When this week’s issue of the New Yorker arrived and I saw that Stephen King had written the short story I was happy. I’ve enjoyed his novels. “Pet Cemetery” and ”The Shining” definitely reside somewhere on my to-read list. His book “On Writing” was great! And I almost always like his short stories. He wrote one that ran in the fiction issue of Esquire earlier this year that was really good.

I liked his story from this week, “Premium Harmony.” King is very good at creating characters. I always prefer writers – like King – who use clear, readable prose. Unfortunately, I didn’t love “Premium Harmony.” It was good, but not really spectacular.

I often wonder: are the New Yorker editors really diligently looking for the best submitted short story to publish, or do they just say, “Hey, Stephen King is submitting something. When was the last time we ran one of his stories? It was really that long ago? Hell – let’s go with it!”

Last night I heard two authors speak at the “M” is for Mystery bookstore in San Mateo. They didn’t read from their books, but instead each gave a PowerPoint presentation explaining how they came up with their plots.

It was really interesting. Both plots sound very elaborate and compelling. I’ve only published a few short stories, and they were all literary fiction, so it was really eye opening for me to discover how much effort a crime novelist has to put into plot development. I guess it should have been obvious…

The authors are Mark Coggins and Michelle Gagnon. His book is “The Big Wake-Up.” Michelle’s book is called, “The Gatekeeper.” I didn’t buy “The Big Wake-Up,” but likely will when it comes out in paperback. But I did buy “The Gatekeeper” and I’m looking forward to reading it.

Also there last night was the graphic artist Owen Smith. He created the cover art for Coggins’ book. Smith frequently designs the cover for the New Yorker. He also just created these cool images for new releases of the Maltese Falcon (one of my favorite books!). I really dig his work.

I decided to shake things up and not read last week’s New Yorker short story. Instead, I read the most recent offering from One Story – a story by Robert McCarthy called “Stag.”

I’ve been a One Story subscriber for a couple of years now. I like the concept: each month they send me one story in an easy-to-carry little booklet.

I’ve had mixed feelings about the stories, but mostly I’ve enjoyed what I’ve read. They tend to be less experimental – less odd in their structure – then a lot of the New Yorker stories. Some of the subject matter is off-beat (those are actually the ones I tend to like), but they’re told in a good old-fashion story telling way. Some of my favorites are “Hurt People,” “The Tennis Player,” “Sir Fleeting,” “Harriet Elliot,” “We Bluegills,” and “Safe Passage.”

Unfortunately, “Stag” didn’t blow me away. That may be because of the blue-collar nature of the story. I’m not really a blue-collar fiction aficionado (expect, of course, for Raymond Carver).

I also found the whole scene with the deer strange. If a deer breaks into your home and you successful escape the room with the deer, why would you go back in? And, would you really wrestle the deer to the ground and break its neck? Me: I’d be calling someone on the phone.

But what do I know? The author says he based the deer episode on something he read in a newspaper. And that brings me to one of my favorite parts of One Story – the online author Q&A. So if you want to read what the author has to say about his piece, go here.

I just stumbled upon a new blog from Cathryn Grant. Actually, it isn’t that new, but it is new to me. Check it out…

My friend Al sent me these quotes. Great stuff…

“The most solid advice for a writer is this, I think: Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.” —William Saroyan, in the preface to The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze

“The difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between the lightning bolt and the lightning bug.” —Mark Twain

“I hate writing. I love having written.” —Dorothy Parker

“Kill your darlings.” —William Faulkner

“I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” —Douglas Adams

“Take out the sentence you love best. You’re trying too hard.” —David Sedaris

“There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.” —W. Somerset Maugham

“So the writer who breeds more words than he needs, is making a chore for the reader who reads.” —Dr. Seuss

“Easy reading is damn hard writing.” —Nathaniel Hawthorne


“The goal of writing is not to be understood but to write so as not to be misunderstood.” —Cicero

“I never know what I think about something until I read what I’ve written on it.” —William Faulkner

“It’s like driving a car at night. You never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” —E.L. Doctorow

“Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards.” —Robert Heinlein

“Put it before them briefly so they will read it, clearly so they will appreciate it, picturesquely so they will remember it and, above all, accurately so they will be guided by its light.” —Joseph Pulitzer

“The road to hell is paved with adverbs.” —Stephen King

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” —Ernest Hemingway

“No passion in the world is equal to the passion to alter someone else’s draft.” —H.G. Wells

Huh?

If I hadn’t made a personal commitment to read each week’s New Yorker short story I would have stopped part way through this one.

“Complicity” is a love story. Or a story about how we find love.

Complicity, to the narrator, “…indicates an unspoken understanding between two people, a kind of pre-sense, if you like. The first hint that you may be suited, before the nervous trudgery of finding out whether you ‘share the same interests,’ or have the same metabolism, or are sexually compatible, or both want children, or however it is that we argue consciously about our unconscious decisions.”

He has a point. Still, I found the story dull and too eager to be clever.

But what do I know? For Clifford Garstang, it was one of his favorite stories of the year. Maybe it requires a second reading when I am in a better frame-of-mind…?

Last year I wanted to try writing something a little darker than I had before. I banged out a short story called “Moaning.” It took about a day to write, and I had a great time doing it. There is something liberating about digging into the dark parts of your soul.

You can now read “Moaning” on the Thirst for Fire website.

Thirst for Fire publishes incendiary fiction. The other pieces in the Fall 2009 issue are short – flash fiction, really. They are all twisted, bizarre, and a blast to read! I really dig the story “Beauty” by Kenneth Radu.

Thanks for Taylor Durden and Nathan Tyree for getting the site up.

Who reads poetry? Not me. Maybe I should. The thought just bores me, though. But I’m ignorant — maybe poetry would turn me on, rock my world, split open my skull?

Whatever…

If I were to start reading poetry I’d start with Charles Bukowski. I came across a poem of his on writing. It rocks…

***************

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.
don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.

My copy of The New Yorker didn’t arrive in the mail last week, so no review of George Sunders’ story, “Victory Lap.”

But I’m happy to report that this week’s story, “The Godchildren” by Tessa Hadley, is very good.

The story takes place in England, just outside of London. It revolves around three people in their early fifties – Amanda, Susan, and Chris. When they were children, their parents used to send them to be looked after by their Godmother, Vivian. Vivian lived in a big, old, somewhat-exotic mansion. As the story unfolds we learn that Vivian has recently died, and her will states that Susan, Amanda, and Chris are allowed to take whatever items from the house the want. Susan, Amanda, and Chris – who haven’t kept in touch or seen each other for years – arrive at the home together to see if they can uncover anything of interest.

The story has a dreamlike quality. This is achieved, partially, by Hadley’s prose. It’s lyrical, descriptive, and beautiful. The story also jumps back-and-forth between the past and the present. All of their memories of their childhood – and their time at the house – are foggy. Maybe that’s the case for all of us?

I thought I’d start out this week by clarifying a couple of points.

First, I don’t consider myself a critic. Yes, I know, I am giving my opinion on specific stories. But it isn’t so much about critiquing what was written, but instead offering a venue for people to discuss their thoughts. I used to read the New Yorker stories and either loved them or didn’t understand the piece and wished I could have a discussion with someone. Maybe my blog can help others in the same predicament.

Second, I’m not sure I will do these “reviews” forever. But I want to for now.

So…

I can totally understand why some people don’t like New Yorker stories specifically, or “literary” short stories in general. They aren’t, necessarily, plot driven. You sometimes finish one and wonder, “What the heck just happened?” And they are rarely happy; something bad almost always happens.

But the stories I enjoy stick with me. I find myself thinking about them months and years later. They connect with me emotionally. I’ve always loved prose – words, sentences, paragraphs – and the writers are often inventive in how they tell a story.

So what does that say about this week’s story, “Temporary”? I’m sure some people will read it and go, “Huh? What was that about?” The title offers a clue: everything that takes place is temporary. Really, everything in our lives is temporary. I don’t think this is one of my favorite pieces of the year, but I enjoyed the atmosphere and the emotion that the writer created.

I also Googled the author, Marisa Silver. After a career in Hollywood, she earned a MFA in writing and has become a short story writer. Her first published short story appeared in the New Yorker.

So is it possible for someone today to become a writer without getting an MFA…?