Feedback Friday

Feedback Friday: bunny baby fast and slow

Mon, 05 Jan 2009 17:33:05 -0500

Feedback Friday: bunny baby fast and slow:

I don’t know much about fiction on the internet. I know there is a lot of it, and that the second-person is very popular, and that I click through most of it quickly in a way that makes me sort of sad because for most of my life I’ve been told what is good to read and it’s possible I don’t know how to recognize what is good on my own. But I like this, and here is why, and maybe someone can tell me how to find more like it.

This story is made up of a lot of things—Cortázar’s short story and a lot of memories and some breaks of poetry—things that are held together by bunny and baby. Stories like this make sense to me because this is the easiest way to remember your own life, by picking one thing and making every association with it you can. This could be lazy, just listing every thing you remember that relates to one thing, but it’s not here because she makes language do things in the story, making it come loose like it usually does in memories but in ways I think are interesting (“that I can have will held hold my own.”)

You have to think about the word “baby” in this story, and that it is used by mothers and fathers to sons and daughters, and by men and women to men and women. I think it’s good to have to think about what a word means, and that’s why I like this story, and because of these two sentences:

to touch my place where the words come out

this name, a shaped space that fits

40 Days and 40 Nights, by Claudia Smith

Fri, 14 Nov 2008 17:05:21 -0500

40 Days and 40 Nights, by Claudia Smith:

distorte:

Feedback Friday #3:

2002 was a confused time for me. My college course was proving… spiritually unfulfilling. I had just discovered the doing of webdesign and thought it might afford me the opportunity to escape the corporate representatives arriving to our open days to try and win us over. I had sickening visions of grey carpets and fluorescent lighting and cubicle culture. My fears were superficial fears. My wants were superficial wants.

Some time around then I watched an awful film called 40 Days and 40 Nights. I recognised its awfulness straight off, but that didn’t stop me absorbing something from it. An image of a twenty-something guy, living in San Francisco, working in a bright, beautiful office, dating extraordinary women. Being a webdesigner.

What can I say? I have a history of making life choices based, at least in part, on very bad films (see also: Hackers). Since then I’ve always felt a connection to this awful movie. Because it made me make my life as cool as Josh Harnett’s (which it is).

So it was one of the first entries I opened when I found Titular. And after reading a bunch of the entries there it’s still the one I most respond to. Titular publishes fiction named after titles of well-know novels, films and television shows. It’s a great idea, and what’s interesting about it is that you choose stories from the list based on your connection with that title, but the story you read is barely, if at all, connected to your notion of it.

So, the story itself: It is wonderfully opaque (to me at any rate). I am going out on a limb to say that it is about a western woman marrying a Chinese man. But I could be missing something. It almost fits. It’s possible the husband isn’t Chinese, but then why are they in China? She feels “too big, a giantess in a foreign land.” The strangeness of living in a foreign culture is cut through this whole thing.

We get the difficulties of her marriage tied to the stormy night. There’s a suggestion of emotional distance. “She waited for him to say something.” “…all the terms of endearment she’d never said to anyone.”

The kid is great. “a comma.” Diffusing anger and tension. “She crossed her eyes and poked her eyebrows. ‘Daddy,’ she said, “this is how you do angry. You do this. You do angry.’” The bit about loving grown-ups is just beautiful.

Overall a really nice short piece. Details plucked from a larger story, provided without comment. Compact, mysterious, resonant.

When the Babies Read The Book of the Dead, by Mary A. Koncel

Fri, 14 Nov 2008 16:18:26 -0500

When the Babies Read The Book of the Dead, by Mary A. Koncel:

kfan:

Feedback Friday:

I have a five-year-old son. He likes video games where you have to find the objects that will help you escape from a room. He likes books that explain how Japanese castles were organized. He loves sleeping but hates going to bed.

One day when he was in pre-school, while the other kids were napping, his teacher found him sobbing, holding a book about turtles. When she finally got him calmed down enough to explain what was wrong, he said: “We have to take care of the earth.”

When he draws a picture of a person, he draws the bones inside their body.

I can’t imagine the author of this story doesn’t have children. This is exactly what it’s like. We send them out into this world, and we’re fearful for what it might do to them. But they have this curiousity. And even though it can terrify us, we have to feed it, because in the end it’s going to be what saves them.

When my son’s pre-school teacher told us about Raimi sobbing during naptime, she said “I just know that a five-year-old who cries for the Earth and the loss of turtle habitats is going to grow up to be a special person.”

Yes. But they all will.

Feedback Friday #3

Fri, 14 Nov 2008 08:45:49 -0500

meghanagain:

Unpreparing, by Lindsay Hunter

This really just hits a bunch of sweet spots for me. First of all, that first paragraph is not only completely insane, it’s so not what you think. And in fact the juxtaposition of the first two paragraphs is basically what tied me up immediately. It creates this real sort of edgy surprisey sense, like, this is a story that is going to knock you down before you even know you’ve been set up. In fact it is so that way that I almost don’t want to say too many specific things about it. I will ruin your experience, I’m thinking! I don’t want to do that.

I mean, you really do think at first, this guy is psychotic, and while that feeling doesn’t end entirely, don’t you even feel yourself feeling sympathetic? Like, of course he’s wondering that—I wonder that all the time.

Constructing a story like this where you just have the narrator and “my boyfriend” and no real outside world except as pertains to the subject at hand, that’s a great way to really drive at your subject—your story. In this one we really get a chance to worry around the idea of violence, and is it violence if it’s expected, and how prepared can you be, and what if you go too far the other way, and oh my god aren’t we all kind of complicit in this fear-driven thinking, and so on. I think the only limit comes when you start thinking things like, “well why the hell is she with him, then?” because the fact is that the relationship between these two characters might be crazy multifaceted but we’re just looking at this sliver, this weird behavior relevant to the task at hand. This is not entirely a criticism, this is just, I think, the type of story this is—and in fact I feel like short fiction like this is the perfect place for it. Trying to expand this kind of thing novel-wide is a big bad idea, but people try it! But if you want to see it done right, you have to limit your word count. You just do.

Also prose dialogue is just a technique I love, and it’s really used just right here. Particularly the swearing, particularly the paramedic. And oh my god, the nurse! I loved her line at the end. Overall, really just horrifying and lovely.

I Googled Lindsay Hunter for more, and although she doesn’t appear to have a site of her own, she’s got fiction all ‘round the Internet. Here’s my search, with a little filter to remove pages pertaining to the Pistons player. Also Ms. Hunter apparently started this reading series, so there you go! Credits!

Feedback Friday: Overqualified: Inventory Clerk

Fri, 17 Oct 2008 09:35:40 -0400

Feedback Friday: Overqualified: Inventory Clerk:

distorte:

Okay, guys, I missed last week, the official FBF day (second Friday of the month) but I’ve been busy as Croesus and anyway. You can do it whenever you like. So:

I know that Joey Comeau is not exactly unknown on the Internet. I am not plucking a dull pebble from the muddy riverbed, polishing it on my sleeve and revealing its iridescent layers to the crowd gathered round the bank. They have all read A Softer World. “Look, Joey Comeau has iridescent layers!” I say. They nod. One of them pats me on the shoulder.

But there is also Overqualified. And I don’t know how big a deal it ever was, but the Internet forgets quickly.

Overqualified is a simple premise, probably done before, except instead of writing silly-funny letters about maybe dog-food or having experience training camels, he goes with the darkest, creepiest shit you could possibly put in an application. I think my favourite letters are those that could be possibly true, where the applicant is not obviously joking.

I tried to pick one to talk about and found it almost impossible, but I’m going to do the application to The Chronicle Herald for Inventory Clerk. I’m picking this one because it builds, on every reading, to an involuntary laugh on the last line. I am reading it here for the umpteenth time in work, and I know where it’s going and what’s coming and I still have to suppress giggles when I get to that last paragraph. I do not want to have to explain what I’m reading to the people sitting next to me.

So I’m not going to break it down or try to comment on its form, because it’s a complete unit, opens wonderfully, and it’s funny, and nothing kills humour like its analysis.

Also worth mentioning is his best of a number of letters to the RIAA. Kind of worried that I picked one with an essentially similar theme, but still and all. Enjoy.

Feedback Friday #2

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 18:43:47 -0400

meghanagain:

Sean Lovelace: ‘A Sigh Is Just a Sigh’

This hooked into me initially because of how disorienting it was on the first read, and yet, how I smiled my way through that. It was a good sort of disorientation, a druggy sort of montage, like we all went to sleep with Casablanca on, and even that’s not fair because who likes it when their writing is referred to as “filmic”? Unless they are a filmmaker? Or maybe that’s just my issue.

But I love these sections, and I love how they are little snaps of a movie that has invaded a life, and how that just doesn’t work at all and all parties involved are getting desperate about it. I think I like the Bogart bit the best, because of the part about the industry standard, and the broken kneecap. I also like all of the cigarettes. People smoke more in fiction than they do anywhere else. We don’t talk about it but we should.

I wonder a bit about the ending. It’s neat, and also neat, and it begins well with all of these beautiful and apparently unnecessary details—Bisquick, croutons, Zinfandel. But it almost becomes too real in its unreal? Almost becomes a pilot episode. I could stand to be cut off at the knees here, to escape with a little less dialogue so I’m not able to ground myself in the circumstances quite as well. Like I said, I liked the disorientation. I like feeling bewildered in this story, I like feeling like oh—here are the things I recognize, this is Bogart’s voice I’m channeling, but why’s he in the house? Oh I don’t need to know, in fact. No one needs to explain that to me. Bogart’s in everyone’s house, once you invite him.

Although it’s very possible I’ve got my read on this wrong and I’m not as oriented as I think. HMM.

Anyway it’s very good, and Sean has other things you can read, which you should do. So.

(Follow Feedback Friday here.)

Feedback Friday: "I Am Holding Your Hand" by Myfanwy Collins

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 16:26:47 -0400

Feedback Friday: "I Am Holding Your Hand" by Myfanwy Collins:

kfan:

This is one my most favorite short stories ever. This is what I want, when I say there’s not enough really good fiction on the internet. This is a master class on how to write fiction that succeeds online.

It’s very short, so there’s not a lot of scrolling. It grabs you right from the first sentence, and each paragraph afterwards contains a really compact yet wondrous little detail that propels you like a maglev train to the end. And then the last sentence turns the whole thing on its head and spins it suddenly away from you.

Every time I read this I just sit there, stunned, staring at my monitor. This is flash fiction: there’s no story arc in the traditional sense, no business about the journey the protagonist takes, it’s just a flurry of relatable human experiences, broken down into their most intense emotional components. My only complaint is that this story isn’t tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.

You can find other stories by Myfanwy Collins at her website.

Tadd Adcox, "Substitutions," Fiction Volante

Fri, 26 Sep 2008 15:00:26 -0400

Tadd Adcox, "Substitutions," Fiction Volante:

saladahoy:

Another Feedback Friday. Catch the fever.

Did I listen when kfan and distorte said how brilliant Fiction Volante was? Yeah, but I thought, “Oh, I’ll get to that when I have some time” and when I did, it wasn’t there any more. But thanks to the good people at the Google cache, I was about to read maybe 30 percent of the stories, including “Substitutions.”

The thing I like best about this story is the way the title engages with the story. The first time you read it, there seems to be a clear correspondence between the story and the protagonist’s actions, and then at the end suddenly the title refers to a different substitution entirely.

Another way to get at this is to note that the story balances two main topics: a relationship and the actions of the protagonist. The first two (short) paragraphs are about the relationship, the third paragraph is about the actions (with one reference to the relationship), the fourth is about both, and the fifth is entirely about the actions. Both are interesting and there’s a fairly even balance there. But then the last paragraph comes and the title smacks you upside the head again and suddenly that balance between the relationship and the actions has changed profoundly.

I’m overanalyzing, maybe, but to see something structured this precisely and feel the way that it works on you emotionally is a nice thing.

"EVERY GODDAMNED CHRISTMAS MY DAD AND MY UNCLE RON GET INTO IMPORTANT ARGUMENTS ABOUT POLITICS AND..."

Fri, 12 Sep 2008 16:27:39 -0400

“

EVERY GODDAMNED CHRISTMAS MY DAD AND MY UNCLE RON GET INTO IMPORTANT ARGUMENTS ABOUT POLITICS AND THE BEST AIRPORTS IN ZURICH AND WHICH PRESIDENTS ARE ASSHOLES IN PERSON AND THAT SORT OF THING. MY OTHER UNCLE D. IS KIND OF THE BLACK SHEEP IN THE FAMILY AND WE DON’T PAY MUCH ATTENTION TO HIM.

ANYWAY THIS ONE CHRISTMAS MY DAD & RON ARE REALLY GOING AT IT, SOMETHING ABOUT AFRICA, WHEN UNCLE D. WALKS INTO THE MIDDLE OF THINGS GINGERLY CARRYING THIS TAPE LIKE IT WAS A DYING CHILD AND LOOKS COYLY AT MY DAD AND RON AND SAYS “SO, I BET YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHAT SONG IS THIS!!”

AND MY DAD AND RON COULDN’T CARE LESS AND SOMEONE SAYS SOMETHING ABOUT HOW THERE’S NO TIME BUT UNCLE D. IS ALREADY BREAKING THE TAPE DECK AND JAMMING IN HIS PRECIOUS TAPE. HE FLASHES US A SLY LOOK AND SAYS “I BET NOBODY HERE WILL GET THIS” AND PRESSES PLAY

IT’S FUCKING ‘HEY JUDE’. 19 PEOPLE IN THE LIVING ROOM ALL SAY ‘IT’S HEY JUDE’ AT THE SAME TIME AND LOOK AGGRAVATED.

UNCLE D. LOOKS AT US ALL IMPISHLY AND SAYS ‘NO’.

”

- TIME FOR SOME STORIES

Right. But is it fiction? Who knows. It doesn’t matter. I’ve always said that that the only way to get people to partipicate in fiction online is to trick them into thinking it’s non-fiction.

To me, the davesecretaryatwork stories are the epitome of online fiction: tiny epics of personal narrative, told urgently in all caps (a format that wouldn’t exist in a world without the internet); each story lining up a handful of acute details, then sending them flying and tripping over themselves; all structured within an is-this-guy-for-real framework that informs basically everything on the internet, ever. Whether or not they’re all true, or really the work of one person, they only exist to be read and shared by other people.

Look. What I initially and immediately liked about the internet was the removal of the barriers to publishing. Everyone has a story. We grew up with the idea of Famous Authors vs The Rest of Us, but it wasn’t always like that. Anyone can tell a story. Everyone SHOULD tell a story. This is what makes us human. This is about your soul. Your soul does not need a book deal. Your soul does not need top ten lists. It does not need lessons on how to be a paid blogger. There will not be any more Stephen Kings or John Grishams. The internet, if we don’t let PR interns and free mp3s get us distracted—if we don’t allow ourselves to get hung up on things that do not matter—will take us back to our atavistic roots, this shared history of storytelling. Bonfires and night skies, everyone waiting for the next person to start speaking.

(via kfan)

"Cutter" by Mindy Munro (on Six Sentences)

Fri, 12 Sep 2008 16:24:59 -0400

"Cutter" by Mindy Munro (on Six Sentences):

saladahoy:

It’s Feedback Friday, kids.

The thing I like best about Munro’s piece is the way that telling the reader the conclusion at the outset of the story (twice, if you count the title and the first sentence) actually heightens, rather than diminishes, the suspense in the story.* Even though—or really, because—you know what’s coming, you’re filled with dread as you read. And even if you weren’t, the final simile is devastating enough that there’s plenty of surprise to be found at the end.

The description of the task the narrator is doing while her son speaks with her is also pretty remarkable. It’s connected both to her relationship to him as well as to what the son is describing, which is further reinforced by the concluding simile.

* Cf. J. Robert Parks’ comments about the film Man on Wire in the latest edition of the Daily Plastic podcast.

meghanagain: On Ways of Dealing With Tripping in Public, by Crispin Best. This story is hilarious....

Fri, 12 Sep 2008 08:28:14 -0400

meghanagain:

On Ways of Dealing With Tripping in Public, by Crispin Best.

This story is hilarious. It is a hilarious, hilarious story about someone’s father dying. I laughed roughly forty-eight times while reading this and sometimes I read a joke twice to see if it was still funny the second time, and 100% of the time, the joke was still funny. I am a huge jerk about written comedy. I think it is unsuccessful so much that it is disheartening sometimes to even attempt to find funny things so when someone just effortlessly whips out the laughs, like Crispin Best, here, it just kind of restores my faith in the whole enterprise. The skills is in the rhythm, and how simple it looks (“That was the end of my uncle.”) but how dead the humor would be without it.

I also really like the contrast between the zingy zingers and the lovely lines about the fire, and the death that the fire brought. I love the father’s obsession with better living, hints and tips that his children do not understand but still they can’t help but record them now. I even get the feeling that they still don’t entirely understand what their father was all about, which is fine and great and poignant, when you realize we all in a way could be like that father—about to be gobbled by flames before we have a chance to explain our platitudes.

I do wonder what the father thought about fire. Maybe he didn’t! But so much of the family died in a fire, I wonder if he had fire thoughts. Fire tips. or if he didn’t, why he didn’t. Or maybe it’s a family of people that doesn’t worry about the future.

Best of all, the ending kind of sneaks up on you. Which is funny considering that you know what happened from the first line. This is a trick that only short fiction can really accomplish, I think—it’s simple in that all it is is Something Happening, but complicated in its ways and means.

Crispin also has this blog which is currently a mix of things but mostly features stories that are in honor of every year from 1400 onwards. It sounds crazy but it’s true. And you can write a story if you have a year that you want to write on, and I would like to do that, I think, but first I have to commune with the years until one of them makes me love it particularly.

And finally, I don’t know much about Eyeshot, the place where I found this story, but clearly it has been around just maybe above or under my limited sightline like, FOREVER. Isn’t that always the way. Anyway, I’m glad I’m there now because the archives are top-notch. I keep reading stuff and going YESSSSSSSS.

This is Feedback Friday #1, people. Follow us over here, there will be more. And jump in whenever you like.

distorte: God’s Love Seemed Lost Upon Him I know this piece is six months old, but it’s been...

Fri, 12 Sep 2008 06:36:11 -0400

distorte:

God’s Love Seemed Lost Upon Him

I know this piece is six months old, but it’s been floating a while for me and when I started looking for something to talk about it seemed a good choice.

I’ve no idea who writingstatic is, and can’t remember where I discovered him/her, and maybe it’s better that way. 16 Ways to Make Your Blogjuice More Palatable tells us that we should be selling an identity along with our site, but for fiction writers that’s surely just a distraction.

So there are two hums coming off this piece for me: power and compactness. Power being the theme, compactness being the delivery. There’s an impression details carefully culled from the full passage of childhood, looked back at from a distance. I like that the father’s drink is Power’s. I don’t know if that’s an accident.

It’s kind of perfect. The boy becomes a man by his father’s example. Sports beats academics. Physicality is strength. His other gifts are worth nothing when held against what his body can do for him.

His father “read no further than the back five pages (and as the years progressed, ten, then thirty) of the newspaper.” So the changes in the kid mirror changes in the greater world. The “great ancient shady trees” are reduced to weak saplings, easily destroyed by the emerging power of the new generation. Unrecoverable.

And it’s rushed. It’s ten or fifteen beautiful details crammed into 500 words. Some of my favourite writing online shows this. This is what I mean when I talk about it assuming a new format. Novels wouldn’t sick this much on us in such a short space. Short stories are longer. Its closest analogue is maybe freeform-poetry?

There are parts I might have tightened slightly, to smoothen its flow. But it’s always the way, isn’t it? Anyone could level the same criticism against everything I’ve ever written. Honestly, I didn’t realise how flipping considered every note of this was until I started to break it down, sentence by sentence. It’s a sobering thought.