Tag: Short Story Writer

  • Where I’m At

    I got rejected from another lit magazine yesterday. I submitted to five at the end of January/beginning of February. That would be three rejections in the past two weeks. I am expecting to be rejected by the final two magazines, and then we will start this whole process over again.

    I am reminding myself that everyone I know who has a successful career in the arts had to put in about ten years of ground work first. The other thing that comes to mind is what my dad told me about achieving a goal; you get 100 no’s before the first yes, so get the no’s out of the way. So, 97 more no’s to go.

    Now that I have the self-affirmation shit out of the way, I think I’m going to subscribe to “The Drift” today. It’s a quarterly lit mag, written by people who are younger than me. I mean, not that much younger, but still, I have a few years on them. Anyway, I feel the need to discover some new ideas.

    I have been able to get back to reading regularly, and I am making headway through “The Stories of John Cheever.” I still have “60 Stories” by Donald Barthelme that I seem to have been working on for five years, but I am feeling like 2022 is the year it will be finished. Furthermore, I feel like I will be making a trip down to The Strand soon, and see what I can find.

    Yeah. That’s where I’m at.

  • 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.

  • Don’t Be a Chicken Shit

    Writer’s groups got brought up again.

    I have a great wife, and she was asking how my writing was going. I said the blog was fine, that I had submitted a story to five different publications, and writing at the library was paying off, as I was getting close to finishing a first draft on a new story. Also, I was finally making time to read again, which was making me feel better about everything.

    Then she asked me about if I had thought anymore about joining a writer’s group. I answered her honestly; I don’t want to.

    I know where she’s coming from, and it is very logical. All of our friends who are professional writers belong to, or run, writer’s groups. They all speak highly about it, and say it has helped them not only with their writing, but also with navigating the business. That and they have made some really good friends in these groups, as well.

    But I still don’t want to.

    Am I being illogical and stubborn? Most likely, yes.

    I am torn between two different thoughts, though.

    The first is that I no longer want to do things for my career that make me feel uncomfortable. See, when I got to New York, I went to everything – opening nights, parties, rehearsals, talks, feedbacks, open classes, and none of it ever helped me. What worked for me, was working hard when I got the job. But if I were to do this, join a group, then that means that I have to put myself out there. I might just be a little chicken shit about that.

    The second thought is that what I am presently doing isn’t working. Right now, I am an unpublished writer who posts a daily blog that if I am really REALLY lucky, four people will read. Come July, I have been doing this for two years, and… not much has really changed. BUT, I feel good about myself, and that’s worth something.

    So, I’m torn. Not sure what to do.

    I prefer the idea of just putting my head down and working hard. But the other one is putting myself out there.

    Balance. I have to find a balance between the two.

    Yuck