In 1978, at age twenty-one, my brother Jack blew the windows out of his small apartment when he attempted to light the pilot in his oven. He went from some windows to none very quickly. Somehow, he was neither singed nor injured by the brief fireball he described, but the windows did not hold up as well, nor did the landlord’s temper.
Continue reading “Week 547: Scofflawing the Scythe”
Marco Etheridge (and, now, his son Liam) has a wonderfully twisted POV in his writing. He also knows how to twerk an Edito’s nose, so to speak. You can deride any sort of premise in front of him and we will find a way to turn it into a winner.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Marco Etheridge”
During the early days of the site, long before I arrived, even pre-dating Tom Sheehan, the original five Editors had to fill many of the empty slots until a backlog was finally secured (currently it holds steady at about three months’ worth).
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Snow by Diane”
Boredom kills. Not just in stories but in life as well. When I was young I spoke of a distant future that would be enriched by callow memories of youth. For some reason it always involved sipping Jack while sitting in a rocking chair. Even then I knew that was bullshit. You can kill, maybe, an hour a week doing such, but you are still alive and require much more than forty year old stories to continue the experience. The young tend to shelve the old, even when the young are the old.
I am prone to boredom. We all are, but some much more than others, and I am too easily bored. Throughout life I have gone from one new obsession to another and, to date, I am the only one left standing. I am bedazzled with a subject for months then one day it is over. Rock collecting, astronomy and many other fiery enjoyments fell off my imagination, as did pressing wild flowers and, yes, the three week interest I had in the accordion.
That, however, is the way of children. When we become adults it is assumed that we will develop sticktoitiveness. Music has been in and out of my life for years, which makes it the Methuselah of my interests. I was keen for it from fifteen to forty then stopped listening, save for the jukebox in bars, for about ten years. It has come back only because I have given up on new music and I do not care what others think about that.
Writing has a strange place with me. It is immune to boredom but it has never been an obsession except when doing it. That is the difference, mainly the other stuff was heightened by my imagination of it, while writing has never had to pass the test. It is just there, something I can do (good and bad). But I didn’t take it seriously for a long time. John Boy Walton is to blame for that. On The Waltons it was clearly made that you must go to college to be a writer the same way you go to dental school to be a rapist, I mean dentist. It wasn’t until later that I finally learned that most people attend college to get drunk and have sex. John Boy lied.
Dorothy Parker stopped her schooling at age fourteen, probably the same for Shakespeare, and Capote didn’t finish high school. In fact the more I read the more I understood that writers are often smarter about life than are college students. You do not need to pay tuition to get drunk and have sex.
This was an eye opener.
To combat boredom I read at least three books at the same time (no, wiseass, not literally). I also have all kinds of stories and articles and even books of my own going at once. I counted and there’s over forty of them, but I only work on three at a time. I would have to not open anything new and write well into my hundreds to finish the stuff I have going now. That does not bother me. I still open new stuff. Changing constantly is useful against boredom. And so is humour, not the silly TV stuff, but actual almost organic humour that is found in the crash and thud of being.
Drugs and alcohol are never boring but it’s a shame they turn on you, how they wear out their welcome, but they are not wholly bad. I have always said “forget moderation.” That’s the same as telling your spouse that you are willing to love her/him to a responsible degree but no further. If I loved someone I would want it to be reckless and mad. Nilla wafer love affairs, I imagine, are boring. Yet they lead to fewer restraining orders.
Winning the battle against boredom is why writers tend to live long lives, nowadays, at any rate. Also, effective treatment against tuberculosis and syphilis has raised the mean death age for writers as well. Moreover, writers seldom drink themselves to death today, the way O. Henry did (who was found as good as dead in a hotel room with nine empty jugs of whisky under the bed). Oh, we drink just as much as ever, but evolution has toughened up our livers. Call me a bigot, but I do not think that a person can truly write about the darkness in the human race (Ann Frank the exception) without having had some experience in alcohol, ongoing or in the past. There’s a special feeling that comes from waking in bed with someone whose name you do not remember. That sort of thing opens a lot of mental doors.
Suicide, though spoke of often is not as rife among writers. It has been a long time since Plath, Woolf, Hemingway and John Kennedy Toole voluntarily checked out. Musicians, so it seems, have taken over that department. Mental illness and boredom make a lethal mixture. You cannot do much about the first but the second can be alleviated if you are willing to use whatever mental illness and/or addiction you have as a positive resource to learn from; do not hide it as a dark shame that you have let people tell you how to think about. But this comes with a risk, people have their own problems, yours had better be interesting.
I think that there is an extra allegory to be found in Hawthorne’s nearly two hundred year old story Young Goodman Brown. For those of you who have forgotten it, Goodman went into the forest surrounding Salem around the time of the witch trials and discovered that every last Puritan in the village, himself included, was at best a basic hypocrite while most were evil hypocrites. The allegory extends to writing; you go into the woods full of writers thinking some to be superhuman geniuses and come out with the hideous realization that they, like you, were/are insane slobs with dark secrets. The job is to realize we are all insane slobs and accept it. I, for one, am rather comforted when I read about the “shortcomings” of famous writers. Twain (another non-college goer) had a terrible temper, Capote, when drunk, was a vicious little bastard, Dickens had family troubles and I would not be surprised if it were discovered that Shakespeare was not a fella to trust alone with your wife (nor the wife with Will). It is just fine by me that all are human, it gives our temporary moments of godliness increased esteem in my eyes.
Hmmm, again this part appears that it will end like smashing into a tree with Ethan Fromme at the wheel. Even a fancy literary comment fails to make the sudden segue from the opening topic to the wonderful Week That Was smoother. Alas, we carry our crosses uphill and the best you can hope for is an ending similar to the one the repentant thief got from Jesus. Barabbas? Or maybe that was just a movie. Hmmm, even a biblical anecdote fails to decrease the jolt. Oh well. So brushing this mishmash of pseudo philosophical musings aside, it is now time to re-visit the six wonderful performers of this Week That Was. They are far from dull.
Dale Barrigar Williams appeared on the second Sunday of the month, as is his habit. He knows about drugs and booze (enough to quit them) and is extremely well educated, but he hasn’t let any of that get in the way of his humanity. This month in his Eliot Behind the Mask, Dale once again merges his humanity with his PhD and presents TS Eliot as a real person and not a mummified great of the past. This is a perfect example of going out into the woods with great writers and seeing one toss a smoke bomb!
Monday delivered Man With a Shopping Cart by Tom Bentley-Fisher. Poor William has an obsession with shopping carts. But soon enough they fill with hard, even brutal memories. The metaphor should be obvious but Tom enriches the tale with images both wonderful and frightening. You can’t fit this one into a box.
Tuesday brought a second story that fled expectations that built within it. The First Thing She Notice Disappear Was a Kangaroo by Michael Degnan leaves a great many questions for the reader to consider. Michael also presents a well written, believable POV for the seven-year-old MC.
Wednesday’s Tilda the Ice Maiden and her life in the tundra 1785 bce by Linclon Hayes, opens with a rare, once in a lifetime sentence; the sort of sentence all writers crave to create. And the lives up to its opening; it hooks you into a world of surprises, as you might deduce from looking at the title.
There is a fantastic moment in A Eulogy For Us by Darleine Abellard, that catches you off guard and lifts this much higher than other funeral tales. The entire work is top rate, but the summation of grief towards the end raises this one to a new level of excellence.
We closed the week with Everybody Prefers Iceberg Lettuce by Genevieve Goggin. You know an author has done well when she reminds you, in spirit, of another writer. Here I got Anita Loos in mind, who created hectic and entertaining Lorelei Lee (played by Marilyn Monroe in a film that had to water down some of the wilder stuff in Loos’ prose). A century lies between the two writers but this one has the same special elan.
Congratulations to the Ladies and Gentlemen of the week. They kept our minds active and carried us pleasantly into the future.
Yes, I Close With Yet Another List
Sometimes I wonder how it all began. When did I figure that list making was for me? I think the David Letterman Show reinforced my list making in the 80’s, but I was already doing such before I first saw his nightly Top Ten. I do not recall making lists as a child, but ever since I was around twenty I’ve been writing them. Could be I was abducted by aliens way back when and instilled with a desire to make lists for reasons as unexplainable as the “Sacred Mysteries” of the Christian church. Who’s to say?
Regardless of the inspiration, today’s list is dedicated to short story writers of yore who often produced works well worth remembering. This list has been up before, but it contained other items. Some are still famous, some are unfairly buried by time. As always, please add your own suggestion.
Leila
This week a bluesy song from (incredibly) forty year ago
The Struggle
I normally begin writing a weekly wrap with nothing in mind. I start hitting keys and wait for something to pop into my head, which usually happens by the end of the second sentence. As a general method it might be lacking, but for me it works out. But, alas, tonight, I am as empty as a campaign promise. I should have been at “go” two sentences back, yet I’m still a flatliner; but that’s all right, I thrive on pressure.
Continue reading “WEEK 543: The Struggle; the Week That Was; 2025 Playlist”
My Life and Hard Times by James Thurber
1933
James Thurber is one writer from the first half of the 20th Century who has survived mainly on the strength of his odd mixture of stories and cartoons. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty alone has guaranteed his lasting fame.
Continue reading “Writers Read”
To date Harrison Kim has published more than thirty stories on the site. Each one is completely different from the others and yet there is a common thread of humanity in all.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Harrison Kim”
Insanity
I have lived in the same apartment since October 1998. That was not by design, but it has worked out that way. Until I settled here, I had not lived in one space longer than four consecutive years, including childhood. Something always happened; nothing has yet to happen here. The building was sold last year, but it was just a case of meeting a new boss, the same as the old boss.
Continue reading “Week 541: They Are Dripping Me Insane”
Super-Selling the Taste of Irritation
I don’t watch TV anymore, but I like to have it on retro MeTV in the other room, overnight. Mannix comes on at 2 AM (currently circa 1973; I’m where I can tell the year by Joe’s coif). Of course the specifics only make sense in America, but I have a feeling that similar channels exist all over the world. Regardless, this is not about old “CTE” Joe, it is about something very disturbing I heard during a commercial break as I was in the kitchen getting coffee.
Billy Mays was hyper selling something. I do not know how much of the globe got the Billy Mays’ super-sell treatment, but in America, I got plenty. He used to be on commercials selling stuff day in and out. I really wasn’t paying attention, so when I heard his familiar voice on the TV I thought no more than I would about seeing a Pigeon in the park–but after a few seconds a headvoice asked:
“Isn’t he dead?”
Indeed. Dead as a Dickens’ doornail. Since 2009. For a moment I thought “Oh, a retro commercial inside a retro TV show” (the mortality rate among Me TV performers is very very high). But, no, it was a recycled ad.
I tried to think about that objectively. Maybe the product (can’t for the life of me remember what for–a glue of some kind, I think) had paid for the ad and held onto it for sixteen years? Seemed unlikely.
Then a different headvoice spoke up. It was familiar, and a rarity because it only speaks when it has something to say. It asked: “What the hell is wrong with people?”
I thought about it. There’s nothing unusual about using dead people to sell stuff. American money is covered with the faces of ghosts–so maybe there is some kind of connection. Yet there was something wrong with seeing Billy Mays, sixteen years dead (cocaine), behaving as though we were all alive together today and that I needed to buy his product. Something not just wrong, but fundamentally wrong.
It wasn’t a lack of respect for the dead; Mays was all about the push, and probably would have loved the idea. It wasn’t about the product itself (yes, a glue of some kind, almost positive). And it wasn’t anything overly offensive in the ad. Yet it was still fundamentally wrong.
Then it came to me. Having Billy Mays (or anyone) sell long after his death was in BAD TASTE.
I returned to my desk and sat there. I stared into my computer screen. Yes, somewhere along the Irene Leila Allison Experience having a dead man sell glue was deemed to be in bad taste. Obviously this was not instilled in me specifically, but as a Fundamental (that word again) Principle, headed Dead People Acting Alive, something like that. Moreover, it should be clear to everyone that such a thing is in bad taste and that…well, is that.
I googled the miserable affair. Sure enough the company wanted to mark its fifteenth anniversary by using the Mays’ ad. Naturally, I do not believe that poppycock* one damn bit. It remains classified as bad taste.
(*Old word of the week.)
I do not think that having a standard of taste is a generational thing. The input should not be able to override the inside system. There should be a safeguard against merrily accepting a dead guy selling glue (almost positive it was glue) because the client was probably too FUCKING CHEAP to tape a new commercial. After all, they are still in business sixteen years later (not fifteen, which is impossible); I’m sure they can afford to make another.
The rare voice asked again: “What the hell is the matter with people?”
I chose to hear it as a rhetorical question that is begging for an answer, but it will not get one because the only people who care to reply think using the ghost of Billy Mays to hawk glue (damn it, glue it is) is a fine thing, respectful of his legacy as a coked-up super salesman. People for that sort of thing yell, the rest mutter helplessly.
Then another voice, slappable, punky, chipped in: “Alright Boomer.”
I reached into my mind and grabbed that voice by the throat and squeezed. “Say that again and you will have spoken your stupid last,” I told it, words seething out due to a vape pen clenched between my teeth. “C’mon, let’s hear it, you dreary little darling, let’s hear it!”
Yes, I have heard ‘Alright boomer’ everytime too many. Only idiots and politicians must use material written for them. But even those guys can wax original when you attempt to crush their voice boxes. Yes, so so so sweet a sound…
But now I have caught myself dreaming of doing such a thing, coming back to the now, empty hands clenching and twisting, instead of writing this wrap. So, with a sigh, I move away from the irritating world and head for the good part.
The Good Part
Here, I’ve gotten into the habit of mentioning the Sunday feature to lead off the week that was. Seems to me that poor Sunday was left out in the cold, so far be it from me to contribute to the desolation of that situation. This past Sunday Geraint Jonathan returned with A Most Unfortunate Accident. Geraint paints a winning portrait of Dostoevsky and the great Russian’s novel in his beautifully flowing essay. It worked on me, since I added the book to my Kindle.
For those of you who missed Arjun Shah’s debut last week, you get a second chance at reading him with his The Rules of Love that opened the regular week Monday. Atjun is able to get a great amount of humanity across in just a few words; he also shows a different culture known to us in the West.
Brandon McWeeney gave us Beetles on Tuesday. It is to Brandon’s great credit that he was able to get such a thing over so easily. A real squirmer, but well worth the read, layered and entertaining.
Sandra Arnold returned on Wednesday with Colour Clash. Sandra’s story is remarkable for both its incisiveness and restraint. There is a contrast of ideas put forward by a brother and sister; the ideas do not match yet neither is wrong.
The Castle’s Walk-in Cooler, the first by newcomer T.C. Barerra is a free trip to the bizarre land of California. T.C. weaves tremendous social examination with cynical humour and under-riding sadness, that is actually at the surface, for people who look at other people, and comes up a winner.
Friday brought What Matters by Shivani Sivagurunathan. Like Sandra there is beauty and restraint. And there’s tremendous courage and strength in the MC, Didi, whose reactions remind me of Nora’s in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. Beholding your own reflection is the second hardest thing to do. Doing something about it is harder.
There we have them, six writers from four continents, two genders, various ages and diverse POV’s; all met in high quality and GOOD TASTE.
A List
We all have our bugaboos when we try to write. I do it every day, and yet I must overcome several obstacles that often make me want to quit and fade even further into nothingness.
Mine are:
Nothing relevant here, just something silly and cheerful…
Leila
Gerald Coleman has created a fantastic fictional character named “Billy Olsen.” But like all fantastic fictional characters, Billy is as real as anyone living because of the experience, observation and talent laid into him by his creator. Out of His League is both the first appearance by Gerry and Billy and we think that readers who missed it the first time around should catch a break and gain a second opportunity.
Continue reading “Literally Reruns – Gerald Coleman”
literally stories 