Category: Writing

  • Short Story Review: “Wood Sorrel House” by Zach Williams

    (The short story “Wood Sorrel House,” by Zach Williams, Appeared in the March 21st, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)

    (I see spoilers!)

    I do not know what to make of this story. I haven’t stopped thinking about the thing since I finished reading it, but I still can’t come up with what it’s all about. And this is meant as a compliment. If a story lives on in the reader’s mind, and does dissolve into forgotten nothingness as soon as they are finished with it, then that author has achieved something. I tip my hat to you Zach Williams; your story is taking up space in my brain.

    “Wood Sorrel House” is about a couple and a toddler seemingly trapped in a cottage in the woods. Days pass, they age, but the toddler does not. Each morning food and supplies are replenished in the house, thus allowing them to live in the cottage. The couple tries to figure out where they are and why they are there, and soon they discover the toddler is never able to get hurt.

    I have an ego, and some days I think I am smart, and when I started reading this story, I was like, “Oh, this is an absurdist styled story, and it’s a metaphor for death.” Because, if my college education taught me anything, it’s that absurdist/surrealist/modernist stories are all really about death. But as I kept reading, I began to doubt my ego-driven conclusion. Why was the snapping turtle killed? What happed when the male in the couple disappeared? What happened to the toddler when the woman went down to the lake for days at a time? Why did the couple age, and get injured, but the toddler was immune and also ageless?

    I found that this story was taping into emotional territories that made me react. Perhaps it’s because I’m a parent, but I kept feeling this sense of dread for the toddler, that something awful was going to happen. There was a sense of disgust in how the man went out a destroyed nature. And a sense of sorrow as the woman tried to make sense of all of it. I was reacting to this story, I was compelled by it, but I couldn’t make sense of it. If it wasn’t about death, what was it about? Was it the lack of logic? Things stayed the same at the cottage, but the outside world seemed to keep moving; not changing into something different, but just moving along. Was this a metaphor for dealing with Covid? Maybe it had no meaning, but that would make it about death, right? What was it? Like I said, I don’t know what to think about the story, but the story is making me think about what it could be about. That’s a pretty successful story.

    (Say, don’t forget to like this post, or share it, or leave a comment. I got bills to pay, you know.)

  • ODDS and ENDS: Nightmares, Blogging, and Shop Local

    (Some thoughts that don’t involve Tottenham or Alt Side Parking.)

    The kid woke me up at 1am. She had a nightmare, and I tried to get her back to bed, but she was too upset. So, I did what any good father would do, we sat on the couch until we fell asleep watching MST3k. “Mitchell” was on and that calmed everyone down. In the morning, I asked the night what her nightmare was about, and she said that she dreamed she was an artist, and kept failing over and over again to paint a perfect picture. Yikes! I tried to talk to her about how failure is an important part of the creative process as it allows an artist to know what doesn’t work, and to keep trying. I don’t know if it took hold, but I did think she was a little young to be worried about painting a perfect picture.

    I started thinking again about switching to a paid blogsite, and getting away from the free WordPress.com thing that I am on now. I do this every couple of months, and I always get back to asking myself, what is the point? I have written about this on twenty different occasion, if not more, and I can never come up with a persuasive argument for myself, one way or the other. I am continually sitting on the pot over this one. I don’t know how to do what I want to do, which is what I am doing right now, sitting on my couch and writing, and make a living at it. Will a better blog site get me any closer to that goal? Honestly, I don’t think it will. BUT… I do have some free time, and it is something to do. Ahhh… I’ll sit on the pot awhile longer then.

    If you haven’t already, support small local businesses. Help your community not only survive, but thrive.

  • Short Story Review: “The Biographer’s Hat” by Cynthia Ozick

    (The short story, “The Biographer’s Hat” by Cynthia Ozick, appeared in the March 14th, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)

    (I spoil things…)

    When it comes to these reviews, I have a rule that I adhere to, which is I do not read up on the author or inspiration for the story I am about to review. The reason for this is to try and stay as objective and uninfluenced as possible. You know, review the story on the merits. Now, obviously, there are a few writes that I know before hand, so it’s not a perfect system.

    I know nothing of Cynthia Ozick, but I do respect that she got a short story in The New Yorker. And when I started reading her piece which is in the latest issue, “The Biographer’s Hat,” my mind began to wander and wonder a little. The story’s beginning felt like it was from a bygone era of literature. I wasn’t sure if that was a purposeful style choice, or if this was a story that was written in the 90’s by some respected but relative unknow writer, who’s had a prolific output spanning over 40 years.

    In a nutshell, the narrator is an older woman who once took a class at The New School which was taught by Emanuel Teller, who was a performer of some minor fame years ago. A biographer has contacted the narrator for an interview, and we learn that just about everyone who knew Teller is now dead, except for the narrator. When the interview happens, the narrator is stuck by how odd the biographer is, and when the interview is over, the biographer leaves a hat on a chair, which is claimed to have belonged to Teller. The Narrator never hears from the biographer again, so the hat, which is slowly collapsing, is stored in her closet and forgotten about. Time moves on, the biographer returns to the narrator, and talks her into allowing him to stay for a short while, as he completes the biography. Soon, the narrator takes part in the creation of the biography, helping the biographer create a narrative that is fictional. When the manuscript is complete, the biographer leaves, and the narrator never hears from him again. Then one night, the narrator retrieves the hat from the closet only to find that it has completely collapsed.

    Oh, this is a story, and it is told sparsely and efficiently, and takes you on a journey. But most impressive, Ozick was in complete control of this story, though I didn’t see it at first. I see now that my reaction to the start of the story was purposely constructed, that I and the narrator are both wondering what is going on. It is done so well, that when I got to the part where the biographer returns, and starts to weave his idea that the narrator should help him in creating this fictious reality for the biography, it dawned on me that Ozick had planted seeds in that first part of the story; The Village of old, the writers, the people who supported writers to make then successful, even the narrator’s desire to be on stage. I saw how the biographer played on the narrator’s desires, and how she almost knew she was being lied to, but it was a pretty lie that validated her existence.

    It all made sense. The structure that the story was built on, how the tumblers of the narrative feel into place, the character’s motivations, all of it worked. I’m sorry that I doubted you Cynthia Ozick. You knew exactly what you were doing, and played me like a mark.

  • Short Story Review: “One Sun Only” by Camille Bordas

    (The short story “One Sun Only,” by Camille Bordas appeared in the March 7th, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Having kids is easy, raising kids is hard. And on some days, you screw everything up, and it really sucks. Every time we make a mistake as parents, which is often, the wife and I kid each other that whatever the transgression we just inflicted on our daughter, that it will be the reason she goes into therapy. My mother would joke/not-joke that when I was in therapy, she was getting blamed for everything. Not everything, I would tell her, Dad made a lot of mistakes, too. Kidding each other was a big part of our relationship, and so was making lots of mistakes.

    I identified with “One Sun Only,” by Camille Bordas. It was a story about a middle-aged guy, trying to make it as a writer, dealing with the death of a parent, raising his kids while also making sure his children were coping with the death of their grandparent in a healthy way. (Holy Crap! It’s like this story was written for me!) But also, the story was about the relationship that the grandfather has with his son, and his grandchildren. The grandfather was a famous painter, and art played a big role in his dealings with his family. Of the two grandchildren, the older one, Sally, had the same artistic interest as her grandfather, and thus he showed her the most attention. Though the younger grandchild, Ernest, had the artistic skill, he was not interested in the form, which caused a distance between grandfather and grandson.

    Essentially, this was a story about death, and how different people deal/handle/cope with it. There was another death in the story, a school janitor who had a heart attack and dropped dead in front of Ernest and his classmates in the cafeteria at school, so the theme of the story was driven home pretty hard here. The most authentic parts of this story were the interactions between Ernest and his father, the narrator, especially when Ernest was drawing at the kitchen table toward the end. My only objection to the story was that the children point out how sad their father was, but I never felt the “sadness” was identified, given an example, or even addressed. It was just pointed out, and left at that. See, that stuck in the back of my mind as a red flag. Sally was given ample time to show how she was dealing with the grandfather’s death, and the climax of the story was clearly about Ernest ability to cope, but nothing for the father. The father was seen taking advantage of the money he had inherited, as he had bought a new apartment, and was taking a year off from work to write, but not how he was emotionally handling all of this. I do know that when a trauma occurs, some people make immediate changes in hopes of dealing with the emotions, which I felt was what Bordas was hinting at with the father, but he seemed to be enjoying these changes even though his children said he was “sad.” It’s like one puzzle piece was missing that would have tied all three together in their mourning.

    Also, this was a story about parenting; Both the good and the bad. Pushing your kids, and nurturing them. Tough love and understanding. The grandfather and father were not saints, and their parenting styles were opposite, but not completely wrong. For all the faults of the grandfather, he was using his skill set to raise his son the best he could. And his son was doing the same thing with his children. The story did leave me feeling hopeful for these characters. That they would get to the other side of this, in their own way.

  • Good Old Kurt Vonnegut

    It was a slightly strange weekend. First of all, I was a horrible father, and showed my child a movie, which I thought she would find entertaining, but actually just gave her nightmares. I speak of 1999’s The Mummy, which I thought she’d find fun, and not scary. I mean, this is the same kid that had no issues with any of the Indiana Jones movies’ and their face melting, heart removing, and weird aging/dusting thing. Nope, total miscalculation – Mummies are very scary to seven-year olds.

    So, I’m a shitty dad, or at least that’s how I felt Friday/Saturday night.

    The kid couldn’t sleep in her room alone, so I stayed up with her on the pullout sofa. I was looking for something to watch that would put the kid asleep, but still keep me engaged, and I found a documentary about Kurt Vonnegut on HULU (This is not a movie review) that fit the bill. Though Vonnegut is one of my favorite writers, I really didn’t know anything about his life other that he sold cars at one point, and got divorced.

    After watching the documentary, I had two questions I wished were answered; first, why did Vonnegut choose to move to Barnstable, MA from Schenectady, NY? I get that living on Cape Cod is cool, but did he know someone there, did he vacation in the Cape first, did he read an article about the place? I mean, what was it? Second, how did Vonnegut, who by his own admission was just getting by selling short stories at this time, afford a home on Cape Cod? I am assuming that Cape Cod has always been Cape Cod, which means it has always been in demand, but back in the 50’s, were homes really that big AND inexpensive that an infrequently published, and modestly monetarily successful writer could afford a home? Was his wife supporting him?

    I really feel these questions need to be answered, as I think this is the failure of most biographies; they never explain how an artist paid their bills when they had no money, and still found a way to create.