I’m just now wrapping up a 6,000-word story called “Summer of Skin.”
When I write, I tend to copy and paste notes and research and bits that end up getting cut from the manuscript to the bottom of the draft, so that by the end of, say, a 6,000-word story, I have ten or twenty pages of “extra” material. And then, once I’m at the stage I am now, I copy and paste all of that into another document, titled something like “Summer of Skin—Notes.”
Here are some outtakes from the notes of the current story, which will soon be sent out into the world in crisp manila envelopes:
From some instructions I found on the Internet about how to make a homemade tattoo gun:
6. Now take the eraser from the pencil and shove it onto the shaft of the motor. Try to get it as dead center as possible. Join the pen/needle/toothbrush to the motor/eraser assembly. Tape the brush to the motor.
I haven’t worked at the dog food factory in seven or eight years, but I still wake up some evenings for a night shift at some other place—a gas station, the clean-up crew at the hog plant—and smell the salty meat stink of the stuff on my skin, like it’s coming right out of my pores. I wonder if it’ll ever stop.
Did the boy know that you had to try and hold some fathers down? That if you didn’t, they would never stop moving?
The final draft of the thing is from a dad’s point-of-view; earlier notes included snippets written from his kid’s point-of-view:
Mom had a couple tats. Famously, she had a set of eyes inked on her breasts, a few inches above her nipples.
Those eyes did make it into the final draft, but, as I said, not from the kid’s point of view.
I doubt these snippets will be of all that much interest to anyone (unless, that is, you’re planning to try and make a homemade tattoo gun in the near future) but I wanted to blog them simply because that moment of transference, when I copy and paste all the crap into a blank document and I’m cleaning up that final draft, man, I love doing that. It feels as good as just about anything.
9.28.2006
9.27.2006
Knox College: Bringing Sexy Back
| Evan Sawdey and Andy Scott at this past Friday's Off Knox open-mic event. It was even better in person. | |
9.24.2006
Sunday Scribblings--How to...
The prompt for this week's Sunday Scribblings is "Instructions." Up first, the beginning of a story by George Singleton. Up last, the beginning of an in-progress story by me. (Singleton is hardly the warm-up act; I'm putting myself up last in case you only want to read the real professional here).
"How to Collect Fishing Lures"
by George Singleton, from The Half-Mammals of Dixie
Move off the family farm, go to a state university that offers a degree in textile management, get a job at a cotton mill that will eventually fail during the Reagan years, marry a woman who will go back to college later on in life then leave you for three states south, have one son named with only initials--like V.O.--and try to get him to understand the importance of moving out of the textile town, get fired so that the company no longer has to pay a pension, and spend too many days sending out résumés to other failing cotton mills that have no need for a forty-seven-year-old midlevel executive. Send your son off to college and wonder what he sees in literature, history, philosophy, art, and Eastern religions.
"How to Teach Beginning Fiction Writing, or Remember the Badger"
Tell the story of how your father-in-law accidentally trapped a badger early in the semester, as an introduction to the use of sensory details. Note the badger’s pinky-length claws, rasping against the cage’s steel. The animal’s black gums and bared, pointed teeth. How his fur spiked, and his skin emitted a fear-laced scent. Talk about how the cage was in the back end of your father-in-law’s pickup, and how your nine-year-old nephew and his friend climbed into the bed of the truck and poked at the badger with sticks. Note how the badger hissed like a cat, and released an even muskier scent, one that smelled about exactly like you-don’t-want-to-fuck-with-me. Tell your students, as a side note, that badgers, though beloved in England, are known to blind their enemies—especially dogs—by removing the animals’ eyes. Pause for a moment, let them conjure their first pets, Fluffy and Rags and Snowball, bloody and eyeless.
Then step away from the badger; provide some setting, some causality. Tell them this didn’t happen in Wisconsin, home of the University of Wisconsin Badgers, but in Illinois, just outside a town called Rio. Pronounce it the right way—Rye-oh. Tell them it’s spelled like the Spanish word for river but that there isn’t a river in sight, just Pope Creek. Pronounce creek the right way—crick, like lick or trick. It will give you country cred, render you down-home and wise. Explain to them that badgers are not a regular occurrence around your father-in-law’s homestead, that he puts out his handmade traps for raccoons, to keep them out of the garbage cans in the garage, but follow this up with something about the past summer’s drought. Usually, badgers feed on the grubs nestled in the earth along the banks of Pope Creek. This past summer, though, Pope Creek dried up, leaving the bones of dead fish poking up out of its dried bottom, and the drought sent the grubs burrowing deeper into the soil. The badgers traveled toward the house in search of better soil, more bugs. And then one of those badgers ended up in the trap your father-in-law had set with an open-faced peanut butter sandwich on its trip-board.
"How to Collect Fishing Lures"
by George Singleton, from The Half-Mammals of Dixie
Move off the family farm, go to a state university that offers a degree in textile management, get a job at a cotton mill that will eventually fail during the Reagan years, marry a woman who will go back to college later on in life then leave you for three states south, have one son named with only initials--like V.O.--and try to get him to understand the importance of moving out of the textile town, get fired so that the company no longer has to pay a pension, and spend too many days sending out résumés to other failing cotton mills that have no need for a forty-seven-year-old midlevel executive. Send your son off to college and wonder what he sees in literature, history, philosophy, art, and Eastern religions.
"How to Teach Beginning Fiction Writing, or Remember the Badger"
Tell the story of how your father-in-law accidentally trapped a badger early in the semester, as an introduction to the use of sensory details. Note the badger’s pinky-length claws, rasping against the cage’s steel. The animal’s black gums and bared, pointed teeth. How his fur spiked, and his skin emitted a fear-laced scent. Talk about how the cage was in the back end of your father-in-law’s pickup, and how your nine-year-old nephew and his friend climbed into the bed of the truck and poked at the badger with sticks. Note how the badger hissed like a cat, and released an even muskier scent, one that smelled about exactly like you-don’t-want-to-fuck-with-me. Tell your students, as a side note, that badgers, though beloved in England, are known to blind their enemies—especially dogs—by removing the animals’ eyes. Pause for a moment, let them conjure their first pets, Fluffy and Rags and Snowball, bloody and eyeless.
Then step away from the badger; provide some setting, some causality. Tell them this didn’t happen in Wisconsin, home of the University of Wisconsin Badgers, but in Illinois, just outside a town called Rio. Pronounce it the right way—Rye-oh. Tell them it’s spelled like the Spanish word for river but that there isn’t a river in sight, just Pope Creek. Pronounce creek the right way—crick, like lick or trick. It will give you country cred, render you down-home and wise. Explain to them that badgers are not a regular occurrence around your father-in-law’s homestead, that he puts out his handmade traps for raccoons, to keep them out of the garbage cans in the garage, but follow this up with something about the past summer’s drought. Usually, badgers feed on the grubs nestled in the earth along the banks of Pope Creek. This past summer, though, Pope Creek dried up, leaving the bones of dead fish poking up out of its dried bottom, and the drought sent the grubs burrowing deeper into the soil. The badgers traveled toward the house in search of better soil, more bugs. And then one of those badgers ended up in the trap your father-in-law had set with an open-faced peanut butter sandwich on its trip-board.
9.21.2006
Great News...and a Plug
A few months ago, Dan Wickett posted some news about a new literary magazine, Avery: An Anthology of New Fiction, and how they’d just received their non-profit status. I clicked a few links--to Avery’s website and their blog --and was pretty impressed by the crew running it. (Honestly, I think it’s great when anybody decides to take the time and effort to put out a literary magazine. It’s a lot of work, and the people who endeavor to do such a thing pretty much know they aren’t going to become rich and famous from the enterprise). The editors of Avery, though--Stephanie Fiorelli, Adam Koehler, and Andrew Palmer--had a vision for what they wanted to do that in addition to being noble I thought was very cool: They wanted to put out a book, an anthology, of new fiction. And they wanted to put some real effort into the book’s production, which they discussed on the blog every now and then.
My immediate reaction upon being so impressed with what they were doing was to write a blog post about them, but I put that on hold for a little while (two months or so) because I wanted to send them a story first. My thought was, I’ll send them something, wait to see what happens, and then once I get a response--whether positive or negative--I’d use this blog to promote the thing. (And, seriously, my plan was to do what I could to let the people who read this blog know about the thing either way, whether I was going to be a part of Avery or not).
The good news, though, is that my story “Tell Everyone I Said Hi” will be appearing in Avery’s inaugural issue, alongside stories by Stephen Dixon, Ander Monson, Dean Bakopoulos, and a small host of new and emerging writers. I am, as you can imagine, utterly thrilled.
And now, here’s the plug:
Avery held a fundraiser recently to help support their first issue, and while the event was pretty successful (based on what I read about it) they came up a little short in the money department. They’re going to be able to release the magazine with their vision for it pretty much still intact, but they want to be able to print more than 300 copies of the issue, and to do that, they’re going to need the cash. So, if you feel like dropping by their site and ordering a subscription, or just donating them some money in an effort to say, “Hey, I like stories, and I think what you’re doing is way cool,” then, thanks to that non-profit status Dan wrote about, I’m pretty sure you can write it all off on your taxes. Plus, it’s not like your money is going to put shoes on their feet. It’ll merely give them an opportunity to get what I’m guessing is going to be a fine collection of stories into the hands of more people. Which is why, right now, I don’t feel too dirty in my efforts to try and send a few of you their way.
My immediate reaction upon being so impressed with what they were doing was to write a blog post about them, but I put that on hold for a little while (two months or so) because I wanted to send them a story first. My thought was, I’ll send them something, wait to see what happens, and then once I get a response--whether positive or negative--I’d use this blog to promote the thing. (And, seriously, my plan was to do what I could to let the people who read this blog know about the thing either way, whether I was going to be a part of Avery or not).
The good news, though, is that my story “Tell Everyone I Said Hi” will be appearing in Avery’s inaugural issue, alongside stories by Stephen Dixon, Ander Monson, Dean Bakopoulos, and a small host of new and emerging writers. I am, as you can imagine, utterly thrilled.
And now, here’s the plug:
Avery held a fundraiser recently to help support their first issue, and while the event was pretty successful (based on what I read about it) they came up a little short in the money department. They’re going to be able to release the magazine with their vision for it pretty much still intact, but they want to be able to print more than 300 copies of the issue, and to do that, they’re going to need the cash. So, if you feel like dropping by their site and ordering a subscription, or just donating them some money in an effort to say, “Hey, I like stories, and I think what you’re doing is way cool,” then, thanks to that non-profit status Dan wrote about, I’m pretty sure you can write it all off on your taxes. Plus, it’s not like your money is going to put shoes on their feet. It’ll merely give them an opportunity to get what I’m guessing is going to be a fine collection of stories into the hands of more people. Which is why, right now, I don’t feel too dirty in my efforts to try and send a few of you their way.
9.19.2006
It's Official...
and this time it’s not just some writer saying it: George Saunders is a genius.
For the full list of this year’s MacArthur Foundation fellows, go here.
If I remember correctly, last year’s writer to make the cut was Jonathan Lethem, and other recent winners include Colson Whitehead and Lydia Davis.
In other words, they sure can pick ‘em.
For the full list of this year’s MacArthur Foundation fellows, go here.
If I remember correctly, last year’s writer to make the cut was Jonathan Lethem, and other recent winners include Colson Whitehead and Lydia Davis.
In other words, they sure can pick ‘em.
9.18.2006
Goodwill (Book) Hunting
I still have two weeks to go on my self-imposed book-buying ban. This weekend, however, while J.C. was supplementing her fall wardrobe, I did a little book shopping at the Goodwill; and since I was able to slip the books into her cart (beneath an orange sweater and a pair of gray wool pants), technically, I didn't buy them and am thus maintaining said book-buying ban (though I have had a few slip-ups). My finds:
Bright Lights, Big City, Jay McInerney--I have a Vintage Contemporaries copy of this somewhere around the house, but the one at Goodwill was the mass market paperback with Michael J. Fox on the cover. At 88 cents, I couldn't pass it up.
The Other Side of Dark, Joan Lowery Nixon--She won the Edgar Award for a couple of her YA novels, and I've been meaning to check one out. Now I have the chance.
The Men's Club, Leonard Michaels--I always like his stories, but haven't ever tried his novels (I'm not sure, even, if they're in print). I read the first few pages of this while behind me, a ten-year-old girl modeled high heels for her impatient father. Though they couldn't decide on a pair, I loved the opening of this, and came to the conclusion I should have it.
Crash Diet: Stories, Jill McCorkle--I love finding hardcover editions of story collections by great writers, especially when I find them at the Goodwill, where hardcovers go for $1.38.
Three Genres, Stephen Minot--A "How to Write" resource, from which I'm sure I'll find a worthwhile story or exercise or two.
* * *
And since I'm on the topic of my self-imposed book-buying ban: My interlibrary loan of Tom Drury's The Driftless Area arrived a few weeks ago, and I devoured the thing. I wanted to write a long review/post about Drury in general and The Driftless Area in specific, but when I tried, all that came out was how much I liked him and his latest novel.
Here's why I like everything by him I've read (in general) and this book (specifically), in a nutshell: I'm a big fan of "strangeness" in literary fiction, and Drury manages plenty of strange while also consistently being funny and poignant and presenting three-dimensional human beings on the page.
I tried to think, too, of how this book would be cast if a movie were made of it, but I came to the conclusion that it's a novel, by god, and the way Drury so beautifully manipulates time and character and situation deserves to be read on the page, not viewed on a movie screen. I suppose a fairly cool art-house flick could be made of The Driftless Area, but right now I like it as is: a bunch of magical black marks on no-less-magical, off-white paper.
Do yourself a favor and read this book. But before you run out to the bookstore, you can go here for one of Mr. Drury's stories.
Bright Lights, Big City, Jay McInerney--I have a Vintage Contemporaries copy of this somewhere around the house, but the one at Goodwill was the mass market paperback with Michael J. Fox on the cover. At 88 cents, I couldn't pass it up.
The Other Side of Dark, Joan Lowery Nixon--She won the Edgar Award for a couple of her YA novels, and I've been meaning to check one out. Now I have the chance.
The Men's Club, Leonard Michaels--I always like his stories, but haven't ever tried his novels (I'm not sure, even, if they're in print). I read the first few pages of this while behind me, a ten-year-old girl modeled high heels for her impatient father. Though they couldn't decide on a pair, I loved the opening of this, and came to the conclusion I should have it.
Crash Diet: Stories, Jill McCorkle--I love finding hardcover editions of story collections by great writers, especially when I find them at the Goodwill, where hardcovers go for $1.38.
Three Genres, Stephen Minot--A "How to Write" resource, from which I'm sure I'll find a worthwhile story or exercise or two.
* * *
And since I'm on the topic of my self-imposed book-buying ban: My interlibrary loan of Tom Drury's The Driftless Area arrived a few weeks ago, and I devoured the thing. I wanted to write a long review/post about Drury in general and The Driftless Area in specific, but when I tried, all that came out was how much I liked him and his latest novel.
Here's why I like everything by him I've read (in general) and this book (specifically), in a nutshell: I'm a big fan of "strangeness" in literary fiction, and Drury manages plenty of strange while also consistently being funny and poignant and presenting three-dimensional human beings on the page.
I tried to think, too, of how this book would be cast if a movie were made of it, but I came to the conclusion that it's a novel, by god, and the way Drury so beautifully manipulates time and character and situation deserves to be read on the page, not viewed on a movie screen. I suppose a fairly cool art-house flick could be made of The Driftless Area, but right now I like it as is: a bunch of magical black marks on no-less-magical, off-white paper.
Do yourself a favor and read this book. But before you run out to the bookstore, you can go here for one of Mr. Drury's stories.
9.15.2006
9.14.2006
Big Thanks
go out to
Fringes
Rebecca
Flood, and
Southern Writer
who all not only took the time to read "Estate Sales" but also kindly posted links to the story on their blogs.
They all rock.
Seriously.
I don't know what else to say.
Fringes
Rebecca
Flood, and
Southern Writer
who all not only took the time to read "Estate Sales" but also kindly posted links to the story on their blogs.
They all rock.
Seriously.
I don't know what else to say.
I Think It's the Way I Dress...
because really, I don't look that young.
Here's the deal: The school where I teach functions on a funky schedule for the first two days of classes each fall term. We have Wednesday classes on Thursday and Thursday classes on Friday. Plus, the classes on Thursday (Wednesday’s classes) meet at different times (and for shorter periods) than usual due to an opening convocation that takes place Thursday morning.
So, I teach a Wednesday night class. A week and a half ago, before the first day of classes, I stopped by the Dean’s office to ask the secretaries whether or not the shortened schedule on Thursday would affect night classes. The first secretary looked up at me and said, “You should check with your professor.” Then she turned to the other secretary, who was standing behind her, and the second secretary nodded and agreed. “That’s probably something you should ask your professor about.”
I had dealings with each of these women last year, and they are both very knowledgeable and very kind people. So I paused a second, trying hard not to embarrass them, and then I told them that that’s why I needed to know: because I’m an instructor whom students may be asking.
The school I teach at is pretty small, and the second secretary realized who I was right away. She said, “You’re Chad!” I told her I was. They laughed, and I laughed, and they apologized, and I said it was fine, no big deal, and then they said they’d check with the Dean and get back to me via email.
A part of me ended up figuring, however stupidly, well, these women are a little older than I am, so maybe everyone between the ages of twenty and thirty looks kind of similar to them. And then this afternoon I was checking my campus mail. Afterwards, I decided to head from the mail room to the snack bar on my way to a department meeting, and as I headed to the door that leads from the mail room area to the student center-y part of the building, there was a young woman in front of me, all dressed up, holding two boxes filled with bottles of iced tea. I waited for her to pass through the door and then followed her. Once we were in the hall, she glanced over her shoulder at me and smiled, and I politely smiled back. Then she turned back again. The boxes she held swung in my direction.
“So…are a freshman?” she asked.
I paused again this time, too, but only briefly, not all that worried that my answer would embarrass her.
“Um, no," I said. "I teach actually."
She let out this little high-pitched “Hmm!” then said, “I guess you must feel pretty good then.”
It's true, it doesn't feel bad at all for people to think I look younger than I am. But rather than cause me to feel youthful, what it does more than anything is make me wonder if anyone actually looks at anybody else.
When I was a kid, eight or so, I was pretty cute. Or, rather, many of the girls I went to school with thought I was cute. And what I used to do, when I was eight and nine and ten years old, in response to other people telling me I was cute, was look in the mirror. I would stare at my face and wonder, "Is this the same face other people see? Is this me?"
I'm not talking about self-image issues here; rather, I actually had the idea when I was a kid that a group of people could look at the same person and see something totally different. And what I wanted then was to be able to see exactly what it was other people were seeing when they looked at me. So I would stare in the mirror several times a day, and pretend to be somebody else, and then see if that changed in any way the appearance of the kid in the mirror looking back at me.
Here's the deal: The school where I teach functions on a funky schedule for the first two days of classes each fall term. We have Wednesday classes on Thursday and Thursday classes on Friday. Plus, the classes on Thursday (Wednesday’s classes) meet at different times (and for shorter periods) than usual due to an opening convocation that takes place Thursday morning.
So, I teach a Wednesday night class. A week and a half ago, before the first day of classes, I stopped by the Dean’s office to ask the secretaries whether or not the shortened schedule on Thursday would affect night classes. The first secretary looked up at me and said, “You should check with your professor.” Then she turned to the other secretary, who was standing behind her, and the second secretary nodded and agreed. “That’s probably something you should ask your professor about.”
I had dealings with each of these women last year, and they are both very knowledgeable and very kind people. So I paused a second, trying hard not to embarrass them, and then I told them that that’s why I needed to know: because I’m an instructor whom students may be asking.
The school I teach at is pretty small, and the second secretary realized who I was right away. She said, “You’re Chad!” I told her I was. They laughed, and I laughed, and they apologized, and I said it was fine, no big deal, and then they said they’d check with the Dean and get back to me via email.
A part of me ended up figuring, however stupidly, well, these women are a little older than I am, so maybe everyone between the ages of twenty and thirty looks kind of similar to them. And then this afternoon I was checking my campus mail. Afterwards, I decided to head from the mail room to the snack bar on my way to a department meeting, and as I headed to the door that leads from the mail room area to the student center-y part of the building, there was a young woman in front of me, all dressed up, holding two boxes filled with bottles of iced tea. I waited for her to pass through the door and then followed her. Once we were in the hall, she glanced over her shoulder at me and smiled, and I politely smiled back. Then she turned back again. The boxes she held swung in my direction.
“So…are a freshman?” she asked.
I paused again this time, too, but only briefly, not all that worried that my answer would embarrass her.
“Um, no," I said. "I teach actually."
She let out this little high-pitched “Hmm!” then said, “I guess you must feel pretty good then.”
It's true, it doesn't feel bad at all for people to think I look younger than I am. But rather than cause me to feel youthful, what it does more than anything is make me wonder if anyone actually looks at anybody else.
When I was a kid, eight or so, I was pretty cute. Or, rather, many of the girls I went to school with thought I was cute. And what I used to do, when I was eight and nine and ten years old, in response to other people telling me I was cute, was look in the mirror. I would stare at my face and wonder, "Is this the same face other people see? Is this me?"
I'm not talking about self-image issues here; rather, I actually had the idea when I was a kid that a group of people could look at the same person and see something totally different. And what I wanted then was to be able to see exactly what it was other people were seeing when they looked at me. So I would stare in the mirror several times a day, and pretend to be somebody else, and then see if that changed in any way the appearance of the kid in the mirror looking back at me.
9.11.2006
The Maker Cried When it Collapsed
I worked from midnight until eight a.m. the day of September 11, 2001, at the Champaign County Juvenile Detention Center.
There were six of us on shift, plus one supervisor, that night. At 7:46 CST, when the plane struck 1 WTC, we were all standing around the administrative station, the way we did every morning, waiting for the first shifters to arrive. There were no televisions on anywhere around us, no radios.
We got off shift at exactly 8:00 a.m., as we did each day, and walked back to the break room, where we gathered our stuff, and then walked to the staff exit and waited to get buzzed out of the building.
At 8:03 CST, when the second plane struck 2 WTC, we were getting in our cars, or were just pulling out of the parking lot. I had the radio tuned to NPR, and listened as the report came on. I lived just a five-minute drive from the detention center, and so I arrived home around 9:10 or so, and turned on The Today Show, because trying to figure out what was going on by listening to the radio reports alone just wasn’t working. I needed the visuals to help it all make sense.
I sat rapt for the next hour or so, watched both buildings collapse. I hadn’t then and still never have been to New York City, but at the end of that hour my face was slathered in tears. I hadn’t bothered at any point to take a second to wipe them dry.
A little later, I carried a legal pad onto our little cement patio out back, as I did many mornings after I got off work, and I wrote three pages. That week, I had put restrictions on myself: no sentence could be longer than seven words.
I remember one sentence from those three pages, because I still think of it every time I see footage of that day. The maker cried when it collapsed. I remember the sentence but still don’t know what it was exactly I was getting at.
* * *
I worked that same job, that same shift, until June of the next year. Over the course of the next nine months, I heard several of my co-workers who also worked third-shift with me talk about their remembrances of 9/11.
Everyone else on shift but me seemed to have vivid memories of getting home that morning just as the second plane was crashing into 2 WTC. This was a profound and moving moment for them: walking in the door, turning on the television, and catching that glimpse of catastrophe.
Nobody I worked with lived closer to the detention center than I did. So, by the time I was watching replays of the second plane that morning, they were still driving home. They may have been listening to NPR, or they may have had some CD playing on their stereos. I’ll never know. But I do know that none of them arrived home just as the second plane struck 2 WTC. It was not possible. But I knew, too, that there was no way the facts of the matter could force them to re-interpret their memories, whether it was six months later, or five years. Their memories, even if they were shaped by the minor miracle of continuous replay, by the power of that terrifying and horrific image of a plane disappearing into a buiding, were theirs, and they would hold onto them for dear life. How could they be expected to do anything but.
There were six of us on shift, plus one supervisor, that night. At 7:46 CST, when the plane struck 1 WTC, we were all standing around the administrative station, the way we did every morning, waiting for the first shifters to arrive. There were no televisions on anywhere around us, no radios.
We got off shift at exactly 8:00 a.m., as we did each day, and walked back to the break room, where we gathered our stuff, and then walked to the staff exit and waited to get buzzed out of the building.
At 8:03 CST, when the second plane struck 2 WTC, we were getting in our cars, or were just pulling out of the parking lot. I had the radio tuned to NPR, and listened as the report came on. I lived just a five-minute drive from the detention center, and so I arrived home around 9:10 or so, and turned on The Today Show, because trying to figure out what was going on by listening to the radio reports alone just wasn’t working. I needed the visuals to help it all make sense.
I sat rapt for the next hour or so, watched both buildings collapse. I hadn’t then and still never have been to New York City, but at the end of that hour my face was slathered in tears. I hadn’t bothered at any point to take a second to wipe them dry.
A little later, I carried a legal pad onto our little cement patio out back, as I did many mornings after I got off work, and I wrote three pages. That week, I had put restrictions on myself: no sentence could be longer than seven words.
I remember one sentence from those three pages, because I still think of it every time I see footage of that day. The maker cried when it collapsed. I remember the sentence but still don’t know what it was exactly I was getting at.
* * *
I worked that same job, that same shift, until June of the next year. Over the course of the next nine months, I heard several of my co-workers who also worked third-shift with me talk about their remembrances of 9/11.
Everyone else on shift but me seemed to have vivid memories of getting home that morning just as the second plane was crashing into 2 WTC. This was a profound and moving moment for them: walking in the door, turning on the television, and catching that glimpse of catastrophe.
Nobody I worked with lived closer to the detention center than I did. So, by the time I was watching replays of the second plane that morning, they were still driving home. They may have been listening to NPR, or they may have had some CD playing on their stereos. I’ll never know. But I do know that none of them arrived home just as the second plane struck 2 WTC. It was not possible. But I knew, too, that there was no way the facts of the matter could force them to re-interpret their memories, whether it was six months later, or five years. Their memories, even if they were shaped by the minor miracle of continuous replay, by the power of that terrifying and horrific image of a plane disappearing into a buiding, were theirs, and they would hold onto them for dear life. How could they be expected to do anything but.
9.09.2006
Etymology
I attended a retreat today, for my job. Before I attended the thing, I was going to write a post about the word retreat. This morning, I kept saying it over and over: retreat, retreat, retreat. It made me think of being on horseback; or, rather, of being on horseback and full of cowardice, charging the opposite direction of the battle. I actually started a post about the word retreat but once I typed the title (retreat), rather than thinking about being on horseback, I thought about what it would mean to re-treat someone, to give them a treat all over again. And then I decided the whole endeavor was silly, and that I shouldn’t post anything at all.
Later, though, at the retreat itself, the word’s etymology was brought into question. The person who brought it up suggested that the term came from Christianity, and I was intrigued; what I wanted to know, really, was whether or not horses were a part of this Christian etymology.
I found this site online, and the word’s origins were even better than I imagined, even if, as far as I can tell, they have nothing to do with Christianity or horses.
retreat (n.)
c.1300, from O.Fr. retret, noun use of pp. of retrere "draw back," from L. retrahere "draw back," from re- "back" + trahere "to draw" (see tract (1)). Meaning "place of seclusion" is from 1423; sense of "establishment for mentally ill persons" is from 1797. The verb is first attested 1422.
I love etymologies, and Etymology Online may be my new favorite website. I’m going to go and bookmark it right now. You should too. And when you’re done, ride back over here and tell me what your favorite etymological definition is.
Go on, now.
Heeyaah.
Later, though, at the retreat itself, the word’s etymology was brought into question. The person who brought it up suggested that the term came from Christianity, and I was intrigued; what I wanted to know, really, was whether or not horses were a part of this Christian etymology.
I found this site online, and the word’s origins were even better than I imagined, even if, as far as I can tell, they have nothing to do with Christianity or horses.
retreat (n.)
c.1300, from O.Fr. retret, noun use of pp. of retrere "draw back," from L. retrahere "draw back," from re- "back" + trahere "to draw" (see tract (1)). Meaning "place of seclusion" is from 1423; sense of "establishment for mentally ill persons" is from 1797. The verb is first attested 1422.
I love etymologies, and Etymology Online may be my new favorite website. I’m going to go and bookmark it right now. You should too. And when you’re done, ride back over here and tell me what your favorite etymological definition is.
Go on, now.
Heeyaah.
9.07.2006
widowerhood
My story "Estate Sales" is up at juked.
Since the story's only about a thousand words long, here's the one-sentence teaser:
"I wonder how long he's been saying my name, how long I've been imagining myself inside his house."
Much thanks to John Wang for taking the story and for his thoughtful and insightful edits. And much thanks to Heather, who was married this past summer beneath two rows of trees next to a farmhouse, and whose directions to the place told us to look for the pine windbreak.
Since the story's only about a thousand words long, here's the one-sentence teaser:
"I wonder how long he's been saying my name, how long I've been imagining myself inside his house."
Much thanks to John Wang for taking the story and for his thoughtful and insightful edits. And much thanks to Heather, who was married this past summer beneath two rows of trees next to a farmhouse, and whose directions to the place told us to look for the pine windbreak.
9.06.2006
Icebreaker
My syllabi, along with stories by Amy Hempel and Charles Baxter, are copied and stacked in manila envelopes, my sport coats have all been dry cleaned, and I’ll most likely cut myself while shaving in the morning—which is all to say that school starts tomorrow.
On the first day, I make the students do one of those things they tend to respond less than enthusiastically to: an icebreaker.
I learned this icebreaker at a summer writing class I once took with this guy, and ever since, I’ve incorporated it into the little introduction cards I have my students do on the first day of class. (Though I hadn’t ever heard of this icebreaker until I took the workshop with S.S., I did notice that an episode of Veronica Mars this past year used the same icebreaker).
Anyway, it goes like this: You write down three statements about yourself—two that are true and one that’s a lie.
I then use this little exercise to talk about how the students go about creating the lies—working with or against assumptions other students in the class may have about them, the types of specific details people use when doing a good job of lying, and about how fiction itself, while telling “lies,” is almost always attempting to get at the truth, and sometimes may be the only way of really getting at the wondrous complexities of these things we call “truths.”
So, in the spirit of blog, and since I have a little more space, I’ll offer five things about myself for my four loyal readers readers to peruse. Three of the statements are true; two aren’t. Feel free to make some guesses about the lies in comments, and since this woman probably won’t be playing a game this Thursday, go ahead and tell some truths and lies about yourselves at your places and we’ll come see if we can figure out which is which.
* * *
I was married for six months when I was eighteen years old.
I played right field for the Garden City Community College (Garden City, KS) Broncbusters.
I worked as a juvenile probation officer for two years before going to grad school.
The guy who I loosely based this story on is actually my fraternal twin.
Nove anni fa, ho vissuto per un semestre a Firenze, Italia.
On the first day, I make the students do one of those things they tend to respond less than enthusiastically to: an icebreaker.
I learned this icebreaker at a summer writing class I once took with this guy, and ever since, I’ve incorporated it into the little introduction cards I have my students do on the first day of class. (Though I hadn’t ever heard of this icebreaker until I took the workshop with S.S., I did notice that an episode of Veronica Mars this past year used the same icebreaker).
Anyway, it goes like this: You write down three statements about yourself—two that are true and one that’s a lie.
I then use this little exercise to talk about how the students go about creating the lies—working with or against assumptions other students in the class may have about them, the types of specific details people use when doing a good job of lying, and about how fiction itself, while telling “lies,” is almost always attempting to get at the truth, and sometimes may be the only way of really getting at the wondrous complexities of these things we call “truths.”
So, in the spirit of blog, and since I have a little more space, I’ll offer five things about myself for my four loyal readers readers to peruse. Three of the statements are true; two aren’t. Feel free to make some guesses about the lies in comments, and since this woman probably won’t be playing a game this Thursday, go ahead and tell some truths and lies about yourselves at your places and we’ll come see if we can figure out which is which.
* * *
I was married for six months when I was eighteen years old.
I played right field for the Garden City Community College (Garden City, KS) Broncbusters.
I worked as a juvenile probation officer for two years before going to grad school.
The guy who I loosely based this story on is actually my fraternal twin.
Nove anni fa, ho vissuto per un semestre a Firenze, Italia.
9.04.2006
Watching, Reading, Writing
The first episode of the new season of The Wire will become available on HBO-on-Demand later today, but rather than talk about my love for this show, I want to mention one of David Simon's earlier projects.
J.C. and I spent our pre-Labor Day Sunday watching a six-hour mini-series called The Corner. The series was directed by Charles S. Dutton and is based on The Corner: A Year in the Life of an Inner-City Neighborhood, a book co-written by Simon and Edward Burns. The mini-series is something of a docu-drama, based on the true stories of the people written about in the book, but acted out in stellar performances by T.K. Carter, Sean Nelson, and Khandi Alexander, among others. I won't say too much more about the thing--other than that it's brutal, honest, heartbreaking, and definitely worth your time.
* * *
School starts this week, and I could be tackling any number of esteemed tomes to get myself prepared, but instead, I've been reading Elmore Leonard's Killshot, which I believe is going to be a movie sometime soon--starring Diane Lane, whom, like Elmore Leonard, but for different reasons, I adore.
* * *
I'm a few thousand words into a story I kind of like, tentatively titled "Summer of Skin." For those of you who may be interested, here's the opening paragraph:
The boy, I can only imagine, had expectations. Blondes with flawless tanned skin against a backdrop of ruffled white satin sheets, covering their perfect augmented breasts with their forearms. Maybe a celebrity or two—Pamela Anderson, I think, was right about then becoming famous. Hell, the kid was ten. He may have been looking for something he could start a fire with.
* * *
And in other news, edifice Wrecked is running a cool little Halloween contest.
J.C. and I spent our pre-Labor Day Sunday watching a six-hour mini-series called The Corner. The series was directed by Charles S. Dutton and is based on The Corner: A Year in the Life of an Inner-City Neighborhood, a book co-written by Simon and Edward Burns. The mini-series is something of a docu-drama, based on the true stories of the people written about in the book, but acted out in stellar performances by T.K. Carter, Sean Nelson, and Khandi Alexander, among others. I won't say too much more about the thing--other than that it's brutal, honest, heartbreaking, and definitely worth your time.
* * *
School starts this week, and I could be tackling any number of esteemed tomes to get myself prepared, but instead, I've been reading Elmore Leonard's Killshot, which I believe is going to be a movie sometime soon--starring Diane Lane, whom, like Elmore Leonard, but for different reasons, I adore.
* * *
I'm a few thousand words into a story I kind of like, tentatively titled "Summer of Skin." For those of you who may be interested, here's the opening paragraph:
The boy, I can only imagine, had expectations. Blondes with flawless tanned skin against a backdrop of ruffled white satin sheets, covering their perfect augmented breasts with their forearms. Maybe a celebrity or two—Pamela Anderson, I think, was right about then becoming famous. Hell, the kid was ten. He may have been looking for something he could start a fire with.
* * *
And in other news, edifice Wrecked is running a cool little Halloween contest.
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