Thanks to Issue 13 of McSweeney's, I was introduced to the work of John Porcellino, author of, among other things, King-Cat Comics. At the time, I wasn't all that familiar with comics and/or graphic novels--I think I'd read only Christopher Ware's novel, and Porcellino's work, like Ware's, was different than anything I'd ever seen. I was really drawn to it (pardon the pun) and immediately wrote a kind of imitation.
The problem, though, was that I can't/couldn't draw at all.
So, I sat on the story and figured someday I'd find a collaborator. Last year, I considered sending out an email to the art majors at Knox, but I never followed through with it, because, honestly, I wasn't sure I wanted to mess with all the work that can ensue during a collaboration.
While I was at Bread Loaf, though, I met a writer of fiction, poetry, non-fiction, and, yes, comics, named Amanda Nazario. During an email exchange after the conference, I told her about that I'd written a comic a few years ago that had no pictures and asked her if she'd like to work on it. She said she would, and she offered several notes right away. She told me how she envisioned the guy, his apartment, all these little details, and they were pretty much exactly in line with what I'd imagined. Then she got to work drawing.
The results of her efforts arrived in the mail today, and I have to say, I think it's pretty cool. I have, oh, I'm not sure how many copies, but if you want one, I'd be glad to mail it to you. For free, of course. Just e-mail me your address, and, eventually, I'll get it sent.
I've already finished writing comic story number 2 and I'm working on numbers 3 & 4, and, if I can get Amanda to keep working with me, I'm curious (and excited) to see how they'll all turn out.
9.28.2007
9.25.2007
Flattering...
Because I'm surrounded by some amazing people. I could list off their names and accomplishments, and just how awesome I think everybody in this photograph is, but it would somehow defeat the purpose. So, I'll just let it be.*
*And Amy, this doesn't mean I love the Sewanee folks any less; all it means is that I have no decent pictures of y'all.
9.19.2007
Forthcoming
A while back, I saw that Barrelhouse put out a call for "Dive Bar Stories," and I knew right away that I wanted to write one and submit it--for two reasons: The more obvious one--Barrelhouse has been doing some great work for the last couple years, putting out a great magazine. The less obvious one (at least to you, that is)--I didn't have a specific dive bar story I wanted to tell, but I had a particular dive bar I wanted to write about.
Well, there was a story I pretty much wanted to get at, and I wanted to get at it by way of a particular bar, but I wasn't quite sure how to go about it. What I did: I took my laptop to the bar one afternoon while the Cubs were playing. On my way from the parking lot to the bar, I ran into a former student, and we chatted for a bit, and I told him over the course of our conversation about my plan to go to the bar to write for a while. He chuckled like I was telling a joke, and I didn't bother to let him know that I was telling the truth.
I ended up doing just as I planned--going to the bar, ordering a Coors Light, and starting the essay. I wrote a couple thousand words that afternoon and eventually went home and then spent the next few days away from the bar, shaping what I'd written.
And the good news: My essay "Home of the Poor and Unknown" is forthcoming in the next issue of Barrelhouse.
I couldn't be happier, though I'm a little worried some part of my brain is going to start encouraging me to write in bars while drinking more frequently.
Well, there was a story I pretty much wanted to get at, and I wanted to get at it by way of a particular bar, but I wasn't quite sure how to go about it. What I did: I took my laptop to the bar one afternoon while the Cubs were playing. On my way from the parking lot to the bar, I ran into a former student, and we chatted for a bit, and I told him over the course of our conversation about my plan to go to the bar to write for a while. He chuckled like I was telling a joke, and I didn't bother to let him know that I was telling the truth.
I ended up doing just as I planned--going to the bar, ordering a Coors Light, and starting the essay. I wrote a couple thousand words that afternoon and eventually went home and then spent the next few days away from the bar, shaping what I'd written.
And the good news: My essay "Home of the Poor and Unknown" is forthcoming in the next issue of Barrelhouse.
I couldn't be happier, though I'm a little worried some part of my brain is going to start encouraging me to write in bars while drinking more frequently.
Slightly More Flattering...
(because it's dimly lit):
The first night my fellow waiters and I didn't have to serve dinner at Bread Loaf, we hightailed it to Middlebury so that we could sit down at a restaurant and have people wait on us.
This is me after that dinner, hanging with Justin Torres, in a photo taken by Emily P.
I got the great chance to meet and hang out with a lot of terribly talented writers this summer, and I think Justin T.'s work may have impressed me more than anybody else's.
And since I'm posting a photo, a reminder: J.C.'s been pretty impressive at keeping up with our photoblog. You can check it out here.
The first night my fellow waiters and I didn't have to serve dinner at Bread Loaf, we hightailed it to Middlebury so that we could sit down at a restaurant and have people wait on us.
This is me after that dinner, hanging with Justin Torres, in a photo taken by Emily P.
I got the great chance to meet and hang out with a lot of terribly talented writers this summer, and I think Justin T.'s work may have impressed me more than anybody else's.
And since I'm posting a photo, a reminder: J.C.'s been pretty impressive at keeping up with our photoblog. You can check it out here.
9.17.2007
Wow
The latest issue of elimae celebrates the best of the online journal's archives from 1996-2004 and includes work by Brian Evenson, Diane Williams, Gary Lutz, Norman Lock, Stephen Ausherman, and Matthew Derby.
The list goes on, but I'll let you discover the rest for yourselves.
The list goes on, but I'll let you discover the rest for yourselves.
9.14.2007
9.12.2007
Unflattering
This is (from left to right) Me, Emily, and Shane on our third and final night as part of Team Bus at Bread Loaf. My glasses are sliding down my nose, and I'm sweaty and smell like bleach, but I actually had some of my favorite moments at the conference back there in the kitchen, scraping food from plates into the compost can and singing, "Ain't to Proud to Bus" (to the tune of TLC's "Ain't to Proud to Beg") & "Bussin'" (to the tune of The Grateful Dead's "Truckin'"). Seriously, it was a good time.
And since I'm in a photography frame of mind: J.C. and I are starting a little photo blog. It's still in its nascent stages, but if you'd like to, you can check it out here.
I'll be posting another Bread Loaf photo or two here in the next couple days. Hopefully, I'll look a little better in them than I do in this one.
9.06.2007
September 6, 2007
It's the official end of my summer: school starts today. I'm really looking forward to it. To hanging out with students and talking about books and stories and poems and what they're writing. To having a schedule. To getting back to writing.
And since Steph was kindly enough to ask: I'm teaching Introduction to Literature & Beginning Fiction Writing. I pretty much love teaching both of them, especially Beginning Fiction, which I haven't taught since last fall. To celebrate, and to show in a way how much I appreciate the ways in which my students lay it all out there, I'm going to do a bit of self-exposure here, by putting up a story that I wrote as an undergrad. I did this a while back, and I could link to it, but I don't feel like digging through my archives right now. So, here's the story--my impulse, of course, is to edit it, but I'm putting it up pretty much the way it appeared in my undergrad literary magazine.
The Girl Who Lives Beneath Me
At the English Pub, Maria, an American, watched the shadows play on on the wall. The bartenders spun statues hanging from the ceiling in front of bright tract lights and kept the shadows constantly moving. One was a tribal version of "The Thinker" that twirled and made the shadow of a large cylinder. The other was a man who sat in the middle of two curved pieces of wood. It made a shadow that looked like an enormous eye on the wall.
Maria sipped her cider and mostly watched the wall--the cylinder, the large eye.
Another American, Paul, was telling stories and a crowd soon began to gather. He spoke entirely in English and both the Italians and the Americans watched and listened as he spoke.
Maria was fascinated and moved her stool close to where Paul would raise his arms and gesture.
Soon, the crowd fell away and Maria was left with Paul.
He spoke of his European travels and marveled her with strange Machiavellian philosophies, which she did not recognize.
"And men in general judge more by their eyes than their hands; for everyone can see but few feel. Everyone sees what you seem to be, few touch upon what you are," he said.
Maria thought he was sincere, and she wanted to go home with him. When he asked her to, she got up immediately.
At his apartment, the boy talked more about how to be a prince, but Maria began to feel he was being less than sincere.
When she returned from the bathroom, he undid his pants and said, "Why don't you give me head now?"
She thought for some time before making her decision.
* * *
And another thing I'm looking forward to, besides the beginning of school: I hear George Saunders is going to be on Letterman tonight.
I think it's pretty awesome and all, but it also makes me wonder: Is that how it works--one of the best short story writers we got has to write a book of non-fiction in order to guest on the talk-show circuit?
At any rate, I'll be tuning in.
Update: The super-cool author of Ovenman, Jeff Parker, has a little essay-type-thing about both George Saunders and his appearance on Letterman over at the Emerging Writers' Network blog. You can check it out here.
And since Steph was kindly enough to ask: I'm teaching Introduction to Literature & Beginning Fiction Writing. I pretty much love teaching both of them, especially Beginning Fiction, which I haven't taught since last fall. To celebrate, and to show in a way how much I appreciate the ways in which my students lay it all out there, I'm going to do a bit of self-exposure here, by putting up a story that I wrote as an undergrad. I did this a while back, and I could link to it, but I don't feel like digging through my archives right now. So, here's the story--my impulse, of course, is to edit it, but I'm putting it up pretty much the way it appeared in my undergrad literary magazine.
The Girl Who Lives Beneath Me
At the English Pub, Maria, an American, watched the shadows play on on the wall. The bartenders spun statues hanging from the ceiling in front of bright tract lights and kept the shadows constantly moving. One was a tribal version of "The Thinker" that twirled and made the shadow of a large cylinder. The other was a man who sat in the middle of two curved pieces of wood. It made a shadow that looked like an enormous eye on the wall.
Maria sipped her cider and mostly watched the wall--the cylinder, the large eye.
Another American, Paul, was telling stories and a crowd soon began to gather. He spoke entirely in English and both the Italians and the Americans watched and listened as he spoke.
Maria was fascinated and moved her stool close to where Paul would raise his arms and gesture.
Soon, the crowd fell away and Maria was left with Paul.
He spoke of his European travels and marveled her with strange Machiavellian philosophies, which she did not recognize.
"And men in general judge more by their eyes than their hands; for everyone can see but few feel. Everyone sees what you seem to be, few touch upon what you are," he said.
Maria thought he was sincere, and she wanted to go home with him. When he asked her to, she got up immediately.
At his apartment, the boy talked more about how to be a prince, but Maria began to feel he was being less than sincere.
When she returned from the bathroom, he undid his pants and said, "Why don't you give me head now?"
She thought for some time before making her decision.
* * *
And another thing I'm looking forward to, besides the beginning of school: I hear George Saunders is going to be on Letterman tonight.
I think it's pretty awesome and all, but it also makes me wonder: Is that how it works--one of the best short story writers we got has to write a book of non-fiction in order to guest on the talk-show circuit?
At any rate, I'll be tuning in.
Update: The super-cool author of Ovenman, Jeff Parker, has a little essay-type-thing about both George Saunders and his appearance on Letterman over at the Emerging Writers' Network blog. You can check it out here.
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