Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Fiction Review
The novel I read this week was assigned for class (again). I'm getting kind of sick of not picking out my own novels to read. This one was called Beast by Donna Jo Napoli -- also the writer of The Magic Circle. This too was marketed as a children's book, or young adult I suppose. I feel the need to state that I am not a fan of novels in the present tense. Think of all the bitching people do about how stale fiction in the second person gets and substitute "present tense" for "second person" and you'll have my opinion: it gets trying. And stale. Our anthropological inclination is to be storytellers and to tell stories of things that have already happened -- note the verb tense, or, more precisely, not the meaning. Narrating novels in a present tense, "as they happen" manner appears to be a throroughly modern trend that goes against my DNA.
Beast, as you may have guessed, is a retelling of Beauty and the Beast. In this case the young prince is Persian and eventually makes his way to southern France in the form of a lion because he has heard that French women love roses. He too loves roses and believes that the rose will be the only way to sway a woman to love him in the form of a flesh eating lion.
I was not thrilled. But, if I was eleven I probably would have eaten it up.
On the short story front, a student of mine recommened (and then loaned me a copy of) Tom Perrotta's collection of short stories Bad Haircut: Stories of the Seventies. I started reading one but will hopefully get more time to settle down and read through it tonight. I can't recall if the student recommended it based on the prompts we were doing in class or the few pages I had them read from Stephen King's memoir/instruction book On Writing. Either way the stories seem very much the King style of in your face, moving on through the action, boy-story that King writes to tell about his youth.
My blog readers also recommend their fave short stories/novellas last week.
As always, comments and further suggestions are more than welcome.
Beast, as you may have guessed, is a retelling of Beauty and the Beast. In this case the young prince is Persian and eventually makes his way to southern France in the form of a lion because he has heard that French women love roses. He too loves roses and believes that the rose will be the only way to sway a woman to love him in the form of a flesh eating lion.
I was not thrilled. But, if I was eleven I probably would have eaten it up.
On the short story front, a student of mine recommened (and then loaned me a copy of) Tom Perrotta's collection of short stories Bad Haircut: Stories of the Seventies. I started reading one but will hopefully get more time to settle down and read through it tonight. I can't recall if the student recommended it based on the prompts we were doing in class or the few pages I had them read from Stephen King's memoir/instruction book On Writing. Either way the stories seem very much the King style of in your face, moving on through the action, boy-story that King writes to tell about his youth.
My blog readers also recommend their fave short stories/novellas last week.
- Jud suggested "The Moon is Down" by John Steinbeck, as well as "I Am Legend" by Richard Matheson. (I can honestly say I didn't know the latter was a short story, totally thought it was a novel. Then again I thought the same thing about "Brokeback Mountain" which I've only read the first three pages of despite the fact that it's a short story and the book technically belongs to my high school and I really should return it.)
- Aquarius suggested the last short story she read, which was "Runaway" by Alice Munro. I can't say I've read this one either but anything by Munro is always nice. Or, at least, it is now. When I was a sophomore in college I heartily disagreed but I'm more patient now -- which may be the only thing all that case law reading did for me in law school.
As always, comments and further suggestions are more than welcome.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Bad news. Ash's paw exploded.
The top of it started bleeding just before Midnight Tuesday. I was reading in bed when I realized her cat-cone was covered in red-brown something. She's been trying to lick her hurting paw and succeeded only in smearing blood all over the underside of the cone.
I tried to clean her up with little success. I brought her into my bedroom and kicked the other cat out. I spent the next two hours awake in bed worrying. When she'd licked her stitches open that had been on the underside of her paw and this bleeding was coming from on top. She spent the whole night and the next morning just sitting in the same spot on the floor in a bed I made for her by balling up my fuzzy robe. By dawn the bleeding had stopped and the swelling had gone down. By 2pm when I finished teaching the paw was swollen again.
I called and got an appointment with the vet. The whole time the vet-tech was asking me questions I was certain that I was overreacting. That she'd just managed to dig the rough edge of her cone into her paw and that it would fix itself.
But when the head vet came in she immediately said 'punctured abscess' -- now I didn't know what that meant at the time but it didn't sound good.
Turns out that there were four holes in her paw, the incision from surgery and three more points where it had burst, and the flesh was purple.
Purple!
So they doped my kitty up on pain meds and stronger antibiotics, bandaged her paw and asked to keep her overnight.
The vet seemed hopeful that they could fix her up, but it wasn't until I called my father to update him that I got nervous. He started telling me how an abscess in an area without a lot of soft tissue can really get dangerous quickly because what is essentially a small, hard ball of infection pushes on everything around it, and where there's no soft tissue to push around (like in a foot) it starts getting mean.
Rosie, alone for the first time, is confused. Normally a quiet cat, she meowed all last evening.
While typing this I got the update call from my vet. Things look better with the paw, and Ash is being Ash: purring for the vet and eating chow. But they still want to keep her another 24 hours minimum.
The top of it started bleeding just before Midnight Tuesday. I was reading in bed when I realized her cat-cone was covered in red-brown something. She's been trying to lick her hurting paw and succeeded only in smearing blood all over the underside of the cone.
I tried to clean her up with little success. I brought her into my bedroom and kicked the other cat out. I spent the next two hours awake in bed worrying. When she'd licked her stitches open that had been on the underside of her paw and this bleeding was coming from on top. She spent the whole night and the next morning just sitting in the same spot on the floor in a bed I made for her by balling up my fuzzy robe. By dawn the bleeding had stopped and the swelling had gone down. By 2pm when I finished teaching the paw was swollen again.
I called and got an appointment with the vet. The whole time the vet-tech was asking me questions I was certain that I was overreacting. That she'd just managed to dig the rough edge of her cone into her paw and that it would fix itself.
But when the head vet came in she immediately said 'punctured abscess' -- now I didn't know what that meant at the time but it didn't sound good.
Turns out that there were four holes in her paw, the incision from surgery and three more points where it had burst, and the flesh was purple.
Purple!
So they doped my kitty up on pain meds and stronger antibiotics, bandaged her paw and asked to keep her overnight.
The vet seemed hopeful that they could fix her up, but it wasn't until I called my father to update him that I got nervous. He started telling me how an abscess in an area without a lot of soft tissue can really get dangerous quickly because what is essentially a small, hard ball of infection pushes on everything around it, and where there's no soft tissue to push around (like in a foot) it starts getting mean.
Rosie, alone for the first time, is confused. Normally a quiet cat, she meowed all last evening.
While typing this I got the update call from my vet. Things look better with the paw, and Ash is being Ash: purring for the vet and eating chow. But they still want to keep her another 24 hours minimum.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Call for Plays
As forwarded to me...
The University Wits' Wits End New Play Festival is an excellent opportunities for aspiring and casual playwrights to circulate their work and earn recognition. The March 1st submission deadline is quickly approaching, and we encourage playwrights to act quickly.
All students enrolled full-time in an accredited graduate program are eligible to submit their new plays. We encourage you to share this call for plays with other graduate programs at your institution and with friends and colleagues at other institutions.Thank you for your time and consideration,
Brett T. Gann, Jr.
Artistic Director of The University Wits
Mary Baldwin College & American Shakespeare Center
Master of Letters / Master of Fine Arts Program in Shakespeare
and Renaissance Literature in Performance
I'm not playwright so I certainly won't be your competition ;)
Monday, January 26, 2009
Slow Process
The cat-in-cone saga continues. She's starting to adapt to it better, but occasionally she'll be sitting up and then start tipping her head back until she completely unbalances herself and tips over. Backwards.Happy Chinese New Year. Aquarius covers the details on that one much better than I could, but as I understand if this is your "year" you're supposed to experience great personal growth in the next 12 months. I had to think back to when my year was -- I always thought I was a rat, turns out I was born the week before the year of the rat though so that puts me in the year of the ... boar (I've been corrected) -- and in the year of the boarI quit a job, went to my first writing camp, moved to Chicago, started law school, quit law school, and applied (like a crazy woman) to MFA programs. I'm thinking that it was a growing year.
Speaking of which, I need to do some growing. ASAP.
The great bundle of enlightenment bestowed on me at my last Workshop has turned from impetus to terror. I know what's wrong with my writing but the enormity of fixing it -- essentially re-learning or re-thinking how I think -- leaves me wide eyed and trembling.
Bummer.
All I can do is think on it and be hopeful. Work on it and listen to feedback. Which makes it an enormous and slow process.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Fiction Review
Updates on the novel-a-week new years resolution
Because I should have asked before! -- as Mella pointed out -- I want to hear any and everyone's recommendations for short stories. Either collections by one author or a single short story that you liked.
I recently found a short story called "Cake" by Patrick Tobin collected in The Best American Non-Required Reading 2008 that I was absolutely in love with. "Cake" originally appeared in The Kenyon Review, and it's just got such a great pace to it that you don't realize how long it is until it's over. Actually, I didn't realize how long it was until I went to make a copy for my fiction workshop presentation -- until I had the copier counting pages for me I thought it was five, maybe six pages. Turns out it's closer to ten. That sort of trick is fabulous.
The novel I completed this week was Deerskin, by Robin McKinney. It was chosen by my folklore and fairy tale professor not myself. I remember seeing it on bookshelves marketed currently as adult fantasy although it was published about fifteen years ago.
McKinney says she's based her novel off of the fairy tale "Donkey Skin" as told by [[that french dude]] although I've read similar versions collected by the Grimms. And, once upon a time, I had a children's picture book called Princess Furball which was much the same tale. Except in this novel she doesn't take the Princess Furball approach and instead deals with the mental/phsyical/sexual abuse of the princess that's in the fairy tale -- some literally present and some implied.
While I do enjoy fantasy writing, this isn't a novel I would have chosen for myself. The fairy tale aspect of heavy narration is present. I'm fine with that for a 1000 word tale but a 300 page novel starts to drag when the same technique is used. Then again, when the main character is living alone in the woods for a third of the novel there's not much to be done for it. If you are a fan of dogs or nature and greatly enjoy their roles in fiction then go for it. Other than that, I don't think I'd recommend this novel to anyone else.
Because I should have asked before! -- as Mella pointed out -- I want to hear any and everyone's recommendations for short stories. Either collections by one author or a single short story that you liked.
I recently found a short story called "Cake" by Patrick Tobin collected in The Best American Non-Required Reading 2008 that I was absolutely in love with. "Cake" originally appeared in The Kenyon Review, and it's just got such a great pace to it that you don't realize how long it is until it's over. Actually, I didn't realize how long it was until I went to make a copy for my fiction workshop presentation -- until I had the copier counting pages for me I thought it was five, maybe six pages. Turns out it's closer to ten. That sort of trick is fabulous.
The novel I completed this week was Deerskin, by Robin McKinney. It was chosen by my folklore and fairy tale professor not myself. I remember seeing it on bookshelves marketed currently as adult fantasy although it was published about fifteen years ago.
McKinney says she's based her novel off of the fairy tale "Donkey Skin" as told by [[that french dude]] although I've read similar versions collected by the Grimms. And, once upon a time, I had a children's picture book called Princess Furball which was much the same tale. Except in this novel she doesn't take the Princess Furball approach and instead deals with the mental/phsyical/sexual abuse of the princess that's in the fairy tale -- some literally present and some implied.
While I do enjoy fantasy writing, this isn't a novel I would have chosen for myself. The fairy tale aspect of heavy narration is present. I'm fine with that for a 1000 word tale but a 300 page novel starts to drag when the same technique is used. Then again, when the main character is living alone in the woods for a third of the novel there's not much to be done for it. If you are a fan of dogs or nature and greatly enjoy their roles in fiction then go for it. Other than that, I don't think I'd recommend this novel to anyone else.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Not All is Well in the Land of the Cat
I have a cone-kitty.
Ash and Rosie appeared to be doing fine after they come home from surgery on Tuesday. They came home with pain meds that I squirt into their mouths and thankfully both cats don't try to gack it back up. Rosie sleeps more and doesn't play as much, but still plays. Ash ... Ash was immediately back to normal. Pouncing around, chasing things, chasing after me and cleaning stuff like mad.
Ash loves to clean people who are petting her. She loves to clean Rosie. She cleaned a stuffed penguin in my house before I got Rosie although Ash might still clean the penguin when I'm not looking.
She has now cleaned her incision site open. Oops. On Tuesday night it looked pink and raw. On Wednesday morning one of the incision areas had a yellowish covering too it, but it looked dried not oozing so I was hopeful when I left for work. Returning from work Wednesday afternoon three or four sites were oozing the same lovely yellow goo. Yuck. Poor kitty.
The vet's office called to check up on her, heard the situation and asked me to bring her back in. In we went and they stitched her back up (glued her back up, technically), gave me antibiotics and another bill. Oh, and the e-collar.
The cat funnel, or e-collar, has to stay on her for ten whole days! Ten days of a sad, disoriented kitten bumping into things and scraping her cone on walls and floors because she can't figure out how big it is. I've also had to redo her food and water dish so that she can get her head in it. The kibble is now in a porcelain tart pan because it has a lip to keep the kibble in, but the lip doesn't bump the funnel and prevent her from getting to the food. Poor, sad, hilarious cone-cat.
Workshop was last night. I. Went. Down. Hard.
The characters are flat, the narrator is underdeveloped, all the characters are underdeveloped, the slangy-patois style of narration is intriguing but way too overdone. It needs commas badly ... and that was the first five minutes.
How can one professor say all that and still make me feel hopeful and enlightened? I have no frickin idea how she did it but she did. She completely ripped the story a new one and yet I still feel all sorts of rosy about the prospect of rewriting it. Perhaps because she ripped the story not me. No ... come to think of it ... she ripped into me, my style, my choices, what I had done, not the story. And still it was the most pleasant beating I've ever taken.
It was great.
It was extremely enlightening as to what I was doing wrong that I hadn't been able to pin down. The professor is very different from the one I had last fall; she's much more hands on and prescriptive. She finds your problems and tackles them to the ground. And, oh baby, do I have problems. But I knew this. Among other things, I'm terribly excited that she's told me -- in front of the entire workshop -- that I am in desperate need of commas. Yes. I knew this; I just had no idea where to put the comma. I can punctuate formal writing well enough, but it's when I'm attempting to get a "flow" in a more casual, (hopefully) artistic piece that I lose all sense of right and wrong usage.
I wasn't terribly thrilled at students who decided to beat into the ground a fault already discovered, diagnosed and prescribed treatment. Not really a fan of that.
But the thing I was nervous about -- the inclusion of the real life violinist -- was completely cool with everyone. Apparently it's very "chic" now although it's not something anyone would have ever thought to do thirty years ago, or so my professor tells me.
Ash and Rosie appeared to be doing fine after they come home from surgery on Tuesday. They came home with pain meds that I squirt into their mouths and thankfully both cats don't try to gack it back up. Rosie sleeps more and doesn't play as much, but still plays. Ash ... Ash was immediately back to normal. Pouncing around, chasing things, chasing after me and cleaning stuff like mad.
Ash loves to clean people who are petting her. She loves to clean Rosie. She cleaned a stuffed penguin in my house before I got Rosie although Ash might still clean the penguin when I'm not looking.
She has now cleaned her incision site open. Oops. On Tuesday night it looked pink and raw. On Wednesday morning one of the incision areas had a yellowish covering too it, but it looked dried not oozing so I was hopeful when I left for work. Returning from work Wednesday afternoon three or four sites were oozing the same lovely yellow goo. Yuck. Poor kitty.
The vet's office called to check up on her, heard the situation and asked me to bring her back in. In we went and they stitched her back up (glued her back up, technically), gave me antibiotics and another bill. Oh, and the e-collar.
The cat funnel, or e-collar, has to stay on her for ten whole days! Ten days of a sad, disoriented kitten bumping into things and scraping her cone on walls and floors because she can't figure out how big it is. I've also had to redo her food and water dish so that she can get her head in it. The kibble is now in a porcelain tart pan because it has a lip to keep the kibble in, but the lip doesn't bump the funnel and prevent her from getting to the food. Poor, sad, hilarious cone-cat.
Workshop was last night. I. Went. Down. Hard.
The characters are flat, the narrator is underdeveloped, all the characters are underdeveloped, the slangy-patois style of narration is intriguing but way too overdone. It needs commas badly ... and that was the first five minutes.
How can one professor say all that and still make me feel hopeful and enlightened? I have no frickin idea how she did it but she did. She completely ripped the story a new one and yet I still feel all sorts of rosy about the prospect of rewriting it. Perhaps because she ripped the story not me. No ... come to think of it ... she ripped into me, my style, my choices, what I had done, not the story. And still it was the most pleasant beating I've ever taken.
It was great.
It was extremely enlightening as to what I was doing wrong that I hadn't been able to pin down. The professor is very different from the one I had last fall; she's much more hands on and prescriptive. She finds your problems and tackles them to the ground. And, oh baby, do I have problems. But I knew this. Among other things, I'm terribly excited that she's told me -- in front of the entire workshop -- that I am in desperate need of commas. Yes. I knew this; I just had no idea where to put the comma. I can punctuate formal writing well enough, but it's when I'm attempting to get a "flow" in a more casual, (hopefully) artistic piece that I lose all sense of right and wrong usage.
I wasn't terribly thrilled at students who decided to beat into the ground a fault already discovered, diagnosed and prescribed treatment. Not really a fan of that.
But the thing I was nervous about -- the inclusion of the real life violinist -- was completely cool with everyone. Apparently it's very "chic" now although it's not something anyone would have ever thought to do thirty years ago, or so my professor tells me.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Real People, Fictional Writing
notes (questions) on craft
I've been considering something lately and I'm curious for every one's thoughts. How would you address adding real people into fictional stories?
Maybe this is timely given the inauguration. Say you want to put, oh maybe, Barack Obama in your fictional story. How do you do it? But how much of a real person can you incorporate into fiction without harm or offense (assuming your intent is not to harm or offend)? Where on the character spectrum can a real, well known person fall? More integral than a reference, name dropping, vague appreciation that he is out there in the world somewhere, and yet less important (less manipulated) than any of your main characters.
Wait ... let me back up.
Context: I have written a short story that goes up for workshop tonight that features a certain real life violinist. The facts pertaining to the violinist's actions are all true, if interpreted through the lens of a less than enthusiastic narrator. The violinist appears, physically, in the story, but doesn't have any sort of a character role.
Is this heinously wrong of me to do?
My intent was to have the violinist frames the story (both in sense of time frame and inducing the protagonist's state of mind), as well as acting as a foil for another, more directly involved character. And as a tool, I think the violinist's presence in the story functions really well. Take him out and the story falls apart.
But, should I have even gone there? Does it matter that I've created all these technical story-telling justifications for using him?
So, other than reading the 5,000 word draft of the story I'm referring to in order to understand my babbling, I'll create a short example: Say you wanted to write an inauguration day story. Say you wanted to put it from the point of view of someone managing one of the events, the oath swearing, or one of the balls or the parade or something. One of the women with clipboards and headsets who tells the elected people and their escorts where to go once they get in the building, who gets to hear their conversations or something like that. Would you do it? Would you write the story about the people organizing the event and their lives and use the arrival/departure of the Obamas as the tipping point? Is that too real? Or is it just detached enough that it could work?
I'd love to hear what you think. How would you deal with this? Would you not even think of writing a story that does more than refer abstractly to "real" people? Would you attempt this if you had your facts straight? Would you read such a thing if you knew it was fiction? Goodness, is no editor going to touch this Frankenstein-baby I've created?
I'm certain the point will be addressed tonight in workshop -- I'm kind of dreading it, actually -- but I need to have the point addressed because all this has been running through my head for the past year and a half as I've slowly been working on this story.
I've been considering something lately and I'm curious for every one's thoughts. How would you address adding real people into fictional stories?
Maybe this is timely given the inauguration. Say you want to put, oh maybe, Barack Obama in your fictional story. How do you do it? But how much of a real person can you incorporate into fiction without harm or offense (assuming your intent is not to harm or offend)? Where on the character spectrum can a real, well known person fall? More integral than a reference, name dropping, vague appreciation that he is out there in the world somewhere, and yet less important (less manipulated) than any of your main characters.
Wait ... let me back up.
Context: I have written a short story that goes up for workshop tonight that features a certain real life violinist. The facts pertaining to the violinist's actions are all true, if interpreted through the lens of a less than enthusiastic narrator. The violinist appears, physically, in the story, but doesn't have any sort of a character role.
Is this heinously wrong of me to do?
My intent was to have the violinist frames the story (both in sense of time frame and inducing the protagonist's state of mind), as well as acting as a foil for another, more directly involved character. And as a tool, I think the violinist's presence in the story functions really well. Take him out and the story falls apart.
But, should I have even gone there? Does it matter that I've created all these technical story-telling justifications for using him?
So, other than reading the 5,000 word draft of the story I'm referring to in order to understand my babbling, I'll create a short example: Say you wanted to write an inauguration day story. Say you wanted to put it from the point of view of someone managing one of the events, the oath swearing, or one of the balls or the parade or something. One of the women with clipboards and headsets who tells the elected people and their escorts where to go once they get in the building, who gets to hear their conversations or something like that. Would you do it? Would you write the story about the people organizing the event and their lives and use the arrival/departure of the Obamas as the tipping point? Is that too real? Or is it just detached enough that it could work?
I'd love to hear what you think. How would you deal with this? Would you not even think of writing a story that does more than refer abstractly to "real" people? Would you attempt this if you had your facts straight? Would you read such a thing if you knew it was fiction? Goodness, is no editor going to touch this Frankenstein-baby I've created?
I'm certain the point will be addressed tonight in workshop -- I'm kind of dreading it, actually -- but I need to have the point addressed because all this has been running through my head for the past year and a half as I've slowly been working on this story.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Life
Yesterday, I turned in my first story for workshop. Among the many items of good news arriving with this semester's workshop is that we turn in stories on Sunday then discuss them just three days later in workshop. Last semester we turned in stories then discussed them eight days later. The extra procrastination time is really appreciated. Particularly as I didn't actually mail it out to my class until 2:40 am.
This may sound so intuitive that it's not worth typing here: but I am resolved to turn in only stories I like. Stories that I have fun with. Stories that feel good to me at the end.
So much of last semester was focused on stories that didn't involve a change and I think it got to me. If nothing changes then the huh, cool emotion you get at the end has to be HUGE otherwise it's just mind numbing. So I'm writing stories where stuff happens. Where people change because of things that have happened in the story. Basically, the stuff I aspired to write when I started out writing stories. Stories with plot.
Oh, plot, you dirty little four letter word.
I don't believe in writing stories that start from plot, but from characters. This means that I'm creating characters that act on each other to make things happen in the story. Characters making plot. Opposed to starting off with actions that I inflict on my characters from things seemingly outside their control. Plot shaping characters. However, I don't think that from characters means that there shouldn't be a recognizable plot by the time the reader finishes reading.
When someone who's read my story gets asked "So what happened in the story?" I don't want them to say, "I really don't know. Just two guys in a shop, really."
Read my workshop draft -- which is is not two guys in a shop -- here.
I learned a valuable life lesson this weekend: don’t pan fry a cucumber.
I was making pasta salad and had chopped up a red pepper, orange pepper, a white onion and some cucumber. The pasta salad had to sit up over night so I was also making a shrimp stir fry for immediate consumption. I looked over at the unseasoned, already chopped into nice bite sized pieces of vegetable and thought, great! Two birds one stone! When I looked I saw the peppers and onions but the cucumber slipped my mind ... until I bit into the stir fry. Mmm ... uhoh.
Don’t pan fry a cucumber. Consider it a public service announcement.
Today is Martin Luther King day which means there's no classes at the University. Somehow I don't think a day without school was how Rev. King wanted to be remembered. The administration justifies it that this way anyone who wants can attend the events and commemorative services put on around campus without having to choose between class and event.
Despite the fact that my 8:00am teaching gig is canceled, I'm still up before dawn. Today the kittens go to the vet for declawing. I tried to not go there. But here's the deal: Ash has started scratching the walls. Not just corners -- the most prominent of which are now covered from ground level to hip height with tinfoil -- but all walls not covered by furniture. It's an awful noise, and it's taking the paint off the walls. Paint I don't own. Walls I don't own. Yet paint and walls I will have to pay to fix.
But it was when she took out her first chunk of drywall -- technically a 3" gouge -- that I called the vet for the appointment.
Animal rights activists may call it cruel, but these cats are spoiled. Spoiled from the tips of their whiskers to the fur between their toes. They are indoor only cats whose greatest struggle in life is waking me up at 6:00am to feed them.
The 6:00am feeding is done in a zombie-like state. Saturday morning was particularly comic, or at least I think it would have been if I had been awake enough to witness it. The alarm rang. Ash was already sitting by the pillow, her little internal kitty-clock telling her that it was just about time. Before she could start batting at my shoulder or attempting to clean my hair (which is an awful slurping noise to have anywhere near your ear) I clomped out of bed. My limbs heavy and half numb. Maybe they really were numb. I have a vague recollection of my left arm not responding to anything because it had been slept on. I got into the kitchen without stepping on the cats -- a feat in itself as they like to run in front of me in one directions then tack like a sailing ship the other way. I grabbed the kibble off the top of the fridge. Except I didn't grab the bag, I grabbed the tupperware-wannabe container (oops, forgetting to FIFO in my sleepiness). The container lid pops off and the kibble pours in the vicinity of the bowl. I dump too much in the first bowl and don't bother with the second. A few dozen pieces hit the side of hte bowl and scatter into the living room.
Both cats stare at me. This is not how it's done, they say. Ash recovers first and shoves her nose in the bowl before I've pivoted to head back to bed. Rosie's still watching me. Probably out of fear for her tail getting stepped on.
When I get out of bed for the second time, 10:00am, a much saner time for Saturday morning. All the stray living room kibble is gone and the bowls have been licked clean.
The best part of this early morning feeding is that the cats don't attack me. Ash doesn't wash my hair when she's been fed. She doesn't scratch the walls around my bed to get my attention (despite the fact that attention normally comes as loud claps, hey! or a pillow launched in her vicinity. Instead, when I woke up at 10:00am, Ash perched on my chest to be petted and Rosie curled up under my left arm putting her chin on my shoulder.
It was purring in surround sound.
This may sound so intuitive that it's not worth typing here: but I am resolved to turn in only stories I like. Stories that I have fun with. Stories that feel good to me at the end.
So much of last semester was focused on stories that didn't involve a change and I think it got to me. If nothing changes then the huh, cool emotion you get at the end has to be HUGE otherwise it's just mind numbing. So I'm writing stories where stuff happens. Where people change because of things that have happened in the story. Basically, the stuff I aspired to write when I started out writing stories. Stories with plot.
Oh, plot, you dirty little four letter word.
I don't believe in writing stories that start from plot, but from characters. This means that I'm creating characters that act on each other to make things happen in the story. Characters making plot. Opposed to starting off with actions that I inflict on my characters from things seemingly outside their control. Plot shaping characters. However, I don't think that from characters means that there shouldn't be a recognizable plot by the time the reader finishes reading.
When someone who's read my story gets asked "So what happened in the story?" I don't want them to say, "I really don't know. Just two guys in a shop, really."
Read my workshop draft -- which is is not two guys in a shop -- here.
I learned a valuable life lesson this weekend: don’t pan fry a cucumber.
I was making pasta salad and had chopped up a red pepper, orange pepper, a white onion and some cucumber. The pasta salad had to sit up over night so I was also making a shrimp stir fry for immediate consumption. I looked over at the unseasoned, already chopped into nice bite sized pieces of vegetable and thought, great! Two birds one stone! When I looked I saw the peppers and onions but the cucumber slipped my mind ... until I bit into the stir fry. Mmm ... uhoh.
Don’t pan fry a cucumber. Consider it a public service announcement.
Today is Martin Luther King day which means there's no classes at the University. Somehow I don't think a day without school was how Rev. King wanted to be remembered. The administration justifies it that this way anyone who wants can attend the events and commemorative services put on around campus without having to choose between class and event.
Despite the fact that my 8:00am teaching gig is canceled, I'm still up before dawn. Today the kittens go to the vet for declawing. I tried to not go there. But here's the deal: Ash has started scratching the walls. Not just corners -- the most prominent of which are now covered from ground level to hip height with tinfoil -- but all walls not covered by furniture. It's an awful noise, and it's taking the paint off the walls. Paint I don't own. Walls I don't own. Yet paint and walls I will have to pay to fix.
But it was when she took out her first chunk of drywall -- technically a 3" gouge -- that I called the vet for the appointment.
Animal rights activists may call it cruel, but these cats are spoiled. Spoiled from the tips of their whiskers to the fur between their toes. They are indoor only cats whose greatest struggle in life is waking me up at 6:00am to feed them.
The 6:00am feeding is done in a zombie-like state. Saturday morning was particularly comic, or at least I think it would have been if I had been awake enough to witness it. The alarm rang. Ash was already sitting by the pillow, her little internal kitty-clock telling her that it was just about time. Before she could start batting at my shoulder or attempting to clean my hair (which is an awful slurping noise to have anywhere near your ear) I clomped out of bed. My limbs heavy and half numb. Maybe they really were numb. I have a vague recollection of my left arm not responding to anything because it had been slept on. I got into the kitchen without stepping on the cats -- a feat in itself as they like to run in front of me in one directions then tack like a sailing ship the other way. I grabbed the kibble off the top of the fridge. Except I didn't grab the bag, I grabbed the tupperware-wannabe container (oops, forgetting to FIFO in my sleepiness). The container lid pops off and the kibble pours in the vicinity of the bowl. I dump too much in the first bowl and don't bother with the second. A few dozen pieces hit the side of hte bowl and scatter into the living room.
Both cats stare at me. This is not how it's done, they say. Ash recovers first and shoves her nose in the bowl before I've pivoted to head back to bed. Rosie's still watching me. Probably out of fear for her tail getting stepped on.
When I get out of bed for the second time, 10:00am, a much saner time for Saturday morning. All the stray living room kibble is gone and the bowls have been licked clean.
The best part of this early morning feeding is that the cats don't attack me. Ash doesn't wash my hair when she's been fed. She doesn't scratch the walls around my bed to get my attention (despite the fact that attention normally comes as loud claps, hey! or a pillow launched in her vicinity. Instead, when I woke up at 10:00am, Ash perched on my chest to be petted and Rosie curled up under my left arm putting her chin on my shoulder.
It was purring in surround sound.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Ad of the Week
So this one's in Dutch, but it's pretty easy to get the gist: they're taking a tour of a friend's recently remodeled house.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Reads and Recommendations
My New Year's Resolution (one I think I can actually keep) is to read one book per calendar week. This means at least one novel, memoir, or collection of short stories. I feel that as a graduate student in English I read an embarrassingly small about of contemporary literature. Or classic literature. And that I read too slowly.
Part two of that resolution is to post the titles here no matter how "fluffy" the novel or how atrocious it's genre/pop culture crimes. Because, lordylordy, if someone in graduate English studies doesn't need to read some fluff now and then, I don't know who does.
Week One, (first 3 days of January): Girl Most Likely To ..., Susan Donovan
Week Two, week of Jan. 4: The Sharing Knife: Passage, Louis McMaster Bujold
Week Three, week of Jan. 11: The Magic Circle, Donna Jo Napoli, and The Horizontal World: growing up wild in the middle of nowhere, Debra Marquart
Girl Most Likely To ... is a contemporary romance that isn't solely focused on the romance. Actually, the romance element was the only predictable element of this novel. The family drama, however, twists and turns enough that I was actually surprised -- which isn't something I normally am when reading romance novels.
The Sharing Knife: Passage is book three in the Sharing Knife series. Book one was still the best and book two still my least favorite. This one involves a trip down the river and a series of coincidences that seem to be more than coincidences. The publisher says that Bujold will be wrapping up this series in her forth book which is yet to come out. I fail to see how this fantasy series will find an end there. Bujold has created the kind of characters who don't see endings just more opportunities to change the world -- how could such characters be happy with any ending?
The Magic Circle was assigned for my folklore and fairytale literature class. It's a retelling of Hansel and Getel from the Witch's point of view. As I got further into the story I had to keep reminding myself that it is written for and marketed at children. It. Gets. Dark. In relation to the plot it had to happen; the witch must have a fall from grace that drives her to the eating of children. Besides, isn't the darkest reteting the most faithful rendering of a fair tale? The language is simple and the read is quick but it's an amazingly intriguing 100+ pages. The Christian right has probably banned it (I haven't checked) but that would seem silly as it is an extremely Christian read in its core. If taken literally it's a cautionary tale curb your vanity, not to mess with magic, devils, or witchcraft because the results are not pretty.
The Horizontal World: Growing up wild in the middle of nowhere, well ... I'm almost finished reading this one. It's a series of essays about growing up on a farm in North Dakota collected together into a memoir by WMU's writer in residence this semester. And she's a great woman to hear talk about her work. Actually I'm rather charmed. She does her best to break down the way we romanticise the farm in American culture ... and yet her prose is such that I find myself romanticising it! It's out in paperback and I recommend it if you're interested in memoir.
Other book recommendation news: There's the short story collection book club http://andrewsbookclub.wordpress.com/ that I saw over on Margosita's blog. They are a book club focusing solely on short story collections as book clubs rarely do so -- what a novel idea! [oh dear, was that a pun?] It's billed under the phrase "save the short story!" which seems over dramatic. The short story has been "dying" for the past fifty years -- and anything that's been dying for longer than I've been alive is frankly impressive in its staying power. That aside, it is an intriguing idea because other than college fiction workshops I don't think anyone has ever made me read or even suggested that I read a short story collection by anyone.
So I'd like to suggest to everyone that they read Julie Orringer's short story collection How to Breathe Underwater. This was -- yes -- assigned my senior year of college, but it completely blew me away. She manages to walk the line between utter dispair and a space where we can live with ourselves. I've read stories/novel where the dispair overwhelmed me and I couldn't continue, where, frankly, I would have opted for dental surgery instead of finishing the novel. But Orringer brings you to that edge and holds you there without letting you fall over.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Old Writing Revisited (I mean revised)
For those of you who are interested, I've posted the opening chapter of the TreeSinger on my website. You'll have to use the direct link, as it's not yet connected to anything else -- that fact has more to do with my website editing software than my intentions. The novel is a contemporary setting fantasy novel that I believe will lend itself best to the range of young adult as it is something I'm writing almost in homage to the novels I devoured when I was 11-18 years old.
The other thing that is new on my website is the parsed down audio file from my reading at the Kenyon Review Workshop. The file the Kenyon Review people gave me had the entire night in one block. But with some confidence and the software I already had on my computer (Thank you El Johno for pointing me toward Audacity) I easily parsed it down to just me reading for about three minutes.
I've been given the option of doing a reading this semester and I feel like I should take it. But what to read‽
(JES thanks for the special script to make the ?! one character. )
The other thing that is new on my website is the parsed down audio file from my reading at the Kenyon Review Workshop. The file the Kenyon Review people gave me had the entire night in one block. But with some confidence and the software I already had on my computer (Thank you El Johno for pointing me toward Audacity) I easily parsed it down to just me reading for about three minutes.
I've been given the option of doing a reading this semester and I feel like I should take it. But what to read‽
(JES thanks for the special script to make the ?! one character. )
Monday, January 12, 2009
Core Workout
I bought a DVD that claims to yadda yadda core workout yadda yadda sigh. Instead, I just cleaned 14" of snow off my car. Say hello to the Michigan Core Workout.
Forecasters say 4-8" in the next 24 hours. It's the Mini Michigan Core Workout.
Also, in general, so frustrated with college freshmen. Yes, I'm saying it: I wish my students were more anal retentive. At least that way you'd think they'd be more invested even if it was only for their own narcicisstic preservation of the ideal self.
I'm annoyed to be viewed as a figurehead, as an educational paragon. I'm not some sort of do-gooder out to make you see the error of your ways and turn everyone into well spoken, education loving people. It's just that I have something to say -- I'm being paid to say it -- and the less resistance I get the easier my life is. Period.
I'm grumpy. Maybe I need to do more snow-cardio.
Forecasters say 4-8" in the next 24 hours. It's the Mini Michigan Core Workout.
Also, in general, so frustrated with college freshmen. Yes, I'm saying it: I wish my students were more anal retentive. At least that way you'd think they'd be more invested even if it was only for their own narcicisstic preservation of the ideal self.
I'm annoyed to be viewed as a figurehead, as an educational paragon. I'm not some sort of do-gooder out to make you see the error of your ways and turn everyone into well spoken, education loving people. It's just that I have something to say -- I'm being paid to say it -- and the less resistance I get the easier my life is. Period.
I'm grumpy. Maybe I need to do more snow-cardio.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
MFA Application Cycle
January is the dead month for MFA applications. Most of them are due in December, a few hold deadlines open until January 15 but those are certainly few and far between. My advice to anyone in this year's application cycle: forget that you've even applied until February 20. Most schools don't start making offers until the first week of March, some won't be made until the end of March. I didn't know I was coming to WMU until April.
Be patient. Write something. Buy ten novels and tell yourself you're not allowed to check any stat board until you've finished all ten.
Last year I threw myself into a January version of NaNoWriMo with an abandon. It worked wonders; instead of obsessing over an application process I no longer had control over, I obsessed over a novel that whose creation was entirely up to me and my efforts. [BTW, I printed out that manuscript over break to hopefully start editing work on it. The nice part of not looking at it for 6+ months is that I'm actually surprised by both the plot and my writing, both of which I remember to be a lot worse than they are.]
This year I'm in the MFA. Great. I'm teaching, I'm writing, I'm taking classes -- all of it working toward publication and a teaching job. The fact that winter has dumped 8-10" of snow on me in the past 48 hours isn't bothering me too much -- I've got food in the fridge and I don't have to be anywhere until Monday.
So I called my father to chat, to get updates, to find out what his secret to cooking a tenderloin is (somehow I thought there'd be more than "season it with Mrs. Dash"). I find out that my grandmother is doing well after surgery, that there's no definitive answer about family members who are moving, and he asks if now isn't a good time to start applying for the Ph.D. program.
!!!
My father remains gungho on the idea of me getting a Ph.D. in creative writing. An MFA is terminal, but a Ph.D. is even more terminal -- which doesn't make sense but neither do the degrees. The program here at WMU has both an MFA and a Ph.D. program in creative writing. As I understand it, it is possible to transfer MFA credits over to the Ph.D. program without actually completing the MFA. My father sees this as a brilliant idea: less time spent in school, right? However, now isn't the time for such considerations. I've only spent a semester in the graduate program and have very little writing-wise to show for it. I certainly don't feel like I have a portfolio worthy of a Ph.D. application. And, as I reminded my father, this year's application cycle has passed. This transferring programs conversation is one I'll have with faculty, current students and the graduate advisor in the months to come.
Meanwhile, I give you today's stupid people of the day award! It goes to yet another brilliant neighbor of mine. No, not smokey, no not the guy who nearly burned down the opposite building with his grilling/lighter fluid escapades. This award goes to a young woman with a Prius.
Coming back from her shopping/lunch trip, she pulls up in the general vicinity of her parking spot and blocks half the road with her car. Turns on her flashers, gets out, leaves the driver's side door open, opens the back hatch and takes out a brand new collapsible shovel. First she attempts to shovel with the itty-bitty short handle. After several scoops she realized that the handle can get longer and extends it the extra foot.
She spends the next 10-15 minutes shovelling out a parking space for her car. Without gloves on. This whole time her car is blocking more than half the snow filled road, door open, engine running. I'm really surprised none of the passing cars ended up taking her door off.
Snow heaved to the side -- she's effectively moved the snow over to the next parking spot instead of putting it anywhere else -- she gets back in her running car -- what do you want to be she's been blasting the heater this whole time? -- and pulls in. The shovel has been put into the back of the car where I can see at least a half dozen plastic grocery bags flapping in the wind. But when she leaves the car she's only carrying her purse and an Arby's drink cup.
Bravo, honey. Bravo. May the 4" of snow yet to fall this weekend give you problems.
Be patient. Write something. Buy ten novels and tell yourself you're not allowed to check any stat board until you've finished all ten.
Last year I threw myself into a January version of NaNoWriMo with an abandon. It worked wonders; instead of obsessing over an application process I no longer had control over, I obsessed over a novel that whose creation was entirely up to me and my efforts. [BTW, I printed out that manuscript over break to hopefully start editing work on it. The nice part of not looking at it for 6+ months is that I'm actually surprised by both the plot and my writing, both of which I remember to be a lot worse than they are.]
This year I'm in the MFA. Great. I'm teaching, I'm writing, I'm taking classes -- all of it working toward publication and a teaching job. The fact that winter has dumped 8-10" of snow on me in the past 48 hours isn't bothering me too much -- I've got food in the fridge and I don't have to be anywhere until Monday.
So I called my father to chat, to get updates, to find out what his secret to cooking a tenderloin is (somehow I thought there'd be more than "season it with Mrs. Dash"). I find out that my grandmother is doing well after surgery, that there's no definitive answer about family members who are moving, and he asks if now isn't a good time to start applying for the Ph.D. program.
!!!
My father remains gungho on the idea of me getting a Ph.D. in creative writing. An MFA is terminal, but a Ph.D. is even more terminal -- which doesn't make sense but neither do the degrees. The program here at WMU has both an MFA and a Ph.D. program in creative writing. As I understand it, it is possible to transfer MFA credits over to the Ph.D. program without actually completing the MFA. My father sees this as a brilliant idea: less time spent in school, right? However, now isn't the time for such considerations. I've only spent a semester in the graduate program and have very little writing-wise to show for it. I certainly don't feel like I have a portfolio worthy of a Ph.D. application. And, as I reminded my father, this year's application cycle has passed. This transferring programs conversation is one I'll have with faculty, current students and the graduate advisor in the months to come.
Meanwhile, I give you today's stupid people of the day award! It goes to yet another brilliant neighbor of mine. No, not smokey, no not the guy who nearly burned down the opposite building with his grilling/lighter fluid escapades. This award goes to a young woman with a Prius.
Coming back from her shopping/lunch trip, she pulls up in the general vicinity of her parking spot and blocks half the road with her car. Turns on her flashers, gets out, leaves the driver's side door open, opens the back hatch and takes out a brand new collapsible shovel. First she attempts to shovel with the itty-bitty short handle. After several scoops she realized that the handle can get longer and extends it the extra foot.
She spends the next 10-15 minutes shovelling out a parking space for her car. Without gloves on. This whole time her car is blocking more than half the snow filled road, door open, engine running. I'm really surprised none of the passing cars ended up taking her door off.
Snow heaved to the side -- she's effectively moved the snow over to the next parking spot instead of putting it anywhere else -- she gets back in her running car -- what do you want to be she's been blasting the heater this whole time? -- and pulls in. The shovel has been put into the back of the car where I can see at least a half dozen plastic grocery bags flapping in the wind. But when she leaves the car she's only carrying her purse and an Arby's drink cup.
Bravo, honey. Bravo. May the 4" of snow yet to fall this weekend give you problems.
(front and center is a Honda Civic. The snow reaches up to touch its front bumper.)
Thursday, January 01, 2009
The 'Duh' Moment
Happy New Year! Seriously, is it already 2009? My blog celebrates 14 months of regular entries this January. It’s been alive since spring of 2006 but it was so sporadic that I think I checked my junk email account more than I posted to my blog. After my first trip to the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop in 2007 I vowed to post fiction once a week and did so through October of that year. That November I left law school in order to pursue an MFA and a life writing, teaching and hopefully publishing.
For many of you, these facts are old hat; you’ve actually been around since that November. I owe many of my original readers to Jud who took the time to read and recommend this blog to other bloggers. Quite a few of my “lurkers” are people who have met me in real life. Friends from college and high school, family members – my twin cousins stalk the blog for pictures of my kittens, here’s your prize:
and the last group would be people I met through writing related stuff: Kenyon, commenting on the MFAblog, almost going to UNH with you, or other reasons.
[BTW, we totally need to meet at the AWP Conference. Do you think we can get on the schedule as “Bloggers Cocktail Hour” – You’re followed their blogs for months, now meet and greet with your contemporaries and counterparts to discuss the experience further in person (and coordinate your blog posts for the weekend), cash bar.]
Regardless of who you are or how this blog came to your attention, I’m grateful that you’re reading my rants, recommendations, epiphanies and in general being a sucker for kitten pictures and B&W photography of snow.
All this retrospection came about after the ‘duh’ moment that gave the title to this post.
My well intentioned father, completely confused by such titles as nonfiction, memoir and essay as applied to bound books today, bought me two collections of essays for Christmas, Naked, David Sedaris and I Was Told There’d Be Cake, Sloane Crosley. The reason he did this was because I told him about my last workshop experience where two people called my short story “essayistic.” He then spent the next few weeks pressing me to answer his question if a novel could be written as a memoir.
I was completely confused.
Like Frey? I relayed the Million Little Pieces scandal to my father, but that didn’t answer his question.
Finally (after I became super frustrated and pissy) we came around to the real issue: the only difference between a memoir and a literary novel with a first person narrator is that the novel depicts fictional events. Ideally, the memoir is completely real – or at least completely the memoires of the author.
Tomorrow I’ll get into how I explained what I’m doing to my father which is worth writing out just to share his reaction. But for the time being just know that he bought these two collections of essays to help and inspire me.
The second collection, I I Was Told There’d Be Cake, certainly did inspire me. The writer is a young woman with a hillarious voice who rants on certain topics personal to her and yet sympathetic for everyone. That’s it. It is, of course, in the form of an essay.
I got one page into the fourth essay in the book and suddenly ohmigdImsoooostupid! I’ve been doing this exact same thing for the past ten years! Of course, with varying degrees of readability and knowledge of grammar, but basically with a little tweaking to fit form, any of the pieces I dubbed “comedic rants” is an essay. This is frequently what my blog is (thus the reflection earlier).
I’m going to spend some time working very hard on writing, researching and submitting essays to the appropriate markets.
For many of you, these facts are old hat; you’ve actually been around since that November. I owe many of my original readers to Jud who took the time to read and recommend this blog to other bloggers. Quite a few of my “lurkers” are people who have met me in real life. Friends from college and high school, family members – my twin cousins stalk the blog for pictures of my kittens, here’s your prize:
and the last group would be people I met through writing related stuff: Kenyon, commenting on the MFAblog, almost going to UNH with you, or other reasons.
[BTW, we totally need to meet at the AWP Conference. Do you think we can get on the schedule as “Bloggers Cocktail Hour” – You’re followed their blogs for months, now meet and greet with your contemporaries and counterparts to discuss the experience further in person (and coordinate your blog posts for the weekend), cash bar.]
Regardless of who you are or how this blog came to your attention, I’m grateful that you’re reading my rants, recommendations, epiphanies and in general being a sucker for kitten pictures and B&W photography of snow.
All this retrospection came about after the ‘duh’ moment that gave the title to this post.
My well intentioned father, completely confused by such titles as nonfiction, memoir and essay as applied to bound books today, bought me two collections of essays for Christmas, Naked, David Sedaris and I Was Told There’d Be Cake, Sloane Crosley. The reason he did this was because I told him about my last workshop experience where two people called my short story “essayistic.” He then spent the next few weeks pressing me to answer his question if a novel could be written as a memoir.
I was completely confused.
Like Frey? I relayed the Million Little Pieces scandal to my father, but that didn’t answer his question.
Finally (after I became super frustrated and pissy) we came around to the real issue: the only difference between a memoir and a literary novel with a first person narrator is that the novel depicts fictional events. Ideally, the memoir is completely real – or at least completely the memoires of the author.
Tomorrow I’ll get into how I explained what I’m doing to my father which is worth writing out just to share his reaction. But for the time being just know that he bought these two collections of essays to help and inspire me.
The second collection, I I Was Told There’d Be Cake, certainly did inspire me. The writer is a young woman with a hillarious voice who rants on certain topics personal to her and yet sympathetic for everyone. That’s it. It is, of course, in the form of an essay.
I got one page into the fourth essay in the book and suddenly ohmigdImsoooostupid! I’ve been doing this exact same thing for the past ten years! Of course, with varying degrees of readability and knowledge of grammar, but basically with a little tweaking to fit form, any of the pieces I dubbed “comedic rants” is an essay. This is frequently what my blog is (thus the reflection earlier).
I’m going to spend some time working very hard on writing, researching and submitting essays to the appropriate markets.
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