conference learnings

I attended my first academic writing conference this weekend. I learned a lot I didn't expect to learn. Much of what I learned was what I didn't realize I already knew. I feel like everything I've been doing, both to develop skills and to build community with other writers, is exactly what I should be doing, and I felt surprisingly "ahead" in this regard in comparison to some more exclusively academically-focused writers who still operate with a far more cloistered and garreted mindset. Writers inside the academy are sometimes very... academic. This might seem obvious, but I don't think I'd ever thought about what this really means. One sometimes imagines (or at least I've imagined) MFA programs existing at the fringe of their institutions as little enclaves of freakishness. Perhaps this is true some places, I do not know. Clearly academic writing communities and the independent/small press communities and online lit communities are far from fully separate, but at the same time, they are a great deal more separate than I realized. The cultural difference between this weekend and something more like Pilcrow Lit Fest was striking. For instance, nobody stood on a bartop this weekend, and there was minimal whooping and hollering.

Here are a few things I learned (I may change my mind as I write, and some of the bullet points will not be accurately described as learnings) this weekend:

~I find craft classes a great deal more useful when abtract lessons about craft retain some focus on language and sentences. Otherwise, "craft" starts to become prescriptive and stifling, and you also kind of miss the point as far as what makes a given piece of writing thrilling.

~Some writers of long fiction, both longer short stories and novels, feel weirdly threatened by short shorts and by the internet, some going as far as to say the novel is "under threat" because of short attention spans and the rise of the short short. It is incredibly annoying when, rather than speaking to their personal feelings of anxiety regarding these issues, these threatened-feeling writers of long fiction try to academicize their feelings and concoct bullshit theories about the so-called "short short age" that are ultimately unresearched and based entirely upon anecdotal evidence and experiences, experiences that would be entirely valid would said threatened-feeling writers just identify their experiences as such, own their own anxieties and stop framing the conversation in the bullshit abstract. This would, I believe, allow for a more productive conversation about the relationship between the short short and the novel. Additionally, shorter work is valid as its own form, and to imply it's valuable primarily as a way to develop one's voice and capacity for language so that one can eventually write better long shorts and novels is totally obnoxious. Also, I do not understand statements like, "technology is an uncreative medium, because technology is inherently left-brained." ...like at all. It's utter nonsense bullshit to me. But I neither understand nor acknowledge the distinction between the so-called left brain and right brain, so I might not be the right person to respond to this.

~Some academic folks completely ignore the independent and small press community, and not so subtly imply the Academy are the only folks preserving literature as the commercial sphere declines.

~Somebody needs to come up with something fresher to say on panels about publishing than, "research your journals, keep good records, read guidelines, include an SASE, etc." Although I did learn one interesting thing during that panel -- Garnet Cohen from Hotel Amerika said she has her student readers pass along to her anyone whose cover letter lists three publications, regardless of how the student reacts to the work. I feel like intern and student reader bashing is one of the most widespread forms of submitter paranoia, and I wonder how many other academic journals employ this or a similar method.

There were other things I learned I will probably mention in later posts. I'm very glad I participated.

dachshunds when spelled looks like it should sound like docks and shunned.

There are at least three dachshunds in Best of the Web 2009. One is hung with fungus and sizzles on a Cadillac's hood. The other two become piles of Esquire magazines.

There are many dachshunds on the internet.

Here are a few of my favorites.








LITTLE KNOWN FACTS ABOUT DACHSHUNDS GLEANED FROM WIKIPEDIA:

~ the breed's name is German and literally means "badger dog"
~Many dachshunds, especially the wire-haired sub type, may exhibit behavior and appearance that are similar to that of the terrier group of dogs.
(ed note: Fans of Chris Guest are already aware that GOD LOVES A TERRIER.)
~the dachshund is the only certifiable breed of dog to hunt both above and below ground.
(like your mom)
~they are featured in many a joke and cartoon, particularly The Far Side by Gary Larson.
~if a dachshund is brindled on a dark coat and has tan points, you will see brindling on the tan points only.
brindle my points
~the ONLY disqualifying Fault in Dachshunds is Knuckling over.
knuckle my trunkle
~Dachshunds can have a blue and a brown eye.
Like Kate Blah-sworth
~Dachshunds are playful.
Like your dad. ;-) ...say hi for me.
~Many dachshunds do not like unfamiliar people, and many will growl or bark at them.
~Some writers and daschund experts have theorized that the early roots of the dachshund go back to ancient Egypt, where engravings were made featuring short-legged hunting dogs.
~Dachshunds are popular pets in the United States, ranking seventh in the 2008 American Kennel Club registration statistics.


UNEXPECTED LAST MINUTE CONTEST ANNOUNCEMENT!!!

Write something using one of the above photos as your prompt. Send your something to knockonformica@gmail.com by next Saturday. My favorite dachshund-derived writing will be posted on the blog, and I will also buy the winner a copy of Best of the Web 2009. If you already have Best of the Web 2009, I will buy you something else instead. Special love will be felt for anyone who uses one of the little-known dachshund facts as a sentence in your dachshund-derived writing.

Happy badger hunting!

This is today.

I am going.

On the Other Hand

I just read "On the Other Hand" by Michael Czyzniejewski in Best of the Web 2009 (originally appeared in Waccamaw), and I think it might be my favorite thing I've ever read by him, including all the stories in "Elephants in our Bedroom." Two mens' hands are accidentally switched after a car accident, and the one who is not our narrator becomes a bit wackjobish and stalkeresque. This setup would probably be enough to power the story through to its conclusion, but then Czyniejweski moves in an unexpected direction in the story's final pages, and the story becomes something even broader, deeper and stranger having to do with identity, intimacy and fear. Has anyone read this?

It is possible Joyce Carol Oates is not my cup of tea.

I was twitching. I was looking around and I was thinking and I was reading, seeing, wondering, and every verb was ending with ing, and I felt soaked with gerunds like a musty rank red tampon reeking of an animal woman scent and no! Should I say this? Should I say what I felt, reading? Perhaps it was unwise, I ventured, speaking ill of a writer held in such lofty, luminous regard, for who am I? Who am I? Saying and thinking such thoughts, to declare this prose wild and unwieldy, ponderous and pretentious and -- dare I say it? Sloppy! Like a reeking mucky river of muck, clutching and grabbing and clawing at my ankles, my eyes bleeding upon the page, red running rivulets. But no! I thought, I cannot, shall not say it. To criticize a figurehead? For life, if nothing else, is our accommodation of others' expectations.

Monkeybicycle Front to Back - Part 6: Souffle of Engorged, of Long-Suffering Flesh by Nora Robertson

Another favorite.

This piece so seduces me on a sentence-by-sentence basis that I'm disinclined to analyze it. It's sentences get me off, sentences like--

~"Whip a pint of heavy cream into a frenzy of stiff peaks."

~"I'm your slut, your slit, your bitch."

~"The rest of the day, a tug in my groin suggested esparadilles, a sangria top, accessories."

~"Now all I can do is masturbate, an insomnia of flesh shivering for release, next to your supine body."

...Still, I should probably say something more substantive.

The food-sex connection has already been thoroughly worked, but I never tire of it -- I think it's because gluttony and lust remain so closely linked in our culture. Robertson's piece gleefully celebrates both.

There are three threads here. One is instructions for making chocolate mousse ("mousse makes me think of frozen desire"). Another is the narrator's agonizing decision whether to buy two dresses she believes she oughtn't ("I saw the whispering dress, Marilyn Monroe shoulders and a layered cotton skirt cinched in tight.") The third involves the narrator's relationship with her lover ("...our hips buckled together, swollen spots rubbed raw"). I dig how Robertson sharply juxtaposes these three elements without any obvious connective tissue. Like ingredients thrown together and whipped into something delicious and hot. Yum.

News

A couple months back, Molly Gaudry posted in her blog a poem called "Some days even a cup of coffee is violence," composed of sentences from blogs she reads regularly. The poem was a fascinating exploration of writers' melancholy, and inspired me to take a crack at constructing a narrative piece using "found sentences" from blogs in my Google Reader. I ended up liking the outcome better than I'd expected, and decided to try submitting it a few places to see how it fared. I promised to keep this blog's readers, including Molly, updated on the piece's fate.

I am now very happy to announce "My Mother's Funeral" was accepted for the first issue of Artifice Magazine, forthcoming in January 2010.

Here's a list of places versions of this story (I chopped a bit off excess stuff off nearly every time I submitted, constantly honing) were rejected -- for the sake of full disclosure and because it might be of interest to this blog's readers... hopefully none of these pubs will be pissed off I mentioned them, I don't think any of them are the type that would be.

~Abjective
~eyeshot
~DIAGRAM
~Blake Butler/Lamination Colony's "Not a Contest" contest

...and pending at 5_Trope and Corduroy Mtn.

Chapbook (and other Slim Small Press Volum) Catchup Day

Today was chapbook (and other slim small press volume) catchup day. I read a whole bunch of things in one day and now am a little bit exhausted. I read, all in one day and in the following order--

~A Peculiar Feeling of Restlessness: Four Chapbooks of Short Fiction by Four Women, by Kathy Fish, Amy L Clark, Elizabeth Ellen and Claudia Smith.

~Phantasmagoria by Thomas Cooper

~Typewriter by Jimmy Chen

~Haircut Stories by Lydia Copeland

~The Collectors by Matt Bell

~A Jello Horse by Matthew Simmons

~Everything was Fine Until Whatever by Chelsea Martin

1,001 Awesome Words

To know Pank is to love Pank.

I know and love Pank.

I'm entering Pank's 1001 Awesome Words Contest.

Are you?

Happy Birthday to Me - Support Social Change

My birthday is on Sunday.

To celebrate, I've set up a birthday page in the "Causes" application on facebook to raise money for Crossroads Fund, the organization where I work.

Crossroads Fund raises money to support grassroots community organizers and social justice activists working on a variety of issues (criminal justice, immigration, racial justice, economic justice, LGBT/Queer stuff, women and girls, workers' rights, education, gentrification and displacement, etc) in the Chicago area.

Donate to my cause.

Monkeybicycle Front to Back - Part 5: From the Desk of JoJo Self

...gosh I seem to be turning these out rather slowly. ...I suppose there's nothing wrong with letting this become a months-long project though, is there? I can help keep Monkeybicycle 6 on the radar or whatever.

Corey Mesler's story "From the Desk of JoJo Self" is one of my favorites from Monkebicycle 6, and perhaps because of this, I have been avoiding this review, wanting to do the story justice. A few of the things I like about this story--

~Mesler's voice. Distinctive. Confident.

~Its fantastical elements: a magic desk swallows the craptastic sci-fi/fantasy manuscripts of agorophobic loser JoJo Self and delivers them to the desk of editor/frustrated writer Herman Newtix. Mesler's whimsical treatment of this premise reminds me a bit of the films of Charlie Kaufman.

~I became involved in the story... partway through, I realized I had stopped reading critically and was reading for fun, to find out what would happen next. This is worth something, I think, when a writer can invoke that sheer, childlike joy derived from storytelling.


I'll admit when I began reading, I had concerns. I sometimes have trouble identifying with sad sack male geeks, especially when they neglect their personal hygiene. I've an "ick factor" to contend with ...I will own this as my own personal issue, perhaps a byproduct of fagalicious shallowness. Although, in my defense, I must also note that in real life, the whole woe-is-me socially marginalized hetero male geek thing sometimes masks some ugly-ass misogyny. Yes, there are many geek misogynists, and I bristle when I hear them compare their marginal social status with systematic disenfranchisement of women, people of color, poor folks, Queer folks, etc, as though they are at all comparable ...And so when Mesler introduced the character of Candy, I was a bit worried she would prove to be a one-dimensional cipher in a geek boy fantasy wish fulfillment scenario. Thankfully, Candy is a woman of action, with plenty of chutzpah, and the story came alive for me when Mesler switches to her POV as she travels to New York to confront Newtix. Admittedly, everything Candy does she does to assist others, which some feminist critics might "problematize," but I was willing to forgive this, because I felt Mesler respected her and imbued her with some dignity. Candy was my favorite character.

I enjoyed this story and hope others enjoy it as well.

Contributor's Note

Tim Jones-Yelvington was born in Belleville, Illinois, and, at the age of two, relocated to the Chicago area before again moving, this time to the New York area, at the age of ten. Jones-Yelvington attended public schools until the age of 12, when he relocated to a fruity progressive Manhattan private school after an incident with a gay basher resulted in his breaking an elbow. It was during his years of schooling that Jones-Yelvington acquired a love of reading, which he excercised this weekend by completing George Saunders' Civilwarland in Bad Decline followed by Michael Martone by Michael Martone, reading both in their entirety. Although he is intermittently fascinated by amusement parks, Jones-Yelvington lacks what he interprets as Saunders' full-on obsession. He does, however, value Martone's absurdity and his attention paid to the seemingly mundane, what Martone's mentor John Barth may or may not have referred to as "a rich tapestry of details" (Martone, p. 130). This evening, Jones-Yelvington looks forward to "cracking the spine" on something new, perhaps "Faithless: Tales of Transgression" by Joyce Carol Oates, or Samuel Ligon's "Drift and Swerve," and welcomes his own readers' opinions on which to read first.

I'm obsessed with this sentence.

"He was the kind of boy I used to close my eyes, reach into my underwear and build from scratch."
--Dennis Cooper, from "Brian AKA 'Bear'" in Ugly Man.

This is a post where I will briefly put on display parts of myself that are not wholly flattering.

You know those personalized rejections that totally push your buttons with perfectly well-intentioned compliments that make you feel like you've totally missed the mark?

One of my biggest, reddest, shiniest buttons is being told a piece of writing is conceptually strong, or a great idea, that it is idea-driven (I think one of my least favorite words is clever, it totally makes me twitchy) when I thought I had written something emotionally-driven and honest.

For instance, the other day, I received workshop feedback on a story I believed to be one of the most visceral, deeply felt stories I'd ever written, telling me my prose was "breezy." I flipped my shit a little bit.

...So I'm slumping a little bit this morning over a button-pushing rejection, but I'm glad, because I generally find slumpy moods result in highly productive phases. ...I really don't want to write stories that are anything less than the best versions of themselves they can be, that are good instead of remarkable, and so when I receive the kind of feedback that pushes my buttons, after a brief hour or two of wailing and gnashing and asking, "What do I have to do to write something really truly special? ...Why won't somebody just tell me what single ingredient my work lacks (as if there could ever be one single ingredient, and as if anybody but myself could ever tell me what that ingredient is were such an ingredient to exist)," I remember that what I'm supposed to be doing is developing my own judgement and pushing myself to write more and write better and to travel into the places that are most scary and most vulnerable because these are the places where I most need to locate myself. And then I get back on the horse and work harder and try to kick some ass.

My New Shoes