Tag: Writing

  • Short Story Review: “We’re Not So Different, You and I” by Simon Rich

    (The short story “We’re Not So Different, You and I” by Simon Rich appeared in the May 13th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by Tim Lahan

    You know, it’s hard to make friends the older you get. Especially for men. When you’re a kid, if someone lived on the same street as you, BOOM! you’d be friends. Then somewhere, later in life, opening yourself up to someone became difficult, and new friendships dried up. And if you add kids and career, making friends gets even more difficult. But, we need friends; It makes life easier to handle, and loneliness can be dangerous.

    On the whole, that’s what “We’re Not So Different, You and I” by Simon Rich is about. Except the loneness comes from a supervillain, Death Skull, who seems to be reaching out and trying to find friendship where he can. He tries with his nemesis, Ultra Man, and later, with a friendship speed dating group. Death Skull contemplates friendship with his henchmen, but there is a power dynamic there, so that doesn’t feel genuine. And though Death Skull has a wife, she has her own circle of friends, and encourages Death Skull to make his own.

    This is, if you haven’t put it together, a humorous story, and the writing is very funny and quick. I hate puns, but I found their use by Rich to be appropriate, and I will admit, made me laugh. Which made me think about how few humorous short stories I encounter, especially in The New Yorker, tbh. It was relief to read something that didn’t have someone dead, about to be killed or die off, or any death in general. It was refreshing, also, to read something that had happy ending.

    The only thing that nagged at the back of my head was the premise of the story; superheroes and villains, acting like normal people, dealing with normal situations, and having normal emotional reactions. This isn’t a new idea:

    Even SNL was playing around with this idea in 1979. Basically, The Incredibles is this idea as well. I’ve encountered this set up in stories, tv shows, movies for years, so maybe it should have its own official genera title? And I get it, the juxtaposition of all-powerful heroes being felled by all too human emotions is intriguing, and leads itself all sorts of funny situations. (I wonder if there is a lost play by Sophocles about Achilles painful anxiety speaking in front of people?) It’s not that the premise doesn’t work here, it’s just that I’ve seen it, and read it, before.

    “We’re Not So Different, You and I” by Simon Rich is a good story, so don’t take that last part too seriously. Making friends is important, and can be very difficult and scary, and that theme wasn’t lost on me. The use of an absurd situation heightened that point, which I give credit to. I’m just most surprised that Rich actually made puns funny.

  • Just Not Feeling It

    I know the conventional wisdom here is that you have to fight through it, but I’m questioning that. I have been looking at my computer, and listening to music for the past forty-five minutes, and I can’t come up with a single idea to write about. I did some free association journaling for about twenty minutes, and nothing came of it except me complaining about all the bills I have to pay.

    That leaves me to the tried and true “I have nothing to write about so I’m gun’na write about not having anything to write about,” trope! Ta-Da!

    I might have shot myself in the foot by deciding this morning that I was going to use my afternoon to research magazine/lit journals that I want to submit to, and not use that time to work on new material. It was like that part of my head just shut off, and now I am left with nothing but an urge to look at my phone to see if anything has happened.

    I checked; nothing is happening…

    But I’m not going to beat myself up over this. Somedays you get the bear, and other days, the bear gets you.

  • Paul Auster (1947 – 2024)

    I read the news today that Paul Auster had passed away. Kind’a always thought that Paul Auster would just be hanging around forever. Somewhere in Brooklyn, scribbling away, and walking around. I don’t know if any of that is true, it’s just what I expected.

    I first read Paul Auster in 1997 or 1998, and the book was Hand to Mouth: A Chronicle of Early Failure. I’m not 100% sure how this book came to me, but I’m pretty sure it was a Christmas gift from my parents. Maybe I put it on a list, but for whatever reason, it was the right book at the right time. For you see, I had just dropped out of college to peruse my career as a writer/artist, and then I read this book, wherein Paul Auster is pretty much telling me that I have ten awful years of struggle, disappointment, and failure headed my way. But he told it is such a funny and depressing way that, for all the wrong reasons, this book inspired me to continue following my path in the arts. And also, to read as many books by Paul Auster as possible.

    I had hoped to have met him one day. Not to have a conversation, or tell him how much I enjoyed his work. No, I just wanted to say “hi” to him on the street, like neighbors. And that’s the other great thing that Paul gave to me; he presented New York City (Brooklyn, actually) as this great place to meet and make friends with people who are nothing like you. There are all kinds of great things about the City, that artists have been talking about for years (the arts, nightlife, money, danger, excitement, scandal…) but he always gave me this feeling that, yes those things are here, but the people of this place, these characters of the City, are what makes this place magical.

    The other thing that I loved about Paul Auster was that the guy just wrote all the time, and produced so much work. This is the “hard working American” side of me that still sees production as one of the measuring sticks of artistic excellence. He created nonstop. He tried things, and sure, maybe not all of it was The New York Trilogy, but I have respect for the people out there that keep trying something new and producing.

    So I guess, thanks Paul Auster. Thanks for trying to talk me out of being creative.

  • And I Had Been Doing A Good Job (Unedited)

    This week, I had a plan. I put it together last week, as I was tired of my day slipping away from me, and not getting the things done that I really had my mind set in accomplishing. Knowing that this issue was caused by me (and if you have read this blog long enough, I often complain about my lack of focus and discipline) I sat down and scheduled when I would journal, when I would blog, when I would work on fiction, when I would read, do errands, shower, walk the dog, eat lunch… yes, I admit I went a little over board, but trusting myself had failed miserably.

    The times in my life when I was the most focused and disciplined was when I was working, and especially when I was in management roles. During those periods, I did have to schedule out my whole day, just to make sure that I got everything taken care of. And on the whole, it worked rather well.

    This week did start of very well. Monday and Tuesday went completely according to plan. AND I got to bed on time. Then Wednesday was rocky only because there was an unexpected illness in the home, and I do have responsibility to take care of my family. In the end, on Wednesday, I only missed going to the gym, but I accomplished everything else.

    And then today, I fell off the wagon.

    The day started great, and I was running ahead of schedule. I ordered the flower girl dress that my daughter needs for the wedding she is taking part in this Summer. I called the pediatrician’s office, and made an appointment for the kid, while simultaneously balancing the checkbook. I was on fire, which is why I decided to update and back up my iPhone on my Mac, which also meant updating the iCloud account, and…

    Goodbye Morning!

    Because once I downloaded the pics off my phone, I had to go through and delete the pictures I didn’t want anymore, which meant going through 5,000+ picture. See, I hadn’t backed up my phone in four years, and I don’t know why I thought this would be a fast process.

    (My wife had purple hair in the Pandemic, and she looked very good with it. I found the pictures which remined me of that.)

    And then, because I have no self-control, I thought that I would dig out our old Mac Mini and set that up as a hub for the family. About thirty minutes into that project, it finally dawned on me that I had pretty much shot my morning to shit, and if I didn’t stop I would lose the whole day.

    So, I am sharing this with you, let’s call it a cautionary tale, as I still want to get something done.

    Blog is done.

    I still need to journal, work on a story that is killing me to finish, get some reading in, and a sketch. I only have three hours until the kid is out of school.

    Wish me luck.

  • Short Story Review: “Poetry Is Not About the Price of Gasoline” by Amorak Huey

    (The flash fiction story “Poetry Is Not About the Price of Gasoline” by Amorak Huey appeared in Okay Donkey.)

    I am aware that I should know this, but sometimes I just am not sure what the difference is between absurdist literature and postmodern literature. Some of my favorite writers fall into one, or the other, or both of these categories. And I don’t want to get started about what makes something post-postmodernism or post-irony.

    So, what is “Poetry Is Not About the Price of Gasoline” by Amorak Huey? I guess you could define it with one of the above terms, but that feels like a pointless academic exercise. What the piece reminded me of was how many people see poetry as a useless commodity, while gasoline, especially the price of gas, commands an important space in their daily lives. This juxtaposition is humorous, though it does leave a bitter aftertaste in the realization how poetry is vastly undervalued. Not a revolutionary observation, but it is presented well here, especially with this wonderfully encapsulating line:

    “Which is to say this poem is nine-tenths of the way to being yours, with the final tenth of the process being determined by the rest of the laws, the ones written—like poems—out of language and granted meaning by our need to have shared words for how we interact with each other.”

    And then those baboons somehow got on that flight to LA.