Category: Writing

  • Road Trip Thoughts, Part One (Unedited)

    This has been a very hectic two weeks in my life. It was supposed to be relaxing and fun, but ending up being more taxing than I wanted, and it has left me rethinking where I am going and what I am doing with my life.

    To explain; the kid had been at sleep away camp, and we needed to go and pick her up.

    Won’t lie, it’s exciting to have the kid go away for a couple of weeks. Not that me and the wife did anything crazy. (We did repaint our bedroom. Whoa!) But it is nice to have some time just the two of us, to remember that we did have a life before becoming parents, and that we do like spending time together. The other fun part is that about three or four days before we head out to pick up the kid, we start heartbreakingly missing the kid like a bunch of sad puppies. More than once I found myself saying that I just want my kid back.

    The drive down south to get the kid is also the last Act of Summer in our household, as she starts school a week after we pick her up. So, this is a read trip that me and the wife look forward to.

    Except this year the wife go sick on the Wednesday night before we were to leave on Friday. No matter how much we wished, and tried, she wasn’t going to be well enough to travel. I was going to have to do this on my own.

    It has been over twenty years since I was alone on a car trip. Twenty years ago, I’d fill the car with gas, buy a Coke and a pack of cigarettes, grab my cd’s and head out. No cigarettes this time around, and I grabbed a water, and no cd’s as I made a playlist on Spotify, but it was pretty much the same. But lonelier. I liked listening to my music, but there wasn’t anyone to talk to. Just me, thinking about everything that I had happened in the last several years.

    Thought a lot about my mom’s death, and how I find myself getting angry at her now, and that makes me feel guilty as her son. I thought about my failures as a father, and not doing the best job at being a good provider for the kid. I feel secure in my marriage, I worry sometimes that we should be doing better at buying a home, or saving for the kid’s college, or retirement. I’m almost fifty, and will I ever be being gainfully employed? Is this writing thing just a delusion, and I am avoiding being responsible?

    And then I saw that I was passing close to the Antietam Battlefield. I’m a Civil War buff, when will I ever be alone again to explore this in my full nerd-out glory? Odds are never.

    So, I headed to the Battlefield. I still had a kid to pick up, so I promised myself that I was only going to stay for an hour. With limited time, I thought it best to head to the part of the battle I was most curious about, which was the Bloody Lane section. Oh, and it was like one hundred degrees outside. I always have a feeling of uneasy eeriness when I visit battlefields, because now they are all pastoral, and silent with very few people around – and I know as I walk that this was a place where thousands of men died, in horrible ways. That so much pain and suffering happened where I was walking. But there is also the grim understanding that a place like this is what allows me to live in the country I proudly call home. It was a humbling place to be, somber in its reality.

    True to my word, I kept it to an hour, and was back on the road.

    I made it to my hotel, a nice, newly built, budget friendly place. It was nice and clean, and I’m not a very fancy guy, so it was great for me. There was a burrito place within walking distance of the hotel, so dinner was fast. I called the wife to check on her, and fell asleep looking forward to seeing the kid in the morning.

  • Weird

    Funny how one well placed word can unravel a person. The right word, said at the right time can cut to the core of someone, revealing what they fear most. And once that word is out there, being applied to that person, no matter how they try to defend or deflect, that word sticks to them.

    And “weird” was that word yesterday – just slicing through so much MAGA bravado, and leaving grasping Alpha Men with nothing to say except, basically, “I’m not weird! You’re weird!” But it was too late, damage was done.

    And the “weird” label hit MAGA Men at their most vulnerable spot – questioning if their world view was actually normal. The MAGA reaction says to me that most of them, MAGA Alpha Bros that is, know deep down what they are saying and believing in, is abnormal, if not outright weird. I can hear them thinking; “The shit that Trump says; it is weird.” “Maybe I am the weird one, but not in the outsider who’s cool kind’a weird; just the bad weird.”

    What I find most ironic is that this used to be a Trump skill. You know, he’d find that one word that encapsulates his opponent; “Lying” “Sleepy” “Cheating” “Meatball” “Little.” I hate to admit it, but Trump was really good at it. He would throw out a name, it would stick, and no matter how hard they try, that label stuck, and Trump would repeat it, over and over and over and over…

    So, the tables have turned. The bullies are being bullied by words. Poetic justice is just the tip of the cliches I can use here.

    I doubt that “weird” will live beyond this week’s news cycle.

    But it has been fun to watch.

  • A Typo in the First Sentence

    There is one continuous issue of mine, which befuddles and frustrates my life as a writer; typos. More specifically, my inability to proofread and catch my typos.

    One of the best Christmas presents I received was a toy typewriter when I was ten years old. I quickly set about writing stories, and trying my hand at creating a newspaper. No matter how hard I tried, I could never produce any copy that didn’t have some sort of mistake in it, which my older brothers loved to point out. Even in the age of early word processors, my teachers would have a field day pointing out my typos, adding snarky advice how if I slowed down and proofread better, than I could have earned a higher grade. I am sure that any of you, who have spent any time reading this blog, have seen my many, and I mean many, typos that proliferate my posts. I do try to correct these mistakes when I do a reread of a post, but normally, I don’t go back and look at my old blogs.

    But I have been trying to get better. Especially when it comes to submitting stories and other written work. I even ask the wife to lend a hand when she has the time, but on the whole, it is a task that I attempt, and maddingly fail at very often.

    Case in point, I just realized a few days ago that I had been sending out a story that had a typo in the first sentence. Right there, six words in. It should have been the word “simply” but I had written simple. No matter how many times I read, and reread this story, my mind kept seeing and saying “simply” even though, clear as day on the page, it said “simple.”

    I don’t know how I could have missed that, over and over again…

    And today was the day that I learned that medieval scribes attributed mistakes in their manuscripts to a demon by the name of Titivillus. They didn’t make a mistake; It was Titivillus!

    (I like this picture of the scribe looking at Titivillus. The scribe doesn’t seem frightened by the demon waiting at his desk, but he seems resigned that the demon is there, and will do what the demon does. I have a feeling that these two are on a first name bases with each other.)

    I do feel better knowing that this really isn’t my fault, my lack of skill when it comes to proofreading, that is. All this time, there was a small supernatural being that was messing with me. A demon that doesn’t commit heinous acts of death and destruction, but causes people mild annoyance and embarrassment.

  • Short Story Review: “Consolation” by Andre Alexis

    (The short story “Consolation” by Andre Alexis appeared in the May 20th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by André Derainne

    If you have read any of my reviews, then you know that I am a sucker for a story about death, especially if it’s a story dealing with the death of a parent. “Consolation” by Andre Alexis is such a story, as it deals with the death of both the narrator’s parents, but it is also about how parents’ shame can affect their children, can affect a marriage, and can affect the community they live in.

    The piece begins with the narrator telling how he got in an argument with his elderly mother over driving directions, and the narrator was so hurt but his mother’s anger, that he didn’t speak to her for two years. Only when they reconciled, did the narrator learn that his mother had dementia, and most likely the fight was a precursor of her disease. This leads the narrator to recount the death of his father, which happened a decade earlier, and though we feel that the son loves his father, we also learn that the father was a serial philanderer, thrice divorced, and despised by the narrator’s mother for the infidelity. Then the narrator tells us the story of his father, who was born in poverty in Trinidad, worked his way up and out by becoming a doctor, and then married the woman who would become the narrator’s mother. Together, they started a family, and moved to Canada, to a small all white town, where the father dealt with the indignity of the town’s prejudice, to become a respected member of the community. It is also the place where the father’s infidelities began to be noticed, and affect the family.

    This is a well thought out, and written, short story. The characters are compelling. The family dynamic is honest, complicated, and uncomfortable. It’s paced well, has a very unique climax, and I just didn’t like this story when everything is telling me that I should. I have been thinking about, and thinking about it, and I should like this, but something just feels off to me. And today, it came to me; it’s passion. Which is even more striking as there is a paragraph in this story that is about passion – between the father and another woman, and the son realizing that this moment of discovering this passion lead him to his career as a lawyer. That this is a story about passions, between lovers, between family members, how they can spark trust and betrayals. Yet, I found the narration less than passionate, which I can only say was done on purpose. This passionless narration juxtaposed with these lives driven by different forms of passion which elicit reactions of shame, desire, and anger. I go back to the start of the story and the narrator describing the argument he had with his mother. The way it is described is almost clinical, factual, without any hint of what the narrator was feeling. It is an event that is only described and not felt. I get the decision to write this story in this way, to make the point that is needed for it to have its conclusion. This artistic choice left me feeling divorced from the emotions of these characters, which explains why I couldn’t connect with the story.

    I will fully admit that I am the odd man out here. I can totally understand why people will love this story, and be dumbfounded by my inability to relate to this piece. Yes, it’s me, and it is not Andre Alexis. You should read this story, enjoy it greatly, and then shake your head at me for not getting this story.

  • Short Story Review: “We’re Not So Different, You and I” by Simon Rich

    (The short story “We’re Not So Different, You and I” by Simon Rich appeared in the May 13th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by Tim Lahan

    You know, it’s hard to make friends the older you get. Especially for men. When you’re a kid, if someone lived on the same street as you, BOOM! you’d be friends. Then somewhere, later in life, opening yourself up to someone became difficult, and new friendships dried up. And if you add kids and career, making friends gets even more difficult. But, we need friends; It makes life easier to handle, and loneliness can be dangerous.

    On the whole, that’s what “We’re Not So Different, You and I” by Simon Rich is about. Except the loneness comes from a supervillain, Death Skull, who seems to be reaching out and trying to find friendship where he can. He tries with his nemesis, Ultra Man, and later, with a friendship speed dating group. Death Skull contemplates friendship with his henchmen, but there is a power dynamic there, so that doesn’t feel genuine. And though Death Skull has a wife, she has her own circle of friends, and encourages Death Skull to make his own.

    This is, if you haven’t put it together, a humorous story, and the writing is very funny and quick. I hate puns, but I found their use by Rich to be appropriate, and I will admit, made me laugh. Which made me think about how few humorous short stories I encounter, especially in The New Yorker, tbh. It was relief to read something that didn’t have someone dead, about to be killed or die off, or any death in general. It was refreshing, also, to read something that had happy ending.

    The only thing that nagged at the back of my head was the premise of the story; superheroes and villains, acting like normal people, dealing with normal situations, and having normal emotional reactions. This isn’t a new idea:

    Even SNL was playing around with this idea in 1979. Basically, The Incredibles is this idea as well. I’ve encountered this set up in stories, tv shows, movies for years, so maybe it should have its own official genera title? And I get it, the juxtaposition of all-powerful heroes being felled by all too human emotions is intriguing, and leads itself all sorts of funny situations. (I wonder if there is a lost play by Sophocles about Achilles painful anxiety speaking in front of people?) It’s not that the premise doesn’t work here, it’s just that I’ve seen it, and read it, before.

    “We’re Not So Different, You and I” by Simon Rich is a good story, so don’t take that last part too seriously. Making friends is important, and can be very difficult and scary, and that theme wasn’t lost on me. The use of an absurd situation heightened that point, which I give credit to. I’m just most surprised that Rich actually made puns funny.