Category: Writing

  • A Bad Rehearsal

    Yesterday, I finished a second draft of a story. I had been working on it since September, when the kid went back to school and I got some more free time during the week. I had been sticking to my paradigm of writing, which is to outline the story, and then, you know, do it – write the thing. There’s nothing special there, I have been following this pattern since the summer, and it’s been a help. I have been getting ideas and drafts down on paper. Whether they are good or not is a completely different discussion.

    Anyway, so when I complete a draft, normally, there is a feeling of accomplishment. You know, I got something done. Not like a huge feeling, like I won the big game. More like, I was able to put the Kallax shelf together by myself; that type of accomplishment feeling.

    So, yesterday, when I finished the second draft… I didn’t have that feeling. That feeling of accomplishment didn’t come over me. What I felt was like taking the garbage out. Something happened, but nothing I am proud of.

    I don’t think it’s the story’s fault. At this moment, I like the idea, but that doesn’t mean it will see the light of day.  I could read the thing again, and hate it. Or, I could see it needs another draft.

    As I thought about it, I guess what this most closely feels like is a bad rehearsal for a show. And I love rehearsing. I think I like rehearsing more than I like performing. I like trying out ideas, and seeing what the other performs do, or how they react. I like when someone changes things slightly, and that causes me to trying something new in return. That type of working makes me feel like I am being creative, and makes the rehearsal feel fulfilling.

    Maybe that’s it. It was a bad rehearsal draft. I might need to listen to my gut. It might be a bad draft.

  • Short Story Review: “Red Pyramid” by Vladimir Sorokin

    (The short story “Red Pyramid” by Vladimir Sorkin, was featured in the October 4th, 2021 issue of The New Yorker.)

    I don’t read work by Russian writes much anymore. I over did it in college as a theatre major. I read a ton of Chekhov, and studied Stanislavski’s writing, and just to be safe I read some Dostoevsky as well. And after I graduated, I never went back to it. I just stopped reading Russian writers. Nothing personal.

    And I know nothing about Vladimir Sorkin, other than he is Russian and he is a writer. Up until five minutes ago, I couldn’t tell you if he was still alive or not. (Thanks Wikipedia.) So, I knew nothing about what to expect from his story “Red Pyramid” which was in the October 4th issue of The New Yorker.

    I shall try to summarize this story: in 1960’s Soviet Union, guy gets on the wrong train while trying to get to a party, and has to get off that train and take another train. While waiting at a station in the middle of nowhere, with no one around, an old man appears. The guy and the old man talk. The old man is strange, and mentions a red pyramid in Red Square, but the guy knows there is no pyramid in Red Square. Train arrives, guy gets on, never sees the old man again, nor makes it to the party. Then the story shifts to the life the guy leads after that experience, and I’m not going to give it away.

    I’m leaving out a couple of bits, because when I got to the ending: My Goodness! I didn’t see it coming, but it wasn’t shocking either. It totally fit, and I cannot explain to you how it fits with the story… it just does. I have been thinking about this story for two days now. I don’t know what the red pyramid is, I know what literally is happen at the end of the story, but I don’t know how they fit together – They just do.

    It’s that big paragraph at the end. It’s a feat of wordsmithing, and its translated! This type of writing I am very envious of, to craft words that almost seem nonsensical, but are capturing a moment or feeling correctly to the authenticity of the story. Sorkin was making me say words that at first, I didn’t understand their relevance, but I knew I was being guided to a satisfying conclusion.

    Well done, sir, though I still don’t get what it means. And that’s the fun.

  • Personal Review: “Desire” by Esther Freud

    (The short story “Desire” by Esther Freud, was featured in the September 27th, 2021 issue of The New Yorker.)

    A long time ago, when I was in college, I would join writers’ groups, and share short stories, and get and give feedback. I went to three universities and a junior college, and every group behaved pretty much the same. At some point someone would bring in a story that was… well… odd. Not good nor bad, strange but familiar, off kilter but still normal. There was no way to put a finger on what it is, but it was normal. But also, not normal.

    That is what I felt while reading Esther Freud’s “Desire.” The story, set in Ireland, somewhere around 1976, and the Bob Dylan album of the same name plays a part of the story as well. In short, the story is about a family; Mum, older sister and middle sister from one relationship, and a younger brother from a current marriage, who have left this current husband. The narrator of the story is the middle sister, and she refers to the stepfather as someone who needs to be left, but no other information is given. The family moves from the mother’s parent’s home to two additional homes for a stay or holiday or escape, and then return back to England.

    And as I said earlier, something was off with this story. The story kept referring back to songs off the Dylan album, but I wasn’t sure what the connection to the story was. I wasn’t sure what the narrator felt about what was happening. The way this family moved from place to place, by hitchhiking, and lots of waiting, which made the story feel isolated and disconnected, but I couldn’t tell you what that had to do with anything. It was just events happening. The aging parents are upset with the life decisions the Mum has made, and then the family is back off to England, and I don’t know how these disparate things are meant to work thematically. I was left feeling that I had missed something. And I don’t think that was the point.  

  • Personal Review: “The Monkey Who Speaks” by Han Ong

    (The short story “The Monkey Who Speaks” by Han Ong, was featured in the September 13th issue of The New Yorker.)

    Sincere and gentle are difficult qualities, and also odd descriptions to use for a short story, but those were the first two words that popped into my head as soon as I finished reading “The Monkey Who Speaks,” by Han Ong. And as I sat longer thinking about it, this story also made me feel like I followed the protagonist on a journey of growth.

     “The Monkey Who Speaks” is about a home health care worker named Flavia, who is from the Philippines, and her decision to leave her agency to care only for the elder Roscoe. Flavia is actually hired by Roscoe’s daughter Veronica, and through this new arraignment, Flavia begins to earn more money, but also has the time to start going to community college. What we see is how Flavia takes care of Roscoe, his love of movies, and the trust between caregiver, patient, and family. It also covers how we move on in life, how things change, and how little events, comments, actions, linger on in our lives, reminding us of people from our past.

    This was my first time reading a story by Han Ong, and I was impressed by the work. The story never felt predictable, and unfolded in a way that was very honest to the sometimes monotony of caring for an elder individual, while also highlighting those moments of connection between people. I felt Flavia’s concern for Roscoe, while she also tried to keep the relationship professional with him and his daughter. It reminded me of how even I, especially over the pandemic, found myself thinking about clients from my former career. I would wonder how they were doing, if they survived all these changes. And just like Flavia discovered,  I also found myself realizing that all these years later, those interaction are still with me, and still make me glad that I had that time with that person.

  • Publishing Help

    So, I have a plan.

    And let’s not forget that when you make a plan, God laughs.

    But, I still have a plan, which is that I want to get three short stories in good shape. Meaning, a first and second draft, some editing, and then a final peer review with me asking legitimate question, and not “Did you like it?” Once I get through all of that, then I will start submitting to publications.

    Pretty simple.

    One problem though… I haven’t submitted a story in twenty years. Back then you needed to send a hard copy with a SASE. (SELF ADDRESSED STAMPED ENVELOPE) I think the world has changed a little since then.

    And that’s my point. The world of short story publishing has changed a lot in twenty years. The trouble is that I don’t even know how to get started. Back then I used to buy a copy the yearly publishers guide, and circle all the magazines that I though my work was good for. Not that I ever got published, but I always felt like that was a good starting point. Now, I’m not sure how to begin searching.

    That’s not to say that I haven’t been doing searches, because I am now starting to see ads online popping up for seminars on how to submit and get published. Anywhere from $50 to $300 will give me access to a published author who will give me all the tips and inside tracks of the publishing world.

    That can’t be real, right? If it was that simple, everyone would do it. But, I don’t have a frame of reference right now, so how do I know if that information is incorrect?

    I do also know that I am getting the cart before the horse here. I gotta have material first, if I want to submit. I just want to get started on something, have some feeling of forward motion, and to stop feeling like I’m on the outside looking in.