Pete Lit

Sax Man

(Previous installment)

His father, like Smitty much later, was forced to find new work. Smitty, Henry hoped, got more help from his employer than his father had. Smitty's employer might have moved him to another surface lot to watch over, unlike his father who received only two weeks advance pay and a hearty handshake and wave goodbye from the Driscoll Building manager, before moving on to a series of odd jobs and a steadily rising taste for liquor. A taste which was somehow passed along to young Henry, the older version of whom crossed LaSalle Street with thoughts of the Landmark Lounge once again in his mind.

Latest obsession: Wordle

My, this is fun: Wordle. The image above (click here for full-sized image) is derived from the text of my first published story, "Ectoplasm", which appeared at Storyglossia in January 2006.

Pretty...oh, so pretty...

That's three copies of the latest (third) draft of Wheatyard, just back from the printer. Once I find some envelopes I'll be mailing them off to three trusted readers who I'm hoping will be as brutally honest as I need them to be.

This land was made for some other publisher

Bad news: My story collection This Land Was Made For You and Me failed to be named a finalist of the chapbook contest at DIAGRAM, and will not be published by New Michigan Press.

Good news: The bidding war now begins! Publishers, start your checkbooks!

(In all seriousness, my heartfelt congratulations to winner Marc McKee and top finalists Chloë Joan López and Jennifer Moss, all of whose books will be published by NMP.)

Sax Man

(Previous installment)

He continued on, past Franklin and an aging garage which he bemusedly noticed had been gussied up with out-of-place evergreens on the corners at each level, then to Wells where he paused at the Dont Walk light. As he waited for the light to change an El train clattered overhead, its roar drowning out every other sound on the street. He peered up, beyond the elevated tracks to the marble building just beyond. It was here, at the Driscoll Building, that his father had operated a passenger elevator for forty-four years. Henry remembered visiting him at work now and then, curiously entering the compartment which was his father's home for ten hours a day, his only comfort a narrow cushionless stool. His father would greet him warmly, not as his son but play-acting as if young Henry was a tenant of the building, with all of the Good morning, sirs and Fine weather we're havings and What floor will it bes that the job required. Henry's father showed up there and worked every day for forty-four years, missing only a rare day from serious illness, enduring the back pain from ten hour stretches on the stool and resisting all suggestions of retirement until automation of the elevator made the decision for him.

(Next installment)

Sax Man

(Previous installment)

On this day he did notice the building, looking past the white-shirted workers streaming through the revolving doors into the soaring atrium and toward the white-clothed restaurant. As thoughts of Smitty drifted from his mind, his thoughts returned to the busboys, catching one last glimpse of them busying themselves inside before they disappeared from sight as he moved past. The tower going up meant Smitty was out of work, Henry thought, but at least it meant jobs for these other guys. And who could even say Smitty was out of work? It was a big parking company he worked for, and there were still plenty of surface lots around that needed attendants like him. So maybe Smitty was still all right.

(Next installment)

Wheatyard - Small Edits and Big Edits

I'm working my way through the third draft of Wheatyard. As of this morning, I'm finished with what I call the "small edits" - tweaking words and phrases, adding a sentence here and there, fixing minor inconsistencies and streamlining the narrative.

Now it's on to the "big edits" - major revisions and additions that didn't occur to me until this most recent re-reading of the manuscript. One of these is the narrator's attitude toward the small town in which Wheatyard, the protagonist, lives. The narrator is a grad student in his final days of college town life, soon to return to the big city of Chicago. While he admires the simplicity of Wheatyard's town, he also sees its shortcomings - notably the small-mindedness and insularity of its inhabitants. But re-reading the manuscript, I was struck by how much my narrator, while considering small-town life, veered from admiration to condescension and back again. One day he was seeing something he really liked, while another day he was bitterly critical. The narrator's attitude is one aspect of the book that is in need of significant refinement.

Another thing I need to develop further is Wheatyard's relationship with his older sister, which was once close but by the time of the story has become completely non-existent. As it stands right now, the story doesn't at all address why the sister suddenly disappeared from Wheatyard's life. Julie was kind enough to point this out after she read the second draft, and it's something I definitely need to fix.

But the work is progressing very nicely, and I expect to have the third draft finished by the end of June. I've already lined up one writer friend, one whose judgment I greatly respect, to read the manuscript, and I'm soliciting a few others. If all goes to plan I'll have the final draft done by the end of this year and ready to send out to publishers. I hope.

Sax Man

(Previous installment)

The last time Henry had stopped was just a few days before the bulldozers moved in. How's it hangin', Mr. Henry, Smitty had greeted him. Hanging low like always, Henry laughed in reply. Business good this mornin'? Eighteen and change, Henry said, shaking his head. Low even for this time of year, Henry had thought without speaking. Early spring was even worse than winter, wind and cold rain sending commuters rushing past without stopping. 'Bout what I made here since six, Smitty said, before tax of course. Least you get to keep all of yours. What little there is of it, yeah, Henry said. The conversation was similar to most of the others they had in the mornings, on Henry's way to the hotel, and though their talks were plain and ordinary he now found himself missing them, Smitty gone after the bulldozers suddenly appeared one day, levelled the cashier shack and tore up the asphalt. As the office tower later rose Henry barely noticed it as he shuffled past.

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Wheatyard - Unconscious Influences

I just started reading a book that I've owned for more than three years, whose first chapter brought me an oddly pleasant pang of recognition. The book is Plainsong, Kent Haruf's critically acclaimed novel of life in a small Colorado town. Our local Starbucks has a book case which the store encourages customers to permanently take books from, provided that the customers donate a book of their own to the shelf. Sometime in mid-2005, I visited that Starbucks with my family, having brought along another book which I had started, not enjoyed at all and then abandoned, and I figured I'd give that book a chance at finding a more welcoming home than my own. I deposited the book on the shelf and was quite pleased to see Plainsong, which I had been meaning to read for some time. I read the first chapter as we savored our coffee, then I took the book home, shelved it and didn't finally return to it until yesterday.

The first chapter of Plainsong involves a father, two sons and an all-but-invisible mother who live on the outskirts of the small town of Holt. Their house stands directly opposite a set of railroad tracks, on the very sensibly named Railroad Street. When I read this chapter yesterday (for the second time, the first having been at Starbucks in 2005), it suddenly seemed very familiar, and for very good reason.

I started writing Wheatyard in November 2005, several months after reading the first chapter of Plainsong. The eponymous protagonist of Wheatyard just so happens to live - you guessed it - on the outskirts of a small town, directly opposite from the railroad tracks, on Railroad Street. (Albeit childless and unmarried, in Central Illinois and not Colorado.) Although the similarities between Wheatyard and Plainsong end right there, I find it very interesting that these fairly minor elements of Plainsong found their way, unconsciously, into Wheatyard. Until yesterday I had completely forgotten that first chapter, and had absolutely no idea that Haruf's book had at all influenced my writing of Wheatyard. But the influence is definitely there, although to a very small degree.

Other than the name Elmer Glaciers Wheatyard (which my daughter Maddie made up) I have had really no idea where the concept of Wheatyard came from. At the outset, I simply reasoned that anyone with such an odd name had to be quite an eccentric, so I just started with the idea of an eccentric protagonist and improvised from there. Or that was what I presumed to be the extent of influence, until yesterday. Now that I recognize the fact that I borrowed some basic story elements from Plainsong, I realize there is undoubtedly a myriad of similar influences that went into the creation of Wheatyard, most of which I'm still only vaguely aware of. I expect the revelation of other influences in the future will be a similarly rewarding experience.

Sax Man

(Previous installment)

He crossed the four lanes and wide median of Wacker and descended the gentle incline toward Franklin, eyeing as he passed the sleek businessman's restaurant inside which busboys busily set up tables with white cloths and napkins for the coming lunch rush. He remembered back, before the glassy office tower was built, to the parking lot that occupied the site and the old attendant who regularly waved a greeting to Henry from the doorway of the cashier shack. Every now and then Henry would wander over, shake hands and idle away a few minutes in pleasant conversation. Smitty was a good man, Henry reflected, wondering where he was now.

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Sax Man

(Previous installment)

For now it was nothing more than that - a thirst. Not dependence or even a habit; more of a pastime, a way to kill an hour after the morning crowds had dissipated and the start of his shift at the hotel. A man couldn't help being thirsty, he assured himself, after blowing a saxophone non-stop for three hours in the face of those brisk river winds. The bitter air dried his lips and tongue, and his playing could never cease, as commuters would never give money in return for silence. So he played until his mouth was raw, which was very hard work, and for that hard work he could see no reason to deny himself some refreshment at the Landmark Lounge if he chose. And it was still his choice. A pastime, he insisted.

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"Quit These Hills"

My short story "Quit These Hills" has just been published in the recently launched online journal Big Pulp. My sincerest thanks to editor Bill Olver for accepting the story. While the journal classifies the story under Horror, I really don't think of it as a horror story. But the narrator's act could easily be considered horrific - at least to the polite society he disdains - so in that sense it is horror, I guess.

"Quit These Hills" is a combination and refinement of two shorter pieces that I previously wrote and submitted for story contests at The Clarity of Night. Neither submission was a finalist, so I salvaged their remains into this story, and I'm pretty pleased with the result. The story was originally inspired by the Pinetop Seven song of the same name, so I'd also like to thank that band's Darren Richard for permanently lodging that haunting tune in my memory.

Sax Man

(Previous installment)

But the morning rush slowly dwindled, the streams of office workers giving way to scattered clumps of tourists coming in on the train from the suburbs for the day. Though these people often had time to stay and listen, and even toss some change, they came by too infrequently to justify Henry staying around. By ten a.m. he had to be far to the east, on Michigan Avenue, changed into his uniform and ready to open and close doors for hotel guests for the next eight hours. As he packed up his saxophone and stuffed his middling take into his pants pocket, chasing for a few feet a dollar bill caught in a quick gust of wind, he realized without even checking his watch that he had barely an hour to spare. Barely an hour to ease his thirst.

(Next installment)

Sax Man

(Previous installment)

He knew he had to keep playing. For the money, of course, to wring a little more spare change from the commuters before the morning rush ended. The evening rush wasn't quite the same. Unlike the morning, when workers plodded grimly toward their offices and seemed to relish any delay they could find, including a saxophonist playing tunes they had never heard, in the evening they were all in a rush. A rush to make their trains, a rush to get their cars out of the garage and beat the traffic to the expressways, a rush to get home. No time to pause.

(Next installment)

Sax Man

Few remembered the old songs that Frank played, and fewer still would appreciate them enough to spare any change as they passed by. The saxophone case rested on the sidewalk, opened wide to reveal only a few scattered dollar bills and a handful of small coins. Four or five dollars for several hours of work. Because as much as he loved the music, as much as it satisfied his soul and made him the man he was, it was indeed work. Standing at the railing, hot or cold, rain or shine, the wind from off the river usually whipping at his face, honking out the same standards for hours on end to the mostly indifferent glances of business people hustling to the office. He had been riffing on "Round Midnight" for ten or fifteen minutes and needed a break soon. He had been playing without pause for over an hour and needed a break. Even Coltrane would step away from the stage now and then, he thought to himself, taking a break as the band continued on, settling in at a table filled with well-wishers and enjoying their praise and a cold highball. But on the bridge Frank saw neither praise nor refreshment before him, just a few minutes to rest his mouth before he would continue on.

(Next installment)

This Land Was Made For You and Me

My story chapbook This Land Was Made For You and Me is now finished, and has been submitted to DIAGRAM for their chapbook contest. When I first started this project three or four years ago I envisioned it as a much larger collection of twenty or more stories, each based on a different photograph from the Farm Security Administration archives. But the project languished at just seven stories as my attention moved elsewhere, and the prospect of creating two dozen more stories to round out a longer collection apparently was just intimidating enough to prevent me from continuing to work on it. It was a project that was always in the back of my mind but which quite frankly I just assumed would end up in my writerly dustbin. I did scavenge a few individual stories that I've circulated around to various journals, one of which, "Deep in the Northwoods", was published in Wheelhouse, but my hopes were very slim for ever seeing a unified collection of stories based on FSA photographs.

My sudden late discovery of the DIAGRAM contest changed all that. The contest sought chapbooks (fiction included) of up to 44 pages in length which, I quickly realized, was just about the total length of the seven stories I had already written. And I always do better with hard external deadlines (in this case, April 1) to get things finished instead of relying on my own inner drive. (I'm a procrastinator at heart, even for something as important to me as my writing.) Fortunately, given the short deadline, most of the stories were already close to finished form, and required only light pruning. One story ("Chicago, Illinois") did require a complete rewrite, as the original was almost entirely exposition with no real narrative, but it's a much better story now than it was originally. So, I now have a finished story collection that I'm quite proud of, and though I'm under no delusion that the book will win the contest, I'm somewhat encouraged by the fact that New Michigan Press will consider all entrants for publication, and has published numerous non-winning chapbooks in the past. Just the thought of my manuscript being read by such a great writer as DIAGRAM/NMP head honcho Ander Monson is enough to make the effort worthwhile - hell, even if he doesn't read it, the possibility of him personally tossing it in the recycling bin is enough for me.

As promised, I'll be publishing a few teasers from the collection here from time to time. First up is an excerpt from "Cimarron County, Oklahoma" (which was inspired by this photograph):

They approached the house. It was long, low and windowless, and built haphazardly of rough planks, many of which had been pried away by the storm. The house sat encircled in dirt, and the youngest, not comprehending, laughed when the door would not budge as his father tugged at it. The door normally swung outward but was now wedged in by two feet of soil.

His father turned toward him and glared, just mean enough to make the boy draw back, his laughter cut short. Gone was his father’s good mood of the hours in the truck, gone was the adventure of the long walk and the disappearing footprints. The boy’s quiet wonder slowly gave way to tearful sniffling.

Through misting eyes he now saw, for the first time, that there was really nothing here but dirt. He suddenly remembered the young wheat stalks which had just emerged from the ground during the last few days. The family planted the wheat themselves, the first time the youngest was old enough to do so, and he waited with excitement for the plants to grow. Finally they emerged, tiny and green, and he imagined how they would look when fully grown.

But now the wheat was nowhere to be seen.

What I'm Writing

As I mentioned earlier, I'm working on This Land Was Made For You and Me, rushing to meet an April 1 submission deadline for the chapbook contest at DIAGRAM. I just finished the latest round of revisions, and have started designing the layout. I might publish some excerpts here soon, but for a teaser here are the FSA photographs that the seven stories are based on:

Dorothea Lange: Nipomo, California
Russell Lee: Craigville, Minnesota
Jack Delano: Greene County, Georgia
Arthur Rothstein: Shellpile, New Jersey
Arthur Rothstein: Cimarron County, Oklahoma
Russell Lee: Chicago, Illinois
Russell Lee: Prague, Oklahoma

Beautiful and powerful images all. I couldn't help being inspired by them.

What I'm Writing

Nothing new in the works, but...

I'm revising "The Last Final Copy", a story I wrote almost two years ago about the last few hours of Chicago's legendary City News Bureau. It's been with a small anthology publisher all this time, for possible publication in a workplace-themed collection which has been pushed back several times. Not wanting to wait any longer, I submitted it to a prominent but for-now-unnamed journal which really liked the story but had a few suggestions for tightening up the narrative. The editor was exactly right - it did need some streamlining. One of the really interesting things about writing is how you can create a story that you really love (as I do this one), so much so that you're convinced it's already in its final, can't-be-improved form. But once someone else reads it and makes a few suggestions, you're suddenly aware that, indeed, there is considerable room for improvement. There's a strong possibility that this story will be published soon, depending on what the editor thinks of my revisions.

I'm delving back into This Land Was Made For You and Me, the story collection based on Farm Security Administration photographs from the Depression era. I just saw a notice in Poets & Writers about a fiction chapbook contest co-sponsored by DIAGRAM and New Michigan Press, both of which are curated by the esteemed Ander Monson. My collection had stalled out at around six stories, and I've been hemming and hawing about whether or not to resume writing new pieces for it. Now I'm thinking I might not have to - with this contest seeking chapbook-length collections (18-44 pages), the stories I've already written might already be just the right length. So now it would simply be a case of polishing up what I've already written (one of which is "Deep in the Northwoods", recently published in Wheelhouse) and shipping it off. Of course, given the entry fee involved, I'd have to be sure the collection is good enough to be contest-worthy before going through with it. I probably will, though, just for the hell of it.

Color Me Podcasted

My friend, fellow writer and kindred spirit Ben Tanzer interviewed me this week over lunch, and the result is podcasted here. (Note to self: next time, speak slower, enunciate and never say "you know.") Topics include the challenge of writing historical fiction, Nelson Algren, Knut Hamsun's Hunger in ten words or less (okay, twelve, including the obligatory "efficacious") and whether or not I'm an outlaw. Contrary to Ben's regular tagline, listening to this interview will not change your life, but hopefully it will distract and maybe even entertain you for a few minutes. My sincerest thanks to Ben for the shameless shilling.

What I'm Writing

I'm finishing up a new story, a noir named "Conned and Bruised in Alphabetsville." My old friend Fred recently pointed me to this wonderful resource: Twists, Slugs and Roscoes: A Glossary of Hardboiled Slang. Just like the title states, it's a long list of slang and jargon compiled from noir and hardboiled crime fiction. I'm a longtime casual fan of noir (casual enough that most of the slang was new to me) but had never attempted a story in the genre. So, duly inspired by that profusion of new words, I wrote a story about a hapless, two-bit criminal which incorporated as many of the glossary's terms without (I hope) overdoing it.

Storyglossia (which, incidentally, published my first short story two years ago) is running an all-crime fiction issue for its next edition, and I'll be submitting my story for consideration there soon. Cain or Chandler it ain't, but I think it's at least halfway decent.

These Hills Get Pulped

I recently learned that my short story "Quit These Hills" will be published in early May at the new pulp fiction journal Big Pulp. The journal's publication schedule can be viewed here - their first story will be published during the first week in March. The only name I recognize there is Corey Mesler, but I'm sure there will be plenty of worthy stories published therein.

I originally wrote this story as two separate pieces which I entered in contests at the litblog The Clarity of Night, and after neither one finished as a finalist, I stitched the two stories together with an interconnecting passage, and after several rewrites the resulting story emerged as a considerably better and much more complete narrative than either of the original pieces. I didn't think this story was particularly pulpish, but I liked the concept of Big Pulp so much that I submitted on a whim. Bill Olver, Big Pulp's editor/publisher, really liked the story and apparently thought it was close enough to horror - the protagonist's actions are, indeed, rather aberrant if not outright horrific - to be a good fit with the journal. I'll post an announcement here when the story goes online.

Wheatyard - The Epigraph

I have mixed feelings about epigraphs. When used appropriately, they effectively convey and summarize the author's thoughts about the work - but when misued, they can come across as pretentious and desperate invocations of earlier classics, as if the author is saying, for example: "By quoting from Milton, I am insisting that my book is every bit as great as Paradise Lost."

Erring on the side of caution and wanting to completely avoid the latter case, at first I gave no thought whatsoever to an epigraph for my novella-in-progress, Wheatyard. I finished the first draft last spring, epigraph-less, but then during my Summer of Classics I happened to read Herman Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener, and was struck by this passage from the narrator's introduction:

Bartleby was one of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, except from the original sources, and in his case those are very small. What my own astonished eyes saw of Bartleby, that is all I know of him, except, indeed, one vague report which will appear in the sequel.

I immediately saw the obvious (and, I hope, non-pretentious) parallel between Bartleby and Wheatyard. Both protagonists are mysterious, idiosyncratic individuals who have mostly withdrawn from society and want to live their lives entirely on their own terms. Both interact with society only to meet their most basic needs - Bartleby for employment (and a clandestine place to sleep), Wheatyard for outlets willing to publish his fiction. And both Bartleby the Scrivener and Wheatyard are narrated by individuals who discretely and over-cautiously seek to find out the truth about the protagonists - tiptoeing around the periphery of the protagonists' lives without directly confronting them to get an immediate answer to the mystery.

Obviously, I could write for centuries and never achieve the status of Melville, and hope that in choosing this epigraph I'm not being too presumptuous. I'm doing so because Bartleby's sad story is very much reflected in the life I've conjured up for Elmer Glaciers Wheayard, and not because my writing in any way approaches the greatness of Melville. I'm merely standing on the shoulders of giants.

RAGAD reading at Book Cellar: no bruises, no frostbite

The RAGAD reading at Book Cellar went very well. Turnout was much better than I expected on such a bitterly cold night, the atmosphere was warm and inviting and despite the added pressure of being the "featured" reader (since issue #5 is devoted entirely to my story "Mercy Day", which I read) I didn't perform too horribly. Despite what Nick Ostdick says, however, I wouldn't describe the audience as being "riveted" by my story, but they did seem to enjoy it - and not a single one of them dozed off. My sincerest thanks to Nick for publishing the story and hosting the event, and I'd also like to give a shout-out to my fellow readers Spencer Dew, Jill Summers and the irrepressible Ben Tanzer.

Incidentally, Ben, Nick, Jason Pettus (CCLaP) and Jason Behrends (What to Wear During an Orange Alert?) convened after the reading to record a podcast on all things locally literary, which can be enjoyed here. I was kindly asked to participate, but had to decline - after Julie was cheerfully willing to be dragged all the way up to the city on such a forbidding night, I thought she deserved a nice dinner afterward. Which we had - after a few unsuccessful stops at other places, we had an excellent meal at Tilli's, in Lincoln Park.

Update: Jason Pettus has posted several photos from the reading. In the third photo down, I'm the follically-challenged guy in the plaid shirt. Julie is to my right, and the bearded Nick Ostdick is at the far left. The hands grasping the beer bottle and glass in the foreground, I believe, belong to Ben Tanzer.

Writing Update - The Engine Driver

Well, that didn't last long. I've decided to set aside The Engine Driver for a while. I still haven't resolved the dilemma I mentioned earlier - how an untrained farmboy could conceivably build a functioning steam engine out of salvaged parts, all alone, in the winter wilderness. Though I have a few ideas on how to handle that question, I decided to move past it and work on the story beyond that point. But the story just wouldn't come alive for me - though I wrote ten or twenty more pages, the narrative seemed flat, lifeless and uninspired - and I realized this even while I was writing it. I toyed with the idea of continuing to write out the entire story in such skeletal form, and then go back later to flesh it out. (Pardon the metaphor.) But I'm aware enough of my writing habits - three unfinished novels so far, and dozens of unfinished stories, all of which I've long meant to resume working on but have failed to do so due to the distraction of new projects - to realize that such a skeleton first draft, even if I were to ever complete it, stood a strong chance of being set aside and never resumed.

I questioned the purpose of continuing to work on it, and decided it didn't make sense to do so. So for the time being, I'm filing away The Engine Driver in my Maybe drawer. As in: Maybe if inspiration strikes and I find a better way to write the story, I'll start it up again. But for now I'm moving on to other, and hopefully better, things.

A subtle reminder...

Or not so subtle.

COME ONE, COME ALL TO THE RELEASE PARTY FOR ISSUE #5 OF RAGAD, NEXT SATURDAY AT BOOK CELLAR IN LINCOLN SQUARE, AT 7 P.M. DETAILS HERE. YOURS TRULY WILL BE READING HIS STORY "MERCY DAY."

That is all. I apologize for all of the shouting. But this self-promotion stuff is loud and dirty business.

Wow! I've been translated!

I'd like to extend a huge thank you to Luke Kowalski, who has been kind enough to translate my story "The Copper Responds" into Polish. You can see (and read, if you know Polish) his translation here.

As I once said in reference to Laila Lalami upon translation of one of her stories into Italian:

It occurs to me that an even greater honor than being published in your own language is to be translated and published in a foreign language publication--the fact that someone thinks your story is worth the effort of translating speaks volumes about its merit.

I am utterly flattered that Luke felt this way about my story, so much so to go the great effort of translating it. Luke, you have my deepest gratitude.

Writing Update - The Engine Driver

As part of my resolutions, I've committed to writing at least 500 words of fiction each day this year. I metaphorically (and ironically) dropped the ball right away, on New Year's Day, when I frittered away prime afternoon writing time by watching the first half of the Rose Bowl, in which my beloved Fighting Illini quickly fell behind by two touchdowns and never fully recovered en route to a blowout loss to USC. When I finally turned the game off it was dinner time, and I returned from my upstairs seclusion to spend the rest of the day with the family. In retrospect, my time watching the Rose Bowl would have been much better spent writing.

But I made up for that lapse by doubling my writing session on the 2nd, when I went back to work. Ordinarily I read on the morning train and write on the evening train (writing being the more mentally engaging activity of the two - reading in the evening ususally leads to a nap) but that day I wrote on both legs of my commute to get caught up, and every day since I've been diligent about meeting my daily quota. (Thursday and Friday evening on the train, then Saturday morning in the waiting room at the Honda dealership while getting a new muffler installed.)

I've revived a project that briefly came to me a few months back but was almost immediately abandoned, a novella which I'm tentatively calling The Engine Driver. It's a Civil War-era story of a young Union soldier who is the sole survivor of an attack on a train transporting prisoners of war back to Chicago. He finds himself alone in the mountains of Virginia, salvaging what he can from the wreckage of the train - at first basic provisions but then parts of the locomotive itself. He knows that his only chance at survival is to somehow fashion a vehicle out of locomotive parts and an old handcar he finds abandoned along the tracks. At this point in the narrative, survival is his sole focus - he gives no thought to what his life might be after he survives, which might be quite treacherous given the fact that he is about to become a deserter from the Union Army. All he's thinking about is how to build the vehicle which will help him survive.

At the moment I'm juggling various combinations of plot in order to come up with a reasonably plausible scenario for how a Wisconsin farmboy with no direct knowledge of steam engine mechanics could possibly build such a vehicle, entirely on his own and under fairly adverse climate conditions. How successful I am in making this pretext plausible will be critical to whether the rest of the story comes to fruition, or instead gets abandoned as I move on to writing something else.

Tune in next week.

2008 Literary Resolutions

1. Finish third draft of Wheatyard, send out to readers, incorporate revisions, finish fourth (and final?) draft, send to prospective publishers.
2. Resume work on This Land Was Made for You and Me, completing at least five new stories.
3. Write fiction every day - 500 word minimum.
4. Officially launch Hawker Press.
5. Read one play each month, starting with Aristophanes' "Lysistrata" in January.
6. Read ten short stories by ten writers I haven't previously read; blog about impressions at The Short Story Reading Challenge.
7. Continue 2007 reading themes: March Irish Novel (John McGahern's The Barracks), Summer of Classics, Short Story September.
8. Perpetuate the posting of pithy commentary, right here.

RAGAD Reading at Book Cellar

I'm pleased to announce that I'll be doing another RAGAD reading next month, this time at Book Cellar in Lincoln Square, on Saturday, January 19, starting at 7 P.M. I'll be reading along with Spencer Dew, Jill Summers and head honcho/guiding light Nick Ostdick, plus one other potential surprise guest. The event will celebrate the release of RAGAD print issue #5 which, I almost embarrassed to mention, is devoted entirely to my short story "Mercy Day." Yes, I'm blushing.

Writing in Progress

New to the list:
"Sweetheart Blues" is a story I started a few years ago, based on a photograph from the Chicago Sun-Times archives. Right now it's not much more than a sketch of a struggling young artist (I won't say what kind, for now) who works in Chicago's nightlife district in the early 1960s but still lives in the blue-collar Southeast Side where he grew up. I came across an old draft of the story in my files, remembered how much I liked the premise, and decided to try to revive it.

"A Son Responds" is already, technically, a finished story, although probably not a finished story that anyone would want to publish. It's already been turned down by half a dozen publications, including one of my favorites, Chicago's own Featherproof Books, whose Jonathan Messinger had some very kind suggestions that I've tried to incorporate into the newest version of the story. It's definitely a better story now than it was before - I'm just not sure if it's better enough.

Still on the list:
Wheatyard will be on the list indefinitely, until it's finally published or incinerated in a fit of artistic rage.

Scent of Wild Onions, my Lou Reed-inspired story collection, is still on the list - but just barely. I haven't touched it in a couple of months and haven't felt much like doing so either. Maybe I have to sit down and listen to New York in its entirety and see if anything transpires.

Removed from the list:
"The Copper Responds" was removed because for once, just for once, I finished the damned thing.

A Cool Five Thousand (or $10,283 based on current exchange rates)

My enthusiasm for submitting stories for publication in literary journals, and particularly to contests, has declined precipitously over the past year or so. Maybe it's having wearied of beating my head against the wall in trying to get published in this too-many-writers-not-enough-readers climate, maybe it's the fact the journals don't pay their writers or that many contests seem shady and/or sordid, or maybe schlepping a pile of manila envelopes off to the post office has lost its giddy-with-hope thrill. At any rate, the few stories I've submitted lately have been via email - I figure if I'm not going to get published, or if I'm going to get published but not paid, I might as well make it easy on myself. Needless to say, story contests with entry fees (unless it's a venue like Storyglossia or Emerging Writers Network that I feel a strong personal connection to) have been entirely abandoned.

But this week I'm (no pun intended) taking a flyer: The 2008 Willesden Herald International Short Story Prize. Grand prize is £5000 with publication in an anthology, runners-up also get published. AND NO ENTRY FEE. I've got a story printed out and enveloped up, and I'm sneaking off to the post office in just a few minutes - this one is easily worth the overseas postage. Deadline for entries is December 21, writers, so move quickly. (Thanks to Maud for the tip.)

"The Copper Responds"

(Note: The story that follows was written as a response to Cory Doctorow's story "Printcrime", as told from the perspective of one of the "coppers" in the original story. I suggest you read the original story first, and then read mine; otherwise my story might not make much sense. Special thanks to Cory for the permission and kind words.)

The Copper Responds
by Peter Anderson

1
Coppers, they called us, at first for the color of the buttons that gleamed down the chests of our navy blue uniforms, but later for the way we always made them cop to their crimes. In time we adopted the name for ourselves. And cop they did - they always confessed. Some pleaded innocence at first, but after only a few minutes inside the interrogation room they'd confess to anything, just to make it stop. We probably could have detained most of them anyway, locked them up indefinitely, but a formal confession made their guilt official, neat and tidy and impervious to any attorney who might get involved, not that many attorneys ever did.

2
Kessler was different, though, and in some way I admired him for it. Unlike the rest of the printmen riff-raff, he never cried out for a lawyer or claimed innocence. Instead he came along quietly, conceding guilt from the moment the indictment blared out of the bullhorn and we hauled him out of his house, by his ankles, his head bumping down the stairs. Some might say that, as meekly as he submitted, none of the rough treatment - dragging him out and destroying his house - was at all necessary. And maybe they'd be right. But still we swung our clubs, drunk with power, cracking skulls and smashing furnishings, all for the joy of it.

3
We would always put on a show, getting carried away in the mad spirit of the arrest. Of course it felt good, which is why we did it, but such treatment was also considered a deterrent by the Department, which is why it was official policy. Smash everything - glass lamps, old steamer trunks, appliances, dishes, windows - and leave all of it behind as a reminder of why all citizens should obey the laws whether they agreed or not. Kessler had more junk than other people, probably from illegal printing, and even had this ridiculous birdcage that I destroyed myself, with one stomp of my jackboot. Never did see any bird inside, though if it lived in his house it was must have been a criminal just like him, and deserved whatever it got.

4
We gave it to Kessler nearly as bad we did his house. Three of us worked him over with our clubs and our fists and, after he fell to the floor, with the steel toes of our boots. He was broken and bloody when we dragged him out. We stopped for a minute to give the newsies a good shot of him, all of us grinning for the camera like we had bagged a twelve-point buck, before tossing him the back of the wagon. Again, deterrence. We knew the newsies would dutifully report on the proceedings, commending our diligence and warning citizens everywhere. Citizens like the neighbors who cowered behind locked doors and never came to Kessler's aid, those very same people that Kessler was helping with his illegal goods.

5
We would leave behind the outlaw's belongings, as a grim public service announcement - all of it, that is, except the printer, which even smashed up could still be dangerous. These printmen were clever thieves who could undoubtedly extract a machine's specs from its shattered remains and be able to create another, good as new and just as dangerous to civilized order as the original. Printmen had no compunction against producing high-grade pharmaceuticals, computers, regular household goods, anything that was, by sacred law, the sole province of The Corporation. The printer had to be taken to the station house for safekeeping and as a trophy - but rarely, fortunately for us, as evidence for any trial.

6
Kessler quickly submitted to justice, quietly accepting his verdict, and my superiors were so pleased that such a high-level bootlegger had been neutralized that they gave me a promotion, to punitive officer at the prison where Kessler was kept after finally being released from the hospital. From the moment he arrived I hounded him, waking him at odd hours, spoiling his food, even inciting a fight between him and another con that left him with a bad limp and forever looking over his shoulder for me.

7
But times changed. The Corporation still reigned, of course, but a new Administration assumed power, one that foolishly pitied criminals who continued to be, even while behind bars, a grave threat to the state. The Administration took over the Department, recklessly granting leniency to cons they called "the unjustly convicted," including Kessler, who was pardoned only ten years into his fifty-year sentence. And I was demoted, put back on regular patrol, and since I was powerless against either the Administration or the Department, I exercised power where I could. Namely, Kessler. After I heard reports of him asking around about printer goop, looking for a fresh supply now that his old sources had been eliminated, I knew he was up to something.

8
Back on patrol, though, it isn't like the good old days. I can't just kick down doors and crack heads, or interrogate a confession out of the defiant ones. Instead I have to spy, gather evidence and obtain warrants - real ones, not the rubber stamps of before - to arrest anybody, for even the smallest crime. Instead of brute force, I have to watch and observe, which is interesting in a way - an intellectual exercise instead of the old physical release. So I watch and observe both Kessler and his daughter, a luscious eighteen-year-old named Lane. She was just a kid when I put Kessler away, but since then she's ripened into quite a looker. Through Kessler's kitchen window I watch them one afternoon, in the parlor, him sitting in a corner and her nervously pacing around - long legs and snug pants - but though I can see them well enough I can barely hear them through the screen.

9
Early on I figure out that Kessler has changed his methods. No longer are neighbors parading in and out of his house at all hours, coming and going for their pharma and knicknacks and appliances. Instead only one or two visitors arrive each day, coming with nothing but hopeful faces and soon leaving with nothing at all. Kessler must be going upmarket, I think, operating on a larger scale, and either doesn't have product available yet or has product so costly that no one can afford it.

10
Outside the open kitchen window, I hear only scattered phrases - "worth going to jail," "never again" - and hear him slurp, as if from a glass, and give out a loud sigh. "Let me whisper..." I hear him say, before his voice drops off, drowned out by the hum from the generator works. He is telling a secret, only to her, about the scheme he must have thought up.

11
Through the window, past a tattered screen and grimy curtain, I peer into the parlor, catching a glimpse of the daughter's slender hips as she leans over him, coming in close to hear his secret. For a moment I think of being in his place, not as a criminal whispering his latest scheme, but as the object of attention of a young woman like her, soft and supple and warm, with sweet breath and deep brown eyes, and unlike Kessler my thoughts are not at all fatherly. And I imagine...no, I can't imagine anything like that, not now. Right now I have a job to do. Let the rest be a fringe benefit of the job, eventually, but not the job itself.

12
I see the girl straighten up suddenly, as if shocked, as if his scheme is so audacious that she's recoiling at the thought. Kessler has obviously thought up something big, and I'm onto him. For now I'll just investigate, going at it the hard way that's been imposed on me and the other coppers, but even handicapped I'll put Kessler away, for good this time. I should be able to get him with evidence, delicately and gently, but I'd rather do it the old way, by breaking down doors and cracking heads. And soon I'll be able to again, since this Administration is already losing its grip - power is shifting back to the other side, back to coppers like me who prefer using force. That sweet day will come soon, and when it does I'll appreciate it that much more, for having been without it for so long. Getting it back will be worth more than anything.

This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.

Writing in Progress

New to the list:
Scent of Wild Onions is a story collection based very loosely on Lou Reed's New York album, with each story inspired by a single line from each song on the album, and with the venue shifted to Chicago. However, this project could quite easily be removed from the "Writing in Progress" list very soon - the first story, "Washington Heights", materialized with little effort, but the second, "Pilsen", has been stalled for a few weeks as the initial burst of momentum faded. I think I'll get the latter story finished off and see if I find any potential for a third story - and if not, I'll probably ditch the whole thing and move on to something else. ("Washington Heights" does, however, have some salvage potential.)

"The Copper Responds" is a short story that directly responds to Cory Doctorow's story "Printcrime". I had been thinking about this one for a few months, and when I finally started writing (on the train home Wednesday night), it all quickly fell into place, and I finished the first draft early Thanksgiving morning. I'll publish it here once it's finished.

Still on the list:
My novella Wheatyard (now moving toward its third draft) is still on the list, and likely will be for another year or so. Even if I'm not actively working on it, the book will never be far from my thoughts, so in a way I'll be working on it even if I never touch a pen or computer. Julie read the whole second draft in one evening, really liked it and had a few very good suggestions for improvements which I will definitely be implementing in the next draft.

Removed from the list:
For now, I'm removing the story collection This Land Was Made for You and Me and the novella The Engine Driver. I'm sure I'll revisit the former off and on over the years, so maybe it will someday materialize in finished form, or maybe not. The latter was a concept that came to me suddenly but that I only generated a few ideas for - pretty good ones, I think, but not nearly enough to compel me to plunge headlong into serious writing. Again, this story is something I might return to if inspiration somehow strikes.

Wheatyard - Another Milestone

I've reached another milestone - the second draft of my novella Wheatyard is now complete, with the edits typed up, the whole thing printed up and bound, and handed off to my wife Julie for her thoughtful but tough assessment. The manuscript weighs in at 91 double-spaced pages, and about 38,000 words which, at an estimated 300 words per published page, would equate to 129 words in final book form. (War and Peace, it ain't.) As soon as I've absorbed Julie's thoughts and impressions I'll start in on the third draft which, when complete, I plan to distribute it to a few writer friends whose opinions I greatly respect, for further feedback. I'm planning on finishing the third draft by April and if everything still looks positive at that that time, I'll start to seriously evaluate potential publishers. Right now I have a few dream publishers in mind, none of whom I realistically expect to take a flyer on a first-time novelist such as myself. I'm sure I'll have to aim lower than that upper echelon, although I still might send them manuscripts on the proverbial wing and prayer.

If you're at all interested in how this book has progressed, I've created a new index, the very imaginatively named Wheatyard, which compiles all of my past references to the book. The past references are a bit sketchy, I'll admit, but now that the book is becoming more of a viable entity, I plan to comment on it here more regularly, and also publish some excerpts for your reading indulgence.

NoNaNoWriMo

Despite my enthusiastic participation during the past five years, I've opted out of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) this year. The past five Novembers have left me with three unfinished novels, two finished stories ("Immortality" and "Ectoplasm", both of which have been published) and two unfinished stories. Rather than add a fourth unfinished novel to my inventory, I'm instead working on my most advanced novel, Wheatyard, which I started during NaNoWriMo 2004. Presently I'm typing up the hand-edits of the second draft which, once completed, I'll hand off to Julie for a close reading.

NaNoWriMo has been a great experience. It really gets you in the habit of writing every day and finally starting a book you've been kicking around in your head for years but never put to paper, and getting the story written without dawdling over rewrites and research. And it also makes you feel like you're part of a big community of fellow writers, all of whom are as overwhelmed by the process as you are. Writing is such a solitary pursuit that it's easy to feel like you're all alone, and NaNoWriMo helps you realize that you're not. There's thousands of people just like you, which is really nice to know.

If I'm ever going to get a novel published, though, I really have to finish one first, so I thought it best not to participate in NaNoWriMo this year. Maybe next year.

Ruined Haiku

The website Ruined Music is all about songs that once greatly signified people's romantic relationships, but once those relationships went awry, the people who once loved those songs could no longer bear to listen to them any more. The site recently ran a haiku contest, asking readers to write a haiku based on such a "ruined song."

I entered the contest, but with a 180-degree twist. You see, I don't at all fit the profile of the typical Ruined Music contributor, since I was never really in love until I met Julie - and we've now been together for over ten years and will be for the rest of our lives. In other words, I never had (and never will have) a bitter breakup that permanently ruined a song that was inextricably linked to that relationship. But I entered the contest anyway, with the twist being that I chose a great "breakup song" that was forever nullified when Julie and I got together. One of my favorite breakup songs is Yo La Tengo's "I Was The Fool Beside You For Too Long" which, now that I have Julie, will never truly resonate with me emotionally. So, in a way, this breakup song was "ruined" for me by finding the love of my life. (And, of course, I'm eternally grateful for the song being ruined in such a pleasant manner.)

Hence, I penned this haiku:

"I was the fool be-
side you for too long." Not true.
Still here, loving it.

Farewell, Six Word Stories

I have finally closed the comments function on my old post "Six Word Stories." Thanks to all of you who posted thoughtful, imaginative contributions over the past few years, but no thanks to those of you who used it for spam purposes or to publish crude, obscene or hateful messages. While that post is by far the most popular this blog has ever had, enough is enough. If you really want to post more six word stories, then set up your own site or something.

Writing in Progress

Another update on various writings which are floating around, both in manuscript and in my mind.

New to the list:
Emboldened by the publication of "Deep in the Northwoods", I'm resuscitating my project of stories based on Farm Security Adminstration photographs, under the working title This Land Was Made for You and Me (with a nod to Woody Guthrie). Half a dozen stories are written so far, with at least another ten needed to make a decent collection. The stories are a bit on the short side, but I'm planning to publish them accompanied by the corresponding photos (all of which are in the public domain), so I'm counting on the pictures themselves telling a good portion of the story. Worth a thousand words, right?

Still on the list:
As I previously mentioned, I've finished the handwritten edits on the second draft of the novella Wheatyard, which are now waiting to be typed up.

Once I finished reading that second issue of Steampunk Magazine, my early interest in The Engine Driver quickly drooped. But I just picked up the first issue of the magazine, so maybe the piece will come to life again soon. Still, though, it's another novella, so I probably won't start writing this in earnest until the second draft of Wheatyard is finished.

Removed from the list:
The story "The Fable of the Small 'Suburb' Which Aspired to Be More Than It Was." As I suggested last time, the corner of my mind that contains this story has been gathering cobwebs. Best to set this story aside. Maybe listening to some more of Ron Evry's wonderful George Ade podcasts will bring the tale back to life someday.

"Deep in the Northwoods"

My short story "Deep in the Northwoods" has been published in the very fine online journal Wheelhouse Magazine, where my humble piece now resides next to the esteemed likes of Peter Orner, Jim Ruland and Steve Almond, among many others. My deepest thanks to the editors for taking this one.

Longtime readers of this blog may recall my old project which consisted of stories based on photographs from the Farm Security Administration archives. This story happens to be one of them, and was inspired by this 1937 photograph by Russell Lee. Interestingly, while walking to work this morning I suddenly remembered this long-forgotten project, and got to thinking that I really should resume working on it - I have about half a dozen stories written so far, and at least ten more inspiration photographs I'd like to use. Maybe this publication in Wheelhouse is just the shove I need.

Milestone

Yesterday I finished the second draft of my novella, Wheatyard, and I'm pretty pleased with what I've accomplished. I'm generally good at starting things but not so good at finishing them, so while writing the first draft came relatively easy, knuckling down and revising the entire thing took some rather concerted effort. So finishing the second draft feels like an even greater accomplishment than finishing the first one.

Now I need to type up my handwritten edits into polished form, and then hand it off to my wife Julie, whose opinion (literary and otherwise) I cherish more than any other. She's only read a few fragments of the story, several years ago, and I'm very eager to see what she thinks of the whole thing. Once the third draft is finished - I'm guessing it will be about six months from now - I'll probably recruit a few other readers to look it over and give me more feedback.

"One Evening in St. Paul"

"One Evening in St. Paul"

I guess it wasn't fair to him. Or funny either, as I hoped it would be. I thought being funny would make it easier, maybe take the edge off. Oh, that card! I still chuckle when I remember it. After what happened that night, sending the card just seemed like the right way to tell him. Breaking the news that way seemed right at the time, though now I realize it was the wrong thing to do.

I surely wasn't out looking for a good time, or not that kind of good time, if you know what I mean. At first it was just me and Hettie, out for a perfectly innocent stroll on the promenade along the river. It was a pleasant evening, warm but not hot yet, with none of that sticky air you get later in the summer. As Hettie and I walked along the water, the sun was slowly setting in the sky, with beautiful bands of orange light streaming out from behind purple clouds on the horizon. Though it was getting dark, it was still early, maybe six or six-thirty. It was May, you see. In the fading light, I never saw him coming.

Hettie was chattering away about her latest beau, Will, a dry-goods clerk at Hemmingsen's, and how he was always trying to get fresh, but then just a minute later she was saying he was never affectionate enough. I shook my head, which she probably took to mean that I shared her perplexion over Will, when in fact I was perplexed over her own behavior. Make up your mind, honey, I said to myself, do you want affection or do you want him not getting fresh? Hettie made no sense sometimes. That's just how she was.

I was about to say something reassuring, that Of course there's no explaining men, when he suddenly appeared, coming out from around the corner of Hegel's Mill and striding toward us. Our eyes met for a second, but I turned away, embarrassed. But what I saw of those black-brown eyes was so deep, so intense, so handsome, that I had to look at him again. I stopped listening to whatever Hettie was saying - she ignored my silent pause and went right on - and kept my attention on him.

As he passed, he smiled and tipped his cap, saying something about lovely ladies and a lovely evening - I can't remember his exact words, as if my hearing wasn't working right - and Hettie and I walked on together for a few more steps. But then I stopped, apologized to Hettie and, nodding back toward him, told her I had to go. I knew she'd understand what I meant.

~

His name was Frank, and he was new to St. Paul, and was just so, so...oh, I suppose I shouldn't go on gushing about him, especially since we were only together that one time, on that lovely evening in May. But despite what came of it, and what you might think of me, I'm still too much of a lady to tell everything that went on. Not that I can remember many of the details, anyway - most of it, other than watching the sunset, his first sweet words, his urgency and the strange discomfort that came after, was a blur.

But one thing I do remember is that mother cat. As Frank and I began walking together - those first sweet words coming out of his mouth - a chubby cat cut across our path, followed by four tiny kittens. The kittens were colored completely different than the mother, and Frank joked that, tonight, somewhere in St. Paul there was a happy and proud tomcat. I laughed, and as he laughed too it was if the ice had broken between us, the dam gave way, and our conversation became more intimate, and then our actions.

~

When I got the word - the doctor said there was absolutely no doubt - I was calmer than you might expect. But, after all, it was something I wanted for myself eventually, if not right at that time and not with him. I guess I was calm because I knew I'd make the best of things, just like I've done every time anything unexpected happened to me. I was a fool for letting it all get that far, falling for those black-brown eyes and sweet words, and I have only myself to blame.

But even though I didn't blame Frank, I still thought he should know. Not that I expected him to take responsibility or anything - he was a young man with big plans for his life - but that he should know. Maybe he'd even be proud, like that tomcat.

I found the post card in Miller's Drug Store, in a rack filled with cards covered with pictures of flowers and Gibson Girls, none of which seemed right for the occasion. Then I saw this funny one, with cats - a mother, four kittens, and an eager male - and thought it was perfect. At the counter I fretted over what message to write but finally settled on a simple "Guess what!" and began to address it to him - Frank Haedeker; I only guessed at the spelling - before I realized I should be more discreet. So instead I put the card into an envelope, addressed it to him at the hotel where I hoped he was still staying, and dropped it in the mail-box on the corner.

The news must have shocked him, for he never responded. In fact, I never saw him again, or even heard anything about him. Once, out of curiosity, I stopped by his hotel, but the desk clerk said he moved out months before, and left no forwarding address. But the clerk also said there wasn't any mail waiting there for him, so I know Frank got my message.

At least he knows, and I hope it makes him proud. I'm not angry with him - I only blame myself, after all, and everything worked out as well as I could have hoped - and I only want him to know and remember.

As he goes through life, I hope he remembers what he left behind here in St. Paul, and that every now and then it gives him a smile.

Writing in Progress

New to the list:
I've just started to mentally sketch out a novella called The Engine Driver, which will be set in the Wisconsin wilderness near the end of the Civil War. The story is inspired by steampunk without actually being steampunk per se - it will be very much grounded in realism, with little or no sci-fi/fantasy elements. I just finished reading the second issue of SteamPunk Magazine, which I greatly enjoyed (more on this soon) and which is really stoking (pun intended) my imagination. And I just bought a new composition book to write my first draft in, which is always a sign that I'm getting serious.

Still on the list:
I'm halfway through the second draft of The Wheatyard Chronicles, and am already foreseeing the need to refine the narrative to focus even more on the title character and less on the first-person narrator (which is loosely based on myself).

I've kind of set aside the story "The Fable of the Small 'Suburb' Which Aspired to Be More Than It Was", and might have to remove the story from the list for a while. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this one. I've pretty much been writing it on the fly, without any definite idea of how the story will be resolved, or even which characters to focus on. This might be one of those story ideas that collapses and is swept into the Dustbin of Good Intentions.

Removed from the list:
I finished a flash fiction story called "One Evening in St. Paul" for this contest at Eximious Press. Alas, the story just missed being shortlisted, garnering a special Honorable Mention. (The editor really liked the story, but I'm guessing it was too long, at more than twice the requested word count.) I'll post the story here over the weekend. The story is nothing earth-shattering, but it's a gentle little piece that I really enjoyed writing.

"The Lovely Miss Underwood"

The always invigorating Coudal Partners recently ran a contest called "Missed Connections" which they described as follows:

You: A reader of these mailings, sitting at your desk or in your cubicle or perhaps with your laptop in a bookstore or coffee shop. Me: A writer of these mailings, doing same. What: Write a "missed connections" entry about you and an inanimate object.

It could be about a book you should have read, a concert you missed or even a papaya you should have bought or a flight you shouldn't have been late for. Anything really, so long as it's creative.

Long story short, I entered but failed to win. (Winners are here.) Here was my entry, to which I have added the title "The Lovely Miss Underwood":

The Lovely Miss Underwood
YOU: Gorgeous, dark, well-built, old-fashioned beauty, Wednesday afternoon at the thrift store in Andersonville on Clark St. I know your name is Underwood - those big, bold letters really caught my eye. ME: Skinny, pale, sad-eyed guy with the Kerouac t-shirt and Apple messenger bag who gawked at you but then wimped out and walked away. Sorry! I know gawking wasn't polite, but I've never seen anyone quite like you. WHAT: A connection, I thought, maybe even a long-term relationship. I could see right away you were special and unique, even though you've obviously been around, and I almost went back to look for you before I realized it just wouldn't work out. I need something else - faster, more modern, easier to go out with, one that will sit on my lap for hours and take me wherever I want to go. But you deserve better than me, anyway - someone older, more patient, who thinks ideas through instead of spewing them out and who prefers staying at home. So we'll never be together, but I just wanted you to know you really got my attention. Have a good life.

(In case you're wondering, the story was inspired by this.)

"Writing in Progress"

I've added a new section to my sidebar, called "Writing in Progress." This will give you a hint of what writing I'm currently working on - or should be working on. Though I probably won't formally announce any periods of slackness, if I don't update that section for a few weeks you'll know that I've been irresponsibly neglecting my writing. Currently underway:

The Wheatyard Chronicles: My novella in progress, which I started writing during NaNoWriMo 2005 but didn't finish the first draft of until a few months ago. I'm about one-third of the way through the second draft.

"The Fable of the Small 'Suburb' Which Aspired to Be More Than It Was": A satirical short story inspired by the antic writings of George Ade and, as I've only just realized after re-reading Babbitt, by Sinclair Lewis as well.

As-yet-untitled flash fiction for Eximious Press: The story, tentatively called "One Evening in St. Paul", is the latest in a series of stories I've written which were inspired by old photographs or ephemera. I finished the first draft on the train this morning, and am pretty happy with it so far.

If you notice that this section of the sidebar hasn't changed for weeks or months, do me a big favor and send me a nasty email, telling me to get the lead out, get cracking, etc.

MoJoe's Reading a Success!

Saturday night's RAGAD reading at MoJoe's Hothouse was a really great experience. My reading of "Waiting On a Train" went fairly smoothly, though I definitely had some first-time jitters. Spencer Dew, Ben Tanzer, Josh Stevens and especially our host Nick Ostdick all read their various stories with plenty of flair and energy. The crowd was a bit small - everyone in attendance seemed to be a friend of one of the writers - which was just as well given the state of my nerves. And MoJoe's is a nice little venue, with the feel of being in some hipster's funky living room. All in all it was a great time, and I'm looking forward to doing something like this again soon.

My sincere thanks go to Nick Ostdick for letting me be part of a fun evening.

One More Reminder!

Passing along a message from Nick Ostdick:

SATURDAY, JULY 14, 7:00 PM
MOJOE’S HOTHOUSE
2849 W BELMONT AVE
CHICAGO, IL
FREE

The release reading for RAGAD # 3 is upon us. This Saturday join a whole host of fine readers for performances in celebration of our third installment. Readers include SPENCER DEW, BEN TANZER (author of the new novel Lucky Man), PETER ANDERSON, AND JOSH STEVENS. Editor NICK OSTDICK will read and host. Much fun, to be sure.

This flyer, alas, does not mean I'm fly.

In my next small step toward "arrival" as a writer, I'm now on a flyer. Nicely done, Nick.

Reading @ MoJoes - Update!

The RAGAD reading is still on for July 14 at MoJoe's Hothouse (come one! come all!), with an added bonus. The previously announced readers (myself included) will now be joined by local gent Ben Tanzer, author of the debut novel Lucky Man. RAGAD honcho Nick Ostdick speaks highly of Mr. Tanzer, whom I'm very much looking forward to meeting.

Chicagoans, Mark Your Calendars!

I am very pleased to announce that I will be doing my very first author reading in July, as part of the release party for issue #3 of the RAGAD literary zine. I will be reading along with three other writers, RAGAD impressario Nick Ostdick and fellow contributors Spencer Dew and Josh Stevens, at MoJoe's HotHouse (2849 W. Belmont in Chicago) on Saturday, July 14, starting at 7 PM. One and all are welcomed to what should be a very enjoyable evening.

As my first reading, I'm looking forward to this with a strange mixture of excitement and fear. Excitement in making a direct connection to the Chicago literary community (to which I'm very much an outsider) and fear of screwing up horribly. I still haven't decided what story I'll be reading. Maybe "A Son Resists" which I first wrote several years ago but only just recently completed extensive revisions on. Or maybe "Mahalia", that favorite story of mine which has now been rejected by 25 literary journals. Or maybe something else.

"Howard Holds Court"

My short story "Howard Holds Court" has just been published in the Birmingham Arts Journal, a very sharp-looking publication of the Birmingham (Alabama) Art Association. The story is available online here (on page 10 of the .pdf file) and also in print. From the website I can't exactly tell how you'd be able to acquire a print copy, if you're so inclined, but I'm sure if you contact them they'd be glad to help you out.

This little story is one of my personal favorites, and I'm glad it finally found a home.

"Waiting On a Train"

I'm quite pleased to announce that my short story "Waiting On a Train" has been published online at RAGAD. The journal, which is nimbly and ably edited by Nick Ostdick, will also be publishing my story "Mercy Day" in an upcoming print edition later this year. Nick, you have my eternal gratitude.

Tale From the Crypt

Like a zombie arising and staggering to its feet, my novella-in-hiatus Wheatyard, which I've barely touched since late 2005, has suddenly sprung back to life. I finally wrote the final chapter on the flight back from Hilton Head on Saturday, and this morning I finished off another key new passage. Now I need to type up the new sections and add them to the old manuscript before diving in for a very close reading of the entire mess, so I can determine whether or not there's a feasible book in there somewhere.

I'm crossing both my fingers and my toes.

"Thoughtful Alphabet 2"

Thoughtful Alphabet 2
(For Edward Gorey)

Afternoon bacchanal. Champagne dissipates. Eleanor faints. Guests hover. Inquisitive jostling. Knavish leering. Matronly notions outwardly present. Quickly recovers. Stands tenuously. Undergarments vanish. Wednesday's excitement. Yesteryear's zenith.

"Thoughtful Alphabet"

Thoughtful Alphabet
(For Edward Gorey)

Algebra brought consternation, drubbing every freshman's grades. "However," Irene jibed, "knowing little math never obstructed progress. Quest! Read science texts, undertake violin, with exuberant youthful zeal."

EWN Short Fiction Contest

The winner of the inaugural Emerging Writers Network Short Fiction Contest has been announced: "The Regular", by Dave Reidy. The comments of the final judge, Charles D'Ambrosio, can be read here. The story will be published in the next issue of The Frostproof Review.

Though I've been keeping it under wraps for the past several months, since the final judging was a blind evaluation process, I can now safely disclose that my story "Mahalia" was short-listed for the EWN award. Nice to get a little recognition for this story, which is still my best (I think) and has now garnered 28 rejections.

Writers Read

Writers Read has graciously run my short reviews of three novels I've read recently: Bayo Ojikutu's Free Burning, Ward Just's Forgetfulness, and Laila Lalami's Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits.

My thanks go to Marshal Zeringue (proprietor of the burgeoning Campaign for the American Reader empire) for his continued support.

"Insomnis"

Insomnis

Another minute passed, merely one of identical hundreds that night, the night itself identical to hundreds of others.

The minute passed with a click from the clock radio, the metal leaf flipping over, 1:40 disappearing and 1:41 appearing. Lying in bed, amidst tousled and twisted sheets, James wished he had a newer clock, one whose illuminated digits changed silently as the hours crept past, instead of this one with its insistent click, low in volume but deafening in the emptiness of the room.

Then again, he considered, perhaps the noise was appropriate, given all the other night sounds resonating through the darkened flat. The water dripping, every forty-five seconds, in the bathtub. The refrigerator condenser cycling on every thirty minutes with a low hum. The outer door rattling whenever another in the building slammed shut. He was already hearing all those noises, long being familiar with the timbre and frequency of each, so maybe the clock was simply one more instrument in the orchestra that accompanied his ceaseless, sleepless nights.

He remembered the bottle which sat, still sealed, on the shelf of the medicine chest, but shook off the idea. He still thought, hoped, he could do it himself, go it alone.

His now-opened eyes were drawn to the slit between the window's curtains, through which he saw a glare of red neon, beckoning from the stifling narrow room where he once spent all of his nights, where everyone was so familiar, so friendly, where the drinks went down far too easily and too often.

James shivered, thinking again of the pills in the medicine chest. He hadn't kicked that old dependence, he thought, just to start up a new one. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come.

(Note: I wrote this story specifically for the "Late Night Tales" competition at The Guardian. I finished writing it today and was just about to submit it, only to discover this: "4. The promotion is only open to residents of the UK and Ireland." I guess I really need to start reading submission guidelines more closely.)

"We Do Not Approve"

We Do Not Approve

She came home from college one day and announced, from out of nowhere, that she was quitting school.

"I just don’t see the point of it any more," she said, her tone striving, unsuccessfully, for defiance.

Obviously we were displeased. Our family had always placed such a high value on education, as a springboard for getting ahead and enriching the intellect, that to quit school and reject learning was all but heresy. We didn’t have to say so to her; she already knew how we felt, and the pained look on her face showed that indeed she knew.

Sensing our disapproval, she continued on, unprompted, as if she could somehow justify her decision.

"I’m going to Hollywood," she said weakly, unconvincingly.

To be? we asked with our silent stares, already knowing the answer.

"To be an actress, of course."

Oh, we thought, show business. It wasn’t bad enough that she’d leave school, but that she’d do so for something so disreputable. For a sordid business that all but required a young woman, no matter how talented, to sleep her way to the top. We knew that the days of the casting couch had never really gone away.

"I’m an adult, so you really can’t stop me," she insisted, somewhat more firmly.

No, our look and our turning away told her, we can’t, but you can’t stop us either.

Go to Hollywood. Go, and no longer be part of our family. Go. Just don’t think you’ll ever get to come back.

(Note: Most of this piece was written at Northwestern's writers' conference last summer, in a flash fiction class taught by Deb Olin Unferth, who instructed us to write a story in third person plural. It's certainly a challenging perspective to write from, but I think third personal plural turned out to be a pretty effective way of conveying the unified opposition of the family to this young girl wanting to follow her dreams.)

Review of "Guaranteed"

Storyglossia head honcho Steve McDermott has some overly kind words for my story "Guaranteed", which was published recently in Spillway Review. "Crafty"? Aw, shucks!

"Power"

I've written a new flash fiction story, "Power", for the latest fiction contest at The Clarity of Night. All of the submitted entries are listed here; submission guidelines are here if you're so inclined. The contest is open until 11 P.M. EST on Wednesday, so sharpen up those pixels!

"The Ghoul's Evening Visit"

Note: During 2007, I'm resolving to do a much better job of publishing more of my original ficition here. Since the story I'm offering below (now nearly two years old) is pretty much inseparable from the photo, and few literary journals publish story-and-photo tandems, I thought I might as well just publish it here. Thanks to Ron at BigHappyFunHouse for the photo.

The Ghoul’s Evening Visit

Vera and her mother Agnes were surely the most easygoing, nonchalant pair of women in all of Monroe County. Nothing ever fazed them; shocking incidents that would horrify others—grisly car crashes, frighteningly gory industrial accidents and the like—were encountered with little more than a shrug as the women simply moved on in their everyday lives.

“Sad, but it didn’t happen to me,” Agnes would usually say as she turned back to her clothes-washing or bill-paying.

But even when such a thing did happen to Vera and Agnes, they thought little of it. Last night’s events, or non-events if Vera and Agnes were asked, were merely more of the same.

The women were home once again, as usual, as neither of them were particularly social or active in outside activities. Agnes kept house during the day while Vera worked her receptionist job at the insurance agency in town, returning home dutifully at 5:15 PM without a thought of doing anything else. Evenings were spent in front of the television and Saturdays at various domestic hobbies, with only Sunday mornings standing out, ever so modestly, with perfunctory attendance at St. Thomas Methodist. Even the kindly beckoning congregants were unable to entice them out of their domestic routine, and they would promptly return home and resume their quiet lives.

Last night it was The Ed Sullivan Show; on other nights it would be Gunsmoke or I Love Lucy or any number of other programs. Only the programs themselves changed; regardless of which one was on, Vera and Agnes would sit at opposite ends of the narrow-striped couch, room lights dimmed, the only illumination coming from the pale blue flickering of the boxy Philco. The two would sit entranced, captivated by the comings and goings on the screen, bemused by the banter and interplay of the actors, and enticed by the various products offered on the frequent messages from the sponsors.

While Ed Sullivan was on, right after a juggler had magically kept twenty plates spinning simultaneously atop pencil-thin shafts, and just as Sullivan was beginning to announce Chippers the Acrobat Chimp, their home’s front door swung open. The two women barely noticed, with Vera only acknowledging the new arrival’s existence as it lumbered to a halt by the end of the couch, giving Vera the vague impression that it wanted to sit down.

Vera, ever compliant, slid over to the center of the couch right next to Agnes, taking her eyes off of the screen for only a moment, with only a brief uncurious glance upward at the new arrival. The latter sat down laboriously and listlessly, emitting an inhuman groan from deep within.

Vera and Agnes were mesmerized by the rascally Chippers as he swung back and forth between two trapezes, comically ignoring all of his handler’s commands. Sullivan clumsily tried to help corral the chimp, to the endless delight of both the studio audience and the mother and daughter who sat in the darkened room, on the narrow-striped couch. They giggled quietly under their breath, not noticing the deathbed pallor of their guest’s face, the funereal black of the wardrobe, or the all-white, pupil- and iris-less vacancy of the eyes.

Nor did Vera much notice their guest’s intense interest in the odor of her skin. The guest, presumably being blind, paid no attention to the deepening chaos playing out on the television, but instead turned its head toward Vera and conspicuously sniffed the air, at which point, apparently liking what it smelled, it began to salivate as if from extreme hunger. Guttural slurping sounds emitted from the guest’s withered mouth.

On the television, Chippers was finally grabbed by its handler and escorted offstage, and as the giggles of Vera and Agnes gradually subsided and the two dabbed at their eyes, Sullivan made a hasty farewell, thanking the audience for tuning in and reminding everyone of America’s biggest new singing sensation, who would be appearing on the next show. Vera and Agnes sighed in disappointment that the evening’s hilarity had come to an end, even as they looked forward to the next episode.

“Well, I’d best be getting to bed,” Vera announced formally. “Another day of work tomorrow.”

She stood up, as did her mother, who acknowledged the need to go to bed with a silent nod. Only now, for the first time, did Vera address their guest.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she said warmly, turning towards it and extending her hand.

The guest, surprised, ceased its slurping with a start and rose from the couch. Saying nothing, it nodded to Vera, and then to Agnes, as it wiped saliva from its lips with the back of an emaciated hand. The guest turned and walked through the still-open front door, not bothering to close the door as it departed.

The Bafflingly Enduring Appeal of "Ectoplasm"

In what is surely the result of some bizarrely devious link-clicking bot whose purpose I can't even begin to fathom, my story "Ectoplasm" was the most-downloaded story at Storyglossia during 2006. Sure, several dozen of these downloads were my own, as I clicked through repeatedly in January and February to quell my doubts during my "I can't believe I finally got published" phase, but since I haven't done so since at least March, the story's continued popularity has me completed baffled. I mean, it's a decent story, but let's face it -- it ain't exactly Chekhov or Carver.

My thanks go out to everyone who read the story, and another special thanks to Steve McDermott for accepting the story. Its publication finally got the ball rolling for me, and lead to a pretty successful year of placing my stories. Hopefully I can keep the momentum going this year.

Write What You (Don't) Know

One thing I admire about Poets & Writers (my favorite magazine, by far) is how it routinely introduces me to writers I wasn’t previously familiar with and, more importantly, making me really care about those writers. The most recent example is Colum McCann, the subject of a nice profile (story not online) in the current issue. Here's a particularly insightful quote from McCann:

So many people believe that you should only write what you know. But I’m interested in writing toward what you want to know…Yes. It’s an absurd prospect. It is impossible -- philosophically and logically -- because ultimately we only write about ourselves anyway. However, I want my students to leave the shackles of their immediate geography, their suburban upbringing -- the mother who is still haunting them and taking their fiction down. I want them to lose all that. Invent your mother, invent a new father. Ultimately, they will carve it down to what they really can do. But it’s a question of liberation.

McCann practices what he preaches, going down into New York’s subway tunnels “four or five times a week” in researching the urban homeless for his novel This Side of Brightness, and spending extensive time in Roma (Gypsy) camps in Eastern Europe for his latest, Zoli.

I admire his enthusiasm for sociological immersion, partly due to my recent realization that something similar may be required of me with my novel-in-progress, Forever, of which I’m very close to completing my first draft. In writing the novel, I’ve willfully steered clear of my usual literary stomping grounds of Chicago and the Midwest, with the plot taking place in South Africa, New York City, Philadelphia and Atlanta. By necessity (both logistical and economic), I’ll probably have to forego visiting the diamond mines of South Africa, and the New York and Atlanta sections are largely interior, so no visit to those cities will likely be necessary. There’s also been plenty enough written about New York that I can probably glean any physical insights I need from books -- just for starters, I’m already considering re-reading Dos Passos’ Manhattan Transfer, and reading The Great Gatsby and Thomas Kelly’s Empire Rising for the first time, with each of these novels taking place at roughly the same time as the New York section of my book.

Which leaves Philadelphia, a city I know little of, and in fact have never even visited. The Philadelphia section of the book has a very strong physical element to it, with its descriptions based entirely on naïve presumption and conjecture on my part. I already know that subsequent revisions will result in my completely tearing apart and correcting the exterior passages (I’ve even been making up all the street names) for accuracy. This will undoubtedly require one or more visits to the city, preferably under the guidance of a patient and knowledgeable native. Any native Philadelphians, whether resident or expatriate, who might be bravely willing to undertake such an adventure may feel free to contact me.

NaClerWriMo: "To Real Poets Everywhere"

To Real Poets Everywhere
My regrets to real poets, whether living or dead
Whose genuine verse of the heart and the head
Is sullied by clerihews published in this space.
To poetry, such doggerel is quite the disgrace.

(Clerihews compiled here; explanation here. This is the final clerihew entry for NaClerWriMo 2006. So long, it's been fun.)

NaClerWriMo: "Keith Moon"

Keith Moon
Moon drummed with a fury so rarely surpassed
Impossibly busy, unimaginably fast
His life was the same, jammed with parties and booze
Spent it freely, as if he had nothing to lose.

(Clerihews compiled here; explanation here.)

NaClerWriMo: "Tom Waits"

Tom Waits
Waits, irrepressibly brave troubadour
Of the downtrodden, those of less not of more
His compassion inborn and not just of choice
Heartening the luckless with life-ravaged voice.

(Clerihews compiled here; explanation here.)

NaClerWriMo: "George Bush"

George Bush
George Bush
Horse's tush
Wants to be king
But rules not a thing.

(Clerihews compiled here; explanation here.)

NaClerWriMo: "Gerald Ford"

Gerald Ford
Farewell to President Gerald R. Ford
The Stopgap-in-Chief whom the lefties abhorred
For forgiving the Tricky One of all his crimes.
Letting bygones be bygones was best for those times.

(Clerihews compiled here; explanation here.)

NaClerWriMo: "James Brown"

James Brown
Give it up for the Godfather, Mr. James Brown
Hard-working man of such fame and renown
Who richly deserved the great Soul Brother name.
He always felt good, and made us feel the same.

(Clerihews compiled here; explanation here.)

NaClerWriMo: "Santa Claus"

Santa Claus
Santa Claus, old Saint Nick
Being good does the trick
To get his free gifts, as goes the tradition,
Behaving yourself is the only condition.

(Clerihews compiled here; explanation here.)

NaClerWriMo: "The Grinch"

The Grinch
Could the quite sour thoughts of that angry old Grinch
Have really been caused by shoes that did pinch?
Ne'er mind, for he found what makes Christmas worth living
Is not in the getting, but rather the giving.

(Clerihews compiled here; explanation here.)

NaClerWriMo: "P.D.Q. Bach"

P.D.Q. Bach
Incorrigible progeny P.D.Q. Bach
Imagined by Schickele, whimsical doc
With so many kids, even mighty J.S.
Sometimes, regrettably, settled for less.

(Clerihews compiled here; explanation