Blog Archives
MAKE “A SAFE DEPOSIT” AT READ SHORT FICTION!
Mark Charney’s “A Safe Deposit” is now up on Read Short Fiction! Head on over and find out why some mail is better left unread: http://bit.ly/biQofA
WRITERS: DON’T IGNORE YOUR INTUITION
Writer? Private space keeps your intuition sharp. Here's why this week's blogger Toni Logan quiets things down so she can hear herself...
Toni Logan is a writer based in northern Westchester County, New York. Her work has appeared in newspapers and magazines including the San Francisco Chronicle, the Oakland Tribune, Forbes ASAP, Business 2.0 and Wired.
Writer Toni Logan. Photo by Maureen McFarlane.
Intuition: Don’t Ignore It
by Toni Logan
After five years of not writing, I was at wit’s end. My long career in California as a technology and business journalist had ended in 2005 (for a variety of valid but depressing reasons) and now I was living with my husband in a rural outpost of Westchester County, New York.
We had a lovely home and good life: freelance editing work, loving family and friends, lively participation in the community, a nearby train station and hourly trains to Grand Central Terminal. City girl at heart, I took advantage of these one-hour rides to New York City for intellectual and cultural stimulation whenever possible.
Still, I was unhappy and felt vaguely lost. I had an idea for a book I’d long wanted to write but couldn’t seem to wrestle pen to paper. The will to shift gears as a writer just wasn’t there. One hot July day in 2009 while out on a country-road stroll, I suddenly thought of an old acquaintance I hadn’t pondered – literally – in eighteen years. Jake was a friend I’d known in San Francisco during my time as a single student. He was an architect, artist, and musician then – a creative powerhouse with the drive and ambition of three average humans. As I walked quietly along the road, a voice in my head said very clearly: “Google him.” The force of it blew me off the blacktop.
This seemed a strange harbinger, a major disconnect from everything else happening in life. Still, I obeyed. The Google search revealed a music web site that sold CDs recorded by Jake’s former rock band. There was a contact link on the site. I shot a two-sentence note to him. He replied. We exchanged email addresses and began a chatty catching-up period that launched a renewed friendship. Jake became my unexpected and very effective creativity coach. This contact, delivered via intuition, changed the course of my writing life.
In addition to architecture, art and music, Jake had written two or three books since I’d seen him – one of which was published. He sent me one of his unpublished manuscripts to read. It inspired me to start writing my own book in a new genre.
I quickly cranked out four chapters of the book I’d been trying to begin for five years. The crushing case of writer’s block mysteriously dissolved.
It’s not that my husband, friends and former colleagues hadn’t TRIED to get me writing again. They had told me many times, “You should write books! You are a natural author!” For some reason I just couldn’t do it until Jake appeared on my cyberspace radar. It’s a mystery, I’m grateful, and I don’t try to figure it out.
One day last fall Jake sent me a note about a fundraising dinner in Manhattan to benefit the Norman Mailer Writers Colony in Provincetown, Mass. I replied: “Sounds wonderful! Wish I could afford to attend and schmooze with A-list authors and editors.” He shot back: “Toni, I think you should apply for a writing residency at the Mailer Colony.” That had not even occurred to me. Sure, I knew writers colonies exist but hadn’t heard of this one (it was fairly new). Also, I didn’t consider colonies an option for someone like me. Nevertheless, I applied, was accepted for April 2010, and spent one glorious month writing and meeting other writers in Provincetown at the Norman Mailer Colony. This summer, I’m going back there for a week-long workshop titled “Historical Narrative” with six other lucky writers who made the cut. The first draft of my book will be finished by early fall.
Treading this new literary path feels so right. My soul has renewed purpose; the universe feels like home. When you get a strong message or hunch like mine on that July day, don’t ignore it. That’s your intuition showing you the correct path. Nurture it. Stay open to both new and renewed friendships. And, of course, just write. You’ve got nothing to lose.
Me, at right, and Toni Logan in a garden at Provincetown’s East End, April, 2010. We met at the Norman Mailer Writer’s Colony only to find we don’t live too far from each other, so we get together frequently. It’s proven to be a constant source of inspiration.
RECOVERING RANCH GIRL REVEALS WHY SHE WRITES
Writer Tamara Linse
Tamara Linse’s short fiction is beautifully colored by the state of Wyoming, where she was raised on a ranch and still lives today. Her work has been a top-five finalist for the 2009 Arts & Letters Prize and has been featured or is pending in the Georgetown Review, Word Riot, Slow Trains, Talking River, and a host of others; a book of her short stories semifinaled for Black Lawrence Press’ 2008 Hudson Prize. She holds bachelor’s and master’s degrees in English from the University of Wyoming, and she’s hard at work on a novel based on Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night but set on a Wyoming ranch. Want to know more about Tamara and read her work? Visit http://www.tamaralinse.com.
Why I Write
by Tamara Linse
In this post, Kristi suggested I might address the age-old questions: What inspires your work? What motivates a writer? How does life affect your writing. In short, why do I write?
At first I resisted this topic, for all the usual reasons. I’ve answered it before, it requires lots of deep and painful thought, it’s hard to express, and it’s been answered so skillfully by so many writers that what did I have to add?
It was precisely this last reason that prompted me to attempt it. First of all, the fact that so many people ask and answer this question points to something deep and abiding. It’s a question that haunts people. They ask other people because they don’t understand it within themselves. Not that I have any claim to understanding.
It’s the second part of that last reason that got me. Do I have anything to add? It struck me not so much because I may or may not have anything to add but because that question is one of the reasons I write. I grew up feeling like I had no voice, that my thoughts and opinions didn’t matter, that I didn’t matter. I was invisible. The feeling persisted well into my twenties.
Since then, I’ve realized that there really aren’t any new ideas, but that’s okay. The point isn’t to say something new or to add something. The point is to say something. The only thing that is unique ~ in its true sense of “only one in all the world” ~ is you and your collection of experiences and voice. That’s what you bring to the table. Therefore, if you touch just one other person the way what you’ve read has changed your life, it’s worth it. It’s not about the new; it’s about connecting with other human beings.
So let me begin ~ um, continue ~ by answering the question directly. Why do I write? Here’s the answer on my website: “Because it’s my passion. Because as a child I felt I had no voice. Because I love to read, and writing is like reading only better. Because I have to to stay sane—just ask my husband. Because I’m fascinated by people, and writing and reading is the closest you can get to another person’s consciousness.” All of this is true, and I could go on at great length about each item, but I want to get at something deeper and more universal.
Let me start with three examples.
My dad had a coin collection. If memory serves, it was a wooden box filled with beautiful coins from across the world, and my three-year-old heart yearned to possess it. I wanted it so badly that, despite repeated warnings, I crept into the bedroom and took it and hid it. One of my first memories is of crouching on the passenger side of the car at night in terror as my dad strode by shouting my name.
My last boyfriend before I started dating my husband left me to become a cowboy. It’s not that he wanted someone else; he just didn’t want me. We had been dating for three years and had lived together for a year or two. He did not break it off with me, however, but instead just moved away. I was the one who made the ultimatum: move back or we’re through. I understand now why he did it that way ~ I was a little unstable at the time ~ but the sense of missing him and wanting him back was so strong it was physical. I felt it in my roiling stomach and in the knot in my chest and in the twanging rubberbands of shoulder muscles and in tension headaches.
There is an image fixed in my mind of my husband in the pantry looking for something to eat. It was an ordinary day, and we hadn’t planned anything for dinner. Often, before having kids, our schedules would offset and so I would feed myself and he would feed himself. And it’s not like we’re ever particularly hungry. We live very comfortably. But what is fixed in my mind is the look on his face ~ one of pure naked childlike desire. It’s hard to describe in concrete terms. Maybe his forehead was wrinkled a bit, his eyes were wide, and his lips around his downturned mouth worked just a little as he imagined what things would taste like.
What these three instances have in common is that they’re all about desire. All people everywhere live in a constant state of desire. It is truly a human condition. Whether it’s something as small as a snack or something materialistic or something as large as a mate for life, people want. People need. One reason that we are such good consumers and why advertising works so well is because we by our very nature have this endless hole within us that needs to be filled. Every religion is built on this.
So, this is my deeper answer to why I write: Because I’m human. Because I desire. It’s a way to take the world into myself and to make it part of me. It’s a way to place myself into the world. It’s a way to connect with the world and with other people and to imagine for one small moment that we are not alone and that we have the capacity to be full and content.
PASSAGES IN INDIA
I used to keep all of my journals and short stories in these battered suitcases. I find it interesting some stories of mine went all the way to India in suitcases, too!
Recently, a colleague went to India on business. She loves to read, and she asked if she could take several of my short stories with her. I was thrilled and promptly loaded two manila envelopes, thinking that she probably wouldn’t really enjoy them, that perhaps she was just asking to be polite.
Yesterday she came up to me and told me that my stories had saved her life.
Before she goes on any trip, her husband buys her a book to read. For this trip, he’d given her the latest novel by her favorite author, one he was sure she hadn’t read. Ecstatic, she decided to read the novel on the long flight and stowed my envelopes in her checked luggage.
After the plane was in the air, she eagerly cracked the new book—then got to the end of page one and realized she had read it. She could have read it a second time, she said, but frankly, she hadn’t really enjoyed it that much the first time.
When she finally arrived at her hotel, she was wired. “I thought, ‘what the hell am I going to do with myself?’ and then I remembered your stories and I was so excited!” She had her favorites—for those of you who are curious, she loved “Red Circle,”[1] “Crossing Guards,”[2] “Paisley Surprise,”[3] and “Doors”[4] the most—and went into detail about how they affected her, or what they made her think. “Every night at the hotel, I had them all spread out on the bed, and I’d pick one to read. Sometimes I read two, and some of them, I even read twice. I would have gone nuts over there if I didn’t have them.”
Although I was, of course, flattered by all these compliments, that’s not why I’m sharing this. I’m sharing this because during the course of the conversation I was struck by how many times I’ve doubted my career choice: as in, ‘why am I a writer? What’s the point of all this?’ I know other writers feel this way sometimes, too, although from sharing with my friends, most of us agree that it’s because we can’t not write—it’s born in us, something we have to do or we go crazy. This is usually followed by shop talk: what good writing is or is not, whether or not something we wrote is technically perfect, the minutiae of submissions, the state of the publishing industry or academia. We get all tangled up in the business, where we fit in it, and how it will judge us.
I had an epiphany when I was talking with Karen. That sometimes we forget the other reason we’re writing: our readers. Part of the job is providing them with an experience: we can allow escape, entertain, spark laughter, encourage thought, inspire change. It’s not all about us. It’s about others. Any piece of work we write—even if it’s not perfect—could heal someone, change his outlook, teach him something. That—not selling millions of copies at the bookstore or getting tenure in an English department—is the true measure of success.
Before we parted ways, Karen said she was going to pass the pile on to one of her colleagues.
I wonder what my stories will do next.
[1] “Red Circle” was first published as “The Red Circle” in The Adirondack Review’s Fall 2002 issue and is still available online for free here. It was reprinted in Mudrock: Stories & Tales’ Winter 2005 issue.
[2] “Crossing Guards” was published in Millenial Concepts’ Walls & Bridges Anthology in 2008. It’s available in both paperback and Kindle formats.
[3] “Paisley Surprise” will appear later in 2010 in Lame Goat Press’ Inner Fears anthology.
[4] “Doors” was just written while I was in Ptown in January and still has some minor clean-up to undergo before it gets submitted. If you’d like to read what inspired it, however, you can visit here.
WRITER? PULVERIZE PRESSURE, PLUS PRODUCTIVITY
My little place in Ptown. I got a lot of work done, and I miss it.
I’m honored to be a guest on writer Tamara Linse’s Blog, and my post is now up! The top tips I learned at the Norman Mailer Writers Colony for pulverizing pressure and plussing productivity. Check it out now at http://02e9d7b.netsolhost.com/Blog/archives/408.
...still working in the evening. It was so cozy!
Yeah, this is blurry, but here's exactly what the light looked like after dark when I was working.
THE LAST PEOPLE ON EARTH
Riches in the Ruins
In writing, as with any kind of intense pursuit, it’s important to have a balance while you’re doing it. I came up here to the Colony with a lot of work to do, and I’ve certainly achieved that. I even managed to get out to a few things—an art gallery opening, a wonderful dinner party at the Mailer house, a poetry reading. Last weekend, however, after working intensely for three or four days and only attending these events in the evenings, I realized I was feeling a little caged in. I wasn’t getting out enough.
Enter my next-door neighbor, Peter, and his friend Duff. They live here year-round and I definitely hold them among the coolest people I’ve ever met. During the first week I was here, I’d discussed with them my passion for abandoned places and urban exploring (something I do, in reality, very little of—I mostly just look at other explorer’s photos). And they had a surprise for me: some abandoned jewels just down the road apiece. Would I like to go? Hell, yeah!
So this past Sunday, although it was a bit nippy, it was sunny and a beautiful day to be out—in many ways, there’s no better weather in which to visit an abandoned place. All that beauty (especially by the sea) is so incongruous with the empty places, the rotting places, the places where, if you listen closely enough, you can hear the echoes of the lives that happened in them. I came home inspired; a new short story is cooking in my brain as we speak. In an odd way, all that incongruity—and being away from my keyboard for a full day—restored my balance.
Here are photos and videos of our day–we visited a base, most of which is now nature preserve and open to the public; some of it is still in use by local organizations, but the base ceased operations in 1985. The other building was a biology lab, and I’m not sure when that closed–although its closing pre-dated the late 1990s judging from graffiti on the walls.
Apparently, there are a couple more places, but we ran out of daylight. Here’s to hoping I get an opportunity to go see the rest before I leave!
Organized tour? NOT.
Walking Tour #1: A bit of background.
“[There’s just] all kinds of stuff out here…”
Next few pix: Seriously? This place is reminiscent of the set of The Last Man on Earth (1964) starring Vincent Price, precursor to The Omega Man (Charlton Heston, 1971) and I Am Legend (Will Smith, 2007). [If you’ve never seen The Last Man on Earth, or don’t even have any clue what the hell I’m talking about, you owe it to yourself to rent it now.]
These are all single family homes.
There are four streets of them…
Peter on the Roof.
Home sweet home! Those trees’d be a pain in the ass if your dinner party guests had to get through them to find your front door. Yup, that’s me. Martini, anyone? May I bring your slippers?
Broken merry-go-round on the playground.
Many years ago, parents sat on this bench and watched their kids:
Here’s a shelter where people, most likely, waited for transportation:
We were pretty fascinated with this cover, which we could have probably pried open if we’d had a crowbar. Check out the design, the year, and the strange symbols. Drunken mischief? Or does somebody have, like, food and stuff socked away down there (I didn’t put the photo here, but beneath this cement platform there are what appear to be air vents).
Fallen electrical equipment. The storms out here do get pretty wild.
I’m not sure what caused this hole. It was in one of the front windows of a home–a window that would have most likely looked into the family room. Where a Christmas Tree probably would have been.
Interior. What’s with all the weird art?
Dormant dining room.
These trees reminded me of scenes in Sleepy Hollow.
Walking toward the sea.
Abandoned beach.
The Abandoned Beach Cliff Adventure. This is truly great!
Nathan shot this while we were chatting.
An abandoned cistern. This view struck me as reminiscent of the pool area from which the piranha escaped in Piranha (1978).
I was fascinated by this creepy picnic area.
THE ABANDONED LAB
Obviously, someone was here before us…whoever it was drank his beer, but left a near-full pack of Marlboros.
From this point forward, we’re going counter-clockwise through the place. This was a loading door of some kind — the opening was large enough to fit a small vehicle through.
This is the area to the left of the door.
Notice this spiral painted on the wall–it looks like the same spiral painted on the man-hole cover I pointed out earlier. Weird.
Ceiling damage in one of the back rooms.
I’m always fascinated by fuse boxes that no longer work. This one I particularly liked because I swear it’s the same model I had in my house growing up. Or maybe they’re all the same anyway? I don’t know.
Could you imagine working in this dark hole? I think it would depress me.
NO VACANCY
The storm we’re having up here right now is nothing short of AWESOME. The wind is so strong the house creaks, groans, and thumps. Last night I could swear I felt my bed move. This must be, I thought, the type of weather ships sink in.
It’s one of the many magical things about Provincetown in January.
When friends first heard I would be here in the winter, several of them asked me, “wouldn’t you rather be there in the summer?” I’m sure it would be nice in the summer, but a Coastal New England winter does wonders for my work because of the types of stories I write. It is gray. It is windy. Everything has a sodden look to it. And the shrubs and trees are skeletal.
And there is something else.
When I first arrived here, the guy who lives next door noted “this place is a ghost-town in the winter.” The last couple of nights that I’ve had to walk two miles round-trip to events in town, I’ve had the privilege of experiencing this first hand. There are sections of streets where there isn’t even one light on in any of the homes, probably because they are summer places. There are also shops and restaurants that appear to only be open seasonally as well. They are closed down, their outdoor furniture stacked neatly in the corners of hibernating gardens and cobblestone patios.
But of all the shuttered houses and shops, the creepiest ones by far are the seasonal hotels and B&Bs. I passed three of them in a row the other night, and it happened to be on a portion of the street that wasn’t well lit. One building was a white, manicured Victorian, probably majestic and warm in the daylight. In the dark, though, its black windows seemed wickedly intelligent. The furniture stacks on its front porch seemed to mutate into huddled beings. As I passed, the inn’s sign swung slightly in the wind. NO VACANCY.
That, to me, is the most atmospheric part of these closed places; I’ve noticed this same phenomenon not only here in town, but on my drive in through Wellfleet and Truro. The owners of these places, instead of putting out CLOSED FOR SEASON signs, put out their NO VACANCY signs. It implies that the empty buildings are indeed not really empty at all. The people move out at the end of summer. And that is when the ghosts, or God knows what else, move in.
I didn’t grow up where there were sidewalks, and I don’t live where there are sidewalks now. I usually love a place where I can walk on a sidewalk. But here, I prefer walking in the street. These temporarily closed businesses are right on top of me. The tangles of dead vines and hedges look like they could reach out and seize me. It’s a bit claustrophobic.
I suppose I should consider myself lucky there’s NO VACANCY.
NMWC INVITE, PTOWN ADVENTURES, SCREAMS OF AUTUMN, RAGNAROK
Feb 3
Posted by kristipetersenschoonover
Well, the Norman Mailer Writer’s Colony invited me to stay on for two more weeks, and thanks to the incredible generosity of several people—particularly those at work (who the hell is luckier than me?)—I could accept the offer! I’ll be here, working, until February 14!
The Norman Mailer Writer’s Colony.
My writing place — I’ve totally nested!
A cute new wine I discovered! Yummy!
I’ve had a few awesome adventures in the past week. I had a lovely lunch at Fanizzi’s with Guy (administrator of the NMWC), where I had FRESH Fish ‘N’ Chips. Wow. I grew up thinking they were greasy, heavy, and mealy. Yeah. Not so much. That comes from living in a land-locked place, I guess.
Guy and I at Fanizzi’s.
View from our table at Fanizzi’s.
I helped Peter change batteries in the smoke detectors in a few local apartments, and also, when it was brutally cold, go and check all the water pipes in the sub-basements (it’s just beach sand and dried seaweed for flooring. Totally wild!) Pete and I are Michael Jackson fans, and we were lucky enough that The Cape Inn’s Whaler Lounge was playing This is It. What does that mean? It’s a local thing. It’s a cozy lounge with comfy chairs, cocktail seating, FREE movies, and awesome eats (we had a pizza, and then ended up leaving the leftovers in my trunk for a day. Good thing it was cold out. It probably kept better than it would have in a refrigerator).
Me and Pete the next-door neighbor. We don’t have to look for trouble. It finds us.
The Cape Inn Whaler Lounge. This is the photo from their website; I didn’t take this. It’s actually so much more classy and elegant than this photo suggests. They’re playing Zombieland next week and we plan to go, so hopefully I’ll get a few shots then.
Charles came up to visit over the weekend, and we had dinner at Michael Shay’s (among Norman’s favorite places to eat) and brunch at Fanizzi’s ($12.95 and it’s breakfast AND lunch – I’ve never eaten mussels over pasta at brunch before). We also visited Norman Mailer’s grave and explored the cemetery, and I have to say, I’ve never seen such interesting stones. It may be because this is such a highly creative town, but many of the stones are quirky works of art.
Mailer’s grave. Note the sea shells and other items which were left behind as tributes by prior visitors.(Please note — I don’t feel funny posting a photo of his grave here, because the link above will take you to FindAGrave with more specific details, including a photo and location. So this is considered public information).
This is a really cool shop downtown.
DEFINITELY my kind of place!
I just loved this window display. Charles did the best he could to capture it, but with the bright sun and the reflections, it was hard.
Isn’t this cool? It’s all Lobster Traps. They light it up at night and it’s gorgeous.
My short story “Screams of Autumn” is now available at Spilt Milk: an online literary journal! You can read this story at http://warmmilkpress.blogspot.com/. It should be at that link, right on the front page, for a couple weeks, and then after that they’ll move it to the archives, which is down at the bottom of the page. To those of you who’ve read it already, thanks for all the awesome comments you’ve left! You guys rock! It’s especially inspiring to get such great encouragement when I’m up here churning out more.
“Ragnarok” by Patrick Scalisi is our most recent selection for Read Short Fiction and is up on the site now at www.readshortfiction.com. If you love Norse mythology—and especially if you’re a fan of LOKI—don’t miss this hilarious twist on an old tale told in contemporary language. If you liked my short story “King of Bull,” especially, you’ll DEFINITELY go for this one. And if you read it and have something thoughtful to say, please feel free to comment. We like to hear from our readers!
Share this:
Like this:
Posted in News, Read Short Fiction, Short Stories
Leave a comment
Tags: Adventures, Cape Inn, Cemetery, Comments, Fanizzi's, Good Cheap Wine, LOKI, Mailer's Grave, Michael Shay's, Norman Mailer Writer's Colony, Patrick Scalisi, Provincetown, Ragnarok, Read Short Fiction, Screams of Autumn, Spilt Milk, This is It, Writing