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First, Another Book You Ought to Own
In The Program Era — a history of academic creative writing programs in the United States over the past century — the author explains that getting a student to read novel-length fiction is a slog. Short stories on the other hand, are golden. As are novellas. Thus, most writing programs assign story collections. These often include Jesus’ Son by Denis Johnson, and Drown by Junot Diaz. Or, The Girl in the Flammable Skirt by Aimee Bender, or of course, collections by Amy Hempel and Mark Richard.
Program Era author, Mark McGurl, suggests that academics reinvent their syllabi every twenty years, and that these renewed searches for fresh story collections creates a regular market bubble of short fiction each generation.¹ Whatever the case Jesus’ Son is a book you should have on the shelf. As for Johnson, here’s his advice on writing:
Three Rules To Write By²
Write naked. That means to write what you would never say.
Write in blood. As if ink is so precious you can’t waste it.
Write in exile, as if you are never going to get home again, and you have to call back every detail.
NOTE: I’ll send this copy to anyone in the United States. Whoever chimes in first in the Comments below, gets the book. If you’ve already got a copy, you might stand aside and allow another writer the chance.
Now, More Baby Talk’n
This week our three winners are:
Charles Voltaire:
What if when you go night-night foweva you don’t really go bye-bye, but your thinky-think gets scooped up and put in a teeny widdle noggin seed and pop! it hops into a bwand new body, and what if way way back, when peoples were cave-babies, even when the Fwintstones bonked rocks, maybe sky frens or shiny awiens or storks keep passing it along wif babies, and maybe when Homer’s eyes went dark he said, “I wanna be Pwat-oh,” and Pwat-oh said, “I wanna be Awexanduh,” and Awexanduh said, “Caesie time!” and Caesie said, “Now I Mawcus,” and Mawcus said, “I Chawwee-man,” and Chawwee-man said, “Empuh-wuh me again,” and Nap-nap said, “I big boss,” and Nap-nap went night-night, and then a soft smart thinky said, “I Mill,” and Mill said, “Wuv fwedom,” and Mill went bye-bye and said, “I wanna be Wand,” and then Ayn-Ayn said, “Otay, I be strong me,” and just two teeny moon-times before I popped out my mommy cry-cry, she said, “Otay otay… now I you,” and what if no computa chip at all, just soft idea-dreamies doing crawl-crawl from head to head, the big people-think picking its next warm blankie, and that’s what wuv is—the kind Pwat-oh talked about—not eskimo kisses, but foweva wanting mo and mo babies who think wike you.³
Peter Derk:
My sweet little Beeble, look at deez liddle paws! Sweetums, mama has to tell you something. When I'm gone, it's okay if you eat me right up. I'll still wuv you, my perfect, sweet angel, and who is going to do zoomies if my baby's tummy is empty? Just, Beeble, you have to wait, okay? It's hard to say no to those big, hopeful eyes and those long whiskers, but mama's peets hurt from all the choo choo chewing. It won't take long, two, maybe three shakes of a lamb's tail, but pretty pwease, just wait until I'm all the way gone? You're my perfect sweet baby forever, okay?⁴
Sal Gandolfo:
Still
My little baboo. Your all bundled up for me and snug as a bug and all. Mommy loves you so very, very much. She wants you to grow up and be her big strong boy. Grow to be a man and have little babooshkas of your own. Daddy loves you too. He’s out talking with the doctors now. Don’t listen to them. Daddy’s just angry. And the walls are too thin. Like my precious, quiet, soft boy. Too thin. Too young. Mommy loves you still. She always will. Oh, oh. I’m so sorry my sweet. Mommy’s tears are wetting your cheek. Mine or your tears? Mommy will kiss them away. Kiss your tears away. So stop your crying. Mmwaahh. There. All better. You can open your eyes and see me now. See your Mama. See me baboo? I’ll open your eyes for you. No! Nurses trying to take my wittle baby away? Nope nope nope nope. Never. I’m gowin’ to keep you with me. They won’t take you fwom me. Mommy wuvs baby. You can bweath whenewer you weady. Baby wuvs Mommy. Daddy yewwin at evwyone. Baby gwows to be big. Sooooo big. I kiss youw wittle face. I don’t care it’s bwue. My wittle bwue baboo. Shwookems babsies Mommsaa looobes? Soes happsys meepas baabsss maaas…….⁵
Next week we’ll choose another three winners, and this will continue until the Jackalopes are extinct. Please be careful of overdoing this exercise. Too much rich language can exhaust your reader before the meaning of the story becomes clear. Be careful of going too long, or too dense, or both. It’s a balancing act. To post new stories or edit existing ones, please do so Here. Each week I review them all.
As always: Every Story is an Experiment. If you’ve won this week, please contact The Cult and let me know how you’d like your book inscribed, and where to mail the prize package.
I’m still waiting for an address from last week’s winner, The Wise Wolf. Please send your details before your candy goes stale and the jackalope head begins to decompose.
P.S. Wishing a very happy birthday to Barbara LeMaire. I’m thrilled to hear the package was a success! I’d post the photos, but I wanted to respect your privacy. Nice cat.