Tag: Short Story Writer

  • 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