Among The Jumbled Heap

Jose Saramago 1922-2010

This seems to be a big year for the literary dead. Jose Saramago, Nobel prize-winning author, died last Friday June 18th. Check out the NYTimes obit. I immersed myself in Saramago a few years back whilst living in Chicago. I read his novels riding the El to and from work and in the few spare minutes at the end of my work day. Our apartment had a deck built between the two crumbling edifices that our landlord generously called carriage houses. One of those was ours. I remember vividly ...

Rejection

The past year, I have been diligently sending out my short stories to various journals.  This is a major psychological step for me.  My stories have always been just that, mine, and I have not wanted to share them with a larger audience.  A feeling, I'm sure, that is partially rooted in my own fear of rejection.  So far rejection is all my stories have found in the wider world. This past week I received yet another letter saying "no thanks."  This one came from Cezanne's Carrot, a journal who...

Michelle Huneven

There are novelists whom I read for the pleasure of their words, others I read for the beauty of the stories, and, if I'm honest, there are some I read simply because I feel like it's a cultural must (that damned Western Cannon), but then there are novels that I seem drawn to for psychological reasons--often as not with no rational basis. Michelle Huneven's books fall in this category. I read her to be a better human. I read to find some solace. Huneven's novels are positive, weighty thing...

On becoming a famous poet…

Want to know how to become the most important poet in America over night? Jim Behrle has the answer: How you can become the most important poet in America overnight. Here's a snippet: There are many paths through the art. Having enough money to sit in a log cabin all day watching foxes make out, with berries on one’s breath. Having an entire university beneath one’s command. Ability to drag friends in for a little merlot and sloppy sex with students. This is perhaps my favorite part: ...

The Yankee South

American Salvage by Bonnie Jo Campbell I was born in Flint, Michigan. My parents still live there. My grandparents have lived or still live there. Flint is the quintessential Northern factory town. It is a city that General Motors built, and when I grew up nearly everyone I knew was connected in some way to the auto industry. Yet despite being a distinctly Northern town, Flint was mostly populated with Southern transplants, folks who came North to find a better life. These Southern Yankee...

Poetry makes nothing happen…

Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still, For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives In the valley of its making where executives Would never want to tamper, flows on south From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, A way of happening, a mouth. -W.H. Auden, "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" I've been thinking a lot about poetry and politics. This is one of those recurring themes in my thought...

More of Andre on Writing

I am currently obsessed with Andre Dubus. He is a contemporary American Short Story writer. A heckuva talented writer and a great human. I'll write more on him later, but I can't resist throwing out some of his good quotes on writing. An older writer knows what a younger one has not yet learned. What is demanding and fulfilling is writing a single word, trying to write le mot juste, as Flaubert said; writing several of them, which become a sentence. When a writer does that, day after d...

Twenty Tippled Years From Today

Looking at journals as I prepare to move, I came across this sonnet I wrote some time in '97 or '98. Forgot I used to write sonnets. Twenty tippled years from today, sitting On a rough hewn and slatted porch, musing With a mason jar in hand and sipping Gin with a ragged smile, grown more puckered By the years of smoke filled neglect and kisses Stolen between odd jobs assigned to me By my comrade, my patron, Saint Golious, Twenty tippled years and I will think about you. Twenty years ...

Nugget of Wisdom from Andre

"Wanting to know absolutely what a story is about, and to be able to say it in a few sentences, is dangerous: it can lead us to wanting to possess a story as we possess a cup. We know the function of a cup, and we drink from it, wash it, put it on a shelf, and it remains a thing we own and control, unless it slips from our hands into the control of gravity; or unless someone else breaks it, or uses it to give us poisoned tea. A story can always break into pieces while it sits inside a book she...