Category: Writing

  • Feeling Off Today (Unedited)

    The day feels off. In fact, it felt a little off right before I went to bed.  Then in the middle of the night, the kid woke me up, which was right after midnight, so it was like the day did in fact start with an issue. I think the kid needed to blow her nose. That was the problem I was tasked with solving. Which I did, and then put her back to sleep.

    And since then, it’s really been off.

    I got back to sleep but never really fell into a deep sleep; I was always aware that I was just barely asleep.

    So, this morning has felt off. And I have felt frustrated.

    I rewrote my cover letter for submitting, but I haven’t been able to shake the nagging voice which keeps telling me that this is a big waste of time, and nothing will come of it.

    And as I was researching literary, again the thought of failure keep coming at me. That, again this is a futile exercise. That I don’t know enough. That I don’t belong. That That That…

    It’s exhausting constantly fighting with myself.

    I know being tired doesn’t help, but I think I need to admit that I am a little afraid too. I’m afraid to fail. I’m also afraid to be laughed at. I’m afraid too because I have nowhere to hide. In theatre, I had a character or a puppet to hide behind. With my stories, it’s all me, and that’s putting the fear in me. I feel exposed.

    But, I don’t like feeling worthless either. Not having a goal, something to work towards, is a pretty awful feeling as well.

    Gotta push through it.

  • Short Story Review: “What’s the Deal, Hummingbird?” by Arthur Krystal

    (The short Story, “What’s the Deal, Hummingbird?” by Arthur Krystal, appeared in the January 24, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)

    To all the high school English teachers I had, the college English and Creative Writing professors who tried to teach me, and to all the writing group members who argued strongly against me, I can now conclusively say that you were all wrong. That I and my good friend, and sometime writing partner, John Esquivel were right; you can write a story that has no plot or climax, and it can still meet the cathartic resolution threshold for a short story to be successful. No matter your opinion of it, but The New Yorker is a preeminent publication of short fiction, and if their editors saw fit to publish a story of this form, then it must be true; a short story to be successful does not need a plot or climax, it just needs catharsis for its protagonist.

    “What’s the Deal, Hummingbird?” by Arthur Krystal is the story I am speaking of, and I applaud the effort of it. It is a simple narrative of an older male New Yorker dealing with the start of the Covid pandemic, and the thoughts that he has.

    I had the feeling, about half way through reading it, that this was a rather experimental story. Not stream of consciousness, nor modern absurdist, but like a filtered realistic consciousness. It exist in a linear timeline, but it feels like that is there more to show the movement of time, and not as a hard road sign of where the narrator is. Memories and thoughts float in, and so does the music the main character is listening to, which lead me to also feel that there was a music quality to the story; like how listening to classical music can sort of make you feel like the music is floating in the air.

    I did enjoy the story, and the structure of it, but I was still left feeling that the catharsis wasn’t complete. To use a music metaphor; the song didn’t end, but just faded out. Like it was a deep cut B-side from your favorite band. The song was good, but you understand why it didn’t make the album. I think I feel this way because of the structure Krystal used for the story, such as a question is posed in the story, and then referenced again at the ending which brings about the catharsis for the protagonist. Krystal placed the question close to the ending, which I feel didn’t give it enough time mix and fold with the memories, thus making the catharsis feel muted, but not ineffective.

    It is a minor criticism, because I felt that Krystal was successful in creating a realistic character that is experiencing, thinking, and remembering all at the same time. It makes the story feel honest, and, personally for me, proves that a short story does not need to behave like a novel. It can be its own art form.

  • Yes, I am Procrastinating

    I am having the day of getting nothing done, while at the same time, getting stuff done. I have sat on the couch for the last forty minutes, and really haven’t done anything but look up obscure stuff, and get totally sucked into Buzzfeed listicles.

    Yet, I can say that I have meal planed for the week, gone grocery shopping, and read a short story. I also put the kid’s school schedule for the rest of the year in my calendar, and started looking up summer camp options, though I don’t think we can afford a sleepaway camp this year.

    But I am tempered by the things that I want to get done today, like finish the edits on my story. I also need to get started on a cover letter for submitting the story. I am a little nervous to do that because the only “professional” writing credits I have number two, and they were twenty-five years ago.

    So, I guess I am procrastinating a touch.

    Which is true, because I thought awhile about how Yogi Berra argued his whole life that he tagged Jackie Robinson out on that stealing home play.

    Not that has anything to do with anything… but did you ever think about that advice everyone is given how you should do what makes you happy, and that should be your career. What if what makes you happy has no value in society?

    Also, my dog smells like corn nuts.

    Okay, seriously, I’m going to go to work now.

    But first, I am going to where a tweed sportscoat.

  • Short Story Review: “Fireworks,” by Graham Swift

    (The short story, “Fireworks” by Graham Swift, appeared in the January 17th, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Crisis and release. Some people live for it, some thrive in it, but most people try to avoid it. As we are all living in a global crisis, helplessness seems to be a feeling that we are all dealing with, and, in some cases, projecting on others as well. Different characters exemplify these emotions, and reactions in Graham Swift’s short story “Fireworks.” It’s a short short story, even for The New Yorker’s standards, but that isn’t a knock against the piece, as it is a concise and subtle work.

    Plot: The story is set during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the question is if Frank’s daughter’s wedding will happen, or will the world end, and then the after effects of that situation at a neighbor’s bonfire on Guy Fawkes Night.

    I liked this story, for its simplicity and directness of Frank’s experiences. How Frank stayed steady and calm about a positive outcome for the Missile Crisis, and how life would continue. I like how Graham Swift worked in the observation of Frank’s dread of Mondays, but also his relief and focus when that work day was over, as now the rest of the week would be manageable for him. Knowing that Frank was a bombardier in the War, added a nice depth to his character, as Allied aircrews had a high mortality rate. And how it all mixed together at the neighbor’s bonfire, celebrating the foiling of the Gunpowder Plot, which if it hadn’t been stopped, could have plunged England into war and civil strife. Frank’s heroic act is faith, belief that it will be okay, though everything is out of his control. Sure, maybe this wasn’t the most dramatic story I have read, but I don’t think high drama was the point. I felt like this was a story confirming where we are presently, and where we can still end up. And if it does work out, appreciate what you went through to get there.

  • Nothing Particular

    The domesticity of my life has taken precedence today. Meaning that I had to make a meal plan for the family, and then go grocery shopping. The chores that need to be accomplished for the stay at home parent. I’m not complaining about these tasks, but I was bad at planning them this week. Normally I make the plan and shopping list the night before, so that I can go take care of it as soon as I get done dropping the kid off at school. Thus, freeing up the rest of the day for things I want to do.

    So, I got a late start today, and as such, I am writing later than I was planning. Some days are like that. Some days are just go go go, and I don’t get what I want. It has to be delayed, because I’m a grown up, and that’s what life is sometimes like for a grown up.

    And as I ran my errands, walking through the Upper West Side to get to the Trader Joe’s, the pang of missing my mother hit me. Not crushing, but just that a pang because out of nowhere, I thought about her stuffed peppers that she used to make, and home the smell of those peppers cooking would permeate the entire house, and how I hated that smell as it informed me of a meal that I wouldn’t enjoy, but there was no sense in complaining. The rest of the family loved it, and I was the odd man out that would have to put up with it. And even if my mother magically came back and made stuffed peppers for me, I still would not eat it. That meal sucked.