I saw this a couple minutes ago over at John Gallaher's blog, and I couldn't keep myself from posting it.
I love the fact that Stipe says, "It's my favorite song."
It's not my favorite song by R.E.M., but it certainly shaped my current musical tastes as much as any other song.
Damn, I love them--and this song.
5.31.2007
R.E.M.: Country Feedback
The Most Beautiful Thing About Her
I mentioned not long ago that I was feeling a particular kind of freedom where writing is concerned. And soon after I mentioned that freedom, I wrote "Glass," a little short I posted here on the blog. I wrote another fairly silly piece which I submitted to an online magazine, and I started writing another thing that I'm taking more seriously. I haven't looked at the bulk of it in close to a week, but here's what I have so far. I only imagine it going about another 500 words or so.
* * *
The Most Beautiful Thing About Her
They’d been living with us for almost two months.
He was sleeping sixteen hours a day—from four in the morning until noon head-to-toe with her on the ratty couch, from noon until eight or so in my room.
Early on, I’d wake up some days and find her standing at the stove in front of a pan, the flame turned on high. She’d have her arms at her sides, an egg in each hand. She would be crying silently, or about to cry, and the first thing that would go through my head was: If she drops those eggs, how many will we have left in the fridge? And then: Will she expect me to help her clean up the mess?
He would still be on the couch, sweating through his T-shirt, stretching out his legs, and I’d wonder not what she was doing with him—I couldn’t give a shit about the intricacies of their love or desire, whatever it was—but how she managed to sleep each night on a couch that smelled so bad. My roommate and I had found it in an alley, and it’s like it was made of equal parts animal and piss. I refused even to sit on it.
What to say to her on those mornings? Her boyfriend would vaguely notice I was up and make his way down the trailer’s hallway to my room. Sometimes, he’d put on a little show before he left. He would stick out his belly and scratch it through his T-shirt, or run his fingernails over his ass through his boxer shorts. He’s affect a southern accent—we were all doing it that summer, I can’t remember why or how it started—and say something about having to take a piss. “I’m gonna go shake the dew off my lily,” he’d say.
Trying to joke his way out of his depression, out of his joblessness. I’d done this kind of thing before.
We didn’t have cable or Internet access, but the PC was rigged up to some fairly miraculous speakers, and I would leave her in the kitchen and walk back into the living room to play some music. Not too loud, hoping that by the time I returned, I’d smell eggs frying.
A few weeks later, I would find her crying while standing in front of the washing machine, about to add the detergent. Or I would hear her through the bathroom door.
“Open up,” I would say, pushing the side of my face against the door’s rough wood. “Let me in.”
The door would inch open seemingly on its own, and I’d find her sitting with her back to the sink, holding her face in her hands. Her feet were always bare, and her toenails always polished. Those toenails were perfect—they killed me.
I’d sit down next to her and put my arm around her shoulder, and she’d lean into me, continue to cry.
* * *
The Most Beautiful Thing About Her
They’d been living with us for almost two months.
He was sleeping sixteen hours a day—from four in the morning until noon head-to-toe with her on the ratty couch, from noon until eight or so in my room.
Early on, I’d wake up some days and find her standing at the stove in front of a pan, the flame turned on high. She’d have her arms at her sides, an egg in each hand. She would be crying silently, or about to cry, and the first thing that would go through my head was: If she drops those eggs, how many will we have left in the fridge? And then: Will she expect me to help her clean up the mess?
He would still be on the couch, sweating through his T-shirt, stretching out his legs, and I’d wonder not what she was doing with him—I couldn’t give a shit about the intricacies of their love or desire, whatever it was—but how she managed to sleep each night on a couch that smelled so bad. My roommate and I had found it in an alley, and it’s like it was made of equal parts animal and piss. I refused even to sit on it.
What to say to her on those mornings? Her boyfriend would vaguely notice I was up and make his way down the trailer’s hallway to my room. Sometimes, he’d put on a little show before he left. He would stick out his belly and scratch it through his T-shirt, or run his fingernails over his ass through his boxer shorts. He’s affect a southern accent—we were all doing it that summer, I can’t remember why or how it started—and say something about having to take a piss. “I’m gonna go shake the dew off my lily,” he’d say.
Trying to joke his way out of his depression, out of his joblessness. I’d done this kind of thing before.
We didn’t have cable or Internet access, but the PC was rigged up to some fairly miraculous speakers, and I would leave her in the kitchen and walk back into the living room to play some music. Not too loud, hoping that by the time I returned, I’d smell eggs frying.
A few weeks later, I would find her crying while standing in front of the washing machine, about to add the detergent. Or I would hear her through the bathroom door.
“Open up,” I would say, pushing the side of my face against the door’s rough wood. “Let me in.”
The door would inch open seemingly on its own, and I’d find her sitting with her back to the sink, holding her face in her hands. Her feet were always bare, and her toenails always polished. Those toenails were perfect—they killed me.
I’d sit down next to her and put my arm around her shoulder, and she’d lean into me, continue to cry.
Puppy
I used to say that I would never subscribe to any magazine/journal/whatever that wouldn't have me.
I won't list off "the untouchables" here, but suffice it to say, The New Yorker is among them. Then, a few months ago, I received a solicitation to subscribe to said magazine. The subscription was going to run about twenty bucks. I figured, I pay that much at the newsstand for four or five issues each year; I might as well break my own rule and subscribe.
The first issue that arrived in the mail contained a story by Nadine Gordimer that I have yet to read. The second issue contained "Puppy" by George Saunders. When I opened the magazine and scanned the table of contents to see what fiction was in it, I literally smiled. I figured the twenty bucks I plunked down on the subscription was well spent.
If you haven't read Saunders' story yet, you can check it out here. Or, you know, you can always subscribe.
N.B. I don't mean to diss Nadine Gordimer here. I plan on getting to that story tomorrow. I remember reading a collection of her stories in a guard shack just north of Denton, Texas, a number of years back that I really loved.
I won't list off "the untouchables" here, but suffice it to say, The New Yorker is among them. Then, a few months ago, I received a solicitation to subscribe to said magazine. The subscription was going to run about twenty bucks. I figured, I pay that much at the newsstand for four or five issues each year; I might as well break my own rule and subscribe.
The first issue that arrived in the mail contained a story by Nadine Gordimer that I have yet to read. The second issue contained "Puppy" by George Saunders. When I opened the magazine and scanned the table of contents to see what fiction was in it, I literally smiled. I figured the twenty bucks I plunked down on the subscription was well spent.
If you haven't read Saunders' story yet, you can check it out here. Or, you know, you can always subscribe.
N.B. I don't mean to diss Nadine Gordimer here. I plan on getting to that story tomorrow. I remember reading a collection of her stories in a guard shack just north of Denton, Texas, a number of years back that I really loved.
5.29.2007
SNL--Peyton Manning
After that rather long post related to my writing, I felt like I needed to follow it up with something a little more lighthearted.
For lighthearted/hilarious, you can't go wrong with an SNL digital short. Plus, there's Peyton Manning.
Good News, Again
I said not all that long ago that I've never had three good pieces of writing news in the span of a term--ten weeks or so.
Today, I received my fourth.
I'm feeling, though, I don't know, kind of nervous about putting it up here. In fact, I considered not posting about it at all.
The reason for my reluctance, I think, is mostly due to the fact I've been receiving so much good news lately, and I've thus been posting quite a few entries that say, "Hey, look what cool stuff is happening to me."
I suppose that's an accurate representation of what's been going on in my writing life. It's not, however, an accurate representation of the failures in between successes. I almost never mention rejections on this blog because, well, I don't think it's possible not to sound whiny when mentioning rejections.
I'll make as a general statement instead: I spent almost all of last year (the year, in fact, prior to my starting this blog) in a real funk as far as writing was concerned. It was my first year post-grad school, and while I loved teaching, loved living here in Galesburg, close to various friends and family members, my writing life sucked. I wasn't writing much, and the stories I'd spent the previous year rewriting for my thesis were getting rejected on a very regular basis. Sometimes these rejections included nice little notes; other times they were your standard form rejections, printed on little cards. Those form rejections, which I'd been desensitized to for a while, really started to bother me. It's strange for me to admit this (my friend Ben always says, "You've got to steel yourself against rejection.") but it's true. I'd get annoyed. And then I'd dread the next day's mail delivery.
Then, last summer, I started this blog and I started taking long walks at night. The blog, well, it's been what it's been--some kind of record of what I've been up to: what I've been reading, writing, or teaching, watching on TV, finding online, or, occasionally, what my nieces and nephews have been up to. I've enjoyed keeping it up, and the people who occasionally stop by and leave a comment or send me me an email. The long walks I took last summer, though, did even more, I think, to help get me out of my funk. They were a kind of meditative practice for me. At times, all I did, for the entire hour-and-a-half walk, was repeat in my head, "Let go." I suppose I could have been referencing any number of things, but what I was mostly talking about was the whole business side of writing--submitting things for publication, receiving rejections, worrying about what I was going to do next.
And eventually, I started to let go. I stopped, for the most part, rushing to check the mailbox or my email each day. I stopped over-analyzing rejections and worrying about what my more "successful" writer friends had been up to. And instead, I started writing things, and thinking about those things. And once those things got to a point where I didn't think they'd get any better, I would submit them to a magazine or two and then not think much else about it. This may seem improbable, but it's true. I have files on my computer that detail when I sent stuff out and where it went, but I stopped looking at them on a daily basis. I let it all go.
So, I still receive a pretty fair number of rejections every now and then, but lately, honestly, it's been way more good news than bad. And maybe that's helped me maintain this letting go, who knows?
At any rate, back to the good news. Prior to the beginning of this term I had stories accepted at Blue Earth Review, Duck & Herring Co. Pocket Field Guide, 5_Trope, and Red Wheelbarrow. This term, I've had stories accepted at The Sun and The Rambler. Also, I learned I'm going to be a Tennessee Williams Scholar in fiction at this summer's Sewanee Writers' Conference. And now, piece of good writing news number four: I've learned I'm going to be attending the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference on a work-study ("waiter") scholarship.
While this was the first time I applied to Sewanee, this was my third attempt at securing a waiter scholarship at Bread Loaf. The first time, I received a pretty standard rejection. Last year, at the tail end of my "crappy" writing year, I learned I was a finalist but didn't make the cut. This year, though, I did, and, man, am I thrilled.
But just so you know, if I'd read about me last year, during my funk, I would have hated my guts. As is, it's not so bad at all. I'm just hoping I don't die between now and September.
Today, I received my fourth.
I'm feeling, though, I don't know, kind of nervous about putting it up here. In fact, I considered not posting about it at all.
The reason for my reluctance, I think, is mostly due to the fact I've been receiving so much good news lately, and I've thus been posting quite a few entries that say, "Hey, look what cool stuff is happening to me."
I suppose that's an accurate representation of what's been going on in my writing life. It's not, however, an accurate representation of the failures in between successes. I almost never mention rejections on this blog because, well, I don't think it's possible not to sound whiny when mentioning rejections.
I'll make as a general statement instead: I spent almost all of last year (the year, in fact, prior to my starting this blog) in a real funk as far as writing was concerned. It was my first year post-grad school, and while I loved teaching, loved living here in Galesburg, close to various friends and family members, my writing life sucked. I wasn't writing much, and the stories I'd spent the previous year rewriting for my thesis were getting rejected on a very regular basis. Sometimes these rejections included nice little notes; other times they were your standard form rejections, printed on little cards. Those form rejections, which I'd been desensitized to for a while, really started to bother me. It's strange for me to admit this (my friend Ben always says, "You've got to steel yourself against rejection.") but it's true. I'd get annoyed. And then I'd dread the next day's mail delivery.
Then, last summer, I started this blog and I started taking long walks at night. The blog, well, it's been what it's been--some kind of record of what I've been up to: what I've been reading, writing, or teaching, watching on TV, finding online, or, occasionally, what my nieces and nephews have been up to. I've enjoyed keeping it up, and the people who occasionally stop by and leave a comment or send me me an email. The long walks I took last summer, though, did even more, I think, to help get me out of my funk. They were a kind of meditative practice for me. At times, all I did, for the entire hour-and-a-half walk, was repeat in my head, "Let go." I suppose I could have been referencing any number of things, but what I was mostly talking about was the whole business side of writing--submitting things for publication, receiving rejections, worrying about what I was going to do next.
And eventually, I started to let go. I stopped, for the most part, rushing to check the mailbox or my email each day. I stopped over-analyzing rejections and worrying about what my more "successful" writer friends had been up to. And instead, I started writing things, and thinking about those things. And once those things got to a point where I didn't think they'd get any better, I would submit them to a magazine or two and then not think much else about it. This may seem improbable, but it's true. I have files on my computer that detail when I sent stuff out and where it went, but I stopped looking at them on a daily basis. I let it all go.
So, I still receive a pretty fair number of rejections every now and then, but lately, honestly, it's been way more good news than bad. And maybe that's helped me maintain this letting go, who knows?
At any rate, back to the good news. Prior to the beginning of this term I had stories accepted at Blue Earth Review, Duck & Herring Co. Pocket Field Guide, 5_Trope, and Red Wheelbarrow. This term, I've had stories accepted at The Sun and The Rambler. Also, I learned I'm going to be a Tennessee Williams Scholar in fiction at this summer's Sewanee Writers' Conference. And now, piece of good writing news number four: I've learned I'm going to be attending the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference on a work-study ("waiter") scholarship.
While this was the first time I applied to Sewanee, this was my third attempt at securing a waiter scholarship at Bread Loaf. The first time, I received a pretty standard rejection. Last year, at the tail end of my "crappy" writing year, I learned I was a finalist but didn't make the cut. This year, though, I did, and, man, am I thrilled.
But just so you know, if I'd read about me last year, during my funk, I would have hated my guts. As is, it's not so bad at all. I'm just hoping I don't die between now and September.
5.27.2007
Sunday Scribblings--Simple
The theme over at Sunday Scribblings this week is "Simple." Here's my little, written-between-marking-up-student-stories exercise.
Two weeks ago, he used a word generator he found online. The generator coughed up one word at a time, and after he read each word, he wrote it down and then refreshed the screen, waited for his next word to appear. He did this six times, wrote down in pencil on a piece of scratch paper: corral, want, triste, azure, shell, falter, tintinnabulation.
It will be simple, he thought. I will take these seven words and make a story. I will corral them, make them mine.
Fourteen days later, he still wants to write that story.
It's the simplicity of the act that both draws him toward it and prevents him from getting any words on the page. He thinks about the word generator, wonders if there's some word for his predicament. How many times would he have to refresh his screen in order to find it?
He has transferred the seven words from the piece of scratch paper to a white, rectangular dry-erase board that hangs behind his desk. He has written the words on the board in blue block letters.
Sometimes, he gets up from his desk and puts his ear next to those azure words on the dry-erase board and listens to them, as if, like seashells, they might emit sounds. Usually he hears nothing. But sometimes, when his house is very quiet, it's as if he can hear bells. The tintinnabulation of the bells he hears, though, does not make a tinkling sound.
The ringing is slow, sad, and unfaltering.
Some days, he can stand there next to the board and listen to it for hours.
Two weeks ago, he used a word generator he found online. The generator coughed up one word at a time, and after he read each word, he wrote it down and then refreshed the screen, waited for his next word to appear. He did this six times, wrote down in pencil on a piece of scratch paper: corral, want, triste, azure, shell, falter, tintinnabulation.
It will be simple, he thought. I will take these seven words and make a story. I will corral them, make them mine.
Fourteen days later, he still wants to write that story.
It's the simplicity of the act that both draws him toward it and prevents him from getting any words on the page. He thinks about the word generator, wonders if there's some word for his predicament. How many times would he have to refresh his screen in order to find it?
He has transferred the seven words from the piece of scratch paper to a white, rectangular dry-erase board that hangs behind his desk. He has written the words on the board in blue block letters.
Sometimes, he gets up from his desk and puts his ear next to those azure words on the dry-erase board and listens to them, as if, like seashells, they might emit sounds. Usually he hears nothing. But sometimes, when his house is very quiet, it's as if he can hear bells. The tintinnabulation of the bells he hears, though, does not make a tinkling sound.
The ringing is slow, sad, and unfaltering.
Some days, he can stand there next to the board and listen to it for hours.
5.25.2007
Living Room
J.C. was looking at houses online today and came across this picture. The title's post says it's the living room, but it may have been the den. Or the kitchen.
Whatever the case, I figured it would work just fine for this blog-type thing's 200th post. Next week, it's my one-year bloggiversary, or whatever it is the kids are calling it nowadays.
Giddyup.
5.22.2007
Online Finds
1) A Craigslist Experiment: That's My Girl, Asshole.
2) Makes Me Wish I'd Been Documenting These All My Life: Passive-Agressive Notes from Roommates, Neighbors, Coworkers, and Strangers.
Thanks to clusterflock for the links.
2) Makes Me Wish I'd Been Documenting These All My Life: Passive-Agressive Notes from Roommates, Neighbors, Coworkers, and Strangers.
Thanks to clusterflock for the links.
Week Ten
I have two calendars on the wall in my home office.
One of them is a regular ol' month-by-month calendar and features big rigs*--I got it for free when I had my taxes done back in March.
The other calendar is paper-clipped to the the bottom of the big-rig calendar and has a week-by-week outline of my teaching schedule. Since I technically teach only on Monday-Wednesday-Friday, the homemade calendar has only the dates for those days. Next to each week, I have, in parentheses, the week of the term.
And this week is week ten. The last one. As I say on here every now and then, I do love teaching, but I can't wait for this summer. I have a stack of books to read and I stack of stories to write, and the time to do all of that is just around the corner.
* * *
On a related note: I'm thinking about getting myself an end-of-the-term present--an AlphaSmart Neo. Has anyone ever tried one? I've been reading pretty solid reviews of the product online, and then this morning, I was meeting with a student and said I was thinking about getting this little "gadget," and I named it, and he said he'd just gotten one. His review was positive as well. He even offered to let me test-drive it if I'd like.
The only thing keeping me from ordering one right now is remembering all of the baseball-related gadgets I used to buy when my primary goal in life was to play Major League Baseball. I used to scan the ads in the back of Baseball America for all of the latest products--forearm-building devices, thumb pads, pitching machines. Anything that would add a little variety to my training, get me that much closer to my goal.
And I suppose I'd be using the Neo for fairly similar purposes. I even found out about the thing from an ad in Poets & Writers.
*The old calendar I had on the wall came from my mom, who works for a neurologist; it featured seeing-eye dogs. I was really sad to see that one go.
One of them is a regular ol' month-by-month calendar and features big rigs*--I got it for free when I had my taxes done back in March.
The other calendar is paper-clipped to the the bottom of the big-rig calendar and has a week-by-week outline of my teaching schedule. Since I technically teach only on Monday-Wednesday-Friday, the homemade calendar has only the dates for those days. Next to each week, I have, in parentheses, the week of the term.
And this week is week ten. The last one. As I say on here every now and then, I do love teaching, but I can't wait for this summer. I have a stack of books to read and I stack of stories to write, and the time to do all of that is just around the corner.
* * *
On a related note: I'm thinking about getting myself an end-of-the-term present--an AlphaSmart Neo. Has anyone ever tried one? I've been reading pretty solid reviews of the product online, and then this morning, I was meeting with a student and said I was thinking about getting this little "gadget," and I named it, and he said he'd just gotten one. His review was positive as well. He even offered to let me test-drive it if I'd like.
The only thing keeping me from ordering one right now is remembering all of the baseball-related gadgets I used to buy when my primary goal in life was to play Major League Baseball. I used to scan the ads in the back of Baseball America for all of the latest products--forearm-building devices, thumb pads, pitching machines. Anything that would add a little variety to my training, get me that much closer to my goal.
And I suppose I'd be using the Neo for fairly similar purposes. I even found out about the thing from an ad in Poets & Writers.
*The old calendar I had on the wall came from my mom, who works for a neurologist; it featured seeing-eye dogs. I was really sad to see that one go.
5.20.2007
Process
Earlier this term I was meeting with a kick-ass student writer whose story had recently been workshopped. We were discussing what had come out of the workshop--the stuff that had been useful, the stuff that was maybe a little less-than-useful--and at one point she said, "I don't know. I really don't like this story." I wondered what she meant, because I thought the story was really quite decent, so I asked her as much. She responded by saying that even though the story had been through a number of drafts, she only ever really remembers the first draft of any story, and that the first draft for the story we were discussing was terrible.
I thought this was incredibly odd, though definitely worth thinking about. For me, by the time I get to a finished draft, I've wholly wiped out whatever existed before it. I tend to forget that the story had a different beginning, the sentences were sloppier, that some character hadn't even been a part of the thing.
Because of this, I also tend to often censor myself and/or have a hard time getting started on early drafts, because I think they're absolutely terrible compared to the last thing I was working on, even though, in actuality, that old, finished story was easily as terrible in its early stages as the thing I'm currently working on.
* * *
Friday, I went to see the poet Jen Tynes, an alumna of the school where I teach, read. She was pretty great--and she writes just the kind of poetry I really like to read/listen to.
At any rate, I was listening to her read, and at one point between poems, I looked out the window near where I was sitting. The building we were in was old, and had those old, warped windows. It got me thinking about a story I might like to write, and so I pulled a manilla folder out of my bag and wrote down:
"We lived in a house with those panes of glass that are warped.
wavy world
[something personal]
We didn't know what we were doing.
We expected to look outside and see x
just a tree, a sidewalk, a man walking his dog"
So that was the beginning of the thing. Later that night, I sat down without the above notes to work on the story that I had kind of begun working on. After a couple more drafts, here's where it currently stands.
* * *
Glass
The house’s windows were old, warped—nothing looked right through them.
We were curious enough to look it up on the Internet at the library, and we learned the wavy outside we saw was caused not by the flow of glass over time—by years of a gradual, continuous, invisible trickle—but by the glass’ imperfections. A perfectly flat pane of glass, we found out, wasn’t invented all that long ago.
XXXXX
I finished another revision of this and have since decided to send it out into the world, so I'm pulling it from the blog. Should it appear anywhere, I'll be sure to let y'all know.
I thought this was incredibly odd, though definitely worth thinking about. For me, by the time I get to a finished draft, I've wholly wiped out whatever existed before it. I tend to forget that the story had a different beginning, the sentences were sloppier, that some character hadn't even been a part of the thing.
Because of this, I also tend to often censor myself and/or have a hard time getting started on early drafts, because I think they're absolutely terrible compared to the last thing I was working on, even though, in actuality, that old, finished story was easily as terrible in its early stages as the thing I'm currently working on.
* * *
Friday, I went to see the poet Jen Tynes, an alumna of the school where I teach, read. She was pretty great--and she writes just the kind of poetry I really like to read/listen to.
At any rate, I was listening to her read, and at one point between poems, I looked out the window near where I was sitting. The building we were in was old, and had those old, warped windows. It got me thinking about a story I might like to write, and so I pulled a manilla folder out of my bag and wrote down:
"We lived in a house with those panes of glass that are warped.
wavy world
[something personal]
We didn't know what we were doing.
We expected to look outside and see x
just a tree, a sidewalk, a man walking his dog"
So that was the beginning of the thing. Later that night, I sat down without the above notes to work on the story that I had kind of begun working on. After a couple more drafts, here's where it currently stands.
* * *
Glass
The house’s windows were old, warped—nothing looked right through them.
We were curious enough to look it up on the Internet at the library, and we learned the wavy outside we saw was caused not by the flow of glass over time—by years of a gradual, continuous, invisible trickle—but by the glass’ imperfections. A perfectly flat pane of glass, we found out, wasn’t invented all that long ago.
XXXXX
I finished another revision of this and have since decided to send it out into the world, so I'm pulling it from the blog. Should it appear anywhere, I'll be sure to let y'all know.
Treasure
J.C. called her mom when we were on our way to Peoria yesterday to celebrate our anniversary, and a few minutes into the conversation, my nephew D. wanted to talk to her.
He'd been reading stories on the internet about the treasure found on the sunken British warship--the $500 million in gold coins. D. knew J.C. writes articles for a newspaper, and he wanted to know if she'd written the one about all those coins.
J.C. thought it was cute that a) D. thinks of her when he reads any old newspaper article and b) he was so excited about the treasure.
I said, "What treasure? Where did they find it? How much is it worth? Were pirates involved?"
I really do love my job, and I tend to say there's nothing I would rather do, but if I had to do something else...I would love to work on one of those crews that looks for treasures.
In fact, it's hard for me to believe there are actually adults who get paid to do this kind of thing.
He'd been reading stories on the internet about the treasure found on the sunken British warship--the $500 million in gold coins. D. knew J.C. writes articles for a newspaper, and he wanted to know if she'd written the one about all those coins.
J.C. thought it was cute that a) D. thinks of her when he reads any old newspaper article and b) he was so excited about the treasure.
I said, "What treasure? Where did they find it? How much is it worth? Were pirates involved?"
I really do love my job, and I tend to say there's nothing I would rather do, but if I had to do something else...I would love to work on one of those crews that looks for treasures.
In fact, it's hard for me to believe there are actually adults who get paid to do this kind of thing.
5.18.2007
Duck & Herring
Received word in an e-mail yesterday that the Duck and Herring Co. Warm Weather Pocket Field Guide, which contains my essay "The Perseids," is out now.
You can find an old one-sentence teaser here.
And here's a new, three-sentence teaser:
"We both talked a lot about being writers then but didn’t ever spend much time actually writing, and we were silent as we drank beer and watched the computer screen. I can’t say what Jane was thinking about, but I was thinking about how I could use the experience we were going to have in the morning. I was thinking about a drunken but lovable husband whose wife is going to leave him. "
Why don't you pick up a copy?
You can find an old one-sentence teaser here.
And here's a new, three-sentence teaser:
"We both talked a lot about being writers then but didn’t ever spend much time actually writing, and we were silent as we drank beer and watched the computer screen. I can’t say what Jane was thinking about, but I was thinking about how I could use the experience we were going to have in the morning. I was thinking about a drunken but lovable husband whose wife is going to leave him. "
Why don't you pick up a copy?
5.16.2007
Uh-Oh: More Good News
I suppose this post's title is backwards.
First, the good news: I recently got word that a story of mine has been accepted for publication at The Rambler. So, you know, I'm pretty stoked and all that. It's a long story, too, clocking in at about 6300 words.
I got the email just before I went off to teach Intro to Lit on Friday, and while I didn't bother my students with the details, before class started, I mentioned that I'd received another good piece of "writing news." I then realized that it was my third really decent piece of "writing news" in about seven weeks.
And when has that ever happened to me? I don't think it ever has.
So, it's something to be happy, even grateful for, without a doubt, as far as writing business is concerned.
The "problem" is this: I'm almost out of finished stories.
I have four short pieces from that chapbook I put together that are floating around at a few places, and one "regular" story that I just started sending out, but other than that, I'm tapped. Which has me feeling, well, not upset or anything, but certainly awkward. I know this is hardly a thing to "complain" about, as I honestly feel lucky, even blessed (though I'm not a big fan of that word, especially when referring to a somewhat self-indulgent situation like the one I'm describing), whenever anyone responds positively to something I've written. It's just that I've been so used to sending out handfuls of stories at the same time, I'm not quite sure what to do.
I have lots of starts, though, and lots of scenes, and plenty of stories I've been quite literally itching to get to. Plus, there's the YA novel I'm going to tackle in earnest again come June.
I'm kind of looking forward to this metaphorical blank slate I have in front of me. Well, it's not wholly blank, in that I'm still technically putting together a collection of stories, but it's blank in that I don't have to worry at all for a while about the rest of them, the ones that are waiting to come out in magazines. And it's been a while--at least since my second or so semester of grad school--since I've had this kind of freedom.
Maybe I don't need that 'uh-oh' in the post's title after all.
First, the good news: I recently got word that a story of mine has been accepted for publication at The Rambler. So, you know, I'm pretty stoked and all that. It's a long story, too, clocking in at about 6300 words.
I got the email just before I went off to teach Intro to Lit on Friday, and while I didn't bother my students with the details, before class started, I mentioned that I'd received another good piece of "writing news." I then realized that it was my third really decent piece of "writing news" in about seven weeks.
And when has that ever happened to me? I don't think it ever has.
So, it's something to be happy, even grateful for, without a doubt, as far as writing business is concerned.
The "problem" is this: I'm almost out of finished stories.
I have four short pieces from that chapbook I put together that are floating around at a few places, and one "regular" story that I just started sending out, but other than that, I'm tapped. Which has me feeling, well, not upset or anything, but certainly awkward. I know this is hardly a thing to "complain" about, as I honestly feel lucky, even blessed (though I'm not a big fan of that word, especially when referring to a somewhat self-indulgent situation like the one I'm describing), whenever anyone responds positively to something I've written. It's just that I've been so used to sending out handfuls of stories at the same time, I'm not quite sure what to do.
I have lots of starts, though, and lots of scenes, and plenty of stories I've been quite literally itching to get to. Plus, there's the YA novel I'm going to tackle in earnest again come June.
I'm kind of looking forward to this metaphorical blank slate I have in front of me. Well, it's not wholly blank, in that I'm still technically putting together a collection of stories, but it's blank in that I don't have to worry at all for a while about the rest of them, the ones that are waiting to come out in magazines. And it's been a while--at least since my second or so semester of grad school--since I've had this kind of freedom.
Maybe I don't need that 'uh-oh' in the post's title after all.
5.11.2007
The Umbrella
I was over at Twitches' blog a while back and read about how she often posts poems that are pretty old. I'd always thought she was remarkably productive, but, apparently, I was wrong. So, she admitted that she posts old work and is often unconcerned about whether or not it's any "good." I admire that kind of thinking, and believe it's pretty much necessary to get down on paper plenty of the bad and the ugly if we're ever going to find anything truly worth exploring.
In that vein of thinking, I suppose, I'm going to put up a little flash fiction I wrote, um, almost ten years ago. It was published in my undergrad literary magazine, in fact, exactly nine years ago last week.
As for the odd paragraph breaks, I'd recently read Mark Costello's "Murphy's Xmas," and was obviously imitating him, though because the story is formatted in "blogger-mode," the paragraph breaks don't quite look the way they should. Other influences shouldn't be all that tough to figure out.
* * *
The Umbrella
Posso a usare il ombrello, per favore, Signore?
Si, prego. Ma pensi che pioverai?
Certo. Grazie.
They rounded the corner of Via Corso and headed down
the narrow, cobblestoned street
toward the English pub. As the mist became rain
the young man positioned the umbrella ahead and released its black canopy. The young woman hurried beneath it and touched his arm.
A block before the bar, she pulled him beneath the roof's overhang and kissed him hard on the mouth.
The rain was forming large, dark puddles on the street. Beneath the overhang
he positioned the umbrella to the side and held it low.
Kiss me again, she said.
Let's go. They're waiting.
I don't want to go. She looked down at the retracted umbrella and paused. You still don't think I like you, do you? He kissed her
behind the ear.
Why can't you accept that I like you? And she pulled
his face to hers.
Soon after, they turned back toward his apartment, letting the rain wet their heads.
The next morning at breakfast, the Signore commented that the young man was very intelligent for taking the umbrella out the night before. He smiled and touched his finger to his temple. And the young man was certain
that the girl who waited quietly in his room did not like him in the least.
In that vein of thinking, I suppose, I'm going to put up a little flash fiction I wrote, um, almost ten years ago. It was published in my undergrad literary magazine, in fact, exactly nine years ago last week.
As for the odd paragraph breaks, I'd recently read Mark Costello's "Murphy's Xmas," and was obviously imitating him, though because the story is formatted in "blogger-mode," the paragraph breaks don't quite look the way they should. Other influences shouldn't be all that tough to figure out.
* * *
The Umbrella
Posso a usare il ombrello, per favore, Signore?
Si, prego. Ma pensi che pioverai?
Certo. Grazie.
They rounded the corner of Via Corso and headed down
the narrow, cobblestoned street
toward the English pub. As the mist became rain
the young man positioned the umbrella ahead and released its black canopy. The young woman hurried beneath it and touched his arm.
A block before the bar, she pulled him beneath the roof's overhang and kissed him hard on the mouth.
The rain was forming large, dark puddles on the street. Beneath the overhang
he positioned the umbrella to the side and held it low.
Kiss me again, she said.
Let's go. They're waiting.
I don't want to go. She looked down at the retracted umbrella and paused. You still don't think I like you, do you? He kissed her
behind the ear.
Why can't you accept that I like you? And she pulled
his face to hers.
Soon after, they turned back toward his apartment, letting the rain wet their heads.
The next morning at breakfast, the Signore commented that the young man was very intelligent for taking the umbrella out the night before. He smiled and touched his finger to his temple. And the young man was certain
that the girl who waited quietly in his room did not like him in the least.
5.07.2007
Blue Earth Review
The Spring 2007 issue of Blue Earth Review, which contains my story "Amtrak," arrived via post today.
It's a fairly enormous book, and quite handsome.
Consider getting a copy, especially if you're a fan of flash fiction; there's loads of it in there.
It's a fairly enormous book, and quite handsome.
Consider getting a copy, especially if you're a fan of flash fiction; there's loads of it in there.
5.06.2007
Sunday Scribblings--Ocean
The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings this week is "Ocean." I've been busy with student manuscripts this morning, but on a couple ten-minute breaks, I started writing on the prompt and figure I might as well throw the beginnings of my scribblings up here on the blog; it has been a while since I posted any sort of fiction.
It was the first time any of us had seen the ocean, the first time we'd been south of Louisville. We drove for most of two days--Bobby up front with his mom, Spit and me in back--all the way from Warsaw, Indiana, to Naples, Florida. The radio was tuned to classic rock, and Bobby's mom sang along with the chorus of every song and beat the palms of her hands at ten-and-two on the steering wheel. Bobby would turn around to look at us and roll his eyes, but Spit and I were too busy looking out the windows--in Kentucky, Tennessee, even all the way through Georgia--for the ocean.
In Indiana, we had rivers, the kind you could walk across in summer, and though we'd seen plenty of the ocean on TV, it was a hard thing for us to imagine. Bobby's mom said it was like a miracle. "All that blue," she said. "And dolphins. There are dolphins everywhere."
It was the first time any of us had seen the ocean, the first time we'd been south of Louisville. We drove for most of two days--Bobby up front with his mom, Spit and me in back--all the way from Warsaw, Indiana, to Naples, Florida. The radio was tuned to classic rock, and Bobby's mom sang along with the chorus of every song and beat the palms of her hands at ten-and-two on the steering wheel. Bobby would turn around to look at us and roll his eyes, but Spit and I were too busy looking out the windows--in Kentucky, Tennessee, even all the way through Georgia--for the ocean.
In Indiana, we had rivers, the kind you could walk across in summer, and though we'd seen plenty of the ocean on TV, it was a hard thing for us to imagine. Bobby's mom said it was like a miracle. "All that blue," she said. "And dolphins. There are dolphins everywhere."
5.04.2007
Pre-Order
May 15th is going to be a good day for fiction.
J.C. re-gifted me some gift certificates, and I spent the last half-hour or so online, ordering the following books, all of which will be officially released on that day:
Varieties of Disturbance: Stories, Lydia Davis
Falling Man, Don DeLillo
No One Belongs Here More Than You, Miranda July
I still haven't read all of the books that were a part of my previous book orders, but, man, am I excited about this one. Once the term is over, I think I'm going to read them one-by-one.
J.C. re-gifted me some gift certificates, and I spent the last half-hour or so online, ordering the following books, all of which will be officially released on that day:
Varieties of Disturbance: Stories, Lydia Davis
Falling Man, Don DeLillo
No One Belongs Here More Than You, Miranda July
I still haven't read all of the books that were a part of my previous book orders, but, man, am I excited about this one. Once the term is over, I think I'm going to read them one-by-one.
Happy Birthday To Me
#1--Just attended the Junot Diaz and Helena Maria Viramontes reading, and it was solid. The highlight for me was Diaz reading from "Nilda," my favorite story of his.
J.C. used to say, when she liked a story a lot, "I'd wear that story on a T-shirt."
I'd have "Nilda" tattooed on my back.
#2--Received a letter in the mail today that began like this:
Dear Chad Simpson:
We are pleased to offer you a Tennessee Williams Scholarship in fiction for the 2007 session of the Sewanee Writers' Conference.
* * *
The week's had other highlights, of course, but these two things rank pretty highly among them.
J.C. used to say, when she liked a story a lot, "I'd wear that story on a T-shirt."
I'd have "Nilda" tattooed on my back.
#2--Received a letter in the mail today that began like this:
Dear Chad Simpson:
We are pleased to offer you a Tennessee Williams Scholarship in fiction for the 2007 session of the Sewanee Writers' Conference.
* * *
The week's had other highlights, of course, but these two things rank pretty highly among them.
Proofreader
May's Hobart is live, and it includes some very cool stories by Laura van den Berg and Jeff Landon, among others.
Go check it out.
Go check it out.
Knox College
This afternoon, readings by Junot Diaz & Helena Maria Viramontes.
We've had a number of pretty great writers here in the past two years, but I don't think I've ever looked forward to a reading quite as much as I am this one.
We've had a number of pretty great writers here in the past two years, but I don't think I've ever looked forward to a reading quite as much as I am this one.
5.02.2007
31
Oddly, this is a better birthday video than "Roy Rules."
For those of you who may not know, it's Bright Eyes' "At the Bottom of Everything."
5.01.2007
Two Beer Cans, Tuna, Knife
I read an interview with the writer Russell Banks several years ago in which he described how he read several newspapers a day and clipped memorable articles from them for use in his fiction. I still have my own journal around here stuffed with newspaper articles (most of which, oddly, involve John Glenn's trek into space about nine years ago--for a project I long ago abandoned but should probably get back to sometime) but I kind of stopped clipping newspaper articles soon after Glenn made it safely back to Earth. Lately, in fact, I barely find time to read the paper.
I came across this article recently, though, which I definitely think has some potential. The seed of something, at any rate, is there.
Couple Finds Woman Asleep on Their Couch
Monday, April 30, 2007
RIO - Paul T. Qualls and Amber N. Stephens, both of 423 Knox Road 2350N, told police they returned home at 12:40 a.m. Sunday to find a woman asleep on their couch.
Qualls told police they found a beer can on the back porch. The couple knew something was amiss since neither of them drinks beer.
The couple found another beer can and a can of tuna in the kitchen. Qualls found a knife in the sink that police believe was used to open the tuna can.
After Qualls told the woman to leave his residence, the woman departed on foot.
Qualls said the same woman entered their home in January and told him she was hooked on crack cocaine.
The woman is described as 5-foot-6, 130 pounds, with blonde, shoulder-length hair.
The part I find most intriguing is that it's the second time this couple has seen the woman.
If this blog had more readers, I'd hold a contest for the best story--1000 words max--tangentially related to the above story. I know I'd like to get started on one.
I came across this article recently, though, which I definitely think has some potential. The seed of something, at any rate, is there.
Couple Finds Woman Asleep on Their Couch
Monday, April 30, 2007
RIO - Paul T. Qualls and Amber N. Stephens, both of 423 Knox Road 2350N, told police they returned home at 12:40 a.m. Sunday to find a woman asleep on their couch.
Qualls told police they found a beer can on the back porch. The couple knew something was amiss since neither of them drinks beer.
The couple found another beer can and a can of tuna in the kitchen. Qualls found a knife in the sink that police believe was used to open the tuna can.
After Qualls told the woman to leave his residence, the woman departed on foot.
Qualls said the same woman entered their home in January and told him she was hooked on crack cocaine.
The woman is described as 5-foot-6, 130 pounds, with blonde, shoulder-length hair.
The part I find most intriguing is that it's the second time this couple has seen the woman.
If this blog had more readers, I'd hold a contest for the best story--1000 words max--tangentially related to the above story. I know I'd like to get started on one.
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