Here's something I've been wondering: would you all hate it if there were ads on this blog? Would an attempt to "monetize" these random musings of mine offend you, would that cheapen the process?
Because, honestly, I've been thinking about it. But I thought I'd ask. So, let me know:
__ Yes, ads would destroy the purity of this endeavor to blow glass in public
__ No, I wouldn't mind because (a) I could ignore the ads and/or (b) what the heck, why not earn some money from your writing?
__ Really? You think I pay that much attention to your blog?
Thanks.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Lost Hunting
The sign—made of dusky orange oak tag, large enough to catch the eye, sturdy enough to keep its shape in spite of the wind—was attached to the utility pole directly across from the intersection.
“Lost: One gray plastic bin, filled with hunting clothes.”
Not what one expects of a handmade sign displayed in this neighborhood, a residential area in a small Connecticut city 50 miles from Manhattan. The public notices around here are usually about missing pets or tag sales or offerings of firewood. Which is probably why I wondered about the story behind that sign all day.
Did the hunter meet up with his buddies— wait,why do I assume it is a “he?” Didn’t my great aunt Thelma love hunting, wasn’t she considered an ace shot? Have I bought in to the stereotype of hunter/gatherer roles so deeply that even in my imagination, those hunting clothes have been lost by a man? Perhaps. To be given ongoing consideration, but now, back to the hunter. Let us assume he was a man.
Did the hunter meet up with his buddies at the commuter lot around the corner, gathering before dawn to make the drive (north? upstate? further afield?) in one large vehicle, an SUV probably, or one of those pickup trucks with extended cab. They would have stowed the guns first, setting them into the cargo space carefully, practicing an abundance of caution in completing this task. Then they piled in, balancing their styrofoam vats of steaming hot coffee, one of them managing the bag of egg-cheese-meat-on-a-hard-roll sandwiches damp with steam and grease. They would wait just until they were pulling out of the commuter lot before distributing those sandwiches.
“Didn’t you want the sausage, Frank?”
“No, I’m ham.”
“Damn, there’s two sausage, one bacon, no ham.”
"I’ll take the sausage, but don’t tell my wife.”
"What happens in hunting, stays in hunting.”
“Hahahahaha, yeah.”
And the sandwich with the taboo sausage was passed over. In the confusion none of them would have cast a look back, noticed the gray plastic box left at the side of the now-empty parking space. (This is what makes me think the hunter was not a woman. A woman would have looked back. Of course, there’s a new layer of stereotype to consider.) On the damp morning pavement, the specific grayness melting into all the gray surrounding it.
Of course he would realize that his hunting clothes had been left behind when they got to the pulloff on the side of the road, just wide enough for two pickups. “Damn it!”
But why wasn’t he wearing his gear already?
Maybe that gray plastic bin, filled with hunting clothes, was lost during a move. One could imagine that it had been forgotten somehow in the turmoil of his moving out of the home he shared with his wife, on that last Saturday when they put asunder what God had made whole.
Or there’s a more benign explanation—it happened in one of the parking lots that line Route 1, as the purchases from one big box store or another was being loaded into the trunk of the car. He moved the bin (or she did) to make room, stowed the groceries, or new sheets and towels, or pet food; then he got into the car while she rolled the shopping cart to the corral, making her way back to the car through the narrow path between the rows of parking spaces. There was no car in the space before them, so he pulled ahead instead of backing out and the bin remained, obstructing access to the space until the some shopper with the patience (or desperate need to park) came long and moved the bin out of the way.
Perhaps he had put it on the roof of the car while he installed the child seat securely in the back seat then drove off. At some point—on a curve, as he made a turn, at a stop sign—the bin slid off, but he was distracted by a cranky child, or something on the radio, or a pretty young girl driving in the other direction.
There are so many ways to lose things.
“Lost: One gray plastic bin, filled with hunting clothes.”
Not what one expects of a handmade sign displayed in this neighborhood, a residential area in a small Connecticut city 50 miles from Manhattan. The public notices around here are usually about missing pets or tag sales or offerings of firewood. Which is probably why I wondered about the story behind that sign all day.
Did the hunter meet up with his buddies— wait,why do I assume it is a “he?” Didn’t my great aunt Thelma love hunting, wasn’t she considered an ace shot? Have I bought in to the stereotype of hunter/gatherer roles so deeply that even in my imagination, those hunting clothes have been lost by a man? Perhaps. To be given ongoing consideration, but now, back to the hunter. Let us assume he was a man.
Did the hunter meet up with his buddies at the commuter lot around the corner, gathering before dawn to make the drive (north? upstate? further afield?) in one large vehicle, an SUV probably, or one of those pickup trucks with extended cab. They would have stowed the guns first, setting them into the cargo space carefully, practicing an abundance of caution in completing this task. Then they piled in, balancing their styrofoam vats of steaming hot coffee, one of them managing the bag of egg-cheese-meat-on-a-hard-roll sandwiches damp with steam and grease. They would wait just until they were pulling out of the commuter lot before distributing those sandwiches.
“Didn’t you want the sausage, Frank?”
“No, I’m ham.”
“Damn, there’s two sausage, one bacon, no ham.”
"I’ll take the sausage, but don’t tell my wife.”
"What happens in hunting, stays in hunting.”
“Hahahahaha, yeah.”
And the sandwich with the taboo sausage was passed over. In the confusion none of them would have cast a look back, noticed the gray plastic box left at the side of the now-empty parking space. (This is what makes me think the hunter was not a woman. A woman would have looked back. Of course, there’s a new layer of stereotype to consider.) On the damp morning pavement, the specific grayness melting into all the gray surrounding it.
Of course he would realize that his hunting clothes had been left behind when they got to the pulloff on the side of the road, just wide enough for two pickups. “Damn it!”
But why wasn’t he wearing his gear already?
Maybe that gray plastic bin, filled with hunting clothes, was lost during a move. One could imagine that it had been forgotten somehow in the turmoil of his moving out of the home he shared with his wife, on that last Saturday when they put asunder what God had made whole.
Or there’s a more benign explanation—it happened in one of the parking lots that line Route 1, as the purchases from one big box store or another was being loaded into the trunk of the car. He moved the bin (or she did) to make room, stowed the groceries, or new sheets and towels, or pet food; then he got into the car while she rolled the shopping cart to the corral, making her way back to the car through the narrow path between the rows of parking spaces. There was no car in the space before them, so he pulled ahead instead of backing out and the bin remained, obstructing access to the space until the some shopper with the patience (or desperate need to park) came long and moved the bin out of the way.
Perhaps he had put it on the roof of the car while he installed the child seat securely in the back seat then drove off. At some point—on a curve, as he made a turn, at a stop sign—the bin slid off, but he was distracted by a cranky child, or something on the radio, or a pretty young girl driving in the other direction.
There are so many ways to lose things.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Witnessing Life Its Own Self
One of the joys of Facebook is that one sometimes reconnects with a special person from the past. This happened recently and, in addition to the particular pleasure of finding a friend again, I learned about an incredible project.
Richard Howe, artist and photographer—and truly great company in this great adventure of Life Its Own Self—has been working on "New York In Plain Sight," which is described as "a large-scale photographic survey of everyday life on Manhattan's great public commons—its streets and sidewalks."
It is magnificent in scope. It is fascinating. I highly recommend that anyone who loves NY, is interested in "the captured moment," or is simply interested in...well, life check it out.
Here's the link:
http://www.newyorkinplainsight.com/
Enjoy!
Richard Howe, artist and photographer—and truly great company in this great adventure of Life Its Own Self—has been working on "New York In Plain Sight," which is described as "a large-scale photographic survey of everyday life on Manhattan's great public commons—its streets and sidewalks."
It is magnificent in scope. It is fascinating. I highly recommend that anyone who loves NY, is interested in "the captured moment," or is simply interested in...well, life check it out.
Here's the link:
http://www.newyorkinplainsight.com/
Enjoy!
Friday, April 2, 2010
Seasonably Happy
Earlier this afternoon I took a break from writing (or, more accurately, reading the manuscript) to do some errands. Just the ordinary things from the ordinary places — Staples for paper and more ink; Penzy's for herbs and more vanilla; Party City for some truly random stuff; the super supermarket — making my usual rounds through the regular stomping grounds.
I was riding the slipstream of I-95 when it suddenly occurred to me that I felt...joyful.
Maybe it was the sunshine (so strange, so welcome).
Perhaps it was the music — my friend Mikey recently gifted us with the remastered Beatles' "Revolver;" listening to it felt like sitting with an old friend recently returned from a long journey far away.
It could be the fresh green of trees whose buds glow lemon and chartreuse, unleashing a sort of mouth-watering hope in my winter-logged soul.
I don't know what sparked this, but I do know this: I am grateful.
I was riding the slipstream of I-95 when it suddenly occurred to me that I felt...joyful.
Maybe it was the sunshine (so strange, so welcome).
Perhaps it was the music — my friend Mikey recently gifted us with the remastered Beatles' "Revolver;" listening to it felt like sitting with an old friend recently returned from a long journey far away.
It could be the fresh green of trees whose buds glow lemon and chartreuse, unleashing a sort of mouth-watering hope in my winter-logged soul.
I don't know what sparked this, but I do know this: I am grateful.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
That Creaking Noise You Hear...
is me opening the door and stepping back into this empty space.
There is no excuse for my not having blogged lately, but there is a reason: I'm working on a semester-long project for my MFA project. This requirement is, clearly, one of the things that separates the Masters of Fine Arts from the writing workshop. Well, this and the tuition.
Tonight, however, I was with my MFA friends, my fellow writers, and one of them—James M. Chesbro—suggested that I might be well-served by...blogging. Having read one of his posts that left me with goosebumps, I thought, "Well, right."
I'm going to suggest that you run right over and read Jamie's piece. I can call him Jamie because we're friends and fellow writers, something I'm proud to claim. Read it and you'll see why. Here's the link: http://jamesmchesbro.blogspot.com/2010/02/stranger-at-gas-station.html
Duly inspired, I'll be stopping in more often. Hope you'll still be here.
There is no excuse for my not having blogged lately, but there is a reason: I'm working on a semester-long project for my MFA project. This requirement is, clearly, one of the things that separates the Masters of Fine Arts from the writing workshop. Well, this and the tuition.
Tonight, however, I was with my MFA friends, my fellow writers, and one of them—James M. Chesbro—suggested that I might be well-served by...blogging. Having read one of his posts that left me with goosebumps, I thought, "Well, right."
I'm going to suggest that you run right over and read Jamie's piece. I can call him Jamie because we're friends and fellow writers, something I'm proud to claim. Read it and you'll see why. Here's the link: http://jamesmchesbro.blogspot.com/2010/02/stranger-at-gas-station.html
Duly inspired, I'll be stopping in more often. Hope you'll still be here.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Speed of Write
So, I'm sure that Sean and Leigh Anne Tuohy are lovely people, and I'm sure they have much to say. After all, they are the people who adopted Michael Oher and thus inspired "The Blind Side." News that they are writing a book to be published by Henry Holt this summer makes me think, "What?"
This isn't because I doubt the commercial value of such a book—I understand that it's the best-selling blockbusters that help make more literary books possible. It's the time involved.
I'm already been working on my memoir for a year; writing, shaping, thinking, revising, deleting, inserting, reconsidering, etc., etc. It's a little disheartening to realize that a book which will take about two months to write (maybe) has already secured a publisher, will probably get a huge advertising push, and is almost guaranteed to hit the best-seller list.
Oddly, all of this makes me understand, again, the reasons I write.
This isn't because I doubt the commercial value of such a book—I understand that it's the best-selling blockbusters that help make more literary books possible. It's the time involved.
I'm already been working on my memoir for a year; writing, shaping, thinking, revising, deleting, inserting, reconsidering, etc., etc. It's a little disheartening to realize that a book which will take about two months to write (maybe) has already secured a publisher, will probably get a huge advertising push, and is almost guaranteed to hit the best-seller list.
Oddly, all of this makes me understand, again, the reasons I write.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
World Famous Writer (or Poet)
At least once a day I receive an email with the subject line, “Do you have a story to tell?”
“Yes,” I think. “Yes I do have a story to tell.” Then I delete the email, along with those offering free motorized wheelchairs, amorous liaisons, and vacations in Cincinnati and Niagara Falls.
This morning I decided to open the “story” email, just to see if there was something I should do about having a story to tell. Other than what I do every day, I mean.
Am I ever glad I did! Because here’s what I found: an offer to learn how to be a world famous writer or poet. But wait, there’s more! With a simple click, I would learn how to be an author and get published—which I always thought was the first step in becoming a world famous writer or poet, though based on the design of the email it is apparently secondary. .
I’ve been wondering how to go about doing this. So I clicked. Turns out one becomes a world famous writer or poet by self-publishing. One learns how to be an author and get published by paying for book packaging services.
What a wondrous thing to consider. Instead of writing and revising in hopes of creating a piece of work that might inspire an agent to take me as a client, instead of that same piece of work being deemed worthy of publication by a publisher, instead of the resulting book finding an audience through the usual channels, it turns out that the path to success as a writer (or poet) is actually straight and relatively flat. If I just play my cards right, I could be as lucky as Fede Alvarez, who parlayed his $300 YouTube video into a $30 million Hollywood movie deal.
The truth is, however, that either way I have to finish the memoir. So I guess I’ll go back to work now.
“Yes,” I think. “Yes I do have a story to tell.” Then I delete the email, along with those offering free motorized wheelchairs, amorous liaisons, and vacations in Cincinnati and Niagara Falls.
This morning I decided to open the “story” email, just to see if there was something I should do about having a story to tell. Other than what I do every day, I mean.
Am I ever glad I did! Because here’s what I found: an offer to learn how to be a world famous writer or poet. But wait, there’s more! With a simple click, I would learn how to be an author and get published—which I always thought was the first step in becoming a world famous writer or poet, though based on the design of the email it is apparently secondary. .
I’ve been wondering how to go about doing this. So I clicked. Turns out one becomes a world famous writer or poet by self-publishing. One learns how to be an author and get published by paying for book packaging services.
What a wondrous thing to consider. Instead of writing and revising in hopes of creating a piece of work that might inspire an agent to take me as a client, instead of that same piece of work being deemed worthy of publication by a publisher, instead of the resulting book finding an audience through the usual channels, it turns out that the path to success as a writer (or poet) is actually straight and relatively flat. If I just play my cards right, I could be as lucky as Fede Alvarez, who parlayed his $300 YouTube video into a $30 million Hollywood movie deal.
The truth is, however, that either way I have to finish the memoir. So I guess I’ll go back to work now.
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