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.
Some have serious heat. Some have flavor. I’m looking for both. What is your favorite hot sauce? Links would be fine.
So I was fudging juggling judging a poetry contest yesterday
And
Stumbled upon many Centered Poems. Why do I retch them so? Where
Did they come from? Origins? Why am I biased since one
Was about a glass basketball and I like that general idea
And this was for cash $$$ (Wait, I thought poetry
Couldn’t make money.)
Sorry. They seem like cover letters on purple paper to me. Or I
mean like people who ask about copyright. Who knows?
Who writes Centered Poems?
I am drinking beer now so wanted to
Bring this question in front of the quart
Of public opinion. When you see a
Centered Poem, what do you think?
Is it arbitrary for me to hate them?
I don’t know.
(moon, gossamer, wings, love, tendrils)
What u think?
2. Ander Monson wades into the whole D’Agata thingy.
2. Matt Mullins interview.
1. I Take Back the Sponge Cake is a choose-your-own-adventure collaboration between poet Sierra Nelson and visual artist Loren Erdrich.
1. Seems to me we flash fiction folks don’t really get enough book contests. Hell, here’s one.
14. Duck tape and eggs greeted vehicles traveling down Highway 3 in the early morning hours of Friday, March 16.
5. We learned about student evaluations from a sociologist. She said studies show men rate female professors lower than male professors on student evaluations, but men and women rate male professors the same. OK.
6. A little breakfast treat on tennis and DFW.
The woman is my own regret.
The children are my friends,
how they cannot reach, or save
me. The birds are my eyelashes,
the wolves are my hands.
There is no secret to this at all. Use the CW vocabulary. The creative act is a feed triangle of writer and work and reader. Technical issues: beginnings, titles, structure, characters, language, setting, corn, mood, etc. Are we talking birds? Can you give me a map to that tunnel through the mountain so I don’t have to spend so much energy climbing this stupid mountain? Whether they’re absorbing it or not? No clue. Positive AND constructive comments. I’m getting a feeling you are a bigot. Comedians get to see if someone is actually laughing. Coaching and nurturing (editors don’t do this like in the past. Now groups and workshops and universities do this). WORKSHOPS are not debates! Makes art cooperative and collaborative. Were you ever lost? Did we understand the ending? Any transition problems? Is the horse believable? If I slap Barbie, how does she react? Dialogue realistic? Any places you felt tension? Don’t write the story where you kill the class, I beg you. A desire to see what happens? What is the central conflict? I love when characters say strange or funny things. The pilot said. “Hey, Tiger,” as a greeting to the little boy. After a brief pause, the kid said “I’m not a tiger.”
What is your mental image of the main character? THEME PLOT LANGUAGE Should you accept all of them, or ignore them, or what? It’s like Russian nesting dolls? Get inside the syntax. Maintain equilibrium so they can keep moving the work forward. Cleavage! Polite. Always respond to the story! Don’t ask her out with a comment. As a consequence I end up feeling at a loss when I don’t have a pen in my hand—it’s just a kind of job hazard that the pen is part of the reading life. Compare to things in class, other texts. Take notes as you read. A work is a work IN PROGRESS! You can accept or reject an opinion. If I say 2+2 does not equal 5, it won’t hurt your feelings. You will get last word in your FINAL DRAFT. I can’t move people in cars. Grammar concerns, editing, corn. Rudeness, sarcasm. Do NOT be prescriptive. It’s not your draft! A lack of honesty. “It was all good.” “This is not college level” etc. Remember, this is a draft. Is that beer? Confusing the writer with the material. (I can write from the perspective of Billie Holiday, for example.) I really can’t see that anything has changed. And the people in either of these extremes can vary greatly from room to room. You have to define the rules when using magic. The writing is too good to be written by a bad writer. Corn.
I’m in the early stages of developing an online CW class. I’m thinking an intro class. Anyone taken one? Advantages? Entanglements? I wouldn’t mind hearing some anecdotes. Was it synchronous or asynchronous? Did it matter to you? Face-time versus online time—what IS the difference, to you? What can ‘physical’ time offer online could never? What can online offer over physical?
I’m asking big picture questions here, sure. As I said, I’m in the early stages. One key aspect of early stages: Do I want to do this? I feel it could be innovative and high quality, but I could be wrong. I haven’t taken or taught an online CW class. You?
One writer is very earnest, a Poet, sprinkling tendrils, donning hats, trying to enunciate the fuck out of words, trying to pull a stick of butter out a badger’s ass, something, and in one way you think, young, trying, at least still believes while another hand says (hands talk now—this is poetry) relax Thing, calm your gossamer spirit down, flutterby, it’s only poetry and I need to ABS glue the couplings on the toilet drain on Monday—it’s going to smell like shit. One writer has recent stories in Paris Review and New Yorker and steps up to the mic and quickly contextualizes an excerpt and reads calmly, clearly, slowly for 7 minutes and thanks the organizers of the reading, the audience, sits down and shares a beer with me. One writer screams penis!/penis!/penis! into the microphone but only for a short while so it’s fine. (The word penis makes everyone think; I mean it has built careers [Freud or Hilton or your own, etc].)
One writer opens with, “This is the shortest story in my collection” and I feel a shiver through the room as three people turn to the bar to reload their urns with beer. It’s still not quite right to text, turn away, talk to someone, rumple yourself loud, walk through, at least not too often—the writer is looking right at you. The writer is a human being. One writer sort of sways and/or faints. I feel for them. One writer reads and you want to grab them right then and sleep with them—who can say words don’t work? One writer reads and you want to put a bracelet on their ankle, to monitor them, so you can stay reliably away. One writer wears a black shoe and a brown shoe, and it’s a fun bar conversation, this presentation of shoes. One writer is terrified; one writer might as well be in their own bathtub, luxuriating in the warm bubbles of audience eyes. “I don’t know what to do up there,” she said, when I asked her opinion. “Just don’t be that guy.” Well said, I suppose. But which guy was she asking us not to be?
God and man? But isn’t it searching in a dark bar at three a.m. for a hipster magician that isn’t there? Yes. No. Maybe. If you asked Graham Greene what he would take to the desert island, he would say, “Sunblock, three ribbed condoms, a tube of camouflage, the bible, and Power and the Glory.” It was his favorite book. History lesson: While President Calles is sane on all other matters, he completely loses control of himself when the matter of religion comes up, becomes livid in the face and pounds the table to express his hatred. You can trust God to make allowances, but you can’t trust smallpox, or men. The dentist metaphors are supposed to be about the “teeth” of your beliefs—without them you only eat mush, or a stale BRAT meal: bananas (“ripe, brown, and sodden, tasting of soap”), rice (an annual plant), applesauce (favored by children and criminals), and toast (brimstone bread). Miracles, do you believe in them? Yes, but not for me. In his 111th collection, Graham Greens’s characteristic M.O. is intact: casually enjambed verse-prose stanzas marrying the narrative apotheosis of microfiction to the fatigued hope of a Shakespearean monologue:
I found a married priest in the snow
And not knowing what it was or why it was there, I ate a tart and gutted it
as if a LieutenantTo me, up to my polished gun holsters in bladder, the brandy was a surprise
I drank it in like the cunning wink of an exploding butterfly
on the lip
of a teacup while God upstairs puts a bag over His head
& gasses the house& says, “Well if I hated you I wouldn’t want my child to be like you, it makes no sense.”
Enter a shaken rooster of sin.
The ocean is full of flowers that betray most readers. Or Graham Greene’s adulterations of poetic form in The Third Man are particularly well suited to his subject—racketeering. As we all know, on March 13, 1938, Germany took over Austria (termed the Anschluss)–a contingency specifically disallowed in the Versailles Treaty. Then we all took Austria back, but then it gets messy. This book is a tale of a “secret agency” (in the words of Sun Tzu) told through dialogue, exposition, tunnel chases, elegiac couplets, literary quotations, assassinations, and letters. Greene continues to be, as one critic has put it, “compulsively readable,” especially in his characterization of his villain, a charismatic but chronically unfaithful racketeer who publishes his friend’s writing as his own (westerns), and who is capable of saying “…I never lied to myself.” For example, the author spent nearly five million pounds, and employed over 150 researchers, in his mission to destroy martini lunches inside and outside the country (concerning events that happened over 60 years ago!). When needs arose our author may have used words that lied. Nonetheless, the hatted fellow cannot resist the money (this book was meant to be a screenplay), and his complicity is evident in the desperate acerbity of their dialogue (whispered). At one point, spy # 7 unleashes a terrific string of epithets: “lazy… plotter…sewage sucker…acronym…shootout child…liar…destroyer sadist fake.” Our hero Bond counters:
If you wish not to go on with this I’ll shoot.
Don’t shoot.
I’ve shot everything before.
What’s wrong with us.
Fog of war.
Why are we at war.
Because I don’t want to give up my penicillin.
Your dreams are a mess.
They are my masterpiece.
