Back when I was in high school and just starting college, I loved R.E.M.
When I would talk music with new friends, pretty much every time I brought up my fondness for R.E.M., someone would say, "What about U2? Don't you love U2?" I liked a couple songs by U2, but I never liked the group enough to actually pick up one of their CD's. Maybe if I'd actually listened to a CD--and not just the songs that played on the radio or MTV--I would have liked them. I mean, if I based my liking R.E.M. solely on what was played by them on the radio or MTV, I doubt I ever would have bought one of their albums either.
In grad school, whenever there were a few of us talking music, someone would bring up Tom Waits. It was like some kind of given, that if you wrote fiction or poetry and/or studied literature, you had to like Tom Waits.
I'm pretty sure, though, that I've never heard a Tom Waits song. And he's one of those artists whose catalogue of music intimidates me--because I have no idea where to start listening. And so, I never have.
Tonight, while doing that kind of pre-bedtime Internet browsing I tend to do sometimes, I came across this little poem by Simone Muench, which appears in an old issue of Words on Walls. I imagine the author has the South in mind, but the poem makes me think about my Midwest, and it makes me think rather fondly of it, makes me glad I'm around here. It makes me, too, want to know where to start when it comes to listening to Tom Waits. Anybody have any ideas?
Tom Waits, I Hate You--
the way your voice snags
my skin when I’m waltzing
through a coffee shop, for the thousand
crows caught in your throat,
how it rains
every time I play “Tom Traubert’s Blues.”
I hate you for every Valentine you never sent.
Call me indigo, azure, cerulean; call me
every shade of blue for being born
two decades after you.
I hate you for every cornfield, filling
station, phone booth I’ve passed with my feet
on the dash, listening to you pluck
nightingales from a piano; writhing
as if it were my ribcage being played
beneath a moon that is no grapefruit,
but the bottom of a shot glass.
For every bad relationship, every dead pet,
and every car I’ve wrecked
into light posts trying to tune you out;
for all the lost radios, Walkmans
tossed over bridges--still the sound of you
rising from water like a prayer at midday,
or the ragged song of cicadas
tugging frogs out of watery homes.
For every lounge lizard, raindog, barfly
I've met; for every vinyl booth I’ve been pushed
into by a boy with a bad haircut;
for every man I’ve fucked
according to the angle of his chin
or the color of his coat.
Tom Waits, I hate you.
Well, the night is too dark
for dreaming; the barman bellows out
last call; and you’ve turned me into a gun-
street girl with a pistol and a grudge
and an alligator belt, a pocket
full of love letters
that have never been sent.
Collected in The Air Lost in Breathing
*The random blog-post title comes from the name of a friend of mine's blog. His blog is still empty, but he may be putting up some poems soon, and if he ever does, you should go and check him out. I'll keep you updated.
3.27.2007
3.24.2007
Via Chicago
The term began, and then I fell behind on Saluki week, and then the Salukis lost. I've always hated Kansas.
I have a couple other Saluki-week posts prepared, which I'll get up in the next week or two. We'll call it Saluki spring or something.
As of this morning--or last night at midnight--J.C. turned thirty. We'll be the same age for about five weeks. And in an hour or two, we're heading off to Chicago via train for the weekend, to eat some good food and wander around some bookstores and art galleries.
Oh--and I got some more good publishing news this week: The Sun is going to publish a story of mine. I've always liked this magazine--and used to buy issues every now and then at Rosetta News down in Carbondale.
When I got the news, and forwarded the email to J.C., I actually used the word "Woot." I'd heard students use that word, but I don't think I'd ever typed it out before myself. I'm not even sure what it means. At any rate, I was excited, and it came right out of my keyboard.
I have a couple other Saluki-week posts prepared, which I'll get up in the next week or two. We'll call it Saluki spring or something.
As of this morning--or last night at midnight--J.C. turned thirty. We'll be the same age for about five weeks. And in an hour or two, we're heading off to Chicago via train for the weekend, to eat some good food and wander around some bookstores and art galleries.
Oh--and I got some more good publishing news this week: The Sun is going to publish a story of mine. I've always liked this magazine--and used to buy issues every now and then at Rosetta News down in Carbondale.
When I got the news, and forwarded the email to J.C., I actually used the word "Woot." I'd heard students use that word, but I don't think I'd ever typed it out before myself. I'm not even sure what it means. At any rate, I was excited, and it came right out of my keyboard.
3.19.2007
Saluki Week--Curtis L. Crisler
In honor of Southern Illinois University Carbondale's men's basketball team making it to the Sweet Sixteen (Go Salukis!), I'm going to shine a little light on my alma mater this week.
I could spend the time and space talking about the basketball team--easily my favorite college team (and, man, do I love college basketball; these past four days are pretty much my favorite four days of the year). I've been watching them for the past five years, and I even had one of the starters as a student in the first class I ever taught (I won't say his name because, you know, this is a blog, but he was an awesome student, and I've loved watching him play ever since he started getting PT as a sophomore.)
No, instead of basketball, I'm going to focus on the MFA program at SIUC, which turned ten years old this year.
While I was watching the SIUC basketball game yesterday, the announcers mentioned fundraising, and how the basketball team used to hold car washes to help them pay for their travel expenses. That kind of sensibility is pretty much exactly why I chose to attend the MFA program there.
But the truth is, besides that kind of sensibility, there's some great work being done down in Carbondale--and out of Carbondale, by people who've attended the program over the past ten years--and this week I'm going to highlight a couple of them.
Up first is Curtis Crisler. Curtis is a poet, and he was on his way out (as a third-year student) when I was on my way in (as a first-year student), but we still chatted quite a bit. I even have in my home office a signed galley of a poem of his that appeared in Callalloo. In short, Curtis is a very cool guy, and a pretty great poet, and his first book (which arrived at my house the other day) is out now.
It's called Tough Boy Sonatas. As far as I know, the book fairly resembles Curtis' thesis--a book of poems--but it's been marketed as a young adult novel, and the tough, gorgeous poems are now accompanied by gorgeous illustrations by Floyd Cooper. Really, if I had a young adult around, this is exactly the kind of book I would want him or her reading. In fact, I may have to order an extra copy for my nephew D, who will, soon enough, be a young adult.
But the book, of course, like most things marketed to young adults, isn't just for them. The poems are wise, hip, and full of truth and compassion, and everybody should check it out.
I mean, when was the last time you read a book with pictures?
I could spend the time and space talking about the basketball team--easily my favorite college team (and, man, do I love college basketball; these past four days are pretty much my favorite four days of the year). I've been watching them for the past five years, and I even had one of the starters as a student in the first class I ever taught (I won't say his name because, you know, this is a blog, but he was an awesome student, and I've loved watching him play ever since he started getting PT as a sophomore.)
No, instead of basketball, I'm going to focus on the MFA program at SIUC, which turned ten years old this year.
While I was watching the SIUC basketball game yesterday, the announcers mentioned fundraising, and how the basketball team used to hold car washes to help them pay for their travel expenses. That kind of sensibility is pretty much exactly why I chose to attend the MFA program there.
But the truth is, besides that kind of sensibility, there's some great work being done down in Carbondale--and out of Carbondale, by people who've attended the program over the past ten years--and this week I'm going to highlight a couple of them.
Up first is Curtis Crisler. Curtis is a poet, and he was on his way out (as a third-year student) when I was on my way in (as a first-year student), but we still chatted quite a bit. I even have in my home office a signed galley of a poem of his that appeared in Callalloo. In short, Curtis is a very cool guy, and a pretty great poet, and his first book (which arrived at my house the other day) is out now.
It's called Tough Boy Sonatas. As far as I know, the book fairly resembles Curtis' thesis--a book of poems--but it's been marketed as a young adult novel, and the tough, gorgeous poems are now accompanied by gorgeous illustrations by Floyd Cooper. Really, if I had a young adult around, this is exactly the kind of book I would want him or her reading. In fact, I may have to order an extra copy for my nephew D, who will, soon enough, be a young adult.
But the book, of course, like most things marketed to young adults, isn't just for them. The poems are wise, hip, and full of truth and compassion, and everybody should check it out.
I mean, when was the last time you read a book with pictures?
3.15.2007
Guest Blogging
I'm guest blogging at the Fringe today, as part of Fringe Break 2007.
If you want to read about my childhood obsession with Nickelodeon, click here.
Update: It looks like the version of the thing I sent to Fringes lost some of its matter, so I'm going to post the full text of it below.
You Can't Do That
Dedicated to Flood, the Canadian blogger
When I was nine I decided I wanted to be famous.
This, I suppose, is not so unusual for a kid, and especially for a kid living in Illinois, but I was looking for a very specific brand of fame. I didn't want to play center field for the Chicago Cubs; I didn't want to be the next Michael Jackson.
I wanted to be on TV.
But I didn't want to just be on TV. I wanted to be on one of two very specific shows: You Can't Do That On Television or Mr. Wizard's World.*
I loved these two shows. I watched them on Nickelodeon pretty much every day after school, and once I decided that I wanted to be on them, I started paying closer attention.
During Mr. Wizard's World, I studied the single boy or girl that appeared on each episode, assisting Mr. Wizard in that day's science experiment. Some days, I envied that single boy or girl to the point that I wanted to crawl into the television screen and kick the kid's ass. Other days, I was more sympathetic; I imagined that the boy or girl wasn't really so special, and that there were probably kids at school giving them a hard time about being Mr. Wizard's bitch.
During You Can't Do That On Television, I studied Christine "Moose" McGlade and Lisa "Motormouth" Ruddy and Alasdair Gillis. I envied them a little, too, sure, but I never wanted to kick their asses; I wanted to be a part of the skits they were a part of: I wanted to be chained to that wall like Alasdair. I wanted to stand next to "Moose" and accidentally-on-purpose say, "I don't know," let the green slime cover me.
After a few weeks of study I realized that I was definitely hot enough, at nine years old, to be on TV. Alisdair, all those bright-eyed precocious cads on Mr. Wizard's World, they had nothing on me, looks-wise. I was pretty much hot from the time I was seven until I was seventeen, minus an awkward six months or so when I was eleven.
So, I didn't have to worry about not being cute enough. What I did have to work on was how I talked.
I noticed something different about all the kids who appeared on the two shows I wanted to be on: They didn't say "about," they said "aboot." They didn't say "out," they said "oot." And oftentimes, though this didn't puzzle me as much as all that "oot-ing," they ended their statements with "eh?"
I realized quickly that I was going to have to make some adjustments to the way my Midwestern born-and-raised ass spoke. And so I began to practice.
My mom would say, "Chad, don't you have homework you should be doing?"
I would reply, "What are you talking aboot? I'm finished already, and I'm going ootside for a bit."
My mom would say, "Chad, why are you talking like that?" And I would say, "Get oot of here. I don't know anything aboot it."
I also bought a chemistry set at the mall, and started conducting my own little version of Mr. Wizard's World. I played both parts--the old man and the curious-but-knowing kid. I would prepare little logs made out of newspaper and then sprinkle them with strontium chloride, borax, copper sulfate. I would get my little alcohol-fueled flame lit. And then I would say, in a deep voice, "So, Chad, what color of flame do you think the strontium chloride is going to give off when it burns?"
"Gee, I'm not sure, Mr. Wizard," I would say. "What aboot red, eh?"
"Well, let's see if you're right."
And then I would watch a red flame leap from the newspaper log, and I would make my eyes big and say in an excited yet demure way, "Woo! I was right."
"You were, Chad," I would say. "Now let's try the copper sulfate. This one might be a little harder for you to predict."
The kids at school, sure, they made fun of me a little. "What aboot it, Chad?" they would say, during a lecture on long multiplication. "Can you figure it oot?"
But I endured. I was a cute-ass nine-year-old, and someday, I was going to be standing in Mr. Wizard's kitchen when the taping began. We would light balloons filled with various gases on fire, or create an electrical circuit using only fruit and paper clips.
And once we finished that day's segment I would hustle over to the set of You Can't Do That On Television. Alisdair would be there, and so would Christine and Lisa and the rest of them. "Sorry aboot running late," I would tell them. "This is a lot of work, eh?"
"Don't worry aboot it," Christine would say, putting her arm around me. "We couldn't do it withoot you, eh?"
And I would feel loved, tucked there beneath Christine's arm, listening to her praise me. But I would deflect her praise a little, not wanting to seem too big-headed. "I don't know," I would say. "You guys were doing a pretty good job withoot me."
And then I would look up at Christine, and smile. But she would be shaking her head, starting to pull away. And that's when the slime would hit. I would feel it on the top of my blond head, and inching down my neck into the back of my shirt. It would be cold, chilly even, but I would step away from Christine and say it again, "I don't know."
I would lift up my arms toward the ceiling, toward the bucket of slime, and I would feel not only loved, but joy--real joy, pure as Canadian snow.
*For those of you who don't know, You Can't Do That On Television was a Canadian show. And Mr. Wizard's World, while American, filmed most of the shows I watched as a kid in Canada.
If you want to read about my childhood obsession with Nickelodeon, click here.
Update: It looks like the version of the thing I sent to Fringes lost some of its matter, so I'm going to post the full text of it below.
You Can't Do That
Dedicated to Flood, the Canadian blogger
When I was nine I decided I wanted to be famous.
This, I suppose, is not so unusual for a kid, and especially for a kid living in Illinois, but I was looking for a very specific brand of fame. I didn't want to play center field for the Chicago Cubs; I didn't want to be the next Michael Jackson.
I wanted to be on TV.
But I didn't want to just be on TV. I wanted to be on one of two very specific shows: You Can't Do That On Television or Mr. Wizard's World.*
I loved these two shows. I watched them on Nickelodeon pretty much every day after school, and once I decided that I wanted to be on them, I started paying closer attention.
During Mr. Wizard's World, I studied the single boy or girl that appeared on each episode, assisting Mr. Wizard in that day's science experiment. Some days, I envied that single boy or girl to the point that I wanted to crawl into the television screen and kick the kid's ass. Other days, I was more sympathetic; I imagined that the boy or girl wasn't really so special, and that there were probably kids at school giving them a hard time about being Mr. Wizard's bitch.
During You Can't Do That On Television, I studied Christine "Moose" McGlade and Lisa "Motormouth" Ruddy and Alasdair Gillis. I envied them a little, too, sure, but I never wanted to kick their asses; I wanted to be a part of the skits they were a part of: I wanted to be chained to that wall like Alasdair. I wanted to stand next to "Moose" and accidentally-on-purpose say, "I don't know," let the green slime cover me.
After a few weeks of study I realized that I was definitely hot enough, at nine years old, to be on TV. Alisdair, all those bright-eyed precocious cads on Mr. Wizard's World, they had nothing on me, looks-wise. I was pretty much hot from the time I was seven until I was seventeen, minus an awkward six months or so when I was eleven.
So, I didn't have to worry about not being cute enough. What I did have to work on was how I talked.
I noticed something different about all the kids who appeared on the two shows I wanted to be on: They didn't say "about," they said "aboot." They didn't say "out," they said "oot." And oftentimes, though this didn't puzzle me as much as all that "oot-ing," they ended their statements with "eh?"
I realized quickly that I was going to have to make some adjustments to the way my Midwestern born-and-raised ass spoke. And so I began to practice.
My mom would say, "Chad, don't you have homework you should be doing?"
I would reply, "What are you talking aboot? I'm finished already, and I'm going ootside for a bit."
My mom would say, "Chad, why are you talking like that?" And I would say, "Get oot of here. I don't know anything aboot it."
I also bought a chemistry set at the mall, and started conducting my own little version of Mr. Wizard's World. I played both parts--the old man and the curious-but-knowing kid. I would prepare little logs made out of newspaper and then sprinkle them with strontium chloride, borax, copper sulfate. I would get my little alcohol-fueled flame lit. And then I would say, in a deep voice, "So, Chad, what color of flame do you think the strontium chloride is going to give off when it burns?"
"Gee, I'm not sure, Mr. Wizard," I would say. "What aboot red, eh?"
"Well, let's see if you're right."
And then I would watch a red flame leap from the newspaper log, and I would make my eyes big and say in an excited yet demure way, "Woo! I was right."
"You were, Chad," I would say. "Now let's try the copper sulfate. This one might be a little harder for you to predict."
The kids at school, sure, they made fun of me a little. "What aboot it, Chad?" they would say, during a lecture on long multiplication. "Can you figure it oot?"
But I endured. I was a cute-ass nine-year-old, and someday, I was going to be standing in Mr. Wizard's kitchen when the taping began. We would light balloons filled with various gases on fire, or create an electrical circuit using only fruit and paper clips.
And once we finished that day's segment I would hustle over to the set of You Can't Do That On Television. Alisdair would be there, and so would Christine and Lisa and the rest of them. "Sorry aboot running late," I would tell them. "This is a lot of work, eh?"
"Don't worry aboot it," Christine would say, putting her arm around me. "We couldn't do it withoot you, eh?"
And I would feel loved, tucked there beneath Christine's arm, listening to her praise me. But I would deflect her praise a little, not wanting to seem too big-headed. "I don't know," I would say. "You guys were doing a pretty good job withoot me."
And then I would look up at Christine, and smile. But she would be shaking her head, starting to pull away. And that's when the slime would hit. I would feel it on the top of my blond head, and inching down my neck into the back of my shirt. It would be cold, chilly even, but I would step away from Christine and say it again, "I don't know."
I would lift up my arms toward the ceiling, toward the bucket of slime, and I would feel not only loved, but joy--real joy, pure as Canadian snow.
*For those of you who don't know, You Can't Do That On Television was a Canadian show. And Mr. Wizard's World, while American, filmed most of the shows I watched as a kid in Canada.
3.14.2007
Update: Chapbook
Speaking of music...That odd little concept album which I'm calling a fiction chapbook is 0-for-1 in the three contests in which I entered it. Of the three, the one I know I didn't win was the one I thought I had the worst shot at, based on the press and the judge. So, there's that. One down; two to go.
My Students Are Cooler Than I Am
When I was in grad school the university put on a free concert each spring. My first year there, the school decided to bring Wilco.
I was elated; I love Wilco. So, when I found out about the show--it was the toward the end of Spring semester, when everybody on campus is at least metaphorically buzzing, happier than usual--I asked my class of English 102 students how many of them were going to attend the free Wilco concert. Not one student raised her hand. So I asked, "How many of you have heard of Wilco?" I think one student put a few tentative fingers in the air. "Uncle Tupelo?" I tried. That same student's fingers flickered a little.
"I am," I announced to the class, "so much cooler than you guys." They laughed a little, knowing, I'm sure, that I probably wasn't, that knowledge of a few semi-obscure bands hardly constituted true cool.
Last year, when I began teaching as a non-graduate assistant, I encouraged my beginning fiction and fiction workshop students to decorate their end-of-the-term portfolios in such a way and/or provide me with a soundtrack that might aid me in reading their stories. I suppose my asking them to do this (or, rather, encouraging them to do this) was a little selfish. I'd already read the stories minus their revisions, and I was looking to be entertained.
Quite a few did some decorating--including drawings, quotations from famous authors, etc. One woman went so far as to hand-sew pouches for her stories and then print the stories on fancy paper and fold them up in fancy little envelopes that she put inside the pouches. Only one guy, though, ever burned me a CD. It was very old country, which, of course, fit the tone of the stories he was writing.
This past term I made the same suggestion to my workshop--make it pretty and/or make me music. I got some cool photographs--Mary Ellen Mark and an aerial shot of a flooding Missouri River--but I also received, count them, three soundtracks.
And I must say, my students now make me seem very uncool when it comes to music. I'm still listening to Wilco and Son Volt, R.E.M. and Radiohead, and they're giving me songs by The Clipse, Jose Gonzalez, TV on the Radio (man, do I love "Dirty Little Whirlwind"*), Great Lake Swimmers, Peter Bjorn and John, and the list goes on and on.
I don't mind so much that most of what I listen to, though once cool, could probably now be called adult contemporary--that someone my age listening to Ryan Adams is like someone my parents' age listening to Joni Mitchell--so long as my students keep throwing some new stuff at me, keep making me feel at least halfway cool.
*Have you heard "Dirty Little Whirlwind"? I wrote a story once that took place at a strip club, and I had one of the dancers dance to an obscure Beck song, because I thought it was cool. If I ever revise that story, I think I'm going to have the dancer shake her thang to "DLW". Man, is it good.
I was elated; I love Wilco. So, when I found out about the show--it was the toward the end of Spring semester, when everybody on campus is at least metaphorically buzzing, happier than usual--I asked my class of English 102 students how many of them were going to attend the free Wilco concert. Not one student raised her hand. So I asked, "How many of you have heard of Wilco?" I think one student put a few tentative fingers in the air. "Uncle Tupelo?" I tried. That same student's fingers flickered a little.
"I am," I announced to the class, "so much cooler than you guys." They laughed a little, knowing, I'm sure, that I probably wasn't, that knowledge of a few semi-obscure bands hardly constituted true cool.
Last year, when I began teaching as a non-graduate assistant, I encouraged my beginning fiction and fiction workshop students to decorate their end-of-the-term portfolios in such a way and/or provide me with a soundtrack that might aid me in reading their stories. I suppose my asking them to do this (or, rather, encouraging them to do this) was a little selfish. I'd already read the stories minus their revisions, and I was looking to be entertained.
Quite a few did some decorating--including drawings, quotations from famous authors, etc. One woman went so far as to hand-sew pouches for her stories and then print the stories on fancy paper and fold them up in fancy little envelopes that she put inside the pouches. Only one guy, though, ever burned me a CD. It was very old country, which, of course, fit the tone of the stories he was writing.
This past term I made the same suggestion to my workshop--make it pretty and/or make me music. I got some cool photographs--Mary Ellen Mark and an aerial shot of a flooding Missouri River--but I also received, count them, three soundtracks.
And I must say, my students now make me seem very uncool when it comes to music. I'm still listening to Wilco and Son Volt, R.E.M. and Radiohead, and they're giving me songs by The Clipse, Jose Gonzalez, TV on the Radio (man, do I love "Dirty Little Whirlwind"*), Great Lake Swimmers, Peter Bjorn and John, and the list goes on and on.
I don't mind so much that most of what I listen to, though once cool, could probably now be called adult contemporary--that someone my age listening to Ryan Adams is like someone my parents' age listening to Joni Mitchell--so long as my students keep throwing some new stuff at me, keep making me feel at least halfway cool.
*Have you heard "Dirty Little Whirlwind"? I wrote a story once that took place at a strip club, and I had one of the dancers dance to an obscure Beck song, because I thought it was cool. If I ever revise that story, I think I'm going to have the dancer shake her thang to "DLW". Man, is it good.
3.11.2007
Life and How to Live It
When I was eighteen I wrote an essay called "Life and How to Live It" for a composition course. The title came from an R.E.M. lyric in which Michael Stipe intoned, "If I were to write a book, I'd call it 'Life and How to Live It.'"
I was attending Garden City Community College in southwest Kansas on a baseball scholarship. I'd transferred there after a ridiculously fun fall semester at Bradley University because I missed playing center field, missed making sweet contact with a low-and-away ninety-miles-per-hour fastball.
I wrote the essay on my Brother word processor, this clunky but functional machine that allowed me to either type on it like a typewriter or save what I'd written--in green characters on a black background. I wrote a couple epic poems on that machine, and lots of descriptions of the neighborhood where I lived in Kansas, and lines that I overheard people say, like "In Kansas, there's a pretty girl for every tree." In Kansas, or at least in southwest Kansas, there were not many trees. The ones in front of our apartment complex were small and gnarled, ready to die.
I remember the epic poems--one was about a homeless woman wandering an alley in Logansport, Indiana, collecting aluminum cans--and the little bits of dialogue I'd overheard, but I have no idea what that essay called "Life and How to Live It" was about. I try to remember sometimes, but my mind completely blanks. I do remember conferencing with my instructor--this mustachioed, middle-aged fellow whose office shelves were lined with books by and about Hart Crane--and the way he delicately addressed my paper's ambition. He seemed to be saying, in as nice a way as possible, "You have no idea what you're saying here." He may have actually said, "I hope you have a chance to read this ten or twenty years from now, so you can see what you had to say."
But the truth is, that Brother word processor is long gone, and I have no idea what I would have had to say at the age of eighteen in a paper called "Life and How to Live It." Really. I can't even imagine.
I was attending Garden City Community College in southwest Kansas on a baseball scholarship. I'd transferred there after a ridiculously fun fall semester at Bradley University because I missed playing center field, missed making sweet contact with a low-and-away ninety-miles-per-hour fastball.
I wrote the essay on my Brother word processor, this clunky but functional machine that allowed me to either type on it like a typewriter or save what I'd written--in green characters on a black background. I wrote a couple epic poems on that machine, and lots of descriptions of the neighborhood where I lived in Kansas, and lines that I overheard people say, like "In Kansas, there's a pretty girl for every tree." In Kansas, or at least in southwest Kansas, there were not many trees. The ones in front of our apartment complex were small and gnarled, ready to die.
I remember the epic poems--one was about a homeless woman wandering an alley in Logansport, Indiana, collecting aluminum cans--and the little bits of dialogue I'd overheard, but I have no idea what that essay called "Life and How to Live It" was about. I try to remember sometimes, but my mind completely blanks. I do remember conferencing with my instructor--this mustachioed, middle-aged fellow whose office shelves were lined with books by and about Hart Crane--and the way he delicately addressed my paper's ambition. He seemed to be saying, in as nice a way as possible, "You have no idea what you're saying here." He may have actually said, "I hope you have a chance to read this ten or twenty years from now, so you can see what you had to say."
But the truth is, that Brother word processor is long gone, and I have no idea what I would have had to say at the age of eighteen in a paper called "Life and How to Live It." Really. I can't even imagine.
Forthcoming (Redux)
There are plenty of writers out there with blogs who are all cool about their acceptances. And what I mean by cool is, they don't ever mention them until the magazines where their stories or poems will appear are already out.
I'm not one of those cool writers. Acceptances are so rare, I think, that they might as well be mentioned twice: once when they are received and again when the magazine itself is set to come out and/or go live on the internets.
So: I got word the other day from Red Wheelbarrow that they're going to publish a story of mine. (I'd link to it, but their system is down right now due to class registration or something). It's a story from my grad thesis, which means that about two years after I defended said thesis, all of its stories are published except for one.
And for those of you keeping score, I may as well mention that I also have stories forthcoming fairly soon in Blue Earth Review, The Duck & Herring Co. Pocket Field Guide, and 5_Trope.
I don't think there's ever been a time when I've had four things forthcoming, and it's not so hard for me to remember a time when I would get so anxious waiting for the first or second or third stories that had been accepted to come out that I wouldn't write anything for weeks. Dealing with things this new way, I think, is much less taxing on the nerves. It is, in fact, a luxury.
Oh, and I'll give one last plug for Avery: An Anthology of New Fiction, where my latest story has gone from forthcoming to in print. Their first issue really is great, and you should all check it out. Big thanks to Stephanie Fiorelli, Adam Koehler, and Andrew Palmer for letting me be a part of it--and for having the guts and determination and to carry their idea out from conception to completion. J.C. and I once planned to start a lit mag way back in the day, and we never got much past the conception part. So, as I've said before, I got mad respect for all those people out there who actually carry this kind of endeavor out.
I'm not one of those cool writers. Acceptances are so rare, I think, that they might as well be mentioned twice: once when they are received and again when the magazine itself is set to come out and/or go live on the internets.
So: I got word the other day from Red Wheelbarrow that they're going to publish a story of mine. (I'd link to it, but their system is down right now due to class registration or something). It's a story from my grad thesis, which means that about two years after I defended said thesis, all of its stories are published except for one.
And for those of you keeping score, I may as well mention that I also have stories forthcoming fairly soon in Blue Earth Review, The Duck & Herring Co. Pocket Field Guide, and 5_Trope.
I don't think there's ever been a time when I've had four things forthcoming, and it's not so hard for me to remember a time when I would get so anxious waiting for the first or second or third stories that had been accepted to come out that I wouldn't write anything for weeks. Dealing with things this new way, I think, is much less taxing on the nerves. It is, in fact, a luxury.
Oh, and I'll give one last plug for Avery: An Anthology of New Fiction, where my latest story has gone from forthcoming to in print. Their first issue really is great, and you should all check it out. Big thanks to Stephanie Fiorelli, Adam Koehler, and Andrew Palmer for letting me be a part of it--and for having the guts and determination and to carry their idea out from conception to completion. J.C. and I once planned to start a lit mag way back in the day, and we never got much past the conception part. So, as I've said before, I got mad respect for all those people out there who actually carry this kind of endeavor out.
3.08.2007
The Search
I spent the day washing dishes and grading Intro to Lit portfolios. I feel like I made quite a bit of progress, and because of said progress, I wanted to reward myself. Since I've bought about thirty books in the past month, I decided to splurge on some music. Right now, I'm listening to Son Volt's "The Search," which just downloaded into my iTunes.
I must say, I do heart Jay Farrar. He's the musician I always wanted to be. Well, he's one of them anyway.
The truth? I have a musical declination. I'm tone deaf. When I was five or so, the first time I remember singing in front of the church, everyone's eyes were on me. I thought it was because I was good, because I could sing "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands" better than anybody else in my Sunday school class. Walking back to the pew, I felt the congregation's eyes on me. I beamed, flashed them my crooked-toothed smile. When I sat down, my dad leaned over to whisper, "Next time, lip synch. Just pretend to sing the words."
Years later, in music class, I couldn't even master the recorder; I butchered the four or five chords we had to learn on the acoustic guitar.
So, much later, I started writing. But I do have a talent for appreciation when it comes to music. Iron & Wine, Wilco, Radiohead, John Coltrane, R.E.M., Gram Parsons...the list could go on indefinitely.
And speaking of appreciation...I started reading Brian Evenson's The Open Curtain on my way to Atlanta. Man, is it good. And, in fact, my students' portfolios, they're pretty good, too. I'm one appreciating fool.
I must say, I do heart Jay Farrar. He's the musician I always wanted to be. Well, he's one of them anyway.
The truth? I have a musical declination. I'm tone deaf. When I was five or so, the first time I remember singing in front of the church, everyone's eyes were on me. I thought it was because I was good, because I could sing "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands" better than anybody else in my Sunday school class. Walking back to the pew, I felt the congregation's eyes on me. I beamed, flashed them my crooked-toothed smile. When I sat down, my dad leaned over to whisper, "Next time, lip synch. Just pretend to sing the words."
Years later, in music class, I couldn't even master the recorder; I butchered the four or five chords we had to learn on the acoustic guitar.
So, much later, I started writing. But I do have a talent for appreciation when it comes to music. Iron & Wine, Wilco, Radiohead, John Coltrane, R.E.M., Gram Parsons...the list could go on indefinitely.
And speaking of appreciation...I started reading Brian Evenson's The Open Curtain on my way to Atlanta. Man, is it good. And, in fact, my students' portfolios, they're pretty good, too. I'm one appreciating fool.
3.07.2007
Avery: An Anthology of New Fiction
I forgot to mention: When I arrived home on Saturday, there was a box of books waiting for me on the little red chair on our front porch. I carried the box inside and immediately began tearing the thing open.
The issue, quite simply, is gorgeous. And I'm not just saying that because I'm in it. The design is great; the layout is great; and each story has an accompanying illustration, also great.
I've only read a couple short-shorts so far, but I've read the opening paragraphs and a little more of all of the stories, and what I've read is pretty amazing. So, if you're looking for something to read, head over Avery's way. Issue #1 is definitely worth checking out; I am honored to be a part of it.
The issue, quite simply, is gorgeous. And I'm not just saying that because I'm in it. The design is great; the layout is great; and each story has an accompanying illustration, also great.
I've only read a couple short-shorts so far, but I've read the opening paragraphs and a little more of all of the stories, and what I've read is pretty amazing. So, if you're looking for something to read, head over Avery's way. Issue #1 is definitely worth checking out; I am honored to be a part of it.
Sighting Number Two (Kind Of)
I left AWP on Saturday morning. When I got in line for a cab outside the Marriott, the guy running the show out there asked me where I was headed, and I said the airport. There was a man in front of me also going to the airport, and we decided we'd share a cab.
I'd learned over the past two days that downtown Atlanta is some kind of convention center mecca. There were conferences for GE, ReMax, and who-knows-what-else going on at the same time as AWP. So, the guy next to me in the cab could have been attending any number of conferences. He was wearing jeans, though, and stylish shoes, and he had long hair. So, since most of the GE and ReMax guys wore Dockers and not-so-stylish shoes and kept their hair cut short, I assumed the guy beside me had been at AWP.
We didn't speak for the first ten minutes or so, but eventually I asked him what he'd been in town for. He said he was there for AWP, only he actually said what the acronym stands for. I told him I had attended the same thing. Then he said he was the editor of [Insert Fancy Literary Magazine Here]. I said, "Wow. That's a great magazine." I identified myself as a teacher and as someone who writes fiction, but neither of us said our names, and he, in fact, seemed quite adamant about not doing so. Despite a venti iced Americano, I was still a little under-caffeinated, and my brain wasn't quite working the way it should have been. So, when he said he was the editor of [Fancy Literary Magazine, One That's Available Even Around Here At Places Like Border's] I assumed he was an editor, and not a writer. Not that there's any kind of hierarchy or anything--I love editors, I do--but my brain wasn't functioning, and over the course of our conversation, I'm pretty sure I sounded 1) dull-witted and 2) a little condescending.
When we arrived at the airport, I gave him my half of the fare, and we wished one another a safe trip and all that. Then, after I checked-in, I called J.C. to let her know I was on my way home. Once we were finished talking, I asked her to google [Fancy Literary Magazine] to see who the editor was. She gave me a name, and I knew right away that's who I'd been sharing the cab with. I have, in fact, two of his books on my shelf.
At first, I was kind of embarrassed at being so dull-witted and maybe even condescending in front of a pretty great writer, but eventually, of course, I realized the encounter meant even less to him than it had to me. In the end, too, I kind of liked the anonymity of it all. It made me wonder what AWP would be like if all interactions took place in just that same manner: without name tags, as if you were stuck in the back of a cab with the other person.
Then again, maybe that's about half-right.
I'd learned over the past two days that downtown Atlanta is some kind of convention center mecca. There were conferences for GE, ReMax, and who-knows-what-else going on at the same time as AWP. So, the guy next to me in the cab could have been attending any number of conferences. He was wearing jeans, though, and stylish shoes, and he had long hair. So, since most of the GE and ReMax guys wore Dockers and not-so-stylish shoes and kept their hair cut short, I assumed the guy beside me had been at AWP.
We didn't speak for the first ten minutes or so, but eventually I asked him what he'd been in town for. He said he was there for AWP, only he actually said what the acronym stands for. I told him I had attended the same thing. Then he said he was the editor of [Insert Fancy Literary Magazine Here]. I said, "Wow. That's a great magazine." I identified myself as a teacher and as someone who writes fiction, but neither of us said our names, and he, in fact, seemed quite adamant about not doing so. Despite a venti iced Americano, I was still a little under-caffeinated, and my brain wasn't quite working the way it should have been. So, when he said he was the editor of [Fancy Literary Magazine, One That's Available Even Around Here At Places Like Border's] I assumed he was an editor, and not a writer. Not that there's any kind of hierarchy or anything--I love editors, I do--but my brain wasn't functioning, and over the course of our conversation, I'm pretty sure I sounded 1) dull-witted and 2) a little condescending.
When we arrived at the airport, I gave him my half of the fare, and we wished one another a safe trip and all that. Then, after I checked-in, I called J.C. to let her know I was on my way home. Once we were finished talking, I asked her to google [Fancy Literary Magazine] to see who the editor was. She gave me a name, and I knew right away that's who I'd been sharing the cab with. I have, in fact, two of his books on my shelf.
At first, I was kind of embarrassed at being so dull-witted and maybe even condescending in front of a pretty great writer, but eventually, of course, I realized the encounter meant even less to him than it had to me. In the end, too, I kind of liked the anonymity of it all. It made me wonder what AWP would be like if all interactions took place in just that same manner: without name tags, as if you were stuck in the back of a cab with the other person.
Then again, maybe that's about half-right.
Loot
If you do a blogsearch for AWP Atlanta, you are likely to come across a number of posts about what a cf the bookfair was. I saw that Paul Guest likened it to the inside of a casino, which is pretty apt.
I made five or six quick trips through the bookfair, and my goal was to at least walk by every table. I'm pretty sure, though, thanks to the blog at One Story, that I missed an entire section of the bookfair, because I don't remember seeing, well, One Story, or The Land-Grant College Review, or AGNI, or any number of other booths. Maybe I was too busy playing the slots, waiting for a spot to open up at the Hold 'Em table.
I'd told myself that I could only spend a hundred bucks at the bookfair, and I think that's pretty close to how things shook out. Here's a list of the loot:
From New Michigan Press: The Moon is a Lighthouse by Peter Markus; Feign by Kristy Bowen. I've read plenty online by each of these writers, but I've always been too lazy to get out my credit card and order their chapbooks. Now I have them, and Mr. Monson even cut me a little deal.
From Flume Press: I Call This Flirting by Sherrie Flick. I attended a panel on fiction chapbooks, and the publisher of Flume Press was there. He talked about this book in such a way that made me want to buy it, and I'm glad I did. While drinking an iced Americano outside the Marriott Saturday morning, I started reading the stories (pretty much all flash-fictions) and they are fantastic.
From Noemi Press: Disciplines by Diana George. The publisher of Noemi Press was also at the above-mentioned panel, and she, too, sold me on this one. I started reading it Thursday night and was loving what I read. The language is stellar.
From FC2: Hydroplane by Susan Steinberg; Michael Martone by Michael Martone; The Complete Tales of Ketzia Gold by Kate Bernheimer; The Complete Tales of Merry Gold by Kate Bernheimer. I attended a panel led by Bernheimer--my favorite of the conference--on fairy tales and contemporary fiction, and after the panel (which also featured Stacy Levine, Kelly Link, and Rikki Ducornet) I immediately went downstairs to buy Bernheimer's books. When I found out that FC2 took debit cards, my order expanded a little. Also: After I picked up Michael Martone, the woman working the booth handed me a name tag with Michael Martone written on it, and said, "Would you like to be Michael Martone?" I told her I would, and I stuck the name tag to the lapel of my blazer. Now, one of the things that bugs me about places like AWP is how intently everyone stares at everyone else's name tags. I had been less sensitive to name tag-glaring this year than I was the last time I attended AWP, but after I stuck the Michael Martone tag on, I became quite aware of how many people were checking out my alternative name tag. These people tended to make faces that were far from smiles. More like they were watching a squirrel bounce off a car tire. Eventually, the tag started to unstick and curl at the edges, so I stuck it to my briefcase instead.
And lit mags: The bookfair is a lit mag haven, and the last time I attended AWP I left the Hilton in Chicago with about twenty of them. What can I say, I love literary magazines more than I probably should. This year, though, I didn't buy many. I think it had something to do with 1) the layout of the bookfair and 2) not wanting to feel like I was networking.
I did, though, buy two issues of Backwards City Review. I've been following online what they've been up to for a while now, and I was happy to give them ten bucks. I found out later that one of the issues has a story by Douglas Watson, an old acquaintance of mine, in it. I started reading the story and was pretty awed, but I haven't yet had the time to finish it.
And I picked up the latest issue of Hobart. Though I said above that I didn't want to network at the bookfair, I did introduce myself to Aaron Burch, but mostly because I like the stories I've read by him and because he's always written rejection letters that I've appreciated. Well, for those reasons and because I like everything he does with Hobart. So we chatted for a bit, and he ended up saying, "Don't I have a story by you in my inbox?" It was true; he does. Even though I'm sure Mr. Burch mentioned it only as a way of acknowledging he had some idea of who I was, I couldn't help but become a little self-conscious, and worry that he'd think I only stopped by to try and boost my chances that the story would be accepted. I wanted to say, "Hey, I have a story out at One Story, but I didn't introduce myself to Hannah Tinti when I saw her at the EWN get-together Thursday night." Anyway. Aaron seemed as cool in person (even if he did make me a little self-conscious about that submission) as he has always seemed online, and their latest issue, #7: The Art and Stories Issue, is pretty amazing.
I made five or six quick trips through the bookfair, and my goal was to at least walk by every table. I'm pretty sure, though, thanks to the blog at One Story, that I missed an entire section of the bookfair, because I don't remember seeing, well, One Story, or The Land-Grant College Review, or AGNI, or any number of other booths. Maybe I was too busy playing the slots, waiting for a spot to open up at the Hold 'Em table.
I'd told myself that I could only spend a hundred bucks at the bookfair, and I think that's pretty close to how things shook out. Here's a list of the loot:
From New Michigan Press: The Moon is a Lighthouse by Peter Markus; Feign by Kristy Bowen. I've read plenty online by each of these writers, but I've always been too lazy to get out my credit card and order their chapbooks. Now I have them, and Mr. Monson even cut me a little deal.
From Flume Press: I Call This Flirting by Sherrie Flick. I attended a panel on fiction chapbooks, and the publisher of Flume Press was there. He talked about this book in such a way that made me want to buy it, and I'm glad I did. While drinking an iced Americano outside the Marriott Saturday morning, I started reading the stories (pretty much all flash-fictions) and they are fantastic.
From Noemi Press: Disciplines by Diana George. The publisher of Noemi Press was also at the above-mentioned panel, and she, too, sold me on this one. I started reading it Thursday night and was loving what I read. The language is stellar.
From FC2: Hydroplane by Susan Steinberg; Michael Martone by Michael Martone; The Complete Tales of Ketzia Gold by Kate Bernheimer; The Complete Tales of Merry Gold by Kate Bernheimer. I attended a panel led by Bernheimer--my favorite of the conference--on fairy tales and contemporary fiction, and after the panel (which also featured Stacy Levine, Kelly Link, and Rikki Ducornet) I immediately went downstairs to buy Bernheimer's books. When I found out that FC2 took debit cards, my order expanded a little. Also: After I picked up Michael Martone, the woman working the booth handed me a name tag with Michael Martone written on it, and said, "Would you like to be Michael Martone?" I told her I would, and I stuck the name tag to the lapel of my blazer. Now, one of the things that bugs me about places like AWP is how intently everyone stares at everyone else's name tags. I had been less sensitive to name tag-glaring this year than I was the last time I attended AWP, but after I stuck the Michael Martone tag on, I became quite aware of how many people were checking out my alternative name tag. These people tended to make faces that were far from smiles. More like they were watching a squirrel bounce off a car tire. Eventually, the tag started to unstick and curl at the edges, so I stuck it to my briefcase instead.
And lit mags: The bookfair is a lit mag haven, and the last time I attended AWP I left the Hilton in Chicago with about twenty of them. What can I say, I love literary magazines more than I probably should. This year, though, I didn't buy many. I think it had something to do with 1) the layout of the bookfair and 2) not wanting to feel like I was networking.
I did, though, buy two issues of Backwards City Review. I've been following online what they've been up to for a while now, and I was happy to give them ten bucks. I found out later that one of the issues has a story by Douglas Watson, an old acquaintance of mine, in it. I started reading the story and was pretty awed, but I haven't yet had the time to finish it.
And I picked up the latest issue of Hobart. Though I said above that I didn't want to network at the bookfair, I did introduce myself to Aaron Burch, but mostly because I like the stories I've read by him and because he's always written rejection letters that I've appreciated. Well, for those reasons and because I like everything he does with Hobart. So we chatted for a bit, and he ended up saying, "Don't I have a story by you in my inbox?" It was true; he does. Even though I'm sure Mr. Burch mentioned it only as a way of acknowledging he had some idea of who I was, I couldn't help but become a little self-conscious, and worry that he'd think I only stopped by to try and boost my chances that the story would be accepted. I wanted to say, "Hey, I have a story out at One Story, but I didn't introduce myself to Hannah Tinti when I saw her at the EWN get-together Thursday night." Anyway. Aaron seemed as cool in person (even if he did make me a little self-conscious about that submission) as he has always seemed online, and their latest issue, #7: The Art and Stories Issue, is pretty amazing.
Sighting
I long ago got past being star-struck--quite an accomplishment for someone from the Midwest--and especially when it comes to authors. I mean, my relationship with authors is typically with the books they've written, and I thus, at a place like AWP, don't necessarily seek writers out. I will, however, share this little star-sighting:
I spent a lot of time going to the bathroom at AWP. Well, not a lot of time going, but I made a lot of trips to the restroom. I smoke, and after each cigarette, I'd go to the bathroom to wash my hands and face, so I didn't stink so much. There was a coin-operated shoe-shining machine in the foyer outside the bathroom, and on each trip I made there, I was surprised--maybe because I was wearing tennis shoes the whole time--by how many guys made use of this machine.
On Friday, after a cigarette, I headed toward the bathroom and saw at the shoe-shining machine Walter Mosley. He was wearing a suit and a fancy hat and he was buffing the shine on his fancy shoes. I wasn't necessarily star-struck--though Mosley is, in my opinion, pretty great--but I did think it was cool to see him all slicked-up, shining his shoes. It seemed fitting somehow.
I spent a lot of time going to the bathroom at AWP. Well, not a lot of time going, but I made a lot of trips to the restroom. I smoke, and after each cigarette, I'd go to the bathroom to wash my hands and face, so I didn't stink so much. There was a coin-operated shoe-shining machine in the foyer outside the bathroom, and on each trip I made there, I was surprised--maybe because I was wearing tennis shoes the whole time--by how many guys made use of this machine.
On Friday, after a cigarette, I headed toward the bathroom and saw at the shoe-shining machine Walter Mosley. He was wearing a suit and a fancy hat and he was buffing the shine on his fancy shoes. I wasn't necessarily star-struck--though Mosley is, in my opinion, pretty great--but I did think it was cool to see him all slicked-up, shining his shoes. It seemed fitting somehow.
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