What I'm writing
I haven't been doing any book-length work this year, but I'm still writing my weekly two-page stories. Nothing publishable there yet - still mostly first drafts that I haven't worked on further - but a lot of promising material. Whether or not any of it ever reaches finished form, it feels good just to be productive. I always feel much better about myself after a few early-morning hours of weekend writing.
On Friday afternoon the first hints of a new story came to mind, after seeing two older ladies walking arm-in-arm down Wells Street. An uncommon sight, at least on days when the Civic Opera isn't doing a matinee performance; at any rate, I don't think there are matinees on Fridays, so I'm not sure what brought these two ladies downtown. Yesterday morning I wrote the first draft ("Muriel and Lillian") which I edited in the afternoon into some semblance of a finished story.
Or so I thought. This morning I woke up half an hour before the alarm, and as I lay there, the story came back to me. I thought about the ending, which now seemed too tidy and summary, and came to the realization that the story isn't finished yet. Since then I've had further thoughts on how to continue the story and reach a more satisfying conclusion. Interesting how the mind works.
"There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. Writers know that. I have never met a writer who does not crave to be alone. We have to be alone to do what we do."
- Mary Ruefle
Sixth in a series of memorable curbside discards from around Joliet. Queen-sized headboard, circa 1980s, on Campbell Street. I'm guessing the garbage man will get this before any scavenger will.
I'm calling this "Sunset, St. Paul Estates, Joliet." Not quite "Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico", but in Joliet we take whatever we can get.
"...of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods..."From William Wordsworth's "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey":
Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.
I can totally see that hermit.
I love this 1906 image of the McKinley Park swimming pool in Chicago, and particularly the fact that something as mundane as a public pool could have had such grandeur (and white-uniformed attendants). The park still has a pool, but the neo-classical structures are long gone.
(Actually, the building on the left still stands, though in sadly degraded form. The other structures and pool are gone.)
Doing the work
This week I found myself inspired by the following quote from Ted Thompson:
I still think the day I became a writer was not the day I sold my book, nor the day I was accepted to a la-di-da program. It was probably the first time I set an alarm and actually got out of bed, when I went to the kitchen and ground the beans and poured the water, and most importantly when I told myself to sit down and get to work because this mattered.
A few days ago, I woke up an hour before the alarm, but instead of resting awake in bed, I got up, went to the kitchen and did edits on a story draft ("The Golden State") that I wrote earlier this summer but had since ignored. Thompson's comment was running through my head as I got up and did the work, and I'm glad I did. Because I do think this story, and my writing in general, matters.
(Via Matt Bell.)
Quote“The essential fault of surrealism is that it invents without discovering. To make a clam play an accordion is to invent not to discover.” - Wallace Stevens
Clark and Madison
Lively image of the bustling (northeast) corner of Clark and Madison, in 1948. Ah, to be able to take in a show at the Clark Theater, followed by some liquid refreshment at the Bamboo Inn or Kozer's Tap, and then an afternoon nap in an air-conditioned room at the Planters. None of which, sadly, is possible at that same corner today.
Chuck Berry, music critic
I just love this: Chuck Berry reviews classic punk records. (Click image for a closer view.) I particularly like his take on "I Am the Fly" and "Unknown Pleasures" ("Sounds like an old blues jam that BB and Muddy would carry on backstage at the old amphitheatre in Chicago.") and his open job offer to Dave Edmunds. Not to mention the self-referential tone of many of his comments.