Sometimes when I'm reading (okay, often) I find myself looking at something the writer is doing and thinking, "I can use this." I don't mean stealing passages from their book (that's called "plagiarism" and no matter what David Shields thinks, it's morally reprehensible), I mean stealing a writing technique.
For example, when I was reading Louis de Bernieres' Birds Without Wings I noticed that he has a habit of putting passages of intense beauty--often describing natural phenomena--right before passages of intense ugliness--often describing human cruelty. "I can use this," I said when I figured out what he was doing.
I've been reading the stories of Anton Chekhov lately and I noticed that in his later stories he had a habit of putting passages of lyrical, poetic images--often describing the beauty of the natural world--before passages of emotional intensity--often describing human selfishness. "I can use this," I said when I figured out what he was doing.
And then I stopped for a moment and said, "Hey, Louis de Bernieres is using Chekhov's technique." I thought for another longer moment and realized that William Shakespeare, when writing his tragedies, would often put broad comic scenes right before scenes of heightened emotion, or he'd put lovely and amazing speeches into character's mouths just before they'd do something horrifically barbaric. I'd noticed that years ago and had already decided I could use it.
So I keep finding writers who have used more-or-less this same technique, over hundreds of years of literature. And whenever I consciously focus on any other writing technique, I invariably find instances of it that predate whoever I've decided to steal from.
Which leads me to the conclusion that there is nothing new under the sun (no, I came up with that line myself) and that I shouldn't be shy about grabbing techniques from my favorite authors just because I don't know who they stole them from. They probably don't know either.
Obligatory question: What's the coolest technique you've stolen from another writer? I like the one of using my most beautiful prose during moments of great sadness. I also like pausing in the middle of a dramatic scene for a flashback, but I can't remember who I stole that from.
Also: It's Friday! Alex MacKenzie is coming over for tea tomorrow with me and Mighty Reader! It will be swell! We have no idea what to feed her. Also also: Last night we went to a showing of "Breakfast at Tiffany's." It's a swell film, though I always feel bad for Cat.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
When Things Clicked
So while I was at my writers retreat this past weekend, my friends helped me figure out some revisions for my novel, The Breakaway. In none of the 16 years I've tried to fix this problem in the book, I've never had such a helpful discussion where everything just clicked. Afterward, I kept thinking why that was. Why now? Was it because this book is more geared toward a young adult audience and these were all young adult writers? Was it because I was just in the right frame of mind to accept criticism and hear suggestions? Was it because I'm only a few month away from my publisher's deadline to turn in the final manuscript for editing? Then I stopped and looked at the situation - sitting in a room with six other writers, all discussing and taking turns and listening to an excerpt.
I think no matter how far advanced we get in technology, nothing will ever beat sitting in a room with other writers. No amount of chatting, no blog post, no Skype video session, nothing could have ever worked on the same level as what happened at my retreat. Everybody listened to my excerpt at the same time - they heard me reading it how I wanted it heard, and then they took turns in telling me what they thought and why the excerpt (and others like it) were not working as well as they could in the novel. I got to weigh in, too, and ask questions and discuss with them what might work. We were all affected by the same environment and setting and everything just came together.
So now I have some fairly substantial revisions to do on my novel before it's due to my editor. Yay! Finally, finally, finally, this book will come together. I can feel it.
So what do you think? Have you ever had an experience like this where things just clicked after forever? This is my motto while I do revisions.
Also, we are announcing our contest for the next anthology on Monday, August 1st! Now aren't you just excited? You should be. Because prize money is involved with this anthology, and we're really excited to announce what it's all about and how much we want you a part of it!
I think no matter how far advanced we get in technology, nothing will ever beat sitting in a room with other writers. No amount of chatting, no blog post, no Skype video session, nothing could have ever worked on the same level as what happened at my retreat. Everybody listened to my excerpt at the same time - they heard me reading it how I wanted it heard, and then they took turns in telling me what they thought and why the excerpt (and others like it) were not working as well as they could in the novel. I got to weigh in, too, and ask questions and discuss with them what might work. We were all affected by the same environment and setting and everything just came together.
So now I have some fairly substantial revisions to do on my novel before it's due to my editor. Yay! Finally, finally, finally, this book will come together. I can feel it.
So what do you think? Have you ever had an experience like this where things just clicked after forever? This is my motto while I do revisions.
Also, we are announcing our contest for the next anthology on Monday, August 1st! Now aren't you just excited? You should be. Because prize money is involved with this anthology, and we're really excited to announce what it's all about and how much we want you a part of it!
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Anton Chekhov's First Lines
I'm currently reading a bunch of short stories by Anton Chekhov (1860-1904), the great Russian writer and playwright. Chekhov is widely credited with having invented the modern short story (whatever that means but I'm willing to bet it has to do with his way of revealing inner truths rather than merely relating incidents). Two things always immediately strike me whenever I read a few of Chekhov's stories in a row:
1. He was unendingly imaginative; he broke every rule and used every trick and nothing anyone's done since Chekhov is new in terms of formal invention. Chekhov wrote not only traditional stories with beginnings, middles and endings, but he wrote stories in the form of dialogue, stories in the form of newspaper articles, stories written in third-person plural, stories in the form of letters, stories in the form of loosely-connected aphorisms, stories that shifted time sequences, stories from the point of view of animals, stories in the form of fairy tales, stories that covered five minutes or five generations...as I say, he did it all over a hundred years ago. Anyone looking for inspiration in terms of form would do a lot worse than looking at Chekhov.
2. His first sentences were really good. Although he occasionally begins with setting, Chekhov tends to start with a gesture of great propulsive power; he instantly puts objects into motion and the reader wants to know where they'll fall. He comes right out and meets the reader with energy. Here are some of his first sentences:
It was twelve o'clock at night when a young man called Mitya Kuldarov, disheveled and blazing with excitement, burst into his parents' apartment and ran wildly all through the rooms.
Just a few days ago I invited Yulia Vassilyevna, the governess of my children, to come to my study.
A few days ago K., a man of considerable local importance, rich and well connected, shot himself in the town of T.
On a beautiful night the no less beautiful government clerk Ivan Dmitrich Cheryakov sat in the second row of the stalls watching "Les Cloches de Corneville" through opera glasses.
A few days ago we attended the funeral of the beautiful young wife of our postmaster, Sladkopertsov.
In the provincial hospital the patients were received by the medical orderly Kuryatin in the absence of the doctor, who had gone away to get married.
"Gentlemen, the wind is rising and it is growing dark."
Ilya Sergeich Peplov and his wife Cleopatra Petrovna stood outside the door, listening closely.
It was already dark, and would soon be night.
Old Semyon, nicknamed Smarty, and a young Tartar whom nobody knew by name, were sitting by a bonfire near the river; the other three ferrymen were inside the hut.
At first the weather was fine and it was very quiet.
After the wedding not even a light lunch was served.
At half past eight in the morning they drove out of town.
The thing about many first sentences from Chekhov is that there is a great feeling of having been dropped into the middle of something, of the story beginning in medias res. Something has just happened, or is about to happen, or is in fact happening right now. There's also ambiguity, with "they drove out of town" or a suicide (why?) or the wind rising (where are we? Who are the 'gentlemen?') or some other mystery being presented right away. So Chekhov immediately takes us by the hand and begins running forward and we glimpse things to either side and ask, "What's that? Who's that?" and Chekhov says, "I'll tell you...in a moment. Just follow me."
I'm willing to posit that one of the many reasons James Joyces' Finnegans Wake begins in the middle of a sentence is because he was attempting this sort of kinetic, "we're already on our way" beginning. It's like jumping a train, to begin reading a story that's written this way. Hold your breath and leap.
I look at the stories of Donald Barthelme or Lydia Davis or Anne Beattie or Raymond Carver and I see a lot of opening gambits like these and I always think of Chekhov. Henry James, born two decades before Chekhov and living a decade beyond him, was more from the "setting and weather" school of opening lines, with a few exceptions like The Aspern Papers: "I had taken Mrs. Prest into my confidence; in truth without her I would have made but little advance, for the fruitful idea of the whole business dropped from her friendly lips." That's got a mystery but--with James' typical fussiness and complexity of sentence structure--it lacks the immediacy of a Chekhov opening.
I'm not sure how Chekhov arrived at his active, kinetic beginnings. Even Nikolai Gogol, sixty years older than Chekhov and a master storyteller, started most of his stories with a "now let me tell you about so-and-so living in such-and-such." Oh, sometimes he'll kick off with something cryptic ("A terrible thing happened to this story.") and certainly his tales move quickly from the real to the absurd (The Nose and The Overcoat are two excellent examples), but in general Gogol began a few steps away from his subject and walked the reader toward it a few sentences at a time.
Looking quickly through The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain, I find a lot of "Now I'll sit down here and tell you the tale of such-and-such" beginnings. Leaping forward in time a century to J.D. Salinger's Nine Stories I am now in the land of Chekhov-inspired fiction. Uncle Wiggly In Connecticut begins: "It was almost three o'clock when Mary Jane finally found Eloise's house." Ah, something has been happening, with the "finally" and the "almost three o'clock." We almost feel Mary Jane's relief and her exasperation with Eloise.
This post is not a claim that you should start your stories with some kind of energetic or mysterious first sentence. I don't hold much with the idea that the first sentence is all-important. Anyone who picks up a short story and won't read past the first sentence is, frankly, an idiot (if the first sentence is well-written and grammatically correct and all the usual minimal standards and is not a monstrous cliche). I write this only because I've been reading Chekhov and I noticed that his stories often start with a big pull into the action and I wanted to say something about that. This big pull into the action isn't the only lesson to be learned from Chekhov, and really I urge everyone--no matter what genre you write in--to read a dozen stories from Chekhov in the next month. They aren't long or prosy or complex and they have tremendously concentrated inspirational power. Even a casual association with Anton Chekhov's writings will have a positive effect on your own writing.
1. He was unendingly imaginative; he broke every rule and used every trick and nothing anyone's done since Chekhov is new in terms of formal invention. Chekhov wrote not only traditional stories with beginnings, middles and endings, but he wrote stories in the form of dialogue, stories in the form of newspaper articles, stories written in third-person plural, stories in the form of letters, stories in the form of loosely-connected aphorisms, stories that shifted time sequences, stories from the point of view of animals, stories in the form of fairy tales, stories that covered five minutes or five generations...as I say, he did it all over a hundred years ago. Anyone looking for inspiration in terms of form would do a lot worse than looking at Chekhov.
2. His first sentences were really good. Although he occasionally begins with setting, Chekhov tends to start with a gesture of great propulsive power; he instantly puts objects into motion and the reader wants to know where they'll fall. He comes right out and meets the reader with energy. Here are some of his first sentences:
It was twelve o'clock at night when a young man called Mitya Kuldarov, disheveled and blazing with excitement, burst into his parents' apartment and ran wildly all through the rooms.
Just a few days ago I invited Yulia Vassilyevna, the governess of my children, to come to my study.
A few days ago K., a man of considerable local importance, rich and well connected, shot himself in the town of T.
On a beautiful night the no less beautiful government clerk Ivan Dmitrich Cheryakov sat in the second row of the stalls watching "Les Cloches de Corneville" through opera glasses.
A few days ago we attended the funeral of the beautiful young wife of our postmaster, Sladkopertsov.
In the provincial hospital the patients were received by the medical orderly Kuryatin in the absence of the doctor, who had gone away to get married.
"Gentlemen, the wind is rising and it is growing dark."
Ilya Sergeich Peplov and his wife Cleopatra Petrovna stood outside the door, listening closely.
It was already dark, and would soon be night.
Old Semyon, nicknamed Smarty, and a young Tartar whom nobody knew by name, were sitting by a bonfire near the river; the other three ferrymen were inside the hut.
At first the weather was fine and it was very quiet.
After the wedding not even a light lunch was served.
At half past eight in the morning they drove out of town.
The thing about many first sentences from Chekhov is that there is a great feeling of having been dropped into the middle of something, of the story beginning in medias res. Something has just happened, or is about to happen, or is in fact happening right now. There's also ambiguity, with "they drove out of town" or a suicide (why?) or the wind rising (where are we? Who are the 'gentlemen?') or some other mystery being presented right away. So Chekhov immediately takes us by the hand and begins running forward and we glimpse things to either side and ask, "What's that? Who's that?" and Chekhov says, "I'll tell you...in a moment. Just follow me."
I'm willing to posit that one of the many reasons James Joyces' Finnegans Wake begins in the middle of a sentence is because he was attempting this sort of kinetic, "we're already on our way" beginning. It's like jumping a train, to begin reading a story that's written this way. Hold your breath and leap.
I look at the stories of Donald Barthelme or Lydia Davis or Anne Beattie or Raymond Carver and I see a lot of opening gambits like these and I always think of Chekhov. Henry James, born two decades before Chekhov and living a decade beyond him, was more from the "setting and weather" school of opening lines, with a few exceptions like The Aspern Papers: "I had taken Mrs. Prest into my confidence; in truth without her I would have made but little advance, for the fruitful idea of the whole business dropped from her friendly lips." That's got a mystery but--with James' typical fussiness and complexity of sentence structure--it lacks the immediacy of a Chekhov opening.
I'm not sure how Chekhov arrived at his active, kinetic beginnings. Even Nikolai Gogol, sixty years older than Chekhov and a master storyteller, started most of his stories with a "now let me tell you about so-and-so living in such-and-such." Oh, sometimes he'll kick off with something cryptic ("A terrible thing happened to this story.") and certainly his tales move quickly from the real to the absurd (The Nose and The Overcoat are two excellent examples), but in general Gogol began a few steps away from his subject and walked the reader toward it a few sentences at a time.
Looking quickly through The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain, I find a lot of "Now I'll sit down here and tell you the tale of such-and-such" beginnings. Leaping forward in time a century to J.D. Salinger's Nine Stories I am now in the land of Chekhov-inspired fiction. Uncle Wiggly In Connecticut begins: "It was almost three o'clock when Mary Jane finally found Eloise's house." Ah, something has been happening, with the "finally" and the "almost three o'clock." We almost feel Mary Jane's relief and her exasperation with Eloise.
This post is not a claim that you should start your stories with some kind of energetic or mysterious first sentence. I don't hold much with the idea that the first sentence is all-important. Anyone who picks up a short story and won't read past the first sentence is, frankly, an idiot (if the first sentence is well-written and grammatically correct and all the usual minimal standards and is not a monstrous cliche). I write this only because I've been reading Chekhov and I noticed that his stories often start with a big pull into the action and I wanted to say something about that. This big pull into the action isn't the only lesson to be learned from Chekhov, and really I urge everyone--no matter what genre you write in--to read a dozen stories from Chekhov in the next month. They aren't long or prosy or complex and they have tremendously concentrated inspirational power. Even a casual association with Anton Chekhov's writings will have a positive effect on your own writing.
Monday, July 25, 2011
A mid-distance point of view
Happy Monday, everyone!
I've seen discussions about distance in point of view on some blogs, and I've also heard some of my past writing teachers talk about it. They might say, for example, that a story is written from a close third person point of view. Something like this:
Ana didn't like to have soup with dinner. The hot and insubstantial liquid always took up too much space in her belly, as if the hostess (or host, in the case of David Harvey's Sunday dinners in Tempee) were trying to ensure that she wouldn't ask for a second helping of any other course...not that she would; she had too much pride to ask for seconds, just as she had too much pride ask for anything.
Even thought the narrator of this passage isn't Ana, we are still provided with information about Ana's thoughts and feelings.
This contrasts with a more distant third person point of view:
Ana always rolled her eyes when the host or hostess served soup for dinner. While the other guests ate, she would sit in front of her steaming bowl and wait, not even bothering to dip her spoon into the hot liquid.
Here we're further away from Ana, learning about her by watching her, as if through a movie camera.
Yat-Yee Chong talks a little bit about distance in this blog post as well.
I felt fairly aware of this difference between close and distant points of view, but as I was reading The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne this weekend, I noticed a more unusual distance, something that was sort of in between close and distant:
In this passage the narrator is describing why Hester Prynne, the book's protagonist, did not leave the town that had just punished her for taking part in a crime.
[I]t may seem marvellous, that this woman should still call that place her home, where, and where only, she must needs be the type of shame. But there is a fatality, a feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has the force of doom, which almost invariably compels human beings to linger around and haunt, ghost-like, the spot where some great and marked event has given the color of their lifetime...It might be, too,--doubtless it was so, although she hid the secret from herself, and grew pale whenever it struggled out of her heart, like a serpent from its hole,--it might be that another feeling kept her within the scene and pathway that had been so fatal. There dwelt, there trode the feet of one with whom she deemed herself connected in a union, that, unrecognized on earth, would bring them together before the bar of final judgment, and make that their marriage-altar, for a joint futurity of endless retribution.
In this passage (shortened substantially to showcase the point), I thought it was really interesting the way Hawthorne created a bit of uncertainty in Hester's actions. As the creator of the book, Hawthorne could have been more definitive. Instead, he chooses to delve into the gray area of Hester's mind, not too close and not too far away, a technique that makes her seem much more human to me.
I haven't ever experimented with this mid-distance point of view before, but it makes me want to try. Have you ever used an unusual distance in your point of view? How do decide which distance you'll use?
I've seen discussions about distance in point of view on some blogs, and I've also heard some of my past writing teachers talk about it. They might say, for example, that a story is written from a close third person point of view. Something like this:
Ana didn't like to have soup with dinner. The hot and insubstantial liquid always took up too much space in her belly, as if the hostess (or host, in the case of David Harvey's Sunday dinners in Tempee) were trying to ensure that she wouldn't ask for a second helping of any other course...not that she would; she had too much pride to ask for seconds, just as she had too much pride ask for anything.
Even thought the narrator of this passage isn't Ana, we are still provided with information about Ana's thoughts and feelings.
This contrasts with a more distant third person point of view:
Ana always rolled her eyes when the host or hostess served soup for dinner. While the other guests ate, she would sit in front of her steaming bowl and wait, not even bothering to dip her spoon into the hot liquid.
Here we're further away from Ana, learning about her by watching her, as if through a movie camera.
Yat-Yee Chong talks a little bit about distance in this blog post as well.
I felt fairly aware of this difference between close and distant points of view, but as I was reading The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne this weekend, I noticed a more unusual distance, something that was sort of in between close and distant:
In this passage the narrator is describing why Hester Prynne, the book's protagonist, did not leave the town that had just punished her for taking part in a crime.
[I]t may seem marvellous, that this woman should still call that place her home, where, and where only, she must needs be the type of shame. But there is a fatality, a feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has the force of doom, which almost invariably compels human beings to linger around and haunt, ghost-like, the spot where some great and marked event has given the color of their lifetime...It might be, too,--doubtless it was so, although she hid the secret from herself, and grew pale whenever it struggled out of her heart, like a serpent from its hole,--it might be that another feeling kept her within the scene and pathway that had been so fatal. There dwelt, there trode the feet of one with whom she deemed herself connected in a union, that, unrecognized on earth, would bring them together before the bar of final judgment, and make that their marriage-altar, for a joint futurity of endless retribution.
In this passage (shortened substantially to showcase the point), I thought it was really interesting the way Hawthorne created a bit of uncertainty in Hester's actions. As the creator of the book, Hawthorne could have been more definitive. Instead, he chooses to delve into the gray area of Hester's mind, not too close and not too far away, a technique that makes her seem much more human to me.
I haven't ever experimented with this mid-distance point of view before, but it makes me want to try. Have you ever used an unusual distance in your point of view? How do decide which distance you'll use?
Friday, July 22, 2011
Friday Filler: Goodbye to Two Great Painters
I never had a chance to say goodbye to one of my favorite painters, Cy Twombly, when he passed away a few weeks ago.
Now, with the death of Lucian Freud--such an amazing painter of flesh!--another important artist is gone.
Both of these artists are people I would love to have known while they were still alive. Luckily for me, there are still other painters and writers and artists that I admire and that still make wonderful things. I've made attempts to contact some of them, but I must try harder! Perhaps this weekend I will write letters to those people before it's too late.
Happy Friday, everyone. Enjoy the art and make some of your own!
Now, with the death of Lucian Freud--such an amazing painter of flesh!--another important artist is gone.
Both of these artists are people I would love to have known while they were still alive. Luckily for me, there are still other painters and writers and artists that I admire and that still make wonderful things. I've made attempts to contact some of them, but I must try harder! Perhaps this weekend I will write letters to those people before it's too late.
Happy Friday, everyone. Enjoy the art and make some of your own!
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Contest Winners and Public Reading Tips
Today, the Lit Lab gets to give you some tips on public reading from Sally Shore, the founder and director of The New Short Fiction Series.
But first, in June I announced the release of The Wild Grass and Other Stories, along with my Spread the Word Contest. I've felt so grateful to everyone who has given my book a chance so far. Some readers have posted up nice reviews (here and here) and sent me wonderful e-mails to share their personal stories with me as a result of reading the book. I realize that the dialog with readers was something I've always craved, and I feel very lucky to be part of a story exchange in that way. So, thank you!
Today, I'm announcing the winners of the contest, and the results were rather unexpected!
First, the winner of a $50 gift card to a bookstore of your choice is:
Simla B.
The winner of a 50-page critique or a $30 gift card to a bookstore of your choice is:
April P.
And, finally, the winner of a full manuscript critique (up to 70,000 words) along with two 10-page critiques by my lovely co-authors, Michelle and Scott, or a $100 gift card to any location is:
Eric S.
and
Carrie C.
That's right. There was a tie between Eric and Carrie for being the top word spreaders, so you both get the top prize. The only caveat is that I didn't ask Scott and Michelle if they'd be up for looking at two different excerpts, so there might be the slightest of glitches. But both Michelle and Scott tend toward kindness, and I bet they play along. If they don't, I'll do my best to wrangle up two additional reviewers that will be fantastic.
Please contact me at dmalasarn@gmail.com at your convenience so that I can send you your prizes.
And now some Q&A with Sally Shore!
LL: Hi Sally, Thanks for joining us at The Literary Lab to talk about yourself and The New Short Fiction Series. Let's start with you. How did you decide to become a spoken word artist?
SS: Spoken word was never really a conscious decision. In 1995, having tired of appearing in poor quality theater, I contacted Kimberly Heinrichs, a writer whose play I had directed a few years before, and asked her if she had anything new. She said she was focusing on short fiction, I had her send the stories to me and in reading them, I felt that they could be performed stand alone rather than converted in a play. It was around this time that other "pioneers" were performing literature live - the spoken word genre label came later. I do embrace the category, however, since our format and style are very different from both the traditional author reading and live theater acting.
LL: Can you tell us about The New Short Fiction Series?
SS: The New Short Fiction Series is L.A.’s longest running spoken word series. 2011 marks our 15th anniversary season. Presented at The Writers Junction in Santa Monica in cooperation with Barnes & Noble, The New Short Fiction Series is a recognized standout in the Southland’s artistic landscape. Each performance features carefully selected excerpts from new works of short fiction by a West Coast writer. The New Short Fiction Series is directly responsible for placing 6 newly released books on the Los Angeles Time's bestseller list, and has been the “jump off” for many collections and novels from unpublished stories featured in the series. I produce this monthly live program, and perform with a rotating guest cast of some of L.A.’s most talented working actors.
LL: Has anything unexpectedly good or bad ever happened during or as a result of one of the shows?
SS: So much unexpected good has happened over the years. Many of the unpublished work has gone on to publication (see our book list attached*). Writers/actors have networked in a very unique way - I love the idea of people and artists connecting through the series. Best of all, the series has come to have a life of its own and is recognized as one of the better places to discover really terrific new voices.
LL: You're talking to a bunch of writers here. What's the first thing you would tell us to think about as we prepare to do a reading of our own? What specifically can actors bring to a performance that we writers could learn from?
SS: Writers, when reading, be yourself most of all and don't try to act. Keep it short and sweet (Gypsy Rose Lee was a genius at this, she never revealed all of it) - you want folks to want to discover more of what you're writing, not walk away from a reading feeling they've heard it all and are now done. Most of all, have confidence that anyone attending a reading really does want to hear your work, so don't be shy, just be real.
LL: When I sat with you the other day as you directed some performers, you talked about an "eye line." What's an eye line, and how can we use it to strengthen our reading?
SS: It's a technique actors use when working on green/blue screen projects where we have to "see" stuff that is not really there. Check out the extras on the Jurassic Park dvd to get a good example of this in practice. I think writers at a reading should have some consciousness of where the audience is in physical relationship to where you're reading. Its not a bad idea to look up from your copy occaisionally as you read and connect with the audience.
LL: Can you talk about common mistakes people make when they do a reading?
SS: If you are using a mike, make sure the mike's adjusted to you before you start. (I've seen a few readings where the previous reader was tall, and the next one starts with the mike pointed at the author's forehead). But, again, authors should trust that their work is good enough and read from the heart. If you're nervous about reading in public, just select a short excerpt that's close to your heart and enjoy.
LL: Thank you very much for coming by, Sally!
SS: My pleasure, hope to see your readers at The New Short Fiction Series some time very soon.
* (Davin's note) The book list was really long, so I'm not including it here. But it was indeed impressive!
But first, in June I announced the release of The Wild Grass and Other Stories, along with my Spread the Word Contest. I've felt so grateful to everyone who has given my book a chance so far. Some readers have posted up nice reviews (here and here) and sent me wonderful e-mails to share their personal stories with me as a result of reading the book. I realize that the dialog with readers was something I've always craved, and I feel very lucky to be part of a story exchange in that way. So, thank you!
Today, I'm announcing the winners of the contest, and the results were rather unexpected!
First, the winner of a $50 gift card to a bookstore of your choice is:
Simla B.
The winner of a 50-page critique or a $30 gift card to a bookstore of your choice is:
April P.
And, finally, the winner of a full manuscript critique (up to 70,000 words) along with two 10-page critiques by my lovely co-authors, Michelle and Scott, or a $100 gift card to any location is:
Eric S.
and
Carrie C.
That's right. There was a tie between Eric and Carrie for being the top word spreaders, so you both get the top prize. The only caveat is that I didn't ask Scott and Michelle if they'd be up for looking at two different excerpts, so there might be the slightest of glitches. But both Michelle and Scott tend toward kindness, and I bet they play along. If they don't, I'll do my best to wrangle up two additional reviewers that will be fantastic.
Please contact me at dmalasarn@gmail.com at your convenience so that I can send you your prizes.
And now some Q&A with Sally Shore!
LL: Hi Sally, Thanks for joining us at The Literary Lab to talk about yourself and The New Short Fiction Series. Let's start with you. How did you decide to become a spoken word artist?
SS: Spoken word was never really a conscious decision. In 1995, having tired of appearing in poor quality theater, I contacted Kimberly Heinrichs, a writer whose play I had directed a few years before, and asked her if she had anything new. She said she was focusing on short fiction, I had her send the stories to me and in reading them, I felt that they could be performed stand alone rather than converted in a play. It was around this time that other "pioneers" were performing literature live - the spoken word genre label came later. I do embrace the category, however, since our format and style are very different from both the traditional author reading and live theater acting.
LL: Can you tell us about The New Short Fiction Series?
SS: The New Short Fiction Series is L.A.’s longest running spoken word series. 2011 marks our 15th anniversary season. Presented at The Writers Junction in Santa Monica in cooperation with Barnes & Noble, The New Short Fiction Series is a recognized standout in the Southland’s artistic landscape. Each performance features carefully selected excerpts from new works of short fiction by a West Coast writer. The New Short Fiction Series is directly responsible for placing 6 newly released books on the Los Angeles Time's bestseller list, and has been the “jump off” for many collections and novels from unpublished stories featured in the series. I produce this monthly live program, and perform with a rotating guest cast of some of L.A.’s most talented working actors.
LL: Has anything unexpectedly good or bad ever happened during or as a result of one of the shows?
SS: So much unexpected good has happened over the years. Many of the unpublished work has gone on to publication (see our book list attached*). Writers/actors have networked in a very unique way - I love the idea of people and artists connecting through the series. Best of all, the series has come to have a life of its own and is recognized as one of the better places to discover really terrific new voices.
LL: You're talking to a bunch of writers here. What's the first thing you would tell us to think about as we prepare to do a reading of our own? What specifically can actors bring to a performance that we writers could learn from?
SS: Writers, when reading, be yourself most of all and don't try to act. Keep it short and sweet (Gypsy Rose Lee was a genius at this, she never revealed all of it) - you want folks to want to discover more of what you're writing, not walk away from a reading feeling they've heard it all and are now done. Most of all, have confidence that anyone attending a reading really does want to hear your work, so don't be shy, just be real.
LL: When I sat with you the other day as you directed some performers, you talked about an "eye line." What's an eye line, and how can we use it to strengthen our reading?
SS: It's a technique actors use when working on green/blue screen projects where we have to "see" stuff that is not really there. Check out the extras on the Jurassic Park dvd to get a good example of this in practice. I think writers at a reading should have some consciousness of where the audience is in physical relationship to where you're reading. Its not a bad idea to look up from your copy occaisionally as you read and connect with the audience.
LL: Can you talk about common mistakes people make when they do a reading?
SS: If you are using a mike, make sure the mike's adjusted to you before you start. (I've seen a few readings where the previous reader was tall, and the next one starts with the mike pointed at the author's forehead). But, again, authors should trust that their work is good enough and read from the heart. If you're nervous about reading in public, just select a short excerpt that's close to your heart and enjoy.
LL: Thank you very much for coming by, Sally!
SS: My pleasure, hope to see your readers at The New Short Fiction Series some time very soon.
* (Davin's note) The book list was really long, so I'm not including it here. But it was indeed impressive!
Monday, July 18, 2011
Looking at Typos from a Different Angle
I recently found an article online that got me thinking about those pesky little things called typos. It seems to me that traditionally published books these days seem to have more and more typos. This could mean a lot of different things. It could mean that there are less copy editors in large publishing houses. It could mean that the system has inherent errors because publishers allow authors to send in last minute changes via email. It could mean that authors aren't as careful these days because it's so easy to fix typos in this digital ocean of words. It could mean, simply, that we are more accepting of these things. Or maybe not.
The article says:
How much do you let typos affect your judgment of a piece of literature? A blog post? Do you think less of the author? It costs publishers a lot of money to fix typos even in an e-book version of a novel, let alone a print run. This is why many typos just go unfixed and "overlooked."
I think the most interesting thing I've learned today is that perhaps we shouldn't look at typos from a different angle.
I used to be the type with a stick so far up my...well, you know...that a typo sent me on a silent rampage inside my head. How dare the publisher miss this stuff and interrupt my reading experience! How stupid could they possibly be?
Now, well, I'm getting a little more relaxed on the subject. I'll still try harder than ever to keep typos out of my work, but if they happen to occur all the way to a final published piece, I won't freak out too much.
The article says:
Rushing to publish and overlooking glaring typos may have become part of the new economics of traditional publishing. But on the Web, typos sometimes come with a price. “Spelling mistakes ‘cost millions’ in lost online sales,” said a BBC headline last week. The article cited an analysis of British Web figures that suggested that a single spelling mistake on a e-commerce site can hurt credibility so much that online revenues fall by half.That seems pretty drastic, don't you think? Over a TYPO? Would you stop coming here to the Literary Lab if you found typos in our blog posts? Well, we always have typos in our blog posts. Oh well. I guess you also don't pay to visit here, do you? My other question is do you put a book down when you find typos in it? Because when I read the Twilight series, I will tell you that I was utterly shocked by the amount of typos in all of the books. I could have taken a red pen to those things! Still, I did enjoy the story and I couldn't tell you what the typos were now. I only remember that they were there.
How much do you let typos affect your judgment of a piece of literature? A blog post? Do you think less of the author? It costs publishers a lot of money to fix typos even in an e-book version of a novel, let alone a print run. This is why many typos just go unfixed and "overlooked."
I think the most interesting thing I've learned today is that perhaps we shouldn't look at typos from a different angle.
Bad spellers are a breed apart from good ones. A writer with a mind that doesn’t register how words are spelled tends to see through the words he encounters — straight to the things, characters, ideas, images and emotions they conjure. A good speller, by contrast — the kind who never fails to clock the idiosyncratic orthography of “algorithm” or “Albert Pujols” — tends to see language as a system. Good spellers are often drawn to poetry and wordplay, while bad spellers, for whom language is a conduit and not an end in itself, can excel at representation and reportage.Interesting, eh? The point is that we are human and we make mistakes. It's interesting to think that the typos I see in a finished product today might mean that I'm seeing more of the real author behind the work instead of an over-polished art piece. In a way, it's refreshing to think that the typos in my own published novels are signs of me as a person - and my publisher, as well - rather than unforgivable errors.
I used to be the type with a stick so far up my...well, you know...that a typo sent me on a silent rampage inside my head. How dare the publisher miss this stuff and interrupt my reading experience! How stupid could they possibly be?
Now, well, I'm getting a little more relaxed on the subject. I'll still try harder than ever to keep typos out of my work, but if they happen to occur all the way to a final published piece, I won't freak out too much.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Henry James Grows A Beard
A few weeks ago, Mighty Reader and I discussed my contention that to create believable characters, a writer must love his characters wholly, exactly the way they are. A writer must not judge his characters--even the bad ones--or they will become objects instead of people. A writer must accept everything about his characters and must love a character's shortcomings as much as he loves that character's strengths.
In my work, I don't think in terms of hero/villain. I don't present a main character who has a flaw to recognize and overcome. I also don't think in terms of good/bad, not really. I don't really think of protagonist/antagonist either, though certainly I have people acting in opposition to one another. What I have is sort of a sliding scale of moral and ethical failures. Just like real life. I think this keeps my stories from becoming melodrama or morality plays, where good is rewarded and evil is punished. In my stories, things happen between people because of who they are, not necessarily because of where they're situated relative to my personal moral compass. At least I try to do that.
I'll attempt to speak more concretely. Suppose I have two characters, Shelly and Davy. Shelly loves puppies. She adores them. She'll give up her own dinner so that a puppy can eat. Davy, on the other hand, despises puppies. He hates their loose skin and big eyes and waggly tails. Passionately.
It would be easy to set Shelly up as a good guy/hero figure and Davy as a bad guy/villain. But what I would want to do is to empathize with each of them in the same way, to show that each character's feelings about puppies are perfectly reasonable and valid responses to the world for those characters. I would allow myself, when writing about Davy, to think of puppies as unruly, vile and wriggly beasts that foul their beds and yap all night and disobey all commands or whatever. I would think of something I didn't like and map those feelings onto the fictional Davy's dislike ofthose horrific yowly monstrosities puppies. I would take Davy's hatred of puppies seriously, and respect his worldview rather than mock it. (Though all bets are off if I'm writing a comedy.)
For the record, I like puppies.
Anyway, I am approaching a couple of scenes in my work-in-progress where the characters to be examined hold personal beliefs that I find absolutely repugnant, but I owe it to them (and, not incidentally, to my readers) to not condemn or comment upon these sets of beliefs. I owe it to the truth I'm seeking as a writer to give full vent to whatever my characters feel, and to stay as much out of their way as I can. Real live intelligent educated people have ideas that I think are stupid and poorly thought out, but I have to present their fictional counterparts the way they see themselves, as intelligent educated people. I have to love them for what they are, unconditionally.
The title of this post is a joke for Rick Daley.
In my work, I don't think in terms of hero/villain. I don't present a main character who has a flaw to recognize and overcome. I also don't think in terms of good/bad, not really. I don't really think of protagonist/antagonist either, though certainly I have people acting in opposition to one another. What I have is sort of a sliding scale of moral and ethical failures. Just like real life. I think this keeps my stories from becoming melodrama or morality plays, where good is rewarded and evil is punished. In my stories, things happen between people because of who they are, not necessarily because of where they're situated relative to my personal moral compass. At least I try to do that.
I'll attempt to speak more concretely. Suppose I have two characters, Shelly and Davy. Shelly loves puppies. She adores them. She'll give up her own dinner so that a puppy can eat. Davy, on the other hand, despises puppies. He hates their loose skin and big eyes and waggly tails. Passionately.
It would be easy to set Shelly up as a good guy/hero figure and Davy as a bad guy/villain. But what I would want to do is to empathize with each of them in the same way, to show that each character's feelings about puppies are perfectly reasonable and valid responses to the world for those characters. I would allow myself, when writing about Davy, to think of puppies as unruly, vile and wriggly beasts that foul their beds and yap all night and disobey all commands or whatever. I would think of something I didn't like and map those feelings onto the fictional Davy's dislike of
For the record, I like puppies.
Anyway, I am approaching a couple of scenes in my work-in-progress where the characters to be examined hold personal beliefs that I find absolutely repugnant, but I owe it to them (and, not incidentally, to my readers) to not condemn or comment upon these sets of beliefs. I owe it to the truth I'm seeking as a writer to give full vent to whatever my characters feel, and to stay as much out of their way as I can. Real live intelligent educated people have ideas that I think are stupid and poorly thought out, but I have to present their fictional counterparts the way they see themselves, as intelligent educated people. I have to love them for what they are, unconditionally.
The title of this post is a joke for Rick Daley.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Should Have Seen That Coming
Yep, should have seen that coming from a million miles away.
I also look at the choices I've made publishing-wise. First I sampled the self-publishing path, and now I'm with a traditional publisher. They are a smaller publisher, at the moment balancing between small and mid-sized. They aren't huge. They aren't Big Six. They fit me like a glove because, looking back on my life, I've never chosen the well-trodden paths. I'm always wandering off into the forest in search of something not necessarily grand, but special and unique to me. Grand...for me!
Sometimes I think we forget about where we're coming from, about what has made us who we are. Even back in my childhood, I obviously loved stories as stories instead of stories as genres. I never stuck in one vein, so it would seem crazy, so many years later, to go against something that has been inside me for so long.
Oh, and after that mermaid book I mentioned above, came a detective story about a cat. Maybe that's where I'll go next in my writing adventure. No, Scott, that wouldn't mean I'm copying you. *cough*
My point today is that sometimes we don't change. At all. As much as I try to fight parts of who I am, it's pretty pointless to even try. And why would I want to? It seems the older I get the more I learn to embrace different parts of myself - parts I used to be ashamed of for very silly reasons like outside pressures.
Is there anything you've been fighting about yourself writing-wise?
Monday, July 11, 2011
Are Readers Connecting With Your Story Or Their Own?
Happy Monday, everyone!
I'm still tired after my great evening last night at The New Short Fiction Series. Thank you to Dian Kobayashi, David Bickford, Kimiko Gelman, Matthew Lange, and especially Sally Shore for bringing my stories to life! And thanks to all my friends and family who took time to come and see the show.
I sat in the back of the room last night while the reading was taking place so that I could try to get a sense of how the audience was reacting to my stories. Though I didn't expect it, two of the most memorable parts of the evening didn't have anything to do with my stories, at least not totally.
Two rows in front of where I was sitting sat a couple of women whom I didn't know. I watched them as the mistress of the show, Sally Shore, went up and read my bio. Then, because at least half the audience were people I knew, the room filled with loud and cheery applause. One of the women turned to the other one and shrugged.
I thought to myself, "Well, okay, she definitely isn't biased in my favor!"
The stories began, and the first to readings went beautifully. This woman whom I did not know clapped when everyone else did. I didn't get much more of a response from her than that. Then, the third story began. David Bickford sat in front of the audience and said, "I'm waiting for my dogs to die."
The woman turned to her companion. She pointed to herself. Throughout that short story, she kept turning to her companion, nodding, and I think she connected with something in the story. But was it my story she was connecting to? What I think happened was that the story she heard was only serving to remind her of her own story, one she lived herself. I saw my work differently as a result of that. For a moment, it wasn't my job to actually depict anything. Rather, what I was doing was helping the reader to tap into memories they already had, the stories of themselves.
After the show, the performers, some friends, and my brother went out for drinks and snacks. I sat next to my brother, and the two of us had a rare bonding moment. See, he knows me better than almost anyone else on the planet. He knew the sources of several of the stories in my book. What he told me was something I didn't expect. He said that after reading one of my stories, he got so angry that he had to put the book down and step away for a while. I thought he was mad at me--as did some of the other people at the table. But actually he was mad at what had been done to me. He was mad at the people who did it.
Because of the moment, because of the sudden emotion, I reminded him that my stories were fictional. I said that not everything in the book was accurate in the sense that I was recording something that actually happened. I dramatize things. They're just stories.
Naturally, this came as no surprise to him, and he told me he understood that. But the thing that had made him angry wasn't the story itself. Again, it was what the story reminded him of. It brought back his own stories about our lives.
On this blog, I've mentioned before that some writers convince me that they're psychic. I've felt this strongly with Dostoevsky and Woolf, and a bit with Updike. What I'm realizing is that the psychic connection isn't really the process of a reader seeing what the writer has created. Not necessarily. It can instead be the writer making the reader see what they've already experienced.
I've felt a little behind with everything lately, and this week I'm actually in the middle of a move. On my to do list is the announcement of winners from my Spread the Word contest and a post on how to give a good public reading with advice from Sally Shore. Stay tuned!
I'm still tired after my great evening last night at The New Short Fiction Series. Thank you to Dian Kobayashi, David Bickford, Kimiko Gelman, Matthew Lange, and especially Sally Shore for bringing my stories to life! And thanks to all my friends and family who took time to come and see the show.
I sat in the back of the room last night while the reading was taking place so that I could try to get a sense of how the audience was reacting to my stories. Though I didn't expect it, two of the most memorable parts of the evening didn't have anything to do with my stories, at least not totally.
Two rows in front of where I was sitting sat a couple of women whom I didn't know. I watched them as the mistress of the show, Sally Shore, went up and read my bio. Then, because at least half the audience were people I knew, the room filled with loud and cheery applause. One of the women turned to the other one and shrugged.
I thought to myself, "Well, okay, she definitely isn't biased in my favor!"
The stories began, and the first to readings went beautifully. This woman whom I did not know clapped when everyone else did. I didn't get much more of a response from her than that. Then, the third story began. David Bickford sat in front of the audience and said, "I'm waiting for my dogs to die."
The woman turned to her companion. She pointed to herself. Throughout that short story, she kept turning to her companion, nodding, and I think she connected with something in the story. But was it my story she was connecting to? What I think happened was that the story she heard was only serving to remind her of her own story, one she lived herself. I saw my work differently as a result of that. For a moment, it wasn't my job to actually depict anything. Rather, what I was doing was helping the reader to tap into memories they already had, the stories of themselves.
After the show, the performers, some friends, and my brother went out for drinks and snacks. I sat next to my brother, and the two of us had a rare bonding moment. See, he knows me better than almost anyone else on the planet. He knew the sources of several of the stories in my book. What he told me was something I didn't expect. He said that after reading one of my stories, he got so angry that he had to put the book down and step away for a while. I thought he was mad at me--as did some of the other people at the table. But actually he was mad at what had been done to me. He was mad at the people who did it.
Because of the moment, because of the sudden emotion, I reminded him that my stories were fictional. I said that not everything in the book was accurate in the sense that I was recording something that actually happened. I dramatize things. They're just stories.
Naturally, this came as no surprise to him, and he told me he understood that. But the thing that had made him angry wasn't the story itself. Again, it was what the story reminded him of. It brought back his own stories about our lives.
On this blog, I've mentioned before that some writers convince me that they're psychic. I've felt this strongly with Dostoevsky and Woolf, and a bit with Updike. What I'm realizing is that the psychic connection isn't really the process of a reader seeing what the writer has created. Not necessarily. It can instead be the writer making the reader see what they've already experienced.
I've felt a little behind with everything lately, and this week I'm actually in the middle of a move. On my to do list is the announcement of winners from my Spread the Word contest and a post on how to give a good public reading with advice from Sally Shore. Stay tuned!
Friday, July 8, 2011
Friday Filler: Cleaning your goats
I bet you thought this blog post title was a metaphor.
(This was sent to us by a Lit Lab supporter. I'm trying to get the source so I can credit it properly. Just in! It's from here.)
Added by Scott: This is, without a doubt, an all-time lowpoint for Friday Filler. I've never just posted a photo; I made some kind of effort. You're phoning it in, Malasarn. I shake my head in shame. And then, I add a photo of my own. This is the steel goat that lives in our garden. His name is Noel.
Added by Michelle: This is the closest I have to a goat - my daughter's little stuffed lambs. They are cuter than a goat. Right? Right! It's hard to beat Bailey's goat though, especially with a name like Noel. My daughter says her lambs are named Tuddle and Bop. Huh.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Day After
Hi everyone,
(Scott and Michelle, you should both feel free to post over this if you have something for today.)
I just wanted to say that I had a great time at the New Short Fiction Series rehearsal last night. Some actors were taller than I imagined them. Some were prettier. Some were handsomer. Some were funnier. I was seriously just flattered that they all took the time to understand my work and to listen to my stories. Two of the actors were able to cry during their read, which, really, seems like one of the most valuable tools a person can have. I'm working on it.
After they each went through their story, they all discussed how things could be improved. I felt like I got the inside scoop on doing a good reading. The best part is that I asked Sally Shore, who has been organizing this program for 15 years, if she would give our Lit Lab audience some pointers on public readings and she was happy to oblige, so stay tuned for that!
Oh, and for all you Hunger Game fans, one of the actors reading at the show will be Kimiko Gelman, who will be playing Venia in the movie coming out next year. I'm going to see if she'll stop by the Lab too. She was really nice and brought my characters to life so beautifully.
(Scott and Michelle, you should both feel free to post over this if you have something for today.)
I just wanted to say that I had a great time at the New Short Fiction Series rehearsal last night. Some actors were taller than I imagined them. Some were prettier. Some were handsomer. Some were funnier. I was seriously just flattered that they all took the time to understand my work and to listen to my stories. Two of the actors were able to cry during their read, which, really, seems like one of the most valuable tools a person can have. I'm working on it.
After they each went through their story, they all discussed how things could be improved. I felt like I got the inside scoop on doing a good reading. The best part is that I asked Sally Shore, who has been organizing this program for 15 years, if she would give our Lit Lab audience some pointers on public readings and she was happy to oblige, so stay tuned for that!
Oh, and for all you Hunger Game fans, one of the actors reading at the show will be Kimiko Gelman, who will be playing Venia in the movie coming out next year. I'm going to see if she'll stop by the Lab too. She was really nice and brought my characters to life so beautifully.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Rehearsal Night
Happy Wednesday, everyone!
Tonight is the dress rehearsal for my New Short Fiction Series show coming up on Sunday. This will be my first chance to hear the actors performing my stories from Wild Grass. I find that I'm nervous about meeting everyone, just because I'm shy, but I'm not feeling nervous at all about how my stories will come out. I guess I feel like I've put everything out into the world, and I'm just curious to see how people interpret them. I'm giving all the performers a copy of my book. I don't know if that's presumptuous of me. I usually don't like to force my stuff on people, even as gifts. But there you have it. I'm also bringing them wine.
The down side, though, is that I found out I won't be able to video record the dress rehearsal because the manager of the rehearsal space has apparently been dealing with stalker issues. Who stalks a room? Why can't we all just stalk people like we always do? So, I wanted to be able to share the performances with all of you, but it looks like only some local friends will be able to see it. I'll be able to record the audio tonight, luckily. Because no one stalks sound...except for maybe Bjork. I can see her doing that. Anyway, it's better than nothing. And, I'll be able to take photos at the show on Sunday. I'm thinking if I take enough pictures fast enough, I'll be able to make a flip book edition of the show. (That's my never-say-die spirit!)
In other news, I'll also be moving this weekend. (Because I really couldn't imagine going to see a show without spending the rest of the day carrying heavy things.) You'll soon be able to find me in a downtown L.A. loft built in 1924 and originally used as a railroad company warehouse.
Note added later: J.C. Martin, one of the editors of Stories for Sendai interviewed me today as well. Go here.
Rick said this in the comments: Roger Ebert has a very good blog post about a dumbed-down version of "The Great Gatsby" that is both though-provoking and infuriating.
Tonight is the dress rehearsal for my New Short Fiction Series show coming up on Sunday. This will be my first chance to hear the actors performing my stories from Wild Grass. I find that I'm nervous about meeting everyone, just because I'm shy, but I'm not feeling nervous at all about how my stories will come out. I guess I feel like I've put everything out into the world, and I'm just curious to see how people interpret them. I'm giving all the performers a copy of my book. I don't know if that's presumptuous of me. I usually don't like to force my stuff on people, even as gifts. But there you have it. I'm also bringing them wine.
The down side, though, is that I found out I won't be able to video record the dress rehearsal because the manager of the rehearsal space has apparently been dealing with stalker issues. Who stalks a room? Why can't we all just stalk people like we always do? So, I wanted to be able to share the performances with all of you, but it looks like only some local friends will be able to see it. I'll be able to record the audio tonight, luckily. Because no one stalks sound...except for maybe Bjork. I can see her doing that. Anyway, it's better than nothing. And, I'll be able to take photos at the show on Sunday. I'm thinking if I take enough pictures fast enough, I'll be able to make a flip book edition of the show. (That's my never-say-die spirit!)
In other news, I'll also be moving this weekend. (Because I really couldn't imagine going to see a show without spending the rest of the day carrying heavy things.) You'll soon be able to find me in a downtown L.A. loft built in 1924 and originally used as a railroad company warehouse.
Note added later: J.C. Martin, one of the editors of Stories for Sendai interviewed me today as well. Go here.
Rick said this in the comments: Roger Ebert has a very good blog post about a dumbed-down version of "The Great Gatsby" that is both though-provoking and infuriating.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Friday Filler! Stuff and Things for Writers!
First, you should go read this post and then, you know, spend some money. It's for a good cause. I might also mention that my polite and housebroken (one assumes) co-host Domey "Don't Call Me Ishmael" Malasarn has a book of stories out that you might want to buy and read and be amazed by. There's a link to the right. No, just look. There it is. It's also worth saying that my other lovely and workaholic co-host Michelle "Davidson" Argyle has numerous books out. One of them's on sale right now, as I recall, and she'll have yet another book (the long-awaited Monarch) out on September 15th. Michelle is wracking her brain trying to figure out a cool place to have her book release party. Any ideas? Anyone volunteering to make 500 spun-sugar butterflies?
It's a 3-day weekend for a lot of us, me included. I plan to get a lot of time in the sun, as allegedly there will be sun in Seattle. It could happen. Stop laughing, you. I just bought "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows part 1" on DVD, so likely there'll be some of that this weekend. And fireworks and alcohol, which sounds dangerous but the price of freedom is eternal vigilance and beer, so I've heard. So in this country, mister, we blow things up and drink. And to think Marx claimed democracy wouldn't last. There was a man who didn't have enough in the way of cocktails.
Also, I am reading Henry James' The Ambassadors and I'm about halfway through and poor Lambert, the protagonist, is facing the prospect that his fiancee might dump him if he doesn't drag her son Chad back home from Paris. Lambert doesn't really want to drag Chad back from Paris. What could possibly happen next? Also also, I am just about 2/3 of the way through the first draft of my work-in-progress, whose working title is The Transcendental Detective. I assume many if not most of you are working on something, too. So let's have it: status updates on writing projects! Who's doing what, and how's it going?
It's a 3-day weekend for a lot of us, me included. I plan to get a lot of time in the sun, as allegedly there will be sun in Seattle. It could happen. Stop laughing, you. I just bought "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows part 1" on DVD, so likely there'll be some of that this weekend. And fireworks and alcohol, which sounds dangerous but the price of freedom is eternal vigilance and beer, so I've heard. So in this country, mister, we blow things up and drink. And to think Marx claimed democracy wouldn't last. There was a man who didn't have enough in the way of cocktails.
Also, I am reading Henry James' The Ambassadors and I'm about halfway through and poor Lambert, the protagonist, is facing the prospect that his fiancee might dump him if he doesn't drag her son Chad back home from Paris. Lambert doesn't really want to drag Chad back from Paris. What could possibly happen next? Also also, I am just about 2/3 of the way through the first draft of my work-in-progress, whose working title is The Transcendental Detective. I assume many if not most of you are working on something, too. So let's have it: status updates on writing projects! Who's doing what, and how's it going?
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