Living Arrangements

Laura Maylene Walter's debut short story collection "Living Arrangements" (BkMk Press, 2011) won the 2010 G.S. Sharat Chandra Prize for Short Fiction.  I love what Robert Olen Butler had to say about her work:

“The stories in Living Arrangements are rooted in the most important principles of literary art. They are not content simply to render the problems of characters; they transform those problems into the dynamic of desire, which drives all great narrative. And the desire in these stories is that of most great literature: the desire for self, the desire for a place in the world, in the universe. Living Arrangements is a splendid recipient of the redoubtable G. S. Sharat Chandra Prize for Short Fiction.”


Pretty amazing, right? I've found "Living Arrangements" compulsively readable.  The characters in these stories are emotionally driven and feel alive on the page. I once told her how reading her stories feels like riding the subway and wondering about the people I see, but her work she gives me a glimpse inside their hidden self - their fears, secrets and desires. Like Butler said, her work goes further, transforms those details of characters into something more, something complex and compelling.

I first met Laura in a writer's group about four years ago. I was so impressed with her writing. I remember trying to awkwardly convey this to her after that first meeting. I don't think I was successful in hiding how flabbergasted I was that she wasn't submitting her work for publication. I'm pretty sure I insisted she should be sending it out to the world. She probably thought I was a total weirdo (writer's groups are full of them, after all). Fortunately for me, this weirdo impression didn't appear to deter her. When I finally worked up the nerve to contact her, we met for coffee and she offered me what every writer needs - friendship. Laura is an excellent critique partner, confidant and cheerleader. I'm so glad she started sending out her stories so everyone else can enjoy and admire them too.

Nothing Down

I remember all those years where I stared, with slack jawed paralysis, at the blank page. The inertia of inaction breeding only more inaction. Simple physics. My brain, my body couldn't focus and bring words to life. I read a book once about a school for teenagers where dead spirits possessed their body  and they blacked out only to wake hours later with completed paintings, stories, symphonies. I would sit there in my living/dining room chain smoking and wish that kind of creepy would propel me into motion. Because not knowing where to start, the myriad ways to fail was too much weight on my young shoulders.

I started lots of things only to abandon them half formed with flailing, malnourished prose arms. Reaching. Reaching for more. I feel that way, even now, even those in this space more than ten years later where I've written two novels. There was a time where I never knew if I could do that or if I ever would. Birthing those words felt very nearly impossible. Wrapping myself around another idea right now does too. But I'm at a different angle of the abyss now. I know, despite the daunting crevice, its possible to shape, pare, and cultivate these seeds of an idea into something cohesive. Good? Only time will tell. For now it is enough to keep working.


Happy 2012.

An Ugly Word

While at the store last week I spied a very ugly word scrawled in blue crayon on the back of a box. It was a racial slur. The worst one, in my opinion. I felt violated by that ugly word and I didn't know what to do. So I cradled the box in my arm, careful so no one could see the word, and marched to the customer service desk. The woman was smiling, she had just been chatting with her friend and the laughter was still dying out on her lips. I put the box on the counter and pointed to the word.  She squinted at the box, perhaps just as disbelieving as I, and then grimaced.  The other girl came to take a look and flinched when it registered, as if the word itself had teeth and could bite."We should go see if there are more," she said and disappeared. I wondered if they found any more words. Or perhaps the crayon hidden behind a box of cereal or a under a bag of cookies.

I realized later that the word itself only had the power that I gave to it. The shame that I felt was real, palpable, but in part because where I come from.  I don't want to be from the kind of people who would say that word without pause, but maybe I need to explore that side, the bigotry that hides in sleepy towns, still very much alive in the minds of another generation. Have you ever seen an ugly world out in the wild, where you didn't expect it?  

Smothering

A friend of mine read a story and wrote me a long note with some super smart observations.  This was the most intense analysis of my work I'd ever read. It was amazing and flattering and gave me lots to think about. One of the most interesting comments was about theme. She noted that many of my stories feature characters who feel smothered by their daily existence and are "longing for release."

It is so true, but I'm not sure I knew how to articulate it in quite that way. I'm playing around with the idea of a novel in stories. I went back and read the two stories I've been working on to kick off this collection and sure enough, I find that sense of smothering as a strong line of tension on the page.

What is the most surprising thing you've learned about your own writing? Are your characters feeling smothered too?


Photo: eye of einstein

What season are you?

When I was at the delicate age of twelve there was a summer class offered on beauty. I remember the class description being vague, at best.  My mother was thrilled, she has always been one for layering beauty on oneself. I thought the class might be more about cultivating inner beauty and positive self image. But I was wrong.

The beauty class explored practicalities: how to wear make-up, buy clothes and plan your image.  A required beauty workbook (yes, you read that right - a beauty textbook!) explained the central unifying theory of image making: find your season and how to structure everything around that theme.  Everyone could be grouped into one of the four seasons, and each season had a natural color palate and sense of style.  Due to my brown hair and brown eyes I was placed into Autumn with a rust, gold, burgundy and brown color scheme. I remember the ache in my heart as I watched the summer and spring girls around me, with their shiny blonde hair and crisp, bright colors. Fun colors.Theirs was the domain of green, pinks and turquoise. Cute dresses. Then there were the mysterious winter girls with their alabaster skin and dark, exotic hair and eyes. They got to explore the jewel tones of that season, the lush feel of velvet, and clothes with romantic flowing collars and lace trims. By comparison, I felt a decaying time of year. Dressed much like a boring pumpkin.

I was thinking about this beauty class recently as I've been considering what project I want to work on next. Sometimes I feel like I get stuck in my own season, jealously observing others who are working in different genres and styles. I know theme isn't set in stone. There is room to explore other areas of interest. That is how voice and style grow, by pushing the boundaries of what is known. There are no real rules. Only the rules you make for yourself. I can write about anything I want. It is one of the great things about being unknown (see, there are great things about it!), there is freedom to explore and write that space-cowboy-ninja adventure tale if I so choose. Or not.

Incidentally, I did learn some things in that beauty class: how to use clear nail polish to stop a run in pantyhose, how to get a fresh bloodstain out of your clothing, and how many different kinds of infections you can get from mascara.  So, armed with this info, I'm all set to write a beauty of a fight scene.

Photo: Ramón Peco

first day of summer song

Last year I was traveling with my husband and son in France on the first day of summer. June 21 is more than the summer solstice there, it is the Fête de la Musique.  Paris becomes a living, pulsing music box when the sun goes down. Changing the channel is as simple as walking from one street corner to the next. We found a salsa band with people dancing in the street, a deejay playing electronic dance music and a string quartet.  Walk farther still and you can find folk, punk, rock, jazz, rap, and just about anything else imaginable. Driving in most places becomes nearly impossible. The streets are full of people and exploring the scene is really more of letting go, letting yourself be taken with the crowd along a steady stream of bodies. There is a frenzy to the whole affair, a delicious sort of energy that presses between bodies and rides the currents and sound in the still warm evening air. 

So, in the spirit of celebrating music, enjoy the following video of "Wayfaring Stranger." (It plays a big part in my novel, RIDING THE BLIND).

So True, Dr. Seuss

"Well... that vent where I went
Was a sort of funnel
That led me down into
A frightful black tunnel.
The traffic down there
Was a mess, I must say,
With billions of birds
Going all the wrong way.
They bumped me with bikes
And they banged me with dishes.
I ran into ladders,
Beds, bottles and fishes.
I skidded on garbage.
I fell in a horn.
Troubles! I wished
I had never been born!"

Source: I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew by Dr. Seuss

Photo: Stuck in Customs