Earned by “Colorful Whateverisms,” the lead piece of short fiction in my latest collection “Parts Department.”
Earned by “Colorful Whateverisms,” the lead piece of short fiction in my latest collection “Parts Department.”
El Viejo, somewhere on a precipitous ledge. See Island of Tonal.
Nine short fiction pieces – a mix of dark humor with a dash of surrealism. Souls adrift, the blues, and the underlying quest for home and happiness.
NOTES ABOUT THE 9 STORIES … by the author
The collection begins with a story about home and location with the protagonist wondering “where to go or what to do next?” It ends with a story of the same type. This led me to the Faulkner quote as the epigraph.
Story 1- Bayberry is a wayward character long-held in a dusty trunk, one often re-engineered and then shunned again. Here he’s finally on display, cut to size and freed to the published page, surrounded by haunts and strange visions…and thereby buried for good (along with any other attempts to describe Key West).
2 – Written in appreciation of Hemingway’s “After the Storm.” I had an idea of layering and humans living in husks. I wanted to use a squabbled-over domestic treasure as opposed to a sunken ocean liner.
3- “Advanced Level of Play” could have been more about Masked Man but the road led to video games and to Stan Birchard, a reclusive resident from Oceanaire, who crosses over (as do others in later stories).
4 – “Fall Line” is adapted from a fragment left on Oceanaire’s cutting room floor…a scene with a pretty girl on rollerblades. Moving her from fancy Coconut Grove in Miami to a bland setting in Columbia, SC was the biggest leap. The theme of “fall from grace” fit the river geography and set up the storyline.
5 – “Orange Bowl Days” is an attempt is to make memorable characters in captured moments…odd moments maybe, like Ulyanna in the tub studying a pharmacology book, or the South Beach scene with Harry and writer Ralph Z. Dupree. At one time I wanted to write a novel using the line (which I like) about Harry being choppered off a fishing boat, but this was all it was.
6 – The next two stories are tied via Teri and her mother Anna and crazy father John. They seemed an inevitable part of the collection, gloomy as they are. Maybe some will see humor. The niece character Shannon is a reimagined representation of a girl I knew when a teenager in Sandbridge, VA. She lived in her aunt’s house that summer, but in real life didn’t disappear from there…she disappeared from me.
7 – Is mercifully short. A shot, so to speak, at Southern Grotesque. I liked the name of Soso as a town. Visions of Soso (plus a real-life 2015 drive to Aiken on a bleak country highway) started the whole setting. The ruined scenery provoked in me an atmosphere of mediocrity and nihilism.
8 – “Blue Chile” steals again from Oceanaire, using the character Beto the flight attendant. I appointed his sister as narrator and opposite personality type. It is a morality play of sorts, involving faith, situational ethics, religion, and even a bit of sibling rivalry. The character Eligio Carnacion was also pilfered from Oceanaire, and is mentioned again as a lawyer in the next story, “Perdido Street.”
9 – Some familiar names pop up in the last piece. It’s a vignette, a slice from an abandoned sequel to Houston Chemical. The story has character intersections with other stories and works. Those sort of ties matter to me in my fabulist world. I don’t expect others to realize the connections; at best they raise curiosity.
The doldrums require patience and, among other things, a stronger sense of audacity to break free.
Who’s to say when and if audacity to write returns.
Reading-wise, it’s now a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel called “Autumn of the Patriarch.” And so far I’m staying with it, interested in both its content and style. It’s helped.
Wading in full-explosion novels seems to re-kindle the connections between reading something creative and launching an effort to do it oneself.
(purpose of this blurb was to continue this series of posts on the May-June blues as muttered in installments below).
Where are the usual book reports? And where is my latest novel draft?
Recent bouts of unsatisfied reading with stops and starts. Somehow it’s tied to not writing. Feeling frustrated with both activities has extended the dry spell. It’s been difficult to get to the Place.
Being hung up is not an unusual situation for a writer. There are many factors.
Writers often need some remedy or sea change to get back to re–find the vibrancy and focus of the Place.
But of course getting there can be complicated. Vows and affirmations don’t make it so.
Since the first post (below) of this string, I’ve read part of “Lila” by Robert Pirsig. Wish it were otherwise, but couldn’t stick with the conflation of fictional narrative and philosophic essay. I had to jump to text that’s more cleansing like by Raymond Chandler or Elmore Leonard, where “sentences say what they need to say and leave the stage.”
Books are turning over fast lately. Lots of rejections. The table has been empty more often than not. Nothing has hit it for me.
Hoped it would be some PD James but as good a writer as she is, I just couldn’t hang with the whole book. There was that loudening sense of being in a movie theater, trapped in another of Hollywood’s cloying middle sections that they pawn off in the name of character development.
Tried re-reading some bookcase faves but due to my distraction, they left me in the same cotton-headed condition. Ventured back to Proust and went about fifty pages deep in “Guermantes Way” – no harm done. Actually the narrative was getting better, but after the first two big ones, it’s time to take a long Marcel break.
I went to “Solitudes” by an old Spanish poet named Luis Góngora. It’s loaded down with classical myths material, not the kind of content I care too much for, but his language and poet’s toolbox are remarkable. He’s from John Donne days. His “Gongorisms” are extended conceits with (back then) radical use of imagery and metaphor.
After a few days of blah’s approaching illness, plus some bedrest and some magazines, I picked up Sartre’s novel “Nausea” again.
Even in cheerful Florida one can get the yips.
Each time Sartre’s book gets better. Crisper. Bleaker. Sadder…and truer, if you have journeyed down the road and can recognize or are experienced in existential dread.
So says the tee shirt of the funky mannequin welcoming customers at entrance to New River Groves, an old-style Florida roadside attraction (with citrus, juices, gator meat and some pretty good key lime pie.)
The second novel in the series of seven has plenty of slog areas – tedious sections of rumination and digression. In automotive terms, the dwell angle – the delay between firing points – is immense at times. We pause and deliberate, feeling the delay and the opposing expectation of our own reader habit to keep moving on with the story. I felt a sense of repetition, of being caught in a day-after-day loop. Meanwhile Marcel dishes on the aristocrats and has muted experiences at a beachside hotel in Balbec. The effect, likely intentional, is almost as if I too were staying there, alienated and unhappy over the duration of my visit.
I am not sure we can say this lengthy book is all about seeking young girls in flower or budding romance. It’s more about Marcel’s previous big romantic flop in Paris with his first love Gilberte and his subsequent train & beach trip with grandmama to the Normandy coast. There’s a lot of description about isolation, discomfort, and other complaints. As is the tendency with Proust, we are given golden gifts of insight and wisdom amidst the unhappiness, as if that is the prime circumstance for producing such reflections.
Best early section is the actual train trip to Balbec. Best late section is the last block of a hundred pages that include Marcel’s encounters with Albertine and the “gang.” The last fifty pages are thematically strong (pastries, memory, love, hawthorn leaves). The writing is genius.
At the seaside hotel (which takes up the middle book) the narrative is largely about society – see and be seen. The In-Crowd is often on display at dress-up time in the dining room, a room the narrator depicts as a giant fish tank. Inside they act out their privileged games while everyday folk pass by outside, pause and look in blank wonder through the glass.
Things are not always so stuffy. In the peak of summer, the hotel opens its windows and the guests step in and out on way to the terrace or beach. Marcel does not do the beach. His grandma places him on an upper floor VIP suite lined with glass bookcases that reflect the sunny sea. Marcel dislikes it. He is sickly and cautious.
Eventually some friends (Bloch, Robert, and Charlus) stir him loose. Marcel’s instinctive yearning for romance and sex gets him on the prowl. The object of his affection turns out to be Albertine, who he spots on the boardwalk. We only see her in the last hundred pages or so.
Proust ups the tempo. Things get interesting when our narrator befriends painter Elistir and finally hooks up with the girl he’s been obsessed with, the one from the cadre of girls cruising the beach boulevard. Albertine proves to be outspoken, charming and frank. Her middle-class dialog is a long-awaited breath of fresh air to an otherwise stultifying cast of aristocrats. We get a detailed examination of the games young lovers play, and the turn of Marcel from naive admirer (in the past with Gilberte) to male predator (of Albertine), still holding to childish love fantasies but acting (often not so subtly) with cunning and manipulation. As it develops, she is not that different, just more honest.
I switched midbook from the newer Penguin translation to the older 1982 Vintage Press volume (the silver and black set by Moncrief and Kilmartin). Larry McMurtry’s use of this older set led me to it. It reads more majestically and to me sounds better tonally. It is not plagued by 21st century colloquials and clipped phrases. The print and typesetting is far easier on the eyes.
The McMurtry formula for reading Proust: ten pages a day for a year equals over 3500 pages, the approximate total length of all seven novels. I read at a slower pace.
Number three is next: the Guermantes novel. Meanwhile, I got a copy of the movie “Time Regained,” which is summary-like and weird, but a nice visual accompaniment. It’s based on the book of the same name, the last novel in the series. Not all parts are understandable at this point. There is a powerful scene of Marcel recalling his memories of Swann’s wife Odette when a certain piano concerto is performed.
*My modest report on the first novel “Swann’s Way” is here.
On sale as Amazon Kindle and Apple iBook $7.99.
2/25/17: Saw her last night in concert at the Parker Playhouse in Ft. Lauderdale, where she and her band Buick 6 rocked the joint with 21 songs. Her lyrics are memorable and vivid. She brings a dash of politics along and is no fan of “liars and fear-mongers,” directed currently to you-know-who. Standing ovations by a largely sixty-ish crowd of 1200, a great show.
She has her own label now and can be more like Dylan, producing records without limitations, like making long double albums in the spirit of Blonde on Blonde.
below from post on 11/16/2012
Folks in my immediate circle thought it odd that I liked Lucinda Williams so much.
She’s so…country, they said.
This was in 1998 when the “Car Wheels on a Gravel Road” album caught my attention.
She is country, I’d answer, but much more.
The “Car Wheels “album is a poetry chapbook. Each piece tries to outdo the other, though they all are cut from the same thematic cloth and connect in the end. Behind excellent guitar work, she lays the Southern Delta twang on thick. The songs are about the chaos of love but they are tidily produced. Some, as it turns out, sound even better in future performances, especially with a minimalized band.
Her songs have pieces that can be transformed and unleashed anew.
Her “Essence” album is raw and sensual. The rock elements of blues and hard surf guitar heavy with reverb foreshadow her later days to come with Buick 6.
I like her albums “Blessed” and “West.” They have their own milieu and style, and she explores worlds beyond her Delta roots. She pushes the envelope stylistically without spinning out of character.
She’s a Dylan figure in the sense that she’s an original, the real deal, ragged edges be damned. Her twang is similar to Bob singing though his nose, and similarly her voice was sweeter and less torn up when she was younger. Both are poets (Lucinda’s father, Miller Williams, is a noted national poet and teacher who read at Clinton’s inauguration). They are individualists who eschew the usual media PR mill. Lucinda’s been down the road and has wisdom to add to all that born talent for writing. Just as you can’t lock Dylan into the folk category, you can’t label her either. They never sing the same song the same way twice. They’re artists and rebels.
In the French Quarter one morning I had breakfast at a beer and eggs dive. Someone put Lucinda on the jukebox, and the universe felt complete.
A younger Lucinda performance from 1989.
No one I’ve heard can do a sad songs about love and loss like Lucinda can.
“Copenhagen,” (audio on YouTube)
I’d recommend anyone trying out Lucinda to try the Fillmore concert double album. It has a good cross-sampling of her work, and the band that is with her that night is both sublime and red hot, perfectly in sync with her. She sings the best ever, her twang toned down, and the guitars complement her. Some fans (and she has her own cult) prefer watching her DVD performances. Lucinda on video is okay by me too, but I find it distracting whenever she refers to a three-ring binder for lyrics. Yet who can expect a poet to remember the volume of their work, word for word?
Better yet, follow her tour and get a ticket to see her live.
Reading the last installment of our hero’s late-life adventures, I began to wonder if Duane should have been named Randy. Even in his sixties, the guy seems overrun with carnal needs and therefore has instant relations with horny nymphs and errant lesbians and other fantasy girls.
He’s some sort of graying chick magnet who manages to connect with women even randier than himself. They all talk a good game then tend to become servile to him and romantically turn him lose in all directions. If one leaves, another pops up. He’s bewildered.
Duane’s last hurrah is a deceptive porn star who somehow works in the oil business. She will do anything and everything in explicit detail but no penetration with Duane until he has a vasectomy. Guess what our randy hero does.
Along comes a modest, handy-with-dinner Thai girl who (like Annie in the last book) gets to Duane’s heart through his stomach. And then there is leggy K.K. the ball-busting organizer behind the “save the rhinos” organization. And toward book’s end it’s another pretty young thing in cutoffs who wants to serve him, too. Surprisingly, by this time Duane begins to turn them down. He’s cooked. Put a fork in him.
“Rhino’s” last few pages speed through a series of untimely deaths, depleting the cast. What has seemed like a screenplay is over. We will no longer see Duane. To do so would mean to go back and re-read “Texasville,” the four-inch one I started but skipped past.
With Duane gone, the family future is left to grandson Willy, the only one who has made it in the world of successful and intellectual people, who are oft-alluded to by Honor and K.K. as players in a sort of privileged and venal playground that exists outside the simple limitations of the one blinking traffic light in Thalia, Texas.
Directly following the chronology in “Duane’s Depressed,” this short novel is the Thalia series’ statement book on intimacy. Events are centered on protagonist Duane Moore and extend to all the other characters. By book’s end we know how most of them get along with their mates. The dusty town of Thalia, a place where bed-hopping has long been an accepted sport, is facing obsolescence, as are the sex lives of the aging cast.
The story is slow to launch, like Duane’s middle leg. By the late chapters he is taking the magic blue V pills.The reader wonders why he didn’t think about them earlier.
No matter the storyline, it’s McMurtry on display once again, and he delivers with seamless narrative and superb characterization. We are welcomed and drawn in. Some readers may be repelled by the explicit sex and language. I think McMurtry’s blue prose is under control: vivid and sensory but not sensational or fantasy-driven in a cheapened way.
Sixty-ish oilman and amateur Thoreau Duane Moore is still in love with his psychiatrist. Dr. Honor Carmichael is a fiftyish lesbian who despite her frosty front seems to be more than clinically interested in him. The book is engaging enough (and short with a building sharp pace, as in novella length) to push the reader ahead quickly, providing a few unexpected twists in how that situation between doc and patient works out. That’s the by far best part of the novel.
Unfortunately the story loses this interesting dynamic when Honor vanishes again and McMurtry brings young oil surveyor Anne into the action. Annie is a precocious and improbable Texas brat who is, as they say, all hat and no cattle – she’s sexually hung-up and can’t back up her flirty ways. Nevertheless our hero gets entangled with her, and (even if the author wishes us to feel otherwise) their encounters are insipid and sad. Anne is no Karla and definitely no Honor. They don’t seem to go together. We are left with a dumbed-down Duane & Annie romance that seems to exist by default.
The town of Thalia is fading fast and has no purpose, giving way to a cluster of WalMarts and Targets. Its local fixture convenience store and Dairy Queen are now run by Sri Lankans. Duane sells his house, abandons his cabin, and relocates to Arizona with Annie. Their relationship continues apparently on the mythical premise of “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
Which leads to his long-postponed coronary bypass surgery. Duane sits on the veranda and looks out on the desert landscape to ponder what may be next in his life. We’ll find out in the next book, “Rhino Ranch.”
In the original Thalia trilogy sequence, this is novel 3, released after “Texasville” and “The Last Picture Show.”
This is the story of Duane Moore at 60-something and how he steps away from his traditional life, en route to self-discovery and potentially a nervous breakdown as well. It’s a quest and at the same time an abandonment. It’s a rarity in popular fiction books these days: a thorough examination of how an aging male tends to think, change, shed, yearn. The novel has aspects similar to Updike’s later-years “Rabbit,” but the angst and manners are Southern.
Despite occasional scenes of tedium and redundancy, the narrative is enjoyable and well presented. McMurtry’s perceptions and humor are always cooking underneath. In novel series mode, there are a lot of accumulative characterizations and brief summaries of history. It’s all concise and good – we are kept in the loop with longtime Thalia cast members Bobby Lee, Jacy, Sonny, Ruth, and Lester.
When McMurtry brings what is pertinent to the foreground, it is all the more amplified by the generous existence in his narrative of what is not pertinent. This is a key element in his writing style.
Duane looks for some way to see the world other than from the cab of a pickup truck and becomes a dedicated walker and bicyclist. In between he experiences the difficulties of busting loose, the joys and challenges of solitude, new ways to regard the world, and so on. By book’s end he has lost his wife, given away his dog, built a garden, and fallen in love with a lesbian psychologist. Eventually he is broken down emotionally and collapses. He hastily regroups and in his last act of escape, he hurriedly enlists a travel agent and flies away to exotic places abroad.
McMurtry is never better. Actions are emblematic and open to interpretation. In the novel’s final chapters, he weaves in elements of his own experience with reading Proust (the author read the volumes during recovery from heart surgery). Duane’s psychologist, a sophisticated woman named Honor, asks him by way of a prescription to read the Vintage three- volume set (about 3,000 pages) of “In Search of Lost Times.” Duane, who is a simple yet smarter-than-most Texas dude, works his way through it over a year’s time. Honor invites him to a book discussion, and McMurtry creates an electrifying chapter where surprises abound. In his subsequent next-day session at Honor’s office, the book’s climax takes place.
How did I miss out on her all this time? Who do I read that does short stories any better?
The first story in the newer stories section (“Brass”) begins with a portrayal of a family’s wayward son. It is exemplary of technique, and Williams has quite an arsenal of skill. In “Brass,” factoids are mixed into the narrative, a contrast of reality as opposed to the misguided opinions stated by the boy. The author’s punchlines are sharp, dark, and funny. The ending of is a surprise with a shock effect. We find out who the boy character is supposed to be. Bam, a figure from recent national news. And we wonder how close to reality the author was in her depiction. Not that it matters. Crazy dangerous is crazy dangerous.
Williams can place characters inside a crucible in a story without us even noticing. Every story reveals her mastery of the form, and each has its own set of themes, mysteries, and nuance. Unlike many of today’s hailed and awarded stories that are too often mere cleverly phrased throwaways, Joy Williams’ collected stories are solid and meant to be re-visited and enjoyed over time.
Her writing is a reflection of our privilege to be cogent, alive visitors on Earth. Her book allows us the privilege to share in her observations, many of which are poetic and visionary. Let’s hope her work lands permanently in the study books for classes of American Literature: Modern Short Story.