CLEVER YET SOMEHOW UNRELATED TITLE

20 Feb

Start short-short story with a simple sentence that hooks readers with personal investment—perhaps recognition of pop culture items, brand names, etc.—and a transgressive juxtaposition. Possibly follow with a deadpan comment. Absurd rhetorical question?

Crafty refrain to be repeated.

Use lots of small paragraphs for the pretense of emphasis and earnestness.

Another deadpan comment.

Channel quotidian life via Raymond Carver via Anton Chekhov without intensely studying either of the latter or scrutinizing the former. Verb nouns and noun verbs. Hyphenate adjectives.

Witty observation about character’s personality. Fragments. Fragment. Employ first person plural as if never done before. Drop in tautology for zen master effect.

Crafty refrain.

Get good at parataxis. Very good at parataxis. So good at parataxis that your sentences, almost by magic, will become hypotactic.

Have characters speak laconically and dry. Use asyndeton, gerunds.

 

[Unexplainable white space]

 

Deeply searching, yet ultimately shallow rhetorical question?

As you reach the end of the piece and you’re feeling saucy and breaking out the logorrheic polysyndeton and don’t know how to end in a pithy manner but you know it must end soon because without the Joycean throwforward to Wallace everyone is in suspense. Fragment. Let down. Bring down the mood with banal platitudes and possibly switch to second person, you.

Crafty refrain.

Some words that are vague, but, you know, like, in a good way-kind-of-thingy, that sometimes, someone, somewhere, can’t possibly unspool because the thing has no actual content, or whatever.

End with non-sequitur.

 

[Dramatic white space]

 

Sincere ending.

 

 

Thinly disguised, insane, over-the-top bio that, by necessity, has to include overly personal, and quirky, details about author’s dog, breakfast choices, current location, and blog address. Extensive list of publications that no one will follow up on in titles that no one has ever heard of. 

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The fiction of how I feel is still being told every day.

20 Feb

In my own therapy, I have been working on focusing on the activities and outlets that let me best relieve stress and sincerely consider my decisions better. “Aokigahara Mistake” by Jimmy Chen at USED FURNITURE REVIEW reminds me how much of a struggle such searching can be, how small I really am, how despite that life is heavy, man, so heavy to hold.

When my therapist encouraged me to draw again, for the fourth or so consecutive time, met by reluctance and deflated weariness of art in general, he didn’t think his patient’s first attempt would be of a suicide in Aokigahara, a forest in Japan also known as the “Sea of Trees,” the second most popular place for suicide, next to the Golden Gate Bridge. I end in speaking of myself in the third person because my chronic depression often feels like watered-down fiction, a played out novel whose mental vernacular is predictable and nauseating, the hero still waiting for a pouty heroine to enter.

Read the whole thing here. IT IS RAD.

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Vouched Presents Christle, Gobble, Hersey

20 Feb

The long awaited return of Vouched Presents Indy is at hand! Join us for a night of poems and performances by Heather Christle, Benjamin Hersey, and Vouched’s own Tyler Gobble. As always, beverages will be on hand for your faces so come thirsty.

RSVP to the Facebook event so we know to expect you!

Proceeds from the evening go to support Second Story Indy, an organization that connects local youth with literature and encourages expression and learning through creative writing.

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Yes, They’re Basically Bratty Teens, but It’s Epic Just the Same

14 Feb

Those of you who know me know that I hate most romance. I hate flowers. I hate hearts. I hate Valentine’s Day. I have many things in common with Elaine Benes (as in, we’re just about the same person) but nothing so much as our shared hate of the world’s most boring film ever, The English Patient. And don’t even get me started on romantic comedies.

So I know people always find it incredibly odd when I start passionately defending Gone With the Wind against all detractors. Yes, the main characters are bratty and impossible. Yes, Ashley is pasty and boring. Yes, Rhett is a jerk and so is Scarlett. Yes, she gets what she deserves at the end. Yes to all the above.

And yet. I love that damn book and I love that damn movie even more. I know. It makes no sense. There are exactly three movies that make me cry and that is one of them. (The other ones involve animals and a Bronte.) Why? What is wrong with me?

This essay articulates it perfectly. Perfectly! It’s not about their relationship, really. It’s about the surrounding elements. The book and movie, besides being a gorgeous spectacle (and yes, I’m a sucker for war films, too–I also love Casablanca‘s star-crossed romance) are an unsubtle metaphor for the sweeping destructive force of the future. People who claim it’s a monument to the Old South–I don’t think so. At least, I don’t think it works like that for us today.  Somehow I love Scarlett, in spite of everything, because of the weird elemental brutality of her being. She is the bulldozer of the future. She has some of the Old South in her, yes, but with her comes the destructive force of change. She is the world, moving on, utterly practical, always hungry. And I like that. I root for change.  I feel for Ashley and Melanie because they are the done-and-gone past, those who can’t change, those stuck behind the false front of gentility and grandeur while their lives fade out like wallpaper. The whole damn war and the aftermath, music and grand costumes and sets and all, is not just a  grand spectacle, but the burning of the old ways, the old America, the turning point in our history. And even more than that, to me, as someone who loves classic film, it’s one of the last of the epic films. The kind that got made like this. The kind with intermissions and choreography and three bajillion extras. It’s 1939 as much as it is 1865, and it’s the sad blazing unapologetic end of an era when seen today, just as it was in a different sense for Flannery O’Connor when she used it in her own story.

There. Can I just link to this post from now on when people express their confusion about my love for Gone with the Wind? I think that I will.

Happy Valentine’s Day, let’s not make sense!

14 Feb

I’ve really been loving this series of collaborative Valentine’s themed responses over at Everyday Genius this month. You might remember I vouched a piece by Roxane Gay and xTx the other day.

The entire month has been solid and earnest and makes me want to love everyone or just one person or maybe a dozen or maybe no one or maybe you.

Here is one by Jamie Gaughran-Perez and Margaret Gebauer that stuck out to me today, and if you have a spare hour or so, I’d highly suggest you just go catch up on the entire month.

We’re not breaking the bone to reset it straight, but instead to suck the marrow right out.

I’ll get new legs.

I’ll get new eyes.

Somewhere neutrinos are moving faster than light and effects are causing causes.

Logic is a pale attempt to get on top of the world.
Let’s not make sense.

Read the rest at Everyday Genius.

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PANK & Annalemma Vouched by NY Times!

13 Feb

I was on vacation last week, so I’m a bit late to the take on this, but I just wanted to give a huge high-five to a couple of my favorite journals, PANK and Annalemma, for their inclusion in a recent New York Times article highlighting the literary journal as an art form. It’s so rad to see such great work get such great recognition.

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Hip Hip Hooray Press & Jordan Castro

12 Feb

Hip Hooray Press is a fairly new entity out of Kent, Ohio. Their first chapbook is by Jordan Castro, perhaps best known for being associated with some of the Muumuu House writers.

Kadian by Jordan Castro reads like a Twitter feed, with short bursts of reflection on drugs, sex, and even rock and roll (kind of). I think I usually like Jordan’s longer stuff (full disclosure: I’ve published Jordan before), but Kadian shows shifts in Jordan’s writing, utilizing different types of punctuation and longer titles for more visual interplay.

As far as Hip Hip Hooray goes, I’m not sure what they have up next. Focusing just on Ohio/midwest writers could be a good idea.

Awful Interview: Nicholas Tecosky

8 Feb

I’m a big fan of Nicholas Tecosky, but apparently we were born to arm wrestle one another repeatedly starting next Monday, February 13th. More details on that later, though you should know- he will most definitely win. I can only complete 3/4 of a pull-up.

Nicholas  is an instigator. Didn’t you hear? He’s a Viceroy of WriteClub ATL. He’s very fancy. Fancier than anyone you know. He’s SUNDANCE fancy.

So, Nicholas. You were just at Sundance. Did you meet Robert Redford? Who was the hottest celebrity you saw? Be honest. Also, why was Taylor Swift there?

I was just at Sundance, though I did not, alas, sight a Redford. I did get my foot grazed by Paul Giamatti in a hallway outside of the premiere of John Dies at the End. I was close enough to touch his beard, which was magnificent, and which stung a little, as I’d just shaved my own. I felt like Samson. Besides that, I didn’t get to meet any celebrities. There was a rumor of Jesse Eisenberg crossing the street a block away from us at one point, but I couldn’t get any substantial proof. And I don’t believe in Taylor Swift, but nice try.

Why don’t you believe in ‘Taylor Swift’? Is it the trail of pixie dust that trails behind her?

I don’t believe the media hype around her. I believe that she was manufactured to explain to children why Country-Pop exists, the same way Persephone was invented to explain seasons or Santa was invented to explain night terrors. Isn’t it strange that no one has ever seen Taylor Swift in real life?

 That is curious. Maybe we could set up a Rube-Goldberg-esque trap to catch her in. If you were going to trap yourself a Taylor Swift, how would you go about it. Step-by-step instructions s’il vous plait.

Swift (A) takes L’Oreal product with string attached, thus pulling string which (B) opens Tupperware container of Lynx feed, (C) surprising Lynx which jumps off see-saw, (D) dumping water onto vulture, who (E) flaps wings, generating enough wind to (F) turn pinwheel, which (G) hypnotizes rich baby who (H) drops his silver spoon into a silver basin, which (I) startles old man who yells at kids to get off his lawn. All of this distracts Taylor Swift long enough for man with dart gun to shoot her with tranquilizer dart. You’re welcome. Though, to be fair, my Beyonce trap is the best trap of all time.

Well, don’t hold back. How do you trap a Beyoncé? Do you put a ring on it?

That is correct! Yeah. You work for a really long time at a shitty job, and you go ring shopping. And then you take her to dinner and you present the ring. If you’re lucky, she loves you enough to say yes. If not, I know a guy with tranquilizer darts. But putting a ring on it is the best way to keep it.

After her hit single, don’t you think that’s a little predictable?

Of course it is. But you’ve got to look at the Long Game: You give the people what they expect before you hit ‘em with the darts. That’s when it gets interesting. Post-dart.

Tell me about some other post-darts.

What, the details of the Long Game? Or how it all ends? Alright: Step 1- collect a bunch of Pop Divas through whatever means necessary. Step 2- [REDACTED]. Step 3- World Domination. Universal Healthcare. Free Kittens to Good Homes. Solar Powered Happiness Machines. Unicorns without Daddy Issues. Square Dances. A good education to all who will listen. An hour of afternoon naptime for all workers and a chicken (or Tofurky) in every pot. Lots of Quiet broken up by periods of intense activity. Everyone gets laid!

Utopia, basically, without all of the sloganeering.

What was the last Utopian novel you read? Do you have a favorite? This may be silly, but I find myself thinking about The Giver more often than I probably should. Mostly about how wonderful of a movie it would be. It’s probably not my favorite Utopian novel, but it’s been stuck to the roof of my brain since the second grade, you know, like peanut butter.

Well for Utopian/Dystopian lit, you have to tip my hat to Orwell and Brandbury and blah blahdee blah, but I think Frank Miller’s Dark Knight Returns and it’s follow-up The Dark Knight Strikes Again most resemble my view of the future. Perhaps there will be fewer exploding babydolls, but I’m hesitant to make that call. Maybe there will be more. Maybe the street will be littered with them. Maybe there won’t be normal babydolls.

Register to vote, kids.

Are you hypothesizing that practicing good citizenship could lead to a world with less blown up baby dolls? I’m a bit skeptical.

Are you speculating that the American public would actually vote for MORE baby dolls implanted with explosives? Because that ain’t MY country, Vouched. Have you even read the Constitution?

Of course I have! In fact [WARNING: I’m about to unleash a mighty mess of nerd on you] my Competition Government class placed third at state my Senior Yr. of Highschool.
You’re welcome America.
Are we about to arm-wrestle and pound beers? Because you will win at one of those two things.

I think at this point that there is no other way out of this interview. I am bound by family pride and functional alcoholism to meet you in the field of battle. I think that the scalp of the Third Place winner of State Level Competition Government would look nice on my mantle, next to my picture of Ronald Reagan and Manuel Noriega leg-wrestling. You tell me where and when, Vouched. I am coming for you. I will allow you to post the transcripts of your post-match lamentations. It will be a nice compliment to all of this.

 Maybe we could arm-wrestle and drink beers at the reading on the 13th. What other things would you say to entice people to attend that evening? (Assuming that an arm-wrestling match wasn’t enticing enough, which it ought to be)
No matter the winner, maybe we should end this evening with an Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark style drink-off. I’ll be Marion Ravenwood.

Enticement? Well, first off, there’s goats. I hear that they run the whole property. I hear that they’re carnivores. Also, there should be a nice assortment of the city’s finest literary talents in attendance. And they’re mean when they’re drunk, so the Tecosky v. Vouched Drink-till-you-drop Wrestle-a-thon will (most likely) be merely the opening volley to an entire evening of slurred epithets and well-worded recriminations. There will likely be crying. The messy snot-running-down-your-face type of weeping that more healthy people left behind in middle school. If that doesn’t sell you, you’re not my demographic.

And if you’re Marion Ravenwood, does that make me the overweight Sherpa? Because I’m cool with that.

Well, I’m glad that’s settled.

Awful Interview: Jessie Donaghy

7 Feb

Jessie Donaghy is more than your average good samaritan. Though she is very very much a good samaritan. Atlantans may have heard of her via her good work with Wink, and also recently the Wren’s Nest. Jessie writes, and she writes beautifully. Lucky you! You get to hear her read next Monday, February 13th at the Goat Farm!

So Jessie, how is your day so far? What have you been up to?

Hi Laura! This morning has been interesting…I went to yoga, but just as I was walking up to the door to the studio, they locked me out! I admit I was seven minutes late, but really? I decided to stop by Sam Flax to return some markers on the way home, and I got lost in their Paperie for a good 30 minutes, as usual. Have I told you that paper is one of my biggest weaknesses? I don’t know what to do with myself when I encounter cute stationary or journals. I have also recently become obsessed with sealing my letters with a wax stamp. But I digress. Now I am home, chatting with you and eating cinnamon raisin toast.

Stamp as in wax stamp/seal or sticker stamp? What do you think the root of this recent obsession? I have a large collection of journals and stationery as well!

Good old-fashioned wax stamp/seal. I think that personal letter correspondence is becoming a lost art, and with it, all the fun trappings of sending and receiving letters. For example, who still writes with an inkwell and quill pen? And yet, it’s so legit. There is something very satisfying about crafting a letter to a friend. Apart from the words you write, you also get to create an aesthetic and tactile experience, which an email cannot do. Wax seals are just another way to make letters more individual. Just last week, I sealed all of my wedding invitations. I burned myself a couple of times and it took forever, but the end result was completely worth it! It was fun to use the letter “M” of my future last name :)

Has being a future Mrs. effected your writing in any way?

I will admit it has been harder to remain disciplined in my writing. A wisp of a poem will start to come, and then I remember I have to confirm something with the caterer. Before I realize it, the poem flits out of my mind and probably alights into someone else’s imagination. The bane of a poet’s existence. Also, with book project deadlines coming up with Wink and Wren’s Nest, I have been focusing more on getting kids to write rather than writing my own stuff. Is that hypocritical of me? Be honest.

Hmm. You put me between a rock in a hard place on that one. I’m going to say no, for the sake of self-preservation. If it makes you feel better, I’ve been working on the same few short stories for eternity.
How do we get ourselves out of our writing ruts? Let’s come up with a plan!

Let’s! I’ve noticed that when I actually take the time to go for a walk in my neighborhood (Grant Park), I come home emptied of a lot of my busy thoughts and I am more ready to hit the pages, or rather, laptop. Also, I went through a season where I made myself write 3 pages as soon as I woke up every morning. Most mornings it was just plain garbage, but I found that getting those initial words out of me cleared the way for better words to come forth later on that day. What works for you? We should combine our forces to combat writer’s block (or perhaps it’s more like writer’s procrastination).

Walking/running has always helped me conquer the day and clear my head as well. I actually just re-read a short story by Andre Dubus about a weightlifter, and he argues that he gets too wound up and can’t think straight if he doesn’t go to the gym. I think there’s a good argument for that. In any case, for a really long time I also used to write for about an hour first thing every morning, but since my husband and I got a puppy in late October it became very difficult for me to focus with her romping about the room and being 100% adorable. Needless to say, my morning discipline has fallen to the wayside.
Do you have any advice? Also, have you ever read Andre Dubus?

I must meet this puppy! I have that same issue when my cat, Josie, comes to visit me in the morning. She has a glorious fluffy, white belly that begs to be pet. But I digress. I have read Andre Dubus, and I would have to say that one of my all time favorite short stories is “A Father’s Story”. It gets me every time. While we are on the topic of shorts, I must admit that I really admire Flannery O’Conner and how she wrote almost every day for 3 hours even though she was terminally ill. I may or may not have visited Andalusia and Flannery’s grave at some point in my life. Authors like her and Dubus make me want to be a better writer.

Me too! Any other literary heroes you would like to mention? How do they influence the way you write?

In regards to non-fiction, definitely Annie Dillard and Thomas Merton. They both had a way of conveying great depth and meaning in such a beautiful and simple manner. I have learned to be more patient in observing nature from Dillard, and have become more introspective through reading Merton.

When it comes to fiction, I have a knack for the French epics. I cannot decide if I love Hugo’s Les Miserables or Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo more. I am enamored with stories that can be peeled back layer after layer. The thought of scheming up and executing a book like Les Mis is beyond me. I feel pushed to write more and write longer when I read books like these.

For poetry, Mary Oliver is my default read. A great deal of my writing is inspired by the natural world, so her imagery resonates with me. I have also recently discovered Natasha Tretheway, who teaches over at Emory. She writes a lot about her relationship with her mother, and about growing up in the South. Her approach to these topics caught me off guard in the best way possible.

Who do you think would win in an arm wrestling contest: Victor Hugo or Alexander Dumas?

I can’t help but project Hugo and Dumas’ protagonists on them: I see Hugo as a lumbering gentle giant of a man who used to be on the chain gang but now tries to make recompense by raising orphans, and Dumas as mysterious millionaire with a glorious moustache who is out to get all his ex-friends who double crossed him. From being on the chain gang, Hugo would have sheer brawn on his side, but he would feel bad about being able to win so easily so he’d hold back. Dumas, with a prison history of his own, would start out determined to win, but seeing the compassionate nature of his foe, call for a truce and order them both a round of bière de garde, because, of course, this arm wrestling match would take place in a French beer cafe.

What if you joined them at the table? What would you tell them about our reading on February 13th to encourage them to attend? What kind of beer would you order?

I’d be so starstruck I wouldn’t trust myself to say anything of substance. I’d probably grab a piece of parchment, scribble something to the effect of: “Napoleon Bonaparte still lives. Come see him read poetry at the Goat Farm on February 13th at 8pm. Also, can I have your autographs please?”. Then I would order a St. Bernardus Abt 12, take a deep breath, and mosey on over to their table.

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There is Something About the Weight of Words in our Hands: Salt Hill 28, A Review

5 Feb

There are a lot of things I’ve never done. One, review a lit mag. But when I saw the list of contributors for Salt Hill 28, I was excited. And when I read Salt Hill 28 in full in one sitting, I was even more excited. The editors note sets the tone stating,

Each of us is contained by and immersed in personal experience, our brackish travels of the past and their briny apparitions in the present. We bring these journeys to the page to create and confront life, to embody the paradox of being conscious…Yes this life may constrict but in its vessel, seas are held, ones upon which we both float and drown.

I love that. And I love the lines from the following pieces and the way in which that editor’s note  is fulfilled in each. In each one is multi-dimensional thought, thundering words and encapsulation that threatens to break boundaries.

From “Because Thought Isn’t a Prayer” by John Gallaher

We’re going through alone,
or asking for help, and how can we get there as us
or as ghosts, with this tin cup. This ocean.

From “Abstract Lessons” by Nate Pritts

Emphasis is a trick we apply
to the stupid animal hum when the real feeling
employed isn’t right, or enough.
Whenever I get confused I use maps
to help me; they show how our limbs
are nothing but bundles of blood & twisted.

From “Falling in Love with the Death Thought” by Zachary Schomburg

This is how you
love: you try over and over again to throw a
red balloon across the river from a tree.

“Foreign Wedding” by Maile Chapman and “Gown Rain” by Sarah Rose Etter also instigate, investigate and enamor.

Salt Hill Journal
$10.00

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