My urge is to copy and paste the story here, because nothing I can say about it can do it justice, and because it's so....I haven't eaten meat since I was twelve years old, but I imagine that when you take a bite of a perfectly cooked hamburger, fresh off the grill, it's something like my experience reading "Gazebo."
There is, of course, the opening:
That morning she pours Teacher's over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon she tries to jump out the window.
There are these people trying to end something, Duane and Holly, trying to end it but they can't end it. This way of honoring that our bad choices are runaway trains, as unavoidable as gravity....it's beautiful.
I'd open my eyes and look at the ceiling and listen to it ring and wonder what was happening to us.
But maybe I should be looking at the floor.
I'll never forget that line. This isn't a story; it's a tattoo.
My writer friend Kathy and I have been emailing back and forth about short stories, talking about this idea of whether something "happens" or not. And I think a lot of readers are looking for that moment in the stories they read. I think they want the stoning scene in The Lottery, if I'm being honest. Great story, but in some ways that scene is the least interesting part of it. Just sayin'.
And that's not Carver. He doesn't zoom back and spoon feed you a climax. He puts a target on the backs of two or three people and lets you witness the hunt.
I get down on my knees and start to beg. But I am thinking of Juanita. This is awful. I don't know what's going to happen to me or to anyone else in the world.
Do you clap or cry after a line like that? Maybe both.
So okay, it's happened. I'm a Carver fan. What should I read next?
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
"Karma" by Rishi Reddi
This week I read, "Karma," which was recently selected for One City, One Story in Boston. Copies of the story are being made available all over the city and you can also access it for free online HERE. And for my New England friends who weren't already planning to attend the Boston Book Festival, consider this blog post your sign from the universe. Rishi Reddi will be on hand to give a talk about her story, along with lots of other yummy, juicy author types. Let's show Boston and Copley Square some love.
"Karma" is the story of Shankar Balareddy. I like Shankar. I do. He saves the dead birds that are landing on the streets of Boston, confused by the lure of city lights at night. He cooks his wife a nice dinner. And though I was left feeling like I wished Shankar could treat himself with the same persistence and care as his beloved birds, Reddi has certainly crafted a wholly believable character, the kind of person that can't get out of his own way. There is a Shankar in all of us.
Shankar has some help in staying downtrodden though, in the form of his successful brother, Dr. Prakash Balareddy. Prakash is....Prakash is.....Prakash is an asshole. There's just no other way to say it. He kicks his brother and his sister-in-law out onto the street. He hangs out with a real hoity-toity crowd. He's entirely unlikeable. Except that he's not. I empathized with Prakash and I'm curious if other readers felt the same. We all like Shankar. We all want to point him in the right direction, away from the deceptive lights that cause him to smack against metaphorical skyscrapers. But because of the honesty in Reddi's story, we also have to admit to ourselves that if Shankar was our brother, we'd have probably tossed him out too. "Shankar!" we'd yell. "Get it together!" Watching Shankar circle the drain of victimhood would be, well, draining. Because there's a little bit of Prakash in us too.
Boston is a minor character in the story so if you love the city you'll love this read. And anyone who has any sibling issues will surely connect too.
"Karma" is the story of Shankar Balareddy. I like Shankar. I do. He saves the dead birds that are landing on the streets of Boston, confused by the lure of city lights at night. He cooks his wife a nice dinner. And though I was left feeling like I wished Shankar could treat himself with the same persistence and care as his beloved birds, Reddi has certainly crafted a wholly believable character, the kind of person that can't get out of his own way. There is a Shankar in all of us.
Shankar has some help in staying downtrodden though, in the form of his successful brother, Dr. Prakash Balareddy. Prakash is....Prakash is.....Prakash is an asshole. There's just no other way to say it. He kicks his brother and his sister-in-law out onto the street. He hangs out with a real hoity-toity crowd. He's entirely unlikeable. Except that he's not. I empathized with Prakash and I'm curious if other readers felt the same. We all like Shankar. We all want to point him in the right direction, away from the deceptive lights that cause him to smack against metaphorical skyscrapers. But because of the honesty in Reddi's story, we also have to admit to ourselves that if Shankar was our brother, we'd have probably tossed him out too. "Shankar!" we'd yell. "Get it together!" Watching Shankar circle the drain of victimhood would be, well, draining. Because there's a little bit of Prakash in us too.
Boston is a minor character in the story so if you love the city you'll love this read. And anyone who has any sibling issues will surely connect too.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
"Stickmen" by Andrew C. Gottlieb...plus Thoughts on Publishing Short Stories
Today I'm going to give you my usual thoughts on my experience reading a selected short story, in this case "Stickmen" by Andrew C. Gottlieb. But because of where I discovered this story, you're also going to get my newbie musings on the submission and publication process of short stories.
"Stickmen" won the American Fiction, Vol. 11 contest for best previously unpublished short story. As someone with an infinitesimal amount of publishing creds, I was compelled to add this particular anthology to my short story collection when I saw it in the lovely Jabberwocky Bookshop, while I was attending the Newburyport Literary Festival in the spring. The idea that some kind publishing souls would actively seek out homeless short stories, these little orphans holding out their soup cups, all dirty-cheeked and hollow, spoke to my soul. I have short stories like that, stories I believe deserve a real home, a family to call their own, a decent meal and a warm bed.
I emailed Andrew Gottlieb to see if I could get the lowdown on his story's journey to publication. He was kind enough to reply.
Gottleib wrote "Stickmen" in 2001. It received first prize in the AF contest in 2009. As Denzel said, "This shit's chess, it ain't checkers." Take a wild guess what my new online friend was doing in those eight years? Submitting and editing. Editing and submitting. By Gottleib's own estimate, though "Stickmen" was a finalist in several contests and received other promising feedback, it was passed over for publication 64 times in those eight years.
I would love for someone to write a book that tracks the journey of this story, from journal to journal to contest to journal. I would drool over interviews with first readers and editors giving us insight into their rejections of a great story.
In Clint McCown's introduction to AF, Vol. 11, he takes a stab at one of the reasons why:
"While it may be simple to select the best apple from a barrel of apples, the process is more daunting when one is faced with comparing a first-rate apple to a first-rate orange, and a first-rate pomegranate, and a first-rate kumquat. Taste invariably enters the decision."
But 64? The mind reels.
"Stickmen" is the story of Jimmy Remler and his father, and though Jimmy is our narrator, he gives such a powerful voice to a man who is losing his that his father became an honorary main character. Jimmy's father is dying and has been for a very long time. He has things taken from him that we healthy people toss mindlessly amongst each other, like frisbees on a July beach. I see that here, in Gottleib's story, this passing of life from the dying to the living. It is one of the many sensitivities that pulled me into this story.
I lost a friend a couple of weeks ago to ALS. His struggles and his bravery were captured in "Stickmen." When Jimmy's mother tells him that the end could come any day, that he must be ready for it, I knew that Jimmy would never be ready. That even when we know it's coming, death shocks us.
Jimmy recounts a memory from his youth, when his father, forced to sit in the car because of his disease, watches young Jimmy fall from the jungle gym.
I knew that's what made the memory special for me. You have to admire a man who could do that every day, who could sit there missing out and knowing it.
Yes, that's it, exactly.
This story will stick with me (pun somewhat intended) for a long time, because Jimmy felt particularly alive to me. He is out there in the world somewhere now, still grieving, but no longer drawing stickmen.
If you get a chance to read "Stickmen," send Andrew Gottleib a quick note. Wicked nice guy.
"Stickmen" won the American Fiction, Vol. 11 contest for best previously unpublished short story. As someone with an infinitesimal amount of publishing creds, I was compelled to add this particular anthology to my short story collection when I saw it in the lovely Jabberwocky Bookshop, while I was attending the Newburyport Literary Festival in the spring. The idea that some kind publishing souls would actively seek out homeless short stories, these little orphans holding out their soup cups, all dirty-cheeked and hollow, spoke to my soul. I have short stories like that, stories I believe deserve a real home, a family to call their own, a decent meal and a warm bed.
I emailed Andrew Gottlieb to see if I could get the lowdown on his story's journey to publication. He was kind enough to reply.
Gottleib wrote "Stickmen" in 2001. It received first prize in the AF contest in 2009. As Denzel said, "This shit's chess, it ain't checkers." Take a wild guess what my new online friend was doing in those eight years? Submitting and editing. Editing and submitting. By Gottleib's own estimate, though "Stickmen" was a finalist in several contests and received other promising feedback, it was passed over for publication 64 times in those eight years.
I would love for someone to write a book that tracks the journey of this story, from journal to journal to contest to journal. I would drool over interviews with first readers and editors giving us insight into their rejections of a great story.
In Clint McCown's introduction to AF, Vol. 11, he takes a stab at one of the reasons why:
"While it may be simple to select the best apple from a barrel of apples, the process is more daunting when one is faced with comparing a first-rate apple to a first-rate orange, and a first-rate pomegranate, and a first-rate kumquat. Taste invariably enters the decision."
But 64? The mind reels.
"Stickmen" is the story of Jimmy Remler and his father, and though Jimmy is our narrator, he gives such a powerful voice to a man who is losing his that his father became an honorary main character. Jimmy's father is dying and has been for a very long time. He has things taken from him that we healthy people toss mindlessly amongst each other, like frisbees on a July beach. I see that here, in Gottleib's story, this passing of life from the dying to the living. It is one of the many sensitivities that pulled me into this story.
I lost a friend a couple of weeks ago to ALS. His struggles and his bravery were captured in "Stickmen." When Jimmy's mother tells him that the end could come any day, that he must be ready for it, I knew that Jimmy would never be ready. That even when we know it's coming, death shocks us.
Jimmy recounts a memory from his youth, when his father, forced to sit in the car because of his disease, watches young Jimmy fall from the jungle gym.
I knew that's what made the memory special for me. You have to admire a man who could do that every day, who could sit there missing out and knowing it.
Yes, that's it, exactly.
This story will stick with me (pun somewhat intended) for a long time, because Jimmy felt particularly alive to me. He is out there in the world somewhere now, still grieving, but no longer drawing stickmen.
If you get a chance to read "Stickmen," send Andrew Gottleib a quick note. Wicked nice guy.
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