telepathic paranoia

Forgiveness Divine

He was jittery on their honeymoon, spilled a glass of red wine on her dress.  “I’m sorry,” he told her, but she smiled placidly back.  “I forgive you,” she said.

The next day when she was swimming, he stole her book to read, then misplaced it somewhere.  “I’m sorry,” he told her.  “I forgive you,” she said.

Their third year of marriage, he forgot their anniversary, while she surprised him with a brand new fishing rod.  “I’m so sorry,” he told her.  But she was unperturbed.  “I forgive you,” she said.

And so it went, over the years.  He screwed up, big things and little, and always her forgiveness came, swift and sure.  He told his friends, “My wife has the patience of a saint!  Nothing upsets her.”  And his friends were duly jealous, as their wives sulked and brooded and withheld affection for what seemed like the most insignificant of offenses.

Meanwhile, he began to wonder if there was any crime that would be outside the realm of her seemingly infinite mercy.  What if he broke her favorite antique tea pot?  What if he poisoned her roses?  What if he went on vacation without her?  What if he let her dog escape?  But each time apologies begat forgiveness, as naturally as night follows day.  The year he slept with her sister, there was a minor breakthrough – for one small moment, her beatific smile seemed to falter as she repeated the words once more: “I forgive you.”

Then a month before their thirtieth anniversary, he slipped and sloshed the steaming spaghetti water on her as she stood, chopping onions for the sauce.  An accident this time, a completely honest mistake, and the sorries spilled from his mouth even as the bright pink burn spread like a stain on her skin.  This time, however, she didn’t smile, didn’t open her mouth even to shriek in pain, but simply turned and lunged and ran him through with her knife.

And so he lay on the kitchen floor, blood squelching in a puddle beneath him, and she fell to her knees by his side, sobbing over his body.  “I’m sorry,” she wailed.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”  He smiled up at her face.  “I forgive you.”

Tags: flash fiction, forgiveness, marriage, microfiction, murder, short short, spaghetti, writing

So this morning I followed a series of links around the internet about John Updike’s archive, and what may or may not be gleaned from it.

That question aside, a lot of people are pointing out that this whole concept of a writer’s archive of materials is becoming obsolete in the digital age. Says Adam Begley in the nytimes, “Updike’s archive may be the last great paper trail… Anyone interested in how a great writer works will find here as full an explanation as we’re likely to get.”

Ruth Franklin further comments in The New Republic that “the computer discourages the keeping of archives, at least in their traditional form. If Updike had been working in Word, he might have left no trace of the numerous emendations to the opening airport scene of Rabbit at Rest.”

Mark Athitakis then follows up by suggesting that in the future, writer’s archive’s might consist of their twitter posts and facebook “likes”.

This seems like an excessively grim prediction. The idea that technology has obscured the “trace” of the working writer is baffling to me. Why should the fact of working in Word mean that writers don’t save their drafts, false starts, and excisions?

I can only speak of my own process, but for this most recent book alone, I have accumulated:

• Two notebooks (yes, real paper) worth of outlining, character sketches, problem-solving, etc.
• A folder full of photos I took to help me visualize the clothing and living spaces of my characters
• A file of links to articles and images from around the web that spurred bits and pieces of my story.  And perhaps most strikingly,
• 123 individual files, including drafts at all stages, notes, dead-ended experiments, lists of words, ideas, concepts, places, and chunks of history I wanted to incorporate into the text, comments from critique partners, drafts of query letters, ever line I ever cut from the book but thought I might want to re-use later (I revive dead snippets all the time), paragraphs from other books I want to refer to for inspiration, lists of songs I found relevant while writing, excel sheets tracking character and theme development, and God only knows what other detritus.

And this is to say nothing of the vast number of emails, forum posts, and online journal entries I have racked up in the name of this enterprise. Egotist that I am, even I can’t imagine that any biographer would ever be compelled to sort through it all. And this is all for only one book!

I know not all writers work this way. I have some (very successful) friends who simply open up a fresh document, start writing, and from then on all their work is done in that one file, so there is indeed no record of their process. But even before computers, there were writers who burned their early drafts, or trashed all their notes the minute the book was sold.  Has so much really changed?  I’d say that the biggest change is that at least an electronic archive can be searched for relevant details as easily as hitting Ctrl+F.

How about you? When you’re famous and dead, will you have left anything behind for students of your work to sift through?

Tags: archives, chicken little, do tags actually serve any purpose anymore?, I don't think I've ever gotten a single hit based on a tag, technology, updike, writing process

Today (meaning Monday) is my nephew’s sixth birthday, so in his honor I’m posting a little microfic he wrote back when he was three.  It’s honestly better than I was going to come up with tonight.

Trains

The trains didn’t go anywhere. Nothing happened to them. There were green ones, blue ones, and coaches. Nothing. The end.

Tags: authors I know, microfiction, short short, trains

Why yes, that is an eyeball balanced on my wedding ring, sitting on my laptop. And in the background, you can see my attempt at creating a color-coded spreadsheet representing my characters’ motivations throughout the course of the novel.

In the past few years, I’ve seen any number of writers — both professional and aspiring — lecture each other on the dangers of the internet. It’s a terrible time suck! they cry. Every second you spend blogging or tweeting or watching videos of people popping zits is a second you’re not writing, and therefore another second of distance between you and the fulfillment of your literary dreams. Do you think Tolstoy wasted time googling random obscenities?

Probably not. But while some writers really can sit down and write for six hours straight, I don’t think that’s necessarily an achievable goal for most of us, internet or no. The web may be a time-wasting device of awe-inspiring power, but a true procrastinator has no need of such crutches. Why, I remember before the internet even existed, when I used to play solitaire (with actual cards!), watch old tv-shows in syndication until I could recite them, unravel blankets with loose threads, or, when all else failed, simply stare blankly into the middle distance.

I’ve spent a lot of my life beating myself up for these habits. How could I have failed to complete that chemistry homework? Why didn’t I leave myself more than three hours to write that paper? How many novels might I have completed in the time I spent constructing dioramas out of happy meal toys?

The thing is, I’m starting to wonder if all that procrastination doesn’t serve a greater purpose. Especially when it comes to something like writing… sometimes it needs to be forced, but maybe sometimes it needs to be ignored for a while in favor of something willfully unproductive. Don’t get me wrong — if you never sit down to write, well, nothing is ever going to get written. But if you’re an incorrigible procrastinator like I am, you might at least console yourself that your unconscious might be doing important work back there while you demolish your high score at tetris.

Tags: craft, eyeball, photography, procrastination, spreadsheet, writing

Gelateria

On summer days, the Piazza del Duomo is swollen with crabby, overheated tourists wearily checking off the one major site in their glossy guide books before turning back to their buses and cars to start for the next town.  By nightfall, the piazza is eerily empty and pale, the white marble edifices like a moonbeam mirage.

A few blocks away, the town is waking up, locals stumbling out of restaurants and apartments for their evening walk to the ice cream stand.  Nuns shove their way to the front of the line, pulling rank on the young lovers standing together with limbs intertwined.  The nuns take a profane delight in their treat, but who can begrudge them this one indulgence?

Behind them, groups of teenage boys jostle each other, shouting flirtatious comments at the serving girls.  Each night the love affair begins anew – the girl with the scoop is the most beautiful girl in the world, until she hands over the cone and is forgotten.

Tags: ice cream, italy, microfiction

Talking to a writer friend over drinks the other night got me thinking about the various paths to success in this industry.  Industry?  Or is it an art form?

Which kind of gets to my point.  Over the past few years, I have made the acquaintance of some very ambitious writers.  And on some level, I think we’d all like to be multi-published bestsellers as well as critical darlings with an assured place in the literary canon.  But at a certain point, most writers seem to make a choice – either they’re going to put all their energy into getting published, or they’re going to put it all into perfecting their craft.  And while the two approaches certainly aren’t mutually exclusive, they’re not identical, either.

Let’s take for granted that writers on either path will begin by writing a LOT.  Whether your goal is publication or aesthetic perfection, you’re not going to get anywhere without writing, writing, and more writing.

But that aside, the writer who wants, above all, the legitimacy of publication is going to take certain distinct steps toward his goal:  he’ll read all the agent blogs, follow the industry gossip, network with other aspiring writers, scan the best-seller lists, devour every book review that comes out.  All this research will help him discern what the popular trends are, and determine how he might “position himself in the current market”, as they say.  It will also prepare him to send out a dazzling query letter, impress people at conferences with his pithy pitch, and know exactly the right thing to say when an agent finally calls. It’s not an easy path, and it comes with no guarantees, but I think this route does prepare people for the realities of the publishing industry pretty well.  And if what you want is to get published, that can only be helpful.

On the other hand, the writer who is craft-focused may follow a pretty different path.  She’s going to start by reading a ton – the very best books she can get her hands on, in a variety of styles.  She may enter an MFA program, or look around for a hard-hitting critique group.  Or she may simply lock herself away with her work-in-progress and spend five to ten years honing it to near perfection.  She may seek out advice from the authors she most admires, attend writers’ retreats and conferences – whatever it takes to learn from the people who take craft seriously.  This is also not an easy path, and comes with no guarantees – but it’s probably the best bet for producing accomplished writing.

So then what?  Shall never these paths meet?  God, that’s a depressing thought – and not one I subscribe to.  From what I’ve seen, writers who are driven by publication usually find themselves working pretty hard on craft at some point, even if they come on it through the back door.  And those who devote themselves to great writing usually have to take a remedial course in “the bizz” before they find a home for their masterwork.

Still, even if our paths will inevitably cross here and there, we could probably all benefit from checking out the other route more often.

so this is a bit of a microfiction failure — more a fragment then a fully-formed story. I did have a story in mind, with characters and dialogue and conflict and everything, but I got caught up describing the setting and wound up edging the girl out of the story. She might show up next week… Oh yeah, this also has a weird hard-boiled quality that I was definitely not going for consciously. I don’t know what’s up with that.

Pickled Eggs

It was about two years ago that the kids started coming to Wally’s.

Wally’s had been Jack’s favorite bar for going on forty years now, if by favorite you meant the one closest to his apartment. The place held a lot of memories, almost none of them happy – Wally’s was where Jack used to go to get away from his wife, until she got away from him for good. It’s where he used to knock off early from work, back when he had it. These days it was where most of his pension checks went, after rent and a paper bag full of groceries.

Jack liked Wally’s for two reasons: the pickled eggs, and the fact that everyone who came in was as lonely and miserable as he was. There were no loudmouth, cheerful drunks here, or cozy couples cooing to each other in a booth. It was dark, it was quiet, and even the bartender knew enough to leave you alone with your thoughts.

Then two summers ago, a couple of kids stumbled in – mid-twenties, tight pants, one of them wearing a hat like Jack hadn’t seen since his father was a young man. The kids got a couple of beers and wound up snickering in the corner for half an hour before they left. But that was just the beginning – ever since then, more and more of these weirdo kids cluttered up the bar, tattooed like sailors, pierced like savages, popping quarters into a juke box that Jack hadn’t even known was there.

Tonight, they were daring each other to eat Wally’s pickled eggs, the best pickled eggs in the neighborhood, as if they thought they were chunks of brined dog shit.

Tags: dive bar, fedora, fiction, flash fiction, hard-boiled, hipsters, juke box, microfiction, pickled eggs, short short, writing

A couple of years ago, I made a resolution to start writing fan mail to my favorite authors and artists.

Though it may sound selfish, I imagined it as paying into some karmic appreciation fund — some day, I hope to have readers who are sufficiently moved and inspired by my words that they will seek me out and tell me as much. By the same token, don’t I have an obligation to let the people who have inspired me (those who are still living, anyway) know how I have been affected by their work? Wouldn’t any writer be thrilled to hear such a thing? Of course it’s all very well and fulfilling, I’m sure, to hear that you’ve “moved a lot of product” in the past fiscal quarter. But ultimately, I imagine that most writers would value a note of heartfelt appreciation at least as much as a royalty statement.

A nice resolution, and not too difficult — these days, with email addresses posted so prominently on most authors’ websites, nothing could be easier than dashing off a quick little message of thanks.

But then the months came and went, and I think I sent a total of two. Or wait, maybe one? The other might be languishing in my drafts folder. Why was I having so much trouble with what seemed like a simple task?

I don’t know, maybe I overthought it. My first instinct had just been to send notes saying, essentially, “I love your work.” But that seemed so bland and insincere. If I received a note like that, it might bring a smile to my face, but would probably be forgotten by lunchtime. No, I wanted to go deeper — I wanted to tell these authors how fully I understood them and felt understood by them… how deeply I engaged with the project of their writing.

That’s where I ran into trouble. Because… what if I got it wrong? Or rather, not wrong exactly, but what if my understanding of the book was in fact totally different from what the author intended? As legitimate as my interpretation might be, it ran the risk of pissing off the author more than pleasing him. Which was pretty much the opposite of my intention.

So I was torn — send out vapid platitudes in hopes of remaining inoffensive? Or engage with the text in all its problematic glory, and run the risk of incurring the author’s wrath? Or maybe just avoid the trouble by keeping my big mouth shut?

So I went with the third option. But I wonder sometimes what the authors would say. Do authors have stories of “fan mail” which left them more annoyed than flattered? For what it’s worth, if I’m ever in their position, I’d rather hear something than nothing, and I would actually love to hear every odd or idiosyncratic interpretation of my work. But I lack confidence that others feel the same way.

Tags: fan mail, I dunno, I'm sick of trying to come up with relevant tags for everything I write authors books fandom, stuff

oh hey, classes are (almost) over, so I’m trying to get back on the horse. the blog horse. you know. anyway, we read some micro-fiction in my workshop this semester, and I was inspired to give it a shot. god willing, this will become a regular feature, and you can all watch me struggle with a brand new genre. be nice.

White Lie

When I was a kid, my aunt had this dog I just loved. Pretty little lap dog, all big eyes and fluffy fur – like a toy come to life. I only saw him a few times a year, but when we visited, I’d take him for walks and chase him up and down the stairs. Then one time when we visited, he wouldn’t run up the stairs anymore. Couldn’t get up on the couch without help.

Then next time I visited, my aunt told me the dog had gotten old, so she sent him away to live on a farm. Well, you’ve probably heard this story before – the classic thing grown-ups say to kids so they don’t have to tell them a pet died.

But when you’re a kid, you don’t know about those stories, and it doesn’t occur to you that anyone is trying to protect you. So for years, I walked around thinking my aunt was some kind of horrible person who’d give away a sick, old dog.

Tags: cute dog, flash fiction, microfiction, shih tzu, short short

All right, here’s a hoary old subject that has been done to death: MFA programs — are they valid?

The most recent incarnation of this question has been brought to you courtesy of Lionel Shriver, who tells Big Think that, despite having gone through an MFA program herself, and having had what appears to have been a pretty good time, she considers there to be “something a little corrupt… something unwholesome” in them.

Corrupt and unwholesome? Why that’s… that’s… perfectly delicious. Frankly, it makes me wonder if I’m not getting invited to the right parties.

nobutseriously. I understand what she means, about teachers teaching students to become teachers who teach students and oh was there some writing in there? There is something slightly claustrophobic — incestuous, even* — about the idea of going directly from writing student to writing teacher without ever making one’s living as a, you know, writer.

But if her argument is that most MFAs don’t go on to become professional writers… well, isn’t that true of most aspiring writers of all stripes? Anyway, the truth is most MFAs won’t even go on to be teachers or professors, either. I’m not positive, but I have a general sense that most MFAs wind up shivering in squats and playing harmonica for quarters. Either that or they go to law school.

So yes, Shriver is right — this isn’t a pre-professional degree. Getting an MFA is totally frivolous, completely impractical. But that’s kind of the fun of it, isn’t it? When else in your life as a writer, a teacher, or a harmonica playing bum are you ever going to get a chance to focus on pure craft — on writing for writing’s sake, independent of the whims of the market or your editors or an employer? Sure, it’s a little self-indulgent, but no more so than the concept of art itself.

(for another smart take on MFAs, if you’re not sick to death of this topic, see here)

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*Wow, who knew MFA programs were so sordid?

Tags: authors, frivolity, lionel shriver, MFA program, university of idaho