Category: Writing

  • 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.  

  • Go to Work

    When I was in high school, I had a Humanities teacher tell me a story about Edward Hopper. Later in Hopper’s life he gave an interview, and the reporter asked if Hopper enjoyed the process of creating his work? To which Hopper answered; No, because it’s hard work. Hopper got kind’a cranky later in his life, but I liked how honest his response was. Sometimes hard work isn’t fun, and also, being creative isn’t a joy either. I am very glad that Dr. Tripp told me that story, as it has stuck with me for twenty-eight years.

    This also reminds me of the debate I would get into while in college studying theatre. There were two camps of thought in class; the planners and the improvers. You had to fit into one of them. If you were planning out things, then you weren’t in the moment, but if you were improving all the time, no one could plan on what you would do next which really pissed off the technicians and designers. And round and round it went. I found improvers to be selfish, they were people who didn’t want to be told what to do. But planners lacked a spontaneity in their work.

    The truth, I found out in the real world, is that you have to be a little of both.  

    Oh, I was a planner, in case anyone one was wondering.

    But it is about each person figuring out what their process is. Such as, the other night the wife and I were asking each other about our day, and I told her I was feeling frustrated that I haven’t been able to work in the way I feel I need. What this boils down to is that I’m not allowing myself dedicated time to work. I can journal, and I can blog, but I keep placing fiction last, and with the least dedicated time for it.

    And I have I mentioned that I’m not the best husband. I work at it, but I’m still not the best.

    What my wife suggested was that maybe I should try what our friend, who is a published writer, does which is write at the library. This is probably the third or fourth time my wife has suggested this to me in the past year in a half, and this time, it sunk in. She went on to say that I should schedule the time at the library, and then build the rest of my day around that.

    I did get very lucky in landing my wife.

    What she suggested doesn’t sound like fun, it’s work. And I think that’s what I need. I have to plan my creative time. I have to go to work.

  • Short Story Review: “What the Forest Remembers” by Jennifer Egan

    (The short story, “What the Forest Remember” by Jennifer Egan, appeared in the January 3rd & 10th, 2022 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Why did our parents do the things that they did? Why did my dad stop buying sports cars in the 70’s and then start buying station wagons? I can guess, which is that he started a family, and two door sports cars just aren’t practical for a growing family. That’s a logical answer, and most likely correct, but there is an outside chance it could be something else. Do I want to know his thought process as to why he made this decision when it came to cars? No. I want to believe he made that decision because he loved his family and it was the right thing to do. I would hate to know that he was guilted by my mother to give up his sports car for a station wagon, and he spent the rest of his life resenting her and his kids. It’s not a pleasant thought, but it is possible.

    I feel that was what Jennifer Egan was trying to tackle with her short story, “What the Forest Remembers,” which is a fun read. She tells the story of four men, three of which who are married with families, all living around the San Francisco area in 1965, who go on a trip to the wilderness around Eureka, CA. The point of the trip is to visit a marijuana farm/commune, experiment with grass, and have a good weekend. The crazy right turn of this story is that the narrator, Charlie, who is the daughter of Lou, one of the four men going on the trip, has access to the memories of her father, the rest of the men, and even some of the people at the commune. This is because Charlie exists in the near future where people have uploaded their memories into a Collective Consciousness, and thereby, one can review memories and thoughts of the past. It was a bit of a jarring twist, but it had a slight Vonnegut feel to it, so I went with it. I don’t want to spoil the story, but this trip plays an important role in the three married men’s lives.

    I had to read this story twice, because the first time through it, I just felt like I had missed something. The story and the writing is very, I think, charming is the best way to describe it, but the ending left me feeling unsatisfied. I sat on it for a day, and then decided I needed to take another crack at it. The second time through, I began to pick up on a little of the nuance of disappointment Charlie has with her father, which I found at odds with the concept of the story. If the premise is that Charlie can see and hear her father’s thoughts and memories, then there shouldn’t be any vagueness on her understanding of his intention and thought process of those decisions. There are moments and lines that are dropped by Charlie about her father’s thoughts towards her, that you would believe would be difficult for her to hear, but these thoughts are treated like adjectives in describing a person’s hair color. In fact, at one point in the story, Charlie rhetorically asks what should be done with this overload of information that comes from viewing a person’s memories? Which causes Charlie to state, “Not every story needs to be told.”

    And I think that is where my issue with this story lies; why is this being told? If Charlie is not affected by her father’s memories; they neither make her happy nor upset, then why is this being shared? If you remove Charlie and the Collective Consciousness database, then this is a story of a consequential weekend for three men in 1965. But Charlie and the database is in there, so the question must be asked, as to why? Shouldn’t Charlie and her feelings towards what happened be paramount to the story’s resolution? And that right there is why the story felt unsatisfying for me; what does Charlie think about all of this? It’s like a punch got pulled at the very end.