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Perhaps my previous post was not clear enough in its intentions. Instead of portraying myself as a writer full of self loathing, I was hoping to spark a conversation about which writers invited us (you, me, them) to start writing.

For me, it was Vonnegut. But his work was just that–an invitation to pick up a pencil. Now, I return to his work to remind myself of why I started. But rarely do I find myself inspired keep writing. When I’m “blocked” or lacking proper motivation to create, I turn to two books: Denis Johnson’s Jesus’ Son and Richard Russo’s The Whore’s Child (I obviously like possessive nouns and references to Catholicism). There’s something about these two books–the messiness of Johnson and the tightness of Russo–that grease my gears.

So, in an attempt to beef up my bookshelf and possibly add to my well (is that what they call it, the well?), my question to you all is this: who (or what) invited you to write and who (or what) inspires you to keep writing?

I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened, but writing feels like a miserable chore lately. Even these blog posts take way too long to write, and I never like the finished product. I say this not to solicit pity, but simply to state a fact: I am not having fun anymore.

All this self doubt has me thinking about why I started writing in the first place–and why (or how) I should continue.

Unlike some writers I know, who, at the age of nine, knew they would be a writer, I didn’t decide to write; I was given permission.

I read a lot as a child–mostly comics, Choose Your Own Adventure, and Alfred Hitchcock’s Three Investigators (which is really just the Hardy Boys + 1)–before graduating on to more, ahem, adult stuff: Critchon, King, etc. And eventually the Pennsylvania public school system did its part by introducing me to Shakespeare (the Mel Gibson version), William Golding (the 1963 version), and F. Scott Fitzgerald (the Redford version). But never, in all those years of reading, did I think to myself, “Hey, I can (or should) do this.” I drew penises in the margins of my notebook and called it a day.
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Au Pairs
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Maud Newton–one of the “40 Bloggers Who Really Count” according to the UK Times–recently celebrated her eighth year as a book blogger. In the process of looking back, Maud posted an incredibly comprehensive guide to literary sites and peoples (Bark has not made this list yet). A lot of these sites and peoples you may already know and love, some you may know and hate, and others you may not know enough to care. I like Maud and I like linking to links. Enjoy.

“What I used to do with a passion, foolishly and vainly imagining I would change the world for the better, I no longer tolerate in myself of anyone else. But draw, always draw–and WRITE!”
– Ralph Steadman

Ralph Steadman

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To paraphrase a David Mamet line: “Everybody loves money, right? That’s why it’s called ‘money.’”  So, let’s talk money, lets talk about reading fees, and what is appropriate to charge a writer to submit their work.

Personally, I’m fine with charging (and paying) a reading fee for a contest, especially when the prize is worthwhile–say, publication in a magazine you like and a little folding money. I’m even okay with magazines charging a fee for e-submissions ($3 seems to be the norm, which is about what it costs to print and mail a submission). After all, if I like a magazine enough that I’m seeking publication within their pages, then I’d rather they take my money than the USPS.

And yes, I know that writers are poor, but so are most small publications (not to mention their editors)–and we’re all just trying to get by.

That being said, I think Narrative Magazine is taking the pay-to-play model to the extreme. Do they run a lot of great contests? Yes, absolutely. However, they’re gearing up to launch a new iPhone app and the ratio between fee, editorial time, and reward, at least in my opinion, is off.

The details:

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I’ve been away for awhile and I’m late posting. Forgive me. It won’t happen again (until it happens again). I should warn you, what I am about to do is shameful, dirty, and disgusting: I’m using this blog to promote the magazine I work for. I promise not to make a habit of this, but here goes…

Recently, the NY Time’s Paper Cuts blog ran an interesting piece about whether or not a blog could rise to the level of literature. Their answer, ultimately, was no (at least as far as José Saramago’s blog is concerned). Well, Creative Nonfiction (yes, that is shameless plug #2) is trying to remove this “less-than” tag many ascribe to the form. This is something we’ve (#3) been trying to do for the last three years by regularly featuring blog posts in our (#4) publications. The ultimate goal is to expand the definition and scope of the genre by exploring its many different forms (we (#5) also actively search out “boundary pushing” work, a label that not everyone agrees with).

That being said, I thought Bark’s readers and writers might like to know that we, Creative Nonfiction (#6), are currently seeking narrative blog posts to reprint in our (#7) next issue (forthcoming July 2010). Considering that Bark is a literary-minded blog, I assume that the folks trolling its pages are in tune with the online lit scene–keeping tabs on all the great writing out there. And so, the hope is that some of you will take the time to nominate some mind-blowing shit–thus helping CNF (#8) truly find the best stuff out there. Hell, if you want, you can nominate something from Bark–though I ask that you keep two things in mind:

1) We (#9) are looking for posts that have an actual story (as opposed to posts that are nothing more than a collection of links to other blogs)
2) If you’re interested, time is of the essence–the nomination page disappears on Monday, April 26.

Thank you for your time. Tune in next week when I will be discussing the art of selling out ($$$$$). Now if you’ll excuse me–Creative Nonfiction (#10)–I am in need of a shower; the stink of shame is a bitch to remove.

…at AWP. Coming next week–a real post with real words and real thoughts and everything. Seriously. Until then, enjoy:

For the second time this month, I’m having some serious self doubt about who I am and what I’m all about (what can I say, my convictions are weak).  My mind is making flippy floppy, and I think it has to do with the literary community’s conflicting reports about the general state of writing and publishing.

For example:  Ted Genoway says fiction is dead, but the Atlantic Monthly recently recommitted itself to publishing fiction. Then there’s the whole “reading on screens is the future of reading” vs. the print is not dead debate (the difference, apparently, is akin to “looking at a woman and having sex with her.”).

So what’s a body to do? I’d like to pick a side, preferably before AWP (just in case I find myself at one of Lewis “The Lap” Lapham’s parties, I’ll want to be able to start berating “Chuckles” Rushdie with my opinions immediately). Also, if this is the death knoll of writing and reading, I’d like to know so that I can quit writing and reading–that shit is hard. Other possible life paths include running away to my grandmother’s house and/or opening up a Pinkberry.

As I contemplate this serious life changing decision, I am reminded of the something Andy Dick’s character on NewsRadio once said: “You got to know when to fold them. You got to know how to hold them.” Too true!

I’m sure I’ll figure it out. In the meantime, here’s a song by Ron and Russel Mael of Sparks that perfectly captures my befuddlement: Your Call’s Very Important To Us, Please Hold.