When I was, I'll say, six or seven, I found under the Christmas tree a plastic typewriter with my name on it. I wonder if it was at this point that writing got into my blood. I can't think there were many my age excited as I was to get this gift.
Friday, August 22, 2008
A Coyote in the Valley - An Excerpt
Troy focused on the ball as he prepared to kick it. It was a large one with green swirls through white, the fun kind that you can buy out of the big bins at the IGA, but today he did not kick it in fun. He gave it a solid kick against the grayed boards of what used to be a chicken coop and then jumped quickly to recover the bounced ball before it snagged on the barbed wire fence that separated the yard from the neighboring property. The small old coop sat back against the dark trees of the McAllister’s place. Troy had to be careful to keep the ball from hitting the barbed wire fence. If the ball hit one of those barbs, that would be the end of the ball, and his game.
It was one of those summer days where there did not seem to be enough to do. Troy did not really want to do anything, but he definitely did not want to be burdened with some little girl. Sarah, his eight-year-old sister, sat in the deep grass near by, while Troy kicked the ball, again and again, against the side of the weathered shack. His father was across the yard next to the tan rock of the driveway, building a doghouse for his Malamute, a fluffy black and white, blue-eyed dog. Another dog had been found shot about a mile down the road, so his father had tethered the dog to the front steps of the house without shelter from the sun. Only after noticing that the dog no longer bothered to get up when he drove into the drive did the father decide that a doghouse might be needed.
It was one of those summer days where there did not seem to be enough to do. Troy did not really want to do anything, but he definitely did not want to be burdened with some little girl. Sarah, his eight-year-old sister, sat in the deep grass near by, while Troy kicked the ball, again and again, against the side of the weathered shack. His father was across the yard next to the tan rock of the driveway, building a doghouse for his Malamute, a fluffy black and white, blue-eyed dog. Another dog had been found shot about a mile down the road, so his father had tethered the dog to the front steps of the house without shelter from the sun. Only after noticing that the dog no longer bothered to get up when he drove into the drive did the father decide that a doghouse might be needed.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Book Review: Collected Stories of Eudora Welty
The Collected Stories of Eudora WeltyAbout two weeks ago I finally finished this book. It took a long time. I liked the stories in general, but when a collection gets to this size, it's hard to like them much when you pass 600 pages. Even though I many have suffered from some bias by the length and repetitiveness of anything this long, I think the early stories were the best. There's a bit of the Southern Gothic in them. Killers and losers appear here next to innocents. Welty, though, doesn't impose a morality on these characters, or on us. Inf act , reviewing the last lines of some of these early stories, there really is a kind of existentialism:
- "Billy boy....flung back the words, 'If you're so smart, why ain't you rich?'"
- "You could see that he despised and saw the uselessness of the thing he had done."
- "...I'd simply put my fingers in both my ears and refuse to listen."
As the stories advance in years, Welty draws more on Southern rural life and all its aspects and less on the drama of the early stories. These middle stories, focusing on a single community and its inhabitants at various points in time, are rich. Yet at the same time they have new elements that enrich them, they lack some of what I enjoyed most out of the early stories.
My interest had wained by the time I got to the last third of the collection. There was nothing bad or even frustratingly pointless here, but I was ready to move on by the time I reached page 400.
Welty is a remarkable writer, I just wouldn't recommend this collection in this form to anyone. Instead, go with the novels, Delta Wedding or The Optimist's Daughter, or one of the original (smaller) short story collections and you'll be mighty impressed.
A shift in objective
It is funny how sometimes I feel I have nothing to say and then other times I feel like I could sit down and bang out 5000-word essays non-stop. I've been coming up dry when it comes to blogging. I still like the idea, but there have been so many occasions when I don't feel like anything I say is worth putting out there into the ether to be read by my extremely limited internet audience. And the less I post, the more that audience shrinks.
Yet, I want to be writing. I am willing to take on the most uninteresting of journalistic assignments in order to be writing and to have my name out there in the world--and in print. The trouble is that I remain conscious of a future audience. I worry that the words I write will somehow negatively influence some one's decision about me. It could be a future or current employer. I'd love to write about the Russian-Georgian conflict of last week, but it is likely to be a sensitive issue for people in my organization and I'd be better served by staying silent on the issue. And there's always the idea that sometime in the future my children might get a hold of my writing. If course I'd really be in trouble if they ever began reading through my journals.
For some time I've had the notion of changing the purpose of the blog. There are plenty of people writing about books and writing, and while I'm not likely to stop doing that, there's no reason to compete with people who could do a better job. It is better to capitalize on my unique position, using my life, my personality and personal predicaments instead. And at the same time it would better show case my writing abilities, which really should be the purpose behind the blog.
The work-life-writing balance, an issue that has plagued me for some time, and inspired many too many journal entries, is about to get worse as it, again, becomes the work-life-writing-school balance. I imagine that there are few MFAs out there pursuing MBAs. By shifting the blog's objective somewhat I might actually end up writing more and writing better and more interesting posts.
Yet, I want to be writing. I am willing to take on the most uninteresting of journalistic assignments in order to be writing and to have my name out there in the world--and in print. The trouble is that I remain conscious of a future audience. I worry that the words I write will somehow negatively influence some one's decision about me. It could be a future or current employer. I'd love to write about the Russian-Georgian conflict of last week, but it is likely to be a sensitive issue for people in my organization and I'd be better served by staying silent on the issue. And there's always the idea that sometime in the future my children might get a hold of my writing. If course I'd really be in trouble if they ever began reading through my journals.
For some time I've had the notion of changing the purpose of the blog. There are plenty of people writing about books and writing, and while I'm not likely to stop doing that, there's no reason to compete with people who could do a better job. It is better to capitalize on my unique position, using my life, my personality and personal predicaments instead. And at the same time it would better show case my writing abilities, which really should be the purpose behind the blog.
The work-life-writing balance, an issue that has plagued me for some time, and inspired many too many journal entries, is about to get worse as it, again, becomes the work-life-writing-school balance. I imagine that there are few MFAs out there pursuing MBAs. By shifting the blog's objective somewhat I might actually end up writing more and writing better and more interesting posts.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Mechanisms - An Excerpt
He heard the gunshot, a sudden popping that echoed through the neighborhood’s narrow yards, but he didn’t register it. As Fred sat in his backyard in the growing dusk of a late summer evening, he was looking at the moving blades of grass, the maniacal dance of the leaves of the single elm in the small yard, and he was wishing he could pave it all over with concrete. The movement of these living things, the intangibility of these natural mechanisms, distressed him.
For over twenty-five years Fred had worked in maintenance in one of St. Louis’s largest skyscrapers. His days were spent in the chasms under the building, walking the catwalks among the hulking tanks, the gasping pipes and machines that ran the heating and cooling for the building’s fifty floors. In this sub-basement with its sparse light, with his coffee in his metal thermos and his calendar of topless women in tool belts from a parts supplier hanging above his workbench, Fred was at home. These machines were things that he could comprehend, machines that could be fixed with a wrench, with getting your hands dirty, understood by reading a gauge. The steel and grease, the dials and gauges, were things that he could put his large hands on. The grass and the tree were living things he could not bear to touch. He could not understand their living, their growing.
If the yard were concrete he would mind less these evenings spent sitting in a lawn chair with a six-pack of Schlitz. Nonetheless, it was more peaceful for him outside than inside with his wife and the endless chatter from the television as she watched Hollywood Squares and Wheel of Fortune. Together, he and Sarah had three boys, each of which proved a disappointment in one way or another.
Their youngest, Billy, who was born William, but at twelve had not yet grown out of the youthful nickname, was out this night using up his last free minutes before the regime of the school year returned. School had proven difficult for Billy on two fronts. The schoolwork seemed to challenge him in unexpected ways, but school was a bigger problem for Billy socially. Fred was frustrated by the frequency with which Billy received black eyes and fat lips, of how often a new bike, wrist watch, or school book was stolen. Billy would often dismiss the loss of some treasured object as his own mistake, he’d misplaced the watch, forgotten to lock up the bike, but Fred knew better. His thickness as a youth had put him often on the other side of such things. With his height and broad shoulders, Fred had used his size to intimidate others, and now he found himself with nothing to say to his youngest son, avoiding him.
For over twenty-five years Fred had worked in maintenance in one of St. Louis’s largest skyscrapers. His days were spent in the chasms under the building, walking the catwalks among the hulking tanks, the gasping pipes and machines that ran the heating and cooling for the building’s fifty floors. In this sub-basement with its sparse light, with his coffee in his metal thermos and his calendar of topless women in tool belts from a parts supplier hanging above his workbench, Fred was at home. These machines were things that he could comprehend, machines that could be fixed with a wrench, with getting your hands dirty, understood by reading a gauge. The steel and grease, the dials and gauges, were things that he could put his large hands on. The grass and the tree were living things he could not bear to touch. He could not understand their living, their growing.
If the yard were concrete he would mind less these evenings spent sitting in a lawn chair with a six-pack of Schlitz. Nonetheless, it was more peaceful for him outside than inside with his wife and the endless chatter from the television as she watched Hollywood Squares and Wheel of Fortune. Together, he and Sarah had three boys, each of which proved a disappointment in one way or another.
Their youngest, Billy, who was born William, but at twelve had not yet grown out of the youthful nickname, was out this night using up his last free minutes before the regime of the school year returned. School had proven difficult for Billy on two fronts. The schoolwork seemed to challenge him in unexpected ways, but school was a bigger problem for Billy socially. Fred was frustrated by the frequency with which Billy received black eyes and fat lips, of how often a new bike, wrist watch, or school book was stolen. Billy would often dismiss the loss of some treasured object as his own mistake, he’d misplaced the watch, forgotten to lock up the bike, but Fred knew better. His thickness as a youth had put him often on the other side of such things. With his height and broad shoulders, Fred had used his size to intimidate others, and now he found himself with nothing to say to his youngest son, avoiding him.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Who knew Issac Hayes wrote "Hold On, I'm Coming"?
He also wrote Sam and Dave's "Soul Man," but I can't think of that without thinking of the Blues Brothers.
NPR replayed an old Fresh Air interview with Issac Hayes last night. I loved the theme from Shaft, but I had not idea how influential he was. RIP.
Friday, August 08, 2008
The Disguise - An Excerpt
The four of them sat, two on each side of the dining room table, and on the table between them lay what remained of their dinner, plates crusting with the remnants of chicken and pasta with white sauce and stir-fry vegetables. A second bottle of wine was only half full. Isaac carefully noted the table (natural pine), the silverware (hammered), the dishes (store-brand). A desk with a computer sat in the darkness of a corner of the dining room. Under the table, Amy, his wife, squeezed his knee lovingly. The conversation lulled.
"It's a nice house you have." Amy broke the temporary silence. It had been clear to Isaac that she didn’t understand why they were all friends.
"Thanks." Mark included himself.
"Mark always wants to do something else to it. He wants to put French doors where this window is here, so we can walk right out onto the patio." Elizabeth gently patted Mark's shoulder. "But, we never get around to it."
"Oh yeah, Amy thinks she's going to paint the bedroom. She has the paint chips and everything. It's still white, though." Isaac stared at Mark, with his close cropped blond hair and the perpetual smirk he wore. He couldn’t help but believe Mark was laughing at him behind that smug expression.
"Amy, how's the nursing home?" Elizabeth asked.
"It's good."
"Don't people die there all the time?" Elizabeth put her elbows out on the table, brushed her hair back before setting her chin in her hands. "I know it sounds morbid, but how do you get used to it?"
"I don't know." Amy glanced at Isaac. "They don't die that often, really." She paused. "I guess you just don't get that close to them."
"Oh, it sounds awful. I'd be crying all the time. I remember I was volunteering at the hospital, what was it, senior year?" She asked Isaac.
He nodded, remembering.
"It's a nice house you have." Amy broke the temporary silence. It had been clear to Isaac that she didn’t understand why they were all friends.
"Thanks." Mark included himself.
"Mark always wants to do something else to it. He wants to put French doors where this window is here, so we can walk right out onto the patio." Elizabeth gently patted Mark's shoulder. "But, we never get around to it."
"Oh yeah, Amy thinks she's going to paint the bedroom. She has the paint chips and everything. It's still white, though." Isaac stared at Mark, with his close cropped blond hair and the perpetual smirk he wore. He couldn’t help but believe Mark was laughing at him behind that smug expression.
"Amy, how's the nursing home?" Elizabeth asked.
"It's good."
"Don't people die there all the time?" Elizabeth put her elbows out on the table, brushed her hair back before setting her chin in her hands. "I know it sounds morbid, but how do you get used to it?"
"I don't know." Amy glanced at Isaac. "They don't die that often, really." She paused. "I guess you just don't get that close to them."
"Oh, it sounds awful. I'd be crying all the time. I remember I was volunteering at the hospital, what was it, senior year?" She asked Isaac.
He nodded, remembering.
When the Past Comes Back
In many of my stories is a recurring theme of someone who is cut off from his/her past and is afraid of it coming back. I have to admit that I share this sentiment. And my past has come back, in the form of my entire high school graduating class. Next year is my 20-year high school reunion (quick, do the math) and in advance of it someone has set up a website for everyone to reconnect. Well, they are reconnecting.
On the website, people who haven't talked in twenty years are now leaving each other comments, leaving each other messages, and posting pictures. My in-box is full of messages of people, people I barely remember, leaving me comments or adding me as a "friend."
I have to say--and I'll say it knowing that some of these same people might read this--I find the whole thing creepy.
I am cut off from my past. I hardly feel like I ever could have been the person I was then. And know I'm being invited to relive that. Maybe these people all had a better experience there than I did. I am just not too eager to be a part of any of it. I'd would simply like to on as if none of it ever happened. Anything wrong with that?
On the website, people who haven't talked in twenty years are now leaving each other comments, leaving each other messages, and posting pictures. My in-box is full of messages of people, people I barely remember, leaving me comments or adding me as a "friend."
I have to say--and I'll say it knowing that some of these same people might read this--I find the whole thing creepy.
I am cut off from my past. I hardly feel like I ever could have been the person I was then. And know I'm being invited to relive that. Maybe these people all had a better experience there than I did. I am just not too eager to be a part of any of it. I'd would simply like to on as if none of it ever happened. Anything wrong with that?
Friday, August 01, 2008
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