...I finished Mary Karr's poetry collection and essay, "The Sinner's Welcome." (That's the book jacket up top and a photo of Mary, presumably in her office--note the very cool stack of books holding up her shelf.) Previously, I had not read anything else not Mary. Her book, "The Liar's Club" is credited with setting off the memoir boom. Her poetry is pretty sharp. "Sinner's Welcome" is a lot about her becoming at Catholic at around age 40, but the pieces are raw and definitely not choirboy stuff (think Anne Lamott with a pair of brass knuckles and half a dozen drained shot glasses.) I like lyrical poetry, but poems that are not hopelessly obscure (pretty words that only mean something to the author and acid trippers.) don't really linger beyond a reading. Mary's poems sting. You'd have to read the whole thing, but here are some of my favorite bits and scraps:
--"The heart is a mirror also..."
--"...in ninth grade, he sat running pencil lead beneath his nails. If radiance shone from those mudhole eyes, I missed it."
--"They'd caged me in a metal desk--the dull word writ to show K's sound. But K meant "kick" and "kill" when a boy I'd kissed drew me as a whiskered troll in art."
--"Gathering up my mother's clothes for the poor, I find the coathanger that almost aborted me."
--"But if you're in a frame of mind gloomy enough to refuse prayer, despite its having worked bona fide miracles for you before, nothing satisfies like a dark poem."

...I still have not seen, "Blue Valentine" starring Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams. With AWP looming in a couple of days, it's looking less likely that I will get to a theater before the film is gone, so please go see it for me and then tell me how wonderful it is and why I am such a dope for not having made watchinging the movie a bigger priority.


...I have a new short piece, "Big Oak" up at Hulltown 360 and also here under "Words In Print." Hulltown is a great journal, however, I'm unable to clip my story out as a link, so I thought I'd just print it here fore you:

Big Oak

I am busy holding myself together. In the mirror I am pulleys and strings and wrong answers. My sister claims I am thinner than her, a broom handle. She says she can make bows out of my skin. She tosses candy wrappers at me and chuckles. Mother watches from the kitchen, blurry-eyed and bored, drawing hard on a cigarette, as if self-emulating.
Our house is a bear trap that I hate. The walls smell like sins and sewers and burnt offerings, so I go out to the backyard. I make sure no one’s watching. I hide behind the big oak, use my hands to dig, fingertips going raw in seconds. I shouldn’t have buried it so deep, but it’s hard to be trustworthy with the world. The planet feels heavy and sluggish, a jug of gasoline, sloshing forward so obese.
I dust dirt off the metal box and open it. Unwrap the cloth and take out the photograph. We were three. My twin looked like me, maybe a little smarter with his lip cricked. I feel guilty that I can’t remember him. We would have shared meals together, TV time, sang. We might have played tag round this tree. Dad said we were playing Hide and Seek and that he didn’t see Jesse tucked behind the rear wheel. I might have been the only one who believed him. Still, he shouldn’t have killed himself. Losing both of them has dried up all my sweet spots.
I hear the new man’s truck pulling up, coughing like a dragon, stereo thumping full blast. No matter what she says, no matter how many times she hits me, I’ll never call him Dad.
I put back the box, bury it, stand up and watch the sun dart through the leaves of the big oak as if it’s a playground and the spackles of light are alive.

…I have two new things--"Rich" @ 52/250 A Year of Flash and "Lost" @ Monkeybicycle. Both are also here under "Words in Print."

…I'm listening to Matt Pond P.A. right now. They're a canadian band and quite good.

…Apparently 6,605 people have pre-registered for the event next week, or so says the AWP newsletter than landed in my email box. Yikes.

…I wrote a poem this morning, just now, like five minutes ago. I think it's good. I read one of Jim Valvis's that he posted from The Foundling Review that was really sharp and it sent me scurring for a blank piece of paper.

…Robert Olen Butler won the Pulitzer Prize for his story collection, "A Bad Scent From a Good Mountain." Evidentially I should have read that instead of, "Intercouse" which I'm trudging through right now. In this book, Mr. Butler writes one page stories about historical figures engaged in lovemaking. For instance, one page will be Helen of Troy's thoughts and emotional responsed while on the next page we'll have Menelasu, King of Sparta, musing on his reaction. The premise is a clever idea. The end result, however, is very bland. It's a lot like eating a fistfull of almonds--chalky, dry and sort of, bleh. There's nothing sexy about Mr. Butler's, "Intercourse," and as everyone with a pulse knows, it's pretty difficult to make sex uninteresting.

…I got Jason Jordan's collection, "Cloud" in the mail and I'm excited to read it inflight to AWP next week.

…I recently watched "Raising Arizona" again because I'm loving the TV show, "Raising Hope," that the film is based on. Nicolas Cage is not my hero by any stretch of the imagination, but he's brilliant in "Arizona" as it the whole movie by the Coehn Brothers. You should rent it again. You'll be glad you did.

…Maybe I have male menopause. I'm having a lot of baby cravings. I love kids and babies. I'm having visions of babies. I'd like a few more. In keeping with that thought, then, here are some more factoids from "Esquire" magazine that you might enjoy, whether you're male or female, parent or not:
1 in 10 -- Number of men who say they aren't comfortable handling a baby
1 in 10 -- Number of men who experience postpartum depression
1 in 4 -- Number of dads who don't take paternity leave
42 -- Percentage of dads who spend less than 2 hours with their kids each day.
1 in 4 -- Number of men who rate their father's parenting skills as "below average"
The major reason -- He didn't show enough love
The average father's top parenting fear -- His kid will run with a bad crowd
The average father's biggest parenting concern -- Not enough money
$181,480 -- The cost to raise a child to age 18
22 -- Percentage of men who think kids should reimburse their parents for raising them
1 in 4 -- Number of men who believe having a child will help keep their marriage from turning sour
19 in 20 -- Number of current fathers who would still want kids if they had to do it over

...The photo is from Roxane Gay, founder of PANK, who is publishing xTx's new collection, "Normally Special." The top image is a clearer shot of the book cover. You should get the book. I'm certain you'll like it. Go to PANK's website or click on xTx's link here in "Writers to Like." xTx is crazy good. Raw, and writes like a slice of lightning just took half of your face off.

You know how some people are afraid of clowns? I'm afraid of dolls. They creep me out. I once saw an old "Twilight Zone" episode about a doll named Mrs. Beasley who ended up killing an entire family (this was long before Chucky) and ever since dolls of any make or model tend to give me the heebie jeebies (does anyone say "heebie jeebies" anymore?) Seeing the headless baby doll holding xTx's book sent a shiver through me. My wife and daughte once happened about a country road where a slew of mangle Barbie's sat strewn in some gravel. Naturally, I wrote a story about it (called "Bones" here under "Words In Print") that so scared me as I wrote it, I nearly stopped. Seriously. And yeah, I know I'm a wimp.

…I was in Border's the other day. Outwardly, the building was impressive--two stories tall, lots of rust-colored brick and glass. Inside it was like a dentist looking at a mouth filled with missing teeth and decayed molars. In the section entitled MUSIC AND MOVIES the slots contained clearance Christmas Cards. There was one little wagon-looking thing with discounted, ancient cd's by Bad Company and Tony Bennet. There were two rows of Blu-Ray DVDs. Under the subtitled section saying "MUST SEE MOVIES" there were triple features of Shirley Temple or Jimmy Stewart or black-and-white fims about Al Capone and his posse.
…Border's made me sad. Someday soon that whole building will be a solitary shelf with a couple of Kindles on it.

"Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay." Flannery O'Conner

"Writing is a dog's life, but the only life worth living." Gustave Flaubert

…I need to be more productive, pick up the pace, be less distracted, look around less, stare at my computer more, stick to crossing off what I put down (and often carry over to the next day's ) to-do-lists, and turn off Facebook.

…Speaking of Facebook, a writer friend wrote this yesterday: "Facebook is a lot like prison. You waste all of your time writing on walls and getting poked by random people."

…I have no knew stories up since the last post, but I have at least fifty floating in submission land and I wrote a bushel of them yesterday and the day before.
I've been reading Lindsay Hunter's collection, "Daddy's." She writes like a coil of barbwire you accidentally got your foot caught in; her writing is barbed and won't let you go. I'm trying to read it as a poor person would eat a very expensive meal or dessert. She's the kind of writer who makes me want to write and has actually forced me to stop in mid-sentence and write an entire story of my own.

…I finished Sam Pink's novel,"Person." It's odd and funny and like nothing you read. If you don't believe me, here:
"I eat some more ice cream and stare at him.
It looks like I could just walk into he livingoom and jump on his head.
It looks like me and him are dust in someone else's carpet and we can't say hello for fear of having to come up with a good reason.
When I leave the room there is just the dark quiet of the livingroom behind me and I have done nothing wrong.
When I shut the door to my room, I'm safe.
I imagine a large person playing with a replica or our apartment as a dollhouse--me and my roommate for dolls.
I want to say to this person, "What's botherng you, tell me."
And I'd be fine with a million tomorrrows if I could plan them all out right now and if they all began with me jumping onto a large container/vat of puppies with Dutch accents."
…I just pulled that excerpt up by random. There are others that are weirder.

…I like Esquire magazine and I like the things they teach me about other people or myself, sometimes with words and sometimes with numbers. Here are some factiods:
1 in 2 -- Odds that the average guy will become a dad
How this title affects his manhood -- His testosterone level dives 65 percent for 3 months after th birth of a child
1 in 100 -- Number of dads who faint during delivery
Tuesday -- Day most newborns arrive
1 - 10 -- Number of men who preserve the miracle on video
2 -- Number of such miracles the averag guy experiences
1 in 10 -- Number of men who spawn four or more sons or daughters
1 in 13 -- Number of couples who name their kids after pop-culter icons
Brett and Favre -- Names chose by David and Emily Kinsaulf of Palatka, Florida for their new twin bosy.
(More factiods coming next time…)

…I have a new story, "Acts of Love" up at This-A Literary Zine and also here under "Words In Print."

…My son and I saw "Somewhere" today, the film by Sophia Coppola (daughter of Francis) who also directed the critically acclaimed, "Lost in Translation." "Somewhere" was a beautifully shot movie, well acted, but it was a fifteen minute film drawn out to 156 minutes. Sophia needs to get some scissors. I believe in "Show don't tell" as much as the next guy, but really? Ten minutes of one shot of a car going around in the same circle? Really?

…On Valentine's Day Youtube will turn 6 years old. Isn't that a weird thought, to think it's only been around such a short time?

…I often express my love of Esquire Magazine here on this blog. There's a fantastic article in the new issue entitled "Is James Frey the Most Important Writer In America?" by Stephen Mache. Here are some excerpts that caught my eye:

"Today is an uplifting, degrading, and all-around confusing time to be a writer in America. Even as creative-writing departments proliferate like bedbugs and each year brings a fresh claimant to the title of Great American Novel, content farms are herding the young and determined literati into anonymous sweat-shops run by all-seeing, unforgiving masters of metrics…"
"…The truth is that anyone who spends $40,000 a year to be taught how to write by writes who cannot make a living by writing, or who imagines that fairness and common sense have anything to do with the publishing industry, could probably use a lesson in how life really works…"
"…But the lessons Frey offers for ambitious writers are essential: Never apologize, never give up, and be entrepeneurial. It also helps to know how to write."

…I have two new things up: (surprise! an attempt at humor from me) "Lionel Richie Runs Things" at 52/250 A Year of Flash, and "Pieces of Rain," a series of water-themed micros, at The Write Room Magazine. Both are also here under "Words In Print."

…Yesterday I wrote five poems, a freaky story about a child molester's encounter with retribution, and also a couple thousand words on the new novel. The novel is going well. I know the characters intimately. I can see them, every one of their faded scars and imperfections, the physical and metaphorical ones.

…The new Hello Goodbye album is really, really good. If you like pop music, you should get this and your friends and neighbors should get it. Nicki Minag is growing on me. A few good songs. The new EP by Girls (which is really some English dudes) is pretty strong. Kid Cudi's Man on the Moon is not as good as his new cd, despite what the critics will say. At this exact moment I'm listening to Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach. It's one of the more unusual collaborations, but it works.

…Do things ever cling to you? For instance, someone on Facebook went on a rant about Sarah Palin being, essentially, the anti-Christ, and how they would "de-friend" any "friend" who supported her. And then this person went on and on some more. I am a very, very strong Democrat. I don't like Sarah's politics. Not at all. But isn't the Democratic party the party that's supposed to support freedom of expression, the political slice that is supposed to embrace differences? Haters and the like really get to me. They're like tape worms.

…Changing the subject, AWP is coming up. I read Roxane Gay's blog where she talks about being so nervous and neurotic about this year's event. Roxane Gay?? She owns the internet. Well, her and Al Gore. I thought it was cute how real and vulnerable she was. The when-I'm-nervous-I-prentend-I'm-talking-on-my-phone-but-I'm-just-speaking-nonsense-to-no one-so-that-I-don't-look/feel-foolish was precious. But me, I'm like "Look Who's Coming to Dinner." I don’t have a posse or click. I've never physically met anyone who will be there. At the most, I've spoken to one person who will attend the event. (This is just me being a bit whiney, sorry.) Still, I'm excited. I've made a list of people I admire that I want to meet. I'm up to 35..

…If you've never read, "Motel Life" by Willy Vlautin, you need to. It's wonderful. I just read his third novel, "Lean On Pete." The writing is so simple and spare yet it draws a coil around you and doesn't let you go. My heart must have broke fifty times reading it. He's often compared to Raymond Carver, which, of course, is like a songwriter being compared to the other god, Dylan.

…I'm reading "Person" by Sam Pink. Sam Pink, I think, is not his real name. He's a great artist/illustrator and I love his short fiction. This novella is just really stream of thought writing. Maybe it will hit me later, sort of like a migraine after the spots are overtaken with switchblades between the eyes.

…"It's hard to love something and not look closely at it." Willy Vlautin

...I have a new story, "Scarecrow" up at The Red Asylum and also here under "Words in Print."

...It's so sunny at the moment that glare is skidding off the lake surface in scalding white sheets and my eyes are bloodshot but it feels so good to see sun that I'm going to just let myself go blind until the clouds arrive, whenever that may be.

...Sometimes the truth is uncomfortable. Sometimes it can be the very last thing you want to hear. I read an agent's blog where she said that, for a writer trying to get a book published, it's no different than an actor going to Hollywood and landing a role in a movie or sitcom. I'm not giving up, though. I realized I need to go to more writer's conferences because that's your best shot at physically interacting with agents and editors. Thus, yesterday I clicked on over to Amazon and ordered the 2011 Writer's Market for a pricey sum. Hopefully it will arive before 2011 is over.

...I am nuts for William Gay. That's Mr. Gay's photo. I was a little surprised when I saw this photograph, along with the other images of him. He resembles his writing, yet I did not expect him to. I pictured the Marlboro man in buckskin and chaps, or else someone like Corma McCarthy with a square jaw that looks like uppercuts would just bounce right off it.
Just so you know that I'm not exaggerating how gifted Mr. Gay is, I'm leaving you with these goodies (excerpts from his collection, "I Hate To See That Evening Sun Go Down.")

-"You need to know what a man's capable of. You need to know what things cost."
-"You know how we always thought he (Dylan) had a handle on things? How he knew where the answers were in the back of the book? He doesn't. He's just wandering around this sideshow like everybody else. Trying to make it through to daylight the best way he can."
-"For the first time in his life he realized that sometimes you go through doors that only open one way. You can stand before them and think about whether you want to go through them or not. But when you do and the door closes behind you there is no way to go back. The door is featureless and unknobbed and smooth as a sheet of glass. You can pound on it and claw till your fingers are bleeding, scream until your throat is raw, but no one will open the door, no one will hear you."
-"Maybe we are all the authors of our own doom, she thought."
-"Something about her affected him the way medicine might. Maybe comfort was just another kind of medicine."
-"She didn't say anything. The wine was strawberry, and she could smell summer in it, hot green leaves, berries warm in the sun. She was thinking how little time it took to alter things forever. To arrive at a place you can't get back from."
-"Her pale heart-shaped face held only the promise of beauty and its customary vulnerability. It said what it always said: Well, here it is. Help me or hurt me, it's all the same to me."
-"What he wanted done was something to eliminate the inequity of people's lives. A balancing out of things."
-"There was an air of ruin about her, sweet corruption."
"He felt like counting out more money, as if it was all he had, a down payment on a life someone was going to repossess anyway."
--William Gay