The Original Sin of Biff Penfield

[This story has been revised based on previous comments.]

Biff Penfield had been warned by his fraternity brothers not to go out with Nebula, the vixen from Chi Delta Chi, a sorority rumored to be aligned with the Dark Arts. Hazing was one thing, but Nebula was considered to be bad mojo. Some of the boys she dated disappeared or flunked out of school.

Biff was game for anything, however. He’d heard that Nebula had erotic charms that were known only to certain Chinese concubines. How could he pass up the invitation to go swimming at her father’s deserted mansion on Long Island?

Nebula slowly descended the steps in the shallow end, violet eyes sparkling beneath long, jet-black hair. The tattoo of a snake writhed from her navel up to her left shoulder, circled her neck, and fell upon her right breast in serpentine fashion.

Biff, wearing nothing but the designer clothes given him by Mother Nature, treaded water in the deep end and watched Nebula swim toward him using—what else?—a sultry breast stroke that was slow and mesmerizing.

Biff felt intense waves of ecstasy as his mysterious host physically joined him and spun her body a full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. His legs circled Nebula's torso, and his hands clutched her thighs as she hung upside down in the blue water, her body straight as an arrow aimed at the underworld. And then he was unconscious, Nebula disappearing into a black maelstrom beneath the diving board.

“Well, what happened?” asked Biff’s frat buddies as they stood around his hospital bed. “What did she do?”

“I’m not sure,” Biff replied, “but if I don’t get the tattoo of this snake lasered off my chest and shoulders, my parents are gonna kill me.”

Biff lived an ordinary life in the years ahead, but on certain moonless nights when the tide was high, he found himself scratching his chest and shoulders. Temptation not rebuffed has a way of leaving an indelible mark, even if unseen …

… not unlike the taste of a forbidden apple lingering on the palate of mankind, which must forever swim in a pool of regret while searching for a lifeguard on a tall wooden platform.

Painting: Lilith, by John Collier, 1892, public domain

Scarecrows at Sunset

Bare fingers of trees are splayed
against a crimson and purple sunset.

Scarecrows in flannel shirts fall sideways by degrees
as an evening chill rolls across fallow fields,

hope nothing more than a straw dream
of next year’s seed.

Button-eyed heads loll in the breeze,
empty sleeves flailing to wave off winter.

The growing season has rolled away
on an axis of black hearts, black eyes

eclipsing salvation and sun
on an updraft from a distant sea.

Fat devils sleep in the rookery
while scarecrows hang on crosses

before commending their spirits
to a burial in unforgiving snow.

Picture: public domain

The Five-Dollar Apocalypse

Meriwether Stout entered the fortuneteller’s small studio on a lark, for he didn’t believe in crystal balls, astrology, or tarot. He was a bookkeeper, a clerk who juggled numbers the way a circus clown juggles balls. He’d never dropped a nine or a six—not any number—for he was a model of circumspection and rationality. But when Madame Zoya touched his arm, he felt a jolt of electricity jump through his veins and then burrow into the very marrow of his forty-year-old bachelor bones. For a brief moment, he felt his skull had been rendered into a photographic negative.

“The years will be unkind,” Madame Zoya told him. “That’ll be five bucks, mister.”

On the street again, Meriwether was flustered and checked his pocket watch to find an anchor in the temporal, green-ledger universe. The timepiece had mysteriously gained three hours. The five-billion-year-old sun was lower in the sky, and the shadows of pedestrians were unnaturally long and ominous. Nearly everyone looked long in the tooth.

He walked on and glanced at his pocket watch again. The minute hand was spinning wildly, like a third base coach waving a runner home. Building facades cracked, and ivy tore great fissures in the sidewalk like tendrils of sentient, malevolent rope. Cars grew rusty, sagging on reddish-brown axles that had not spun into gear for eons.

Meriwether was nonplussed, which is to say his brain was experiencing a minus for the first time in his Newtonian world of rational, balanced numbers. He looked up to see the glacier, a mile high, scraping its way down Broadway.

He didn't snap out of a trance or awaken from a nightmare. The years had indeed been unkind.

Picture: public domain.

The Essence of a Poem

It should be a woman
opening her eyes
after long hours of sleep,

the silhouette of a taut muscle
after it has hammered
a threepenny nail into yellow pine.

It should be the sound
of rain rushing through a gutter spout
to fertilize the ground with sky,

the music heard by a deaf girl
at her first symphony
as half notes fall from the staff.

Picture: Public Domain

Once More by the Lake

[A tanka sequence first published in 1999 in Lynx, a journal of Japanese verse forms.]

shades of green
a twig tells of your step
behind me
this sound once more by the lake
and your petals unfolding

a whirl of skirt
follows your proposition
through the screen door
scented spring twilight
rolls down the nape of your neck

knowledge of change
fish break the silver surface
with liquid desire
sparrows call as stars rise
through quietly tossed hair

moonlight on water
a blossom floats on the white breast
to become a nipple
my head rests in your lap
crickets speak of this moment

a single kiss
lips have no words
for their mating
ripe love under stars
speaks only in tongues

two branches
the silent lake uncaring
if they are tangled
wet glory of spring
that water cannot hide nakedness

(Picture: public domain)

Lily Fourshanks, Searching for God

Now just where was that rascal? Lily had searched under the bed, behind the refrigerator, on top of the armoire, and inside the closet behind the winter coats. No God. Not even an angel or an Old Testament patriarch. She found only gum wrappers, a picture of Elvis, and several empty pill bottles. She knew the lithium prescription was important, but she was so busy this morning, what with looking for God and all.

And then it hit her. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

Lily ran to the storage closet under the stairs where the board games were stored. God knew everything and would be a natural at Trivial Pursuit. She pulled the box from the stack of Parker Brothers pleasure and proceeded to carefully lift the cardboard top from the game, expecting a billowy cloud of white wisdom to rise up like a genie.

“Rats,” she said when no deity appeared. “He certainly is elusive.”

Lily believed that an almighty being should be more accessible. If she needed her washing machine fixed, all she had to do was pick up the phone and call Sears, which had radio-dispatched trucks. If one wanted to communicate with God, therefore, one used a communications device. She had been so stupid!

“Hello?” she said into the black cordless receiver. “Are you there, God? This is Lily Fourshanks of 317 Henway Drive, Minetonka, Idaho.”

Lily heard the dial tone, not the voice of I Am Who Am.

“That just takes the cake,” Lily said, slamming down the phone. “Whatever God is, he’s no Sears repairman.”

Lily was on the verge of existential despair and lay down on the rug in her dining room. God was lying right next to her.

Lily picked up the shiny copper penny, on which was inscribed, “In God We Trust.”

“He looks a lot like Abe Lincoln,” she mumbled, “but at least he has a beard.”

Lily dropped God into the pocket of her apron before happily washing dishes and mopping the floors.

Lily ardently believed she had found the Almighty. For the rest of the day, nothing indicated otherwise. The neurotransmitters in her brain had ceased a feverish mambo in favor of a peaceful waltz.

It is said that not a single sparrow falls to the ground without the Father’s leave. The same apparently goes for pennies.

Picture: public domain

Bolts of Silk: A Great Poetry Blog

I recently discovered Juliet M. Wilson's Bolts of Silk, a site devoted to collecting poetry from many different poets on one blog. In a bit a shameless self-promotion, I am honored to announce that Juliet has featured my poem, An Abundance of Tides, on her blog. Two more poems by moi will be featured on Bolts of Silk in the months ahead. Juliet herself is a very accomplished poet, whose work may be seen at Crafty Green Poet.

Vignette Noir

You walked through the steam in a tight black dress
and boarded the Pullman car.

A shrill European whistle
gave the locomotive its raison d’etre.

Outside the station,
a streetlamp made slanting lines of rain visible

as far as the covered newsstand.
Tightening my trench coat, I haled a cab,

opening the back door
as the fin-like curb-splash

washed over the gray sidewalk.
At the apartment, I drank cheap scotch

and listened to Mahler’s last symphony
before sleeping on the mattress

where we had both created
the sag.

The Dirt Road

Wendell Hodge was an affable man who worked for the Hancock County Department of Roads for twenty-seven years. He raked gravel into level ribbons of highway before the paving crew came along with its steam-driven dreadnoughts to lay asphalt over his careful Zen-like strokes.

He retired at age sixty-six in the piney woods of Mississippi, taking long walks every morning so his feet could stay in touch with the idea of roads—of traveling, of seeing the world, of arriving. He had always regarded himself as a bit of a travel agent.

Every day for five years, his meandering took him down a dirt path to a log cabin, smoke curling up from the chimney and hanging in the air like a corkscrew miasma. Wendell finally knocked on the door one day, and a few times he had the gumption to peek inside, where he saw coffee on the stove, water running in the sink. Once he even heard a soft, lilting tune coming from a music box on the kitchen table, but no one was ever home. He started taking a different route on his constitutionals. The cabin scared him.

Wendell decided to revisit the dirt path five years later, but it was gone. Fifty-year-old pines and hundred-year-old oaks rose from the ground where the path had been. A robin engaged in soliloquy sat on the telephone wire above Wendell’s head.

“The world is full of windows,” the robin declared, interrupting his deep thoughts. “They open and close.”

“Do you mean the cabin wasn’t real?” Wendell asked the philosophical bird.

“The only thing that’s real is the road you’re standing on,” the robin replied. “Reality is always shifting, rearranging, evolving, but the journey never stops.”

Wendell realized that the robin was nothing less than feathered wisdom. Men were born to walk down roads, nothing more. He of all people should have known.

He walked on, but the lilting tune from the music box remained in his mind for the rest of his life.

Pic: public domain

Margins

It’s where the words that matter fall.
Cursive enigmas and incomplete thoughts
simply will not wait,
will not be consigned to a slush pile
of unsolicited ideas.
They demand hearing.
Phone numbers lacking names,
a list of conjunctions,
and notations about doctors’ appointments
are wedged above the perfect response
to your wife as to why you do indeed “get it.”

A story idea—
a mad Russian anarchist falls in love
with a nun whose mother practices Wicca—
lurks beneath your latest poem:
I was waiting
for your hair
and your shadow
to fall
across my chest
like a sunset
at the base
of Kilimanjaro.

And then there are the lost moments,
the random phrases that were apparently your life
last year or the year before,
all rendered in blue and black ink
pressed into a yellowed page:
lily of the valley
Jane S.
sunflower thankfulness
meat loaf
paraffin wax
Seinfeld tonight
say nothing
panthers

You take out a library book by Kafka.
That night, insomnia turns the pages
until you see there’s always hope
scribbled near a paragraph indentation.
You close the book and sleep,
dreaming that life is a long thin column
waiting to be filled.

Mandelbaum the Astrologer

[Another bit of quirky flash fiction—284 words.]

At forty-two, Izzy Mandelbaum spent his days pouring over zodiacal charts, correlating his findings with eclipses and conjunctions and planetary alignments. He sometimes gazed into tea leaves for extra inspiration. He even wore a tall, conical hat emblazoned with moons and stars—with Pisces, Capricorn, Libra—plus his lucky two-dollar bill and various political campaign buttons. He could afford to endlessly gaze into the heavens after inheriting a family fortune built on the manufacture of feather dusters. It was on a warm April evening when Izzy gazed at his detailed star maps and leaned back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. He was horrified to learn that Jupiter’s position relative to Orion meant that he had died five years earlier.

“If I am dead, I shall go forth from my apartment and walk the streets until I gradually dissolve into the ether of the cosmos,” he mumbled. “The universe will surely correct its mistake.”

On his second day of aimless wandering, Izzy entered the Museum of Natural History and stared at the beautiful young woman reflecting on the Cretaceous period. She was a vision of soft skin and dark, shiny hair more lustrous than the Pleiades. Izzy approached her and made small talk. He was powerless as he stood in the gravitational field of this newly discovered star.

That night, Izzy and his star woman danced and laughed and drank wine. He kissed her hair and lips as she nibbled Izzy’s ear and stroked his cheek. Somewhere in the solar system, Jupiter edged away from Orion by a few degrees, not daring to spoil the resurrection of Izzy Mandelbaum. Sometimes, celestial mechanics has a heart.

Picture: Public Doman

Getting tagged was easier in school

Well, my time was bound to come sooner or later. If I pass this on to you (lest blog gods hurl thunderbolts), think kind thoughts! This is going to be tough since so many of you are sick or recovering from colds and flu. Also, many friends have either just gotten tagged, don't accept html comments, are running contests, taking time off to write, need their latest post to stay on top for a while, are on blog sabbatical, or have been tagged with this one already. Maybe the blog gods will have to exact vengeance on me after all. (If you're busy, I won't tell :) The following comes from Lana, the dreamer who recently escaped the law during her REM cycles.

THE RULES:

1. Once you are tagged, link back to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Post 7 weird or random facts about yourself on your blog.
4. Tag 7 people and link to them.
5. Comment on their blog to let them know they have been tagged.

Weird things about myself. I will stop at seven to fulfill the requirements.

1) My mother really did drop me on my head as a baby. It's true. I had nightmares for years.
2) I danced on top of a bar at a Greek restaurant when I was 18.
3) Carley Simon once called to wish me Happy Birthday.
4) I make up words that don't exist but should, such as "merfliction" or "aquaphonia."
5) I used to do a full-body impression of bacon frying.
6) I routinely dressed as Ponce de Leon for Halloween.
7) I refuse to stop believing in Santa. Some things are sacred.

Given those people who fit into the categories at the top, this is the best I can do: Charles and Marja and Sandy and Christine and Scott

The Hallway

Dust motes swim in a ray of light,
a shaft angled perfectly
from the high window above the pegs
in the hallway where coats once gathered in winter,
wool and buttons finding solace
while Orion ruled the sky.

But time has moved on.
Years, in fact.
It is July,
and this space of cedar and oak,
of legs conquering steps
on the staircase two,
maybe three at a time,
is empty, quiet.
Even the ghosts of my children have left.

I will sweep away the dust
and memories, but not now,
not while I sit in a straight-back chair
waiting for the sun to fall,
for the ray of light
to touch my forehead
in this chapel of grace.
It is good to be here,
for loneliness is precursor
to the perfection of God.

One day, Gabriel’s wing,
merciful and wide,
will sweep me away with the sun.
There is a time and purpose
for everything under heaven.
For now, I sit.

Flash Fiction: Da Vinci and Father Abraham

The following is very quirky flash fiction modeled on stories by David B. McCoy, who, like myself, is a fan of the late Richard Brautigan. You can sample McCoy's work at Buffalo Time.

Da Vinci in My Kitchen

Da Vinci is aggravating. I have seafood gumbo on the stove, and all he can do is waft his wrinkled hand over the large pot and make notes, writing backwards in order to record the smells being analyzed by his Florentine nose.

“I need information about everything,” he says, scratching his beard. “Everything.”

“Did you ever finish your helicopter?” I ask him.

“A what?”

I point to my son’s Coast Guard Search and Rescue model on the shelf.

Da Vinci’s eyes open wide. “A helicopter! Yes!”

He runs out the kitchen, the weathered screen door banging shut several times like weak applause. A few minutes later, I see him on the steps, peering through the screen.

“How much garlic do you use?” he inquires.

“Doesn’t really help when making helicopters,” I reply.

“Smart ass,” he says. And then he’s gone.


Not Bad Work When You Can Get It

Our story thus far: the universe has collapsed from gravity and dark matter floating in the interstellar void, only to explode again in another Big Bang.

Fast forward fourteen billion years. Lester Hoop sits in his yard, burning leaves as sunset brushes crimson, orange, and purple across the horizon. His neighbor, Miss Ruby from down the road, saunters up and sits next to Lester on a log. They share cheap whiskey from Miss Ruby’s brown paper bag.

“I’m tired of it all,” Lester moans. “Bang and crunch, bang and crunch, and it always ends up with us sitting right here burning leaves. The universe is nothing but a yo-yo.”

“Not much to do about it,” Miss Ruby says.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Lester proclaims.

He gets the chainsaw from his barn and starts cutting down trees on his five acres of crimson heaven, mowing ‘em down like a rabid logger.

The next time around, Miss Ruby sits by Lester, who is once again ready to cut down all the trees in his yo-yo universe.

“Wait a minute,” says Miss Ruby. “If we have to keep goin’ on like this, why don’t we go inside and make love instead?”

Lester rubs the stubble on his chin and puts down the chainsaw. “Damn good idea,” he says. “Should have thought of it billions of years ago.”

In the halls of eternity, Lester and Ruby sire a nation of children, like Father Abraham. Not bad work when you can get it.

Pic: public domain

For a Simple Kiss

The stars which fell into the lake
last November and froze
are still there, my winter love.

Come, lean forward over the ice,
and for a simple kiss
I will show you a new way
to look at the sky.

One-Hit Literary Wonders

Just as in music, literature is replete with one-hit wonders, true cases of “that’s all she wrote.” Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, and Dr. Zhivago by Boris Pasternak are only a few examples.

My favorite is Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters, a 1915 book-length collection of extremely short, interweaving prose poems allegedly spoken by 244 deceased inhabitants of the fictitious town of Spoon River. (I'm cheating a bit since Masters wrote other books, none of which achieved critical acclaim like Spoon River.) Hat makers, artists, judges, bankers, doctors, gamblers--people from all walks of life--tell stories of love, tragedy, and everyday existence while constantly alluding to the other characters. A larger story emerges by the end, so that Spoon River Anthology reads like a novel. Secrets are revealed—sexual indiscretions, crimes, addictions, murders—about this seemingly ordinary town. It is almost a genre unto itself. The characters have wonderful names like Yee Bow, Hod Putt, Ida Frickey, Griffy the Cooper, Cooney Potter, Knowlt Hoeheimer, Constance Hately, and Dippold the Optician.

Do you have a favorite one-hit literary wonder? If so, share the wealth, whether it’s well-known or off the beaten path, like Spoon River Anthology.

Picture: Public Domain

Upon Hearing a Train Whistle Late at Night

The whistle pulls me from sleep,
the falling Doppler pitch an awful wail,
like the final breath of one
who sees an apocalyptic moon.

It is a terrible thing when a stream runs dry,
when the radial pulse begins to hear
the calling of dust
to which it must return.

The demon train is gone,
having pulled its dying freight
into a country with no name.
Converging rails are erased

by the shadow of parallax pines
with no tangible roots.
It is time to let sleep have sway,
to let night run its course with dreams,

powerful engines in their own right,
before the sun spins its child into wakefulness,
before the highest mountain catches fire from dawn.
My mind will glide through kingdoms of light

that forever rise above the whistle of the grave,
where death is only temptation,
an ethereal siren song
for a mind that chooses not to wake.

Picture: Public Domain

Looking at My Bookcase

I cannot double-click my mouse
to access the contents.
Characters and plots,
pressed hard and coated with dust,
call in muffled voices
like patients at the state asylum.
“We’re alive,” they say.
“Why does no one visit us?”
Only Emily Dickinson remains silent
as she lies in her coffin yet again,
suspecting she has already died.

I sit quietly,
as in the last pew of a church
where the faithful have left for the parish fair,
for Ferris wheels and whirl-a-gigs.
The only search engine is my index finger.
There is easy access to the cosmos before me,
the sum of all creation having been cast forth
by leaden slug-type
for older times, older brains.
My spine is embossed with decades
like the epic tales huddled before me.

“It is good to be here, Lord,” I say,
echoing Peter’s rapture.
Moses and Elijah say nothing.
Mystery and awe are fit companions
for a Saturday afternoon transfigured
by the textured feel of a page.

Stephen King's Haven Foundation

Yesterday I posted a few thoughts on random acts of kindness (on my Newsdive blog). I learened last month that Stephen King has started The Haven Foundation, which can also be accessed through King’s website.

The Haven Foundation exists to help writers who have been impacted by illness, accident, or natural disaster (and King makes special note of the plight of those in the area impacted by Katrina). As many of us in the area know, New Orleans had a thriving population of freelance writers and artists, some of whom never recovered or were forced to relocate.

If writers qualify, The Haven Foundation offers grants up to $25,000 per year. King has always been a man who lent his name to fostering literacy and the arts (such as libraries in Maine). I applaud him for trying to help freelance artists who struggle to make ends meet. He said words to the effect that he will never have trouble putting food on the table, but he worries about the books of others.

The Haven Foundation certainly qualifies as an act of kindness in my book. It is part of a larger awareness that education in the U.S. is not just about math, science, and test scores. Rather, it is also about fostering poetry, music, painting, and all the arts. Until this awareness becomes more widespread, schools will continue to reinforce cultural poverty.

Picture: Public Domain

Literary Success ... in About Fifty Years

Shesawriter got me to thinking with her post on the meaning of success, and there wasn’t room to post all of the following as a response. So to wax philosophical …

I thought of all the famous authors who received little or no acclaim during their own lives, or who enjoyed initial success only to be swallowed by literary oblivion.

Herman Melville wrote many successful books before Moby-Dick, but his epic story of whaling—of obsession and evil—sold less than 3,000 copies in his lifetime and earned him $556.37. He then wrote Pierre, a dismal failure. His final manuscript, Isle of the Cross, was rejected by his publisher. For the last nineteen years of his life, Melville, now considered to have penned the great American novel, worked as a customs inspector in New York City, virtually unknown.

Emily Dickinson, the reclusive Belle of Amherst, published approximately a dozen poems while alive (the number varies depending on which scholar you consult). She wrote almost 1,800 during her lifetime. She died in 1886, and the first collection of her poems was published in 1890, though the volume is not considered a reliable text because it was heavily edited. The first collection to be regarded as a definitive edition of Dickinson’s work wasn’t published until 1955.

Gerard Manley Hopkins, a Victorian Jesuit poet who died in 1889 (and a personal favorite of mine), was a tortured soul, burning most of his early poems upon entering the novitiate. He took up writing again in later years but published few poems while alive, considering his efforts too egotistical in light of his religious vocation. His work was rediscovered by English poet laureate Robert Bridges, who published a limited Hopkins collection in 1918. Other editions (with additional poems) were published in 1930 and 1948.

The list goes on. Success, of course, doesn't just mean becoming a literary giant. It may mean reaching only one reader (an idea endorsed by C. S. Lewis). A single reading of a book may change someone's life forever, and the ripple effects spread out from there. Still, it gives me pause when I think about books buried in desk drawers—a dogeared manuscript, a floppy disk, a POD title—that will be discovered and read by an agent or editor in the distant future and given the audience it deserves. Indeed, what manuscripts, typed by our ancestors on an old Underwood, are, even now, sitting in dusty trunks in our attics?

I think success is "reaching an audience." How that happens is apparently out of our hands in many cases.

Picture of Emily Dickinson: Public Domain

The Poet at Minimum Wage

I meet with a close inner circle of words,
a caucus of syllables.
We decide that the poet must embrace moments
that never gain promotion.
He must always work for minimum wage.

There is the phone call
informing him that someone has died.
He remembers a fly
buzzing grief through the wire.
He recalls rain sliding down the window,
the leafless tree in the side yard.

He makes love
and awakens several hours later,
remembering that the umbrella
is still open in the downstairs hall.
He thinks of a day years before
when he passed an old woman on a porch,
and her bones seemed to be made of papier-mache.

Moments of no consequence.
Once, a breeze stirred branches
that scratched the house and woke the cat.
There was a night when a cloud split in two
just as it passed the moon.

There is no greater moment
than when the second hand on a watch
waits for the next tick.
That is when the spider contemplates
spinning its web.
That is when the poet,
his eye trained on a falcon
hanging at apogee,
envisions his next poem.

(from 2004)

Do You Use Dreams for Inspiration in Your Writing?

I’ve been planning this post for a while, but since Lane brought up the subject of dreams, I thought “no time like the present.” (The pic is Jacob's dream in the OT of angels climbing a ladder to heaven.)

Do you tap into your dreams to find inspiration at the keyboard? Many writers, classic and contemporary, have used dreams to help them discover a plot or to simply find inspiration. Robert Louis Stevenson claimed he received the seminal idea for The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in a dream. Amy Tan allegedly takes a manuscript to bed when she can’t find the right ending. Maya Angelou feels that her work is going well when she has a recurring dream of climbing stairs in an unfinished building. Stephen King, William Styron, and others also claim to find inspiration or ideas in their dreams. Many writers keep dream journals.

One kind of dream I’ve been fascinated with for years is the “lucid dream,” which goes back as far as Tibetan Dream Yoga but which has gained popularity in modern times thanks to Stephen LaBerge’s research at Stanford University’s Lucidity Institute. (See link in sidebar as well.) Essentially, lucid dreams are those in which one becomes aware that one is dreaming, with blurry images replaced by crystal clear 3D images indistinguishable from waking reality. Once lucid, one can, with a little practice, interact consciously with the dreamscape. It can be used for personal exploration or just plain fun—Disneyworld without the pricey ticket.

Regardless of what type of dreams we have, what if we could talk to our characters or incubate plots while we sleep? The idea is tantalizing.

Many great writers, past and present, have said they are mere vehicles for what it is that needs to be said. I sometimes wonder what I’m supposed to write as opposed to what I want to write. I wonder if the answer is in a dream.

Picture: Public Domain

Don't Bother with the Novel--Just Write the Last Paragraph

What follows is “time on my hands,” although I do indeed know a writer who types “final paragraphs” in the hopes of discovering a plot thread he can, as they say in the military, reverse engineer. He obviously takes the writing exercise more seriously than I.

Passion Foamwave looked wistfully as the schooner, oddly named Wednesday is Hump Day, left the harbor, disappearing over the clichéd, sun-speckled horizon. She would miss Stubble McBone, the high-tech pirate with the aluminum leg, but she would carry on. Stubble still held her heart—literally—since he was actually a cardiovascular surgeon from the Mayo Clinic and performed heart transplants. Passion’s artificial heart now beat faster, although that was owing to the fact that Stubble had been in a hurry to make off with yet another stolen organ (and Passion’s bling), not because of eternal love. But how could she have gotten mixed up with such a dishonest doc in the first place? She’d met him at the cardio convention in the San Francisco Marriott ballroom—the cocktail weenies were to die for. She knew it was love at first bite since Stubble had some vampyric qualities, although the scoundrel claimed he was just measuring her electrolytes in case she ever needed surgery. Plus she’d always had a thing for men with aluminum legs since they reminded her of the metal bats in her fast-pitch softball league in Schenectady. And then there had been the nights of wild monkey-love in Pittsburgh (Stubble had a pet capuchin instead of a parrot) and an uncomfortable romp on his stainless steel lab table, followed by his request that she count backwards from one hundred. When she reached sixteen, the impatient Stubble knocked her out with a mallet. “Damn the chloroform!” he bellowed. And here she was, her heart having been ripped off (well not exactly—he’d at least bothered to suture her ample double D chest) by the handsome man with a Louisville Slugger where his right patella should have been. Such is love. She went to the Castaway Diner for Scorned Heroines, feeling hungry from copious blood loss. When the waitress asked if she wanted mayo on her BLT, she, like Jesus, wept. She subsequently married an insurance salesman and got her own TV show—Passion’s Gift Baskets—on cable access.

Picture: Public Domain

Martian Zombies with Heaving Bosoms and Dynamite: A Question of Genre

Writtenwyrdd and Bernita have both alluded to something that has perhaps baffled many of us lately: splitting hairs when it comes to labeling genres. Written has a great post about fantasy vs. urban fantasy vs. Christian fantasy, etc. In response, Bernita raises a great question: how does one know who to query when these categories start to become so arbitrary?

I first saw the term “urban fantasy” last year and thought it might have something to do with magical realism, such as setting a story with elements of fantasy in a real environment. I thought of W.P Kinsella’s Shoeless Joe, the basis for A Field of Dreams. Well, no, because Shoeless Joe doesn’t have much to do with an urban setting.

I have always thought the lines between thriller and suspense were intentionally blurred by publishers in order to get a marketing edge for various titles. And then there was Stephen King’s Lisey’s Story last year, which was supposedly King’s first foray into romance. The dust jacket even had an endorsement by Nicholas Sparks. I read the book and thought it was a typical King story (apart from endless repetition and a questionable editing job--SK switched editors for this one). Yes, it had a romantic slant but was by no means a romance IMHO. In fact, it bore a very strong resemblance to his Bag of Bones, based just as much on romance as Lisey’s Story, but which was clearly marketed as horror. Lisey's Story seemed a shameless attempt at cross-marketing by manipulating its genre designation. I guess a publisher can do that when the author gets a sixteen million dollar advance.

As several have commented on other blogs, genre comes down to an agent’s definition. Unfortunately, agent definitions don’t always tally. The more I think of it, however, the title of this blog just might stand a chance in the slush pile. It might grab someone’s attention for that all-important thirty-second first impression! I hereby copyright the title and will take everyone out on my yacht when I make my first ten million bucks. I mean, it can’t miss, right?

Picture: public domain.

Hemingway, Grisham, and Karma

I’ve never read a John Grisham novel. Hollywood always gets his work to the silver screen before I can get around to buying one of his books. Grisham, a laidback, amiable fellow, was interviewed on WNET by Charlie Rose last night. He said writing wasn’t really a job for him, claiming that it came too easily. He admitted that he didn’t like outlining very much and wasn’t fond of the editorial stage, but all in all, he counted himself a lucky man. He said he produced one novel a year and that each one took him only six months to write, leaving him plenty of time to spend around the house.

Even more interesting was his admission that he isn’t very interested in character development, in getting inside the head of his creations. He claimed that he was far more interested in what was going to happen in the next scene. The gist of his comments was that he wanted to write enjoyable books that would keep people’s minds engaged for a two or three days.

I suppose that some might feel he should pay more attention to character development—indeed, might even regard his statement as heresy. Whatever he does seems to work, however. By analogy, I don’t think Dan Brown’s novels would be such page turners if he delved into characterization. His forte is pacing--IMHO.

I must admit that I felt a little envious of this charming, unaffected man as he spoke of the ease with which he practices his craft. After a little introspection, however, I decided I’d have better karma by saying, “Good for you, John.”

Hemingway said that writing was simply a matter of getting the words right. It’s a simple definition that works for me. Not bad work when you can get it!

Picture of Papa: Public Domain

The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Literary Fortune

Many years ago I submitted a horror novel to about fifty agents. Ten requested the manuscript. Five loved the style but not the story. Five loved the story but not the style. I yearned to be a mad scientist who could combine one agent from each group into someone who would say, “Great style, great story!” I realized, however, that it was just a matter of taste. No hard feelings at all. At least they all responded.

We all have our own stories about submissions, and one needs a sense of humor. I laugh when I think back to a novel I wrote, very quirky. I sent it to several agents whose listings or websites said, “Send me a story that breaks the mold, a story that creates a new genre! Be creative! Find a narrative voice that's never been used!” The responses I received all said, “This is great writing, but it’s too different. Study the market.” Go figure.

Agents are human, and most have treated me well. They have a tough job, not to mention slush piles that would make anyone weep. I respect them, and most reputable agents are tireless advocates for their clients. But some could ratchet down their pontifications a bit in light of the following.

I get cheesed when reputable agents demand professionalism and then send rejection letters with multiple (and glaring) grammatical errors. I get equally cheesed when they fail to respond to requested manuscripts. There’s simply no excuse for this. One top-of-the-heap agent (I'm talking big) once told me she had indeed received my manuscript but was behind in her reading, had jury duty, needed root canal work, had the flu, yadda, yadda, yadda. She finally stopped responding altogether after a year and a half … and then wrote a book on how to snag the perfect agent. Seems like she found some time somewhere, huh?

I don’t like wasting postage.

Picture: Public Domain

Zen in the Art of Writing

If there’s a better book on the craft than Zen in the Art of Writing: Essays on Creativity by Ray Bradbury, I don’t know what it is. You don’t have to be a Bradbury fan to savor this fantastic book on how to jangle your muse out of lethargy. Most writers I know, regardless of what genre they work in, have read this book numerous times. It energizes one to the point that simply sitting at the keyboard gets one excited, and hence the title.

And while we’re on the subject of Bradbury, I think people are mistaken when they regard him as only a sci-fi writer. His novels Dandelion Wine and Something Wicked This Way Comes are lyrical and beautifully written. They’re not “space tales”; rather, they delve into issues of fear, courage, love, the human heart, and childhood.

Not many people realize how versatile Bradbury has been during his career. He did much screenwriting for television and wrote the screenplay for the original Hollywood production of Moby Dick. He started writing it while in a taxi in London, one of the great stories in Zen in the Art of Writing.

Picture: Public Domain

Mr. Dylan's CHRONICLES, VOLUME ONE

This isn't a review since I am in the process of reading Volume One of Zimmie's autobiography. All I can say is that it is has such a marvelous flow. It is straightforward and intelligible yet lyrical, if that makes any sense. And so much info! I never knew that he was almost considered for Albert Grossman's "super folk group," Peter, Paul & Mary, although his connection with the trio is legendary.

I also didn't know that Dylan had spent so much time in New Orleans or that he had recorded his album Oh Mercy here. What is impressive is that most visitors here never learn much about the city, but Dylan demonstrates an in-depth understanding of the city and mentions landmarks and restaurants where I used to go (and at the time when he was in NO!!!--late 80s). His portrayal of the city is not stereotypical at all (like Hollywood's).

One can clearly hear echoes of Woody Guthrie's authobiography Bound for Glory in Dylan's off-the-cuff style. It is an amazing look at his life and is rendered in prose that almost turns the pages for you.

Picture: Public Doman (was published between 1923 and 1977 without copyright notice)

Yearning at the Time of Equinox

(Another piece from my "w. s. merwin days," when I didn't use punctuation, and meaning relied on line breaks and an overall impression. Was going for the gestalt, with a series of images only tentaively related.)

my hand traces
the lines of your heart

so many summers
before and after

O that love
could last like a river

sweet bird
will you sing tonight

spring arrives
with old fevers broken

in the shed is a plow
that knows love’s invitation

we come back to play
like the shadow of mountains

the rain is a harvest
and you are my rain

fall gently now
into this yellow season

fall
but be forever unbroken

Falling Off the Edge of the World

Falling Off the Edge of the World

I have done it more than once.
I sail too far, dream too hard.
There is nothing out there but the sun
and the broken bones of old mariners,
bold and drunk,
who lost sight of the stars
when they could not remember home.

But I have learned to climb water,
ascend the rolling falls
that washed Greek heroes into oblivion.
Back home, you wait by a fire
that needs no kindling but the would
and should that is your simple faith.
I will walk up the quiet lane,
open the door next to the yellow window,
and we will tell each other stories
of love and deep regret.

You will chide me for my foolishness
but forgive me.
You have always loved a man
who dreamed too heard.
But this time I will burn my shoes
and live the gospel of should.
The sun belongs beyond the farthest latitude—
not me.
Never again will I fall from the edge
of a world that looms so large in your eyes.

Picture: Public Domain (Poem: Copyright, William Hammett, 2006)