Apologies for letting this blog run stagnant for a while. There are a couple of pieces I've posted below that are a little more recent and have made their rounds with the publishers... suffice it to say that I feel comfortable consigning them here for now.
I'm just finishing up my first semester in the MFA program here at the University of Colorado. The friends I've made have been great, and though there are aspects of the program that have not exactly lived up to my expectations so far, there are at least some writers whom I've been able to connect with and whose work I respect. Most of the stuff I've been working on is longer, and is still making its rounds publication-wise, so I have little to share here other than news.
The Man-Eaters of Tsavo, the novel I've been working on, sort of went stale during revision and just as I was on the brink of putting it away I've begun working with it in a way that is once-again exciting for me. That's probably what I'll be working on this winter break. I'm finding out that sometimes not-giving-a-shit gives you a degree of critical distance necessary to take risks you otherwise wouldn't. I originally wanted to have it done by...well, now... but clearly that's not going to happen. My revisions so far have been changing the text quite a bit without really bringing it any closer to completion, so now I'm hoping to finish it sometime this summer.
Lately my work has been exploring mostly The Terrible (i.e. terror) and The Fantastic (i.e. fantasy), and it's about time. Much of it has been terrible for a while, but in a different way. Rainer Maria Rilke said: "Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror we're still just able to bear." That's something I'm trying to keep in mind these days.
Here's a link to my latest publication at Ghost Ocean Magazine (which was actually some time ago). Beautiful site. My story is in issue 1.
I will try to keep posting news and works of fiction here. I'm finding it tough to balance it all right now, but that is not an excuse. Just a plea for patience! Thanks to those of you who still check in from time to time.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Story: A Place to Sleep
It’s been a long time since they slept in each other’s arms, but he wakes at night with her clawing against his chest. It is their first in the new bed. “What’s wrong?” he asks. She murmurs something and he rubs the back of her neck. Shhhh he says softly, until she is awake enough to speak.
The dream is of him dying—not once, but twice. She can’t remember how it happened the first time, only waking in a sweat and pacing at the foot of the bed, questioning whether or not she should wake him. She stands beside the bed and shakes him by the shoulder, although he doesn’t respond. She shakes him with two hands, but still he does not answer. She feels alone in the room. She tries to scream but all that comes out is a weak stream of air. She climbs back into bed still screaming, unable to control her limbs, and lays her head on her pillow. Her legs grow numb, then her arms. She knows she is dying, and then she wakes.
“I thought that people weren’t supposed to die in their dreams,” he says, lying beside her in the dark. He listens with his eyes closed, and the way she describes it, he feels almost as if it were his dream.
“Maybe I didn’t,” she suggests. “Maybe I woke up just before.”
They go back to sleep and when they wake the next morning he is squeezing her. She asks what’s the matter. He says he can’t remember.
She has an interview today, and he sits drinking coffee all morning on their balcony, waiting for her to return. The set of patio chairs is their only furniture besides the bed, and now they cannot sleep. She returns at noon and says they’ve invited her to a second interview on Monday. They have the weekend to themselves.
At night they lie awake. Most recently, he’s died and gone to hell. She cut her wrists to follow, but landed in heaven instead.
“You’re not allowed to do that,” he insists. Something is wrong with her dreams. He gets up and fetches her a glass of water from the kitchen. She takes a sip and asks what he was dreaming about, but again he doesn’t remember.
Saturday and Sunday pass with him in the apartment. She wants to go to the farmer’s market. She wants to try the church. He does not want to go to either of these places and does not want her to go either. He stays home and draws the blinds, wishes the walls were thicker, that there were more padlocks on the door. He does not want Monday to come, but Monday does come, and she silences her alarm clock without waking him. She has slept through the night. This is a good sign. She kisses him on the forehead before dressing.
At noon she returns with a bottle of Andre and a smile, searching for him on the balcony although he isn’t there. She pours them both mimosas, and takes them into the bedroom where he is as she left him. She sits his drink on the nightstand and tries to wake him. He does not respond. She sits her own drink down, and shakes him with both hands, but he just frowns into his pillow. She begins to panic and remembers the dream from several nights ago. She wonders if she is dreaming now. She lies down behind him and wraps her arms around his torso, shuts her eyes and recites a prayer to herself, trying to remember what she dreamed of last night. She cannot. Last night she slept as soundly as a stone, and no matter how hard she tries now, sleep will not find her.
The dream is of him dying—not once, but twice. She can’t remember how it happened the first time, only waking in a sweat and pacing at the foot of the bed, questioning whether or not she should wake him. She stands beside the bed and shakes him by the shoulder, although he doesn’t respond. She shakes him with two hands, but still he does not answer. She feels alone in the room. She tries to scream but all that comes out is a weak stream of air. She climbs back into bed still screaming, unable to control her limbs, and lays her head on her pillow. Her legs grow numb, then her arms. She knows she is dying, and then she wakes.
“I thought that people weren’t supposed to die in their dreams,” he says, lying beside her in the dark. He listens with his eyes closed, and the way she describes it, he feels almost as if it were his dream.
“Maybe I didn’t,” she suggests. “Maybe I woke up just before.”
They go back to sleep and when they wake the next morning he is squeezing her. She asks what’s the matter. He says he can’t remember.
She has an interview today, and he sits drinking coffee all morning on their balcony, waiting for her to return. The set of patio chairs is their only furniture besides the bed, and now they cannot sleep. She returns at noon and says they’ve invited her to a second interview on Monday. They have the weekend to themselves.
At night they lie awake. Most recently, he’s died and gone to hell. She cut her wrists to follow, but landed in heaven instead.
“You’re not allowed to do that,” he insists. Something is wrong with her dreams. He gets up and fetches her a glass of water from the kitchen. She takes a sip and asks what he was dreaming about, but again he doesn’t remember.
Saturday and Sunday pass with him in the apartment. She wants to go to the farmer’s market. She wants to try the church. He does not want to go to either of these places and does not want her to go either. He stays home and draws the blinds, wishes the walls were thicker, that there were more padlocks on the door. He does not want Monday to come, but Monday does come, and she silences her alarm clock without waking him. She has slept through the night. This is a good sign. She kisses him on the forehead before dressing.
At noon she returns with a bottle of Andre and a smile, searching for him on the balcony although he isn’t there. She pours them both mimosas, and takes them into the bedroom where he is as she left him. She sits his drink on the nightstand and tries to wake him. He does not respond. She sits her own drink down, and shakes him with both hands, but he just frowns into his pillow. She begins to panic and remembers the dream from several nights ago. She wonders if she is dreaming now. She lies down behind him and wraps her arms around his torso, shuts her eyes and recites a prayer to herself, trying to remember what she dreamed of last night. She cannot. Last night she slept as soundly as a stone, and no matter how hard she tries now, sleep will not find her.
2 Stories I Wrote For Halloween
Dust to Dust
The plastic jack-o-lantern rests on its side, propped against a tombstone and grinning into the ground. Candy is pooled around it in the dirt, and she lies nearby on a damp plot of earth where the ground was struck but the grave never dug. The boys search for her among the stones.
Yoohoo. Come out wherever you are.
She closes her eyes and rocks from side to side, upending the dirt with her shoulders and shifting deeper with each movement. Worms writhe on top of her as the clumps of dirt break apart; centipedes, beetles, and slugs. The boys still are calling and she tries to remain still. A spider crawls along her forearm, eight points of contact. Her hairs stand on end. She can feel each of its legs on her skin—not quite a caress—and the beetles burrow in between her and the ground. Worms twist like curled leaves in the wind.
Her senses rise into her pores, like an electric current on top of water. Her body is a city, a sanctuary, giving shelter to the insects whispering into her flesh, filling it with a language none but her can understand.
Where are you sweetheart? I just want a treat.
Her fingers clutch at the earth by her sides. She feels along each slope and between her legs, at last grasps a pine cone and holds it against the seam of her pants. It pricks her hands. She twists the pine cone against her like a pestle—she is the mortar—and can feel her ashes mixing with the mud. The boys’ voices recede while she grinds it against her. Her mouth is open. She is sand. She is sugar. She disappears.
Hunger
The monster lives in a mansion outside of town, past forests of oak and juniper with high branches, so that your headlights shine a long way before being swallowed in darkness. You arrive at a clearing and the great shadow comes into focus above a steel archway, tarnished brick turrets piercing the sky and black windows flushing from inside.
When you were a girl, your parents would warn you to eat your greens, otherwise he’d come out of the woods and get you. This wasn’t true, but you ate them anyway. You had not met him. All you knew was that he didn’t have a mouth, and who knew what kinds of behavior would offend a creature like that?
Dinner guests arrive around twilight, and the host greets you at the door dressed in an impeccable dinner jacket. His skin is brown and spotty. His eyes are black. He has light blonde hair that is nearly invisible at the temples, and where his mouth should be, there is only a glossy plane of flesh, stretched tight as though there might be a mouth beneath it, though it is sewn up in skin.
You offer him your cheek and he brushes it accordingly with his own. He is a perfect gentleman, although he would not hesitate to swallow you whole if he were able. He is a monster, after all. You know this. When you go to the zoo you admire the tigers, but you don’t have any illusions about their nature. Their nature is what you admire. There is something about being eaten, isn’t there? Something about your blood on someone else’s lips that is… seductive. Not that that’s a possibility here. You pause on the threshold with your hand in his and concentrate on where his claws rest against your wrists, your blood vessels expanding beneath his touch.
Inside the light is scarce. Dark chestnut columns rise into a vaulted arch. The Persian carpet feels like moss underfoot. There’s a dinette table with black, liquorice-flavored cocktails on it, and you take one before entering the dining room where the other guests are mingling. The monster lives alone and prepares everything himself. This impresses the housewives.
“Have you heard about any more animals being discovered?” Mrs. Winston asks. “You know… drained?”
“Two last week.”
“My word! What do you suppose he does with it? The blood, I mean. It’s not as though he can eat it.”
“I don’t know. Bathes in it maybe?”
Mrs. Winston draws up in approbation. “Well good for him, I say. One’s got to cut loose every now and then, otherwise what’s the point?”
You are aware of the host’s presence as he shifts between groups. When he is close you talk of music—he is an accomplished pianist, after all—though when he is not you occupy yourself listening to rumors of his parentage. Some say he was spawned by a coven of witches, others that he’s the offspring of a wolf and earthworm. This last possibility intrigues you, although you know better than to take any of it seriously.
The women all wear rouge and low-cut blouses that cling to their flanks like saran wrap over prime rib. You’ve got on a sequined little number the others think is overdoing it—after all, you’ve got to go back to town at some point—but you don’t care. It’s him you are interested in. You can feel his black eyes stealing glances at your hips and inside your thighs. He does not have a mouth, but if he did you don’t mind fancying it’s you he would covet first.
You take your seat at the dinner table. There are places set for more than thirty, and the couples sit across from one another, alternating men and women. In the center is a row of sterling platters that the host unveils one by one. The menu is an array of forest creatures, skinned and broiled, braised in blood and infused with exotic spices and herbs. Certain morsels like the deer are a tad bit chewy, although the rabbit is succulent and delicious, tender like the inside of one’s mouth. There is another dish too, one you can’t identify, but which is the most wonderful of all. Your palette hums when you take a bite, as though an electric current were passing through it. It has been ages since the last gathering. You can hardly remember the gentleman’s name.
The host sits at the head of the table, elbows resting on either side of an empty plate, and watches the conversations go on around him. For dessert he distributes plates of stewed berries and homemade ice cream, smoked chicory coffee in silver tins.
The ladies eat until identical quarter-portions are left on each of their plates, and the men all recline in their seats from over eating, then follow the host into the drawing room. It is dark there. Long oak bookshelves line each of the walls along with faded portraits whom none can identify. The room is lit by a single set of candles positioned behind the great piano. You gather around in chairs and on stools, and the host arranges a score by Schöenberg on the stand. You are quiet, and resent even the sound of your breath. His spotty fingers rest against the keys and he remains there for a moment, head bowed, taking several deep breaths before he compresses the keys, commences with the melody, the complex descent into minor key. You listen to it with your eyes closed. The music is beautiful. He closes his eyes too and only opens them to glance at the music, and to turn the page when it is necessary.
His playing stirs something inside of you and eventually your eyes open. The guests exchange glances with one another and feel a tension gathering in their bodies. They stand and undress, hanging their clothes on the backs of chairs while the host continues to play, his eyes shut, hammering the keys as if he’s trying to convince himself that you’re still listening. You are listening, but you undress as well, spot a gentleman nearby and grab him by the arms, hold him between your legs and feel his body inside of you. It makes your organs shiver; your blood, your bones, your synapses. You are a flower waiting to bloom. You turn your head and watch the host, listening and regretting that others are not also listening, but then, it is like this every time. You permit yourself to enjoy the gentleman on top of you, knowing that what must happen will happen either way.
The music stops. The host is still for a moment. His chest heaves and he is slow to stand. He gathers the sheets of music and places them inside the piano bench, before facing into the room. The guests all freeze. The man on top of you withdraws, and watches, waiting to find out who it will be. The host walks in between couples, studying each, and your eyes follow after him, willing him to turn and face you. Your organs cry out, your blood is a chorus of longing. His black eyes find you out, and once more you can feel them roving over your hips, your thighs and bottom; all the tender bits. They other guests eye you too, also with hunger. They know a decision has been made.
He strides across the room and stands above you. You take hold of his claw and rise, trying to restrain your excitement. You grin into the carpet and allow yourself to be escorted into the center of the room, where the guests have cleared a space around a sheet of plastic. Their faces are unblinking. They are jealous and happy for you at once. The host stands before you and you meet his eyes, can see that his face is weary. For a moment you’re afraid he will change his mind, but he does not. He steps back. His claws stiffen. You lift your head and turn your palms toward the ceiling, feel your entire body pulsing with light. Air rushes into your stomach and you can feel the guests eyes upon you as a moment of blistering heat takes hold, and your body comes apart. The light escapes and what’s left is consigned to the following month’s menu.
We inch closer in an effort to be near. Our lips are wet, but the host stands still. His face is stern. It is time for us to leave, but we will see you again next month, briefly, one last time.
The plastic jack-o-lantern rests on its side, propped against a tombstone and grinning into the ground. Candy is pooled around it in the dirt, and she lies nearby on a damp plot of earth where the ground was struck but the grave never dug. The boys search for her among the stones.
Yoohoo. Come out wherever you are.
She closes her eyes and rocks from side to side, upending the dirt with her shoulders and shifting deeper with each movement. Worms writhe on top of her as the clumps of dirt break apart; centipedes, beetles, and slugs. The boys still are calling and she tries to remain still. A spider crawls along her forearm, eight points of contact. Her hairs stand on end. She can feel each of its legs on her skin—not quite a caress—and the beetles burrow in between her and the ground. Worms twist like curled leaves in the wind.
Her senses rise into her pores, like an electric current on top of water. Her body is a city, a sanctuary, giving shelter to the insects whispering into her flesh, filling it with a language none but her can understand.
Where are you sweetheart? I just want a treat.
Her fingers clutch at the earth by her sides. She feels along each slope and between her legs, at last grasps a pine cone and holds it against the seam of her pants. It pricks her hands. She twists the pine cone against her like a pestle—she is the mortar—and can feel her ashes mixing with the mud. The boys’ voices recede while she grinds it against her. Her mouth is open. She is sand. She is sugar. She disappears.
Hunger
The monster lives in a mansion outside of town, past forests of oak and juniper with high branches, so that your headlights shine a long way before being swallowed in darkness. You arrive at a clearing and the great shadow comes into focus above a steel archway, tarnished brick turrets piercing the sky and black windows flushing from inside.
When you were a girl, your parents would warn you to eat your greens, otherwise he’d come out of the woods and get you. This wasn’t true, but you ate them anyway. You had not met him. All you knew was that he didn’t have a mouth, and who knew what kinds of behavior would offend a creature like that?
Dinner guests arrive around twilight, and the host greets you at the door dressed in an impeccable dinner jacket. His skin is brown and spotty. His eyes are black. He has light blonde hair that is nearly invisible at the temples, and where his mouth should be, there is only a glossy plane of flesh, stretched tight as though there might be a mouth beneath it, though it is sewn up in skin.
You offer him your cheek and he brushes it accordingly with his own. He is a perfect gentleman, although he would not hesitate to swallow you whole if he were able. He is a monster, after all. You know this. When you go to the zoo you admire the tigers, but you don’t have any illusions about their nature. Their nature is what you admire. There is something about being eaten, isn’t there? Something about your blood on someone else’s lips that is… seductive. Not that that’s a possibility here. You pause on the threshold with your hand in his and concentrate on where his claws rest against your wrists, your blood vessels expanding beneath his touch.
Inside the light is scarce. Dark chestnut columns rise into a vaulted arch. The Persian carpet feels like moss underfoot. There’s a dinette table with black, liquorice-flavored cocktails on it, and you take one before entering the dining room where the other guests are mingling. The monster lives alone and prepares everything himself. This impresses the housewives.
“Have you heard about any more animals being discovered?” Mrs. Winston asks. “You know… drained?”
“Two last week.”
“My word! What do you suppose he does with it? The blood, I mean. It’s not as though he can eat it.”
“I don’t know. Bathes in it maybe?”
Mrs. Winston draws up in approbation. “Well good for him, I say. One’s got to cut loose every now and then, otherwise what’s the point?”
You are aware of the host’s presence as he shifts between groups. When he is close you talk of music—he is an accomplished pianist, after all—though when he is not you occupy yourself listening to rumors of his parentage. Some say he was spawned by a coven of witches, others that he’s the offspring of a wolf and earthworm. This last possibility intrigues you, although you know better than to take any of it seriously.
The women all wear rouge and low-cut blouses that cling to their flanks like saran wrap over prime rib. You’ve got on a sequined little number the others think is overdoing it—after all, you’ve got to go back to town at some point—but you don’t care. It’s him you are interested in. You can feel his black eyes stealing glances at your hips and inside your thighs. He does not have a mouth, but if he did you don’t mind fancying it’s you he would covet first.
You take your seat at the dinner table. There are places set for more than thirty, and the couples sit across from one another, alternating men and women. In the center is a row of sterling platters that the host unveils one by one. The menu is an array of forest creatures, skinned and broiled, braised in blood and infused with exotic spices and herbs. Certain morsels like the deer are a tad bit chewy, although the rabbit is succulent and delicious, tender like the inside of one’s mouth. There is another dish too, one you can’t identify, but which is the most wonderful of all. Your palette hums when you take a bite, as though an electric current were passing through it. It has been ages since the last gathering. You can hardly remember the gentleman’s name.
The host sits at the head of the table, elbows resting on either side of an empty plate, and watches the conversations go on around him. For dessert he distributes plates of stewed berries and homemade ice cream, smoked chicory coffee in silver tins.
The ladies eat until identical quarter-portions are left on each of their plates, and the men all recline in their seats from over eating, then follow the host into the drawing room. It is dark there. Long oak bookshelves line each of the walls along with faded portraits whom none can identify. The room is lit by a single set of candles positioned behind the great piano. You gather around in chairs and on stools, and the host arranges a score by Schöenberg on the stand. You are quiet, and resent even the sound of your breath. His spotty fingers rest against the keys and he remains there for a moment, head bowed, taking several deep breaths before he compresses the keys, commences with the melody, the complex descent into minor key. You listen to it with your eyes closed. The music is beautiful. He closes his eyes too and only opens them to glance at the music, and to turn the page when it is necessary.
His playing stirs something inside of you and eventually your eyes open. The guests exchange glances with one another and feel a tension gathering in their bodies. They stand and undress, hanging their clothes on the backs of chairs while the host continues to play, his eyes shut, hammering the keys as if he’s trying to convince himself that you’re still listening. You are listening, but you undress as well, spot a gentleman nearby and grab him by the arms, hold him between your legs and feel his body inside of you. It makes your organs shiver; your blood, your bones, your synapses. You are a flower waiting to bloom. You turn your head and watch the host, listening and regretting that others are not also listening, but then, it is like this every time. You permit yourself to enjoy the gentleman on top of you, knowing that what must happen will happen either way.
The music stops. The host is still for a moment. His chest heaves and he is slow to stand. He gathers the sheets of music and places them inside the piano bench, before facing into the room. The guests all freeze. The man on top of you withdraws, and watches, waiting to find out who it will be. The host walks in between couples, studying each, and your eyes follow after him, willing him to turn and face you. Your organs cry out, your blood is a chorus of longing. His black eyes find you out, and once more you can feel them roving over your hips, your thighs and bottom; all the tender bits. They other guests eye you too, also with hunger. They know a decision has been made.
He strides across the room and stands above you. You take hold of his claw and rise, trying to restrain your excitement. You grin into the carpet and allow yourself to be escorted into the center of the room, where the guests have cleared a space around a sheet of plastic. Their faces are unblinking. They are jealous and happy for you at once. The host stands before you and you meet his eyes, can see that his face is weary. For a moment you’re afraid he will change his mind, but he does not. He steps back. His claws stiffen. You lift your head and turn your palms toward the ceiling, feel your entire body pulsing with light. Air rushes into your stomach and you can feel the guests eyes upon you as a moment of blistering heat takes hold, and your body comes apart. The light escapes and what’s left is consigned to the following month’s menu.
We inch closer in an effort to be near. Our lips are wet, but the host stands still. His face is stern. It is time for us to leave, but we will see you again next month, briefly, one last time.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
I Write Like...
Here's a cool new website that uses coding to analyze your writing samples, and tells you which famous writer your style most resembles. Evidently, the two pieces I'm working on, Actor's Guide and 4'33", resemble writing by Stephan King and Kurt Vonnegut respectively.
What can I say? You don't always get the answer you want, but it is still interesting.
What can I say? You don't always get the answer you want, but it is still interesting.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I Finally Registered for Classes!
I've got to admit that so far the admissions process at CU has fairly frustrated me. For a while I had some sense of which paperwork was coming to me in which order, but now I've got no clue. I'm about ninety-percent certain though that I've done everything I need to before actually arriving there, and most of my efforts currently are being spent communicating with my realtor and finding a place to live in Boulder.
Registering for classes wasn't easy. First I was told I could do it through the online portal, but that didn't work. I kept getting a message that said I didn't have an enrollment appointment. Nobody mentioned anything to me about an enrollment appointment. I called the registrar's office, and the student worker there seemed really confused and transferred me to some other lady's voicemail who then did not return my call. I called again, and after speaking to another very confused worker for a few moments, she interrupted me by saying that I could register at 8 am on Wednesday. Eight am rolled around this morning (twice, in fact, because CO is an hour behind TX), and lo-and-behold, no enrollment appointment. I called back, and the student worker this time listened to me speak for about ten seconds before interrupting me and saying she was going to transfer me to someone else's voicemail. I protested and she answered rather testily: "That's all I can do for you, sir."
Needless to say, my voicemail was not happy, and needless to say, no one called me back. A little while later I called back again, and whoever the student worker was this time put me on hold for two seconds, and when he came back on, told me I could register immediately. He'd just opened me up. Hoila. I think the ease with which he was able to fix it, after all of that, was the most infuriating part! Anyway, the important thing is that I did get registered, and my classes look sweet. Here's what my schedule looks like:
Mon: Contemporary Literary Theory
Advanced Topics in English- Digital Media
Tues: Intro to Literature of the United States
Wed: Fiction Workshop
I am also on a waiting list for Intro to Multicultural Literature. Not sure how many credits I'm supposed to be taking, although the important thing is that I'm enrolled and can drop/add as needed. This all could change anyway once I get there and am able to advise. Also, I still need to receive a schedule of the classes I am teaching. I'm excited though. It's like a fairytale. There is not a single class I'm not thrilled about!
Registering for classes wasn't easy. First I was told I could do it through the online portal, but that didn't work. I kept getting a message that said I didn't have an enrollment appointment. Nobody mentioned anything to me about an enrollment appointment. I called the registrar's office, and the student worker there seemed really confused and transferred me to some other lady's voicemail who then did not return my call. I called again, and after speaking to another very confused worker for a few moments, she interrupted me by saying that I could register at 8 am on Wednesday. Eight am rolled around this morning (twice, in fact, because CO is an hour behind TX), and lo-and-behold, no enrollment appointment. I called back, and the student worker this time listened to me speak for about ten seconds before interrupting me and saying she was going to transfer me to someone else's voicemail. I protested and she answered rather testily: "That's all I can do for you, sir."
Needless to say, my voicemail was not happy, and needless to say, no one called me back. A little while later I called back again, and whoever the student worker was this time put me on hold for two seconds, and when he came back on, told me I could register immediately. He'd just opened me up. Hoila. I think the ease with which he was able to fix it, after all of that, was the most infuriating part! Anyway, the important thing is that I did get registered, and my classes look sweet. Here's what my schedule looks like:
Mon: Contemporary Literary Theory
Advanced Topics in English- Digital Media
Tues: Intro to Literature of the United States
Wed: Fiction Workshop
I am also on a waiting list for Intro to Multicultural Literature. Not sure how many credits I'm supposed to be taking, although the important thing is that I'm enrolled and can drop/add as needed. This all could change anyway once I get there and am able to advise. Also, I still need to receive a schedule of the classes I am teaching. I'm excited though. It's like a fairytale. There is not a single class I'm not thrilled about!
Monday, July 5, 2010
Footnotes in the Age of E-Reading
Like many people, I have long since given in to the attractions of various e-readers. Several birthdays ago my parents bought me a Kindle, and more recently I've started reading on my iPhone as well. They're great in a lot of ways. The Kindle is great for reading long, cumbersome novels like Anna Karenina without have to heft around the actual book, and also for reading outside--no pages to get blown and very little glare on the screen. On the other hand, the iPhone reader, I've found, is excellent for shorter works, stories and poems. It almost makes me look forward to the security line in airports because it gives me just the right amount of time to whip out my phone and read through something. But whether it is the romantic in me or the traditionalist, I still do value the traditional model of reading... You know, books. And I sympathize with those who fear for that mode's future, whether it's from a publisher's perspective, author's, or just the loss of reading texture that many feel the e-reader heralds.
Good news: I have found at least one kind of literature that seems nearly irreconcilable with the e-format, and that is the one which relies heavily on footnotes.
I remember when I first read A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again by David Foster Wallce, all of the sudden I could not resist populating my own writing with footnotes. They were irresistible, providing the perfect opportunity for me to include those clever asides that occurred to me but which didn't actually fit inside the story. As it were, they provided a convenient excuse for me not to have to "kill my darlings" so I've since given them up, but nevertheless, when Wallace uses them they are fun and hilarious, and it's tough to imagine a lot of his work without them.
I read Infinite Jest too as a book and thought the same thing. Although once I started utilizing the iPhone reader and brainstorming things I could buy to read ion it, I made the mistake of purchasing Consider the Lobster as an e-text, and let me tell you about cumbersome.... You have to click on each of the footnotes and it will transport you to the text in question, then once you are finished reading it transports you back. Anyone who has read Wallace knows that sometimes his footnotes go on for multiple pages, and become stories in their own right, and I am not sure why but for some reason reading this way is so much more disorienting than relying on one's eye to shift back and forth. I cannot imagine reading Infinite Jest on an e-reader, and the book I'm reading now, House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski, would also be nearly impossible, I think.
Groundbreaking as e-texts are, it is comforting to know that there are still effects that can only be accomplished on paper.
Good news: I have found at least one kind of literature that seems nearly irreconcilable with the e-format, and that is the one which relies heavily on footnotes.
I remember when I first read A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again by David Foster Wallce, all of the sudden I could not resist populating my own writing with footnotes. They were irresistible, providing the perfect opportunity for me to include those clever asides that occurred to me but which didn't actually fit inside the story. As it were, they provided a convenient excuse for me not to have to "kill my darlings" so I've since given them up, but nevertheless, when Wallace uses them they are fun and hilarious, and it's tough to imagine a lot of his work without them.
I read Infinite Jest too as a book and thought the same thing. Although once I started utilizing the iPhone reader and brainstorming things I could buy to read ion it, I made the mistake of purchasing Consider the Lobster as an e-text, and let me tell you about cumbersome.... You have to click on each of the footnotes and it will transport you to the text in question, then once you are finished reading it transports you back. Anyone who has read Wallace knows that sometimes his footnotes go on for multiple pages, and become stories in their own right, and I am not sure why but for some reason reading this way is so much more disorienting than relying on one's eye to shift back and forth. I cannot imagine reading Infinite Jest on an e-reader, and the book I'm reading now, House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski, would also be nearly impossible, I think.
Groundbreaking as e-texts are, it is comforting to know that there are still effects that can only be accomplished on paper.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Fictionalizing Real People
Here is an article in the Guardian that deals (somewhat) with the ethics of representing real people in fiction. This is particularly interesting for me right now because I currently am working on several things that are based on real people, one of which involves fictionalized scenes from the life of composer, John Cage. The author of the piece, Meg Rosoff, dismisses the subject with a "do what you want, but do it well" kind of position, but to that I would add that he who writes about real people also needs to be aware of the work's political ramifications. Whatever one chooses to say is fine, but to represent real people without giving any thought to how it makes them look, or what that representation says about them seems to me irresponsible. Praise them, burn them, put words into their mouths or take words out... anything goes, but do be aware of the work's relationship to the lives it represents.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
News Update
It's been a while since I posted any personal updates about what's going on with me writing-wise and otherwise. So here's a brief list of things:
1) I finished the first draft of The Man-Eaters of Tsavo today!!!! It is the novel I've been working on for the past four months or so. In it's current (rough) form, it weighs in at about 95,000 words, making it my first legitimate novel manuscript. Right now I'm going to put it aside for about two months, get it out of my head, then come back to it after that time and read it with fresh eyes for the revision. I'm not sure whether I want to work on it as a part of my graduate coursework or not. Still deciding whether a novel is something that should be workshoped. But anyway, that brings me to item number two...
2) In another month or so I'll be packing up my belongings and moving with Shannon to Colorado, where I will be studying fiction at the University of Colorado at Boulder. I've been meaning to post this last bit of news for quite some time, but the delay between when I found out about my acceptance there and when I finally heard from all of the other schools I applied to was so long it sort of lost its motivation. I'm really excited though. I was also offered a teaching assistantship, and just found out that the course I will be teaching is Intro to Creative Writing, which is a huge relief because before that I assumed it would be Freshman Comp or something like that. So yay!
3) I've got a couple of old stories I'm going to return to, revise, and then begin circulating in fiction competitions, so more news on that will be coming in the next few months. It's crazy how many ideas occur to you when you are bogged down by one single project. Since beginning work on MET I've probably had about ten solid story ideas occur to me, and it's taken real discipline not to put it aside and pursue some of these other ideas. My palate is clean though now, and I can start sifting through that backlog of ideas. One thing I'm planning on doing is returning to my first novel attempt, The Body and the Blood, and revising it back into a novella that I will then go on to self-publish and make available through a website I'm going to start designing soon. So lots and lots of stuff! Stay tuned for more details. I'll try to post stuff like this more regularly and not fall so far behind!
Best Wishes,
Nick
Friday, June 11, 2010
Narrative Pleasure = Right v. Wrong
In this Slate article Kathyrn Schultz interviews Ira Glass from This American Life about "wrongness", and how it sub-textually drives each of the stories they do on the show. In it, Ira discusses the collision of expectation versus reality as a narrative convention, and even as a creative discipline. At one point, he's talking about a story he did on The Onion's brainstorming sessions, in which it is not uncommon for them to come up with about 600 headlines, only 16 or 17 of which they actually end up using. That means that they are willing to be wrong 583 times in order to be right 17. He goes on:
"It kind of gives you hope. If you do creative work, there's a sense that inspiration is this fairy dust that gets dropped on you, when in fact you can just manufacture inspiration through sheer brute force. You can simply produce enough material that the thing will arrive that seems inspired. "
It's an interesting idea; one that I probably agree with about 90 percent, but then, the whole interview is interesting and, though it deprives you of Ira Glass's signature voice, I highly recommend that you check it out in full.
"It kind of gives you hope. If you do creative work, there's a sense that inspiration is this fairy dust that gets dropped on you, when in fact you can just manufacture inspiration through sheer brute force. You can simply produce enough material that the thing will arrive that seems inspired. "
It's an interesting idea; one that I probably agree with about 90 percent, but then, the whole interview is interesting and, though it deprives you of Ira Glass's signature voice, I highly recommend that you check it out in full.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
The New Name
I've been thinking about renaming this blog "The Island of Misfit Stories," to acknowledge the fact that generally the stories I post here have been rejected by at least six legitimate publishers beforehand. I cannot post anything here that I hope to publish elsewhere because nearly all publishers want first rights to the work. So usually I end up circulating each of these guys for about five months before I give up, curse the literary establishment's lack of vision, then put the stories up here instead. That's how this blog began: as a way for me to imagine that somebody is actually reading my work.
Originally I named it "Error: You Are Being Redirected" on a whim, because when I try to come up with real--that is, appropriate--names for things, they usually end up being terrible, cheesy, and obvious. When titling works-in-progress, provisionally I assign them either stupidly obvious titles, or off-the-wall absurd ones. Although eventually, if the work means anything to me, I will want to give it a name that suits it. The title, after all, is the reader's first impression of a piece.
(*Side Note*: My poetry professor in college, Sandra Meek, used to have a thing against poems announcing themselves as 'Untitled'. It's like meeting someone for the first time and, instead of introducing yourself, grabbing them by the shoulders and shaking them... which maybe is a good thing sometimes. But even then, you wouldn't introduce yourself as 'Untitled' first, would you? Would you?!)
As I was thinking about the idea of naming, I remembered an old religious essay I once read back in my more pious days by George MacDonald, titled The New Name. It was from a collection of Unspoken Sermons, and I remember this one grabbing me because of its unique conception of Heaven, and what it means to abide with one's Creator. MacDonald argued (imagined is perhaps a better word) that the first thing that happens once one enters Heaven is that s/he is given a white stone with a new name on it, one that "no man knoweth, saving he that receiveth it" (the sermon is based on a verse from Revelation; 2:17). This is not a name like any we've received before, like Nick or Error: You Are Being Redirected. This name would reflect who we are, interiorly and exteriorly. Presumably it would be more than just a word, in the same way that 'eternity' is more than just a long time, but I think the point, the powerful thing about the sermon, is the idea of having nothing withheld; no secret to keep or mystery to ponder. To me, it sounds like everything I long to experience in writing; that is, an embodiment of what I am and what I fail to understand about myself. My personal Truth, in a word.
I'm not sure what the linguistic implications of this idea are. It does seem to suggest that, at the metaphysical level, there is a 1:1 relationship between an object and its name, whereas at the non-metaphysical level, there is often a dynamic relationship between words and the objects they signify (see Edward Said); often the name a person or thing is given actually influences that person or thing's behavior.
But to return to the point...
A long time ago--back when I was still selling cable door to door--I was talking to this old woman on her doorstep. Having by that point determined that she would not be changing her cable provider that day, somehow we fell to discussing how I was a writer, and I even told her about this blog (please comment if, by some deranged miracle, this is you and you actually checked it out!). Anyway, I told her the blog's name and her response was, "Oh my, that's really clever! Because then your site will pop up whenever somebody searches for the wrong thing!" This had never occurred to me before, and of course, once I thought about it I realized it was a fallacy, unless somebody out there is actually searching for error messages. But the paradox (which, let me emphasize, was by no means intentional) struck me as oddly appropriate. If you are reading this, after all, it is because for some reason, whether you stumbled upon this blog or know me personally, you sought out the unsought. You are reading what nobody else seems to want to read, and believe me, the fact that you're reading it is appreciated.
The moral of this story:
Sometimes words that begin as bullshit can, in the end, prove meaningful. Compelling even. That is a profoundly positive idea for me.
Originally I named it "Error: You Are Being Redirected" on a whim, because when I try to come up with real--that is, appropriate--names for things, they usually end up being terrible, cheesy, and obvious. When titling works-in-progress, provisionally I assign them either stupidly obvious titles, or off-the-wall absurd ones. Although eventually, if the work means anything to me, I will want to give it a name that suits it. The title, after all, is the reader's first impression of a piece.
(*Side Note*: My poetry professor in college, Sandra Meek, used to have a thing against poems announcing themselves as 'Untitled'. It's like meeting someone for the first time and, instead of introducing yourself, grabbing them by the shoulders and shaking them... which maybe is a good thing sometimes. But even then, you wouldn't introduce yourself as 'Untitled' first, would you? Would you?!)
As I was thinking about the idea of naming, I remembered an old religious essay I once read back in my more pious days by George MacDonald, titled The New Name. It was from a collection of Unspoken Sermons, and I remember this one grabbing me because of its unique conception of Heaven, and what it means to abide with one's Creator. MacDonald argued (imagined is perhaps a better word) that the first thing that happens once one enters Heaven is that s/he is given a white stone with a new name on it, one that "no man knoweth, saving he that receiveth it" (the sermon is based on a verse from Revelation; 2:17). This is not a name like any we've received before, like Nick or Error: You Are Being Redirected. This name would reflect who we are, interiorly and exteriorly. Presumably it would be more than just a word, in the same way that 'eternity' is more than just a long time, but I think the point, the powerful thing about the sermon, is the idea of having nothing withheld; no secret to keep or mystery to ponder. To me, it sounds like everything I long to experience in writing; that is, an embodiment of what I am and what I fail to understand about myself. My personal Truth, in a word.
I'm not sure what the linguistic implications of this idea are. It does seem to suggest that, at the metaphysical level, there is a 1:1 relationship between an object and its name, whereas at the non-metaphysical level, there is often a dynamic relationship between words and the objects they signify (see Edward Said); often the name a person or thing is given actually influences that person or thing's behavior.
But to return to the point...
A long time ago--back when I was still selling cable door to door--I was talking to this old woman on her doorstep. Having by that point determined that she would not be changing her cable provider that day, somehow we fell to discussing how I was a writer, and I even told her about this blog (please comment if, by some deranged miracle, this is you and you actually checked it out!). Anyway, I told her the blog's name and her response was, "Oh my, that's really clever! Because then your site will pop up whenever somebody searches for the wrong thing!" This had never occurred to me before, and of course, once I thought about it I realized it was a fallacy, unless somebody out there is actually searching for error messages. But the paradox (which, let me emphasize, was by no means intentional) struck me as oddly appropriate. If you are reading this, after all, it is because for some reason, whether you stumbled upon this blog or know me personally, you sought out the unsought. You are reading what nobody else seems to want to read, and believe me, the fact that you're reading it is appreciated.
The moral of this story:
Sometimes words that begin as bullshit can, in the end, prove meaningful. Compelling even. That is a profoundly positive idea for me.
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