Bluestalking

My newsletter essay for CITW

If you have a chance,  you can pop over to the website of my favorite retreat on earth, Christ in the Wilderness, and check out the article I wrote for their newsletter, plus the photos I gave them to go along with it.

If you don't, hey, no big deal. Santa may skip over your house this holiday season, though. Don't blame me.

IRRITATED. Oh, and in the dumps.

It's not that I consider myself a great writer, but I know my way around a keyboard. I think. Maybe I suck more than I can see, being unable to objectively view what I write, but today's slap in the face by a former 'zine for which I wrote is majorly discouraging.I'm not naming names, but I think I know the reasons for the slap. If I thought they were justified I'd say so, but I honestly don't.

Read on!

I deserve a break today

I've started writing fiction again. It's been at least a year since I last gave it a go. Maybe more than that, come to think of it. But anyway, belonging to a writers' group works miracles as far as giving me a much-needed kick in the @$$, giving me the will to drag my sorry self to - in this case - my Moleskine notebook, and churn out a short-short story.

I had to take a break when I realized I'm about to kill off a character. The reader will see it from a hundred miles away, and that's okay so long as I do such a thing elegantly and with appropriate bloodlessness. It's a grim story with a grim ending, alluded to rather than played out on stage. It'll  need more fleshing out once I get past the character with a target pasted on his forehead and his aforesaid demise. Poor chap. But there's really nothing for it.

Sigh.

All my fiction writing is grim. I wrote a short story for the publication my writers' group will be printing in late summerish, and there's a murder in that, too. A grisly one, involving decapitation. I know, ewwwww. Nothing like losing one's head to ruin a day. Oh, but he had it coming. Big time.

I think I'll put aside the short-short until tomorrow, leaving my characters in limbo whilst I ponder what ground I still need to cover. My male character will live at least one more night, and the other character will be left to her ruminations. I need a break from the incessant presence of the reaper, and a little distance from the story. Maybe then I'll know what must be done with the both of them.

The power!

Tomorrow I'll be posting a LONG overdue blogger interview. I haven't forgotten about it, honest. What with vacation and all, it went into the pending file along with a disturbing number of other things. But now it's time to pay the piper.

I hope he takes American Express. We get cash back for using that card.

My only nagging question is "will I ever write a piece in which no one dies?" Only time will tell. One thing I do know, nothing jolly and saccharine will be coming out of my muse. She's in a permanent funk, and that's the way I intend to keep her. If she so much as smiles my way I'll hand her a pink slip. Do they still use those, by the way? Probably not. In modern parlance, I'll kick her to the curb. Why she hasn't left yet I don't know. I don't pay her a penny. Her perks include scowls and listening to much swearing and whining. Second thought, what's not to love?

Is writing the new sweatshop?

Interesting article in The Seattle Times a couple days ago regarding the expectations publishing houses have for their bestselling authors.

No wonder bestsellers tend to be such crap:

" In an age when reading for pleasure is declining, book publishers increasingly are counting on their biggest moneymaking writers to crank out books at a rate of at least one a year, right on schedule, and sometimes faster than that.

Many top-selling writers, such as John Grisham and Mary Higgins Clark, have turned out at least one book annually for years. Now some writers are beginning to grumble about the pressure, and some are refusing to comply. "

Read more ...

The post that gets the most hits on my blog

In the roughly two years I've been blogging this post on Flannery O'Connor and her story "Everything That Rises Must Converge" has gotten more hits than any other single post I've written.

I'm re-posting it today partly to confuse people and partly because I'm endlessly flattered and mystified as to its enduring popularity.

The only thing I can figure is college students desperate to avoid reading the actual story, or those who've read it but struggle with its meaning - and quite possibly have a paper to write or a test on it - find it when they Google and glean something from it. :

Mary at Mary'sLibrary has done an effective job of putting me back on the track of reading southern literature. She's embarking on a veritable Faulkner Odyssey, which reminded me this is a mission I should never have abandoned.

That's how life is, of course. We start on something with all best intentions, then something happens and we careen off wildly in another direction. Or at least I do. Everyone may not have this problem to the same extent, but I'd sleep better telling myself it's human nature at work. Please don't burst that bubble.

I haven't picked up Faulkner again just yet, but it's in the forecast. I'm working my way back up to him via another Southern master, this one of the short story, Flannery O'Connor. O'Connor is a writer who died far too young, at the age of 39. Her output in her short life was more than respectable, but considering how much more she could have done had she lived is nearly unendurable.

The title story in Flannery O'Connor's Everything That Rises Must Converge is at its core a story about bigotry and hatred, only the particular bigotry and hatred at issue here isn't what it first appears.  While it's true the main male character in the story professes frustration with his mother for her attitudes toward African Americans, when it comes down to it something about that just doesn't equal bigotry of an inter-racial nature. What it more closely resembles is a natural coming-of-age, and the tendency to grow to resent your upbringing after you've been away for a while.

The young man in the story has graduated from college, and as a result of all his newfound "wisdom" he comes home to find his mother a pathetic, tired, old woman. When the story opens she's getting ready to go to a "slimming class." She needs to lose weight, in order to avoid having a stroke or other weight-related health issues, and her son is going to escort her to her class. She's afraid to ride the buses after dark, when the "Negroes" are likely to be riding along with her. Her son, fed up with her attitude, goes with her, but impatiently. He makes snide remarks, he derides her, and when a black man sits next to him on the bus, he looks triumphantly for his mother's reaction.

She does react. She is disappointed, but she's not making nearly the spectacle of herself that her son is. As the story progresses there's more of the same, the young man derides his mother, and she does her best not to react in a way that will provoke him further.

I can't reveal the ending of the story, which is a little frustrating because it does limit how thoroughly I can discuss it. But I don't want to ruin the story for anyone else who hasn't read it. What I can say about it is, the young man gets his comeuppance, though in a terribly ironic way. The title of the story illustrates the "rising" of the young man, and his ultimate "convergence" with the prejudices and bigoted landscape he thought he'd successfully escaped, and to which he felt so superior.

Though he's right to be impatient with his mother's prejudiced attitudes, and he's right to rebel against being the same sort of narrow person she is, where he fails is in his lack of appreciation for what his mother has done for him, despite her limitations. She's sacrificed herself so her son can become what he is. He knows that, but rather than finding that inspiring he thinks she's a simpleton for not being more selfish. Her own lack of selfishness in raising him makes him feel guilty for his over-ridingly selfish nature, and that's what's at the core of all his derision. There's no nobility of purpose here. He himself isn't free from all bigotry, even if he may appear so on the surface. When he thinks of really getting back at his mother by bringing home a black girlfriend he clearly illustrates what sort of person he is. He'd be willing to use another human being in order to get back at his mother. That's not being unprejudiced. That's quite the opposite. It shows he's still completely willing to use someone of another race, maybe not in slavery, but in a way that would make the both of them miserable. And why? To hurt his mother.

"Everything That Rises Must Converge" is a gem. Its theme is universal and timeless. If you've ever rebelled against your parents growing up, or against the place you're from once you've left it, you'll understand the significance of this tale.

I hope I've whetted your appetite and that you'll give it a read. I plan to read the others in this collection. Maybe then I'll be ready to cozy back up with Mr. Faulkner. It's not that I'm hesitant to read him, but one of the reasons I stopped in the first place was his works are all so beautiful. That doesn't seem to make sense in a conventional way, I know, but I mean it in the sense there are a finite number of his works. Once I get through all of them there'll be nothing new of his to read. I can re-read them, and I have re-read some, but to read something for the first time is an experience you can't repeat twice. That also sounds simplistic, but there's a very big difference between a first read and subsequent re-reads. The re-reads are in no way inferior, but there's something about that first time. It seems inexplicable, but that describes a lot of things about me...

Time to admit life itself isn't finite, I guess, and bravely plow the rest of the way through the Faulkner canon. From here on out it's the re-reads that will console me. At least that's what I'll be telling myself.

Mary at Mary'sLibrary has done an effective job of putting me back on the track of reading southern literature. She's embarking on a veritable Faulkner Odyssey, which reminded me this is a mission I should never have abandoned.

That's how life is, of course. We start on something with all best intentions, then something happens and we careen off wildly in another direction. Or at least I do. Everyone may not have this problem to the same extent, but I'd sleep better telling myself it's human nature at work. Please don't burst that bubble.

I haven't picked up Faulkner again just yet, but it's in the forecast. I'm working my way back up to him via another Southern master, this one of the short story, Flannery O'Connor. O'Connor is a writer who died far too young, at the age of 39. Her output in her short life was more than respectable, but considering how much more she could have done had she lived is nearly unendurable.

The title story in Flannery O'Connor's Everything That Rises Must Converge is at its core a story about bigotry and hatred, only the particular bigotry and hatred at issue here isn't what it first appears.  While it's true the main male character in the story professes frustration with his mother for her attitudes toward African Americans, when it comes down to it something about that just doesn't equal bigotry of an inter-racial nature. What it more closely resembles is a natural coming-of-age, and the tendency to grow to resent your upbringing after you've been away for a while.

The young man in the story has graduated from college, and as a result of all his newfound "wisdom" he comes home to find his mother a pathetic, tired, old woman. When the story opens she's getting ready to go to a "slimming class." She needs to lose weight, in order to avoid having a stroke or other weight-related health issues, and her son is going to escort her to her class. She's afraid to ride the buses after dark, when the "Negroes" are likely to be riding along with her. Her son, fed up with her attitude, goes with her, but impatiently. He makes snide remarks, he derides her, and when a black man sits next to him on the bus, he looks triumphantly for his mother's reaction.

She does react. She is disappointed, but she's not making nearly the spectacle of herself that her son is. As the story progresses there's more of the same, the young man derides his mother, and she does her best not to react in a way that will provoke him further.

I can't reveal the ending of the story, which is a little frustrating because it does limit how thoroughly I can discuss it. But I don't want to ruin the story for anyone else who hasn't read it. What I can say about it is, the young man gets his comeuppance, though in a terribly ironic way. The title of the story illustrates the "rising" of the young man, and his ultimate "convergence" with the prejudices and bigoted landscape he thought he'd successfully escaped, and to which he felt so superior.

Though he's right to be impatient with his mother's prejudiced attitudes, and he's right to rebel against being the same sort of narrow person she is, where he fails is in his lack of appreciation for what his mother has done for him, despite her limitations. She's sacrificed herself so her son can become what he is. He knows that, but rather than finding that inspiring he thinks she's a simpleton for not being more selfish. Her own lack of selfishness in raising him makes him feel guilty for his over-ridingly selfish nature, and that's what's at the core of all his derision. There's no nobility of purpose here. He himself isn't free from all bigotry, even if he may appear so on the surface. When he thinks of really getting back at his mother by bringing home a black girlfriend he clearly illustrates what sort of person he is. He'd be willing to use another human being in order to get back at his mother. That's not being unprejudiced. That's quite the opposite. It shows he's still completely willing to use someone of another race, maybe not in slavery, but in a way that would make the both of them miserable. And why? To hurt his mother.

"Everything That Rises Must Converge" is a gem. Its theme is universal and timeless. If you've ever rebelled against your parents growing up, or against the place you're from once you've left it, you'll understand the significance of this tale.

I hope I've whetted your appetite and that you'll give it a read. I plan to read the others in this collection. Maybe then I'll be ready to cozy back up with Mr. Faulkner. It's not that I'm hesitant to read him, but one of the reasons I stopped in the first place was his works are all so beautiful. That doesn't seem to make sense in a conventional way, I know, but I mean it in the sense there are a finite number of his works. Once I get through all of them there'll be nothing new of his to read. I can re-read them, and I have re-read some, but to read something for the first time is an experience you can't repeat twice. That also sounds simplistic, but there's a very big difference between a first read and subsequent re-reads. The re-reads are in no way inferior, but there's something about that first time. It seems inexplicable, but that describes a lot of things about me...

Time to admit life itself isn't finite, I guess, and bravely plow the rest of the way through the Faulkner canon. From here on out it's the re-reads that will console me. At least that's what I'll be telling myself.

Why I'm really glad my name isn't Adam Thirlwell

I've read negative reviews before, but this one by the Washington Post's Michael Dirda (bow when you say that) is one of the single most thorough - shall we say - I've read in a long time. Even the thought of a review like this could make a writer wake up screaming - soaked in sweat - in the middle of the night. Very, very ouch, baby.

This one hurt even to read, and I'm not Adam Thirlwell.

The work in question is Thirlwell's The Delighted States (irony):

" Strangely enough, given his subject matter, Thirlwell's own prose is distinctly bland, despite its overbright talkiness. For instance, Thirlwell likes to build an argument or assert a point, then suddenly contradict himself (though oddly enough he deprecates Dostoevsky, whose Underground Man is the master of this technique). Worst of all, though, Thirlwell often comes across as twerpily arrogant. You can almost hear the "nyah, nyah" raspberry in remarks like these: "Unfortunately for Bellow, he had not read André Gide. Or if he had, he hadn't understood." "And this technique was noted a century later by Vladimir Nabokov, who did not notice the same thing in War and Peace." Sigh. Good thing there's a really sharp mind around who can set us straight. "

Read more ...

Paulo Coelho - spiritual master or total quack?

Paulo Coelho seems to be one of those authors one either loves or despises. He writes a lot about matters spiritual, in a New Age-y sort of multi-religion way. Some find him schmaltzy, others find him truly sustaining and helpful.

And me? I haven't read his famous The Alchemist, but I recently read his Veronika Decides to Die at the request of my very well-meaning therapist who wanted to make a point. And, well, she sort of made one but I finished the book thinking Coelho a bit emotionally manipulative. I was thoroughly pissed off at one of his characters, though in another way I see the "tough love" mentality at work. And it did work for the character, which I suppose was the point. Yeah, okay, but I'm grudging about it.

What brings this subject up today is that HarperCollins sent me a review copy of Coelho's next book, with a release date of July 2008. I opened the package and at first thought, "Another Coelho so soon... I just don't know."

Fully realizing I didn't ask for the book, and no one's twisting my arm to read or review it, the fact I'm on the fence about the author makes me inclined to go ahead and stick it in the queue. Brida's another of his spiritual quest books. Of course, aren't they all? An Irish girl is the main character here, and on her quest for knowledge she meets a wise man who, well, I can't tell you more than that. I can't quote from the book, as it's not the finished product and it's subject to change, but if you've read any Coelho before you probably can imagine the drill.

Perhaps I'll pass this one along to my therapist after I read it, paying her back for Veronika. No, really, she enjoys Coelho. I think that would please her. And she's been so, so good to me. I think that's a plan.

Magical!

Mr. Fooster Traveling on a Whim by Tom Corwin is one of those magical books that appeals to both adults and children. The style of the writing works on both levels, the story being simple enough for the young, and ironic enough for the older crowd.

In short, it's a gem of the rarest sort.

Mr. Fooster has been gorgeously illustrated  by Craig Frazier. The result is nothing short of enchanting. I'm not sure if these are wood cuts, lino cuts or what, but they are just beautiful. That I do know.

The title character is a man who goes on a lot of weird and wild adventures, the point of which is to learn moral lessons. At one point he becomes a tree, rooted to the ground. He also meets an immense bug who's big and hungry enough to make Mr. F his dinner. Just when we think it's curtains for Fooster he manages to escape in a way that teaches the bug exactly what he needed to know at that moment. The bug achieves enlightenment and Mr. F gets his freedom.

The overwhelming message is there's so much beauty in the world that we just ignore, and we owe respect to all creatures on the earth. It's a sweet tale, one that would make a great gift for just about anyone.

I wish I could quote from the text, but since it is an uncorrected proof unfortunately I can't. More's the pity. We should have more books written in such sweet, lulling prose. Look for this wonderful book in June.

Hardcover: 112 pages

Publisher: Flying Dolphin Press (June 10, 2008)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0385523408

ISBN-13: 978-0385523400

Dear Viking/Penguin, Writer's Digest, Riverhead and Artisan...

I love you I love you I love you!!

From Viking/Penguin, a posthumous book from Vonnegut, and a novel that promises to be a fantabulous read.

Vonnegut's book contains a dozen new and unpublished pieces.

Hardcover: 240 pages

Publisher: Putnam Adult (April 1, 2008)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0399155082

ISBN-13: 978-0399155086

As for Benioff's City of Thieves:

"A writer visits his retired grandparents in Florida to document their experience during the infamous siege of Leningrad. His grandmother won’t talk about it, but his grandfather reluctantly consents. The result is the captivating odyssey of two young men trying to survive against desperate odds.

Lev Beniov considers himself “built for deprivation.” He’s small, smart, and insecure, a Jewish virgin too young for the army, who spends his nights working as a volunteer firefighter with friends from his building. When a dead German paratrooper lands in his street, Lev is caught looting the body and dragged to jail, fearing for his life. He shares his cell with the charismatic and grandiose Kolya, a handsome young soldier arrested on desertion charges. Instead of the standard bullet in the back of the head, Lev and Kolya are given a shot at saving their own lives by complying with an outrageous directive: secure a dozen eggs for a powerful colonel to use in his daughter’s wedding cake. In a city cut off from all supplies and suffering unbelievable deprivation, Lev and Kolya embark on a hunt to find the impossible. A search that takes them through the dire lawlessness of Leningrad and the devastated surrounding countryside creates an unlikely bond between this earnest, lust-filled teenager and an endearing lothario with the gifts of a conman. Set within the monumental events of history, City of Thieves is an intimate coming-of-age tale with an utterly contemporary feel for how boys become men."

Hardcover: 272 pages

Publisher: Viking Adult (May 15, 2008)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0670018708

ISBN-13: 978-0670018703

squealsquealsqueal

From Amazon.com:

"Veteran novelist James V. Smith breaks down the novel-writing process into easy, manageable steps and provides you with five distinct guided notepads to help you put your story together. They include:

• Scene Development: Outline your crucial scenes to keep your story on track
• Master/Major Character: Know what makes your main characters tick and how they move your story forward
• Minor Character: Make sure each supporting player has a real part to play
• Chapter Log: Maintain continuity from scene to scene and chapter to chapter
• Revision Tracker: Keep notes on what you want to revise and how you plan to go about it

Plus, with the You Can Write a Novel instructional book, you can refine your fiction techniques using Smith's timeless writing advice and strategies, such as an idea-scoring system, forty cardinal writing rules, and much more!

Paperback: 224 pages

Publisher: Writers Digest Books (March 27, 2008)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1582975264

ISBN-13: 978-1582975269

Meg Wolitzer's latest, this one about women who quit their careers to stay home and raise children and the repercussions of making that choice.

Hardcover: 368 pages

Publisher: Riverhead Hardcover (March 27, 2008)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1594489785

ISBN-13: 978-1594489785

And finally this gorgeous volume celebrating women in all our forms. Are we not wonderful?

Hardcover: 116 pages

Publisher: Artisan (April 1, 2008)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1579653634

ISBN-13: 978-1579653637

I'll be back with assessments of these and other lovelies, but I couldn't NOT post about them in the  meantime.

A truth universally acknowledged: Jane Austen Rules!

I adore Jane Austen. Yes, unromantic, unsentimental me. There's a certain type of romantic writing that's sensible and not at all cloying, writing with a bite, if you will, and Austen's work is that sort of writing.

A lot of people don't see that in her, but frankly I don't know how anyone couldn't. She wasn't a sentimentalist to an impossible degree. She was moved by deep emotional connections, it's true, but by gum, her writing is NOT fluff.

Humph.

I'm casually acquainted with Diana Birchall, author of Mrs. Darcy's Dilemma (April 2008, Sourcebooks). We've been on the same literary discussion list for several years now, and before that I'd encounter her occasionally on various other discussion lists. But we've never met, at least so far. When she contacted me to let me know she'd have review copies of her upcoming book I jumped at that, sister. Positively jumped.

I don't read a lot of continuations/re-visitings of Austen's work. Occasionally I will, if a book comes recommended by a trusted source, but in this case I knew Diana by reputation. And a good one it is, too.

I'm nearly half-way through the book right now. I'll report in again once I've finished. I don't want to comment too much, but I'll go ahead and pronounce on the very nice restrained quality of the prose that is somewhat Austen-esque. Of course it's updated. A lot of readers who profess a love of Austen do so out of love for her films. Not all of them are really looking for an early 19th C read (more's the pity!) but a modern version of Regency, one in which more is openly stated and less left archly implied.

Mrs. Darcy's Dilemma is a fun read so far.