Posts filed under 'Readin' & Writin''
It’s been a long time since I’ve picked up a book and been so entertained I can’t wait to steal away, if only for a few moments, to devour another page. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, the Pulitzer-winning first novel from acclaimed short story writer Junot Diaz, is the kind of book you fight through sleep to read, a flashy, heartbreaking, funny, intelligent family saga about a Dominican family in New York. Unapologetic in its refusal to cater to those unfamiliar with Dominican slang, astoundingly original in voice and scope and dishing out devastating foot-noted history lessons about the Dominican Republic with irreverent flair, this is a gem of a book.
In other words, you should read it. (Check out this New York Times review for further proof.) And while this tour de force is enough to make an aspiring writer chuck aside her ambition in defeat, Diaz’s honest recounting of the “dozens of times [he] had quit this novel only to restart it” in this Wall Street Journal profile proves ultimately endearing and inspiring. Diaz claims to still be scared of writing but says, of his life post-Pulitizer, “what’s changed is now I have hope I can write something else.”
It strikes me that the last two writers I’ve posted about here, Diaz and Lahiri, are both writers who speak frankly about how hard this business of writing is — but, ultimately, that it brings hope. I like that. I need that. It makes me feel not so alone in my struggles to put words on the page and reminds me that there is a reason for doing so.
May 8th, 2008
I don’t remember a lot of things. I have a memory like a sieve. (Except, oddly enough, for anything before the age of around 18, including the plot of every sitcom episode I ever watched as a child. Apparently, after that, my brain was full.) Thus, it was a surprise to me — and a pleasant one at that — to learn I’ve been credited with inspiring the theme for the soon-to-be-released latest issue of 52nd City, my favorite literary mag.
Actually, since the theme of the new issue is “sexy,” I should probably clarify that the 52nd City website credits me with suggesting the theme, as opposed to inspiring it. That’s a big difference, I realize, as I write this. The latter could be confusing, particularly to anyone who’s ever actually met me.
Even more thrilling than this claim to fame — and the very fact that a new issue is imminent — is that I have a piece in the issue. It’s a pretty short piece about an encounter I had with a woman at the St. Louis Greyhound bus station about five years ago. I actually tried to expand it, to fictionalize it to make it more resonant. But, in the end, I hope (and think) that it’s best left alone, as an unembellished glimpse at a brief, awkward moment in time.
To find out, you’ll need to get your paws on the new issue and I can’t think of a better way to do so than to attend the release party, this Saturday, April 26 at Snowflake. Now, having been out of St. Louis for a few years now, I don’t know what a Snowflake is, but it sounds cool and refreshing, and that seems reason enough to go. From the 52nd City website, the event details are as follows:
52nd City Sexy Issue Release
Where: Snowflake, 3156 Cherokee Street
When: Saturday, April 26, 2008
Time: 4:00-7:00pm
Admission: Free
What’s classier than Playboy and Maxim and much easier to hide under your mattress or in your sock drawer? SEXY–52nd City Magazine’s ninth issue. Join us at the Snowflake on Saturday, April 26 from 4 to 7 p.m. for some delightfully cheeky food, drink, music, and entertainment. This issue includes a free CD from the SOUND issue–and a party at Snowflake never disappoints.
52nd City is also making some big changes after this issue — they’ll be going to a free distribution model. Personally, I have some mixed feelings about it — I hate that people seem so reluctant to pay a decent and fair price for good writing. But I hope the increased circulation will attract even more advertisers and help ease the editors pain, eking by as they do by the skin of their teeth each month to pay the costs of producing this lovely-looking product.
It’s worth noting that contributors are not paid for their submissions, so it’s not like the writers or the editors make a penny. It’s truly a labor of love. Thus, if you are a fan of writers and writing, of St. Louis, of art, of independent publishing, of me, of my cats, of being acknowledged for your support of said things, please note that there is now a Paypal button on the front page of 52nd City’s website and you can make a contribution to the print fund, no matter how small (or big, of course), to help keep this gem afloat. I’d consider it a personal favor.
Also, on an entirely unrelated note, I just ate the most sublime avocado. Perfectly ripe, not even a bit brown around the edges. Thank you, nature. Thank you very much.
April 24th, 2008
Perhaps the most endearing, interesting thing about seeing Jhumpa Lahiri read at Borders last night was the fact that she seemed so uncomfortable doing so. I’m heartened by writers who are just that: writers. And not performers. She struck me as someone far more at home lost in grappling with words at her computer than standing in front of a room full of fans. I like that. The author-as-rock-star phenomena is often so off-putting to me. Although, if I ever publish a book, I plan to only do readings in giant sports arenas. But that’s just how I am.
I was also moved, quite literally, to tears by her admission that some of her stories were two years in the making. I tend to be so hard on myself when my stories don’t emerge fully formed or beaten into submission after a month of revision. I tend to be so impatient with the process because it is so very, very difficult, so very frustrating. And, along those lines, I also took great comfort in Lahiri’s admission that winning literary prizes, in the end, makes no difference in the writing process because it is still hard and humbling and it doesn’t make it any easier. She said:
“Every time I write something new from scratch, I am on all fours on the ground, trying to stand up…I am like a child, trying and trying and trying to stand up.”
Which I think is so raw and beautiful and honest. I love her for not making it seem like writing is easy and, by extension, not giving me permission to give up just because it doesn’t come quickly or easily.
And I loved her unabashed passion for the art of writing fiction. In response to one young reader’s question, she said she thought that books and fiction are everything, that creating a good novel or a good story is one of the most important things anyone can contribute in a lifetime. Perhaps out of anyone else’s mouth, those words would have seemed like hubris. But Lahiri has such humility about her that it was just obvious she was speaking of literature as a whole and not her own accomplishments, considerable though they may be. Of literature, of books and of writing, she said:
“They are my religion…. They give me faith and they give me hope and they guide me when I am lost.”
Isn’t it strange — both wonderful and slightly uncomfortable — to feel so deeply understood, to share such naked passion with someone you’ve never met, someone whose words and whose attitudes about writing give you faith, give you hope and guide you when you are lost?
April 10th, 2008
I’m in the midst of reading Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary for (gasp!) the very first time. How I missed reading a classic such as this in my expansive liberal arts education, I don’t know. But I did. And now I’m making up for it. I could tell you that I am fueled by some passion for the classics but the truth is I kind of struck a deal with a writer friend of mine, whose favorite book this is, and am trying to make good on my end of the bargain.
I’ll be taking a respite from my reading this eve to head down to the downtown Borders (trivia: Borders started in Ann Arbor) for a reading by a very different writer indeed, the lovely and amazing Jhumpa Lahiri. She is, perhaps, about as different a writer as you can get from Monsieur Flaubert, even if both are given to plumbing the depths of human unhappiness within the family structure. If you haven’t read her stuff, you may have seen the film The Namesake, based on Lahiri’s debut novel and featured either Harold or Kumar is, of course, of course, not nearly as good. It doesn’t count. You must still read the book.
It has been, in fact, a long time since I read and was instantly drawn to a writer the way I was when I first read Lahiri’s short stories. (An exception may be Junot Diaz who, I was delighted to hear, just won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction yesterday for his novel The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.)
Lahiri is a spare writer, somehow achieving a balance that I find infuriating to accomplish: rich emotion without sentimentality. How? HOW, I ask you? I do not know. It is my hope, however, that if I go and bask in her presence and listen to her share with us her own written words, it will somehow rub off on me and I will become an equally magnificent writer through nothing other than proximity.
It could happen, right?
April 9th, 2008
I’m giddy with excitement. This week I sent in my registration for the Bear River Writers’ Conference. Normally, I spend a week during the summer at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival but I had mixed feelngs about returning this year. I’m not sure how much I got out of last year’s workshop, although the real indulgence is a week spent focused on writing, reading and the discussion thereof.
Last year, when I was taking a fiction course in U-M’s grad school, our esteemed instructor — and accomplished author — Nick Delbanco, pulled me aside and mentioned the Bear River Writers Conference. He thought I might be interested in it because this year’s guest is…Amy Hempel. My jaw dropped. I can’t really think of another writer who had such a direct and powerful effect on my desire and decision to become a writer.
When I read Amy Hempel’s short story, “In The Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried” in high school, it was what made me want to be a writer. Up until that point, I knew I loved to write, but I wasn’t making an emotional connection to the male-dominated texts we’d been reading for years — Dickens, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Conrad. That’s not to say that I didn’t appreciate their work, just that it didn’t speak to me on the level that moved me to say, “I want to do that.” Amy Hempel did.
During the short story revival of the eighties, Amy Hempel was one of the many young female writers who emerged to well-deserved critical praise. Along with writers like Lorrie Moore and Mona Simpson, she redefined the short story and blazed a path for writers of all ilk, but especially young women. Now “In The Cemetery” has been anthologized to death but still stands, I think, as one of the great short stories of all time — beautiful, spare, poignant and funny. If you have dealt with loss or grief or, hell, even just thought about it, it will make you laugh and weep and wonder how on earth someone can do all those things without delving into melodrama, without taking it over the top. In other words, if you haven’t read it, do.
All of that is my long-winded way of trying to explain why I’m giddy to be spending a week at Bear River in early summer in lieu of going to Iowa this year. The conference takes place in Northern Michigan — a really beautiful part of the world — at Camp Michigania, the U-M alumni camp. And while Hempel is not teaching an actual workshop, I’m hoping I can bribe Nick Delbanco to broker a very brief introduction so that I may drool all over her and perhaps have her sign the gorgeous hardcover anthology of her collected stories, which Chris bought me last year.
The fiction workshop leaders for the week are Delbanco and Elizabeth Kostova, the local writer who sky-rocketed to fame and best-seller status with her vampire tale, The Historian. So while I’m not really into fantasy writing, I signed up for Kostova’s workshop as my first choice and Delbanco as my second, because I figure the latter has probably seen enough of me and I don’t want him to think I’m stalking him. Plus, a different perspective is always good.
Now, how long until May 29?
February 4th, 2008
I’m finally getting around to writing a bit about our trip to St. Louis a couple of weeks ago. In short, we had a grand time during our brief visit to our old stomping grounds a couple of weeks ago. While I love, love our new life in Ann Arbor, I’ve 17 years worth of friendships built up in St. Louis and there’s just no substitute for that. I miss having so many good friends, the kind who know you really well, the ones who have been around you for years and know your back story. So while it was a tad exhausting going from one date to another and playing catch up, it was also really wonderful.
Amanda and I did Free Candy on the Sunday night and it was a blast. I wish I had some photos to share, but my memory card was full and the few Chris got were not, let’s say, particularly flattering. (I reserve the right to censor such things so that we hosts can always remain in the most beautious light at all times.) The audience was great — I can’t believe that for nearly four years folks have loyally been coming out to catch this crazy live show that began as a goof in a coffee shop.
The evening was linked to the release of the new issue of 52nd City. I know I keep saying this but it bears repeating: but this St. Louis-based magazine is a thing to behold. If you still don’t know it, if you still haven’t picked up a copy or, better yet, subscribed, please, please do so. It’s a collection of some of St. Louis’ best writers musing on art, culture, life, following a specific theme for each of its quarterly issues. This issue’s topic is Foreign Exchange and, as if the print edition didn’t offer up enough solid reading, there’s additional content on the website.
It is a labor of love — and, yes, sometimes frustration — for its dedicated editors, Thomas Crone, Stefene Russell and Andrea Avery and I really want to believe, despite history’s suggestion otherwise, that St. Louis readers can and will support this kind of effort. Phew. I’ve said my piece. For now…and I’m not even IN the current issue. Wait until I get on my soap box for an issue I’m in!
Anyhoo, because we were linking Free Candy to 52nd City, we went with a theme that honored St. Louis writers. Thus, instead of a guest band to play “I Want Candy,” our theme song, we had Thomas do a dramatic reading of the lyrics. And I must say it was one of those moments when I wished dearly we were not non-broadcast, non-recorded, because it was a funny as hell performance I’d love to toss up on You Tube and watch again and again.
In keeping with our writer’s theme, our guests were Debbie Baldwin of The Ladue News and legendary St. Louis Post-Dispatch columnist Bill MacClellan, who’s been musing on behalf of the everyman for three decades now. Debbie was a guest on one of our very first installments of Free Candy and she was just a blast again. Having MacClellan on our show as a real “get.” I don’t think he knew quite what to make of us but he was a terrific sport and good fun. He’s a real throwback to the day of the old write-hard, play-hard school of journos, a dying breed, and there’s great comfort to know that a few of these metro columnists are surviving as newspapers “retool” for new readership.
Now, back to our regularly scheduled blog posting about St. Louis… In addition to visiting old haunts, I also checked out a few new spots. I had tea with Amanda at the London Tea Room on Washington Avenue. Lovely space with tons of tea options and, important for ex-pats like myself, a solid selection of British sweets and foods also for sale.
I also met the aforementioned TC for breakfast on Martin Luther King Day at Rooster, a new spot on Locust. It’s a nice place, decorated with a mish-mosh of deco light fixtures and ancient mirrors on the walls. They’re known for their crepes, but TC and I both opted for egg sandwiches, which were big as our heads (well, my head, maybe not Thomas’) and absolutely delish. Mmmm. In fact, writing this, now I really want one.
We stayed at the Ballpark Hilton again (thank you, Priceline!) and I’ll tell you, downtown St. Louis was crazy-deserted. I felt like I was starring in I Am Julia Legend. Granted, it was a holiday weekend, but there’s that odd combo of stunning architecture, empty streets and signs everywhere for new loft developments that all kind of baffles me.
So we headed to the Loop where, apparently, we had missed some sort of ice sculpture event. Thus, there were a few sad almost-melted statues in front of shops, but also a gigantic pile of ice next to Blueberry Hill, just waiting for some skate punk to jump on, break his or her neck and sue the pants off the city of University City. It didn’t happen while we were watching, but the ruffians were circling and danger seemed imminent.
Speaking of Blueberry Hill, it has a new flashy sign up over its door. Or, at least, it’s new to us. It features a nice, white retro couple dancing above a marquee that now flashes upcoming acts on the LED screen. It all seems a little Hollywood for the venue, but what do I know? Maybe Joe Edwards got a buy-one-get-one offer on flashy LED screens when he put up the one at The Pageant.
All in all, a very good trip. Never long enough to see all the people I love, for as much time as I’d like. I leave you with one last shot, the Vintage Vinyl tribute to MLK. I’m many days late and more than a few dollars short, but honor his dream, people. Word.
February 1st, 2008
On New Year’s day we got another inch or so of snow, putting our total at nearly a foot in 24 hours. And I have to say, I love it. Chris always laughs at me because the minute snow starts to fall from the sky, I get a gigantic grin on my face, beaming like a giddy child. Can’t explain it, but snow makes me happy. Check back with me in a few days, perhaps, when I actually have to venture out of the house for something more than a quick trip to the gym — and when the roads are more traveled, turning the roadside piles black and grimy — but for now, I’m still thrilled.
I’m actually enjoying 2008 a lot so far. After the chaos that was December, it’s very strange to have no deadlines bearing down on me and actually have time to do what I want. I’ve been mildly productive, continuing my organizing streak, making piles to go to Goodwill, etc. It also means more down time for doing the things I’ve wanted to for ages, including afternoons of knitting, sewing, crafting and reading. In fact, I finally got around to alphabetizing my books, something I’ve been meaning to do since we moved here. (Don’t laugh! I just hate it when I look for a specific book or story and can’t find it.)
That particular task did remind me that I have so much reading I want and need to do, so many volumes that just haven’t been cracked yet. One of my goals for this year — I’m avoiding the word resolution — is to try to read the equivalent of one short story a day. (By equivalent, I mean I may have a day when I read five or I may be reading a novel, in which case, I just need to read a significant chunk.)
I’ve been helped in my initial attempt by The New Yorker’s winter fiction issue. I’m now gunning to read more Junot Diaz and Jhumpa Lahiri. (Lahiri’s story, about a college student coping with his father’s remarriage, was particularly moving to me.) I know, add them to the list, right? There’s a really interesting article in there about Raymond Carver’s relationship with his editor Gordon Lish and the extent to which Lish cut — and, it looks to me — even rewrote some of Carver’s work.
It seems Lish cut Carver’s manuscript for Carver’s seminal “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” by a good 40%. It begs the question: was the minimalist style for which Carver is celebrated really of his own doing (and his own intent) or was it created by his editor? According to the article, Carver’s widow, the poet Tess Gallagher, suggests that Carver was gut wrenched by Lish’s edits on his first two collections, to the point that he nearly pulled the plug on the publication of “What We Talk About.” (The New Yorker publishes a letter from Carver to Lish in which he long-windedly and reveals his sense of inner torture about the cut-down versions of his stories and begs Lish to halt publication.)
The article also includes an unedited version of the volume’s title story, under Carver’s original title, “Beginners.” If you’re familiar with the story — which focuses on two couples drinking at a kitchen table and discussing love as the sun sets — you’ll likely be quite stunned at how different the original is, particularly towards the end. It becomes a very different tale with Lish’s edits, ending on a different note and with, according to the New Yorker, lines that appear to have been written by Lish. (You can see the line by line edits Lish made to the story here, which include changing character names for what strikes me as no evident reason other than Lish’s preference.)
I don’t feel I know enough about fiction to say whether or not the original is a better story. I can certainly see some of the places where Lish may have felt there could be some reduction. But what startles me a bit, as a wannabe fiction writer, is how much the ending beat of the story is changed by the editor. Forgive me if it sounds dramatic, but it makes me wonder what the truth is in the rest of Carver’s writing — what he wanted us to experience, versus what Lish wanted to achieve. Gallagher’s now hoping to re-publish “What We Talk About” with Carver’s original versions of the stories in it, so perhaps we’ll find out. For those of us who came to love short fiction in part because of Carver’s stories, I’m not sure how much we want to know.
January 3rd, 2008
Part of the whirlwind craziness of the past week or so has been my general anxiety at returning to college. Not in a big way — it’s not as if the Michigan MFA program took one look at its current crop of incoming students and decided they’d made a big, big mistake to leave me hanging on the waitlist. Rather, I was fortunate enough to be granted permission by Nick Delbanco to take his fiction seminar in the Rackham Grad school English Department this fall.
In truth, I was not entirely sure what I was getting into with the class — the description in the course catalog seemed a tad vague and maybe suggested that it was better suited for those making a transition between poetry and prose. But the professor was kind enough to offer me a spot and I am determined enough to get better at writing, so I jumped at the chance — stupidly underestimating the web of academic virtual paperwork it takes to officially do such a thing.
It doesn’t help that everything happens online these days and I come from the handwritten-paper-slip approach to signing up for courses. Then there was the matter of applying as a non-degree-seeking student to the Rackham Grad School and getting immediately rejected because I was supposed to apply as a different kind of non-degree-seeking student. Then there the matter of obtaining an “override” — or official department permission — to sign up for the class. And then there was the absolutely terrifying matter of signing up for the class online in a complex system that is no doubt completely intuitive to anyone born after 1980.
But all of that is in the past. I finally figured it out — with an IMMENSE amount of hand-holding, guidance and encouragement from the Rackham English Department. (I’d name names, but I don’t want anyone to get a reputation for being the go-to gal for the completely confused.) Class started last Wednesday and while it is a small group — so far just six of us — it looks to be an interesting endeavor.
Since a couple in the class are poets in the MFA program, we will be looking at the poetry-to-prose journey a bit, but we’ll also have plenty of time for workshopping each other’s pieces and getting individual guidance from Nick. To be honest, I’m not even sure at this point what I want to accomplish with the class. Of course I want to emerge with a stronger piece for re-applying to the MFA school in the Fall, but I don’t know if that means reworking an existing story or embarking on something new. So many decisions!
September 9th, 2007
It’s about 9 o’clock in the evening and I’m sitting on the front porch of the lovely Brown Street Inn in Iowa City (pictured above), enjoying the intersection of this place, which evokes a bygone era, and the wondrous advantages of wireless internet connections. It has been hot here the past couple of days, as it has been each year I’ve come, but the weather has actually broken and there’s a cool breeze to be enjoyed.
I’m looking out on a leafy green street, with cobblestone brick roads and beautiful houses showing off their turn-of-the-century architecture. The sky’s is the most amazing wash of pink and blue. An occasional car drives past but otherwise, with the exception of the early tree frogs, it’s virtually silent. The little black kitty who makes the porch her home has come to perch nearby and keep me company. This is Norman Rockwell stuff, the backdrop for the perfect summer evening.
I’m in Iowa City, as you may know, for my third year attending the Iowa Summer Writing Festival at the university in the hopes that some of the decades-long prestige of the Iowa Writers Workshop will rub off on me. The jury’s still out on the workshop I’m taking this week. It’s called Advanced Short Story and I was actually nervous about whether or not my writing was far enough along to qualify, but we seem to be operating at a relatively tame level. Not sure how much I’ll get out of it, but I’m willing to see what tomorrow brings.
We’re workshopping three student-written short stories each afternoon, so the homework level is quite intense. Thus, I must sign off this brief update and get crackin’ on tomorrow’s fare.
It’s beautiful here, right this minute. Chris, honey, I wish you were here.
July 10th, 2007
Turns out I held my own at Thursday’s spinning class, although my ass was killing me by about 10 minutes in. I seemed to be the only person having rear discomfort as no one else was shifting and wiggling around in their seat quite as much as I was — which seems strange because I have, by far, the most padding in that area and you’d think it would make life easier. It does not.
It’s a good thing I survived it so that Chris and I could attend a Stretch & Tone class on Friday that completely kicked my ass and all the other parts of me. Definitely more toning than stretching. I worked out parts of me that I hadn’t moved since last doing the Jane Fonda workout circa 1988 (which is reponsible for the fact that any time I hear REO Speedwagon’s “Keep the Fire Burning,” I compulsively take my arms for wide circles).
Looking on the bright side, it turns out I do have ab muscles somewhere in there. I know, because they ache.
I’ve been running around like the proverbial chicken today as Fara and I are leaving for Iowa City tomorrow morning. We’re each taking a week-long workshop at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. I had hoped to be organized and send in my short story in advance of the class, but then I remembered I was me, waited until the last minute to do a final edit/polish and got it printed and copied late this afternoon.
Also in there, I worked frantically on my second stab at sewing a summer top for myself (not counting “recons” of too-big tees, etc.). Turns out I’m just not getting it. Clothing is so finicky and so difficult to fit properly. A smart person would give up now and realize she could have just bought several tops for the amount she’s spent on unwearable disasters thus far (other attempts include a disastrous sundress that wound up being a too-small, lopsided skirt). But I am not a smart person. I am frustrated and confused and challenged and plan to keep on throwing away money in the pursuit of getting just one damn wearable item out of all of this.
It’s either that or every single person I know gets a tote bag for Christmas this year. And none of us wants that.
Anyway, the new shirt will not be accompanying me to Iowa…or anywhere outside of the house. But that’s okay, because it’s always damn hot in Iowa City, so who needs shirts anyway? Woo hoo! Actually, it’s supposed to be 96 degrees here tomorrow and I’m abandoning Chris to a hot house while I bask in the cool A/C of the lovely Brown Street Inn, where Fara and I are booked.
Speaking of the lovely husband, Chris tucked a few surprises inside the Kinko’s box containing the copies of my story for handing out to my classmates. In addition to a couple of trashy mags and a chocolate bar (does the man know me or what?), he bought me a lovely book called How I Write: The Secret Lives of Authors. I haven’t had a chance to do much more than glance through it, but it’s a collection of pragmatic advice from a range of writers (including Athony Bourdain, Douglas Coupland, Jonathan Franzen, A.M. Homes and Rick Moody) about how they write — where, when they go about the most difficult part of this writer’s life, the actual act of writing.
Isn’t that the most thoughtful gift? “Go write,” my husband said as he gave it to me. “Go do what you’re meant to do.” I’m the luckiest woman alive. I swear, I am.
Speaking of said husband, I meant to mention last week that he was interviewed by a lovely reporter for Wired Magazine who flew into town for the occasion. Don’t know when the piece is coming out, but it may be the first Sharesleuth.com article that actually focuses on Chris’ work and the journalism rather than bickering about the business model. About time, I say.
Anyway, I’ve still to finish packing — as tossing things on an armchair doesn’t quite do it — so I’ll dash off. I’m trying to keep my expectations in check. This is my third year in a row going to Iowa for a week and I always set such high expectations for myself — that I’ll write a novel, have an epiphany, lose 30 pounds. This time I’m going to try to focus on being in the present, doing what’s in front of me, enjoying the time without pressure. That should be a piece of cake, no?
July 7th, 2007
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