1. She brought him what she had promised, and they did it in his car, on the top floor of the car park, looking down onto the black flat roofs of buildings, and she said, or thought she said, “I like your skin,” when what she really liked was the color of her father’s skin, the mottled white of his arms and the clay color at the roots of the hairs along his arms.
2. I once saw a man hook a walking stick around a woman’s neck.
3. She was out of practice, and he wanted practice, so they started kissing each other, and they called it practicing, this kissing that occused him.
4. I date an old man, a man so old, I am afraid to see what he is like under his clothes. READ MORE >
Friends, I am incredibly excited and thrilled to announce that this week we will be posting stories from the current issue of The Lifted Brow, fantastic Australian biannual that you must know about if you don’t already. We’ll start things off with a GIANT favorite- the great Christine Schutt. Her story is called:
L I T T L E C A Y M A N
The six-seater plane wobbled onto a back-lot ugly island leeched of colour, the shrubbery burnt. The airstrip was no longer than a city block. The passengers, all three, measured most distances by city blocks. Two men and a woman, they were from New York and travelling together. They were past youth but anyone’s guess how near old age. The woman put out a hand to be helped from the plane, but once on the ground, her manner was hectic. Surely being short, with its many disadvantages, had made her this way. The oldest of the passengers—if grey hair counted—was called Danny. “Danny,” asked the woman, “Shouldn’t there be someone here to greet us?” And the other man, who had no distinguishing features and was not addressed by name, reassured the woman that a ride to the club had been arranged.
“I’m glad somebody thought ahead,” the woman said.
“We’re here by invitation,” Danny said. But the sky was a haze that pressed down on them, and the low, unvarying vegetation was yet another of the island’s limitations. Brittle grasses broke underfoot; the windsock sighed. “So,” Danny said, “this is Little Cayman and that,” he said, “must be our ride.”
Even as the prop plane puttered up and away, a predacious jeep in camouflage was suddenly bounding toward them. The driver’s prominent knees knocked around as he jounced nearer, waving extravagantly, in a manic shirt, shouting, “What took you so long?”
The three travellers only saw who it was when the driver was rattling in neutral: here was Uncle Johnny come for them agrin—and it made sense to the three travellers, now they understood the windburned landscape, the breathless heat.
January 19th, 2010 / 10:40 am
For people who are following this series, I’m starting to think that it will make the most sense to post 1 per week, on Friday, which will cover both meetings of the class during that week (on Tues & Thurs nights). To come home and do the Tuesday post that same night or the next day would be too much, besides which if the class is actually checking in here, it might feel a little too rapid-response. I’d rather let the whole week play out, then do the post-game and give everyone (me, them, you) the weekend to mull it over and/or forget it ever happened. So that’s the new plan, and here we are with the field reports from 9/15 (Schutt & Dickinson) and 9/17 (more Berman, Percy Shelley, and a writing exercise). And for people who are just coming to the series now, the first two installments are here (1) and here (2). Everyone else, I’ll see you after the jump.
September 18th, 2009 / 1:30 pm
Aside from the signatures that a few of my writer-friends have written to me in their own books, my favorite author signature is the above greeting from Christine Schutt in her collection Nightwork.
I had admired Schutt’s writing for a while, and then had the neat opportunity to take a workshop from her at Sewanee. Her way of talking about language (about which Justin has already posted) and how she applied her careful sensibilities to a few of my own stories really helped me become aware of my own sentences in new ways. Simply to be able to speak and work with her after having read and reread Nightwork and A Day, A Night, Another Day, Summer was incredible.
As a result, hers is the signature that means the most to me.
What about you? Feel free to email a pic if you have one, so I can add it to the post. Or share in the comments. Also, Jacket Copy has a similar post on author signatures and a gallery of photos. Send them pics too? You can also click over to this page of scanned author signatures if you’d like to get some ideas.
Here’s another signature, this one sent in by Blake: Gordon Lish.
It’s been a long couple of weeks for me, slogging toward the end of my teaching semester. I’m coming to you live right now from the basement of Murray Hall, New Brunswick NJ, for probably the last time until September. It’s a nice little office, as windowless cold rooms go, but I can’t say I’ll be sorry to be apart from it all summer. Anyway. Yesterday I finished grading my students’ last homework papers, and in a half hour I give them their final, which I spend all of tonight and tomorrow grading, so I can be done by Wednesday. What does all this mean? It means that I had a bit of time this morning to actually read something that wasn’t student work. So I whipped out my copy of NOON, uncapped my Krispy Kreme coffee, settled into my window seat, and picked up where I left off.
May 5th, 2009 / 1:44 pm