with Ed Simpson, a man who I still see as a mentor and father figure. He was the sort of adult that your parents hope you’ll attach yourself to now that you’ve left the nest. Good-natured, kind, incredibly funny. And dedicated to the idea of teaching his students, whether it was through lecture or example. And one day he just casually told a story about his first play, and how he signed it, “Edward K. Simpson”. For a lot of the same reasons I was doing the “S. Phillip Keeling” thing. Long story short, he decided, “Nah. I’m not Edward K. Simpson. I’m Ed.”
I don’t know if he was aiming that at me: I don’t recall him actually bringing it up in direct relation to me. But I thought about it for a long time, and eventually made the same decision that he did. I’m not entirely sure who S. Phillip Keeling is. I’m sure he’s very impressive in his own way. But I’m Phil. It was a step in the direction of becoming less of a pretentious little shit. I don’t know if it counts as advice, but it helped. Ed taught me a hell of a lot, but just being a model for a theater major’s manhood was probably the most important of them.
Second story about a father figure (my actual father):
My dad was always a little bit of a mystery in my life. He’d come home at the end of the day in his BDUs (I can still recall the smell of them: a very specific smell of fabric that you can’t really replicate), and sometimes we’d go out to see him parachute onto a massive, barren field: he was a tiny dot out on the horizon and then he’d stride up to us after what felt like forever, carrying his parachute and smiling out from a haze of camouflage and kicked up red dust. I love my dad in the affectionate way that a boy should love his father, but he was also always this mysterious and incredible monolith of a human being. Still is, in many ways, but it’s different when you’re little. He escaped the poverty of small-town Alabama to travel the world, attend an Ivy-league school, and basically become the hardest act to follow of all time. My brother and I would tell him basically that, and he would say, “I didn’t do all of those things for you to live up to them. I did them because it was the best way I knew to provide for you. So you could go out and do whatever it was you wanted to do with your lives.” He’s also a really great writer: he’ll write you a casual letter that’ll make you grin like an idiot.
This is steadily becoming a ramble, and I apologize. I tell you all of this because my dad has given me a ton of terrific advice over the years. From simple life instructions like, “When you’re sad or depressed, sit down and write out everything that you have to be thankful for.” To more complex discussions about responsibility and satisfaction in life. But the thing that always comes back to me is a long time ago, we were driving past a series of jump towers: the sort that they use to train paratroopers. And he told me that they were a specific height: because psychologically speaking, past a certain height, if you can jump off of a tower, you can jump out of an airplane. And that got me to thinking: There’s a limit to fear. If you can climb over that limit, you’re impeded by nothing. I don’t know if he meant it to impart that sort of lesson to me. For all I know, it was my pop offering up a piece of trivia that he thought I’d find interesting, and my brain took the notion and ran with it. I still think that counts, though: either way. I love my dad: I love listening to his stories. Again, I don’t know if that counts as advice.
Probably not. I’m terrible at this.
Trust us, you're not. Who’s your idol?
I strive on the regular to be as close to Raul Julia’s portrayal of Gomez Addams as is socially acceptable.
What’s your favorite song or album? (Or the closest you can get to it).
Radiohead’s OK Computer is the greatest album of all time. I don’t make the rules: it just is. Followed closely by Rain Dogs by Tom Waits, Apollo 18 by They Might Be Giants, and Several Arrows Later by Matt Pond PA. All albums that take me to a wonderful place.
What’s your favorite piece of literary work? (Book, play, poem, etc.).
My favorite book is Straight Man by Richard Russo. Not his best known work, but overall the most satisfying novel I’ve ever read. And I’ve read it at least a dozen times.
Do you have a favorite restaurant?
I’d like to offer a brief moment of silence in the memory of Angel’s: once the best barbecue place in all of Savannah. Elizabeth on 37th in Savannah. Husk in Charleston.
Who is on your guest list (alive or dead) for your perfect dinner party and what would you eat?
Tom Waits, Charles Bukowski, Truman Capote, Dita von Teese, Storm Large, Henry Rollins, PJ Harvey, Nick Cave, Dorothy Parker, John Flansburgh and John Linnell, Brendan Behan, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Salvador Dali, Fran Lebowitz, James Baldwin, and Groucho Marx. Shrimp and grits will be served, along with several cases of brown, red, and clear liquids. May we never make it out alive.
What would your last meal be?
Shrimp and grits. Biscuits and gravy. A cheeseburger the size of my head. A bottle of Nolet’s gin. Hell, that might be how I die.
Where is your favorite place on earth?
A bench on Tybee Island.
What’s one thing you can’t live without?
Legal pads and leaky black ink pens.
If you could give a piece of advice to someone interested in starting something – whether it’s a business, a new career path, a new adventure, a relationship – what would you tell them.
Just do the damn thing. Don’t get precious. But don’t give up hope, either.
