Sean Lovelace is running right now, far. Other times he teaches at Ball State University. HOW SOME PEOPLE LIKE THEIR EGGS is his flash fiction collection by Rose Metal Press. His works have appeared in Crazyhorse, Diagram, Sonora Review, Willow Springs, and so on.
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBmjGV2Kb8k
It has even been suggested that I spent six years writing my last novel in order to create a demand that cannot be filled. Basic Black With Pearls has had rave reviews and has been bought by William Morrow Company in New York. Success and 60 cents will get me a ride on the subway. No one can find a copy of my novel in the bookstores.
First published age 45.
Did, but did not enjoy, raising rabbits for food.
94 is way bonus years.
All the literary forms were men’s, all the philosophies were men’s philosophies. … I had to translate these forms into the female
Achieved?
Pointed out that gardens might be an answer to God Money (or that fleas do tricks for food).
RIP Helen. To be avant and overshadowed by a spouse. Push back? Harder? But it happens. But let’s pause.
A book you borrowed, never returned (not innocently or forgot; you damn well know it), still own (love?). Your chance to disclose. Go ahead:
Caustic Cover Critic interviews Michael Salu. Salu just did the Vintage Classics’ Italo Calvino and Raymond Carver reissues. His blog here.
Bought Xbox 360 yesterday. My distant cohort said, “Are you going to get the literary games?” What are the literary games?
I drank martini after martini while they “workshopped” their poems.
We extend the language.
We take our gin warm and neat.
I am writing this on a cocktail table in dim light.
My voice had a terrifying whiskey tone.
Speaking in public, be quite drunk, be manic, be very well prepared.
Planting words in you like a grass seed.
Let me sleep in your bed.
If someone burns out your eye I will take your socket and use it for an ashtray.
Fool!
You do drink me.
I sounded a bit drunk—but those things do happen.
Smart blog post on experimental short story by Charles May.
When Donald Barthelme’s first collection of stories, Come Back, Dr. Caligari, appeared in 1964, critics complained that his work was without subject matter, without character, without plot, and without concern for the reader’s understanding. For Barthelme, the problem of language is the problem of reality, for reality is the result of language processes.
(cake by Lukka Sigurdardottir)
Words by Mikhail Zoshchenko.
He liked to yap out, “This is not theatre!”
He had a bird he named Dog.
His writing often deadpan. We know why people write deadpan (E.L Doctorow to Dashiell Hammet to, oh hell, Tao Lin)–they are saying what they are saying and are not. A deadpan is an iron skillet. The flavor is “cured” in the core. Like a bowl of bacon or a jelly intruder. [But now I am getting hungry.]
He saw that flash fiction (“snapshots” his term) was disreputable to the bourgeoisie. (At the time, they felt the genre unfit for critical analysis, so unfit, period.) This glowed Zoshchenko to the form. The bourgeoisie lived as if life was theatre. Worms under teacups, something.
So fuck them.