Million Writers Award

The Million Writers Award, sponsored by storySouth, is now accepting nominations from readers and editors for the best short fiction (over 1000 words) that appeared online in 2009. Got a favorite? Nominate!

The Cradle by Patrick Somerville

The Cradle
Patrick Somerville
Little Brown 2009

Matt Bishop is on a quest. His pregnant wife, Marissa, insists that he find the cradle, the one that she slept in as an infant and that her mother, who walked out on her, stole. Marissa has no idea where her mother might be, but she sends out into the wilds of Wisconsin to find that cradle. Armed with one clue, the address of a relative, off he goes. Great premise for a book, and on a quest anything can happen.
But there’s more: Renee Owen gave up a baby for adoption when she was in college after her boyfriend was killed in Vietnam. She thinks about that child, although she hasn’t started looking. Not yet. The reader feels that her quest is also about to begin.

And since Matt grew up in foster homes—none of them very nice—the reader is encouraged to connect the dots, and it’s a satisfying connection made between the births of two babies. Part of the suspense of the story is the constant wondering how these two are going to get together and if there really is a connection between them.

Meanwhile, Matt’s searching for the cradle, a trip that takes him to Sturgeon Bay, to Green Bay, to Minnesota, to Indiana, and finally home, bringing with him more than Marissa had bargained for.

There are no dazzling fireworks on display in this book. It’s just a nice story—two stories, really—told in engaging, straightforward prose. Which is not to say that terrific craft isn’t evident in the writing. The cradle itself provides an image that nicely represents what the book is about—emptiness and filling the void that loss creates. (Dare I say “objective correlative?”) And then there are the voices inside the head, a subject that comes up repeatedly. And the keys. What’s with the keys? We see them early on when Marissa tells Matt he’s a genius at finding things because she can search for her keys for hours but he’ll find them in a snap. Renee briefly can’t find her keys. Renee’s mother actually mailed her keys to Germany by mistake. Puzzling over threads like that is something that readers love, even if the deeper meaning is hard to pin down.

I was a bit confused by the timeline, I have to confess, and that may have been careless reading on my part. The story is told mostly from Matt’s point of view, but we also get Renee’s point of view, and the assumption I made was that they are cosynchronous. But they aren’t. There’s actually a decade (or so) difference in the two narratives, which I didn’t discover until near the end. I think I would like to have known that and I don’t think knowing the difference would affect the reader’s engagement with the story. But it’s a small complaint and, again, possibly the result of carelessness on my part. (The timing for Renee's story is clear because of references to Iraq, but if there are similar cues in Matt's story then I missed them.)

I’m looking forward to reading more of Patrick Somerville’s work. (And, by the way, you might be interested in this New York Times review of The Cradle.)

The New Yorker: "Fjord of Killary" by Kevin Barry

Kevin Barry has a novel coming out, but based on its title, I’d guess this story is just a story. (But I could be wrong about that; it might just be the rare excerpt that works well on its own.) Which is a good thing, as far as I’m concerned, because mostly I liked it a lot.

But first things first. Caoimhin (Irish for “Kevin”) has acquired a 350-year-old hotel (“So I bought an old hotel on the fjord of Killary,” is the first line, which I love). He had wanted to escape the city and had romanticized about what life in the country would do for his poetry (I can relate), but he hasn’t written a thing. He doesn’t seem to do a lot hotel business, either, but the bar looks to be quite busy, and provides the brilliance in this story—the snippets of dialogue about the things that are important to the local people. The story is worth reading just to see and here these people.

Caoimhin is a snob and he knows it. And the people know it. (“I was not well liked out in Killary. I was considered ‘superior.’ Of course, I was fucking superior.”) But then, I’m not sure anyone likes him, since he mentions that two ex-girlfriends had called him “funereal.”

Also on hand in the hotel are the Belarussians he’s hired to work in the place. They’re also a hoot.

The name of the hotel is Water’s Edge, and soon enough the water’s edge comes closer and closer as the fjord level rises over the sea wall. Caoimhin and the patrons are forced upstairs to escape the flood, but that doesn’t stop anyone from drinking. It does, however, provide the epiphany: “And the view was suddenly clear to me. The world opened out to its grim beyond and I realized that, at forty, one must learn the rigors of acceptance. Capitalize it: Acceptance. I needed to accept what was put before me—be it a watery grave in Ireland’s only natural fjord, or a return to the city and its grayer intensities, or a wordless exile in some steaming Cambodian swamp hole, or poems or no poems, or children or not, lovers or not, illness or otherwise, success or its absence. I would accept all that was put in my way, from here on through until I breathed my last.” And then he looks for his notebook to resume writing.

It’s a good Irish story, with a satisfying ending and laughs along the way.

February 1, 2010: “Fjord of Killary” by Kevin Barry

Writers At The Beach: Seaglass 2010

Writers At The Beach: Seaglass 2010

Check out the site of this conference coming up in March. I'm on a couple of panels and the rest of the faculty looks terrific. It's a great opportunity to learn something, do a little networking with writers, and help out a good cause. I hope to see you there!

Ploughshares Blog

I guess I haven't visited the Ploughshares Blog in some time because the managing editor just emailed me (very, very politely) to ask that I update my link. Oops. I hate it when I have stale links. Seriously.

So, I've now updated the link in the sidebar. Check out the blog, which looks great. I need to visit more often . . .

J. D. Salinger

J.D. Salinger has died. Like just about every other American writer, especially anyone close to my age, I've been influenced by Salinger, especially Catcher in the Rye, but also the other books: Nine Stories, Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters, Franny and Zooey. I even re-read Catcher a few years ago--for a class on Point of View, admittedly, but I really enjoyed the chance to look at it again. It might be time to pull it out once more.

Upcoming Appearances: Chicago in February

Brrr. I used to live there, though, right? So I'm not going to let a little cold weather bother me. I'm scheduling some appearances in Chicago in late February, including these two confirmed events to talk about In an Uncharted Country:

Thursday, February 25, 2010, 6:00 pm at 57th Street Books in Hyde Park. This is a great bookstore and I'm really looking forward to the reading and signing!

Saturday, February 27, 2010, 2:00 pm at The Book Stall in Winnetka. This is another fine store and should be a good time.

I hope my Chicago friends will stop by and say hello, and support these wonderful independent book stores!

NBCC Award Finalists

The National Book Critics Circle this weekend announced the finalists for the 2010 NBCC Awards:

Autobiography:
Diana Athill, Somewhere Towards the End (Norton)
Debra Gwartney, Live Through This: A Mother's Memoir of Runaway Daughters and Reclaimed Love (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt)
Mary Karr, Lit (Harper)
Kati Marton, Enemies of the People: My Family's Journey to America (Simon & Schuster)
Edmund White, City Boy, Bloomsbury

Biography:
Blake Bailey, Cheever: A Life (Knopf)
Brad Gooch, Flannery: A Life of Flannery O'Connor (Little, Brown)
Benjamin Moser, Why This World: A Biography of Clarice Lispector (Oxford University Press)
Stanislao G. Pugliese, Bitter Spring: A Life of Ignazio Silone (Farrar, Straus and Giroux)
Martha A. Sandweiss, Passing Strange: A Gilded Age Tale of Love and Deception Across the Color Line (Penguin Press)

Criticism:
Eula Biss, Notes From No Man's Land: American Essays (Graywolf Press)
Stephen Burt, Close Calls with Nonsense: Reading New Poetry (Graywolf Press)
Morris Dickstein, Dancing in the Dark: A Cultural History of the Great Depression (Norton)
David Hajdu, Heroes and Villains: Essays on Music, Movies, Comics, and Culture (Da Capo Press)
Greg Milner, Perfecting Sound Forever: An Aural History of Recorded Music (Faber)

Fiction:
Bonnie Jo Campbell, American Salvage (Wayne State University Press)
Marlon James, The Book of Night Women (Riverhead)
Michelle Huneven, Blame (Sarah Crichton Books/FSG)
Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall (Holt)
Jayne Anne Phillips, Lark and Termite (Knopf)

Nonfiction:
Wendy Doniger, The Hindus: An Alternative History (Penguin Press)
Greg Grandin, Fordlandia: The Rise and Fall of Henry Ford's Forgotten Jungle City (Metropolitan Books)
Richard Holmes, The Age of Wonder: How the Romantic Generation Discovered the Beauty and Terror of Science (Pantheon)
Tracy Kidder, Strength in What Remain (Random House)
William T. Vollmann, Imperial (Viking)

Poetry:
Rae Armantrout, Versed (Wesleyan)
Louise Glück, A Village Life (Farrar, Straus and Giroux)
D.A. Powell, Chronic (Graywolf Press)
Eleanor Ross Taylor, Captive Voices: New and Selected Poems, 1960–2008 (Louisiana State University Press)
Rachel Zucker, Museum of Accidents (Wave Books)

ASC: Dr. Faustus by Christopher Marlowe

The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe is the second entry in this year's Actors' Renaissance Season at the American Shakespeare Center. I haven't talked to any of the actors about it, but it must have been a real challenge for them, especially mounting the production in such a short time (as is the norm in the ARS). These actors are accustomed to doubling in Shakespeare's plays, but here, with the exception of Faustus and Mephistopheles, most actors are tripling or quadrupling. (The amazing John Harrell plays Lucifer--you've got to see the hat--but also: The Pope, The German Emperor, and the Duke of Vanholt. Daniel Kennedy is Cornelius, an Old Man, Dick, The Cardinal of Lorraine, Gluttony, and more! It seems a miracle that they're able to pull it off, but they do. Brilliantly.

The story is familiar. Faustus is driven to knowledge and makes a pact with the devil (think Pat Robertson's slur about the recent Haiti tragedy) in which he gains 24 years of pleasure in exchange for his soul, which doesn't seem like a bad deal to him as he watches Mephistopheles walk the earth. He doesn't realize what damnation is all about. But he gets his deal and has some fun in the process, toying with The Pope and various common people. Until the time comes when his debt comes do. Then comes the battle.

Rene Thornton Jr. is Dr. Faustus. I had my doubts about this portrayal at first, since Faustus seems an insecure man, and that's not how I imagined this power-hungry maniac. But I soon realized it was a starting point, and Thornton's Faustus grows into the monster we know him to be. When the action is in full swing, Thornton is terrific, and he does a fine job of showing the man's torment. Benjamin Curns makes a fine Mephistopheles, especially toward the end when he is enjoying Faustus's suffering.

There are other fine performances here, as well. We don't get many chances to see Marlowe, so get down to the Blackfriars Playhouse and catch this production.

The New Yorker: "Trailhead" by E.O. Wilson

Ants? When I saw that this week’s story was by E.O. Wilson, I figured we were in for something unusual. But ants? Move along, people, nothing here to see.

Actually, this “fiction”—which is really just a dramatization (for want of a better word) of the lifecycle of an ant colony—is an excerpt from Wilson’s forthcoming novel, Anthill. (No, I’m not kidding.) So, this is neither terribly interesting, unless you really like insects and happen to know nothing at all about them, nor is it a story.

It’s almost a story, though, and for the sake of form, let’s discuss it. I like the beginning, which is sort of Dickensian: “The Trailhead Queen was dead.” (“Marley was dead: to begin with” is the opening A Christmas Carol. We then get some background in a flashback about how this ant became queen and struggled to start her own colony, and then we come back to the issue at hand: she’s dead and now all the other ants have to figure out what to do.

So, in addition to Dickens, I also thought of E.M. Forster’s famous discussion of plot in Aspects of the Novel. “Let us define plot. A plot is . . . a narrative of events, the emphasis falling on causality. . . ‘The King died and then the Queen died of grief’ is a plot.” And so, since we have a story that begins with the death of the queen, I was looking for causality. No king in this case, but what was going to happen here as a result of that death? And I guess you could say that what follows—the worker ants fight to save the doomed colony even without a viable queen—is a caused by that death. It’s a plot—it just isn’t very interesting.

If anyone has something good to say about this piece of fiction, I’d be glad to hear it. For example, is this allegory? If it is, I haven't broken the code.

January 25, 2010: “Trailhead” by E.O. Wilson

Waltzing Cowboys by Sarah Collins Honenberger

Waltzing Cowboys
Sarah Collins Honenberger
Cedar Creek Publishing 2008, $15.95

This engaging small novel has feet in two worlds. It begins in the West, in the land of cowboys and horses and rugged terrain, and at that point the reader would be forgiven if she mistook the story for something by Annie Proulx. It then shifts—by train, sticking close to the land—to the gritty streets of New York, and becomes primarily an urban tale, despite its protagonist’s longing for open spaces.

This is the story of Rhue Hogan, a man who is too old to keep up with the young Montana cowboys he works with. Reluctantly—when he wakes up in a hospital room with a broken leg and begins to take stock of his life—he concludes that it’s time to make up for something he did forty years earlier: walking out on his pregnant wife. And so he says goodbye to Montana and his disparate friends, boards a train, and heads East, not knowing whether he’ll even be able to find Adriana and their son, Ford, or what he’ll say to them if does. Meanwhile, Ford, for the first time in his life, is beginning to ask questions about his father, a man with whom he has far more in common than he realizes.

When they were young, Rhue and Adriana had big plans—they were going to join the Peace Corps and serve in Africa. (As a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer myself, I’m always intrigued by such characters.) But their plans changed when Adriana became pregnant, and, feeling trapped, Rhue disappeared. Ford, on the other hand, had few plans for his life, but, ironically, he did manage to get to Africa in the Peace Corps to fulfill his parents’ dreams. Yet he’s been in a comfortable, aimless laboratory ever job since then, running through a series of meaningless relationships with women he can barely remember. Until he meets Evie, a younger woman who is the first to get to him, the first person he can share his feelings with.

As the book alternates between the points of view of father and son, the reader eagerly anticipates their first meeting and the potential fireworks it’s sure to generate. But Honenberger skillfully delays that meeting, building suspense by interposing obstacle after obstacle. The train trip takes a long time, giving us the chance to feel Rhue’s pain (both the literal pain in his leg and his decades-old psychic pain). Ford is becoming increasingly attracted to Evie, and they leave town together, raising the likelihood that he won’t even be in the City when Rhue gets there. And Rhue suffers a series of mishaps upon arrival at Penn Station, while both father and son develop intense misgivings about meeting. Meanwhile, the tension builds . . .

The title of the novel refers to the “dance” Rhue does with his favorite horse, Delilah, in the portion of the book, but it also is suggestive of what Rhue did to his family in the past—he waltzed out of Adriana’s life. And in this novel, that’s what fathers do in one way or another. Rhue’s own father was distant and unsupportive. Evie’s father was abusive, in more ways than one. The two street kids Rhue meets on his first day in New York are from troubled families, including one father who is often absent because of his problems with the police. With fathers like these populating the world—there don’t seem to be any good role models in the book—is it any wonder that Ford has trouble contemplating commitment and children? Cowboy fathers walk—or waltz—because that’s what men do. And the question the book asks is this: Is there any way to recover from all that? Is it possible for fathers to come back? Is there a second chance?

Despite the charm of the story and the narrative energy that moves it forward, making it a thoroughly enjoyable read, I did find myself balking in places at characters who seemed less than believable. The street boys, Rip and the Wizard, who appear threatening at first glance, didn’t feel genuine to me, nor did I fully believe that Rhue would follow them, or, for that matter, that he would allow himself to be pulled along to Central Park by the woman Cecily, whom he meets outside the train station. It’s also somewhat unbelievable that Rhue would not attempt to call from Montana before making the trip, a wonder that even he remarks on.

But these are minor complaints about a story—and main characters—that held my interest from start to finish.

Book Blogger Convention

I wonder if there's any way I can go to the Book Blogger Convention? (May 28 in NYC)

Harper's: "My Pain Is Worse Than Your Pain" by T. Coraghessan Boyle

In my discussion of the Boyle story in this week’s New Yorker I commented that it was interesting that the author’s name is T. Coraghessan Boyle in The New Yorker, but T.C. Boyle elsewhere. In the printed Harper’s the short form is used. BUT I just noticed that online they use the long form. I’m sure there’s an explanation, but I can’t tell you what it is.

This story, in my opinion, is the much stronger of the two stories, but in reality they’re the same story. They’re set in closed communities—this one a mountain resort. The narrator this time is a man who behaves badly (he peeps on the widow next door) and gets divorced for his sins. He becomes, at least briefly, something of an outcast in the community, and when he’s beginning to feel better about himself he . . . well, I won’t spoil it for anyone. But I will say that there’s a fistfight at the end, which is exactly how the New Yorker story ends. Is Boyle coming out with a collection of fistfight stories?

I like this story in large measure because of the voice of the narrator, a man who is constantly justifying his actions, even when what he does is inexcusable. The descriptions of what he does are vivid and specific, including this passage about an accident that injured the widow next door:

“The oil melted the skin across half her back down to the panty line and wrapped a big annealed scar around her left shoulder and upper arm and burned what looks like two teardrops into the flesh under her left eye, which the plastic surgeon says he can remove and smooth over just like new once she saves up for the next round of operations, because, of course, Frank, who never even bothered to carry a compass with him out into the doom-haunted woods, didn’t have adequate health coverage from his insurer. Or life insurance, for that matter.”

But besides the voice, I also like the structure. The narrator is pushed toward a decision, which he makes, and which changes his life. Not all stories do that, but it’s classic and it works.

So. I finally found a T.C. Boyle story that I like.

January: “My Pain is Worse Than Your Pain” by T.C. Boyle

The Death of Fiction?

The Virginia Quarterly Review Blog links to and discusses VQR Editor Ted Genoways's essay in Mother Jones: The Death of Fiction? (and also link to this blog in the process). The article is sobering and a must-read.

ASC: Twelfth Night

The American Shakespeare Center does Twelfth Night every few years. It’s popular and definitely a staple for a Shakespeare company. The last time they did it was the Fall 2008 season, which I saw twice and discussed here and here.

This time, Daniel Kennedy is Malvolio, and he’s hilarious (although in the 2008 production, John Harrell played this part and he’s a hard act to follow). Benjamin Curns is quite good as Toby Belch (James Keegan played that part last time around). Gregory Jon Phelps is a terrific Duke Orsino, and his scenes with Miriam Donald (Viola/Cesario) are very touching. Tyler Moss is perfect as Sebastian and Sarah Fallon stands out, as usual, in the part of Olivia. John Harrell this time is Feste, the fool, which he plays with a world-weariness that deepens that character for me. It’s not all laughs for Feste. Chris Johnston is Sir Andrew Aguecheek, in one of his strongest roles ever. Allison Glenzer is Maria, Denice Burbach is Fabian, and Rene Thornton Jr. is Antonio, and all do fine work in their parts.

As usual, the musical numbers during the pre-show and interlude were outstanding and this time both “halves” of the show were introduced by songs that led directly into the action, which was very effective. I love listening to these performers sing and often wish I knew what songs were being performed since I often don’t recognize them. (The song that Phelps and Donald sing just before Orsino’s “If music be the food of love, play on,” speech, for example, was one that I’d like to find.)
This show marks the beginning of the 2010 Actors’ Renaissance Season during which the company performs five shows in rotating repertory, without directors or costumers, and with very little rehearsal time. They are now beginning to work Doctor Faustus into the rotation and later will add The Alchemist, Henry VI, Part 2, and The Roman Actor. I’ll see them all, at least once.

(Side note: I ran into old friends at the theater today, folks I’ve known since I lived in Singapore in the 1980s. They’re now near Charlottesville and come the Blackfriars frequently!)

The New Yorker: "A Death in Kitchawank" by T. Coraghessan Boyle

Why is this author called “T. Coraghessan Boyle” in The New Yorker, but “T.C. Boyle” everywhere else? (He also has a story in this month’s Harper’s, where the shorter version of the name is used; I’ll be commenting on that story tomorrow.) And why do we have to keep reading his stories in The New Yorker? It’s not that this is an awful story. In fact, there are some things about it that I like a lot. But mostly it’s boring and, if not quite predictable, predictably unsatisfying.

The story is primarily from Miriam’s perspective. It’s the seventies before Nixon’s resignation and Miriam lives with her husband Sid and daughter Susan in the Colony at Kitchawank, a nice lakeside community where they socialize frequently with their neighbors. There are also two adult sons, but their virtually invisible in the story. Miriam’s good friend Marsha is married to David, and they have a daughter Seldy. Seldy takes up with the neighborhood bad boy, Richie, and over time the neighborhood crumbles around the edge, as does Miriam’s closeness to Marsha. In the end, someone dies—you get that from the title, so that’s no spoiler—and I’m not sure the story succeeds in making the reader care. In fact, it seems to me that Miriam has never cared all that much, and that’s her attitude at the end: “She knows it will all be lost, everything we make, everything we love, everything we are.” That bleak conclusion is softened somewhat by a pleasant memory Miriam has of her young daughter back during a carefree time.

In fact, I like this aspect of the ending – that it seems to go in two different directions at once. But because I never really felt the tension of the story, this ending isn’t satisfying.

What I liked most about the story, though, is the interjection of the second voice in seven places through the narrative—in brackets, in smaller type. It is the voice of “T.” who is a friend Lester, one of Miriam’s sons, and also, of course, that of T.C. Boyle. It’s an interesting touch and I found myself looking forward to these interjections more than I did the actual story. Which doesn’t say much for the story, I’m afraid.

January 18, 2010: “A Death in Kitchawank” by T. Coraghessan Boyle

The Haiti Disaster

"Disaster" is too small a word for what has happened and is happening in Haiti. The images I have seen on my computer screen are truly horrifying, and the suffering of the people is unimaginable. The Red Cross has estimated that as many as 50,000 people have died, and it's clear that Port-au-Prince will have to be completely rebuilt.

All I know about Haiti is what I've read, and much of that is from the work of Edwidge Danticat. I wanted to see what other books about Haiti might be available and found this list on Amazon compiled by Kyle Minor, a writer friend who knows Haiti well. Also, check out this NPR interview with Danticat and related links for more information.

I believe that most Americans are appalled by the revolting comments made by Pat Robertson. You would think that someone who claims to be a Christian would find something more helpful to say in this time of catastrophe. The world should shun this charlatan. The always-offensive Rush Limbaugh has also behaved badly, being critical of President Obama's quick statements about Haiti and attributing the government's speed to Obama wanting to please African Americans. Rush Limbaugh is an idiot, and a racist to boot. Boycott Rush.

I've seen on Facebook and elsewhere expressions of frustration that there isn't more we can do to help. As individuals, few of us have the skills that are needed in this moment of crisis, where search and rescue, medical treatment, and the delivery of food and water are paramount. But we can help by donating money to the organizations who are on the ground in Haiti administering aid. I gave to the Red Cross. Some friends have given to the excellent organizations Partners in Health and Doctors Without Borders. The White House Website also has a list of organizations you might consider supporting. Please do what you can. One popular method of contributing has been the simplest: by texting "HAITI" to "90999" you will contribute $10 to the Red Cross that will be charged to your cell phone.

My ears are burning

I think someone must be talking about me. Hey, they are! (A "friendly fellow named Clifford Garstang . . .") Over at Wag's Revue, which I mentioned last year (here), the folks who edit that magazine comment on my comments and also comment on the comments to my comments. Besides all that, the Winter 2009 issue includes an interview with David Rakoff and new work by . . . a bunch of people I've never heard of. (Sorry! I promise to come back and read this issue and get to know you all.)

Book Club: In an Uncharted Country

Since my linked short story collection (In an Uncharted Country) came out in September 2009, I have enjoyed making appearances at bookstores and libraries and schools to talk about the book and about short stories in general. It's been a lot of fun and I have quite a few appearances scheduled over the next few months.

But this week, for the second time, I visited a book club that had chosen my book to discuss. The first time, shortly after publication, was also a lot of fun--good food and wine contributed to that--but I was a little stunned to be sitting in a room where listening to people talk about the book and, to a lesser extent, about me. This time the food and wine were also great, but I was a little more prepared to hear the book club members talk about my stories and characters, and to hear reactions that were surprisingly different. "The Clattering of Bones" made one member cry (it's about, in part, an injured animal). "William & Frederick" made everyone laugh (I read a few pages of that story to the group and was gratified by chuckles and guffaws). And in many of the stories the members recognized, or thought they recognized, people or places in our area.

It was a lively discussion and I had a great time. I hope there will be opportunities for more visits to book clubs -- either in person or on the telephone, as some writers do.

The New Yorker: "Safari" by Jennifer Egan

This “story” is actually an excerpt from Egan’s forthcoming novel, A Visit from the Goon Squad, which, according to Random House, is about a fellow named Bennie Salazaar. In this excerpt we don’t even meet Bennie, but we do meet Lou, his mentor, various associates of Lou's, Lou’s two children from his first marriage, and Mindy, who is destined to be his third wife. So it isn’t clear what this excerpt has to do with the novel, but as excerpts go it stands alone pretty well.

The piece is unusual, though, in its omniscient point of view and the way, especially toward the end, that it offers flash-forwards revealing the futures of many of the characters, including the children, Charlene and Rolph, and also Mindy, the girlfriend. But the main action of this excerpt is this: Lou, a record producer, is on safari in Africa with his much younger girlfriend, two of his children, his travel agent, and two members of a band he produces, and their girlfriends. (It has too many characters.) Among other things that happen, the group encounters a pride of lions and one of the musicians wanders too close, prompting a lioness to attack him. The incident provides fodder for discussion, and also solidifies the attraction the girlfriend feels for one of the guides, an Englishman who saves the day with his rifle.

The ending of the story, though, since it isn’t an ending (since it isn’t a story), fizzles. One of the kids utters what might be a punchline for the story, except that it doesn’t really mean much. It’s an entertaining piece and suggests that Egan’s novel will be fun, but beyond that it doesn’t do anything for me.

January 11, 2010: “Safari” by Jennifer Egan

Diary of an Interesting Year (not to be confused with the Helen Simpson story of the same name)

New Issue: The Short Review, January 2010

The January edition of The Short Review is now live and filled with lots of cool stuff, including reviews of books by Alice Zorn, Daniel A Hoyt, Midge Raymond, Andrew McNabb and Hassan Blasim (translated into English for the first time), alongside Alice Munro's 40-year-old first collection, and Sherman Alexie's third collection and A L Kennedy's fifth, Tales of the DeCongested's second anthology and the Atlantis Collective's first.

Plus contests, interviews, and more. This is a terrific magazine for short story lovers. Check it out!

Lethem on Writing

LitMag Wave: Redivider, Vol. 7 No. 1

I spent this evening with the latest issue of Redivider, a publication of Emerson College. There are several things about the issue that I like, but the highlight was "Wodwo," a short piece by Dan Chaon. It has a Twilight Zone feel to it: Kate is driving in the dark and hits a deer. She goes through all of the emotions one feels in that situation (I've been there), and then she gets out of the car to inspect the damage. Big mistake. Kate! Don't get out of the car! Actually, it isn't completely clear what happens, because the story has an appropriately open ending, but the title of the story might suggest the direction the author wants us to go. I had to look it up: Wodwo, the wild man of the woods. Or deer, in this case.

Two other stories in the issue were also interesting reads, but similar in subject matter: "The House on Whaler Bay" by Carolyn Watson and "Excavation" by Tom Barlow. They both involve older relatives living in squalor, the first a pair of elderly aunts who don't take care of themselves and the second a senile father who seems to have a hording disorder. And these were all the more interesting because twice in the last 24 hours E.L. Doctorow's book Homer and Langley came up in conversation, and that's also about a couple of horders.

Although it has nothing to do with this issue, in looking at the magazine's website I noticed their special online feature, the Contributor Focus, which includes extra information and interviews with some contributors, the first being with Kevin Wilson, whom the magazine calls "ruthlessly likeable"--I love that description of Kevin, and it's spot on. Nice interview by James Scott, also a nice guy.

The New Yorker: "Baptizing the Gun" by Uwem Akpan

And so begins a new year of New Yorker stories. Starting with:

This story by Uwem Akpan began well enough, steeped in conflict. The narrator, a Nigerian priest on his way to Lagos to beg aid for his parish from the wealthier charges, is stuck in a traffic jam that is no ordinary traffic jam. Given rampant crime and corruption, not to mention the unreliable Volkswagen Beetle he’s driving, getting stuck in traffic could mean death. When his car does break down, he is forced to take the help of a tall stranger who, he believes, is concealing a gun in his pocket. The narrator, despite being a man of God, is terrified—of his new passenger, of the militias, of the police, of everyone. His fear gets worse and worse and it becomes hard to believe that he’s ever been able to function as a priest at all in Nigeria. And the tension mounts until . . .

But it drags on and on, way too long, in my opinion. And the ending is neither believable nor satisfying. At least we learned that Nigeria is corrupt. Oh wait. We already knew that.

January 4, 2010: “Baptizing the Gun” by Uwem Akpan

Book Giveaway!

Register to win a copy of IN AN UNCHARTED COUNTRY from the good people at Big Blend Radio. Contest ends Saturday, January 9 at 3pm PST.



And, if you don't win, you can always buy one here or here.

Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann

Let the Great World Spin
Colum McCann
Random House 2009

I've just finished this book, my first read of 2010. It's a fine book, although I'm not sure it's a great one. What it has to say about connectedness and faith, about accidents and forgiveness, I think is important. And it works those themes beautifully into an intricate story that covers 22 years--more, even, if you count the childhood of John Andrew and Ciaran in Dublin. But from this distance--just a few minutes after turning the final page--I'm dissatisfied with the book's structure. I felt until the very end that that the several different narratives were too disparate, and the linkages among them too coincidental. The result was that I never knew whose story I was reading. With a novelist of McCann's skill, this is clearly intentional. It isn't the story of any one of the characters we meet in the book--if anything, it's the story of New York, and possibly it's the story of the world.

The book begins with a glimpse of the tightrope walker in 1974 as he's walking between the two towers of the World Trade Center, and interspersed with the other sections we see more of him, even as the characters in those sections catch glimpses of him on the wire. Then we're introduced to Corrigan (John Andrew Corrigan) and his older brother Ciaran, Irish kids who follow very different paths to New York City. Their lives become enmeshed with those of Tillie Henderson and her daughter Jazzlyn, two hookers. Separately, we meet Claire, whose son has been killed in Vietnam, and her husband, Solomon Soderberg, as well as Gloria, who has lost three sons in Vietnam. The connection between these two separate stories reveals itself eventually, but it isn't clear immediately.

Despite my vague unease with the structure, I'm thoroughly impressed with the way McCann has captured such a diverse range of characters and settings, not to mention speech and behavior. The black hookers might be a little over the top but . . . then again maybe not. The Corrigan brothers are charming. John Andrew's love, whom we don't get to see for very long, is from another world herself, as is just about everyone we meet. And the metaphor of the tightrope is wonderful in the way it does double duty--we all walk a thin line, but, on the other hand, there's a line connecting one tower to the next. (In this brief review, I know I'm not doing the book justice in terms of its themes, or the wonderful characters McCann has created. Among other things, any reading of the book has to take into account that the World Trade Center towers no longer exist, and that the terrorist attack of 9/11 was part of what prompted the novel.)

This novel won the National Book Award for Fiction for 2009. It's not hard to understand why.

Literary Magazines: 750/160

Are you a writer? Do you support literary magazines? Do you subscribe to one or more? I think every writer who wants to be published in literary magazines (which is an important first step for many emerging writers who want their work to be taken seriously by literary agents and book publishers) should subscribe. Not only to help those magazines survive but also to keep an eye on what editors are publishing and writers are writing. (Check out the New Pages Big List of Literary Magazines to find some you'd like to subscribe to.)

Because I let my mind wander from my writing just now and my gaze landed on my shelves of literary magazines, and because I have a database that allows me to do this easily, I decided to find out how many journals I have in my collection. It turns out that I have about 750 individual issues (700 or so if you subtract all the little One Story issues) of 160 different magazines. I wish I could say I'd read them all, and I get more behind each week as new issues arrive--last week the new Ploughshares came, as did a VQR, and Indiana Review, a Prairie Schooner, and a Redivider--but I'm comforted that I can dip into these magazines whenever I want.

Say, if you need to find something, come on by. There's a good chance I've got it.

In an Uncharted Country in Richmond Times-Dispatch

I had a pleasant surprise today when I saw that In an Uncharted Country was mentioned in today's Virginia Book Notes in the Richmond Times-Dispatch:

A dozen short stories make up In an Uncharted Country (186 pages, Press 53, $14), the latest offering from Staunton author Clifford Garstang, a Fellow of the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts.

These taut, Virginia-set stories explore a variety of emotional landscapes and showcase the characters at times of loss.

Garstang's work has appeared in a number of literary magazines, including the Virginia Quarterly Review and Shenandoah.

I'm looking forward to doing an event or two in the Richmond area in the near future.

Off a Side Road Near Staunton

My friend Jim Barszcz, editor of the College Hill Review, just sent me a link to this Stanley Plumly piece in the Washington Post's Poet's Choice feature: 'Off a Side Road Near Staunton' by Stanley Plumly. (You may need to register with WaPo to view the article.)

I'm surprised I didn't see the article. I'm surprised I didn't see Plumly, since I live "off a side road near Staunton." Plumly recounts getting off the highway (he doesn't name I-81, but that's the road) to look at the landscape:

It was a golden day, actually. The fields falling away in front of me were one kind after another -- pasture, lapsed meadow, cut corn, a few trees, then forest, then pine and hardwood going on and on up the mountains.

Yep, that's it. He says he went home and wrote the poem, "Off a Side Road Near Staunton," which you can read by clicking on the link above.

Plumly's not the only one of late to pull off I-81 and write about the experience. I blogged recently about a Sam Shepard story in Zoetrope: Thor's Day (Highway 81 North, Staunton, Virginia). So much attention for our little neck of the woods!

(Thanks, Jim!)

Andrew's Book Club Picks for January

Another month, another couple of short story collection picks from Andrew's Book Club. This month we have Barb Johnson's More of this World or Maybe Another from Harper Perennial and Tim Johnston's Irish Girl, from University of North Texas Press.

More good reading ahead . . .

Happy Blogiversary to Me

I can't believe I've been blogging for five years, but it's apparently true. Here's my first post, from January 1, 2005. Now, a couple of thousand posts and hundreds of thousands of visits later, I'm still going.

I enjoy doing this. It's a way for me to comment on things I've read, to promote the work of my friends, to support literary magazines, and to comment on matters related to the world of literature. Two mainstays of the blog attract a fair amount of attention: my comments about the New Yorker story each week, and my ranking of literary magazines based on the Pushcart Prize. This year I intend to expand the story commentary to include Harpers, and I'm also going to try to add Creative Non-fiction ranking based on the Pushcart Prizes. Otherwise, I don't expect many changes.

I hope readers continue to find something of interest here at Perpetual Folly. Comments and suggestions are always welcome.

Innovation at Smokelong Quarterly

Here's an interesting post at HTML Giant by Dave Clapper, editor of Smokelong Quarterly, about a new approach to submissions. The basic idea, as I understand it, is that guest editors will read unsolicited submissions for a week to find ONE worthy story, while the regular editors will work on solicited stories and otherwise filling the quarterly quota of 20 stories.

From the editors' point of view, it sounds great, a way to avoid the burnout that seems inevitable. From the writers' point of view? I'm not sure. It seems to introduce a larger element of chance into the equation than there was before--your submission has to be the "best" of the week in the eyes of whoever happens to be the guest editor that week. Maybe the end result is no more capricious than the way it works now. Hard to say. But I applaud Dave and Smokelong for thinking outside the box!

2009 New Yorker Story of the Year: And the Winner is . . .

The polls have closed and the votes have been counted. We have a tie! Sharing the New Yorker Story of the Year honor for 2009 are two excellent stories, "A Tiny Feast" by Chris Adrian and "Victory Lap" by George Saunders. Another fine story, "Idols," by Tim Gautreaux, came just one vote shy of making it a three-way tie.

Congratulations to Chris Adrian and George Saunders!

And thanks to all who voted!