A few weeks ago, celebrity blogger Charles LaFave joined Justin and me in doing some serious character sketching.
I was pretty sleepy then; so sleepy, in fact, that I've been sleeping ever since we did these sketches and haven't been able to post them.
I also slept through the Dorothy Allison interview (this is a fact).
Standard sketch rules applied: 15 minutes a piece, each character was chosen by one writer for another, and no editing allowed.
Charles' Sketch
I wore the largest pink sweater I have. Joshua sat across from me, eating the Fountain of Chocolate Bundt Cake. Hot fudge was spouting from it like a volcano.
I sipped a scalding cup of house coffee, doctored with skim milk and Equal. Sumatra, bold flavor.
Joshua drooled chocolate, decadent rivulets down his chin that he caught with his tiny fingers. He sucked them clean. His palms glistened with saliva. He used his lower teeth like a rake to collect the residue.
The coffee was so hot it burned, and I could only sip and scald and blow through the tiny opening to cool it, making a hollow note like I was playing a jug.
His entire face is sticky and sweet like a candied apple. He smeared his fingers across the plate leaving only a light brown film. He dropped his thumb on chocolate crumbs, smashing them and collecting them in one bunch that he deftly licked away flicking his tongue across his thumbnail.
He clicked and popped to free bits from his teeth.
It was Tuesday. I had lost four invisible pounds. A process of Spartan starvation had resulted in my losing something as insubstantial as a chess game or a penny.
Justin's Sketch
Armando Sergi didn’t have any friends to hang out with on the weekend, but he definitely didn’t want to be at the library. He hated chemistry, and his father made him spend his weekends at the library studying. He didn’t study though. He drew instead. Sometimes he sketched pictures of ball players, houses burning, and cops being shot by gangsters. Mostly, though, he drew pictures of women. He drew the head librarian naked putting books away. He drew Sharon, the sophomore who volunteered in the children’s section, taking a bath in the drinking fountain. He hated the library; it was too quiet. Once he threw the stool by the reference desk down the stairs, then hid in the newspaper room for an hour.
He pretended his calculator was a phone, and had loud, obnoxious conversations until some red-faced nerd told him to can it.
Armando always planned to tell his father off, then run away and join gang—anything—but every time his father told him it was time to go to the library, Armando hung his head and agreed.
Phillip's Sketch
Chuck Singleton was content with what life had given him: a good job, a good house, a good woman. There was really only one thing he felt like life had shorted him on: a good story.
Sure, he had the story about his limp. People liked to ask about that. But there wasn't a story there. He'd just been doing a job, fell off the scaffold, and about shattered his leg. Not much to it, really.
He tried to embellish it, but people always caught on. It's hard to make a story about falling off a scaffold any good.
For a while, he tried to make up other stories, though; he even said he'd been in a war.
That didn't last long. He didn't know much about war.
Still. He tried. Each day of his life became an epic, dictated to the imaginary typist in his head. Every step became a journey. every word a wisdom, and every day, he was a hero.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Dialogues.
This week, Justin and I went out and picked two people (that is, we had a couple of people each) to write imaginary dialogue for. Here is what we came up with.
Justin's Dialogue:
Herbert hovered over Coleen while the computer booted up.
“It’s not gonna change anything, babe,” she said, rubbing his hand and at the same time stilling his fingers from drumming on the table.
“That’s easy for you to say,” he snapped. She removed her hand. “I’m sorry—I’m just scared is all.”
“There’s nothin’ you can do ‘bout it, so why not just let it lie?”
“They might not’ve posted it yet,” He said, crossing his fingers. “Court systems ain’t always on top of things.”
When the computer was up, Coleen clicked on the internet and typed in a website.
“Want to do it or you want me to do it?” she asked. Herbert looked down at the floor for a minute as if the answer would swim to him through the blue and gray of the carpet.
“You better,” he replied finally.
Coleen clicked and typed for a minute while Herbert’s eyes avoided the screen.
“You’re in the clear, babe!” she exclaimed, pulling on his sweatshirt. He looked at the screen, just to be on the safe side, and sure enough, she was right. There was a violent offender named Jeremy Sullivan, but there was no sign of a sex offender named Herbert Sullivan.
“Phew,” he sighed, “I knew if you checked I’d be in the clear—you’re good luck.”
Phillip's dialogue:
"I don't know," Roy said. "I mean, if you look at all the contributing factors over the past couple decades, it was bound to happen."
Roger nodded.
"Shit. I know. We shoulda seen it comin'."
He leaned back and adjusted his cap.
"Hindsight's twenty-twenty, though. That's what they say, right?"
Roy shook his head.
"Still. Why the hell didn't anyone do anything? I mean, what the hell was the SEC doing for twenty--shit, thirty years? Where was the oversight?"
"Hell, I don't know. I don't know."
"I mean they act all confused. They shoulda known."
Roy took a sip from his coffee.
"I mean, they just act like the stock market is this big monster. They think we don't know shit. They're playing us for fucking fools."
Roger stretched and let out a yawn.
"Fuck, I don't know man."
"Well, it just pisses me off, ya know? Christ, we're all losing money because some lazy fuckers didn't do their goddamn jobs."
Roger nodded and stared absently at his coffee cup.
"For fuck's sake. We should fire 'em all. Put 'em all in prison. Burn 'em all at the goddamn stake. Those goddamn sons of bitches."
Roger nodded.
"If I was in charge, that's what I'd do. That's what I'd do."
Roy's voice trailed off a bit.
"That's--that's--that's what I'd do."
Roger and Roy both looked down at the table, lost in their thoughts and silent.
Suddenly, Roger sat up straight.
"Shit, man. I gotta piss."
Justin's Dialogue:
Herbert hovered over Coleen while the computer booted up.
“It’s not gonna change anything, babe,” she said, rubbing his hand and at the same time stilling his fingers from drumming on the table.
“That’s easy for you to say,” he snapped. She removed her hand. “I’m sorry—I’m just scared is all.”
“There’s nothin’ you can do ‘bout it, so why not just let it lie?”
“They might not’ve posted it yet,” He said, crossing his fingers. “Court systems ain’t always on top of things.”
When the computer was up, Coleen clicked on the internet and typed in a website.
“Want to do it or you want me to do it?” she asked. Herbert looked down at the floor for a minute as if the answer would swim to him through the blue and gray of the carpet.
“You better,” he replied finally.
Coleen clicked and typed for a minute while Herbert’s eyes avoided the screen.
“You’re in the clear, babe!” she exclaimed, pulling on his sweatshirt. He looked at the screen, just to be on the safe side, and sure enough, she was right. There was a violent offender named Jeremy Sullivan, but there was no sign of a sex offender named Herbert Sullivan.
“Phew,” he sighed, “I knew if you checked I’d be in the clear—you’re good luck.”
Phillip's dialogue:
"I don't know," Roy said. "I mean, if you look at all the contributing factors over the past couple decades, it was bound to happen."
Roger nodded.
"Shit. I know. We shoulda seen it comin'."
He leaned back and adjusted his cap.
"Hindsight's twenty-twenty, though. That's what they say, right?"
Roy shook his head.
"Still. Why the hell didn't anyone do anything? I mean, what the hell was the SEC doing for twenty--shit, thirty years? Where was the oversight?"
"Hell, I don't know. I don't know."
"I mean they act all confused. They shoulda known."
Roy took a sip from his coffee.
"I mean, they just act like the stock market is this big monster. They think we don't know shit. They're playing us for fucking fools."
Roger stretched and let out a yawn.
"Fuck, I don't know man."
"Well, it just pisses me off, ya know? Christ, we're all losing money because some lazy fuckers didn't do their goddamn jobs."
Roger nodded and stared absently at his coffee cup.
"For fuck's sake. We should fire 'em all. Put 'em all in prison. Burn 'em all at the goddamn stake. Those goddamn sons of bitches."
Roger nodded.
"If I was in charge, that's what I'd do. That's what I'd do."
Roy's voice trailed off a bit.
"That's--that's--that's what I'd do."
Roger and Roy both looked down at the table, lost in their thoughts and silent.
Suddenly, Roger sat up straight.
"Shit, man. I gotta piss."
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Purple cardigan.
So.
There's been grumbling about this blog. In an attempt to be more exciting, we (Justin and I) are going to try to do something interesting every week.
Now.
Clearly we're going to start on the small easy stuff. But just think! After a while, we'll run out of small, easy things to do, and we'll be on to weird and exciting things!
So.
Eventually it might be interesting.
I don't know.
Anyway, the point is, this week me and Justin (Justin and I) decided to do some character sketches. I hadn't done any before, so Justin had to explain the rules of the game to me.
Long story short, we both did sketches of a young (somewhere between 14 and 28) androgynous girl in a purple cardigan at Barnes and Noble and compared them. Here they are for your reading pleasure.
Justin's sketch:
Miranda Heltzer
Miranda was androgynous in her style. She wore cardigans that looked appropriate on old men, and eccentrically stylish on her. Her hair was Peter Pan style, her face plain and without makeup. She wore Keds of all colors, except for white and black.
She worked at a record store, the kind that had ultra-rare B sides of The Funky Loves (an experimental piano rock band whose members all died of overdoses or AIDs before making it), but never carried anything on the Billboard Top 100.
Miranda enjoyed doing studies on people. Once, she put a slit big enough to expose her left ass cheek in her jeans, then walked around the mall. Several people laughed, two different groups of young males whistled. Only one well-intentioned person (a young man) nervously informed Miranda of the rip.
Miranda didn’t have a bank account; instead she converted all her cash into coin form—she was afraid of house fires.
She read Palahnik, loved punk rock, and thought America would parade the rest of the world into the apocalypse.
Phillip's sketch:
Sam Stevens
Sam Stevens wanted a house. A big house. It didn't have to be a nice house, just a house. She and her boyfriend Ryan would live there. Maybe some of her friends, too. She didn't really care who else lived there, just as long as they made rent. Preferably someone with a good pot dealer or maybe just someone who would buy her a case of beer every now and then.
She imagined the house everyday while she was up in her room listening to music: Wood floors, wide open living room, dingy white walls plastered with posters and her paintings. Maybe she would put up some Christmas lights too. That'd be cool.
She would host house shows, at least two a month. Punk bands and soft-voiced folk guys could play. Maybe some hip-hop. Hip-hop was cool.
She would need a good name for it. She made lists in her notebooks when she was bored in class:
The Pop House
The Bird House
The Sea House
But none seemed fitting. She ultimately decided that she would have to wait until she had the house. Talk to her roommates, her boyfriend. The house would name itself, and in turn, make a name for her.
There's been grumbling about this blog. In an attempt to be more exciting, we (Justin and I) are going to try to do something interesting every week.
Now.
Clearly we're going to start on the small easy stuff. But just think! After a while, we'll run out of small, easy things to do, and we'll be on to weird and exciting things!
So.
Eventually it might be interesting.
I don't know.
Anyway, the point is, this week me and Justin (Justin and I) decided to do some character sketches. I hadn't done any before, so Justin had to explain the rules of the game to me.
Long story short, we both did sketches of a young (somewhere between 14 and 28) androgynous girl in a purple cardigan at Barnes and Noble and compared them. Here they are for your reading pleasure.
Justin's sketch:
Miranda Heltzer
Miranda was androgynous in her style. She wore cardigans that looked appropriate on old men, and eccentrically stylish on her. Her hair was Peter Pan style, her face plain and without makeup. She wore Keds of all colors, except for white and black.
She worked at a record store, the kind that had ultra-rare B sides of The Funky Loves (an experimental piano rock band whose members all died of overdoses or AIDs before making it), but never carried anything on the Billboard Top 100.
Miranda enjoyed doing studies on people. Once, she put a slit big enough to expose her left ass cheek in her jeans, then walked around the mall. Several people laughed, two different groups of young males whistled. Only one well-intentioned person (a young man) nervously informed Miranda of the rip.
Miranda didn’t have a bank account; instead she converted all her cash into coin form—she was afraid of house fires.
She read Palahnik, loved punk rock, and thought America would parade the rest of the world into the apocalypse.
Phillip's sketch:
Sam Stevens
Sam Stevens wanted a house. A big house. It didn't have to be a nice house, just a house. She and her boyfriend Ryan would live there. Maybe some of her friends, too. She didn't really care who else lived there, just as long as they made rent. Preferably someone with a good pot dealer or maybe just someone who would buy her a case of beer every now and then.
She imagined the house everyday while she was up in her room listening to music: Wood floors, wide open living room, dingy white walls plastered with posters and her paintings. Maybe she would put up some Christmas lights too. That'd be cool.
She would host house shows, at least two a month. Punk bands and soft-voiced folk guys could play. Maybe some hip-hop. Hip-hop was cool.
She would need a good name for it. She made lists in her notebooks when she was bored in class:
The Pop House
The Bird House
The Sea House
But none seemed fitting. She ultimately decided that she would have to wait until she had the house. Talk to her roommates, her boyfriend. The house would name itself, and in turn, make a name for her.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Oedipus Cycle.
I've been reading the Oedipus Cycle (trans. by Robert Fitzgerald and Dudley Fitts) as of late: Oedipus Rex, Oedipus at Colonus, and Antigone.
I just finished Oedipus Rex, and it was quite enjoyable.
I've been reading some criticism of Oedipus, and a lot of folks claim Sophocles did a bad job of characterization. I think that I'd have to agree with that (it's even more obvious in Oedipus at Colonus). Character is a large portion of the play, though, so it kind of makes you wonder how it still captivates.
Freud would say it's something we saw in ourselves, which is gross and wrong.
Most, I think, would say that it's simply the intensity of the action, which I think is cutting it too shallow.
I'd have to say it's really just the deep irony:
A egotistical king does one of the most disgusting things possible when trying to avoid the fate that was prophesied for him, all along saying very ironic things.
If it weren't so shocking, it'd be funny.
That's probably not a new or exciting revelation about Oedipus Rex, but from the criticism I've read, you'd believe it was. Seriously, some people say Oedipus was "great, intelligent and a constant seeker of truth."
I think that's how Oedipus would like to see himself; reality is another matter altogether.
Something else of interest:
Not only does all major action happen off stage, but also the fulfillment of the prophesy, the one for which Oedipus is so widely known, occurs before the play even begins.
I wonder, then, would it be fair to say this play isn't about fatalism or anything of the sort??
I would love nothing more than to make this a play about a sort of soft theological determinism.
I think it's easy to make that argument. After all, Oedipus says himself(and I'm just paraphrasing here):
"Apollo gave me the troubles, but it was mine own hands that plucked out my eyes."
Something like that.
Anyway, the point is, here we have the gods giving Oedipus a fate, and Oedipus (and Jocasta at one point) believing he (and she) could avoid it. His pride and arrogance lead him to believe he's better than the gods and the prophets, but of course he's not. The gods simply told him what would happen, but it was his own fault that it happened.
I'm not going to argue about determinism, because I think determinism (what little I know of it), seems pretty dumb, but if anyone else knows more about determinism, feel free to tell me if this sounds like determinism to you.
Anyway.
A lot of this is to help me with my upcoming Flannery O'Connor article.
I've started on Oedipus At Colonus, and so far it's terrible.
I just finished Oedipus Rex, and it was quite enjoyable.
I've been reading some criticism of Oedipus, and a lot of folks claim Sophocles did a bad job of characterization. I think that I'd have to agree with that (it's even more obvious in Oedipus at Colonus). Character is a large portion of the play, though, so it kind of makes you wonder how it still captivates.
Freud would say it's something we saw in ourselves, which is gross and wrong.
Most, I think, would say that it's simply the intensity of the action, which I think is cutting it too shallow.
I'd have to say it's really just the deep irony:
A egotistical king does one of the most disgusting things possible when trying to avoid the fate that was prophesied for him, all along saying very ironic things.
If it weren't so shocking, it'd be funny.
That's probably not a new or exciting revelation about Oedipus Rex, but from the criticism I've read, you'd believe it was. Seriously, some people say Oedipus was "great, intelligent and a constant seeker of truth."
I think that's how Oedipus would like to see himself; reality is another matter altogether.
Something else of interest:
Not only does all major action happen off stage, but also the fulfillment of the prophesy, the one for which Oedipus is so widely known, occurs before the play even begins.
I wonder, then, would it be fair to say this play isn't about fatalism or anything of the sort??
I would love nothing more than to make this a play about a sort of soft theological determinism.
I think it's easy to make that argument. After all, Oedipus says himself(and I'm just paraphrasing here):
"Apollo gave me the troubles, but it was mine own hands that plucked out my eyes."
Something like that.
Anyway, the point is, here we have the gods giving Oedipus a fate, and Oedipus (and Jocasta at one point) believing he (and she) could avoid it. His pride and arrogance lead him to believe he's better than the gods and the prophets, but of course he's not. The gods simply told him what would happen, but it was his own fault that it happened.
I'm not going to argue about determinism, because I think determinism (what little I know of it), seems pretty dumb, but if anyone else knows more about determinism, feel free to tell me if this sounds like determinism to you.
Anyway.
A lot of this is to help me with my upcoming Flannery O'Connor article.
I've started on Oedipus At Colonus, and so far it's terrible.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Princes of Blog
I’m very excited about this. While at dinner today, after announcing the new blog, my friends scoffed. Blogging may have a bad name, but Phillip and I will change that. Well, perhaps that’s a little too ambitious, but I think that chronicling our successes and failures (we’re bound to face the ladder more often than the former) as new writers will be interesting.
Currently, I have my short story “Runner” out at many journals, lots of which I failed to record while sending them out. Every once and a while (at least twice a week), I decide the most important thing in the world is for me to be a published author and I send out subs like mad to any magazine I can find, regardless of whether I’ve read the mag or not.
Magazines that have rejected “Runner”:
Subtropics, Narrative, Dark Sky Magazine
Rejection of the week:
Epiphany (they passed me up for a playlet from the guy who wrote Hairspray, among other hot-to-trot up and comers).
Magazines still thinking “Runner” over (that I can remember, anyway):
Glimmer Train, RKVRY, 13th Warrior, 34th Parallel, 94 Creations, Annalemma, The Aroostook Review
Where my work has been accepted and or published:
Prairie Margins (a horribly amateur story called “Lumberjack Secrets”), Equinox (“Runner”)
Current stories:
A guy with a friend who has a neck tattoo.
An old woman who cares for a pregnant waitress more than her husband with Alzheimer’s.
A five year old girl whose mother ditches her on her birthday.
Hopefully, the bottom two will be a series of interconnected short stories.
Currently Reading:
Trailerpark by Russell Banks.
Currently, I have my short story “Runner” out at many journals, lots of which I failed to record while sending them out. Every once and a while (at least twice a week), I decide the most important thing in the world is for me to be a published author and I send out subs like mad to any magazine I can find, regardless of whether I’ve read the mag or not.
Magazines that have rejected “Runner”:
Subtropics, Narrative, Dark Sky Magazine
Rejection of the week:
Epiphany (they passed me up for a playlet from the guy who wrote Hairspray, among other hot-to-trot up and comers).
Magazines still thinking “Runner” over (that I can remember, anyway):
Glimmer Train, RKVRY, 13th Warrior, 34th Parallel, 94 Creations, Annalemma, The Aroostook Review
Where my work has been accepted and or published:
Prairie Margins (a horribly amateur story called “Lumberjack Secrets”), Equinox (“Runner”)
Current stories:
A guy with a friend who has a neck tattoo.
An old woman who cares for a pregnant waitress more than her husband with Alzheimer’s.
A five year old girl whose mother ditches her on her birthday.
Hopefully, the bottom two will be a series of interconnected short stories.
Currently Reading:
Trailerpark by Russell Banks.
What Has Been Done and What Is Left To Be Done.
I'm pretty new at trying to get my work published, so I plan on keeping track of all the places I've sent submissions and whether or not they were accepted.
Here's how it is so far:
Oklahoman Review
Pieces submitted: "YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE SUCH A FUCKER, AUGGIE APPLE," "There I Was," "Sleep Safe Until Tomorrow"
Status: REJECTED
Equinox
Pieces submitted: "YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE SUCH A FUCKER," "There I Was," "Sleep Safe Until Tomorrow" and some poems.
Status: "YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE SUCH A FUCKER," "There I Was," "Ginsberg" were ACCEPTED
Quills and Pixels
Pieces submitted: "Elysium" and "Cancer for the Cure"
Status: "Cancer for the Cure" was ACCEPTED.
Copper Nickel
Pieces submitted: "YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE SUCH A FUCKER," "Cancer for the Cure."
Status: PENDING
Narrative Magazine (Story of the Week Contest)
Piece submitted: "Cancer for the Cure"
Status: PENDING
And that's it, really.
I haven't submitted a lot of things. I get very excited about lit mags, and then they just end up making me a little sick to my stomach. Still, I figure I can take a bit of the sting out of rejection by making it a little game.
I am sure Justin is way ahead of me in submissions. Actually, I know he is.
Things in progress:
I figure if I update at least once a week on the things I'm working on, I will be more accountable for getting them done. So here's what I've been working on.
-A story about a Peruvian woman going swimming.
-A story about a self-hating Indian, two punk rockers, and a paraplegic boy who find themselves at odds with each other.
-A story about a writer who works at an archive that burns down.
-An article for Studies In Short Fiction about Flannery O' Connor
-Editing "What Has Been Done and What Is Left To Be Done" (the short story, not this post) so that I can submit it to the NIMROD Awards Competition.
That's it. Maybe Justin will post soon.
Here's how it is so far:
Oklahoman Review
Pieces submitted: "YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE SUCH A FUCKER, AUGGIE APPLE," "There I Was," "Sleep Safe Until Tomorrow"
Status: REJECTED
Equinox
Pieces submitted: "YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE SUCH A FUCKER," "There I Was," "Sleep Safe Until Tomorrow" and some poems.
Status: "YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE SUCH A FUCKER," "There I Was," "Ginsberg" were ACCEPTED
Quills and Pixels
Pieces submitted: "Elysium" and "Cancer for the Cure"
Status: "Cancer for the Cure" was ACCEPTED.
Copper Nickel
Pieces submitted: "YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE SUCH A FUCKER," "Cancer for the Cure."
Status: PENDING
Narrative Magazine (Story of the Week Contest)
Piece submitted: "Cancer for the Cure"
Status: PENDING
And that's it, really.
I haven't submitted a lot of things. I get very excited about lit mags, and then they just end up making me a little sick to my stomach. Still, I figure I can take a bit of the sting out of rejection by making it a little game.
I am sure Justin is way ahead of me in submissions. Actually, I know he is.
Things in progress:
I figure if I update at least once a week on the things I'm working on, I will be more accountable for getting them done. So here's what I've been working on.
-A story about a Peruvian woman going swimming.
-A story about a self-hating Indian, two punk rockers, and a paraplegic boy who find themselves at odds with each other.
-A story about a writer who works at an archive that burns down.
-An article for Studies In Short Fiction about Flannery O' Connor
-Editing "What Has Been Done and What Is Left To Be Done" (the short story, not this post) so that I can submit it to the NIMROD Awards Competition.
That's it. Maybe Justin will post soon.
Inaugrual Post.
This is the maiden voyage of the H.M.S. Fame/Fortune (that's a metaphor; I'm a writer).
Soon, there will hopefully be more interesting things here.
Soon, there will hopefully be more interesting things here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)