“Everyday People”


I’ve been very tardy in passing this along, but Ben Tanzer and I recently had a great conversation about Where the Marshland Came To Flower, writing in general, and Chicago, and our talk can be heard on his venerated This Podcast Will Change Your Life. Enjoy.

April 1, 2019 in Books, Chicago Observations, Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (1)

"Midnight Clear"

(I wrote this story in one week. Last week, I volunteered to do a reading with Don Evans at Volumes Bookcafe, which would consist entirely of Christmas-themed readings, only to realize that I had never written even a single story that had anything to do with Christmas. So I had to scramble to write this one, and the reading went well. The story is based on "The Bells Will Ring For You", from Where the Marshland Came to Flower, but set forty-five years earlier, on Christmas Eve, 1960.)



Eddie’s eyelids were heavy as he glanced again across the living room toward his father, who slept soundly in his armchair. Martin Cullen had said he would sit for a few minutes, just to rest his eyes, but they all knew his Christmas Eve tradition of resting his eyes for a few minutes after dinner, followed soon after by deep, sonorous snoring.

“Martin, it’s time to start waking up,” Eddie’s mother called from the kitchen, where the slosh of dishwater and the rattle of plates had diminished, which meant to Eddie that dinner would soon be cleaned up and it was almost time to leave for Midnight Mass. Eddie looked at his father, who didn’t stir.

“Marty, come on. Wake up.” Her voice came louder this time, less gentle and with more of an edge. She appeared in the doorway, looked at her sleeping husband and then to Eddie, and back again.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have drank so much at Mike’s office party.”

“He didn’t drink that much, Mom,” Eddie said, still drowsy. “He was fine when I brought him home, and he didn’t drink at dinner, not even the wine.”

She shook her head and turned away, back to the kitchen.

Eddie had been sent, every Christmas Eve since he was ten years old, to fetch his father from the Christmas party at his Uncle Mike’s insurance agency on Chicago Avenue. That night, when he arrived, he saw that only a half-bottle of Canadian Club remained, with five empty bottles standing on the table behind it. Mike Cullen sold policies for Hibernian Benevolent and the big corporate carriers to neighborhood homeowners and the executives and employees of nearby factories, many of whom, along with the policemen and other merchants on the block, shuttled in and out during the afternoon, taking a drink or two and nibbling on green and red sugar cookies and mince pie that Mike’s secretary had baked. Eddie politely declined Uncle Mike’s offer of a drink, saying he had to get Dad home.

“Does your mom really think she’ll get him to Mass?” Mike said, laughing, as Martin retrieved his coat.

“Yes, she does,” Eddie replied. “She always tries.”

Eddie and his father chatted amiably as they walked home, but when they came through the kitchen door Martin fell silent under Kathleen’s stern gaze. Still, the conservation at dinner was spirited -- euphoric, serious and not so serious.

Euphoric, as the family still basked in the afterglow of John Fitzgerald Kennedy -- Martin always stated his full name -- getting elected President.

“I never thought it would happen,” Martin said, eyes twinkling, his elbows on the table and his hands clasped. “A Catholic in the White House.”

“I knew it would,” Kathleen said. “But not this soon.”

Serious, as Martin told of two more families -- the Connollys and the Riordans -- from the other side of Lavergne Avenue who sold and moved out, bound for Berwyn.

And not so serious, as Martin bemoaned the season of his beloved Chicago Bears, who lost their last three games and finished with a losing record.

“Casares and Galimore weren’t that great,” Martin said.

“Yeah, and they really need a quarterback,” Eddie said. “Bratkowski isn’t the guy.”

“They should get a good Irishman. John Brodie, or that Frank Ryan kid from Los Angeles.”

Martin talked on about people from the neighborhood, stories he must have heard that afternoon at Uncle Mike’s office, though Eddie saw how he carefully avoided specifically mentioning the office, and the party he knew Kathleen disapproved of.

As dinner progressed and Martin drank only milk, Eddie saw his father’s speech clear from a mild slur to an even tone, but from there Eddie saw fatigue slowly set in. Martin had worked another twelve hour day, even though it was Christmas Eve, and then stopped by Uncle Mike’s, so Eddie knew he would soon be slumped in his armchair, snoring away.

On the couch, Eddie’s eyes had just closed again when he heard his mother’s voice, sharp and short. “Come along, Edward. Your father obviously isn’t coming.”

At the kitchen door he bundled up, with a wool watchman’s cap, two scarves, gloves and a heavy overcoat, trying to hold as much of the house’s warmth as he could. As they stepped outside, the thermometer read thirteen degrees.

Even at his mother’s slow pace, the walk to St. Albert’s would take only ten minutes, yet they still left the house at eleven p.m. She always insisted on leaving early for Midnight Mass, to get a good seat near the front. For the first few minutes they walked in silence, the only sound the snow crunching beneath Eddie’s dress shoes, now and then where a neighbor hadn’t shoveled the sidewalk.

“Your father is fading,” she said, suddenly, at which he turned toward her, while still walking.

“What do you mean?” Eddie said, his breath rising in a frozen cloud before his eyes.

“Don’t be alarmed. He’s not dying, just slowing down, getting older. And getting more distant.”

They were silent as they approached the church. When they reached the tall wooden doors, she looked above at the massive stained glass window, with clear admiration, but then shook her head.

“He didn’t go to Mass this year,” she said. “Not even once.”

The walk home seemed even colder, probably from the tiredness they both felt. They walked in silence. Eddie could think only of sinking into his bed, buried under blankets, and sleeping late no matter what gifts he might have under the tree. He wouldn’t be getting up at dawn, as he always did when he was a kid.

At home, Kathleen lingered in the kitchen while Eddie continued toward the living room. As he walked in the familiar darkness he realized that he couldn’t hear his father snoring, and a sudden fear came over him. He remembered his mother’s words about his father fading, and for a moment could only imagine the worst. In the half-light he could see his father in the armchair, silent, unmoving. Maybe...

“I’m awake,” Martin said. “How was Mass?”

“It was good...good,” Eddie said, catching his breath. “Lots of people there. Uncle Mike and Aunt Edie, the McConnells, the Flahertys. Even Frank Kelleher and his mom.”

“Father Michael’s homily?”

“Good, the usual.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure I even remember what the usual is anymore. Well, anyway, I’m glad you went. It means a lot to your mother, especially with me...”

Martin paused. Eddie saw his eyes draw inward, in reflection.

“Listen, Eddie. You’re devout, like your mother. And if that makes you happy, brings you peace, I’m all for it. Your mother is disappointed in me, I know that. For not being devout. But it doesn’t do anybody any good -- our family, Father Michael, St. Albert’s -- for me to pretend. I have to be honest.”

“You’ve always been honest, Dad. I’ll say that for you.”

“Thank you for that. Well, it’s late,” Martin said, as he lifted himself out of the armchair. “I’m going to bed. And Santa Claus has work to do.” He winked. “Merry Christmas, Eddie.”

Eddie sat alone on the couch, staring from the distance at the creche that was arranged on the fireplace mantel. The Holy Family, the shepherds, the animals, the star above all the rest that glimmered from the streetlight outside the front window. He thought about his parents, and how both of them were a part of him. His mother for his faith, his father for almost everything else. He remained until his thoughts blurred and his eyelids again grew heavy, tired but not comfortable. The chill of the room had finally become too much; the furnace was turned down for the night, and wouldn’t be up again until daylight. At last he rose stiffly and moved toward the hallway and up the stairs, barely conscious, thinking only of the warm bed that awaited him.

December 8, 2018 in Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (2)



The big day is here. My new story collection, Where The Marshland Came To Flower, has hatched and is now taking its first tentative steps into the big outside world. It's available in paperback for $6 (a steal) on Amazon, and in e-book for free (REALLY a steal) on Smashwords. If you'd like to have a signed paperback but don't expect to see me in person anytime soon, just hold off on buying it and I'll arrange to get you a signed copy soon. The book was eleven years (off and on) in the making, and I'm very glad to finally see it in print. A few of the stories are among the best stuff I've written so far, I think.

August 9, 2018 in Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (0)

Where the Marshland Came to Flower

I am very pleased to announce the upcoming publication of Where the Marshland Came to Flower, a short story collection in which each story is set in a different Chicago neighborhood. The book is being published by the wonderful Pablo D'Stair at Kuboa Press (who also published Wheatyard) sometime by the end of May.

The collection has been a long time coming, with plenty of twists and turns - I started writing it in 2007 but didn't finish the first draft until June 2010, the second draft in January 2012, the third draft sometime in late 2012, and the fourth and final draft in April 2013. (My compiled comments about Marshland over the years are collected here.) Finishing and selling Wheatyard took up a lot of my time between 2007 and 2013, of course, but so did my chronic bouts of non-productivity. And since I finished it, I haven’t been aggressive about finding a publisher.  

My biggest concern about Marshland is that it might be too Chicago-centric, and not necessarily of great interest to many non-Chicagoans, and so when trying to sell the book I specifically targeted Chicago indie publishers, in the hope that they'd be more receptive. But though the city has a few great indies, it's far from a big publishing center, and when I had no luck with those indies I thought of Pablo, who has made Wheatyard a great experience for me. Though he had no Chicago connections that I'm aware of, I pitched him the book, and he readily agreed, saying he loved the stories. Which gives me hope that the book will appeal to a broader audience than I had first assumed.

I don't expect the book to be a smash success, but if it does nothing more than connect with anywhere near the hundred-something readers of Wheatyard, then that will be success enough for me. My current writing has been in a lull for much of the past year, and with any luck the enthusiasm of Marshland's readers will re-ignite me into working on my next book.

April 30, 2018 in Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (0)

Powell's reading, this Wednesday!


I'm doing a reading this Wednesday (7 p.m.) at Powell's University Village (1218 S. Halsted in Chicago, adjacent to UIC) with my good friends Ben Tanzer and Joe Peterson, along with several other writers. I'll be reading a story from my still-unpublished Chicago collection Where the Marshland Came to Flower. Come one, come all!

May 5, 2014 in Books, Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (2)

"Singing for the Here and Now"

My short story "Singing for the Here and Now" has been published at the online literary journal Anthology of Chicago. Many thanks to editor Rachel Hyman.

This story is the first to be published from my Chicago neighborhood collection Where the Marshland Came to Flower, and has a rather unique provenance. Years ago I wrote a short story, "Hope Cafe", about an idealistic young woman who quits her corporate job to open up a coffee shop on Chicago's South Side, just across the street from the recently demolished Robert Taylor Homes public housing projects. For various reasons that story remains unpublished, but a secondary character, Tonya, has stayed with me ever since. As I was develping Marshland, I thought up a story which had Tonya as protagonist, and which delved more deeply into her uncertain feelings about religious faith and her complicated relationship with her grandmother, both of which were briefly alluded to in the earlier story. To me, "Singing for the Here and Now" is a much deeper, richer and more realistic story than "Hope Cafe" is or ever will be, which is partly due to having a more interesting protagonist but most likely due to me having developed into a more mature writer by the time the later story was written.

I haven't published many short stories during the last few years, as my writing has focused more on book-length projects rather thainstead of individual stories. I hope to publish a few more Marshland stories in the future, but I'm hesitant to publish too many of them. If and when Marshland is finally published as a collection, I'd prefer to have most of the stories appear for the very first time, to give readers something fresh.

December 6, 2013 in Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (0)

Lou Reed

My story collection Where the Marshland Came To Flower wouldn't exist without Lou Reed.

The genesis of the collection came to me on my morning train ride into work, sometime during 2007. As the Rock Island District train slowed for one of its stops on the far South Side, the canned intercom voiced intoned, "Next stop, Washington Heights." Though I had ridden that train and heard that announcement many times, that morning it immediately reminded me of Reed's song "Halloween Parade", and its offhand reference to "a crack team from Washington Heights." For years, though, I misheard "crack team" as "crack tune", which I assumed was some street name for a crack addict. (Tune as in Loony Tunes, or someone who's loony on crack.) It wasn't until I later checked the lyric sheet that I discovered my error, but by then I had already begun writing a story about a (presumed) crackhead on a late-evening train who disrupts a conversation between two suburb-bound businessmen.

As that story (which ultimately came to be called "Disappearing Into the Night") developed, I began to contemplate a bigger project: a collection of stories, each set in a different Chicago neighborhood and each inspired by the fourteen songs on New York, Reed's great 1989 album on which "Halloween Parade" appeared. Although my subject matter was entirely different from Reed's subjects (nary a transvestite or drug addict in sight), at first each of my stories included a specific line or two of Reed's lyrics. During subsequent editing I relaxed the use of explicit quotes, and instead merely paraphrased most of the inspiration lyrics. The one notable exception to this is the final story, "The Bells Will Ring For You", the title of which is a direct quote from "Dime Store Mystery", Reed's elegy to Andy Warhol that concludes New York. Besides that quote (the full line of which was "At the funeral tomorrow, at St. Patrick's, the bells will ring for you"), I also kept the Catholic church reference, though I translated the New York St. Patrick's to Old St. Pat's on Chicago's West Side, where my protagonist, the devout Ed Cullen, made daily confession for decades. Despite the removal of most of the explicit lyrical references, my Marshland stories are still very much responses to Reed's songs on New York - sometimes confirming his ideas, but sometimes refuting.

Beyond being the inspiration for my book, I'm grateful to Lou Reed simply for the decades of great music: bold, daring, compassionate, perceptive and brutally honest lyrics, delivered in his unmistakeable sing-speak voice and usually backed by that most basic of rock and roll instrumentation: two guitars, bass, drums. Though I deeply admire his work, I am far from a Reed completist - I own just three of his solo albums and one Velvet Underground album, and am only casually familiar with half a dozen others; the one upside to his passing is that it has driven me to seek out more of his work, and there's plenty there with him having been so productive for so long. But most of his music that I've experienced endlessly amazes me: New York, the angry portrait of his hometown; Magic and Loss, his ponderous reflections on dying and grief; Legendary Hearts, the unappreciated 1983 gem ("Betrayed" still gives me shivers, twenty years after I first heard it); The Velvet Underground and Nico, the audacious VU debut. Incomparable songs from scattered albums: "Sweet Jane, "Rock and Roll", "Turn to Me", "New Sensations", "Set the Twilight Reeling", "Caroline Says." And his 1996 concert at the Rosemont Theater remains one of the best I've ever seen.

For me, Lou Reed is a constant reminder to be fearless, original, non-complacent. To accept people for who they are instead of who you want them to be. To refuse to accept the status quo or anything less than the best from yourself. For those reminders, and that thrilling, thought-provoking and vital music, I will forever be indebted to him. Rest well, sir.

November 1, 2013 in Marshland, Music | Permalink | Comments (1)

What I'm writing

I haven't done one of these updates in a long time, what with all the flurry of activity around Wheatyard. But I've been making slow progress on my story collection Where the Marshland Came to Flower. The hand edits of the fourth draft are now done, and I'm gradually typing them up. (Maddie and I have been sharing my Macbook ever since her HP laptop crapped out, and since she needs that for school during the week, I've only been able to type up edits on weekends.) I have six stories updated so far, most of which involved just changing stray words here and there. But the next story, "Regular" (set in the Morgan Park neighborhood), will take a lot longer to update. After getting some great feedback from Ben Tanzer, I junked the entire first half of the story and rewrote it from scratch. The junked scene was previously way too obvious and blunt in delivering its message, and while the setting remains the same (an Irish corner bar on the southwest side of Chicago), the dialogue and action has been completely rewritten, and is now (I think) much more subtle and natural.

This fourth draft is about a month away from being finished, after which I might send it out to one more reader. Meanwhile, I'm starting to scout out potential publishers. I just hope getting Wheatyard in print will open up more doors, and Marshland won't be as difficult a sell as the novella was. I'd rather be writing than selling, and I'm already mentally sketching out my next book (actually, "books").

March 25, 2013 in Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (0)



I've long wondered why the Chicago "community area" that includes the famous Bronzeville neighborhood is called Grand Boulevard, when there is no street by that name in the area. (The name has nothing to do with Grand Avenue, on the North and Northwest Sides.) Now I know: Martin Luther King Drive was formerly known as South Parkway (this I already knew), which was formerly known as Grand Boulevard (this I did not know). One of my Marshland stories, "Singing for the Here and Now", is set in Grand Boulevard, at 48th and King Drive.

January 4, 2013 in Chicago Observations, History, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (0)

Technology and literary fiction

Last week The Millions ran an interesting piece by Allison K. Gibson on technology's place in literary fiction.

I wonder about works of fiction that take place in a world identical to that which you and I inhabit, except for one thing: technology is all but ignored. I’m not referring to Luddite authors here — to Jonathan Franzen’s rejection of e-books and Twitter. I’m talking about whether a character in a literary novel set in the year 2012 need even be aware of Twitter, or at the very least, email.

This got me thinking about my current project, the story collection Where the Marshland Came to Flower. (Admittedly, its status wavers daily between "in progress" and "about to be abandoned." I hope it's still the former, but I can't say for sure.) Without diving into the manuscript for reference, it occurs to me that the technology in the stories (which occur in roughly the 2003-08 timeframe) probably isn't any more advanced than cable TV and compact discs. I'm not sure there's even a cellphone or pager anywhere. The lack of modern technology was not at all intentional - in fact, I wasn't even aware of it before reading Gibson's essay - and I'm not sure the presence of smartphones and social media would change the stories very much. And in fact, most of my characters are older people (sixties and up) who are not likely to embrace technology.

But just off the top of my head I can also think of three or four younger characters (teens and twenty-somethings) for whom walking around with their noses buried in their iPhones, or regularly updating their Facebook status, would be perfectly normal (and even expected) behavior. As I revisit the manuscript (or if I revisit), I'll be on the lookout for logical points where technology could subtly be added. I'm not sure it will change the plot at all, but at least it can make the narrative more true to life.

August 13, 2012 in Books, Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (2)


Last night I finished the second draft of my story collection Where the Marshland Came to Flower. After making steady progress with the edits, I had a mechanical setback in November when my older laptop suddenly died (broken hard drive, from the sound of it) and left me without a portable machine. I also lost the second draft of the book's first four stories, which were on the hard drive when it went down. At that point my pace slowed dramatically as I had to edit at home on another laptop (the battery on this one is dead, thus rendering it not-portable) whenever I could. Then in mid-December Julie bailed me out when she got a "new" (factory-refurbished) MacBook and gave me her old one. (Not that my MacBook is at all as inferior or a hand-me-down - it's a big upgrade over the Dell and HP laptops I had been using.) With the MacBook, I was able to write on the train again and whipped quickly through the edits, and I now have a decent manuscript.

I'm sending it to the printer today and soon will hand it off to a few trusted readers. I anticipate two more rounds of revisions before it's ready to send to publishers, which I'm targeting to happen by the end of 2012 at the latest. I'm pretty happy with what I have so far, and have found writing this book to be much easier than Wheatyard was.

January 11, 2012 in Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (0)

"Halloween Parade"

Yesterday I finished the second draft of my new story collection, Where Once the Marshland Came to Flower. Though the title is a nod to a line to Nelson Algren's Chicago: City on the Make (each story is set in a different Chicago neighborhood), the impetus to my collection was a single line ("and some crack team from Washington Heights") from Lou Reed's "Halloween Parade." That line came to mind one morning five years ago as my train approached the Washington Heights station on Chicago's South Side, and as it stuck with me I began to imagine a collection of Chicago stories, with each inspired by a song from Reed's New York album. The book would never have existed without Lou, and particularly that great album, and even more particularly that memorable song. So in Lou's honor, here's the song:

Lou Reed, "Halloween Parade"

October 30, 2011 in Fiction, Marshland, Music | Permalink | Comments (0)

"...it isn’t so much a city as it is a vasty way station..."

Perhaps the most frequently quoted passage in Nelson Algren's Chicago: City on the Make is this one:

Yet once you’ve come to be part of this particular patch, you’ll never love another. Like loving a woman with a broken nose, you may well find lovelier lovelies. But never a lovely so real.

Certainly a memorable quote. Yet it is immediately preceded by this:

You can live your whole life out somewhere between Goose Island and Bronzeville without once feeling that, the week after you move, the neighbors are going to miss your place. For it isn’t so much a city as it is a vasty way station where three and a half million bipeds swarm with the single cry, "One side or a leg off, I’m gettin’ mine!" It’s every man for himself in this hired air.

That attitude - of the disconnected and indifferent nature of city residents - has been with me throughout the writing of my current story collection, Marshland. Most of my characters are loners, and though I greatly admire unified story cycles like Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio, I didn't even try for such a thing with my book. Each story is set in a different Chicago neighborhood, from West Pullman to Rogers Park, Garfield Ridge to Austin to Dunning, and the characters in each story don't cross paths with characters in any other story, with very few of them even setting foot outside of their immediate neighborhood. And even within those tight confines, few have neighbors who will miss their place the week after they move.

September 27, 2011 in Books, Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (2)

"You have to have two stories to have a story."

In The Believer Book of Writers Talking to Writers, Grace Paley talks (with Nell Freudenberger) about her short story "Somewhere Else", which is set in both China and the Bronx:

You know - the thing is this: if I just wrote about China, it would be a report, more or less. You have to have two stories to have a story. That's what I've been teaching my classes. You need two stories, at least. And for a novel, of course, you probably need more. I couldn't find the other story. I mean, I wasn't conscious of this; my idea that you need two stories came long after I wrote everything. I said, "Oh, that's what I was doing."

I had never thought of story-writing that way, but it makes perfect sense. You do need two stories to make a story; otherwise, it's just a sketch (or, in Paley's words, a report). Unless you have conflict, you don't really have a story. It doesn't have to be two parallel story lines with separate protagonists that ultimately collide; instead, it can be two aspects of a single protagonist: past versus present, internal versus external, work life versus family life.

Thinking about the story collection I'm working on right now (working title: Marshland), I can already recognize that the stronger stories are indeed comprised of two stories, and that the weaker ones may have an interesting premise but are flat because the conflict (those two stories) is absent.

August 28, 2011 in Books, Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (2)

What I'm Writing

You heard me, writing.

In the past, I occasionally posted "What I'm Writing" updates here, most of which were stories and novellas which would ultimately remain unfinished. Though at first I might have had a spark of a great fiction concept that excited me - enough so to shout it to the blogosphere - for whatever reason I saw very few of those concepts through to fruition. Getting publicly excited about ideas that would never go anywhere seemed like an increasingly pointless exercise, so I ended the updates. I decided that I'd abandon that practice until I finally had something significant to mention.

And it seems that time is now.

Last summer I revived my concept (yes, yet another concept) for a Chicago-based short story collection that used Lou Reed's New York album as a framework. I first kicked a few stories around several years ago, but like so many other writing projects I simply let the rest languish. Then just about a year ago I had a sudden inspiration - which I'll discuss explicitly in the near future - that threw me back into the collection. Suddenly it seemed like the collection had real potential, and I set a concrete goal for myself: I would write the first draft of each of the remaining twelve stories (for fourteen stories in total, one for each of the songs on New York), one per month, over the following year. With my first attempt at a story collection (circa 2005) having turned out to be a unsatisfying hodgepodge of styles, voices and themes, with the new collection I thought it would be best to create all the first drafts first, before even beginning to edit. This way, I hoped, I could polish the stories, one after the other, and create a steady tone and what I hoped would be a more unified collection. And besides getting an even tone, I knew that this method would greatly increase the likelihood of ever gaining a finished product - if I tried to write each story one at a time, from first draft through endless revisions, the challenge of doing so over and over again, fourteen times, would have been overwhelmingly daunting. I’m not a highly productive or motivated writer, and it doesn’t take much of an obstacle for me to abandon work that once seemed promising.

This week, I finished the first draft of the fourteenth and final story in the collection, and I'm quite pleased with what I've come up with so far. The next step is to transcribe the stories from longhand (written in composition books, mostly on the train to and from work) onto my laptop, and then the editing can begin. Transcribing will probably take a while, but I'm sure it will feel worthwhile and not so tedious, since I have fourteen vivid stories (or the potential for such) to work with, and I'm eager enough to see the final product that all of the labor will have real meaning.

It's been a long, drawn-out process, but one that has really excited and engaged my imagination. During the past six months I've had, for various reasons, periods of erratic sleep, and while lying awake in bed at night I've often found myself working out story ideas in my head, which not only fueled my creativity but also helped pass many long and restless hours until I finally fell asleep or it was time to get up. My current job is also fairly uninspiring and has few intrinsic rewards, and I'm grateful that I've had my writing - and this story collection concept in particular - as a critical creative outlet.

It's been a slow couple of years, but I finally feel like I'm a writer again.

June 11, 2010 in Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (1)

What I'm Writing (Or Thinking About Writing)

Wheatyard is still simmering on the back burner - the latest revisions are ebbing and flowing through my mind but remain mostly uncommitted to paper.

I'm also hoping to revive my story cycle on Chicago neighborhoods (whose previous working title Scent of Wild Onions I've grown tired of and am planning to change). When I set it aside last year, I had one full draft of a story ("Washington Heights") and a second that was about three-fourths complete ("Pilsen" then, though I'm thinking of changing it to "Canaryville" - it's an interior story, and the specific setting isn't critical), and back then held little hope for any further work.

But reading Charles Simmons Wrinkles (reviewed here) happened to get me thinking about the Chicago book again. Simmons' book is very fragmentary in structure, presenting scattered shards of the protagonist's life, and as I read I found myself thinking about the conceptual similarities to my Chicago book. True, Simmons' book is a novel about a single character and mine would be a collection of stories about various neighborhoods and characters, but I realized that my book would share some of that fragmentary aspect. So although my book won't be anything like Simmons', I'm hoping that it might at least serve as inspiration for working on mine again.

I have a few more neighborhoods in mind - Hermosa, Dunning, McKinley Park and the (ungentrified) South Loop - and have begun to (very vaguely) conceptualize characters and plots. As was the case with the first two stories, I will still try to have each story draw inspiration from and riff on a single line from each of the songs on Lou Reed's New York album. I'm sure the whole Reed thing probably sounds convoluted, but since the first story arose out of a single line from "Halloween Parade" that popped into my head one morning, I really want to continue with that concept unless it ultimately proves itself impractical and unworkable.

But all of this pondering and conceptualizing might be nothing more than a smokescreen. Because, to be totally honest, that "thinking about writing" clause above is an unfortunately accurate assessment of the current state of my writing. I've written very little over the past few years, as I've rarely found either the inspiration or motivation to do the necessary hard work. Sometimes I think that I'm absolutely, positively a writer, but other times it's almost as if being a writer is nothing more than how I want to think of myself. My professional career is doing nothing for me right now other than providing a regular paycheck, so maybe I think of myself as a writer to have something to identify with. Right now I'm spinning my wheels, and "thinking about writing" is, for the most part, as close as I've gotten to actual writing for quite some time. I'm thinking that I either need to get out of this funk, or else realize it's not a funk at all and that maybe I should quit pretending I'm a writer. Sorry to get all confessional on you, but it's something that's been nagging at me lately.

February 4, 2009 in Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (1)

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.

December 11, 2007 in Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (0)

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.

November 24, 2007 in Fiction, Marshland | Permalink | Comments (1)