Simple Words

by Chiwan Choi
Managing Editor, The WIP

1933 Was a Bad Year. That was the book that let me breathe. I kept reading the author’s name on the cover. John Fante. John Fante. John Fante. He’d written this book, this magnificent book that had no equal, with what felt like just a handful of words, simple words that even I could understand. And while others were trying to explain to me why a limp book like The Great Gatsby was the greatest American novel, I held the bent and stained library copy of 1933 Was a Bad Year in my hands and kept smiling as if I had found some secret that the world had been keeping from me in this thin book, as if I could now have a relationship with my father, because it was the first time I looked at a piece of writing and was able to say, “That’s me. This writer is me. This Italian man from Colorado is me. He is writing about my life which I was told many times that nobody cared about.”

I can tell you all the reasons that I am part of the odd group of people that makes up the staff of The WIP. I can tell you about the imbalance in mainstream media. I can show you eye-opening stats. I can tell you that I am here because of some noble cause inside me. I can say that I am here to change some political climate or something.

But the real reason for me is the handful of words, simple clean words, that have come in from so many writers around the world. The sentences and paragraphs and short stories often written in broken English more perfect than the Chicago Manual of Style. The images and moments that linger with me like a single basil leaf.

Because that’s how my life goes on. From moment to moment. Image to image. And from the past five days that I have spent up here in Monterey launching The WIP, in Carmel and the beautiful coastline and trees of Big Sur, and the tranquility of Prunedale, what I’ll remember most are the small things that enrich my life without end: our Jewish/Christian junior editor giving an impromptu beatboxing concert at our cheap hotel; our 25 year-old Italian/Canadian Iraq war vet intern who speaks more Korean than I do; the way the chicken smelled coming out of the oven at the Daniels’ home; me sitting on the ground of the parking lot of the Surf Inn at 3 a.m., using the weak wireless connection to update the headlines for the day, excited beyond words and ideas and issues, proud and wondering how long it would be before I can figure out efficiency and stop sitting in the cold.