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.
When was the last time you read a book you didn’t really want to read? How did that go?
Face (Hanging Loose Press, poetry) is ax/not ax/poleax, as in still S. Alexie. His personae (will contain biographical elements of the author) have one leg stuck in White Batter (all connotations) of mainstream academia/book/laugh at nothing/muttering $peaking tours and one shakily afoot “the rez.” The third leg is a ghost leg. Tear ducts in its toenails, Andrew fucking nebulous Jackson. Like a man standing in two canoes (never try this), sway and suffer consequences. The question—in the words of another poet noticing Halle Berry dragging along the Very First Oscar (2002!) like a battleship anchor—is whether speaker will crust and sugar over, sag like a heavy load, or, well, explode. I celebrate the men who preceded me. Face has numbers in a burlap sack (math, as history, as stat, as in right now. As in statistics): 1492, 15 million Native Americans. 1892, 750,000. 2002, 1.8 million. Look up Pamunkey, an odd word. Face, do you feel yourself rowing against the current/into the past, like White Fitzgerald? Hypothermia. Face, blanket, and not blanket. Mask. Shroud. OK, speak.
I am reading Face by Alexie and on page 35 there is a sentence that needs indenting. This a game, finding these tiny errors, locating them in magazines, canonical works, some huge publisher.
One part of me—the part editing The Broken Plate and about to teach about copy-editing—is paranoid. Many magazines feel less (or no) errors are related to the quality of the publication.
Some feel like a typo in a book is a human gesture, a beautiful mole, unsymmetrical ears, the smudge in the painting, the flaw that makes the thing.
How much is on the editor, the writer?
How closely do you look at your galleys (if you get them)?
Do you have a technique to catch errors? The writer, too near, as the worst diagnostic?
War story? One time a magazine had my word “years” changed to “ears.” That smarted a bit. Years, ears…
You?
(image by Mr. Eggers)
Like if I watched you brushing your teeth, you pick up toothbrush this way, start on this tooth, move that way, spit, start there, that tooth…the same method every morning. You don’t believe me? Videotape yourself.
You drive to work two ways. Two routes, maybe. Same roads/signs/stores/sky. You could easily take some other roads/paths, maybe 40. You would see 40 new things. But you don’t.
I want you to go eat something new. Don’t cheat. Go the ethnic restaurant, produce aisle, international market—select something you have never eaten before. Eat it.
What is the point?
1.) Skinny eyeglasses (unusual hue?)
2.) Satchel
3.) Fell for a compliment back when
4.) Ponytail inappropriate to age (and hair heft, ply, puissance)
5.) Earth tones (or all white?)
6.) Access to drugs, but not the great ones
7.) Took a strong found sentence, added two words, twisted, called it your own
8.) Subaru in lot. Or bike. Or shoes with just a hint of yellow
9.) Feels a small, repetitive animal jumping around inside stomach/thorax.
Am I missing something? I will stop at 9, since 9 is a holy number (in certain sections of hell).
John Updike died in 2009 with a whimper and 100+ books (written or edited). Does anyone care?
The title of this post from the opening line of Toni Morrison’s, Paradise.
Opening lines are like titles. I am going to briefly discuss titles. This might help you, or will maybe interest any students you might attempt to shepherd/lose. I’ve found students often go no-title, and I am against no-title, unless you have been writing for 20 years and work in minimalist miniature black and white photos. Or do heroin.
So.
See that young lady and her cleavage (probably done by this guy) on the cover of a magazine I consider vituperation to the brain, body, beauty, soul? It is going to help me.
Jac Jemc all micro-fiction/poem (ah, genre, ala Charles Baxter: “…they are between poetry and fiction, the story and the sketch, prophecy and reminiscence, the personal and the crowd.”). Short form. Something has happened, much of it off the page, much of it white space, white blizzard whirling around tight words. Residue. Stumble. Off the page one serious advantage of microfiction. Some see space. Some use the space (example Joseph Young, example Chelsea Martin). Example Jac Jemc.
Jac Jemc has a razor name and wears killer boots while out in Chicago.
Jac Jemc spits on rejection, polishes it up, tacks its forehead to this wall with a knife.
Jac Jemc opening page:
“Windows of humor roll down low & whistle
At our glorious legs & eyeball the stiff &
Enthronging death of accidents.
The humpbacked light of the moon is the
Funnel cloud of direction, sawn off & mighty.
My pal Tommy Z once sent out the same story 54 times. (It was published by Carolina Q.) Your record?