Help ME!!!

I'm in a writing group. Last week, I turned in 3 short stories, one of them was finished, and the others were not. The two other people in the group liked the one story I don't like at all, one that isn't finished. I think there are a lot of problems with this story. First, there is a tendency for new writers to fall into a Raymond Carveresque style of writing, one with a bare bones type of prose and very few, uh, stylized words. They (we) do this because they are afraid to lend too much for critiquing. By eliminating all but the absolutely necessary parts for your story, it is hard to criticize. Anyway, that is what this story does. And this is why I hate it.

But, they suggested I finish the story. And I need help. Should I finish the story? I'm not too attached to it, so in what way should I continue?

Help me decide where this story goes. Read the story and then answer the poll on the right.

Here is the question:
How do you want my story to end?
-Depressing fashion
-Happy fashion
-Surprising fashion
-Dude, the story sucks, give it up
-I refuse to read this story

Here is the story:




“Would you do it over?”

“Do what over?”

“This,” said Steve, sweeping his palm around his head like he was holding a lasso. “This.”

“You mean the job? Would I take this job again? Well man, it was either this job or sit at Can…”

“No, not just the job,” Steve interrupted. “Everything; this.” Steve stuck out his arm and carefully pretended to scan John from a distance, waiting for some sort of extraordinary, telling light to stream from his hand.

“You know, your life, this, everything.”

“Everything?” questioned John.

Steve finished scanning and his eyes slowly moved from John to the office, searching for items or mementos, snippets representing John’s life. Steve’s eyes widened and he quickly pointed to a framed picture of John’s daughters that hung on the wall.

“That,” said Steve. “Or,” moving to a picture of John’s wife, “That”.

John said nothing, only watched. Steve carefully searched the room and came to John’s desk. He recklessly picked up a stack of papers and files. “These,” he said and carelessly dropped the pile back into place, some papers slipping out to the floor.

“Everything,” Steve said again.

Tiring of his explanation quickly, Steve carefully moved his hand to his chest. His mouth curled in a mischievous, dumb grin.

“Or maybe, even this,” Steve said coyly. Satisfied with his finale, he leaned back in his desk chair and sipped his bourbon with a loud slurp.

John laughed.

“Well,” said John. “There are some things,” he flicked his hand towards Steve, “I certainly wouldn’t miss.”

Steve smiled warmly. They sat in silence for a moment, examining the office, letting the smell of bourbon sink into the room. Rain pattered against the office window.

“But seriously,” Steve started again, “if you had the chance to do it all over, everything over, would you?”

John didn’t respond. He wanted to recline and lift his feet up to his desk in the ultimate position of corporate relaxation and superiority, but he knew his shoes were too filthy.

“Imagine,” said Steve, leaning close to John’s desk with excitement, “if you knew you could have a re-do. Start fresh from the beginning. New job, house, car, wife, all that shit. The kids. Not a semblance of similarity with your current life. You start different from the beginning. You fail grade school this time, or, better yet, you go to Harvard.”

“No job in sales?” asked John with mock concern. Steve didn’t hear him.

“You become a world class physicist,” said Steve, his eyes lost in a manner that suggested he was talking about himself, not John. “You travel the world giving lectures. You spend years discovering some complex equation and are renowned all over the world. You’re written up in books and scholarly journals.” Steve cradled his bourbon in both hands. “You don’t marry because you don’t have the time. Intellectual discussions and writing books. The occasional dinner, but that’s it.”

“Ha. Do you think you’re stupid, Steve?” asked John.

“No, nothing like that. I just think maybe I missed the boat with this sales stuff. I’m a smart guy and maybe I’m wasting my l … uh, talent, but that is neither here nor there.”

John’s eyes once again wandered around the room. This is a great office, he thought. I keep a decanter full of liquor in my bottom desk drawer and no one can tell me otherwise. Steve’s question was boring him. It was too mundane, too everyday. Who the fuck cared if he could do everything over again? It’s a pointless hypothetical question and the opportunity for doing things over will never occur, so why dwell on the subject?

Steve saw John was loosing interest. He tried to change topics.

“You taking the girls to the lake this weekend?” asked Steve.

Tom rolled his chair close to his desk and grabbed the decanter of bourbon.

The Bitch is Back

Sorry I have posted anything in awhile. Between working, interning, and writing short stories, my blog has slipped into the backseat. And I'm not talking about that sought after backseat, where my blog gets a metephorical rub down from some college co-ed with knockers, I'm talking about the backseat where it goes untouched and unnoticed. But, since we are in the throws of summer (although you would hardly know it around here, with all the rain), I would like to start posting again.

Not much has changed since the last time we spoke. I still live in NYC, where I have acquired a bizarre liking to the city.

Today, I was walking down the Columbus on my way to work and was comforted by the smell of garbage. Somehow, the scent of expired milk soothed my pre-work nerves. I stopped to wallow in the stench for some time before realizing the insanity in taking pleasure from the smell of trash, squinched my face at my own absurdity, and kept on. This leads me to ask, why do I like things that smell like shit? A part of my brain wants to agree with a Dostoyevsky quote from The Possessed, saying how human being's minds are so screwed that we actually find pleasure in pain and suffering; but no, that is too simple. There are only two reasons why I could possibly like the smell of garbage: It reminds me of the joy I feel living in a city filled with garbage, or it brings up childhood memories of running the garbage can down the end of the driveway for it to be picked up for the next day's trash service. Either of these associations with garbage is acceptable.

I do miss the outdoors, though. I haven't stepped foot in a wooded area that hasn't had the minimum amount of handicapped accessible routes in order for the city of New York to label it a 'park' in quite some time. The lure and romanticism found in large wooded areas with lakes and animals just isn't available in NYC. Since it is summer, I also want to swim, and there is something about the water near Coney Island that doesn’t lend itself to wonderful swimming daydreams. I want Greenlake, or better yet, The River.

In terms of my daydreams of becoming the next Walter Cronkite/Richard Yates, this quote from Chris Anderson's Free: The Future of Radical Price, sums my life up nicely (stolen from New Yorker):

“Out of the (current) bloodbath will come a new role for professional
journalists. There may be more of them, not fewer, as the ability to participate
in journalism extends beyond the credentialed halls of traditional media. But
they may be paid far less, and for many it won’t be a full time job at all.
Journalism as a profession will share the stage with journalism as an avocation.
Meanwhile, others may use their skills to teach and organize amateurs to do a
better job covering their own communities, becoming more editor/coach than
writer. If so, leveraging the Free—paying people to get other people to write
for non-monetary rewards—may not be the enemy of professional journalists.
Instead, it may be their salvation."

So If I ever do write or make anything worthwhile, the best I can hope for is a non-monetary reward. That's OK, I guess, it's all for the betterment of oneself. And I kinda get paid to write right now. I just sit at my work computer, look upset, write what I please, and get lost in the bureaucracy of a big-office type job.

My internship is going well, they were thinking about sending me to Canada. Money be damned, my own half cocked and stumbling brand of intellectual ideas is entertaining enough for me.

Enough for today, I will have to save some of this energy for when blogging gets boring again in about 3 hours.

Story Time

I know I haven't posted much lately, but here is some brief news.

1. Eric N. and I started a writing group.

2. I'm still working at the union hall.

3. Uhhhh... I got some new shoes.

I'm up to a lot, as you can see.

The real purpose of this post is to implore you to check this link. It's audio of Richard Yates reading aloud his story, Best of Everything, to an audience in the late 1970's. I read this story almost a year ago, when my dad first handed me his short story collection. One of the best writers of the 20th century, Yates's simple narrative can't be beat. He constantly hints, ever so close, to complex themes and social issues that manifest themselves in relatable characters. Please, please, please, give this a listen.

http://thephoenix.com/BLOGS/blogs/phlog/Podcast/RichardYates_BestOfEverything.mp3

Poem

Weather is getting warm!! Not that I'm able to enjoy it, I'm always at work.

Sorry I didn't put up that short story. It never turned out like I wanted it to. In the meantime, here is a short, rather weird poem. I never edited the thing, so it is what it is.

A Hero’s stroll down 1st Avenue

Confidence oozing out of Him with rapidity. Confidence in the confidence itself. Smells offend the others, too. Shower-less nights once a hassle are now welcome regularities. Chain mail to guard his knighthood. Is there any different mousse than grease? On the face, hair, torso- sheen for the hero.

Strut is crucial. A defined swagger defines a man. Not that He is desperate for definition. Self-affirmed in His position at the top. The others searching for acceptance coalesce into the stew which repels Him, although the tiniest piece, the weak in Him, dreams of being an ingredient in the broth. Depress these sophomoric yearnings, hide behind the mask and odor and grease. The strides separate Him, keeping Him apart from the broth, allowing Him to continue along the path with His nose pointed towards the clouds.

Down 1st Avenue He floats heavy, like a damp mist. All in his wake are stranded, drenched. Ignore the mindless. The mindless aren’t privy to the quest. Lost on them is the great; the goal. If His demeanor falters, even for a moment, Rome will fall. Such setbacks are inevitable, even at the pinnacle of success, but must be avoided at all costs.

Caligula of the new era. The pure recognition of this fact elates Him. Scoff at the others, leer at the others. No pity, no glee. Fellow man, Hah! They understand nothing, Him even less. One difference is clear, He accepts the bleakness. He knows nothing, but understanding this iota alone sets him apart. Absence of thought is the blessing. Everything else is nothing.

Well, the goal is something, but only in terms of the minutia between the inevitable. Scorn the 1st Avenue occupiers, scorn with all your might. The farther down He cascades, the closer the destination.

On 1st and 3rd shoulders collide with vigor. His-fierce and biting like a linebackers against theirs-flimsy and misshapen, like medieval minarets. He chooses retribution carefully and swiftly:

Fuckin-A Faggot- Watch Yourself!

Sorry

The minion scurries off to his hovel. He swaggers harder, stenches longer. Another notch in His belt. He reflects with the people around him, His head on a swivel. Compassion, emotion, the people praise his name, grandeur restrained, He utters a fierce warning directed to no one in particular.

Next time it’s your ass, fool.

Earth revolves around the sun, ice cubes melt, and babies born. He is sure He stands alone. Guard mustn’t fall, though, evil successors hide behind corners and cars, waiting to pounce and extinguish His rule. E tu, Brutus, E tu? Never will His mouth utter these words. Keep enemies and dispel friends. Push the aching piece to conform and acquiesce into ignorant society down deeper into the soul.

Turn starboard. His pace quickens as the end nears. Trot, not run, but haste steps. Composure is key. Gait progresses intact, mind wild like a coyote. The door is here.

He steals a last glance at the other’s world before entering the downtown doorway. Pigeons. Pigeons pecking and clucking and lice infested scour the floor for food. Pigeons with no end, no goals, no quest, no being. Noble men have a plan. Pigeons don’t recognize the truth- nothing is all there must be. After eating up those tiny crumbs, they will only search longer, tougher. Pigeons must be despised, disdained, exterminated at random, but tolerated for now because they are pigeons, they don’t recognize their purpose. Tolerate then teach. They are pigeons, He is a coyote.

He laughs, pushes open the door, and ends his tour.

Something.

Got another blog for everybody. Lumpy is a blog created by my friend from Santa Fe. He worked at the radio station with me and is a rad trumpet player and composer. He has officially the coolest job in America: creating music for video games. Well, I don't know if he ever solidified that job or not, but it's cool to think he works creating music for video games. Remember that bomb Sonic 2 music? Yeah, he should take inspiration from Sonic. Not that bastard Tails, though.

Did I mention that during my period of unemployment, Jake and I beat Sonic 2. It is only 1 of 2 video games I can remember beating, the other is Metal Gear Solid 2. And a couple of computer games.



I'm still working on my short story. I promise it will be done soon.

Cool

This song is the best song I have heard in a long time. Hi Fever, where you at?



I have a ten page short story I wrote that I plan on unleashing in the next couple of days. Critiquers grab those red pens.

Demand Satisfaction

Can a contemporary man harbor honour or has the ability to hold honour gone the way of the dodo? I mean, I am presumably a respectable, intelligent man of good pedigree, so does this make me an honorable person? The only reason I care is this: I want to challenge someone who is also noble and respectable to a duel.

Duels are fascinating. More precise; nineteenth century pistol duels are fascinating.

I have always taken an interest in duels, ever since that old 'Got Milk' commercial. Remember the one? The curator of the Aaron Burr Museum is called by a radio show to answer a giveaway question about who shot Alexander Hamilton. He can't answer the question because his mouth is stuffed with brownies. As cool as it is to think about that famed duel involving Federalist Papers author Hamilton and Vice President Burr, it's not even my favorite American Political Duel.The best duel involved bad-ass-southerner and Trail of Tears mastermind Andrew Jackson. During one of his five duels, he let his opponent shoot first; a risky strategy. The bullet hit Jackson in the ribs, but he still managed to stand straight, measure his shot carefully, and shoot his bullet-less opponent, winning the duel. Imagine standing still and taking a shot to the chest, just so you could take your time and aim correctly.

The progression of a duel was fairly predictable. A man with honour might offend another man by making a wise crack about his wife's childbearing hips. The man with the beefy wife would "Demand Satisfaction", essentially challenging the foul mouthed man to either apologize or to duel. "Demanding Satisfaction" was typically accompanied with a slap to the face, administered by the challenger. Historically, in the periods of knights and wenches, a knight would get one slap in the face before being knighted. This was supposed to signify the last slap that the knight would ever receive because he is now an honorable man, and should be treated as so.

Both parties must then agree to the terms of the duel. Apparently, there is a Victorian Era duelling handbook that greatly reduces the vagaries of a duel. The most important decision the duel was what weapon the fighters would use to attack each other. Although there were many varieties of dueling weapons, pistols were the most widely used. Nobel men were known to own a special set of dueling pistols. Since terms of a duel were often ridiculous, in an attempt to get one of the parties to cancel the duel, weapon choices were sometimes very odd. Once, a man chose two sausages as a dueling weapon. One of the sausages was supposed to be injected with cholera. This duel was canceled, but how awesome would it be to see two noble men standing in a field eating sausages while defending their honour? The duels would always take place at sun up, in order to avoid a crowd or other distractions. Many times, the only other people to witness a duel were the dueler's seconds.

Duels died out by the mid 19th century. Bummer, I know. In most states, duels are not illegal. Historically, dueling parties are never prosecuted by the law. The courts considered dueling a personal matter.

This is how I plan to die. In my late seventies, someone will undoubtedly poke fun at my incontinence or fat belly, and that someone is going down. I will demand satisfaction, pick pistols, and choose my brother as a second. My strategy is this: I will pull an Andrew Jackson and let my opponent shoot first. If they hit me, I die a noble death. If they miss, I will stare into my opponent's eyes, spit on the ground, and deliberately point my gun into the sky and fire. See, this is the ultimate act in a duel. If your opponent fires his gun at you, misses and you fire into the sky, his honour is mud. Thus, I accumulate his honour. How cool is that?