There’s been some controversy over the new website Texts From Bennett.  Sam Edmunds was a big fan.  I’ll admit, I did not see what was so hilarious about them, and figured they were fake.  The Smoking Gun says they are fake.  But maybe they’re not fake after all.  This all got me thinking about what is fake, what is real, and I remember the first time I thought something was fake (fiction) and found out it was real (biopic).

A couple years ago, a good friend recommended watching the movie American Splendor.  Not realizing Harvey Pekar is a real person, and the movie is based on/inspired by true events, I was blown away.  How could anyone think up this meta-fiction movie narrative?  At some point, perhaps when the movie used clips from his appearance on a TV show, I wondered aloud, and my friend cleared up that little mystery.  And laughed at my ignorance.  I still thought it was a great movie.  But I would have been more impressed if Harvey Pekar had never existed, and the screenwriter had thought the whole thing up.

Usually, people are more interested if something is “based on a true story,” or “inspired by real events.”  Why did Frey say “A Million Little Pieces” was true?  Because no one would have bought it if it was sold as fiction.

At least for me, if Texts From Bennett is real, I guess it’s funny, I’m glad people are laughing, etc.  But if the guy is making them all up…well, now I’m a bit more impressed, though I’m still not really seeing the humor.

Over at Slate, June Thomas discusses how to reach the magical 50,000 word minimum for NaNo success.  She cites Chris Baty, the founder of NaNoWriMo, who gives the following techniques for padding the word count.

His strategies include giving a character a stutter (to expand “the girth of their dialogue”), temporary deafness(“necessitating that everything said to him or her be repeated”), and a fondness for quotation(“Give your protagonist a copy of Beowulf and an annoying habit of reading poetry out loud on their long commute to work”).

In addition, Thomas adds a few of her own.

I have some additional suggestions: amnesia (if one or more characters forgets everything that has happened in the narrative thus far, it’s only polite to remind them—at length), flashbacks (either to events before the action of the novel began or just a couple of chapters back), recollections (of a character’s earliest childhood memories or just about anything else apropos of nothing), lists (you don’t have to stick to a character’s favorite books, music, movies; why not list every friend they ever had?), and recipes (if someone is preparing a meal, don’t stint on the details—how hot should that oven be?).

I’ve got a few too: meta-fiction (after each sentence, write a paragraph explained what you are trying to accomplish and/or  include commentary on how you felt, as a novelist, writing the aforementioned sentence), spot the change (copy and paste each chapter, so there are two chapter ones, two chapter twos, etc, but make a few nominal changes and challenge the reader to spot the difference), language switch (have your main character learn another language and then include a translation (using google translator) of everything you’ve written).

Good Luck!

Not really.  Not yet, at least.  But you discover the strangest things when Googling yourself.  And don’t pretend that you don’t do it from time to time.  Apparently, my MFA thesis is listed on Google Books.

Title: Jersey summer and four short stories (worst title ever)

Author: Brendan Lynaugh

Publisher: Eastern Washington University

Length: 218 pages

There have been zero reviews.  To be fair, it did have a very limited print run of 2 copies.  There does not appear to be anyway to buy the book.  Nor a cover image. Nor a preview.  Google, in its quest to digitally map every book ever printed, certainly seems to be succeeding beyond rational expectations.

At a wedding in Vancouver, I started chatting with a woman, and one thing led to another, and we ended up chatting about writing (what, where did you think that sentence was going?).  She’d taken writing classes in school and still wrote stories from time to time, though had a successful corporate career, which involved writing.  I think my mention of NaNoWriMo and my plan to finally start a tennis novel reminded her of a recent ex-boyfriend, a writer, and she told me, if memory serves, that this dude once isolated himself in her apartment (she was out traveling or doing something fun) for several days in row, subsisted on cigarettes, whiskey, and things in that vein, and wrote until he fell asleep, woke up, and wrote some more.  When she related this story, I had to laugh, and point out this sounds exactly like how Hollywood depicts the writing process (and possibly some other not-so-complimentary things).  She shrugged, and said something like she supposed it worked for him, and I probably lamely agreed, and I don’t really know where our conversation veered at that point.

But today, walking through the upper west side of Manhattan toward a French bistro where I planned to purchase a cafe latte and write for an hour or so, I was reminded of the aforementioned conversation.  Since finishing a writing residency and then traveling for a wedding, it took me several weeks to find an apartment in New York City, and in that time I hardly got any writing done.  I realized for my writing life, I need my non-writing life (for lack of a better word) to be settled.  It doesn’t have to be boring; I’m one of those special, unique individuals who likes excitement and has a dry, sarcastic sense of humor.  But not knowing where I would be living, constantly checking Craigslist combined with my day-job teaching tennis being unstable as it typically is in the beginning of the fall season…all this left my mind scattered and unable to escape to the worlds of my stories for any sustained amount of time.

Things are better now, and I expect them to improve.  And I’m glad I don’t need forced isolation and various vices to get writing done.  But perhaps I have more understanding for the whiskey and cigarette fueled writer.  It’s an awful and lonely feeling when you can’t get yourself to write, even when you know the very act of writing is what will make you happy or satisfied again.  If he can live better through chemicals, I will try not to judge.

Daniel Polansky’s debut novel “Low-Town,” is fast-paced noir set in a dystopian alternative world, and features an anti-hero in the tradition of Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe. “Polansky has managed to craft an assured, roaring, and rollicking hybrid, a cross-genre free-for-all that relishes its tropes while spitting out their bones,” writes Jason Heller at the A.V. Club.

I spoke to Daniel near downtown Vancouver, perhaps one of the least noir cities on the planet, on a sunny Monday morning in September. Despite giving a top-notch wedding toast, and lighting up the dance floor the night before at his older brother’s wedding, Daniel was kind enough to answer a few of my questions after refueling with a delicious brunch.

Let’s talk a little bit about the genesis of the book.  Do you remember when you first had the idea?

After college, I had a job managing a team of writers at an E-learning site and wrote in the evenings or on lunch breaks.  It started as an experiment that seemed to go okay.  I’d basically never written fiction.  I didn’t really have, well, almost any idea, even what the book would be about, which is not a great idea, obviously, its about the worst possible way. I wouldn’t recommend it.  It’s the sort of thing where you have to admit to yourself that you’re trying to write a book, and not just messing around in your room.  That took some time. It’s easier to say I’m just writing a few words here or a chapter here or a chapter there. You sit down, you write an outline, you set a goal for yourself. And if you don’t reach that goal, you haven’t succeeded.   Anyway, I finished a draft.  I quit my job.  I had some money saved so I thought I’d revise the heck out of this and then go traveling.

Did you outline much of the book once you decided to get serious?

Not really.  Looking back I did so many things wrong with that first draft.  I’m surprised the book is even legible.  I think it sort of carried its own momentum.  Once I got into it, I felt like I was always five chapters ahead in my mind. And I had a pretty good idea of the very end.  I never had a formal outline, which was, again, a bad idea. Read more »

The new Poets&Writers MFA rankings have generated plenty of discussion.  Earlier, almost 200 creative writing professors signed an open letter disputing the rankings.  Now, Scott Kenemore, possibly unaware of this criticism, pens a scathing attack on P&W at slate.com.  He draws a solid conclusion, but his arguments do not hold up.

To his credit, Kenemore is upfront with his personal reasons for writing this piece. “Year after year, their ranking of Columbia University—my alma mater—has steadily fallen.”

He points out that Columbia employs well-published writers as professors, leaving the reader to intuit that writers who have won literary awards are prima facie great teachers. Rarely, whether the discipline is writing, mathematics, sports, etc, are great talents also great teachers.  Often, mediocre talents are great teachers, and great talents are medicore if not lousy teachers.

Kenemore’s second argument (if you allow his first claim to be an argument) is that “(Columbia) is also located at the center of the book publishing, agenting, and editing universe. The guest speakers and visitors from New York’s literary scene offer an unmatched immersion into the world of professional writing.”  This is true, although, every MFA program within a short train ride from Manhattan matches this immersion.

Finally, Kenemore points out that Columbia “remains a top choice for applicants.”  But asking prospective students to rank schools is, as Leslie Epstein, novelist and Boston University program director and signer of aforemention open-letter said, “analogous to asking people who are standing outside a restaurant studying the menu how they liked the food.” Read more »

After a breakfast discussion with four visual artists about their favorite and not-so-favorite art films I walked across the bridge to my studio.  Unlocking my door, I found my laptop sitting on my desk, waiting for me to start my writing day.  My studio, a cozy well-lit office has the sights and sounds of the Gihon River to my left, along with a bookshelf and a reading chair.  I’d never desired a private office/studio before, but it is certainly very nice.  My computer waits for me, along with my mess of papers and coffee cups.

I’ve been in Johnson, Vermont as a writing resident at the Vermont Studio Center for a little more than three weeks.  I leave on Saturday, which is when this will be posted.  It’s been a great experience.  ”Instant grad school,” is my clever response when friends ask how my residency is going.  Unlike some writers and artists, going to Eastern Washington University’s MFA program felt wholly positive.  VSC recreates the best parts of the MFA experience: living in a community of writers (artists), having time to devote to your craft, the sense that what you are working on is important, and friends to have a beer with at the end of the night.

In addition, VSC provides three excellent and often vegetarian meals a day in a dining hall overlooking the Gihon river.  It’s always nice to look out and see a river rushing past while eating.  Plenty of hiking is nearby.  My favorite is a short, but steep route up to Prospect Rock.  The hike is a small portion of the Long Trail, and affords a great view at the top.  You can also find several swimming holes within walking distance.  The tiny town of Johnson has some essentials: a bookstore, a cafe, a pub.  Sadly, after the flood in the spring, no grocery store.  Still, it’s a friendly small town and you start to recognize everyone after a week or two.  You start to feel at home almost right away. Read more »

No groundbreaking news here.  But the truth of this blog post’s title has been re-affirmed by my stint at the Vermont Studio Center.  Now, I don’t want you thinking what is about to come is particularly grandiose or dramatic.  I’m building it up too much.

When applying for my residency, I spent much time trying to find the four weeks I could escape from real life with the least disruption.  Man plans, God laughs.  I don’t believe in God, though I do like Yiddish sayings, and there is a lot to laugh about when it comes to the plans of man, and women (doesn’t rhyme, but I strive to be PC, always!)

I knew coming here I’d miss the last week of  tennis camp, the entire US Open, and an amazing weekend at the Lake with good friends.  All sad things, but no way I’d give up my time here for those.  You can’t be at every party.  I learned that freshman year of college, and it’s true for life.  All you can do, is make the most of the parties–and movie nights, and walks through Central Park, and Mondays at the job–as you can.

But days after arriving, big events started taking place in now far-away places.  The adorable, old-lady-skinny-as-a-bag-of-bones, but still feisty cat Maggie, owned by my landlady and housemate passed away quietly in her sleep.  Maggie liked me more than any other cat, though I’m told she was one those cats, owned by women, with a thing for men.  Then, I found an email from an ex-girlfriend, an ex whom I’d stayed in touch because you never know, well, now I know that she is engaged.  And finally, I got an email from my mom that my granddad, her dad, just took a turn for the worse, and she is flying out to see him in Chicago. Read more »

“Are you a writer or an artist?” Shimon Adaf, visting poet, writer, and artist from Israel, was so taken aback by the question, asked earlier in the day by a visual artist resident at the Vermont Studio Center, he momentarily lost command of the English language and was unable to respond.  He related this anecdote at a welcome meeting of the twelve writers currently staying at VSC- an artists’ retreat of around 60 residents, the majority of which create visual art.

We laughed.  And the general consensus was that it was an absurd question as Shimon, and the rest of us are writers and artists.  But I’m not in total agreement.  I’ve never felt like an artist, and only recently felt comfortable calling myself a writer.  For one thing, I’m not sure I can call what I create “art.”  I write stories, essays, poems, and blog posts, which I hope fulfill the same function (and that function? That’s a topic for a much longer post) that painting, sculpture, installations art does, so perhaps the problem is mostly in my head.  And I’m sure many humble, young artists feel discomfort calling what they create “art.”

In grad school, I remember hearing how a visiting writer exhorted the small class of poetry students to call themselves “poets.”  ”If you write poetry, if you study poetry, then you are a poet.”  It’s a nice sentiment, and true enough, I suppose.  But does boiling water, adding pasta, and throwing in sauce make me a chef?  Does going for a run make me a runner?  How about two runs?  Three?  How many does it require?  How many poems does it take before you are a poet?  How many roads must a man walk down…well, you get the point.  If you write everyday (6 out of 7 days in my case) then you are a writer. Read more »

Internet was slow on the weekend, so I’m only now publishing this on Bark.  Pretend this blog is also a time machine and you have been whisked back to the weekend.  Ready?  Okay.

Vermont is lovely this time of year, and brought back memories of summer weddings, winter ski trips, and the Magic Hat brewery. Today though (Saturday), my thoughts were looking forward and farther north and east, to Johnson, VT, home of the Vermont Studio Center, and me for the next four weeks.

My acceptance arrived so many months ago that inevitable, my departure date snuck up.  As per usual, I packed around midnight the night before, ate delicious eggs the morning of, and left NJ around 8:45.  87 isn’t bad as thruways go.  But once you turn east, and start heading toward Vermont the drive is as good as it gets (on the east coast)

After being welcomed, and oriented, and getting myself showered, I have a few moments to collect my thoughts before the other mid-session arrivals and I get a tour at 4:30.  (Remember you’ve traveled back in time- it is Saturday!)

Only briefly last night, (that would be Friday, try and keep up) did that old familiar nervousness return: I’m going somewhere and I won’t know anyone.  What if I don’t make any friends?  What if nobody likes me?  These thoughts didn’t last long.  I mostly got a little nostalgic for my undergrad and grad school experiences.  But hopefully this will be just as good, if a bit shorter.

I have a month with no responsibility other than to write.  I’m at writing camp.  Okay, technically a writing residency.  But really, it’s camp for creative grown-ups-painters, sculptors, writers, etc.  I’ve got several projects going right now: some stories, some essays, a poem, and of course, the novel.  Expectations are high and the place looks as quaint, idyllic, and on the river, as I could have hoped.  So no more excuses.  Tonight I hope for fun with new friends.  Tomorrow, I write.