Link Corral: Back to Writing News

For those who like to plan ahead, here’s a nonfiction class in DC that sounds interesting:

Place Called Home: A Creative Non-Fiction Writing Workshop

When: Saturday, December 8, 2012; 9:30 AM – 12:30 PM

Where: Source, 1835 14th Street, NW, Washington, DC (located near the U Street Metro)

Cost: $49

Info: http://willonasloan.wordpress.com. Email: willonasloan@gmail.com.
 

Learn how to capture readers’ imaginations and stimulate their curiosity with authentic descriptions of places and settings. You will explore the spaces you call “home” in this workshop, which blends elements of non-fiction, poetry and fiction writing. Home is a place, a memory, a feeling. Travel to the spaces you know best and discover just what it is that makes them special. 

The workshop will be led by Willona M. Sloan, who is a local writer and editor, and a recipient of a 2013 Artist Fellowship award from the D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities.

*****

Feeling down in the dumps about your writing and/or writing life?  I promise that no matter where you are in the grand scheme of writing—unpublished, published—this piece that I found via literary agent Janet Reid’s blog will speak to you:

                                                      

Let’s say you are a young person, yes you are still young, because youth is relative, and so what if your siblings and friends have what they call “careers,” and marriages, and lives—you have something greater, something that exactly suits you. Your art, which fuels you, yes indeed it does. But unanticipated challenges have cropped up. Making rent. Paying bills. And something else which you are loathe to admit, but let’s be honest, here goes: in the dark and lonely hours, you’ve written short stories that you have submitted to some literary journals. And you’ve had some rejection, it’s okay, you knew that going in. You’re no dummy. A writer’s life is full of disappointment and rejection and criticism—and isolation, that too, and worse perhaps, unacknowledgment, editors and literary agents who don’t even have the courtesy to reject your work, but simply let it languish on their desks or hard drives forever without a reply. I mean, you’re okay with this. You knew what you were getting into when you signed on for this, a writing life.

 

Read on.

*****

Writer Clifford Garstang’s blog Perpetual Folly tabulates the literary journals that get the most attention from the Pushcart Prizes over the past ten years.  It’s a great way to see which journals are the places you want your work to be published in and to see which journals are trending.  Or as Heidi Klum might say, “Who’s in, and who’s out.”

Here’s one link that will get you to any of the three categories:  Fiction, non-fiction, and poetry.

Bye-Bye, Sandy!

The chipmunks were the first to return to the front yard, and then the birds and the squirrels followed.  It’s a busy little world out there now, everyone running around, filling up with the ba-jillion acorns suddenly on the ground.  It’s not remotely sunny, and rain and drizzle comes and goes, but what a lovely sight.

The power is on, the trees are still standing, and the basement stayed dry.  We caught up on some reading, some TV, and some movies.  I’m happy we spent the $$ to get the trees trimmed in the spring, because this was some kind of wind.  And some kind of rain.  I don’t think I’ve ever been in such a noisy storm for such an extended period of time.

There is a stubborn roof leak now affecting the living room ceiling.  Third time’s the charm in getting the repair done right, right!?  Well—as they say, it could be much worse.  All in all, feeling lucky.

Sandy...Knocking at the Door

Still here, still with power, though I see the wind picking up.  Since this was the year of Laura Ingalls Wilder, I'm reminded of my favorite, The Long Winter.  A hurricane isn't a blizzard, but last night, sleeping fitfully, anxious about what would happen in the day ahead, it was easy to relate to Laura and her family out in De Smet, SD.

But even after Laura was warm she lay awake listening to the wind's wild tune and thinking of each little house, in town, alone in the whirling snow with not even a light from the next house shining trhough.  And the little town was alone on the wide prairie.  Town and prairie were lost in the wild storm which was niether earth nor sky, nothing but fierce winds and a blank whiteness.

For the storm was white.  In the night, long after the sun had gone and the last daylinght could not possibly be there, the blizzard was whirling white.

A lamp could shine out through the blackest darkness and a shout could be heard a long way, but no light and no cry could reach through a storm that had wild voices and an unnatural light of its own.

The blankets were warm and Laura was no longer cold but she shivered.

Laura could have used a good dose of Facebook, which I do find comforting during a time like this.

Sandy!

Not sure what the next few days will hold...despite her cute-as-a-button name, Sandy is apparently going to be a mean girl.  I will post when I can, but all indications are that power outages will be widespread.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed on that front...and also that the giant oak tree next to our house lives to tell the tale of surviving yet another storm.  We take care of our trees--and this big one is beautiful!--but this is not a fun time to live on a wooded lot.  How I long for those flat, empty vistas I saw this summer in De Smet, South Dakota!

*****

And if you get the chance, check out the new poem posted on Redux, by Philip Belcher, one of our Converse low-residency MFA grads!

Joe Schuster's The Might Have Been

I recently read an excellent book by one of my friends, Joseph M. Schuster (who is on the editorial board of Redux and who is, alas, a Cards fan).  The Might Have Been is a haunting combination of baseball and midlife…though a reader really doesn’t have to be overly knowledgeable about baseball (or midlife!). 

From a writing standpoint, I admired the vast story we get through deft use of a jump in time.  The first half of the book covers the big moment of chronic minor league ballplayer Edward Everett Yates, when he makes it the majors for a brief, shining moment.  The second half of the book jumps forward thirty years, and we see who Edward Everett has become.  The writing is smooth and assured; I felt as though I was in the hands of a real storyteller.  (Read an excerpt here.)

From a story standpoint, this is the story we all live (or most of us, I suppose):  what do you do when the “dream” dies?  In this regard, it’s not really a story of midlife, since for many (most?) of us, those early dreams shift and change all along the way.  It’s rare to have a defining moment where the dream dies, as Edward Everett does.

I’m inspired by Joe's writing process.  Here, he discusses how long it took him to write this book, his first, and that long journey: 

Schuster worked on writing “The Might Have Been” for nearly 10 years. He said even though he’d worked on stories before, this was the first one he saw finishing to the end. His first draft was approximately 1,000 pages, then cut to 500 and eventually shrunk to about 370 pages.  (Read the whole profile here.)

 

And here’s an interview that will give you a good flavor of the book and why the reviews that I checked all seemed to include that word I went to, “haunting”:

I think one of the primary reasons many people aspire to dreams, especially dreams that may be beyond them, is because they want to avoid being “ordinary.” One of the things that always captures my attention are those early episodes of each season of shows like “American Idol” and “America’s Got Talent,” particularly those aerial shots we see on-screen of thousands of people lined up outside convention centers or theaters, waiting to see if they will even get thirty second to perform in front of the judges and maybe end up on television. Most of those thousands really believe they have the ability to become a star – how many times do we see someone sing off key and have a judge tell them they are horrible and then the person breaks into tears or rage? Those performers do not see themselves as convenience store clerks or elementary school teachers or cell phone sales associates; they see themselves as having the potential for greatness, they expect someone will elevate them out of the ordinary.

Part of the pull, of course, is they want to be lifted out of the World, where everyone else lives.

You see this in baseball all of the time. I’ve come across a lot of players who had a brief taste of the major leagues and then hung on in the minors for years after, thinking they’d get back to the major leagues, but they never do.  

Read on.

And for fun, here’s Joe’s playlist.

Kurt Vonnegut Letters: "Spiritually Pooping" and More

I was lucky enough to get a hot-off-the-presses copy of Kurt Vonnegut Letters, edited by my Converse low-res MFA colleague Dan Wakefield.  Dan and Kurt were friends, both born and raised in Indianapolis. 

From Dan’s warm and personal introduction:

I first heard the name Kurt Vonnegut in the spring of  1950, my senior year at Shortridge High School in Indianapolis, when I admitted to a teacher that I wanted to be a writer. His brows furrowed in concern,  he rubbed his chin for a moment, nodded, and said, “Well, there’s one boy did that—boy named  Vonnegut.”

 

The letters are arranged chronologically, and even just my first perusal shows a wide range of recipients:  family, friends, writer friends, former students, editors, the musical group Ambrosia…!  Humor and compassion mingle with sharp insight on varied topics.

Here’s a cute one from 1976, to Cindy Adams, the gossip columnist for the New York Post:

I am charmed and amused that you should want me to be a judge in the 1976 Miss USA Beauty Pageant.  I blush and laugh.

I decline your flattering invitation with best wishes and thanks.  If your girls are as fond of my words as you indicate, then they will surely understand my feeling that judging them is somehow not something I should do.

Give them my love.

 

I wonder what questions he might have asked the contestants!

I dipped into some of the letters from the 1960s, when Vonnegut was teaching at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. 

From a letter to Carolyn Blakemore:

The Iowa experience is wearing thin.  Two years will be plenty, I think, unless a really whopping offer is made to make me stay.  It is spiritually pooping to care desperately about student work that probably isn’t worth caring about….Vance Bourjaily is the only writer really at home out here…Others stay one or two years, then flee, tearing their hair.  They tear their hair because they haven’t done any of their own writing while here.

 

On the other hand, here’s a section from one to Paul Engle, the director of the program:

…I’ve had a couple of classes die on me recently.  That makes me feel lousy—a show that fails.  I’m crazy about the workshops and the consultations.  The academic classes are something else again, since I don’t really know anything.  Up to now, my ignorance has made me strong.  Now I don’t feel so hot about it.  A lucky crapshooter is what I’ve been….Your workshop is an amazingly beautiful gift to the world.

 

And here’s a bit from a letter to Dick Gehman, who will be joining the faculty:

…You’ll be an excellent teacher.  Your ego will demand it, and so will your students.  You’ll have an appalling number of real writers entrusted to your care.  The classes don’t matter much.  The real business, head-to-head, is done during office hours in the afternoons….Forget your lack of credentials.  The University is perfectly used to barbarians in the Workshop, thinks nothing of it.  I have no degree.  [Writer Richard] Yates has no degree….The former head [of the Workshop], Paul Engle, is still around, is a hayseed clown, a foxy grandpa, a terrific promoter who, if you listen closely, talks like a man with a paper asshole….Graduate assistants write his books for him.  Burn this letter.

 

Lucky we are that the letters were not burned.  Unlucky we may feel years from now, when we look back and wonder what riches may have been lost in our texting, tweeting, emailing world.  I agree with the book jacket:  “These letters comprise the autobiography Kurt Vonnegut never wrote.”

Fresno, Barstow, San Bernadino...Get Your Kicks!

Two at the Most
a semi-regular column about classic cocktails

by Steve Ello

 If you ever find yourself motoring West along the part of old Route 66 that runs through Albuquerque, New Mexico (now called Central Avenue) I encourage you to find the time to stop for a while, relax, and enjoy the sunset and a cocktail at the unique, luxury Hotel Parq Central’s Apothecary Lounge. 

Specializing in pre-prohibition era cocktails (Sazerac, Pink Squirrel, etc.) it is a beautiful spot to enjoy a well-crafted cocktail in a historic building (originally a hospital for railroad employees). Dating back to the 1920s, the hotel has been completely refurbished and then reopened in 2010, incorporating elements of the building’s past  with a clean modern vibe.  After checking into a beautiful corner junior suite (at $135, a steal!) I made my way up to the Apothecary Lounge.

Looking west from the open rooftop along Route 66 off into the horizon, I swore I saw a light blue ’62 Corvette rag top pulling into the parking lot and imagined myself swapping stories with Todd Stiles and Buzz Murdoch at some point in the evening. (See footnote below.*)

Better order my cocktail now. 

Since, in my mind, all classic cocktails begin with gin, while the sky was still blue, I started the evening with an Aviation--Gin, lemon juice and creme de violette. Up.  As the sun began its slow golden descent, I moved onto a Martinez, featuring  Old Tom Gin, sweet vermouth and maraschino liquor. Watching the sun fade into the horizon and feeling a little chill in the air I left my last cocktail up to the mixologist.  I think she could tell I was old school, and I finished the night with a Manhattan made with rye, sweet vermouth and bitters. Excellent, top shelf ingredients in each expertly crafted cocktail.

In homage to both Todd’s light blue Corvette and the brilliant New Mexico sky, I think a recipe for an Aviation would be appropriate.  I find this cocktail tart and dry and the crème de vilolette gives it a light blue tint.  A little different without being difficult to make or difficult to obtain the ingredients.

THE AVIATION

1 ¾ oz gin  (Tangueray or Beefeater/dry gin, not too floral)

¾ oz fresh lemon juice, strained

½ oz Luxardao Maraschino Liqueur

¼  oz Crème de Violette

Stir vigorously and serve up with a lemon twist!

As always, two at the most…unless you are actually staying at the Hotel Parq Central.

***** 

*Editor’s note:  The column’s author—my sweet husband—is slightly obsessed with an old TV show called Route 66, which even I enjoy watching now and then:  two cool guys drive all around the country in a very cool car.  It was one of the first TV shows at the time to film on location, and the scenery is great.  And the car!  Did I mention the car?

Here’s a YouTube clip of “Route 66”.  And another.  And a great view of the car at about 33 seconds in.

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