Not a record-breaking year, my friends, but a good one for reading nonetheless. Following the last two years' tallies of 61 and 70 books read, respectively, I'm weighing in with a mere 40 for 2010. Now, if you counted the number of times I've reached for "What to Expect When You're Expecting" and a dozen other like-minded tomes, you would have a slightly different number. Along with the conclusion that I'm a trifle obsessed and anxiety-ridden. Yes indeed.
This year's list, the third annual, tells a story. It reminds me of what I was doing or what was going on while I was reading a particular book: mainly, preparing for the life-altering experience of becoming a parent. The other two years' spreadsheets tell their own stories, a record of highs and lows that soared and dipped like an out-of-whack barometer. (Find 2009's here, and 2008's here.) The 2010 list always will remind me of my pregnancy, and the birth of our son in October.
Some of my favorite reads this year included Zeitoun by Dave Eggers, which I devoured while sprawled out on the couch in January. Picture paddling a canoe up to the second floor of your house in post-Hurricane Katrina New Orleans. Not long after, I re-read The Stranger by Camus while teaching in the Humanities, and was reminded of my first reading, just after graduating from college. I was working a temp job as a receptionist for a phone company, saving money to go to Europe. I did not know how to pronounce Camus (Ca-MOO), or what I was going to do with my life, or why such-and-such boy had broken my heart, and so on. The Stranger, existentialism at its finest, flipped me on my ear, took me out of myself for a moment. And it did it again this year.
I read Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stairs while flying to/from California. Laughed out loud, then cried and tried to hide it by facing the window, until my friend handed me an in-flight napkin. You know it's a good book, she said, if it makes you laugh and cry within a few pages. I missed Moore's November reading at Butler U, sadly, when the baby was less than a month old and I was a huge wreck. The baby is now three months old, and I am much less of a wreck. I hope to catch Ms. Moore, one of my favorite living writers, another time.
Aimee Bender's The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake also topped my list of books this year. (You can read my interview with Bender in a recent issue of Guernica.) It was one of my pregnancy insomnia reads, along with Nami Mun's Miles from Nowhere. Those books will always remind me of the sun cracking through the sky, and I'd finally look up, surprised that night was over.
I finally read Tom Barbash's The Last Good Chance, a book I'd bought years ago when he gave a reading in Syracuse. I finished it a day before going into labor. I remember seeing the book on the coffee table once we were home from the hospital, and it seemed like another life, reading that book. It was. Barbash and I both worked for the same newspaper, The Syracuse Post-Standard, at different times. His upstate NY setting felt very real to me, as did the reporter's conundrums.
The last ten or so books on the list have been read while nursing the baby, pretty much the only time I have for reading right now. A couple of critically acclaimed literary novels fell short for me -- maybe I'm not in the right headspace for melancholy, brooding stories? -- while I voraciously read popular fiction like Kathryn Stockett's The Help. My friend Donna, who always has stellar recommendations, pointed me to Kate Atkinson's novel, When Will There Be Good News? Hilarious and dark, a literary mystery. Another by Atkinson, One Good Turn, patiently waits its turn on my shelf. Dan Chaon's Await Your Reply was another favorite this year: identity theft with thrilling and unexpected plot twists.
Break it down:
40 books
20 male authors/20 female authors (Weird. And unintentional.)
31 novels
5 nonfiction
4 story collections
2 re-reads
Author repeats: Ian McEwan (2), Elinor Lipman (2)
I'm heading back to work in a couple weeks, and balancing baby & the rest of life. We've got an excellent start on our home library of children's books. Not sure what next year's spreadsheet will be like, but I have a feeling 2011 will be the year of reading out loud.
Happy New Year.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Cabletown
I've taken up residence, it seems, inside my television. For the first time in my adult life, I have cable -- not counting basic cable, which we got for the reception, of course, and which included no fewer than seven public access government channels, featuring "Board of Zoning Appeals I" and "Board of Zoning Appeals II Fast II Furious." Which my husband and I actually watched, when we weren't tuned to our one fancy channel, TBS, for the occasional Seinfeld rerun. Zoning is hawt. You never know when a neighbor is going to request a carport variance, or when a lawyerly friend-of-a-friend shows up on screen to discuss parking plans to accommodate the new building going up downtown. The channels don't have rating systems, but it can get pretty racy at times, watching lawmakers shake sugar packets into Styrofoam coffee cups. Reheated drama straight outta the City/County Building.
But those viewings were mostly larks. Occasional bouts of latchkey youth aside, we've never really been TV people. We are readers and writers. We love books, newspapers, the backs of cereal boxes. We print out articles from the Internet for each other, we e-mail links. We tear out or dog-ear magazine pages and leave them around the house. We ensconce ourselves in novels and nonfiction, and history books (at least one of us, the one who is not me, loves history, and could be named an honorary member of the Greatest Generation.)
But one fateful day, as I was lightly crunching numbers, I realized it would be approximately $3 cheaper a month to bundle our services and have real cable. We were about to become first-time parents, and friends advised us of the life-saving powers of cable television. The sleep deprivation, they warned, would allow little brainpower. We needed mindless entertainment. And hey, the fourth season of Mad Men was approaching, which we usually watched on DVDs checked out from the library. We could have Mad Men as it aired? Um, yes, please.
What I had not factored into the bargain: the Kardashians. The Jersey Shore. Married to Rock. That wily old coot, Larry King. I was finally getting cultural references that had evaded me for years! I'm obsessed with Cash Cab. I WANT TO BE ON CASH CAB. Oh em gee, the Gilmore Girls repeats. I've spent far too many hours in Stars Hollow of late, as evidenced by my feelings of whimsy, my desire to banter wittily about relationships -- yours, mine, it doesn't matter. My husband arrived home from work yesterday to find me feeding the baby and watching yet another GG episode. Shhh, I told him. Mama's watching her stories.
(He gets his stories too, in the form of the Military channel, where nine times out of ten, WWII bombers are flying through the black-and-white sky. I swear it's the same footage.) I've also noticed that no matter the hour, "Remember the Titans" is always playing somewhere.
Last year, I read 70 books. This year's been a little different, what with months of pregnancy fatigue and naps, followed by the arrival of baby boy, now 2 1/2 months old. I'm closing in on 40 books, not counting all the baby manuals I've read cover to cover. Could probably have squeezed in a few more books if I'd turned off the TV a little more. But you know what? Sometimes it's the brain that needs turning off.
But those viewings were mostly larks. Occasional bouts of latchkey youth aside, we've never really been TV people. We are readers and writers. We love books, newspapers, the backs of cereal boxes. We print out articles from the Internet for each other, we e-mail links. We tear out or dog-ear magazine pages and leave them around the house. We ensconce ourselves in novels and nonfiction, and history books (at least one of us, the one who is not me, loves history, and could be named an honorary member of the Greatest Generation.)
But one fateful day, as I was lightly crunching numbers, I realized it would be approximately $3 cheaper a month to bundle our services and have real cable. We were about to become first-time parents, and friends advised us of the life-saving powers of cable television. The sleep deprivation, they warned, would allow little brainpower. We needed mindless entertainment. And hey, the fourth season of Mad Men was approaching, which we usually watched on DVDs checked out from the library. We could have Mad Men as it aired? Um, yes, please.
What I had not factored into the bargain: the Kardashians. The Jersey Shore. Married to Rock. That wily old coot, Larry King. I was finally getting cultural references that had evaded me for years! I'm obsessed with Cash Cab. I WANT TO BE ON CASH CAB. Oh em gee, the Gilmore Girls repeats. I've spent far too many hours in Stars Hollow of late, as evidenced by my feelings of whimsy, my desire to banter wittily about relationships -- yours, mine, it doesn't matter. My husband arrived home from work yesterday to find me feeding the baby and watching yet another GG episode. Shhh, I told him. Mama's watching her stories.
(He gets his stories too, in the form of the Military channel, where nine times out of ten, WWII bombers are flying through the black-and-white sky. I swear it's the same footage.) I've also noticed that no matter the hour, "Remember the Titans" is always playing somewhere. Last year, I read 70 books. This year's been a little different, what with months of pregnancy fatigue and naps, followed by the arrival of baby boy, now 2 1/2 months old. I'm closing in on 40 books, not counting all the baby manuals I've read cover to cover. Could probably have squeezed in a few more books if I'd turned off the TV a little more. But you know what? Sometimes it's the brain that needs turning off.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Some days my skin is plenty tough
Other days, not so much. This makes me feel better:
And a handy link, in case you wanted to get it for me for Christmas.
And a handy link, in case you wanted to get it for me for Christmas.
Monday, November 15, 2010
A slice of lemon cake with Aimee Bender
I have an interview up at Guernica with writer Aimee Bender, whose recent book, The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, was, as the critics say, un-put-downable.
I'm glad she and I completed this prior to October, when my bouncing baby boy was born. He is also, as the parents say, un-put-downable. Because he likes to be held. And he cries when he is not. Which makes interviewing people somewhat more challenging, to say nothing of toasting a bagel or checking e-mail. Remember all the bagels I used to toast, and all the e-mails I would check? Those were different times. Buttery, sticky-keyboarded times.
But we're learning. Becoming more dexterous with one-handed maneuvers. (As well as getting sucked into brainless cable television, an addictive, sugary phase I hope is temporary, but also kind of love, shamefully. More on that soon.)
So please go read about Aimee, who has this to say on dreams and art: "One thing that’s so key about dreams is they are reality and not-reality at the same time, and I think art is too."
Dreams! I remember having those, back when I used to sleep.
Here is the lovely Aimee Bender:
Author photo by Max S. Gerber
I'm glad she and I completed this prior to October, when my bouncing baby boy was born. He is also, as the parents say, un-put-downable. Because he likes to be held. And he cries when he is not. Which makes interviewing people somewhat more challenging, to say nothing of toasting a bagel or checking e-mail. Remember all the bagels I used to toast, and all the e-mails I would check? Those were different times. Buttery, sticky-keyboarded times.
But we're learning. Becoming more dexterous with one-handed maneuvers. (As well as getting sucked into brainless cable television, an addictive, sugary phase I hope is temporary, but also kind of love, shamefully. More on that soon.)
So please go read about Aimee, who has this to say on dreams and art: "One thing that’s so key about dreams is they are reality and not-reality at the same time, and I think art is too."
Dreams! I remember having those, back when I used to sleep.
Here is the lovely Aimee Bender:
Author photo by Max S. Gerber
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Vouched Presents Artifice Magazine Issue 2
There's a fantastic literary event in Indianapolis tonight: the traveling show that is Artifice Magazine is appearing at Big Car Gallery, with readings from writers who appear in Issue 2. Details are here.
And if you miss tonight's show in Indy, fear not. There also are dates set for Baltimore, D.C., NYC, and Cambridge, Mass.
Wish I could go to any and all of these readings; the Issue #1 reading last February in Chicago was a blast. Back then, I was secretly 8 weeks pregnant, and I think one or two friends at the party *might* have noticed that instead of wine, I was drinking Orange Crush mixed with nothing, falling asleep on my feet despite the raucous readings, and later, the dance party. (Or as I seem to recall Tim Jones-Yelvington calling it, the Dance Movie.)
And four short days ago, our beautiful baby boy arrived in the world. I know he'd love to check out Artifice #2 at Big Car -- he is a very literary fellow, I can tell -- but perhaps is a little too new (and unpredictable) right now. We'll just have to wait for Issue #3, and hopefully the tour will come back our way.
And if you miss tonight's show in Indy, fear not. There also are dates set for Baltimore, D.C., NYC, and Cambridge, Mass.
Wish I could go to any and all of these readings; the Issue #1 reading last February in Chicago was a blast. Back then, I was secretly 8 weeks pregnant, and I think one or two friends at the party *might* have noticed that instead of wine, I was drinking Orange Crush mixed with nothing, falling asleep on my feet despite the raucous readings, and later, the dance party. (Or as I seem to recall Tim Jones-Yelvington calling it, the Dance Movie.)
And four short days ago, our beautiful baby boy arrived in the world. I know he'd love to check out Artifice #2 at Big Car -- he is a very literary fellow, I can tell -- but perhaps is a little too new (and unpredictable) right now. We'll just have to wait for Issue #3, and hopefully the tour will come back our way.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Collaborate to fabricate
Collaborate apparently is the one "ate" word that isn't in that one song by INXS. (I asked the computer. It told me so. The song's Mediate, by the way. At 98 we all rotate. Etc. Now try to get it out of your head. JUST GO AHEAD AND TRY.)
I'm new-ish to writing collaborative fiction, but thanks to Indianapolis literary guru Bryan Furuness, we currently have a project up at Ninth Letter along with writers Andrew Scott and Matthew Simmons. The premise: what would you do if you had use of a time machine for a day? I immediately loved the idea, feeling as strongly as I do about time travel and the potential mechanisms for such.
We all wrote our own contest entries for the Tempus Fugitive (c), which Bryan then assembled and submitted to magazines. In addition to corralling writers from across the land, Bryan also has been published by Ninth Letter's print edition, and his story, Man of Steel, will appear in Best American Nonrequired Reading 2010. How cool is that? The answer, my friends, is very.
Check out all of the above if you're so inclined.
I'm new-ish to writing collaborative fiction, but thanks to Indianapolis literary guru Bryan Furuness, we currently have a project up at Ninth Letter along with writers Andrew Scott and Matthew Simmons. The premise: what would you do if you had use of a time machine for a day? I immediately loved the idea, feeling as strongly as I do about time travel and the potential mechanisms for such.
We all wrote our own contest entries for the Tempus Fugitive (c), which Bryan then assembled and submitted to magazines. In addition to corralling writers from across the land, Bryan also has been published by Ninth Letter's print edition, and his story, Man of Steel, will appear in Best American Nonrequired Reading 2010. How cool is that? The answer, my friends, is very.
Check out all of the above if you're so inclined.
Monday, September 20, 2010
True confession time
Our confessional culture finally has come up with something more genuine than slickly scripted reality television "reveals," and it's coming to a stage near you. It's Mortified, a chance for people to dig up their adolescent writing, art, and media, then perform it on stage. It is described as a "comic excavation." Motto? "P.S. It Totally Likes You." There is a not-small part of me that wants to get on that stage and start telling about the time that I...um. I can't even say it. I AM STILL TOO EMBARRASSED.
So maybe "Mortified" is out for me. Still, confessing holds an allure and appeal. But I perhaps most enjoy the distancing mechanism of confessing lies: that is, writing fiction. In my fiction writing classes, sometimes we play the game Two Truths and a Lie. It's a first-week ice breaker, and each student tells three things, one of them false. But they're not allowed to reveal which is the lie -- at least not until the end of the semester. My point in playing this game is to show that it doesn't really matter what's true and what's made up, so long as it's convincing. Some students become madly curious to know the truth, and will try to ferret it out of the guy in the next desk. And sometimes that guy realizes it's a little fun to withhold, to build suspense around a great reveal. Also not a bad lesson to learn if you want to write fiction.
I always play along, too: it's no fair (or fun) to sit back and let students do all the work. I try to change it up each semester. This was one of my favorites, mainly because of the wild rumpus of a reaction from my students:
1. I was kicked out of Brownies in third grade.
2. I sang lead vocals in an '80s cover band.
3. I once was able to dead-lift/squat 225 pounds.
None of these things are mortifying, though, at least not to me, which is why I share them here. For true mortification, I need only return to my journals from junior high, high school, even college.
Plenty of writing, bad drawings, notes and letters from lost friends and lost loves. I rarely read them these days, yet I keep everything stored away in basement banker's boxes and Rubbermaid bins. I am a fan of preservation, not to mention containers and containment policy where confessing is concerned. I am also a fan of boxes with lids.
Maybe you are braver than I, or more of a confessor. By all means, have at it. Because even if I don't want to share, I completely want to snoop.
So maybe "Mortified" is out for me. Still, confessing holds an allure and appeal. But I perhaps most enjoy the distancing mechanism of confessing lies: that is, writing fiction. In my fiction writing classes, sometimes we play the game Two Truths and a Lie. It's a first-week ice breaker, and each student tells three things, one of them false. But they're not allowed to reveal which is the lie -- at least not until the end of the semester. My point in playing this game is to show that it doesn't really matter what's true and what's made up, so long as it's convincing. Some students become madly curious to know the truth, and will try to ferret it out of the guy in the next desk. And sometimes that guy realizes it's a little fun to withhold, to build suspense around a great reveal. Also not a bad lesson to learn if you want to write fiction.
I always play along, too: it's no fair (or fun) to sit back and let students do all the work. I try to change it up each semester. This was one of my favorites, mainly because of the wild rumpus of a reaction from my students:
1. I was kicked out of Brownies in third grade.
2. I sang lead vocals in an '80s cover band.
3. I once was able to dead-lift/squat 225 pounds.
None of these things are mortifying, though, at least not to me, which is why I share them here. For true mortification, I need only return to my journals from junior high, high school, even college.
Plenty of writing, bad drawings, notes and letters from lost friends and lost loves. I rarely read them these days, yet I keep everything stored away in basement banker's boxes and Rubbermaid bins. I am a fan of preservation, not to mention containers and containment policy where confessing is concerned. I am also a fan of boxes with lids.Maybe you are braver than I, or more of a confessor. By all means, have at it. Because even if I don't want to share, I completely want to snoop.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
It's September! Please remember...
IN
Rhyming, but not stealing
Homemade decaf chai lattes
Reading soul-crushing allegories followed by lighter office romps
Being Prepared, a la the Boy Scouts
Toast. Yeah, toast.
Drafting something new: it's done when it's done
The new happy
OUT
Stealing, but not rhyming
Almost all caffeine (sniff)
Self-diagnosing at Big Al's Internet Health Source/Tackle & Bait Emporium
A whimsical "Que sera, sera" attitude
Page/word counts as measure of progress
The old sad
Rhyming, but not stealing
Homemade decaf chai lattes
Reading soul-crushing allegories followed by lighter office romps
Being Prepared, a la the Boy Scouts
Toast. Yeah, toast.
Drafting something new: it's done when it's done
The new happy
OUT
Stealing, but not rhyming
Almost all caffeine (sniff)
Self-diagnosing at Big Al's Internet Health Source/Tackle & Bait Emporium
A whimsical "Que sera, sera" attitude
Page/word counts as measure of progress
The old sad
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Le Geek, C'est Chic
My computer has sound for the first time since its epic tantrum in March. Nearly every day, someone would send me a link or I'd want to click on a video, only to remind myself that no, can't happen. When online access to information virtually is unlimited, any limitations appear ridiculously frustrating. A bratty problem to have, grand schemers.
Still, being reintroduced to sound and multimedia is momentous, if only in a first-world kind of way, and I spent the wee hours of this morning becoming reacquainted with YouTube and iTunes and IMDB.com movie trailers...and...and...
and this!
and this!
And while we're destroying any shreds of street cred, let's press play:
I would like to see this:
And then this:
Sufficiently overwhelmed with technological possibility? Check out an NPR piece on digital overload. Today I heard an interesting interview Terry Gross did with Matt Richtel, who explained why talking on a cell phone while driving is far more distracting than talking to another passenger in the car. (I was listening to said interview while driving. Um.) And now I can listen to the interview with ease, safely from my office desk chair, if I so desire.
Now that I have contributed my early-morning sound binge to the void of the Internet, consider this NYT Magazine article, on the difficulty of erasing your posted past. Which I am now posting, and which will be archived ad infinitum. Freaky.
But not as freaky as our man Mr. Jones:
Still, being reintroduced to sound and multimedia is momentous, if only in a first-world kind of way, and I spent the wee hours of this morning becoming reacquainted with YouTube and iTunes and IMDB.com movie trailers...and...and...
and this!
and this!
And while we're destroying any shreds of street cred, let's press play:
I would like to see this:
And then this:
Sufficiently overwhelmed with technological possibility? Check out an NPR piece on digital overload. Today I heard an interesting interview Terry Gross did with Matt Richtel, who explained why talking on a cell phone while driving is far more distracting than talking to another passenger in the car. (I was listening to said interview while driving. Um.) And now I can listen to the interview with ease, safely from my office desk chair, if I so desire.
Now that I have contributed my early-morning sound binge to the void of the Internet, consider this NYT Magazine article, on the difficulty of erasing your posted past. Which I am now posting, and which will be archived ad infinitum. Freaky.
But not as freaky as our man Mr. Jones:
Friday, August 6, 2010
This thing is not like the other thing
A chocolate chip granola bar is not a chocolate chip scone.
Working at home is good until you realize that you have torn the entire house apart as a means of not working. This has become a large-scale reorganization project (how did we get so much STUFF?), and you don't particularly feel like putting it back together. And then you are trapped in the tornado aftermath you created.
89 degress and breezy is nothing like 99 degrees and humidity.
A line from Sylvia Plath
"You do not do, you do not do/Any more, black shoe/In which I have lived like a foot"
is not a line from John Berryman
"Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so."
An orange is also not a chocolate chip scone.
Thus, a field trip is in order. To find the things that are not like the other things, those things you already have and want less of.
Working at home is good until you realize that you have torn the entire house apart as a means of not working. This has become a large-scale reorganization project (how did we get so much STUFF?), and you don't particularly feel like putting it back together. And then you are trapped in the tornado aftermath you created.
89 degress and breezy is nothing like 99 degrees and humidity.
A line from Sylvia Plath
"You do not do, you do not do/Any more, black shoe/In which I have lived like a foot"
is not a line from John Berryman
"Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so."
An orange is also not a chocolate chip scone.
Thus, a field trip is in order. To find the things that are not like the other things, those things you already have and want less of.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
On Goodness
Just finished psychologist Dacher Keltner's book "Born to Be Good," subtitled The Science of a Meaningful Life.
The book studies the science of human emotion: the logic of feeling. The author says we are "hardwired for good," that compassion and empathy are natural instincts that ensure our survival. It also repeats the theory that altruistic acts are borne out of selfishness: people do good because it makes them feel good. Which still seems like something of a win-win, as far as society is concerned.
There's a pretty fascinating study of facial expressions -- what they convey and how others read them. Everyone knows that smile that doesn't quite reach the eyes, the one that seems a little bit fake, that makes you suspect what's being held back. And the smile that seems so genuine that you feel comfortable at once with a person. Turns out those smiles have a name: Duchenne for the more open, eye-reaching smile, and non-Duchenne for the other, which takes less muscle work and also provides a completely different emotional experience for the smiler.
All this appeals to my inner anthropologist, especially when I'm writing fiction. I'm pretty sure all writers have some sort of inner anthropologist they draw upon to consider what makes people/characters tick. I do believe that humans are, generally, more inherently good than they are evil. But goodness is rarely the most interesting plot point. Stories need conflict, and humans crave conflict in stories. We need to be reassured that Things Work Out. But first, stories need a big fat sloppy mess of problems before any sense of goodness arrives.
Consider the soap opera "Days of Our Lives." I watched it one summer when I was in junior high school, in between babysitting jobs. I vaguely remember the characters Bo and Hope, who had big '80s hair and were in lurrrve. Passionate soap opera love. Change-the-channel-when-your-mom-walks-into-the-room love. I haven't seen the show since then. But this week in Toby Goldstein's syndicated "Soaps" column, which I read and cut out in the name of a super-secret writing project, there's this summary: "After drugging Bo's coffee, which caused him to pass out, Hope doused him with gasoline and lit a match."
Now that is some smolderin' love.
Would we be surprised if, in another 20 years, they're in love again, sneaking into the nursing home broom closet for a clandestine rendezvous? We would not.
It's all cyclical. So let us cycle back to more sources of goodness. You could get lost for a good long while in these sites:
Learning to Love You More
The Beckoning of Lovely
Be good.
The book studies the science of human emotion: the logic of feeling. The author says we are "hardwired for good," that compassion and empathy are natural instincts that ensure our survival. It also repeats the theory that altruistic acts are borne out of selfishness: people do good because it makes them feel good. Which still seems like something of a win-win, as far as society is concerned.
There's a pretty fascinating study of facial expressions -- what they convey and how others read them. Everyone knows that smile that doesn't quite reach the eyes, the one that seems a little bit fake, that makes you suspect what's being held back. And the smile that seems so genuine that you feel comfortable at once with a person. Turns out those smiles have a name: Duchenne for the more open, eye-reaching smile, and non-Duchenne for the other, which takes less muscle work and also provides a completely different emotional experience for the smiler.
All this appeals to my inner anthropologist, especially when I'm writing fiction. I'm pretty sure all writers have some sort of inner anthropologist they draw upon to consider what makes people/characters tick. I do believe that humans are, generally, more inherently good than they are evil. But goodness is rarely the most interesting plot point. Stories need conflict, and humans crave conflict in stories. We need to be reassured that Things Work Out. But first, stories need a big fat sloppy mess of problems before any sense of goodness arrives.
Consider the soap opera "Days of Our Lives." I watched it one summer when I was in junior high school, in between babysitting jobs. I vaguely remember the characters Bo and Hope, who had big '80s hair and were in lurrrve. Passionate soap opera love. Change-the-channel-when-your-mom-walks-into-the-room love. I haven't seen the show since then. But this week in Toby Goldstein's syndicated "Soaps" column, which I read and cut out in the name of a super-secret writing project, there's this summary: "After drugging Bo's coffee, which caused him to pass out, Hope doused him with gasoline and lit a match."
Now that is some smolderin' love.
Would we be surprised if, in another 20 years, they're in love again, sneaking into the nursing home broom closet for a clandestine rendezvous? We would not.
It's all cyclical. So let us cycle back to more sources of goodness. You could get lost for a good long while in these sites:
Learning to Love You More
The Beckoning of Lovely
Be good.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Shakedown 1979
This is an American social studies textbook from 1979. Bask in its wisdom.
I have things to decide.
I have to do more things.
And you?
Yeah. Good call.
That's the $20 million question, pardner.
I have things to decide.
I have to do more things.
And you?
Yeah. Good call.
That's the $20 million question, pardner.
Friday, July 9, 2010
I Will Choose Free Will
Who reads the horoscopes every day? That's right. I do. While I am officially an Aquarius, I make a habit of reading other people's horoscopes, too, just to keep track of how they're doing. You know, according to the stars. Do I read yours? If you're reading this, I probably do.
The daily paper runs short ones, which makes it easy for me to catch all the latest on how my planets and yours are aligning. But I especially enjoy Rob Brezsny's syndicated weekly "Free Will Astrology," which acknowledges that a person can shape the meaning as they see fit. (As we do anyway.) The one below, though a week old, seemed like a good point to meditate on while I take a little break from writing:
"You may still be gnawed by a longing for your life to be different from what it is. You might fantasize that you're missing a crucial element that would, if acquired, usher you into a Golden Age. But I've been analyzing the big picture of your destiny, Aquarius, and here's what I see: This year you're being offered the chance to be pretty satisfied with the messy, ambiguous, fantastically rich set of circumstances that you've actually been blessed with. The first half of 2010 should have inspired you to flirt with this surprising truth. The second half will drive it home with the force of a pile of gifts left anonymously on your doorstep." Rob Brezsny, Free Will Astrology
Rob knows me so well! And so do the stars, planets and constellations, which may be aligning as we speak.
The daily paper runs short ones, which makes it easy for me to catch all the latest on how my planets and yours are aligning. But I especially enjoy Rob Brezsny's syndicated weekly "Free Will Astrology," which acknowledges that a person can shape the meaning as they see fit. (As we do anyway.) The one below, though a week old, seemed like a good point to meditate on while I take a little break from writing:
"You may still be gnawed by a longing for your life to be different from what it is. You might fantasize that you're missing a crucial element that would, if acquired, usher you into a Golden Age. But I've been analyzing the big picture of your destiny, Aquarius, and here's what I see: This year you're being offered the chance to be pretty satisfied with the messy, ambiguous, fantastically rich set of circumstances that you've actually been blessed with. The first half of 2010 should have inspired you to flirt with this surprising truth. The second half will drive it home with the force of a pile of gifts left anonymously on your doorstep." Rob Brezsny, Free Will Astrology
Rob knows me so well! And so do the stars, planets and constellations, which may be aligning as we speak.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Summer Reads/Make Me Feel Fine
The spreadsheet of books I've read so far this year is kinda sparse compared to the last two years. And the summer months, my dependable downtime for reading, have been busier than usual: I'm cranking out pages on a new project, taught for a few weeks in June, and have gone out of town for several long weekends. I've also been reintroduced to my love of badminton, which, as you may know, requires serious training and dedication.*
I've managed to read 16 books, less than half of where I was last year at this time. (Alas, this is just not going to be a 70-book year.) One book I finally finished is Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. It's a biggie. I renewed it from the library five times. They will be glad to have it back.
So: soon I'll be taking a break, and I'm looking for suggestions for summer reading. I nearly always pack too much to read on vacation, and so far am thinking about Chuck Palahniuk's Choke, Elinor Lipman's The Family Man, and Sarah Dessen's YA novel Dreamland. But there's room for more: mayhaps something lighter than Wolf Hall (2.5 lbs!) and heavier than Sweet Valley High** (do carrot sticks, like, weigh anything?).
What say you?
----------------------------
*The round robin tournament is sporadic and ongoing. Now booking court time and future tournament seedings. Serious inquiries only. Please keep in mind that my crowning achievement in high school was being the individual badminton champion of ninth grade gym/1st period.
**I read all the SVH books growing up. Obsessively. Over and over. I received 100% on this quiz. Don't hate.
I've managed to read 16 books, less than half of where I was last year at this time. (Alas, this is just not going to be a 70-book year.) One book I finally finished is Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. It's a biggie. I renewed it from the library five times. They will be glad to have it back.
So: soon I'll be taking a break, and I'm looking for suggestions for summer reading. I nearly always pack too much to read on vacation, and so far am thinking about Chuck Palahniuk's Choke, Elinor Lipman's The Family Man, and Sarah Dessen's YA novel Dreamland. But there's room for more: mayhaps something lighter than Wolf Hall (2.5 lbs!) and heavier than Sweet Valley High** (do carrot sticks, like, weigh anything?).
What say you?
----------------------------
*The round robin tournament is sporadic and ongoing. Now booking court time and future tournament seedings. Serious inquiries only. Please keep in mind that my crowning achievement in high school was being the individual badminton champion of ninth grade gym/1st period.
**I read all the SVH books growing up. Obsessively. Over and over. I received 100% on this quiz. Don't hate.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Indy Underground Reading Series
Do you live in, or near, or have means to travel to the greater Indianapolis area? Then you should come to the Indy Underground Reading Series next Wednesday, June 30. It's going to be fantastic.
Writers, rock and roll, and Sun King beer. Eight o'clock at the Irving Theater, a great place to see a show. I can't remember if it was there or at The Emerson, but it makes me think of when I saw Social Distortion in the early '90s and was nearly trampled in the mosh pit. I didn't intend to be in the mosh pit: the lights went down, the music started, and all of a sudden I was riding a wave, then I was under it. A burly flannel-clad early-90s lumberjack picked me up and set me down outside of the pit. (This a story I drag out as an attempt to seem less lame to my students. Likely I seem lamer when I reveal that I had a cardigan tied around my waist when I inadvertently moshed, and all night I watched it sail from one side of the room to the other. Also: my friend's dad - a wonderfully patient man, a military man - waited outside for us the whole time. In a minivan.)
The '90s! Suddenly I want to be back in high school, being angsty about boys at the all-ages show.
(but only for like five minutes. and then I would like to get back to the garden and my book, mmmkay.)
Writers, rock and roll, and Sun King beer. Eight o'clock at the Irving Theater, a great place to see a show. I can't remember if it was there or at The Emerson, but it makes me think of when I saw Social Distortion in the early '90s and was nearly trampled in the mosh pit. I didn't intend to be in the mosh pit: the lights went down, the music started, and all of a sudden I was riding a wave, then I was under it. A burly flannel-clad early-90s lumberjack picked me up and set me down outside of the pit. (This a story I drag out as an attempt to seem less lame to my students. Likely I seem lamer when I reveal that I had a cardigan tied around my waist when I inadvertently moshed, and all night I watched it sail from one side of the room to the other. Also: my friend's dad - a wonderfully patient man, a military man - waited outside for us the whole time. In a minivan.)
The '90s! Suddenly I want to be back in high school, being angsty about boys at the all-ages show.
(but only for like five minutes. and then I would like to get back to the garden and my book, mmmkay.)
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The last person on Earth to see Avatar
That would be me. And I somehow rounded up three other people who also had not seen the Movie Everybody Else in the World Had Already Seen to watch it with me. (The same group, incidentally, that gathered to watch "The Hurt Locker" earlier in the spring, a film which beat "Avatar" for Best Picture at the Oscars.)
I did not want to like Avatar. I'm not a contrarian by nature, it's just that the movies getting all the hype are generally disappointing to me for predictable reasons: behind all the style, there's no substance. Nothing to sink your teeth into besides popcorn, nothing to leave you thinking. And besides predictable reasons, these movies are predictable in and unto themselves. Man fights great battle, enemy vanquished. Blahdy blahdy blah.
But I DID like Avatar. Kind of a lot. For one, the style was innovative and cool enough that the lapses in substance were forgivable, though still worth noting. Mr. James Cameron beats the viewer about the head and chest with his anti-war message: Humans who've ruined their planet head to the lush and magical Pandora, light years away, and are miffed when the blue-but-sexy natives reject their advances. Turns out there's a load of highly-prized "unobtanium" under their sacred tree that the Americans - I mean, humans - want to swipe. Yes. UNOBTANIUM. And the humans go so far as to create avatars that look just like the blue n' sexy folk, complete with a sick hip-to-waist ratio, so that they may infiltrate and propagate. Until, of course, somebody gets a conscience. "This reminds me of 'Dances with Wolves'," said one of my astute movie companions. Or '"Last of the Mohicans." Or fill-in-the-blank. We all agreed, my movie-watching companions and I, that while the "The Hurt Locker" wasn't perfect, it portrayed war as complex, not good/bad or black/white.
And still, the movie unexpectedly made me think. Among the native Na'vi people, they respectfully address someone before speaking by saying, "I see you." Such a simple and beautiful gesture, to acknowledge that one has been seen, made visible, that a person is worth noting and recognizing. I see you. You exist. Your matter matters. This was a small part of the movie, but perhaps my favorite part, aside from being on another freaking planet for nearly three hours (what is watching a movie but being an avatar, getting to walk around in another life, another place?) and the floating jellyfish-thingies and flowers-but-not-flower thingies and the flying quasi-pterodactyls. And the humans who'd seal themselves in a pod at their space station and mind-meld into their avatars, being able to see through new eyes and run on new legs.
Perhaps it'll look dated in a year, but all things do. And maybe should.
It turns out I'm not the Last Person in the World to see this movie. When I mentioned my theory recently, none of the five people I was hanging out with had seen it, either.
And because I would now like to beat you about the head and chest with this word, let's say it one more time: Unobtanium.
I did not want to like Avatar. I'm not a contrarian by nature, it's just that the movies getting all the hype are generally disappointing to me for predictable reasons: behind all the style, there's no substance. Nothing to sink your teeth into besides popcorn, nothing to leave you thinking. And besides predictable reasons, these movies are predictable in and unto themselves. Man fights great battle, enemy vanquished. Blahdy blahdy blah.But I DID like Avatar. Kind of a lot. For one, the style was innovative and cool enough that the lapses in substance were forgivable, though still worth noting. Mr. James Cameron beats the viewer about the head and chest with his anti-war message: Humans who've ruined their planet head to the lush and magical Pandora, light years away, and are miffed when the blue-but-sexy natives reject their advances. Turns out there's a load of highly-prized "unobtanium" under their sacred tree that the Americans - I mean, humans - want to swipe. Yes. UNOBTANIUM. And the humans go so far as to create avatars that look just like the blue n' sexy folk, complete with a sick hip-to-waist ratio, so that they may infiltrate and propagate. Until, of course, somebody gets a conscience. "This reminds me of 'Dances with Wolves'," said one of my astute movie companions. Or '"Last of the Mohicans." Or fill-in-the-blank. We all agreed, my movie-watching companions and I, that while the "The Hurt Locker" wasn't perfect, it portrayed war as complex, not good/bad or black/white.
And still, the movie unexpectedly made me think. Among the native Na'vi people, they respectfully address someone before speaking by saying, "I see you." Such a simple and beautiful gesture, to acknowledge that one has been seen, made visible, that a person is worth noting and recognizing. I see you. You exist. Your matter matters. This was a small part of the movie, but perhaps my favorite part, aside from being on another freaking planet for nearly three hours (what is watching a movie but being an avatar, getting to walk around in another life, another place?) and the floating jellyfish-thingies and flowers-but-not-flower thingies and the flying quasi-pterodactyls. And the humans who'd seal themselves in a pod at their space station and mind-meld into their avatars, being able to see through new eyes and run on new legs.
Perhaps it'll look dated in a year, but all things do. And maybe should.
It turns out I'm not the Last Person in the World to see this movie. When I mentioned my theory recently, none of the five people I was hanging out with had seen it, either.
And because I would now like to beat you about the head and chest with this word, let's say it one more time: Unobtanium.
Monday, June 7, 2010
It's not like you don't have a calendar
One of my favorite books that I read last year, Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life by Amy Krouse Rosenthal, has an entry about days of the week, and the importance of not stating the obvious about Fridays (yay!) and Mondays (boo).
I originally started writing this on Friday, in one kind of mood. And now it is Monday, and I'm in another kind of mood.
It is important not to state the obvious about these moods. Hence it is worth reporting that I am maybe feeling the opposite about Friday and Monday at the moment. This seems like a landmark happening, as if my mental outlook has realigned in some fundamentally important way. But maybe it just means that it's summer and my calendar is all whopper-jawed.
Por ejemplo, as we say en espanol: Last Friday I wrote, then spent five hours in a school-related meeting, afternoon into the evening. By choice. And enjoyed it. And today, Monday, I taught, will soon write, and am strangely motivated to cross items off a list I compiled a month ago.
Whopper-jawed for sure. Or maybe I've just got a close eye on the calendar, and I know this summer won't last forever. Deadlines, people. Things to write. Items to cross off lists. And days of the week that I will neither complain about nor celebrate, that merge together to a point where I realize that I'm doing what I want to be doing.
Now, the trick: how to turn summer into the rest of the year. I'll get back to you on that one. (I suspect it will involve alchemy. And a chalkboard full of formulas.)
I originally started writing this on Friday, in one kind of mood. And now it is Monday, and I'm in another kind of mood.
It is important not to state the obvious about these moods. Hence it is worth reporting that I am maybe feeling the opposite about Friday and Monday at the moment. This seems like a landmark happening, as if my mental outlook has realigned in some fundamentally important way. But maybe it just means that it's summer and my calendar is all whopper-jawed.
Por ejemplo, as we say en espanol: Last Friday I wrote, then spent five hours in a school-related meeting, afternoon into the evening. By choice. And enjoyed it. And today, Monday, I taught, will soon write, and am strangely motivated to cross items off a list I compiled a month ago.
Whopper-jawed for sure. Or maybe I've just got a close eye on the calendar, and I know this summer won't last forever. Deadlines, people. Things to write. Items to cross off lists. And days of the week that I will neither complain about nor celebrate, that merge together to a point where I realize that I'm doing what I want to be doing.
Now, the trick: how to turn summer into the rest of the year. I'll get back to you on that one. (I suspect it will involve alchemy. And a chalkboard full of formulas.)
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
Ain't No Sunshine. Not even a little.
Is this a good version of the song? I have no idea; my computer is still without sound, a problem I have not tried very hard to fix. But it's Bill Withers, so it must be good. "Use Me" by Bill Withers is also excellent, and there's a pretty good cover from some years back featuring Mick Jagger and Lenny Kravitz.
Now that your daily musical needs have been met, let me report there ain't no sunshine in Indianapolis. That's a problem. Tomorrow is Pole Day at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, a chance for ladies who've embraced the latest exotic fitness craze to showcase their -- what? No? OK. Apparently it's pole as in Pole Position, as in qualifications for the Indy 500. And it's rainy. The last two weeks have been gray and rainy. The drivers are probably playing many games of checkers in their trailers, waiting out the storms.
Maybe there will be sunshine for next Friday's Carb Day, a chance for everyone to eat as many donuts as possible, and -- what? No? OK. Carb Day as in carburetor and the final day of practice before the race, though from a fan perspective it seems mainly to serve as a giant pre-party. Sponsored by Miller Lite. Featuring a concert by ZZ Top on the Miller Lite stage. ZZ Top, people! Beer flowing like urine! Shirtless people of all ages!
It's not quite as fun to have a super-long beard and twirl your guitar in the rain, or to attend a concert and drink beer shirtless in the rain. The day is billed as "a tradition of rock and roll excess crowning a day of beer, engines, and sun." All the pieces are in place. So come on, sun.
Speaking of cars (weren't we?), I have a new car-related short story up at Booth, Butler University's innovative literary journal, called "Collision Physics for the Math Averse." The story will be up until next week, then archived. Booth, named after Hoosier writer Booth Tarkington, provides a little bit of sunshine amidst the dreary. Booth the writer won Pulitzers for The Magnificent Ambersons and Alice Adams. His home, not too far from my own, also seems worth a visit: it is oft-featured in the newspaper for being handsomely decorated. I was going to suggest a tour of the home if Carb Day gets rained out, but the current owners might have other plans.
And now, a cheerier song about no sunlight, from Death Cab for Cutie. Click for Black Cab Sessions video. I am forbidden to embed.
At least, I think I remember it being "No Sunlight." I had to read their lips.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
First impressions
The Internet is quiet at 4 a.m.
The dream about desperately needing to find a bathroom means: get up and find one.
I read about strangers' lives and feel as if I know these strangers. When it's fiction, I feel comforted. When it's blogs, I feel creepy. The kids now say "creeper" instead of "stalker." I feel as though I'm repeating myself on that point. But it clearly made an impression.
8:30 a.m. is too early to ring the doorbell (three times) and bang on the door asking for someone who doesn't live here, man with a cross tattooed next to his eye. Really, there's never a good time. But the "Thank you, ma'am," was a nice touch. Appreciated.
The dream about introducing my friend Terry to my other friend Terry -- they both looked the same but one wore glasses and the other didn't, I couldn't believe they hadn't met yet, in my mind they were totally separate people -- and non-glasses Terry said something offensive and glasses Terry got up and left, means: ???
Good morning to you, too, birds. But how about we exchange greetings after 4 a.m., from here on out? You don't know about daylight savings time, I take it.
Awkward silences can last months.
The Internet is quiet generally before 9 a.m., when people arrive at work and begin not-working. Digital selves are standing in for our real selves, said the woman looking at a screen with a picture of herself on it. People are very, very upset that the free online service they've opted into where they publicly share private details wants to make those details more public. The free online service is meeting NOW, like right this minute, to discuss the outrage of their clientele.
I just misspelled "publicly" as publically. D-.
I predict the introduction of online warning labels. Put yourself out there in the vast Internet void, but do so privately. Open the door, peer out, and then hide. Be forewarned: a man with a cross tattoo next to his eye is gonna come knocking one of these days. And he'll still have the wrong place.
The dream about desperately needing to find a bathroom means: get up and find one.
I read about strangers' lives and feel as if I know these strangers. When it's fiction, I feel comforted. When it's blogs, I feel creepy. The kids now say "creeper" instead of "stalker." I feel as though I'm repeating myself on that point. But it clearly made an impression.
8:30 a.m. is too early to ring the doorbell (three times) and bang on the door asking for someone who doesn't live here, man with a cross tattooed next to his eye. Really, there's never a good time. But the "Thank you, ma'am," was a nice touch. Appreciated.
The dream about introducing my friend Terry to my other friend Terry -- they both looked the same but one wore glasses and the other didn't, I couldn't believe they hadn't met yet, in my mind they were totally separate people -- and non-glasses Terry said something offensive and glasses Terry got up and left, means: ???
Good morning to you, too, birds. But how about we exchange greetings after 4 a.m., from here on out? You don't know about daylight savings time, I take it.
Awkward silences can last months.
The Internet is quiet generally before 9 a.m., when people arrive at work and begin not-working. Digital selves are standing in for our real selves, said the woman looking at a screen with a picture of herself on it. People are very, very upset that the free online service they've opted into where they publicly share private details wants to make those details more public. The free online service is meeting NOW, like right this minute, to discuss the outrage of their clientele.
I just misspelled "publicly" as publically. D-.
I predict the introduction of online warning labels. Put yourself out there in the vast Internet void, but do so privately. Open the door, peer out, and then hide. Be forewarned: a man with a cross tattoo next to his eye is gonna come knocking one of these days. And he'll still have the wrong place.
Friday, May 7, 2010
And then the Universe said HA HA!
I recently learned that two articles I wrote for NUVO last year won awards from the Society of Professional Journalists' annual Best in Indiana Journalism contest.
-“Unite! Hotel workers fighting to unionize” won first place for Social Justice Reporting
-“A different kind of chance” won second place for Social Justice Reporting
And yesterday, after receiving a rejection from a lit journal for a short story, I sat outside re-reading the wonderful Olive Kitteridge, finally relaxing into the sudden done-ness of the teaching semester. And then a bird shat upon my bare leg.
Universe, subtle you are not. But you do have a way of reminding a person that today's news is tomorrow's fishwrap. Onward, yo. It's time to write another novel.
-“Unite! Hotel workers fighting to unionize” won first place for Social Justice Reporting
-“A different kind of chance” won second place for Social Justice Reporting
And yesterday, after receiving a rejection from a lit journal for a short story, I sat outside re-reading the wonderful Olive Kitteridge, finally relaxing into the sudden done-ness of the teaching semester. And then a bird shat upon my bare leg.
Universe, subtle you are not. But you do have a way of reminding a person that today's news is tomorrow's fishwrap. Onward, yo. It's time to write another novel.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Poems for Sale
Whenever my husband and I pass a vacant storefront in the neighborhood, we jokingly discuss the logistics of renting it to turn into a writing shop. There I'd sit in front of the plate glass window, writing on demand. A While-U-Wait operation, perhaps with a laundromat nearby so customers can pass the time or buy a soda. In this scenario, I'd sell short profiles for fifty cents, and a poem for a quarter.
Turns out I'm selling myself short. Molly Gaudry came up with the idea to charge one dollar American currency for a poem written just for the recipient, but is willing to accept donations beyond that modest fee. And this smart cookie set up shop on the Internet, bypassing that whole "rent" issue.
Of course I felt compelled to support another writer, and promptly placed my PayPal order. But I didn't necessarily want to dictate what she wrote about. (Come to think about it, that is one thing that sullies the idea of my imaginary writing shop: having assignments.) Molly will work with or without guidelines, and here is what she wrote for me: O.K., O.K.?
I love free enterprise. Does this make me a patron of the arts? I suddenly want to commission a painting.
Turns out I'm selling myself short. Molly Gaudry came up with the idea to charge one dollar American currency for a poem written just for the recipient, but is willing to accept donations beyond that modest fee. And this smart cookie set up shop on the Internet, bypassing that whole "rent" issue.
Of course I felt compelled to support another writer, and promptly placed my PayPal order. But I didn't necessarily want to dictate what she wrote about. (Come to think about it, that is one thing that sullies the idea of my imaginary writing shop: having assignments.) Molly will work with or without guidelines, and here is what she wrote for me: O.K., O.K.?
I love free enterprise. Does this make me a patron of the arts? I suddenly want to commission a painting.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Cigarettes & Sporks: An Earth Day Report
Yesterday, as I was driving to the mall wearing my eco-friendly brown polymer suit, windows down, Foo Fighters coming from the speakers, the woman in the car in front of me flicked her cigarette out the window. The forces of wind sent the lipstick-laced butt into my car window, where it landed smack-dab on my arm. I now have the circular initiation burn mark I've always dreamed of. When the swelling goes down, the mark will blend nicely with my forearm's constellation of freckles. (Little Dipper or Big Dipper, depending on your angle.)
OK, this didn't really happen. But the woman in the car ahead of me was smoking, windows down, and as the smoke wafted into my open window, I thought, What if? It would be a little bit hilarious, on Earth Day, to sustain minor injury from someone's ignited litter. Maybe "hilarious" is the wrong word. Painful, ironic, humiliating, furor-inducing?
No, I stand by hilarious.
Every mall worth its salt and fat contains a food court, and part of my Earth Day celebration took place there. (The polymer suit, alas, is also a work of fiction.) No, I did not need a plastic fork to eat my pizza slice. No, I did not need extra napkins. I did need, later, a cherry slushie float from Dairy Queen -- half price, as this DQ holds a regular afternoon Happy Hour.
My Earth Day maybe was not the most nutritious.
Moving on. It is certainly good to consider all the extra napkins, sporks, straws, etc. we use in a given day. The cans and bottles we toss when there's no recycling bin around. I'm a longtime recycler, but I'm nowhere near the level of Renee Sweany, the founder of Green Piece Indy, who I wrote about for this week's NUVO as part of their Green Guide.
Talking to her inspired me: besides a basement full of recyclable/reusable items that I'm eager to purge, I've been seriously thinking of getting some worms to make compost for the garden this year. They do a nice little turnaround with your kitchen scraps. I'm somewhat concerned about where to keep a big ole container of worms. But it looks like some space will be opening up in the basement soon.
OK, this didn't really happen. But the woman in the car ahead of me was smoking, windows down, and as the smoke wafted into my open window, I thought, What if? It would be a little bit hilarious, on Earth Day, to sustain minor injury from someone's ignited litter. Maybe "hilarious" is the wrong word. Painful, ironic, humiliating, furor-inducing?
No, I stand by hilarious.
Every mall worth its salt and fat contains a food court, and part of my Earth Day celebration took place there. (The polymer suit, alas, is also a work of fiction.) No, I did not need a plastic fork to eat my pizza slice. No, I did not need extra napkins. I did need, later, a cherry slushie float from Dairy Queen -- half price, as this DQ holds a regular afternoon Happy Hour.
My Earth Day maybe was not the most nutritious.
Moving on. It is certainly good to consider all the extra napkins, sporks, straws, etc. we use in a given day. The cans and bottles we toss when there's no recycling bin around. I'm a longtime recycler, but I'm nowhere near the level of Renee Sweany, the founder of Green Piece Indy, who I wrote about for this week's NUVO as part of their Green Guide.
Talking to her inspired me: besides a basement full of recyclable/reusable items that I'm eager to purge, I've been seriously thinking of getting some worms to make compost for the garden this year. They do a nice little turnaround with your kitchen scraps. I'm somewhat concerned about where to keep a big ole container of worms. But it looks like some space will be opening up in the basement soon.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Whole Lotta Links
Hello, beautiful nobody and everybody. Spring is all up in your business, no? Yes.
Please take a moment from your frolicking to read my interview with writer Steve Almond, here at Knee-Jerk Magazine. Congrats to Knee-Jerk for getting honorable mention (along with Cerise Press and Slush Pile) as best new online journal/magazine from storySouth's Million Writers Award competition. Top honors went to kill author, which published my short fiction, Sex in Secret, in Issue Two. They're already working on Issue Six, those busy anonymous editors.
And now back to spring: trail-walking (and there's Christopher on his bike. Hi, Christopher!), eating Indiana honey crisp apples at Locally Grown Gardens (Chef Ron rules: he quotes Ice Cube, plays reggae nonstop, and refers to "the culture-transgressive gift of fruits and vegetables"), picking up the pot of tulips knocked over by squirrel or wind for the second time today. Squirrel, I know it's you. But I shake your tiny, grimy paw today, pally-o. Frolic away.
Please take a moment from your frolicking to read my interview with writer Steve Almond, here at Knee-Jerk Magazine. Congrats to Knee-Jerk for getting honorable mention (along with Cerise Press and Slush Pile) as best new online journal/magazine from storySouth's Million Writers Award competition. Top honors went to kill author, which published my short fiction, Sex in Secret, in Issue Two. They're already working on Issue Six, those busy anonymous editors.
And now back to spring: trail-walking (and there's Christopher on his bike. Hi, Christopher!), eating Indiana honey crisp apples at Locally Grown Gardens (Chef Ron rules: he quotes Ice Cube, plays reggae nonstop, and refers to "the culture-transgressive gift of fruits and vegetables"), picking up the pot of tulips knocked over by squirrel or wind for the second time today. Squirrel, I know it's you. But I shake your tiny, grimy paw today, pally-o. Frolic away.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
You Wouldn't Understand
An early-April deadline is a-looming, and a crazy couple days are a-coming. My superior math skillz indicate that means I must write 1,000 words between now and tonight's Syracuse game.
But HOW?
Sit down and do it, is the short answer. The long answer is a leetle more complicated.
Because there's a list of other things to do, too. And not on that list, but already accomplished:
1. Take a nap
2. Eat some stuff
3. Muse about ways to cleverly link the two bumper stickers seen Tuesday: "It's a Jeep Thing - You Wouldn't Understand" and "It's a Vince Gill Thing - You Wouldn't Understand." Think indignantly, Hey, I MIGHT understand! Just give me a freakin' chance, boss. Then realize that no, I do not understand Jeeps, nor Vince Gill, and I likely never will.
4. Remember that article about Vince Gill and Amy Grant and their blended family, and their refusal to talk about THE PAST. It was in Good Housekeeping, or Self, or People, read in some waiting room or other. VG: How can we understand you if you won't tell us anything?
5. Consider that Vince Gill might like being misunderstood. That his fans prefer exclusivity, and actively practice the shunning of outsiders. Mystery, excitement, etc.
6. But that doesn't explain the Jeeps. WHO CAN EXPLAIN THE JEEPS?
7. Think about getting ahead by making four dozen basil-cheese triangles for party. Remember that I need to write. Put off making basil-cheese triangles. Why do I always make those things? Phyllo dough is the most labor-intensive food substance on the planet.
8. Need to clean out fridge to make room for party food. Eat some more stuff.
9. Consider where to watch Syracuse game, since neighborhood sports bar is a Butler bar. Wonder if bodily harm will befall those who show up in orange.
10. Understand that a link between Vince Gill and Jeeps will come when I least expect it. Like maybe while writing 1,000 words en route to meeting deadline.
But HOW?
Sit down and do it, is the short answer. The long answer is a leetle more complicated.
Because there's a list of other things to do, too. And not on that list, but already accomplished:
1. Take a nap
2. Eat some stuff
3. Muse about ways to cleverly link the two bumper stickers seen Tuesday: "It's a Jeep Thing - You Wouldn't Understand" and "It's a Vince Gill Thing - You Wouldn't Understand." Think indignantly, Hey, I MIGHT understand! Just give me a freakin' chance, boss. Then realize that no, I do not understand Jeeps, nor Vince Gill, and I likely never will.
4. Remember that article about Vince Gill and Amy Grant and their blended family, and their refusal to talk about THE PAST. It was in Good Housekeeping, or Self, or People, read in some waiting room or other. VG: How can we understand you if you won't tell us anything?
5. Consider that Vince Gill might like being misunderstood. That his fans prefer exclusivity, and actively practice the shunning of outsiders. Mystery, excitement, etc.
6. But that doesn't explain the Jeeps. WHO CAN EXPLAIN THE JEEPS?
7. Think about getting ahead by making four dozen basil-cheese triangles for party. Remember that I need to write. Put off making basil-cheese triangles. Why do I always make those things? Phyllo dough is the most labor-intensive food substance on the planet.
8. Need to clean out fridge to make room for party food. Eat some more stuff.
9. Consider where to watch Syracuse game, since neighborhood sports bar is a Butler bar. Wonder if bodily harm will befall those who show up in orange.
10. Understand that a link between Vince Gill and Jeeps will come when I least expect it. Like maybe while writing 1,000 words en route to meeting deadline.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Be the Bear
I am coming out of hibernation, but slowly, so as not to startle my nervous system.
Today I saw a crocus blooming. My crocus, because I planted it. As if I can stake a claim on such a thing.
The end of hibernation requires sustenance. When I called the cajun eatery to see what was on tonight's menu, the man said my favorite vegetarian dish, the B&B (which stands for I don't know what), was unavailable. "Waitaminute," said the man, and asked around. "OK. It's not on the menu, but we'll have it. Just ask." Bears are not vegetarian, and neither am I. But we want what we want. And we like when the neighborhood takes care of its own.
Bears and birds can be friends. Bears and squirrels have an iffier relationship. As for chipmunks, bears can't be bothered with chipmunks. They are too small, though they have much else to admire. They have grit, are hard-working, affable. So when one paticularly tenacious climber ascends the shepherd's hook to the birdfeeder, finally figuring out how to leap past the squirrel baffle that baffles only the human who put it there, a bear's gotta give a chipmunk credit. Even if the chipmunk appears to be doing unspeakable things to the birdfeeder, defiling it in a most egregious fashion. No longer cute and spunky but perverse and vile. Yet fascinating, in a PBS nature special kind of way. Do bears like to watch chipmunks simulate sex via orgiastic eating? That's an extremely personal question.
On the trail I saw a tough guy walking a big fluffy dog-show dog. And a petite lady with a shaky chihuahua. No bears, though.
Reading is a must both during and after hibernation. After, when the sun's out, a book on the porch cures most of the world's ills. Even while reading about the world's ills, in Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi's graphic memoir about growing up during the Islamic revolution in Iran. In class next week, the book & film just may hit the window of attention-span opportunity where spring fever is planted but not yet raging. Post-hibernation breeds optimism.
Bears do not wear t-shirts with slogans. But if they did? Concert tees, yes. Maybe something in support of Ralph Nader. And this: Be the Bear. In XXL, short sleeves, for catching the sun and spring air.
Today I saw a crocus blooming. My crocus, because I planted it. As if I can stake a claim on such a thing.
The end of hibernation requires sustenance. When I called the cajun eatery to see what was on tonight's menu, the man said my favorite vegetarian dish, the B&B (which stands for I don't know what), was unavailable. "Waitaminute," said the man, and asked around. "OK. It's not on the menu, but we'll have it. Just ask." Bears are not vegetarian, and neither am I. But we want what we want. And we like when the neighborhood takes care of its own.
Bears and birds can be friends. Bears and squirrels have an iffier relationship. As for chipmunks, bears can't be bothered with chipmunks. They are too small, though they have much else to admire. They have grit, are hard-working, affable. So when one paticularly tenacious climber ascends the shepherd's hook to the birdfeeder, finally figuring out how to leap past the squirrel baffle that baffles only the human who put it there, a bear's gotta give a chipmunk credit. Even if the chipmunk appears to be doing unspeakable things to the birdfeeder, defiling it in a most egregious fashion. No longer cute and spunky but perverse and vile. Yet fascinating, in a PBS nature special kind of way. Do bears like to watch chipmunks simulate sex via orgiastic eating? That's an extremely personal question.
On the trail I saw a tough guy walking a big fluffy dog-show dog. And a petite lady with a shaky chihuahua. No bears, though.
Reading is a must both during and after hibernation. After, when the sun's out, a book on the porch cures most of the world's ills. Even while reading about the world's ills, in Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi's graphic memoir about growing up during the Islamic revolution in Iran. In class next week, the book & film just may hit the window of attention-span opportunity where spring fever is planted but not yet raging. Post-hibernation breeds optimism.
Bears do not wear t-shirts with slogans. But if they did? Concert tees, yes. Maybe something in support of Ralph Nader. And this: Be the Bear. In XXL, short sleeves, for catching the sun and spring air.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
New fiction @ Wigleaf
If you like the short fiction, then please point your world wide inter-browser to Wigleaf, which published my piece Hang Up.
Go to the homepage here to read a wide assortment of fantastic stories, along with a postcard I wrote to the journal. No, not to the editors: to the journal. I love this idea, postcards. I still send postcards, and buy postcard stamps, though I may be the only person I know to do so. My old postcard pen pals now send e-mails, or post things on walls. Bah. Post it to the post, is what I wish. Have you ever stopped to think of the miraculous nature of the United States Postal Service? I mean, really. I have always loved getting and sending mail. When I was a child, I started a stationery business, mainly so I would get more mail. But I also liked providing the means for other people to make mail. I think I earned a grand total of five bucks, two of which my mother made me return when I couldn't fulfill a special order. When you're nine and you run out of a particular type of sticker (Mrs. Grossman's, large mice), and you can't find any more at the store, and there's no Internet or catalog from which to order, then you, as a nine-year-old, have to close the shop.
Today I read an article (in the newspaper! Can you imagine?) that the post office, to save money, is seriously considering five-day delivery rather than six. I say: bring it. Or rather, don't bring it, not on Saturdays. Here's the thing: the mail arrives once each day. You either receive what you'd hoped to receive, or you don't, in which case you have to wait until the next day at approximately that time. There's no constantly refreshing a web page, there's no anxiety related to the fact that some people expect 24/7 work accessibility, and expect instantaneous replies to messages sent on what is traditionally known as a "weekend." It's out of your hands and placed into the capable hands of our mailmen and women. I like to take at least one day off on the weekend. Letter carriers of our nation, you should take two.
It's not that I am e-mail averse; I am merely overwhelmed. And deep down, I am an old-fashioned girl in a newfangled world. The other day, I used the word "highfalutin" in absolute seriousness. Shoulda written it on a postcard instead, and mailed it across the land.
Go to the homepage here to read a wide assortment of fantastic stories, along with a postcard I wrote to the journal. No, not to the editors: to the journal. I love this idea, postcards. I still send postcards, and buy postcard stamps, though I may be the only person I know to do so. My old postcard pen pals now send e-mails, or post things on walls. Bah. Post it to the post, is what I wish. Have you ever stopped to think of the miraculous nature of the United States Postal Service? I mean, really. I have always loved getting and sending mail. When I was a child, I started a stationery business, mainly so I would get more mail. But I also liked providing the means for other people to make mail. I think I earned a grand total of five bucks, two of which my mother made me return when I couldn't fulfill a special order. When you're nine and you run out of a particular type of sticker (Mrs. Grossman's, large mice), and you can't find any more at the store, and there's no Internet or catalog from which to order, then you, as a nine-year-old, have to close the shop.
Today I read an article (in the newspaper! Can you imagine?) that the post office, to save money, is seriously considering five-day delivery rather than six. I say: bring it. Or rather, don't bring it, not on Saturdays. Here's the thing: the mail arrives once each day. You either receive what you'd hoped to receive, or you don't, in which case you have to wait until the next day at approximately that time. There's no constantly refreshing a web page, there's no anxiety related to the fact that some people expect 24/7 work accessibility, and expect instantaneous replies to messages sent on what is traditionally known as a "weekend." It's out of your hands and placed into the capable hands of our mailmen and women. I like to take at least one day off on the weekend. Letter carriers of our nation, you should take two.
It's not that I am e-mail averse; I am merely overwhelmed. And deep down, I am an old-fashioned girl in a newfangled world. The other day, I used the word "highfalutin" in absolute seriousness. Shoulda written it on a postcard instead, and mailed it across the land.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
I feel very strongly about Thursday
For years, maybe five or so, Thursday was the signifier of the weekend. My schedule worked out so that I didn't teach on Fridays -- No Class Fridays, I dubbed them, only realizing the double-meaning when my sister made fun of me and my classlessness. Partly it was being a commuter, and being lucky enough to get T/TH teaching assignments instead of MWF. Partly it's that colleges and universities offered fewer Friday classes for a variety of reasons (budget cuts, professional development and conference travel for faculty, etc.), and now are considering bringing them back (to curb Thursday night binge drinking -- among students, I am to assume).* Fridays always have been my much-needed catch-up days.
This year, however, I've had a Friday class both semesters. And it's been fine, a much lighter workday than the rest of the week. I get to sit in on a fascinating lecture that I thoroughly enjoy, one of those, Wait, they're paying me to do this? But I still haven't forgotten that Thursday feeling of doneness. Stick-a-fork-in-me-ness.
So it is nice when Thursday contains an almost-done, kitten-on-a-poster Hang In There! style treat. Today I got two: a wide-ranging conversation about fiction over coffee, and the publication of my essay, Gone in a Blink, in BluePrintReview. (Originally published in REAL.)
The essay covers a topic I also feel very strongly about: theft, and being a repeated victim of theft. Which has been, as you might imagine, totally awesome. I posted the link to the piece on Facebook,** and those who've responded with their own stories of loss reminded me how common this experience is. How violated we feel, yet still we summon up the faith to trust that it won't happen again. Or to hope that will be so.
I'm sure there will come a time when I feel less strongly about losing things, when I'm less paranoid about where my coat or purse are at any given time, where I fail to exercise extreme caution about announcing publicly that I'll be out of town or even out to a movie. Already I've grown less attached to things, even important ones imbued with memories, because I know how quickly they can disappear, and be gone in a blink.
___________________________
*Little-known fact: This was the title of the companion album to Sheryl Crow's multi-platinum debut, "Tuesday Night Music Club." Also, I am lying about that part.
**Thus mildly violating my Lenten ban -- no social networking before I've done any writing for the day. But I made up for it by writing later, and also writing now. Why be a stickler with your own made-up rules?
This year, however, I've had a Friday class both semesters. And it's been fine, a much lighter workday than the rest of the week. I get to sit in on a fascinating lecture that I thoroughly enjoy, one of those, Wait, they're paying me to do this? But I still haven't forgotten that Thursday feeling of doneness. Stick-a-fork-in-me-ness.
So it is nice when Thursday contains an almost-done, kitten-on-a-poster Hang In There! style treat. Today I got two: a wide-ranging conversation about fiction over coffee, and the publication of my essay, Gone in a Blink, in BluePrintReview. (Originally published in REAL.)
The essay covers a topic I also feel very strongly about: theft, and being a repeated victim of theft. Which has been, as you might imagine, totally awesome. I posted the link to the piece on Facebook,** and those who've responded with their own stories of loss reminded me how common this experience is. How violated we feel, yet still we summon up the faith to trust that it won't happen again. Or to hope that will be so.
I'm sure there will come a time when I feel less strongly about losing things, when I'm less paranoid about where my coat or purse are at any given time, where I fail to exercise extreme caution about announcing publicly that I'll be out of town or even out to a movie. Already I've grown less attached to things, even important ones imbued with memories, because I know how quickly they can disappear, and be gone in a blink.
___________________________
*Little-known fact: This was the title of the companion album to Sheryl Crow's multi-platinum debut, "Tuesday Night Music Club." Also, I am lying about that part.
**Thus mildly violating my Lenten ban -- no social networking before I've done any writing for the day. But I made up for it by writing later, and also writing now. Why be a stickler with your own made-up rules?
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Little Round Mirrors
My screenwriter/teacher friend John has an interesting project going: Little Round Mirrors, a blog about watching his immense DVD collection in alphabetical order and reporting on the experience.
I'm enjoying getting to re-experience some favorite old films through his eyes. I have a generally good-to-excellent memory, except when I have a terrible memory, and I've been noticing lately that my recall of films and TV shows is...not so great. "Oh, is that the one where the guy goes into a coma and believes he's wearing a rabbit suit?" I might ask when somebody mentions a film title. And the reply, more often than not, is, "Uh, no. It was a girl, and it wasn't a coma but a trip to rehab, and she wore a donkey mascot suit. NOT a rabbit."
Details, details. If I can create a defense, or at least a reasonable theory for my lapses, I think it has to do with structure: while I may not get every detail of the plot right (or, OK, any detail of the plot), I can generally remember or discuss the structure of the film. Three-act, restorative, hero's journey, etc. etc. My brain needs a way to connect it to the way the script's been formed, to the writing itself. Other times, it's an image, a line of dialogue, or the way a character interacts with the world. All elements that would work their way into a script.
John's alphabetical system (there are rules; see the blog for more details) ensures even treatment of the collection. I can try to guess what's coming next ("Better Off Dead" was the latest), even as I have no idea what's next. Taxonomy is immensely appealing: my favorite local radio station, 92.3 WTTS, is in the middle of their annual World-Class Rock A-Z program. Today they're into the "E" section of the music library, and "Eyes Without a Face" by Billy Idol accompanied my drive home. I have a feeling the song appeared in at least one of the '80s movies from John's collection. I couldn't tell you which one, but I bet he could.
I'm enjoying getting to re-experience some favorite old films through his eyes. I have a generally good-to-excellent memory, except when I have a terrible memory, and I've been noticing lately that my recall of films and TV shows is...not so great. "Oh, is that the one where the guy goes into a coma and believes he's wearing a rabbit suit?" I might ask when somebody mentions a film title. And the reply, more often than not, is, "Uh, no. It was a girl, and it wasn't a coma but a trip to rehab, and she wore a donkey mascot suit. NOT a rabbit."
Details, details. If I can create a defense, or at least a reasonable theory for my lapses, I think it has to do with structure: while I may not get every detail of the plot right (or, OK, any detail of the plot), I can generally remember or discuss the structure of the film. Three-act, restorative, hero's journey, etc. etc. My brain needs a way to connect it to the way the script's been formed, to the writing itself. Other times, it's an image, a line of dialogue, or the way a character interacts with the world. All elements that would work their way into a script.
John's alphabetical system (there are rules; see the blog for more details) ensures even treatment of the collection. I can try to guess what's coming next ("Better Off Dead" was the latest), even as I have no idea what's next. Taxonomy is immensely appealing: my favorite local radio station, 92.3 WTTS, is in the middle of their annual World-Class Rock A-Z program. Today they're into the "E" section of the music library, and "Eyes Without a Face" by Billy Idol accompanied my drive home. I have a feeling the song appeared in at least one of the '80s movies from John's collection. I couldn't tell you which one, but I bet he could.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Steve Almond: Presto Book-O
Up now at The Rumpus, candyfreak/Kurt Vonnegutphile Steve Almond makes the argument for self-publishing as one means of disseminating your words, on your terms.
Pros? Cons?
Regahhhdless, I feel strongly that my home office/decor would be vastly improved by the addition of an Espresso Book Machine. I believe I have established here my enthusiastic acceptance of robots, yes?
The evolution of publishing is an important conversation. Even -- or especially -- when the message is sell, or else.
Pros? Cons?
Regahhhdless, I feel strongly that my home office/decor would be vastly improved by the addition of an Espresso Book Machine. I believe I have established here my enthusiastic acceptance of robots, yes?
The evolution of publishing is an important conversation. Even -- or especially -- when the message is sell, or else.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
PANK is fun to say
And it's a literary magazine, collective, website, entity, group of individuals who are doing great things with and for writing. PANK 4 is available now, and contains my short-short story, "Comet's Return," along with new work from one of my favorite poets, Bob Hicok. Also included are Kyle Minor, Matt Bell, Jennifer Pieroni, Meg Pokrass, Coralie Reed, Ethel Rohan, Kathleen Rooney, Emily Rosko, Matthew Simmons, Tim Jones-Yelvington, Steven McDermott, JA Tyler, David Erlewine, Alicia Gifford, Elisa Gabbert, and many more.
PANK also published my short piece, "The Rest of Your Life," online last summer. There's audio to boot. Who doesn't like being read to?
There's a new robot in town checking out my blargh. Hi, robot! I hope you like my stories. I hope you are not rusting out this winter in the northerly suburbs, and if you are, maybe a girl in a gingham dress will come by soon with an oilcan. Tin man, robot -- OK, bit of a stretch. But anyway, robot? If, like other robots I have known, you are looking for lessons in how to feel, I've got two cd recommendations: Feist's "The Reminder" (featuring my theme song/credo, "I Feel it All"), and The Avett Brothers album "Emotionalism," esp. "All My Mistakes," which I found a way to quote in class this week.
Are you the type of robot that can see into the future? If so, I have a question: will I get Avett concert tickets for my birthday?
xo
Sarah
PANK also published my short piece, "The Rest of Your Life," online last summer. There's audio to boot. Who doesn't like being read to?
There's a new robot in town checking out my blargh. Hi, robot! I hope you like my stories. I hope you are not rusting out this winter in the northerly suburbs, and if you are, maybe a girl in a gingham dress will come by soon with an oilcan. Tin man, robot -- OK, bit of a stretch. But anyway, robot? If, like other robots I have known, you are looking for lessons in how to feel, I've got two cd recommendations: Feist's "The Reminder" (featuring my theme song/credo, "I Feel it All"), and The Avett Brothers album "Emotionalism," esp. "All My Mistakes," which I found a way to quote in class this week.
Are you the type of robot that can see into the future? If so, I have a question: will I get Avett concert tickets for my birthday?
xo
Sarah
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Jerome
Or Jerry. That was the "J" in J.D. Salinger. On a kick during a couple months of college, because I'd already read his books, I turned to a bunch of Salinger biographies. Pretty much all of them lacked any input from the reclusive author himself, but there were plenty of snippets of trivia. About his diet. About his love life. About his home in Cornish, N.H.
Reading about him, I remember thinking it made sense that he locked himself off from the world. I felt sympathetic, even as I mourned his decision not to publish any more books while he was alive. (I still carry a bit of a torch for Holden Caulfield.) Then in my commuting days I listened to Joyce Maynard's "At Home in the World," a memoir about Maynard's relationship with Salinger that began when she was a teenager. She was candid about the details, which were not at all flattering. I mourned again: maybe this misunderstood genius writer was just...human. Unlikably so, viewed from Maynard's perspective.
Salinger died today at the age of 91. I saw the news after I left campus, so I'm mostly reading online comments about his death. Snark abounds. Some people loved him. Some people hated him. The Onion nailed it, as always.
I'm surely sad he's gone and wish him a peaceful rest. And I'm eager to know if he really had 15 unpublished books in a wall safe. But in truth? I feel like J.D. Salinger left this world a long time ago.
Reading about him, I remember thinking it made sense that he locked himself off from the world. I felt sympathetic, even as I mourned his decision not to publish any more books while he was alive. (I still carry a bit of a torch for Holden Caulfield.) Then in my commuting days I listened to Joyce Maynard's "At Home in the World," a memoir about Maynard's relationship with Salinger that began when she was a teenager. She was candid about the details, which were not at all flattering. I mourned again: maybe this misunderstood genius writer was just...human. Unlikably so, viewed from Maynard's perspective.
Salinger died today at the age of 91. I saw the news after I left campus, so I'm mostly reading online comments about his death. Snark abounds. Some people loved him. Some people hated him. The Onion nailed it, as always.
I'm surely sad he's gone and wish him a peaceful rest. And I'm eager to know if he really had 15 unpublished books in a wall safe. But in truth? I feel like J.D. Salinger left this world a long time ago.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Stone Canoe | A Journal of Arts
Last weekend I had the pleasure of returning to Syracuse, N.Y., for the Stone Canoe Issue 4 launch. Contributors include Hayden Carruth, Mary Gaitskill, Jennifer Pashley, Brooks Haxton, Juliana Gray, Megan Muldoon, Emily Farranto, and many more.
The arts journal was kind enough to award my short story, "Hysterectomy," the Allen and Nirelle Galson Prize for Fiction. The story had been in progress since 2005, and was kind of beaten down along the way. So this kind of honor makes me happy for my story. Fiction Editor Jennifer Pashley said a few incredibly nice things.
Visual Arts prize winner Emily Farranto (whose art can be seen on the wall, above) arrived from New Orleans, and I from Indianapolis. And now the Colts are playing the Saints in the Superbowl. Coincidence?
At dinner, I was so busy talking that I forgot to take pictures of my coffee-encrusted filet of beef with Irish whiskey demi-glaze. Understand that it was delicious. I did capture huevos rancheros from Sunday brunch at Alto Cinco. The picture is slightly blurry. My hands were shaking with anticipation. You have never had cornbread such as this.
Alto Cinco used to deliver food by skateboard courier. They have a mural made of hammered bottle caps. It is in walking distance from most of my Syracuse apartments. I chose most of my apartments based on proximity to Alto Cinco.
Me: "Hey, I'm going to take a picture, but you don't have to move or anything."
Guy: "OK."
I now live in a very flat land. I'd forgotten about Syracuse's icy hills, even though my story takes place in Syracuse, in winter.
Upstate winter can get to you. But it's also beautiful: a world all its own. I'm glad to have lived there. I was glad to return.
The arts journal was kind enough to award my short story, "Hysterectomy," the Allen and Nirelle Galson Prize for Fiction. The story had been in progress since 2005, and was kind of beaten down along the way. So this kind of honor makes me happy for my story. Fiction Editor Jennifer Pashley said a few incredibly nice things.
Visual Arts prize winner Emily Farranto (whose art can be seen on the wall, above) arrived from New Orleans, and I from Indianapolis. And now the Colts are playing the Saints in the Superbowl. Coincidence?
At dinner, I was so busy talking that I forgot to take pictures of my coffee-encrusted filet of beef with Irish whiskey demi-glaze. Understand that it was delicious. I did capture huevos rancheros from Sunday brunch at Alto Cinco. The picture is slightly blurry. My hands were shaking with anticipation. You have never had cornbread such as this.
Alto Cinco used to deliver food by skateboard courier. They have a mural made of hammered bottle caps. It is in walking distance from most of my Syracuse apartments. I chose most of my apartments based on proximity to Alto Cinco.
Me: "Hey, I'm going to take a picture, but you don't have to move or anything."
Guy: "OK."
I now live in a very flat land. I'd forgotten about Syracuse's icy hills, even though my story takes place in Syracuse, in winter.
Upstate winter can get to you. But it's also beautiful: a world all its own. I'm glad to have lived there. I was glad to return.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Ain't that a kick in the head?
Dean Martin* wants to know. And so did the grocery store bagger, all those years ago, who proclaimed something to be "better than a kick in the head."**
But what? What was better than a kick in the head? The price of ground chuck? A shopper's club card and its attendant savings? I have the sinking suspicion this isn't even my story: he was somebody else's bagger, remarking on somebody else's conveyor belt of comestibles.
Guess I'll just have to make it up. Which is convenient, for that is what I like to do best. I ain't sayin' I'm a liar. But I ain't sayin' I'm not. My associative brain hears Dean on the radio, and then I see this article on the Best Grocery Store of All Time***, and the song and the story reunite in my mind. The blanks are left to be imagined. It feels good to be writing again, even if it's piecemeal, in bits and chunks, in blanks to be filled in later. Lots of writers talk about "writing the islands," or just getting down the parts of the story that you can see, and eventually it'll all come together later. I'm going on faith that I'll be able to see the rest of the picture eventually. Not today, but eventually.
*Check out the video for the three classy dames seated front and center. I can't tell if they're bored or entranced. Ain't that a kick in the head?
**This phrase enjoyed a brief resurgence in my personal lexicon circa 1999. I'm bringing it back, 2010-style.
***Which I will visit in mere days, as a matter of principle.
But what? What was better than a kick in the head? The price of ground chuck? A shopper's club card and its attendant savings? I have the sinking suspicion this isn't even my story: he was somebody else's bagger, remarking on somebody else's conveyor belt of comestibles.
Guess I'll just have to make it up. Which is convenient, for that is what I like to do best. I ain't sayin' I'm a liar. But I ain't sayin' I'm not. My associative brain hears Dean on the radio, and then I see this article on the Best Grocery Store of All Time***, and the song and the story reunite in my mind. The blanks are left to be imagined. It feels good to be writing again, even if it's piecemeal, in bits and chunks, in blanks to be filled in later. Lots of writers talk about "writing the islands," or just getting down the parts of the story that you can see, and eventually it'll all come together later. I'm going on faith that I'll be able to see the rest of the picture eventually. Not today, but eventually.
*Check out the video for the three classy dames seated front and center. I can't tell if they're bored or entranced. Ain't that a kick in the head?
**This phrase enjoyed a brief resurgence in my personal lexicon circa 1999. I'm bringing it back, 2010-style.
***Which I will visit in mere days, as a matter of principle.
Friday, January 8, 2010
It's 2010! What should I wear?!
IN
Stronger coffee
Orange bowling balls
Taking it out, chopping it up
Reading Knee-Jerk Magazine, which includes my interview with Porter Shreve
Giving stuff away
Poetry, daily (and Poetry Daily)
The number 8
Long e-mails
Chatting with random strangers about Fela Kuti
OUT
Benevolent gestures performed angrily (No, YOU go first!)
Soda pop
The number 10
Short n' pithy e-mails
Hoarding
Autotune
Footage of celebrities tripping
Mental footage of me tripping
The Christmas tree, eventually
Stronger coffee
Orange bowling balls
Taking it out, chopping it up
Reading Knee-Jerk Magazine, which includes my interview with Porter Shreve
Giving stuff away
Poetry, daily (and Poetry Daily)
The number 8
Long e-mails
Chatting with random strangers about Fela Kuti
OUT
Benevolent gestures performed angrily (No, YOU go first!)
Soda pop
The number 10
Short n' pithy e-mails
Hoarding
Autotune
Footage of celebrities tripping
Mental footage of me tripping
The Christmas tree, eventually
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