Where the Wild Things Are

RIP Maurice Sendak


Maurice Sendak died on Tuesday, May 8, at the age of 83. He scared children because he loved them. He described himself as a scavenger. He will be missed by many.

Massive People / Comments Off on RIP Maurice Sendak
May 9th, 2012 / 2:16 pm


The flash writer is a disciple of the poet. The poet a disciple of the word. How to say much with few. How to have a word echo, bloom, unlock or unhinge, shudder or pop, show or embrace itself as thing, expand or fall into something off the page, become or allow a potential to become, something much larger than itself.

In Damien Dressick’s “Four Hard Facts about Water,” the words are steak sauce. The turn, to get us to the bitterness, the banality/absurdity of death, to the god/godlessness of the event, the thing, the disbelief. Steak sauce.

In “Dulce et Decorum Est” the word is flung. A body flung, and we are in 1914-1918, the human mind/technology meets the human mind/our perpetual desire to kill one another. Enter flame throwers/gas/machine guns/tanks/all of the etc. of technology. Degree of killing. Attrition as strategy. Everything upside down. Flung.

In Raymond Carver’s “Little Things,” the word is flowerpot.

In “Survivors” by Kim Addonizio, the word is parrot.

In Dave Eggers’s “Bounty,” the words are curved chips. Curved chips get us off the page, into the philosophical, curved chips off that last line, off God. Yes.

Jolly Ranchers in “The Last Stop” by Jenny Halper. Sometimes one object can characterize and exposition, can show, can let us inside.

It may be useful to seek the word in all poems, all flash fictions, as an exercise of the writerly mind. And then of course to ask your own self (the editor one)—where are my words, the ones that if omitted, would leave such a hole as to let all the air out, as to have the entire text collapse on itself like a pierced balloon? It is one way of looking, the word.

Craft Notes & Random / 2 Comments
September 25th, 2011 / 11:21 am

Max decided to go for a quick bike ride before dinner. He was going to tell his mom he was leaving, but then didn’t, oh well. She was busy with Gary anyway. Gary, her chinless boyfriend, was lounging on the couch, drinking red wine and watching one of those ludicrous musicals. Every night was some musical. Disgusting, untrue, wrong in every way.

first paragraph from an excerpt from the Where The Wild Things Are novel by Dave Eggers.

Who has seen Where the Wild Things Are? Is it worth the time and money? Feels like they are trying too hard to get me to go to the movie. But, you know.

Top of the NYT website right now: a feature story on the troubled production of Where the Wild Things are, the new Spike Jonze movie based on the classic and beloved book of the same name, by Maurice Sendak. Reads the subhead: Spike Jonze is known for making videos and movies his way — fast, cheap and dirty. Sounds like Shanes Jones to me! Anyway,  here’s to the future. If WB tries any funny stuff with Light Boxes, Team Giant will be here to lead the ALLCAPS consumer revolt. We’re here for you, boys.