How Did Poe Trend?

So, as far as my participation in this barking.com blog goes, I’m noticing a trend.

It’s nothing overt or thunderously apparent.  It’s comprised of no damning data.  It’s unlikely to make a dent in the Internet reading habits of emerging generations.  It’s neither a threat to national security, nor a subject of prurient interest that might be ruled on by the Supreme Court… It does not resemble the plain nose on your face…

It is, however, near and dear to my face, which has no business being saved from even the slightest of humiliating experiences.   But I have observed that for several weeks now, my unintelligible musings have received zero comments.   That is, 0.

Now, whether or not this lack of cyber-dialogue corresponds to a blanket dismissal of my prowess as a writer or of my genius as an aspiring artist — Ahhh! – that is beyond the scope and the purpose of this brief soliloquy.   In essence, all I have to say can be summarized with a modest paraphrase of Rene Descartes:  “I write, therefore I am.”   Or, to embellish on this purloined dictum just a bit, there’s no one better than the Trappist monk, Thomas Merton.   After turning away from a potentially lucrative career as writer, Merton became a priest, who morphed into a mystic, who eventually, in Seeds of Contemplation, understood his vocation like so:

“If you write for God you will reach many men and bring them joy. If you write for men–you may make some money and you may give someone a little joy and you may make a noise in the world, for a little while. If you write for yourself, you can read what you yourself have written and after ten minutes you will be so disgusted that you will wish that you were dead.”

Click here to view the embedded video.

We can’t be sure.  We can’t be sure why starting with the “self” may cause mild indigestion and vomiting… But it might be fun to re-categorize various modes of literature in terms of “Making Money…” or “Giving A Little Joy…”  or “Making A Noise In The World…”     For example, anything by James Patterson would be ______________.   The Zombie Killers, currently shelved under Non-Fiction, would be what? — “Making A Noise”?   John Grisham’s The Litigators may be screen-play-bound as well as unequally yoked with “Making A Noise…”   And finally, when Kathryn Stockett sat down to write The Help, I bet she imagined “Giving A Little Joy…”

Merton, upon graduating from Columbia University, prior to shaving his head

Am I being bitter?   Am I being?   Not at all.   I am Non-being.  Nada.  Zilch.  The Big Goose Egg.

I have 23 years under my ever-expanding belt as an ordained clergy-person.   I’ve graduated from two seminaries, spun out of the cookie-cutter, church factory and now, at middle-age, find myself writing.   But why?

Why write when everyone in the MFA program could be my biological off-spring (i.e., I feel frigging old)?

Why write when for decades I’ve produced sermon after sermon in which parishioners have either scratched their collective heads, picked their highfalutin noses or perhaps shuffled their toes out the door after finding the offense too great?

Why write when I’m trending so poorly on this blog, where only Sam Ligon will throw me a bone (and that, only now and then)?

***

No one should think of me or my penmanship now as sloppily nihilistic.   I may be sloppy and lacking in discipline, but I have a purpose that I have neither found, nor mastered.

I know of the card game in which players “shoot the moon” and thereby set their opponents back a certain amount of points by ostensibly absorbing all the point-cards (which is typically a bad thing).  Maybe there’s something like that going on.  Then again, I’d have to intend to others back and that’s not in my purview at all.

Not Me

Recently, I thumbed upon a poem by J. Allyn Rosser, who strikes me as a sensible and unambitious kind of bard — one that doesn’t know exactly why she’s writing, just that she has to.   Anyway, in (This Line Intentionally Left Blank), after setting the stage for some improvised kind of theatre show, something called, The Truth, the second of two stanzas reads like so:

believe me we wouldn’t
have resisted anything
but the truth
so instantly and universally
yet we sat there and waited
for something else
which you could say we also got
if you count the mime’s
unpleasant remark
so she wasn’t even a real mime
probably part of what was
clearly just a performance

***

Peace–

And yet there’s a consortium of people, headed by literary agent Andrew Kidd and supported by a host of literary types, who last week announced they were putting together a prize, to be known as The Literature Prize, for “writers who aspire to something finer.”

The Literature Prize is looking to do the literary equivalent of applauding houses built with staircases that require mountaineering gear to climb them.

If you read this blog often, you probably already know which side of the debate I fall on, but I’ll say it again anyway, mostly because I feel so strongly about this issue. Readable books are good books. The sense of inflated ego that comes from getting through a difficult book does not make that book more worth than one that is accessible. And books and literature should be accessible, on the whole. Isn’t that why we create art? To be read and enjoyed?

My favorite back then was Dennis Cass’s “Book Launch 2.0,” which won the 2010 Moby Award (The Oscars of the Book Trailers) for Best Performance by an Author.

Now I have a new favorite.

Here’s Max Barry promoting Machine Man.

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kEN10axDJtA&feature

I can’t stop laughing. It must be the Australian accent.

The most prestigious literary prize in Nepal, the Madan Puraskar, was awarded to Jhamak Kumari Ghimire. It was awarded for her book of autobiographical essays titled, “Is life a thorn or a flower?”

What makes her story particularly interesting are the challenges she has faced. A woman living with Cerebral Palsy, she is unable to speak, use her hands, and was uneducated as a child. She taught herself to write using her left foot.

Jhamak Kumari Ghimire: winner of the top literary prize in Nepal & left-foot-composer extraordinaire!

I fear this post could easily topple into the sentimental and/or political, so I’m not going to say a whole lot. I just thought it was a cool story & wanted to bring attention to her achievement, both personal and literary. Quite simply: she’s a badass.

• Here’s a link to an article in the BBC about her.
• Here’s a link to an article + some of her poetryin The Nepali Times.
• Here’s her facebook page is you want to “like” her.
• And here’s a link to United Cerebral Palsy’s website that answers frequent questions about CP, predominantly “what is Cerebral Palsy?”

All we can do in this fucked up world is pause & try our best to be grateful. Even if it’s for being just a little less neurotic today. There is still beauty.
Or, as Kim Addonizio puts it

For I am a poet. And it is my job, my duty
to know wherein lies the beauty 

For 2011, Sue Fondrie penned the shortest ever winning sentence:

Cheryl’s mind turned like the vanes of a wind-powered turbine, chopping her sparrow-like thoughts into bloody pieces that fell onto a growing pile of forgotten memories.

According to The Guardian, Fondrie tweeted that one of her students wrote her: “I knew you were awful, so it’s great that you’re finally getting recognized.”

Two of my favorites are from the Romance category.

Ali Kawashima took home the first prize with:

As the dark and mysterious stranger approached, Angela bit her lip anxiously, hoping with every nerve, cell, and fiber of her being that this would be the one man who would understand—who would take her away from all this—and who would not just squeeze her boob and make a loud honking noise, as all the others had.

And here’s runner-up Meredith K. Gray’s entry:

Deanna waited for him in a deliberate pose on the sailor-striped chaise lounge of the newly-remodeled Ramada, her bustier revealing the tops of her white breasts like eggs–eggs of the slightly undercooked, hard-boiled variety, showing a nascent jiggle with her apprehensive breath, eggs that were then peeled ever-so-carefully so as not to pierce the jellied, opaque albumen and unleash the longing, viscous yolk within–yes, she lay there, oblong and waiting to be deviled.

I also giggled at the Sci Fi winners. Greg Homer won with:

Morgan ‘Bamboo’ Barnes, Star Pilot of the Galaxia (flagship of the Solar Brigade), accepted an hors d’oeuvre from the triangular-shaped platter offered to him from the Princess Qwillia—lavender-skinned she was and busty, with two of her four eyes what Barnes called ‘bedroom eyes’—and marveled at how on her planet, Chlamydia-5, these snacks were called ‘Hi-Dee-Hoes’ but on Earth they were simply called Ritz Crackers with Velveeta.

Runner up Elizabeth Muenster wrote:

Sterben counted calcium bars in the storage chamber, wondering why women back on Earth paid him little attention, but up here they seem to adore him, in fact, six fraichemaidens had already shown him their blinka.

Here’s the Fantasy winning entry from Terri Daniel:

Within the smoking ruins of Keister Castle, Princess Gwendolyn stared in horror at the limp form of the loyal Centaur who died defending her very honor; ‘You may force me to wed,’ she cried at the leering and victorious Goblin King, ‘but you’ll never be half the man he was.’

The sentence that started the contest is actually really long.  In 1830,  Bulwer-Lytton wrote:

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents–except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.

I’m a big fan of bad sentences anywhere in a manuscript, mostly because my first drafts are filled with them and they give my critique partners something to laugh about. The only way I can finish a project is if I allow myself to write bad prose and then know that I’ll do much better when I revise it. If I expect good things to happen in the initial step, all I ever have is a blank page.

What would be your contribution to the Bulwer-Lytton contest?

Summer is when I do most of my writing. I usually don’t sign up to teach summer classes, instead I grade AP tests or review textbooks to collect a paycheck. That way I can create long periods of time during the day when I do nothing but write.

I read a lot during the summer as well, but have trouble keeping my own voice if I read books close to what I’m currently working on. I never write poetry, so reading it keeps my voice true. It also makes me pay more attention to the line level details of my prose.

Currently, I’m reading Kathleen Flenniken’s Famous. She was in Spokane during Get Lit! and participated in a great poetry panel with Matthew Dickman, Lowell Jaeger, and Laura Tohe. I bought Famous because of “It’s Not You, It’s Me,” which Flenniken read during the panel. The book won the Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Poetry and was an American Library Association Notable Book.

It’s Not You, It’s Me

Nature abhors a vacuum
But God loves a good vacuuming.

The garden was strewn with petals
And those whimsical helicopter seeds
so God created woman and watched
as Eve unwound the cord, plugged it
into the slot between good and evil
and tidied the footpaths
while all the animals sat there, dumb,
and when she was done

somebody got out the apple juice and spilled
somebody opened up a box of crackers
somebody trimmed his nails without a thought
for collecting them in his palm

and after however many days of consecutive Eden
Eve said I gotta get outta here and she did
and the cord snaked after her.

I’m always interested in the joining of technical and creative, in science and art. Kathleen Flenniken started writing poetry after working as a civil engineer and hydrologist for eight years. Three of those she spent on the Hanford Nuclear Reservation. She describes herself as a “natural historian of interiors” and this is the focus of Famous. Her second book, Plume, is almost exclusively about Hanford and Richland. Part memoir, part history lesson, part cautionary tale, Flenniken calls Plume a search for identity that synthesizes truth of her childhood with environmental facts.

I haven’t made it to Plume yet, it’s next on my list, but am immensely admiring Famous. You should check out Kathleen Flenniken’s work if you haven’t already—you won’t regret it.

When you are in the middle of a project, do you read books similar to what you’re working on or stuff that is vastly different? How do you keep your voice true while still learning from great writers?

Then there was the Willow Springs release party last Friday. A year ago, I would have been one of the people triple-celebrating the new issue with being done with the thesis and either about to or just finished defending. This year, instead of having read the issue several times through proofing galleys, I enjoyed the fantastic stories, poems, and essays in their finished form.

So overall, I’ve been thinking I’m okay with where I’m at in my writing career/journey right now. Then, I got a Facebook message from my former thesis advisor.

She’s updating her files and wants to keep track of her students’ publications. I looked mine up, and guess what, there were a few during my year in the program, but none over the last year.

And then, the announcement of Téa Obreht’s debut novel The Tiger’s Wife winning the Orange Prize for Fiction popped up in my inbox. This twenty-five-year old Serbian/American graduated from the Cornell MFA program in 2009. Last June she was featured in The New Yorker’s Top 20 Writers under 40 Fiction Issue–the youngest one on the list.

Talk about spending your post-MFA years productively!

Right now, I’m experiencing conflicting feelings. I feel crappy about my own accomplishments over the last year, slightly envious of this talented writer, but also proud that a young woman has won such a prestigious prize.

According to Bettany Hughes, Chair of Judges:

The Tiger’s Wife is an exceptional book and Téa Obreht is a truly exciting new talent. Obreht’s powers of observation and her understanding of the world are remarkable. By skilfully spinning a series of magical tales she has managed to bring the tragedy of chronic Balkan conflict thumping into our front rooms with a bittersweet vivacity.

The Orange Prize for Fiction was set up in 1996 to celebrate and promote fiction written by women throughout the world to the widest range of readers possible. It is awarded to the best novel of the year written in English by a woman.

I’m still thinking about how little I’ve been writing over the last year compared to my years in the program, but I’m also (back to) pondering women writers’ roles/reputations/expectations in the literary world. These topics pop up in debates routinely, the most current one started by VS Naipul’s weird remarks to The Guardian.

In light of what’s been said lately about women’s writing, what are your thoughts on celebrating female authors separately from male authors? Do we still need prizes specifically for women? What about specifically for African-American writers? Or, special recognition to contributions in the Gay-Lesbian literary field?

What roles do minority-specific recognitions play and when are they needed?

In an interview at the Royal Geographic Society on Tuesday about his career, Naipaul, who has been described as the “greatest living writer of English prose”, was asked if he considered any woman writer his literary match. He replied: “I don’t think so.” Of Austen he said he “couldn’t possibly share her sentimental ambitions, her sentimental sense of the world”.

Now, I’m not going to get bent out of shape about this absurd sexism.  And I suggest no one else does either.  As Paul Theroux abundantly pointed out, Sir Vidia is a big-time douche.

But Naipaul also claimed he could tell within a paragraph if the writer was male or female.  The Guardian created a helpful little test to see if you could determine a writer’s gender based solely on a paragraph.

I scored one out of ten.  To make matters worse, I’d read most of the books from which the selections were taken, and count a few among my favorites of all time.

some day my home will be plastered with posters as awesome as this.

i heart the library of congress.  these WPA posters are just one reason why.

holy shit, dfw fans—someone made a poor yorick entertainment website (a.k.a. proof that there are people in the world more obsessed with infinite jest than me).  revel in all that is the totally fictional filmography of the totally fictional mad stork.

national geographic has dug up declassified photos from area 51.

those “great ideas” book covers that i love/covet oh so very much?  you can see all 100 of them on penguin’s site.

holy shit, cloud atlas fans—the wachowski brothers (the guys responsible for the matrix films) are making a film adaptation, with hugo weaving starring in multiple roles.

there are now awards, complete with their own fancy ceremony (“formal wear suggested”), for book trailers.  the event was yesterday, the trailers are all linked to here.

not to be outdone by marvel, which seems intent on “rebooting” their biggest movie franchises (e.g., x-men and spider-man), dc comics is going to restart ALL of their comics with issue 1 later this year.

science can now delete your totally bummer memories.  from your brain.  wtf.

Casablanca – 1943, three awards including Best Picture. I know this is a cliche and everyone claims to love it, but when I really talk to people, it seems most of them haven’t actually seen it. They can quote lines like, “Play it again, Sam” or “Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship” but they don’t know when they fall in the film or what they really mean or who Ingrid Bergman is. Which is a shame because I think this is the most interesting political film I’ve ever seen, and the romance between Bergman in Bogart is unforgettable. Plus, it’s why you know the phrases, “We’ll always have Paris” and “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Laura – 1944, Best Black and White Cinematography. I’m not just a fan of this because we share a name, though I’ll admit that’s why I first saw it. This is a fantastic film noir with a surprisingly intriguing plot and all that 1940s film charm. Plus, it’s easy to get to, because it’s available on Netflix instant streaming.

All About Eve – 1950, six awards including Best Picture. If you aren’t a Bette Davis fan, you ought to be. There is no one like her, and her eyes are iconic for a reason. All About Eve is my favorite of her films. It captures all of her maniacal, aggressive spirit. Plus, you can see Marilyn Monroe in one of her very first bit parts.

An American in Paris – 1951, six awards including Best Picture. Is there anything better than Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron dancing in the streets of Paris? I can’t think of a thing. Add Oscar Levant and you’ve got one of the most irresistible movies I’ve ever seen. The visuals in this film are incredible, especially considering this is 1951. You’ve probably heard some of the songs, including “I Got Rhythm” and “Dis Moi” but never knew where they came from.

Sabrina – 1954, Best Costume Design. Audrey Hepburn was so young in this movie, and Humphrey Bogart was fairly old, but somehow they create perfect onscreen chemistry. It’s a lovely, heartfelt film–romantic, yes, but not in the ways you might expect. It’s a bit of a Cinderella story, but not so gooey. And really, the costumes are superb (thanks to the renowned costumer Edith Head)–and that’s not platitude, that’s part of the film’s art.

The Sting – 1973, seven awards including Best Picture.  This is what my husband calls a man’s movie, but I love it too–maybe because Robert Redford and Paul Newman are so dreamy. It’s the classic con-man movie, the foundation for just about every con-man movie you’ve ever seen, and with better acting, to boot.

Paper Moon – 1973, Best Supporting Actress for Tatum O’Neal (setting the record for youngest Academy Award winner at the age of ten). Another con-man movie in the same year as The Sting, but with a familial twist. Set in the Great Depression, this is the story of a man who gets saddled with what could be his daughter, and given her talent for conning, she just might be. Tatum O’Neal’s actual father, Ryan O’Neal, played her father onscreen with amazing results. Madeline Kahn co-stars, and was also up for Best Supporting Actress, but Tatum beat her to it.

Life is Beautiful - 1997, three awards including Best Actor for Roberto Benigni. Watch this, but bring a box of tissues (or two). Also, bring your glasses. It’s an Italian film, subtitled, but I always forget that until it’s in front of me. I’m so engaged, the subtitles seem to fade away. But, set in the concentration camps of WWII, it has more than its share of gut-wrenching moments. You might not want to watch this more than once, but you should still watch it.

Iris – 2001, Jim Broadbent won Best Supporting Actor, Dame Judi Dench was nominated for Best Actress, and Kate Winslet was nominated for Best Supporting Actress (I include these nominations because I still believe they should have won). This is the true story of Dame Iris Murdoch, and her mental deterioration later in life. It’s beautifully acted and written and directed. And it’s also available on Netflix instant streaming (I know because I watch this one frequently).

Once - 2007, Best Original Song. Some call Once a bit of a cornball film but I think it’s really moving, and the music is just superb. It feels a little like La Boheme–I guess it captures a bit of the bohemian spirit. Just thinking about it, I have the song (the one it won the award for) stuck in my head. But don’t get me wrong, it’s not “catchy” in the Taylor Swift sort of sense (is that the right reference? or should it be Justin Bieber?). It’s just really friggin’ good.

*Also–since I do have an interest in good writing and you might, too–here’s a list of movies that have won Best Original Screenplay, and here’s who won Best Adapted Screenplay.