October 21, 2014 § Leave a comment
Installment two of our author interview series celebrating our new “flash” cousin, My Very End of the Universe: Five Novellas-in-Flash and a Study of the Form, new this month from Rose Metal Press, features Tiff Holland interviewing Meg Pokrass, about Pokrass’ novella in flash Here, Where We Live:
TH: Meg, the most interesting character to me in your novella was initially the father—his extreme presence in his absence. You mentioned to me once that you did not know your own father. Did you imagine him to be like this father?
MP: No, I did not imagine my father to be like the father in this novella at all. I wrote this absent father to be what who I wanted my father to have been like. I imagined how a girl, overwhelmed by so much worry and conditional difficulty, might cultivate memories of a dead parent and use them as life rafts. The father remains my main character’s backbone—a force that has some influence in balancing out her difficult luck.
TH: What moved me most about him is that he “died making an old building new.” After reading the novella, I recognized that the narrator is like the father, thus his pull. She’s trying to be a fixer, too. Did you envision this all along?
MP: I was a “fixer” as a kid, yes. I didn’t really envision writing the main character as me, but that is how the character developed. This happens to me a lot. I try to write someone very different from myself, but it ends up being a kind of self-portrait. I wish I could say it was intentional. Writing a character unconsciously becomes, at least for some writers, an internal portrait of ourselves at different ages.
TH: Talk about the role of luck in the piece? I love the line “On our stoop, luck cleared its throat like a Mormon missionary and walked away.”
MP: Thank you for saying so, Tiff. I have always been fascinated with luck. Scientists can’t study it, you know? Our lives are determined by luck from the moment we are born. Wisdom matters, making good choices is huge, but luck is annoyingly present throughout our lives. All of this stuff we believe we can control is mostly wishful thinking. Sure, we can influence the way things turn out, but we can’t do anything about luck.
TH: Did you write the pieces chronologically with the novella in mind?
MP: No. I patched it together from a lot of old stories and poems, wrote some new ones, and wove chronology into it. I reshaped certain chapters/stories to fit into different time frames. It still feels a bit mysterious to me, how it all came together. I had been writing it for years, but didn’t know it.
TH: This isn’t just another coming-of-age novella, this is a novella about active creation/invention. The characters, seen and unseen, stay with you.
MP: Thank you! I’m really glad to hear this. I was strongly influenced by Tennessee Williams’ plays when I was an actress. I studied his beautiful lines and heartbreaking characters. But I was mostly fascinated with the importance of the absent father in The Glass Menagerie. I am glad that the absent father’s presence looms large in Here, Where We Live.
Meg Pokrass is the author of Damn Sure Right (Press 53, 2011) and Bird Envy (Printed on Paige, 2014). Her flash fiction appears in 200 literary journals including Green Mountains Review, Five Points, storySouth, McSweeney’s, and Flash Fiction International (W.W. Norton, 2015). Meg serves as associate editor for Rick Barthelme’s New World Writing. She lives in San Francisco with a dog and two cats. Find out more at megpokrass.com.
October 20, 2014 § 17 Comments
I just started working as an editor. I’m freelance, so I see a lot of self-published work, some of which fits every horrible stereotype about self-publishing. But no matter how near the beginning of their craft the author is, they’re still one up on me:
They finished a book.
They didn’t wait for the Fairy MFAmother to whack them with her magic Now You May Go To The Writer Ball wand, they didn’t let their mother’s dismissals or their lack of time stop them. They followed Nora Roberts‘ (and so many other prolific big-name authors’) maxim:
Ass in chair.
For us creative nonfictioneers, it’s often not a failure of imagination or work ethic, but a fear of not measuring up that dogs our ability to finish–or even start.
Should I write about the cancer? Nah, everyone’s got a cancer memoir. What about that time we broke up? Modern Love did that last week. My dad died? Special to me, but not everyone else. Sorry, Dad.
Fear of not being interesting, fear that our experience is too common, that we have nothing to say, that no-one wants to hear it, can paralyze a writer. After all, why should anyone care?
But there are three paths to memoir: be famous, do something amazing, or write well. We can’t control the first, and the second is often dangerous or expensive. As for writing well, we don’t know until the third, fourth, or fifth draft whether or not we’ve hit the mark. Stopping–or not starting–because we’re scared we won’t measure up is like throwing away the seeds because we might be allergic to tomatoes.
I still wonder if my life is a bit boring for a real writer. And it’s funny how the words can silenced by simple insecurity, by doubt, by the writer’s need to measure up to something, somehow. If you let it—and this takes courage—writing always comes through the cracks.
So dig out the damn seeds and plant the tomatoes. Maybe they’ll be bitter, or misshapen, or an odd color. They still might make great marinara. You won’t know unless you plant.
Go write. Not later. Not when you’re “interesting,” not when you’re unafraid. Now.
Allison K Williams is Brevity’s Social Media Editor. Every day she wonders if that was the last word she had.
October 17, 2014 § Leave a comment
Spend a second and review the CURRENT CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONS at Creative Nonfiction magazine. They are reading for two new anthologies from In Fact Books, a special issue of CNF, and the Exploring the Boundaries section of the magazine.
Exploring the Boundaries (section of the magazine)
What to send: Ambitious writing that pushes against the conventional boundaries of the genre, plays with style and form, and makes its own rules.
Beyond Crazy (a book!)
What to send: Original stories that address–either directly or obliquely–the trials of living with mental illness.
Becoming a Teacher (another book!)
What to send: Stories by and/or about elementary and secondary school teachers, recalling and reflecting on the most salient moments of their careers.
The Weather (a special issue of CNF)
What’s on the line: $1,000 for best essay; $500 for runner-up; publication in CNF.
What to send: True stories–personal, historical, reported–about fog, drought, flooding, tornado-chasing, blizzards, hurricanes, hail the size of golfballs, or whatever’s happening where you are. We’re looking for well-crafted essays that will change the way we see the world around us.
October 16, 2014 § 1 Comment
Lee Martin is the bomb. Let’s just acknowledge that. He is the bomb! Or whatever cool phrase the kids use these days for “best.”
Here he is instructing readers of his blog how to read like a writer.
One thing I always tell my students is that they have to learn to read the way a writer must if he or she is going to develop a deeper understanding of craft, but what does that really mean? How does a writer read?
I’ll speak only for myself. Years ago, I started reading with an eye for how a writer made a particular piece of writing. What artistic choices did she or he make to create particular effects? I’ll restrict myself to prose, but I suspect the poets among you might be able to apply what I have to say to poetry. Writers should read not only to identify and eventually internalize specific artistic choices, but also to further define their own aesthetics.
It’s important to gauge our responses to the openings of pieces by thinking about the effects they have on us. Openings can come from different aesthetics and have different objectives, but the one thing they simply must have in common is they have to be interesting. We should think about the effects that different kinds of openings have and how the writer creates those effects. A good writer creates his or her ideal audience with the opening and also teaches that audience how to read.
Read Lee’s Full Blog post over here at The Least You Need to Know
October 15, 2014 § 7 Comments
I’ve recently hung out my shingle as an editor, and it’s been fascinating to look up and confirm bits of grammar and punctuation I’m “pretty sure” I know, but am now paranoiac about getting absolutely right. Over at Medium, there’s a great rundown on commonly confused words from Random House copy chief Benjamin Dreyer, including this lovely distinction:
One’s sweetheart is “hon,” not “hun,” unless one’s sweetheart is Attila (not, by the way, Atilla) or perhaps Winnie-the-Pooh (note hyphens).
It’s a quick, fun read and you’ll want to bookmark it–if not for yourself, for reference during future arguments with your editor.
October 13, 2014 § 21 Comments
The first answer was ‘zero.’ I’d never really understood Twitter. And Facebook–well, I’d like to keep saying whatever I want, so I figured it was time to make an author page. And set up a Tumblr. An Instagram. That new Ello thing. Klout. Hootsuite to organize it all. Started writing here at the Brevity blog.
Four months later, I’m at 1000 Twitter followers. I wake up every morning and squint into my phone, four inches from my un-contact-lensed-eye, send out some retweets, check in with Facebook, browse through Instagram. Sundays I set up social media for the whole week, lay down a base of 3-5 tweets a day of things I think my connections would like to know. When I’m waiting in a line (or hey, I’ll admit it, on the toilet) I send some tweets, upload a #picoftheday, like a few statuses, save up links for next week.
It’s not working.
That is, in the sense of
Plan A: Become Media Darling,
Plan B: Go Viral,
Plan C: Sell Books.
I’m pretty much an abject failure. I’m toting up a few retweets at a time, gaining followers, discovering that a Facebook Page (as opposed to profile) is basically unseen unless one pays to advertise, I don’t get Pinterest and I’m too old for Tumblr until I start writing YA.
The reality is that successful online marketing, just like successful offline marketing, is driven by money. A social media presence with no cash behind it doesn’t do much for the average author when it comes to selling books, and squandering precious hours on building a platform that few people will ever see—hours that could otherwise be spent writing—is a mistake that can hurt your productivity and, therefore, your career.
Ms. Bane’s experience as a digital marketing specialist has taught her that the rate is about the same as any other form of direct marketing. One percent. Got a thousand followers? Ten will buy your book–if you’re doing well.
But I dig that morning Instagram time. What’s new in #travel? There’s my friend’s baby rabbits, a new way to wear a hijab, I’ll upload a picture with a recipe as a postcard to my mom. I’ve connected on Twitter with people I never thought I’d be able to talk to (Hi Emily Gould!). I finally decided my personal Facebook was public, and I don’t post anything I don’t want the world to see (my privacy bar is admittedly low).
I’ve decided to stop caring about platform. To, as Ms. Bane says, “monitor and participate in the intellectual life of the publishing community.” To affiliate myself with issues, topics and ideas that I want to write about, so that I’ll know what people care about and what’s already been said. To write blogs that encourage fellow writers. To stay connected with people whom I will one day ask, “Can you please ask three friends to come with you to my reading? Not with a retweet, but pick up the phone?”
There’s more great information on if and why to blog, tweet, and otherwise frolic through the social media playground in “Platforms” Are Overrated at Creative Nonfiction. Check it out–for anyone struggling with “platform,” it’s a relief.
Ironically, Allison K Williams is Brevity’s Social Media Editor. Don’t bother to like her FB author page, but she’s happy to meet you on Twitter.