Monday, October 15, 2007
The Short Story Is Dead Again
Well, speaking of Maud Newton’s fabulous literary blog as I do below, here's a not-to-miss link: Jean Thompson, author of Throw Like a Girl, on the state of the short story, inspired by Stephen King’s introduction to the new edition of the Best American Short Stories and excerpted in a recent issue of The New York Times Book Review.
Monday Morning Sluggishness
If you’re finding it hard to get going on your work this morning, as I am (I think it’s because today is the first real autumn-feeling morning here, where the bed is sooooo warm, inviting lingering, and my house is soooooo chilly), you may enjoy this time-waster: quiz yourself here on which of these first lines of famous books you recognize. Either you’ll feel smart and inspired, or you’ll feel like a dope who’s permitted to loll in bed a bit longer.
(I think I remember first reading about this site on the fabulous literary blog, Maud Newton.)
(I think I remember first reading about this site on the fabulous literary blog, Maud Newton.)
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Guest in Progress: Doreen Baingana
This came in while I was away, and while the Brooklyn Book Festival was a short time ago, on September 16, the observations remain insightful. We’re all looking for a writing community—whether it’s at a festival, in a class at the Writer’s Center, through an MFA program, in a writing group, through blogs, and so on. One of my favorite things is how these various communities overlap one another, as seen by how my paths cross with the author of this piece, Doreen Baingana.
I had heard of Doreen when she won the prestigious AWP award for her first book of short stories, but I believe I hadn’t actually met her (briefly) until we were both reading at a book party for Richard Peabody’s first anthology of DC women writers, Grace and Gravity (my memory is a bit fuzzy because there were something like 20 women reading!). A year later, we crossed paths at an event at the Writer’s Center, where we both teach. After that, I invited her to participate in a panel I was moderating at the Washington Independent Writers conference this past June and we hung out together at the conference. (I certainly agree with her comment below: “Attend festivals, writers!”) She’s fun, funny, and sharply smart (raising her hand to question WIW conference keynote speaker Francine Prose’s sweeping allegations about writing classes in front of 300 people also makes Doreen brave in my book!).
I guess all this is not to drop names (which I, too, can “drop giddily”!) but to note that the writing world is both small and large—and yes, it is important to get out there and meet people. Not to “make connections” and “network”—but to find your community and to explore what other communities are up to. I see the writing world as not having pigeonholes—rather, places in which to nest.
The Brooklyn Book Festival
Ah, fame! Actually, not quite, but there I was, in a room full of other authors, everyone chatting nonchalantly, and I couldn't help but think, is this really happening to me? Edwidge Danticat was serenely holding court in one corner surrounded by about four other writers I didn't know, except for Walter Mosley. Well, I know his hat and longish face, so I knew it was him. One of the organizers mistook me for Gloria Naylor! Was that a good thing or not? I look nothing like her, except for our skin color.
I was sitting with Rob Spillman, editor of Tin House, which I think is one of the best lit. mags. there is right now in America, and he is my friend! I know, I am awful at dropping names; I drop them too giddily! I met Rob in Kenya last December at the SLS Literary Festival, so when he organized a panel on African writing for the Brooklyn Book festival, he thought of me. The moral? Attend festivals, writers! Of course, if I had been among millions of other writers at an event here in the States, he wouldn't have known me from Gloria Naylor's daughter, so I should amend the moral to read, "Attend foreign festivals!" And perhaps there not being too many African writers who could hop across the Atlantic and get to New York easily helped too. Well, perhaps he likes my writing too; I shouldn't be too modest.
Our reading should not have been called, "Africa Now," but "Africa Based in America Now." It always tickles me how, after only one book, I am a kind of a "Voice of Africa," here, but I am not complaining! I read with Uzodinma Iweala, a Nigerian writer also from Washington D.C. His book, Beasts of No Nation, a harrowing story of a child soldier, has won lots of prizes, including the Barnes and Noble Discover New Writers Award. The third reader with us was Mohammed Naseehu Ali, author of The Prophet of Zongo Street, a collection of short stories of such startling variety and deep humor, set both in New York and Kumasi, Ghana.
What I enjoyed most about it all was the camaraderie among us -- dare I call it a real community -- among African writers who knew each other mostly by name. I had met Mohammed at another reading earlier this year, and e-mailed back and forth with Uzo. There we were outside later, enjoying the glow of praise from the audience, chatting, laughing, being photographed, as Chris Abani joined us too (his latest book, Song For Night, was recently reviewed in the New York Times Book Review), and Walter. Sorry, I must mention him again. He is hilarious, by the way. So, unlike most writing events I attend in the US, I was not one out of one, two or three black people in a sea of white, or the only one with an accent. I guess this is New York, this is Brooklyn: everyone is different and the more different you are, the more hip. The ambiance was so much more relaxed and cool. I suppose it is unfair to compare this to the Washington Independent Writers events, for example, but they are so cold and official, so DC!
It is events like this Sunday's that remind me how much fun it is to be a writer, but this is 1% or less of the writing life. How did I get there, with only one book, I ask myself. By writing that one book. And how long can I keep being invited with only one book? Yet one more good reason to get off my ass and finish my second one, if only to chat with Walter like we're old friends, as we watch a long line wait patiently to get their latest Edwidge Danticat book signed. Now she writes: she publishes a book every other year, it seems. Good for her. My other hero is Junot Díaz, who has his second book out now after eleven years! Yay! It's not too late! There is hope! ~~Doreen Baingana
Doreen Baingana is a Ugandan writer and author of Tropical Fish: Stories out of Entebbe (University of Massachusetts Press, 2005, Harlem Moon/Doubleday, 2006), which won the Associated Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) Award in Short Fiction. She teaches at The Writer’s Center, among other places.
I had heard of Doreen when she won the prestigious AWP award for her first book of short stories, but I believe I hadn’t actually met her (briefly) until we were both reading at a book party for Richard Peabody’s first anthology of DC women writers, Grace and Gravity (my memory is a bit fuzzy because there were something like 20 women reading!). A year later, we crossed paths at an event at the Writer’s Center, where we both teach. After that, I invited her to participate in a panel I was moderating at the Washington Independent Writers conference this past June and we hung out together at the conference. (I certainly agree with her comment below: “Attend festivals, writers!”) She’s fun, funny, and sharply smart (raising her hand to question WIW conference keynote speaker Francine Prose’s sweeping allegations about writing classes in front of 300 people also makes Doreen brave in my book!).
I guess all this is not to drop names (which I, too, can “drop giddily”!) but to note that the writing world is both small and large—and yes, it is important to get out there and meet people. Not to “make connections” and “network”—but to find your community and to explore what other communities are up to. I see the writing world as not having pigeonholes—rather, places in which to nest.
The Brooklyn Book Festival
Ah, fame! Actually, not quite, but there I was, in a room full of other authors, everyone chatting nonchalantly, and I couldn't help but think, is this really happening to me? Edwidge Danticat was serenely holding court in one corner surrounded by about four other writers I didn't know, except for Walter Mosley. Well, I know his hat and longish face, so I knew it was him. One of the organizers mistook me for Gloria Naylor! Was that a good thing or not? I look nothing like her, except for our skin color.
I was sitting with Rob Spillman, editor of Tin House, which I think is one of the best lit. mags. there is right now in America, and he is my friend! I know, I am awful at dropping names; I drop them too giddily! I met Rob in Kenya last December at the SLS Literary Festival, so when he organized a panel on African writing for the Brooklyn Book festival, he thought of me. The moral? Attend festivals, writers! Of course, if I had been among millions of other writers at an event here in the States, he wouldn't have known me from Gloria Naylor's daughter, so I should amend the moral to read, "Attend foreign festivals!" And perhaps there not being too many African writers who could hop across the Atlantic and get to New York easily helped too. Well, perhaps he likes my writing too; I shouldn't be too modest.
Our reading should not have been called, "Africa Now," but "Africa Based in America Now." It always tickles me how, after only one book, I am a kind of a "Voice of Africa," here, but I am not complaining! I read with Uzodinma Iweala, a Nigerian writer also from Washington D.C. His book, Beasts of No Nation, a harrowing story of a child soldier, has won lots of prizes, including the Barnes and Noble Discover New Writers Award. The third reader with us was Mohammed Naseehu Ali, author of The Prophet of Zongo Street, a collection of short stories of such startling variety and deep humor, set both in New York and Kumasi, Ghana.
What I enjoyed most about it all was the camaraderie among us -- dare I call it a real community -- among African writers who knew each other mostly by name. I had met Mohammed at another reading earlier this year, and e-mailed back and forth with Uzo. There we were outside later, enjoying the glow of praise from the audience, chatting, laughing, being photographed, as Chris Abani joined us too (his latest book, Song For Night, was recently reviewed in the New York Times Book Review), and Walter. Sorry, I must mention him again. He is hilarious, by the way. So, unlike most writing events I attend in the US, I was not one out of one, two or three black people in a sea of white, or the only one with an accent. I guess this is New York, this is Brooklyn: everyone is different and the more different you are, the more hip. The ambiance was so much more relaxed and cool. I suppose it is unfair to compare this to the Washington Independent Writers events, for example, but they are so cold and official, so DC!
It is events like this Sunday's that remind me how much fun it is to be a writer, but this is 1% or less of the writing life. How did I get there, with only one book, I ask myself. By writing that one book. And how long can I keep being invited with only one book? Yet one more good reason to get off my ass and finish my second one, if only to chat with Walter like we're old friends, as we watch a long line wait patiently to get their latest Edwidge Danticat book signed. Now she writes: she publishes a book every other year, it seems. Good for her. My other hero is Junot Díaz, who has his second book out now after eleven years! Yay! It's not too late! There is hope! ~~Doreen Baingana
Doreen Baingana is a Ugandan writer and author of Tropical Fish: Stories out of Entebbe (University of Massachusetts Press, 2005, Harlem Moon/Doubleday, 2006), which won the Associated Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) Award in Short Fiction. She teaches at The Writer’s Center, among other places.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Happy Birthday...
...to my wonderful husband! Since it's a "significant" birthday, attention must be paid! Come back tomorrow for more substantive blogging.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Local Poetry, Part 1
This was in Saturday’s Washington Post, but I can’t find a link. I’m usually suspicious of “found poetry,” but this example amused me…maybe because I’ve had my share of Metro problems. I’m sure all of this will be familiar to anyone in the DC area who rides Metro on a semi-regular basis. Here are some excerpts:
Rhymes With Orange Line
By Monica Hesse
In the esteemed tradition of found art, we arranged these recent Metro alerts and advisories into poetry, as an exercise in elevating our prosaic, irritating commutes.
An outbound Green Line train at Prince George’s Plaza
Was delayed because of a sick customer
Who required medical assistance.
Trains shared the opposite track
(until the person could be moved).
An inbound Yellow Line train at Huntington
Was dispatched late because Human Waste
Was found on the track.
An inbound Yellow Line train at Crystal City was delayed because of
a door problem
a mechanical problem
a personnel problem
a problem.
. . . .
An inbound Red Line train at Bethesda
Was delayed to allow Metro Transit Police
to search
for a suspect.
An inbound Red Line train at Cleveland Park
Was delayed to allow Metro Transit Police
to search
for disorderly children.
An inbound Red Line train at Rockville was delayed because of smoke.
a smoldering crosstie.
a debris fire.
On the track.
Customers experienced moderate delays.
Rhymes With Orange Line
By Monica Hesse
In the esteemed tradition of found art, we arranged these recent Metro alerts and advisories into poetry, as an exercise in elevating our prosaic, irritating commutes.
An outbound Green Line train at Prince George’s Plaza
Was delayed because of a sick customer
Who required medical assistance.
Trains shared the opposite track
(until the person could be moved).
An inbound Yellow Line train at Huntington
Was dispatched late because Human Waste
Was found on the track.
An inbound Yellow Line train at Crystal City was delayed because of
a door problem
a mechanical problem
a personnel problem
a problem.
. . . .
An inbound Red Line train at Bethesda
Was delayed to allow Metro Transit Police
to search
for a suspect.
An inbound Red Line train at Cleveland Park
Was delayed to allow Metro Transit Police
to search
for disorderly children.
An inbound Red Line train at Rockville was delayed because of smoke.
a smoldering crosstie.
a debris fire.
On the track.
Customers experienced moderate delays.
Local Poetry, Part 2
Speaking of local poetry, check out the excellent new issue of the DC-area’s preeminent online poetry journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly. With a theme of “the evolving city,” this issue is an anthology of 36 poems that address the multiplicity of ways that cities change over time.
Co-edited by Teri Ellen Cross and Kim Roberts, the featured authors are:
Abdul Ali * Joseph Awad * Kimberly L. Becker * Japheth Brubaker * Rick Cannon * Kenneth Carroll * Grace Cavalieri * William Claire * Ramola D * Heather Davis * Mark DeFoe * Greta Ehrig * Mark Ftizgerald * Martin Galvin * Brian Gilmore * Fannie H. Gray * Daniel Gutstein * Jessica Haney * Joyce Latham * Grisella Martinez * E. Ethelbert Miller * Kathleen O'Toole * Jose Padua * Linda Pastan * John Peacock * Elizabeth Poliner * Katy Richey * Joseph Ross * Carly Sachs * David Salner * Kate Powell Shine * Tanya Snyder * Dan Vera * Joshua Weiner * Rosemary Winslow * Katherine E. Young
It’s fascinating to see how these poets make artful aspects of our daily landscape (“Running Errands” by Heather Davis, "K Street, Deconstructing" by Joyce E. Latham). And it’s always a pleasure to read new work by two of my personal local favorite local poets, E. Ethelbert Miller and Linda Pastan.
For more information, go here.
Co-edited by Teri Ellen Cross and Kim Roberts, the featured authors are:
Abdul Ali * Joseph Awad * Kimberly L. Becker * Japheth Brubaker * Rick Cannon * Kenneth Carroll * Grace Cavalieri * William Claire * Ramola D * Heather Davis * Mark DeFoe * Greta Ehrig * Mark Ftizgerald * Martin Galvin * Brian Gilmore * Fannie H. Gray * Daniel Gutstein * Jessica Haney * Joyce Latham * Grisella Martinez * E. Ethelbert Miller * Kathleen O'Toole * Jose Padua * Linda Pastan * John Peacock * Elizabeth Poliner * Katy Richey * Joseph Ross * Carly Sachs * David Salner * Kate Powell Shine * Tanya Snyder * Dan Vera * Joshua Weiner * Rosemary Winslow * Katherine E. Young
It’s fascinating to see how these poets make artful aspects of our daily landscape (“Running Errands” by Heather Davis, "K Street, Deconstructing" by Joyce E. Latham). And it’s always a pleasure to read new work by two of my personal local favorite local poets, E. Ethelbert Miller and Linda Pastan.
For more information, go here.
Monday, October 8, 2007
I Return, Humbled and Inspired
Okay…back from a wonderful vacation to Paris! I’m not sure what I might be able to add to the conversation about Paris that hasn’t already been said, but here are some of my quick impressions:
Yes, it rains A LOT in Paris. So much that most of the time, Parisians seem used to getting wet and don’t bother with an umbrella…so much that the fancy department store we wandered through had a special “umbrella and raingear boutique.”
Yes, the food is DELICIOUS. In ten days, we had only one bad meal and one mediocre meal: both were due to stumbling randomly into a convenient place out of exhaustion. On the other hand, we stumbled randomly out of exhaustion into plenty of other places that turned out to be amazing. After recovering from jet lag and the nine million things I need to do this week, I plan to dig out my old copy of Julia Child and get busy learning how to cook more French dishes—veau blanquette is first on the long list.
Yes, it helps if one speaks FRENCH. (Duh.) Sadly, what snippets Steve remembered from his high school French (Ou est la biblioteque, Françoise?) were not as helpful as one might imagine. Nevertheless, we got by, mostly, and I will no longer scorn those goofy audio guides in museums that happily came in English. As for eating, I immediately learned the words for “brains” and “horse” so I wouldn’t accidentally find myself facing either item on a plate (I imagined I would have eaten about anything else though I wasn’t put to the test). There was an amusing incident where I nearly ordered an appetizer of “fromage”-something, thinking it was a cheese tart, but we instead decided to order the foie gras yet again. (Yes, I’m evil, eating foie gras and veal left and right). Later, we saw that I had nearly ordered “headcheese.” Which probably would have been served with a lovely sauce that would have made me think it was the best thing I’d ever eaten….
Yes, it is absolutely HUMBLING to be in the presence of such great art, to be walking the same mazey warren of narrow streets (lost, hopelessly examining the useless maps in the guidebooks yet again) as Rodin and Degas and countless others, to sit quietly inside a church that was built in the 11th century, to drink wine at the bars where Hemingway drank (quite a number of these; sadly, we couldn’t hit them all), to be reminded that history actually didn’t begin when the Pilgrims showed up on Plymouth Rock in 1620.
In the midst of so much amazing history and stunning art, I am surprised that what still brings me to tears is thinking of my first glimpse of the Mona Lisa and the moments I spent gazing at Venus de Milo at the Louvre. I wouldn’t expect either of these experiences to have had the power they did—both works are virtually clichés, thanks to abundant T-shirts and cheap parodies in knick-knack catalogs. Yet despite the pack of people crowded around the Mona Lisa (all taking flash photos despite the signs saying not to), the painting was luminous, the famous smile timeless, the beauty beyond description.
The mob scene was worse around Venus de Milo—a tour group had just descended and literally every single person of the 50 shoved to the front to get their picture taken while standing next to the statue; they didn't even bother to look at the work itself. The mass of humanity was ridiculous and demeaning and goofy: and, honestly, who on earth wants to see all these photos on cell phones of people ruining a beautiful, timeless statue by pushing their stupid faces in front of it? And yet. The longer I stood there, a bit removed from the scrum, the more lovely and solid and serene and perfect the statue seemed; even the members of this unthinking, unseeing tour group couldn’t destroy it—so….
Yes, ART is ultimately, always, the thing that will prevail. And as writers, however humble, we are fortunate to feel called upon to take our own miniscule steps along that path toward timelessness.
Yes, it rains A LOT in Paris. So much that most of the time, Parisians seem used to getting wet and don’t bother with an umbrella…so much that the fancy department store we wandered through had a special “umbrella and raingear boutique.”
Yes, the food is DELICIOUS. In ten days, we had only one bad meal and one mediocre meal: both were due to stumbling randomly into a convenient place out of exhaustion. On the other hand, we stumbled randomly out of exhaustion into plenty of other places that turned out to be amazing. After recovering from jet lag and the nine million things I need to do this week, I plan to dig out my old copy of Julia Child and get busy learning how to cook more French dishes—veau blanquette is first on the long list.
Yes, it helps if one speaks FRENCH. (Duh.) Sadly, what snippets Steve remembered from his high school French (Ou est la biblioteque, Françoise?) were not as helpful as one might imagine. Nevertheless, we got by, mostly, and I will no longer scorn those goofy audio guides in museums that happily came in English. As for eating, I immediately learned the words for “brains” and “horse” so I wouldn’t accidentally find myself facing either item on a plate (I imagined I would have eaten about anything else though I wasn’t put to the test). There was an amusing incident where I nearly ordered an appetizer of “fromage”-something, thinking it was a cheese tart, but we instead decided to order the foie gras yet again. (Yes, I’m evil, eating foie gras and veal left and right). Later, we saw that I had nearly ordered “headcheese.” Which probably would have been served with a lovely sauce that would have made me think it was the best thing I’d ever eaten….
Yes, it is absolutely HUMBLING to be in the presence of such great art, to be walking the same mazey warren of narrow streets (lost, hopelessly examining the useless maps in the guidebooks yet again) as Rodin and Degas and countless others, to sit quietly inside a church that was built in the 11th century, to drink wine at the bars where Hemingway drank (quite a number of these; sadly, we couldn’t hit them all), to be reminded that history actually didn’t begin when the Pilgrims showed up on Plymouth Rock in 1620.
In the midst of so much amazing history and stunning art, I am surprised that what still brings me to tears is thinking of my first glimpse of the Mona Lisa and the moments I spent gazing at Venus de Milo at the Louvre. I wouldn’t expect either of these experiences to have had the power they did—both works are virtually clichés, thanks to abundant T-shirts and cheap parodies in knick-knack catalogs. Yet despite the pack of people crowded around the Mona Lisa (all taking flash photos despite the signs saying not to), the painting was luminous, the famous smile timeless, the beauty beyond description.
The mob scene was worse around Venus de Milo—a tour group had just descended and literally every single person of the 50 shoved to the front to get their picture taken while standing next to the statue; they didn't even bother to look at the work itself. The mass of humanity was ridiculous and demeaning and goofy: and, honestly, who on earth wants to see all these photos on cell phones of people ruining a beautiful, timeless statue by pushing their stupid faces in front of it? And yet. The longer I stood there, a bit removed from the scrum, the more lovely and solid and serene and perfect the statue seemed; even the members of this unthinking, unseeing tour group couldn’t destroy it—so….
Yes, ART is ultimately, always, the thing that will prevail. And as writers, however humble, we are fortunate to feel called upon to take our own miniscule steps along that path toward timelessness.
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