Tonight's the Night!

Screw the Halloween party! All I want to do is stay home and get stuff done before the Midnight deadline.

Midnight = all the stuff I should be doing must be done because at midnight I can start my novelling extravaganza!

Sadly there's 18 papers to be graded between now (6pm) and midnight if that's to happen. And there's a write up I'm supposed to do as well ... hmm. And the kitten is begging (clawing) for attention.

Working at home with a kitten is a little like working at home with a baby. I find myself only able to concentrate when she's sleeping. It's like 'oh good, she's down for a nap! what can I get done?'

She's awake now so it's off to the Panera to grade ... and load up on caffeine.

"Don't Vote"

Sotto Voce

Sotto Voce, the online literary magazine that I review for has announced it's inaugural issue. I remember reviewing at least one of the fiction submissions, but I haven't yet had the chance to check out all the other work (poetry, nonfic, visual art) that's also in the issue.

From the Announcement:

We are delighted to announce that the inaugural issue of Sotto Voce is now published on our Web site.

You can view the issue at www.SottoVoceMagazine.com. We hope you'll come by and see us!

Reader voting is now up. At the bottom of the page for each piece, there is a button that can be used to vote "yes" or "no" (whether the piece should be included in our annual print anthology). Don't vote more than once per piece; multiple votes will be ignored.

We are currently accepting submissions for our second issue, slated for publication mid-January 2009. Our submissions period will end on or before November 19 (we may have to close early if we receive too many submissions, but it will close no later than the 19th). You can submit work at www.SottoVoceMagazine.com/submissions.htm.

We are looking for reviewers for all genres; our second submissions period has been even busier than the first. You may apply to become a reviewer at http://www.SottoVoceMagazine.com/conf_non_disc.htm.

Emily Thorp
Managing Editor
Sotto Voce

If You Were Running an MFA program ...

So -- again -- I make reference to Nathan Bransford's blog -- the man just has really interesting blog posts about writing!

This time, he has written the "If Nathan Ran an MFA Program" post, which is interesting even if it has a few big flaws.

Flaw One: why are there only three tracks (genre, literary or creative nonfiction)? Genre writers often don't want to work together, they want to work within their own genre ... there's a reason RWA holds it's own workshops and doesn't team up with the SFWA, genre writers frequently don't like all genre fiction. Lord knows I haven't picked up a mystery novel since Encyclopedia Brown and I wouldn't be too thrilled to do a detailed read through of your manuscript even if you thought you were on to the next Cat Who series.

Flaw Two: why is it plot vs style? Bransford says he'd (selfishly) teach plot first followed then by style. But isn't the argument normally plot vs. character? It is when you're talking about what "drives" the author's writing process and production. That, and don't you need a consistent style to apply it to the plot? I think if he's going to break it down into you must take Plot class then Style class the order and amount should be a semester or two of style (Style 101 and 102) and then 2 YEARS of plot (Plot 500 and 525) ... assuming you ascribe to Bransford's theory.

What would you do to plan your idyllic MFA program?

Me? If I were inventing a school of MFA I think it would be an unbelievably huge school because it would include separate genre tracks for students to focus in -- however "cross-crafting" would be encouraged, perhaps even required for graduation.

It would also have a year long required course called Style and Clarity the purpose of which would be to help the student develop a writing style that works the best for the writer -- the writer can write easily it and it sounds authentic and authoritative -- and then help the writer identify all the pitfalls of that style -- where do things tend to sag, to get bogged down, where does your style of writing frequently cause confusion, etc.

There would -- as suggested by Bransford -- be a course on "selling" your work, including cover letter writing and networking, hooks and contracts.

It would also be a five year long program because there would be a 1-2 year optional novel writing sabbatical. A time when you could phone in your hours but you would need to produce a full length text and then spend time working it over with a small group (five-ish, no more than eight) of about to graduate students.

The more I think about it, the more I think a low-residency MFA might have been better for me -- the quick 10 day flashes of workshop brilliance followed by "normal life" and finding ways to write during it. But that wasn't an option as there were other constraints in my life such as the need to move out of town and the need to gain some teaching experience (univ. instructor) because all of my previous jobs had made me want to tear out my hair. I couldn't have done a low-res MFA and still kept down an entry level job because the entry level job would have killed me.

Questions about NaNo

Recently, after a post on NaNo, the following conversation ensued in the comments section:

Aquarius said...
What happens, if anything, if you don't make it to 50K words?

Eileen Wiedbrauk said...
You feel like shit.

Which basically sums it up. NaNoWriMo has no official monitor, no school marm to rap your knuckles or give you a failing grade if you don't' make it to 50k. For which reasons the creators recommend that you tell everyone you know that you're about to embark on this crazy-ass mission so that they can ridicule you if you fail. This kind of external pressure is necessary for some people.

For me this past January, it was all about proving I could finish something. I had just quit law school without even hitting my semester exams and I needed to know that I quit because I wanted to not because I was a quitter in general. HUGE impetus for completing 50k even if it was a crap novel.

So, in short, if you don't "win" there is no penalty for "losing" unless you make one.

So you just go and write as many words as you can. Or, you clean your boyfriend's attic.

Constructive Critisim

Mitchell and Webb - Write this..or that..or maybe



My story gets workshoped tonight.

All my energy is being consummed on projecting positive thoughts and emotions into the void so that perhaps that energy will reflect back onto me this evening. ... That sounds way more shissy-foo-foo than I would ever admit to being.

Ad of the Week

This is not a spoof ad. This is real. So now that you know your options, what are you Halloween plans?

How the Tortoiseshell Got Her Markings

A creation myth for my cat. -- Proof that I've been studying way too much folklore lately -- and it's only going to get worse as I'm actually taking a lit class on folklore & children's lit next semester.

Once upon a time there was a tiny tortoiseshell cat. Now back then the tortoiseshell didn't look like she does now. Her coat didn't have a speck of grey on it, instead she was covered with blond and caramel colored fur from her pink nose to the tips of her ears, from her paws down her back and up the length of her tail.

One day the tortoiseshell came across a bird that looked good to eat. She sneaked up behind it, silent as could be. And the bird, who was busy with her own work, did not know the tortoiseshell was there until the paw came down and clipped the bird's tail feathers. The tortoiseshell had missed!

The bird flew up, squawking and cawing. Again the tortoiseshell leaped but she was too late and the bird already too high.

When the tortoiseshell landed back on the ground she saw what the bird had found so interesting. There on the ground was a tiny, battered sprite. The tortoiseshell sniffed the sprite but, as any cat knows, sprites aren't good eating and so she sat back to watch the tiny creature on the ground.

The sprite got up and dusted herself off. Grabbed a wing that was hanging awkwardly and popped it back into place. Damage repaired save for bumps and scrapes, the sprite put both fists on her hips and stared up at the tortoiseshell.

"Tortoiseshell, you've saved me from being that bird's dinner," she said. "And though I know you didn't pounce on her to save me, you didn't get your dinner and so I'd like to give you a gift. I shall grant you three wishes. Whatever you most desire you had only think of you shall get."

The tortoiseshell thought this seemed rather amiable and didn't even bat at the sprite as she fluttered off though the tortoiseshell was sorely tempted to do so.

Having no immediate wants the tortoiseshell wandered off to see what she could find and shortly came across a boulder sitting in the sun near a river.

Ever curious, the tortoiseshell scrabbled up the side of the boulder and onto its top. The view was wonderful, but better yet she discovered that the top of the boulder was indented like a basin and fluff from cattails had collected there. The tortoiseshell curled up on the fluff and slept in the sun for many hours until the sun had dipped in the sky and no longer shone on her boulder.

The tortoiseshell woke and stretched. She thought about how hungry she was and decided to use one of the wishes the sprite had given her to get some food.

O sprite, she thought, what I'd like the most is my dinner right now.

The tortoiseshell had no sooner formed the thought than the cattail fluff she had slept on was instantly transformed into kibble.

Full and happy, the tortoiseshell leaped down from the boulder. Ever curious, she decided to explore the river before her. But the closer she got to the water the more thirsty she became. She stuck her nose in the water near the edge and though she could reach the surface, the water at the edge was nasty. Filled with bugs and algae and things the tortoiseshell did not want to drink.

The tortoiseshell could see clear water rushing through the middle of the river, babbling over tiny rocks as it made its way along the current.

O sprite, she thought, if only I could drink from the fresh, clear water that moves so freely with none of the yucky stuff that clings to the edge, if only that running water was someplace where I could reach it I would have what I want.

And no sooner had she thought it than the riverbed shifted and rose forming a rocky outcropping that the water flowed over creating a tiny waterfall. The tortoiseshell quickly leaped onto a dry rock from which she could easily drink form the newly formed waterfall.

Sated and happy, the tortoiseshell continued to explore. She soon came across a tiny fire burning away in a pit. She wondered at it for she had never seen a fire before. Ever curious, the tortoiseshell sniffed the blaze.

She quickly pulled back but it was too late, a flame caught her whisker and the whole thing sparked. Soon all the tortoiseshell could see was smoke and ash. All she could feel was heat and pain. And though she tried to back away her feet just dragged through the soot of the flames that now grew and grew.

O sprite! she cried, what I need -- what I need right now! -- is to put out this fire! Make it stop!

And no sooner had she thought it but the fire was gone. The flames that had curled around her were gone. The smoke was gone, the pain was gone.

The tortoiseshell sat down and heaved a deep breath. But then she looked down at her fur and saw her paws were covered with soot. She tried to lick them clean but found it was no use, so she went back to the waterfall, and though she did not like to get wet, she doused herself with water trying to get rid of the gray that had worked its way into her coat.

The tortoiseshell looked at her reflection in the water, her whole face was gray with soot and ash, even her nose had burnt black. Her paws were covered with it, as was the tip of her tail where it had dragged in the ground. But her back was still caramel where the least of the soot had fallen.

And that is why today we call the tortoiseshell Ash.



Say hello to Ash. She's very happy to meet you.

Do You NaNo?

I do.

NaNoWriMo is quickly approaching. It's already October 22 which means there is just a little more than a week until November 1 and the beginning of the 10th year of NaNoWriMo.

If you don't know, NaNoWriMo is the crazy acronym for Chris Baty's pet project with the really long name of "November is National Novel Writing Month."

The event, its website and the corresponding book, No Plot? No Problem!, have a jubilant and, at times, silly tone -- if you couldn't already derive that from the fact that this year's graphic involves a viking helmet for no obviously identifiable reason. But it all translates into a you can do it! atmosphere, one that makes it baltantly obvious that the only obsticle to writing your novel is yourself. A fact that is true all year round but unavoidable for the month of November.

I'm both heartened and amused to see the more scholarly set of writers jumping on board this year. My experience is that the majority of NaNo-ers are genre writers ... but then again aren't the majority of fiction writers genre writers? As far as living writings go, they take up the most shelf space in book stores. Not to make value statements about types of writing or people who do writing only in one vein, but I enjoy seeing the MFAers contemplating this crazy-outside-the-box-of-notions-of-serious-writer event.

Somehow turning out 1667 words per day for 30 days while being encouraged to write drivel just to pad your word count and get on to the next thing, the next idea, the next covnersation you can go back and edit the rest later, doesn't fit with many writer's romantic notion of Hemingway in a Paris cafe.

Then again I think most students entrenched in their MFA, and most successful writers in general, will tell you there is no romantic notion, that it's simply a matter of constantly learning craft and getting the words down on the page.

That, and I hate Hemingway.

So now that I've jumped on the NaNo wagon, I just have to decide what it is that I'm going to write.

This past January I completed a different nano-style event (aptly named JanNo) and it was great. The novel I turned out was rubbish -- I went for cliche genre fiction (trust me, you don't want to read it) just to prove to myself that I could put together a plot that was that long -- but the sense of accomplishment was great. And -- bonus! -- I was so engaged in writing that I turned out two brand new short stories during that month that had nothing to do with my 50k word novel.

While I am certain that I will do a NaNo this year -- BTW don't you love how NaNo is simultaneously proper noun, general noun and verb? -- I'm still contemplating what it is that I'll be working on.

My first thought was to write 50k of literary fiction that I could possibly work into an MFA thesis -- or, better yet, try and get published in the next three years. Novels take an insane amount of time in the editing-submitting-agenting scheme of things so I will undoubtedly be on the job market before I have a published book unless I write a draft of one this year.

Anyway, the novel.

It was going to be this character moving to a new city (so that I could incorporate all my "new city" experiences into her story) because this was the city her sister had gone to college in and lived in for five years -- with all sorts of nitty-gritty issues to pick apart there.

But then I stepped back from that idea. It sounds way too much like my undergrad fiction where the character spends most of her time watching other people and delivering commentary. Gotta move past that.

My next thought was to jump into what many in my MFA program are describing as their side or pet project: a young adult novel. It would be fantasy, not because that's what's hot on the YA market (although that's a plus) but because that's what I read when I was 12. The best part of this would be that it would be a mental break from the work I'm doing in grad school but still be writing.

The next option is to go for something contemporary, something that could still be considered thesis material, but it has a little bit more plot to it. I've ened up layering a bunch of "types" into it: the return of the prodigal son, the three sisters/family story, a contemporary coming of age (or is it second coming of age when we do the adrift at 25 story?) It's set in a Detroit suburb during the month of June ... and I've only ever tried to write it in the summer months because that's when those details ring the truest to me. I wonder if I can stretch myself to write about it in bleak November?

Here

I realized several things this weekend, the first was that it really was fall. The second was that I had taken pictures of fall -- I'd even taken pictures of late summer -- specifically for the blog and never retrieved them from my phone. (Look for a "photo tour" on Thursday or Friday.)

My second realization came while on a very long walk through campus Saturday afternoon. It was sublime BTW. The temp was hovering just at 60, the sky was clear and campus was empty. I was wandering past buildings and taking note of the names trying to gain some sense of what is where when I thought this is my campus for the next three years, I really should get to know it crossed my mind.

That's when it hit me: I'm really here.

I'm really at an MFA!

All that planning, applying, worrying, neurosing, the haphazard researching, talking my father's ear off about it, all those ridiculous obsessions with the MFAblog, the Poets&Writer's speak easy, the LJ applying to grad school community, followed by checking Seth Abramson's list of application responses two, three, okay five times a day ... all of that was over, over because I'm actually here.

The here that was there a year ago.

The there that I wanted to be.

So many MFAer's blogs get bitchy about actually being in the MFA program (not Tanya and Margosita so much, but people who've MFAed for longer) they get factual, they deal with the problems, the daily grind, the bleak truth that is the post-MFA job market. And that's why I'd like to take this moment to get all sorts of appreciative, and gooey about dealing with all those yucky, wonderful things.

Opening with Dialog

Last night I sent off a draft of "Ten Days" to the MFA workshop group. Doing so had my stomach in knots. I keep wondering was this the right choice of story? And then I think of course it was, you fool, it was the only one you could finish in time! Still I hesitated. Did another read through. Found stupid, careless mistakes (the repeated line from merging two paragraphs together that I forgot to edit out). Reread the ending again. Took out a line. Added in two more. Removed one of the new ones, brought it back. Toyed with the strange verb tense of those new lines. Does that work? Made it one paragraph. Broke it back into two. Broke off the last line trying to see if the if its place really was with the last paragraph or if it could stand by itself.

About the time I "reattached" the last sentence for the third time I figured I was beyond the point where tinkering was actually going to help the story and just hit send.

Nothin' I can do 'bout it now.

What a great relief. For the moment. I'm sure I'll freak out about it in a week's time when I'm actually being workshopped.

But I am happy to say that the story did not open with dialog.

On that note, I'd like to revived the previous blog category: Notes on Craft

Recently, Nathan Bransford did a couple of posts over on his blog about opening with dialog. First he did a poll of readers "How do we feel about novels that begin with dialogue?" The results pulled in at about 77% "depends" -- possibly because the other options were "love" and "loathe." Then he put in his two cents. Basically that requested partials that started with dialog were the easiest to quickly give a thumbs up/down to. But he didn't address the reason why that was actually so easy to do -- he only attributed it to the fact that a bad writer cannot hide behind opening dialog because the dialog will fall flat as it's the hardest thing to write.

Why really is it so easy to pass on novels that start with dialog? Because it disorients the reader.

When a reader starts reading a story that reader has no idea what he is getting into. It's like walking into a dark room where tiny spotlights are slowly coming on all around him. The spotlights come on at the same pace in most stories (at the speed the reader reads) but what they illuminate is always different. The writer that can quickly shine light on things that tell the reader where the hell he is will have a more comfortable reader, and comfortable readers want to stay put and explore more. Uncomfortable readers want to get the hell out of the room.

Dialog rarely explains place, setting, time of day, time of year, indoors, outdoors, cafe, bedroom, man, woman, teenager, cowboy, republican senator ... yes some of those things can be hinted at in dialog but hints aren't spotlights, they're more like lesser shadows.

Worse than those hints is the fact that a story that opens with dialog gives the reader nothing concrete until it gets to the "tag" the he said she said at the end of the line. Before that point we don't know who's speaking. It's a disembodied voice sounding from the heavens.

Which is why we can spot "bad" opening dialog so quickly. Because almost all of it is bad.

The writing has to be friggin brilliant to do it and do it well, and the content has to trigger such a response in the reader that the reader is okay with the disorienting voice from the heavens. To established that kind of trust that quickly -- to achieve a "good" dialog opening -- is statistically ... statistically it's not worth trying. And in the meantime it's mean to toy with your reader that way.

New Fiction! Limited Time Only

This is the link to my story for workshop. Tentatively named "Ten Days." It will remain up until Monday noon. --elJohno, be happy: it's not a rewrite of "Cake!"

It has to be the most controlled story I've ever completed. Normally I ramble endlessly getting into character's psychoses and making little jokes ... kinda like this blog. Lately though, I've been much more restrained with my characters than with my blog.

I'd like to suggest that any errors people catch or general comments be left here.

Thanks for reading!

Ad of the Week

This ad isn't ad of the week because I think it's a great commercial (in fact I find the use of the little girl and the alphabet blocks incredibly cheesy and out of place with the tone of the ad), it is ad of the week because ABC refuses to air it.

I've seen it run on TV stations and was shocked to hear that a station was refusing to be paid to run this ad. It follows the FCC's rules and George Carlin's words you can't say on TV, nor is it lewd. Can you dispute it based on science? Maybe, I don't know I'm not a scientist -- but then again I dispute the science claimed in diet pill commercials so I don't really see the issue.

So I'm still confused. Unless it's "sponsor politics" but ... come on guys, do you really believe censoring a particularly bad ad is going to give you an edge?

Perhaps ...

Perhaps I need to get my cat another cat.

You know, teach the first one to be more cat-like.

Hmmm ...

I'm liking the "take care of something" aspect, but I'm not certain how I feel on being the sole focus of her world. It's eerie honestly, and completely egotistical of me.

Friday = Forced Time to Write

I detailed how my MFA program affects my life and how much I write just back in this post.

I have one of those artificial MFA provided deadlines coming up. Soon. With no particularly "spare" time to write the story.

So I've developed a computer based cat toy: a four foot length of ribbon hanging off the counter and attached to my hand so that it wiggles as I type. The idea is that I can keep the kitten from freakin out and trying to get up on the counter with me while I write. She is desperately trying to get up here with me but I need some cat-free think time. Time where I'm not typing with one hand because I'm scratching her head or jerking my own head away when she tries to clean my ear. I appreciate the sentiment of communal cleaning, but I'll have to pass on the actual practice. She's too tiny to jump up from the floor and I'm not providing her with anything close enough to the counter to use as steps, which doesn't stop her from staring at me from the back of my little red IKEA chair like she's gonna leap the gap.

And now I'm in the home stretch. Time-wise. I email my first short story out to the class on Monday. A week later they will workshop it.

I need to get this thing finished!

Yes, it has an ending but since I've rewritten the introduction the ending no longer fits well. And it just needed to be a lot longer for this class requirement.

I have two students to meet with about their papers (also due Monday) and while the timing works out beautifully (I won't be grading this weekend) I can't take credit for that coincidence. Other than those two appointments I'm writing. Or I'm supposed to be writing. If I wasn't blogging. Or keeping the kitten from destroying my house.

As required by workshop I need someone to do a "read over" of my story before I email it out. It's supposed to be someone vaguely "knowledgeable about these things" meaning at least you read contemporary literary short fiction for work or pleasure. If you're going to have free time to read a short story on Sunday and send me comments back that very day, leave a comment or drop me an email at eileen/at/eileenwiedbrauk/dot/com and I'll send/post you the link of where I've posted it. Basically it's a read through to find glaring flaws and any other comment you think is useful. Volunteers appreciated.

Meet My Co-blogger

This little girl came home Sunday night. She is as of yet unnamed but she has very much occupied my desk. It's one of the first places she figured out how to get on to likely because of how much time I spend at my desk. She's been trying to figure out how to get onto the kitchen counter but she's been unsuccessful because she's too damn tiny.

But she's sneezy, congested, and now her eye is doing weird things. Sigh. I don't want to go to the vet.

PS My cat drinks coffee. I think this was meant to be.

What an MFA Program Does to Your Writing Life

How long has it been since I posted about writing? And did so without posting about teaching? Without posting about workshop? Without posting wacky stories that demonstrate the blog as a storytelling form without actually commenting on the form? Probably a month: yikes!

I've been woefully off topic.

And yet I've been on topic at least for part of it, as I promised to blog about the MFA portion of my life as well. Which leads me to today's post: what an MFA program does to your writing life.

As I was leaving workshop yesterday the two people behind me were having a conversation essentially about course schedules and the amount of time they spend on writing. One is in her second year of the MFA and the other is in his third and final year. The woman in her second year was discussing the fact that she was taking nine hours this semester instead of the usual six to help stay on track for graduation. Such a course load is doable but rather insane if you're also teaching one or two sections of freshmen composition.

Then the guy said something that felt completely true to me:

Everyone says an MFA is 'time to write' but it sure doesn't feel like I have time.

Bingo.

If I had to break down the hours of my week the amount of time I spend on things would go like this:

• Sleeping: about 56 hrs.
• Cooking, cleaning, shopping, showering, etc.: 28+ hrs.
• Time spent on internet blogs/forums/news: 16+ hrs.
• Prepping for the one class I teach: 12+ hrs.
• Reading for my Teaching Methods class: 7+ hrs.
• Teaching: 4 hrs.
• Writing (fiction in general): 3.5 (+/-) hrs.
• Sitting in Methods class: 3 hrs.
• Sitting in workshop: 2.5 hrs.
• Reading/commenting for workshop: 1.5 hrs.
• Writing that will actually contribute to my workshopped story: 1 hr.

Crazy.

It's a lot less like an MFA is time to write and a lot more like an MFA provides deadlines for your writing that you must make time to meet, if you ask me.

There are people who harp on MFA programs with the argument that you'd be more successful spending that money, not on a degree, but on renting a cabin in the woods for two years where you could write in solitude.

There are essentially three flaws in that argument. The first is simply the fact that if you want to teach then two years in the cabin doesn't do you any good so you need to get the degree and learn to teach.

The second flaw is that not everyone can learn by looking at others' books and then trying to write their own. Some people need to learn from others through discussion, and discussion requires individuals to talk to, mentors and teachers.

The third flaw is the implication that an MFA is lots and lots of free time. It's not. Because you're doing all that learning stuff at the same time as the writing stuff.

Now, don't get me wrong; this is where I want to be and what I want to do. I love teaching in the college classroom and I know I have to get another degree to continue to do that so I don't begrudge the time and effort this stuff takes -- but the writing life of an MFA candidate is really no different from the writing life of anyone working 40 hours a week; you're doing a full time job just keeping up with life and classes, and then you have to figure out how to squeeze in time for writing.

But the really great news is that in an MFA program, your full time job pertains to English and writing 80% of the time. It's not busywork, it's not laying brick, processing payrolls, adjusting claims or serving coffee. It's all about writing.

[That said, I think I may need to get a second job serving coffee to pay my bills. Sigh. So much for ending on a hopeful note.]

Do You Really Sell Ice Cream?

Back when I was settling in to my apartment and my grad school schedule I posted about the ice cream truck and it's fricking annoying 60+ minute circling of my neighborhood while playing a continuous loop of "pop goes the weasle." Oh, and it looked like the mystery machine from Scooby Doo.

Well, it's October and the stupid thing still hasn't gone away despite the temperature not breaking 65 F for the past couple of weeks. Except now it plays "Do Your Ears Hang Low." Not an improvement.

I was still wondering at how much business an icecream truck could do in a neighborhood of college kids. Maybe we're big on nostolgia. Maybe we're big impulse buyers. Then my cousin told me "It's drugs."

What?

Apparently she's well aware of ice cream trucks as drug dealers toodling through America's neighborhoods.

Seriously?

She admits that it might be an urban myth as she's never bought drugs from an ice cream man, but given my white suburban-ish pot smoking neighbors I'm thinking it might just be.

That just doesn't seem very Good Humor to me.


But then I googled "good humor man" under images to get the above and what did I find? An image of "today's ice cream truck" -- just like the Mystery Machine that haunts my neighborhood. And -- lo and behold! -- in that picture the van is being pulled over by the cops.

Well, shit. Maybe my cousin isn't paranoid.

Ad of the Week

I'm in the Brochure!

The Kenyon Review has updated their Writer's Workshop website to include 2009 details -- and I'm in the brochure!

There I am, out of focus, but fully engaged in workshopping -- see how that pen is poised?

In other news, Chicago's Transit Authority is exercising its merchandising muscle. Personalize coffee mugs or t-shirts with the signage from your favorite L stop, get a retro messenger bag (which actually look pretty cool), or -- my favorite -- decorate your bathroom with a full color shower curtain.
Honest to god, it's the largest map of the L system I have ever seen printed.

So how long before the Kenyon Review starts merchandising and I see that great picture of me in workshop blown up to the size of a shower curtain?

Publishing Platform

Last week Moonrat (an editorial assistant at a publishing house) had a wonderful post on what the hell a publishing platform is and how to go about getting one even if you don't think you know anyone.

I recommend it the article and don't really have anything to add as I'm focusing most of my energy on writing not publishing right now.

Speaking of which ... if anyone has a really fabulous way to teach college students about incorporating citations in research writing let me know, because I really don't remember how I learned to do that myself. I think it was just a really gradual hit or miss process for me ... which doesn't translate well into a lecture.

Crazy Neighbors: Part III

This incident happened over labor day weekend and given how frequently I repeated it to people I thought that I had blogged it before this.

I was blissfully asleep. The party must have been hosted at some other apartment so the neighbors that I share a bedroom wall with hadn't been blasting music that night. (Side note: last night the music was so loud that I could actually identify lyrics from that Carrie Underwood song about cheating.)

About 2:40 am: I am suddenly awakened. My window is open and two stories below there's a group of guys talking on the sidewalk. I realize what's happened and I stop paying attention and try to tune out their drunk heckling and go back to sleep.

Sleep, so close, so close.

Then somewhere an alarm starts going off. Idiots leaned against the wrong car or something.

The drunk heckling takes on a slightly different tone, one akin to oh, you're in deep shit now/that was so cool man. The guys leave and the voices stop.

The alarm is still going off fifteen minutes later. I'm beginning to think this isn't a car alarm.

Then two more voices outside my window.

Guy: So you’re just going to some strange guy’s house to have sex with him?
Girl: Well tomorrow’s Labor Day so it’s not like I have anything to do.
Guy: You’re so cool, you know that. You’re so cool.

Seriously?

I get out of bed and go into the living room. I am finally suspicious that this alarm might be coming from within my building. Sure enough, blinking through the peep hole of my front door is a strobe light.

I open the door and am practically deafened by the siren (how did I mistake this for a car alarm from my bedroom?) but over that there's a guy going down the stairwell is yelling to someone below "It wasn't pulled up here."

Okay well that answers that. Drunken idiots pulled the alarm. This was back when the "finishing touches" were still being put on my building by the construction crew. One of these final touches was the plate in the door frame that allows the door to stay closed and locked. So at this point, the door was wide open both day and night. Drunkies had reached just inside the door and pulled the alarm immediately to the left then laughed and ran away.

So, we're at the 25 minute mark when I hear pounding in the hallway. Hopeful that someone is fixing the situation! I peek out.

It's my neighbor -- whom I will now and forever refer to as Smoky because of his charming 5am introduction -- standing in the hallway, again wearing only gym shorts, with a hammer raised over his head. He is in the process of beating the crap out of the siren/strobe light warning unit on our landing.

Seriously?

We have a brief "wtf?" conversation over the noise and then I go back inside and look for an after hours emergency number, which I did not find. Meanwhile I'm watching outside and I see our friendly neighborhood rent-a-cop is leaning on a car on the other side of the street watching our stairwell.

Well if rent-a-cop already knows this is going on then I'm assuming there isn't anyone I can all that hasn't been anyway.

Then at about 3:15 am a little Toyota pulls up, parks in the middle of the street, talks to rent-a-cop and then goes into my building. About ten minutes later the siren, blissfully, stops.

Sleep!

So the next morning I open my door and there on the landing and all the way down the stairwell are the pieces of the siren/strobe light device that had been on the wall the night before.

I thought Smoky had given up on the hammer actually working. Nope. Looks like he really did beat the shit out of it. Casing, plastic mount, and computer circuits all just lying around not attached to one another or the wall.

So I gather up all the pieces in a grocery bag and turned it in to the office the next day. That shit looks expensive and I'm not paying for Smoky's anger management issues.

Mine?

Being a fool, I went to another special "cat adoption day" set up by the same animal rescue group.

I went down the line of cages petting and picking up. Then I got to this girl. I picked her up and the first thing she did was lick my nose.
She's 4 mo old and they tell me her coat is called diluted tortoiseshell. I can bring her home in 2-4 weeks after she's healed from getting fixed and gotten the last of her shots.

We opened her cage and she removed herself from the bath her brother was giving her and walked right up to me. She'd been hanging out in the background the whole time a family had been petting/adopting her brother -- apparently she was waiting for me. Her brother, btw, couldn't have cared less that I even existed, and while he was cute, he was obviously saving all his love for the family of four that put a deposit on him.

She's got a rumbly little motor and is perfectly content to be held. She wasn't nervous even with all the pet store activity going on. She purred in my arms for a long time until I put her back. Then she crawled out into my arms again. Okay, more petting. I put her back again and was thinking about leaving and/or filling out paper work on her when she physically leaped from her cage into my arms to perch on my shoulder.

The four animal rescue volunteers behind me all cooed. Obviously, they figured this girl was going home with a cat.

Ad of the Week

I'm a sucker for a good penguin.

Decisions, Decisions

Short stories for workshop: Rewriting "Cake" is starting to sound better and better. The "Body Museum" story will be interesting, but the amount of work I have to do on it puts it's completion date far off in the future.

MFA/PhD in creative writing: Right now, I am of the mind that at the end of my MFA I will apply to PhD programs. Yes, both degrees are terminal. But the notion that degrees in writing/English are "time to write" becomes my situation. It also appeals given the current financial crisis. During this time of economic instability, I choose to invest in something I believe is completely stable: my own education. So if in two years we aren't back into a the bonny bull market of the 90s, I'm going for a PhD.

I'm okay with doing lit work so long as I get to choose my areas of focus. I don't want a PhD in lit unless it's either a with a dissertation in modern short fiction or it's in myth making in modern society.

It makes sense in the long term job market. I've had people from large English departments tell me that they won't be hiring MFAs in 15 years because there will be enough PhDs in writing by then. I've also made note of the fact that it's more time to write, more time to publish (literary and scholarly writing), more time to make connections, more time to outrun the job market ... and besides, I like the sound of Dr. Wiedbrauk.

Analysis of the Vice Presidential Debate as a writer and teacher of English/writing :

I tuned into the Vice Presidential Debate on Thursday night in hopes of viewing a train wreck. I even made popcorn.

One of the more interesting parts was when Palin gave in to Biden's references to Bush administration failures (re: foreign policy) and actually addressed the situation. Brilliant move on someone's part to come up with the attack line that "for a ticket that claims to be about change you're sure doing a lot of finger pointing back to the past." Great line. Good attack. However, if you have half a brain you remember hearing that those who don't learn from the past are doomed to repeat it, but then again not all votes stop to remember that half of their brains.

How long has Palin been a governor? Two years according to Wikipedia. Every time she starts in about when I was governor I did this I'm put in mind of the student in my program who is straight out of undergrad and can't do anything but refer to the extremely limited world view gained during those four years of undergrad at one little school. I'm so sick of hearing that student's take on "in my experience" because that experience is sooooo limited. Yes, I understand that its the student's only frame of reference, but is that student sharing really helping the rest of us? Is two years running Alaska really going to help Kansas?

When did I scream at the TV? When Palin said regarding Biden's wife being a teacher for the past 30 years: God bless her, her reward is in heaven.

Oh. My. Shit. So teachers aren't gonna get any rewards in life? Or at least nont get any under your proposed administration?

Best line: Senator Joe Biden, "...and, selfishly, may God defend our troops." Dropped as the last item of a long-ish list of closing pleasantries, Biden chose to break up the usual rhythm of "and my God defend our troops" with the word selfishly. By breaking the rhythm and given that slight pause after seflishly it allowed the listener to stop and think about what made it selfish for Biden to say that. Nice word wordsmithing.

BTW it bothers me when normal people say I-rack instead of pronouncing it eh-roq. It drives me nutty when politicians who are interviewing for foreign policy positions say I-rack. Goodgod! List to the educated newscasters for 30 minutes! Listen to your speech coach (I know you have one)!

The good news is that WMU's campus has been doing a crazy-wonderful push to register students as local voters. Most of our undergrads are in-state students and most of the paperwork frenzy has been to get them to vote in the local polls. As an instructor I was emailed that I could have nonpartisan volunteers come and register my class and when they arrived they registered probably 15 of my 21 students to vote locally (in the student union right on campus). I was thrilled to facilitate such a thing.

Something We Can All Agree On

(This blog entry dedicated to fellow blogger Paralith)

I saw this yesterday afixed to the back of a minicooper.


No matter what your religious denomination or your take on evolution, I believe we can all agree that fish n chips is pretty damn good.
Now where can I get a nice beer battered piece of cod ...