Currently reading:

1. “The Big Sleep” by Raymond Chandler.  Hard to believe I haven’t read this before, I know.

2. “Ulysses” by James Joyce.  Same as #1.  I hate this book.  So much of it is like a half-funny joke that keeps on going for an entire chapter.  Which is funny, I guess, but only for the person telling it.  But part of me feels like a fake for not having read it all these years.  Virginia Woolf hated this book, too.  From Katie Riophe’s wonderful “Why Criticism Matters” article in The New York Times:

“Mr. Joyce’s indecency in ‘Ulysses’ seems to me the conscious and calculated indecency of a desperate man who feels that in order to breathe he must break the windows. At moments, when the window is broken, he is magnificent. But what a waste of energy!”

Zing!

3. “Freedom” by Jonathan Franzen.  Ironically, due to the title, this is yet another book I feel obligated to read.  Also, I hear there’s a Bright Eyes concert and I can’t wait to read Franzen’s description of Conor Oberst’s hypothermic folk-rock caterwauling.

Although I do like Bright Eyes.  I own his techno album.  Also, “Fevers & Mirrors.”  And “I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning.”  Terrance Stamp was in the video for “At The Bottom of Everything.”

Drink: Vodka Tonic

Classic Album: Pink Floyd, “A Momentary Lapse of Reason”

Current Album: Mumford & Sons, “Sigh No More”

Recent purchase: Six bags of POM Wonderful pistachio nuts

Weapon of Choice: Snowball

Related: “With Clarity and Beauty, the Weight of Authority” by Katie Roiphe. From The New York Times, 12/31/10.

A few weeks ago, Electric Literature sent me this email:

Want to collaborate on a story with Aimee Bender?  Now’s your chance.

Inspired by the Surrealist word game Exquisite Corpse*, Electric Literature invites you to help compose a collaborative short story. And Aimee Bender is writing the first line.

The Exquisite Shorts project uses  Thubscribes.com, in which up to 100 people will compose a short story in 300 character segments. After Aimee Bender begins the tale, we’ll hand it over to the hivemind. The story won’t end until the 100th entry is written. Please, join in and add your own twist to the tale.

On Wednesday, Nov 17th, at 10 EST, the composition begins!

* Exquisite Corpse is game where each writer can only read the last word given, and adds one word to a sentence.”The exquisite corpse will drink the new wine” (Le cadavre exquis boira le vin nouveau) was the first sentence ever created using the game. (In our experiment, you’ll be able to read the whole story before adding your part.)

So, on Nov. 17, I logged onto Thumbscribes.   Aimee Bender’s entry was first: “She was startled by what she saw on the bridge; it did not seem to have a shape, and yet it was moving toward her, and she found herself inexplicably compelled to stay put.”

There were about forty entries after that.  By the time I finished reading, I didn’t know what to add.  The main character (who remained unnamed throughout all 100 entries) smoked a cigarette and pined for a missing toe, all while standing on a bridge.  I had to wait for “AliAli” to finish before I could contribute.  I was writing another story at the time and it seemed like several minutes passed until the following appeared on the screen:

48. The foaming dervish materialized next to her. “Might as well jump,” he said, shapeshifting into David Lee Roth for one horrifying moment. “Go ahead and jump.”

I stared at the screen for a long time, trying to think of how to follow that.  In the meantime, “allrayxcity” had started typing.

49. Where was her mother when she needed her? She wasn’t a big fan of Mr. Roth’s music. Why was he here? She got out her cell phone. She had never known who her father was. Roth did have quite the pelvic tilt and her mother had been a cigarette girl at Starwood Club in 1976 when he was discovered.

As much as I like that song, I was glad David Lee Roth had been more or less written out of the story.  Looking back, I suppose I could have done more with the paternity-related question.  I should probably have done something with the cell phone.  At the time, I was thinking about how so many people were waiting to shape and direct this character.  I also felt like only a few people had done the setting justice.  So, I wrote:

50. Seagulls wheeled in the sky. She looked at the water below. The wind picked up, and her limbs felt heavy, waterlogged. The wind tugged at her clothing, blew the fabric tight against her body. There is so much desire in the world, she thought, and for this moment she was at the heart of it.

I should pause here to say that I’m a big fan of Electric Literature.  They have a sensible business plan (print on demand, publish the journal in multiple electronic formats) and they have a genuine respect for writers: they pay contributors (a lot), publicize literary events, and they’re doing exciting digital work with their sentence animations and a mysterious video game project.  There’s something playful and optimistic about the journal, and they’re doing it all with style.

At any rate, the collaboration with Aimee Bender was fun.  I didn’t really know what to expect.  I was happy to sit back and watch after my entry, and at times, it felt like watching a tug of war play out as different writers tried to hijack the narrative.  There was a strange accumulation of objects near the end: a giant mirror, poisoned cigarettes.  At any rate, here’s my attempt to form my favorite entries into a coherent narrative:

1. She was startled by what she saw on the bridge; it did not seem to have a shape, and yet it was moving toward her, and she found herself inexplicably compelled to stay put. (by Aimee Bender)

2. She counted things to calm herself. Streetlights almost hidden by fog: 3. Parked cars tipped sideways: 2. Fat shadows so close you could touch them and feel their breath: 1. (by Ian)

5. It was madness to come here, she knew. Yet, she’d been compelled to answer the phone. To obey that seemingly familiar voice charred with static. To agree to this place and time. (by Matt Mullins)

11. It’s a funny thing, fear. Curiosity mixed with repulsion. In the dark, on the bridge, her body electrified by fear, she called out. “Hello?” The air felt hollow with words in it.  (by Anna)

29. “You wanted to meet. Here I am,” she said. The figure shuffled toward the bridge rail. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said. He grabbed the lamp post and pulled himself up on the rail, and balanced there like a tightrope walker. “I had to make a choice. It had nothing to do with you,” she said. (by Christopher Johnston)

50. Seagulls wheeled in the sky. She looked at the water below. The wind picked up, and her limbs felt heavy, waterlogged. The wind tugged at her clothing, blew the fabric tight against her body. There is so much desire in the world, she thought, and for this moment she was at the heart of it. (by me)

52. She should have listened to her mother and gone to college. No matter how fun the party, don’t be the one left when the lights come on. Her lasting memory: one friend after another packing up their bedroom. She’d actually waved goodbye from three driveways. What had she been protecting by staying? (by Gabrielle)

59. So the last time she had tried had been… well, some time. Several years, three hairstyles and eight nervous habits ago. It had been Autumn, a russet, windy autumn, and she’d been babysitting a friend’s purple cocktail the last time she had tried. (by Fiona Wright)

60. The friend never came back, so she just took care of the cocktail. And then she felt lonely, so she drank another. And so on. She was supposed to let someone complete her and she ended with finding herself doubled in the mirrors, and everybody else was doubled. (by Chiara Reali)

97. There was something uncanny about the figure. Something almost too familiar. Her hands trembled. She was drawn to the figure, as if by some strange gravity, as if the figure itself was a black hole, and her entire life she had been drifting, unknowingly, towards its terrible center.  (by Requiem102)

100. The fog peeled back and her father stood tall arms open to embrace. She stepped forward then stopped, “Why am I letting him in?” Her feet picked up the pace, her heart & head followed, her arms fit through his like a tongue & groove carving. “This time let him stay.”  (by Dindy)

The entire story can be found here.

Call For Submissions: The Fourth River Online

Submission Guidelines

The Fourth River Online is the literary journal of Chatham University’s MFA Program. We are looking for submissions that explore the relationship between people and their environments, both natural and built, urban, rural or wild.

Recent contributors to the print journal include Astrid Cabral, Laila al-Atrash, Hillary Wentworth, Michael Byers, and Evan Morgan Williams. Our contributors have published in Birmingham Poetry Review, Glimmer Train, Alaska Quarterly Review, Witness, and The Missouri Review; they have been anthologized in Best American Short Stories, The O. Henry Prize Stories, and Best American Travel Writing. The Fourth River Online uses the same editorial staff and guidelines as the print version, and we look forward to providing contributor interviews and features on the site’s front page.

The Fourth River Online accepts unpublished poetry, literary short fiction, and creative nonfiction. Please send up to three poems or one prose piece up to 4,000 words.

• Reading Period: November 30-March 31, 2011
• We accept simultaneous submissions if indicated on the cover letter; please let us know immediately if a piece is accepted elsewhere.
• The Fourth River Online website goes live in the summer of 2011
• We do not publish writing for children or Young Adult audiences

Submission Address: 4thriversubmissions@gmail.com

Please attach all submissions as Microsoft Word or PDF documents. Poems can be in a single document. Include the cover letter in the document itself.
Please indicate your name, genre, and title in the email subject line. For example, John Smith’s short story “Red Bird” would appear as “Smith, fiction, “Red Bird.”

We look forward to reading your work!

The Third Coast Magazine Poetry and Fiction Contests.
Deadline: Dec. 1, 2010. Contest winners in each genre receive $1000 & publication. Reading Fee $15. All entrants receive a one-year subscription to Third Coast.

Judges: Brad Watson (Fiction) & Natasha Trethewey (Poetry)

Brad Watson won the Sue Kauffman Award for First Fiction from the American Academy of Arts & Letters for his first collection, Last Days of the Dog-Men. His first novel, The Heaven of Mercury, was a finalist for the 2002 National Book Award. Watson’s most recent collection of stories is Aliens in the Prime of Their Lives (2010).

Natasha Trethewey is the winner of the 2007 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry for her book Native Guard. Her first poetry collection, Domestic Work, won the Cave Canem Poetry Prize, and her second collection, Bellocq’s Ophelia, was named a Notable Book for 2003. Trethewey’s most recent work is a book of creative non-fiction, titled Beyond Katrina: A Meditation on the Mississippi Gulf (2010).

Guidelines: Submit one previously unpublished story of up to 9,000 words or three previously unpublished poems with SASE and a $15 reading fee payable to Third Coast. For more information click here.

In case you missed it, you can catch up on the series here: part one, part two, and part three (by guest blogger Adam Reger).

Today, guest blogger Salvatore Pane puts on his cape in order to explain why people keep declaring that fiction is dead:

I’m writing this 30 minutes after the end of LeBron James’ THE DECISION Special on ESPN. I’ve been a basketball follower my entire life. I’m a diehard New York Knicks fan, which explains my currently petulant mood, but the idea I couldn’t help shake during the entire drama-less, lifeless special was how on earth did a championship-less free agent drum up this much nationwide interest and why can’t contemporary fiction do the same? Don’t worry, I’m going to come back to this point again later.

I’ve written about the various tirades decrying the death of fiction many times before, and like Robert and Adam and Carolyn already pointed out, these rants are usually the products of aging writers frightened by technology and the rise of the all-too-dreaded narrative nonfiction. I don’t want to repeat things I’ve already written, so instead, I’m going to pick up a thread started by Adam: the idea that literary fiction isn’t being crowded out of the cultural limelight by creative nonfiction but by video games, television, movies and the myriad forms of entertainment that have emerged in the past hundred years or so.

Compare an issue of Amazing Spider-Man produced today to one forty years ago. How about movies? Check out Inglorious Basterds and then watch an early talkie. Video games? Video games. Look at Modern Warfare 2 then Commando for the Nintendo Entertainment System. Do a side-by-side of The Wire and Leave it to Beaver. These forms of entertainment haven’t just become slightly more sophisticated over the years, they’ve developed their own working languages; they’ve evolved. As funny as it is to say, these forms of entertainment are the new kids on the bock, and of course they’re going to weazle in on the culture at large’s time to read fiction. And to double back to the spectacle that was ESPN’s two-year long coverage of LBJ’s impulse decision to play for Miami, there are just so many other media distractions. Why should I read contemporary fiction when I can play Advance Wars: Days of Ruin for three hours on my Nintendo DS (something I’m guilty of doing this very day!) or watch nonstop debate over why Stephen Strasburg deserves to be on the all star roster?

I can’t remember who said it, but I was reading a recent interview with a writer who said that novels are beginning to occupy the same cultural space that short stories held in the 1980’s–and that short stories are becoming the new poems of the 2010’s. This seems like a fair assessment to me. In the 80’s, a few writers made their livings composing short stories. Today, a few writers make their livings composing novels (George Saunders and a few others notwithstanding). Lee Siegel referred to Harper’s and The Atlantic as “little literary magazines.” This line of thinking is absolutely insane. Neither Harper’s nor The Atlantic claim to be revolutionary or little. They’re the vanguard, much more in line with The New Yorker than McSweeney’s. The reason why I don’t think fiction is dead is because of the wealth of activity and aesthetic diversity I find online. Sites like HTMLGIANT, The Rumpus, Maud Newton’s blog The Millions and The New Republic’s The Book are fast becoming the cultural meeting grounds for the new literati even if the outgoing generation, Siegel included, is unaware. Flash fiction is well on its way to becoming the most innovative genre in contemporary American fiction and the work being published in places like PANK, The Collagist, Pear Noir!, elimae, Caketrain, Annalemma and many others shows firsthand that there’s a burgeoning scene of emerging writers who are not just rehashing trends and styles that have come before.

For much of my “WRITING CAREER,” and I use those words in the loosest possible sense, I always thought that I was doing my work in a kind of void. Sure, I knew people through my MFA program or undergrad institution who were writing, but I never really felt part of a large, nationwide (or global) community. That is no longer the case. We as writers and readers have so many great outlets now for networking and meeting other writers and readers interested in similar material. The enthusiasm I see day in and day out on these websites is more than enough to convince me that fiction is not even close to dying, and although our place on the cultural totem pole may be shifting, new writers are emerging and the work they’re doing is unquestionably important.

______________________

Salvatore Pane was born and raised in Scranton, Pennsylvania.  After college, he attended the University of Pittsburgh where he received his MFA in Creative Writing.

His fiction has been published by PANK, Quick Fiction, Weave, We Are Champion, Corium Magazine, The Catalonian Review, The Boston Literary Magazine and Folio and is in current consideration for the 2011 Pushcart Prize. He won the 2010 Turow-Kinder Award in Fiction judged by Stewart O’ Nan with an excerpt from his novel-in-progress, The Collected Works of the Digital Narcissist. Salvatore also writes comic books. His debut, a 110-page original graphic novel, The Black List, is forthcoming from Arcana Studios. He co-wrote it with Mark Kleman. Lamair Nash supplied the art.  You can visit his blog here.