I have a short piece up at Foundling Review. It’s written in memory of Matt Kinnison ♥
Author: Sara Crowley
Roxane Gay rocks at The Rumpus
Please read this, it’s witty, sad, too funny, too awful, too true.
Sadness
Johnny Utah “Look Bodhi, people are dead, the ride is over.”
Bodhi “Oh, no no no. I say when it’s over.”
Rest In Peace Patrick Swayze.
Time
This is a a small post to say hello. Small because I am pushed for time – all the time. I don’t know where my time went, anyone seen it? Before summer I thought I would catch up with everything in the holidays, and then in the holidays I thought I would catch up on everything when the boys went back to school. They just started secondary school, and I have less time than ever. The school walk takes me an hour in the morning, an hour in the afternoon. I figured the time walking would be good for my ideas – stories could germinate and I’d return home to write ’em up. Ha! Silly, foolish me.
I apologise to anyone who is waiting for an email reply from me, I am behind, again, still, sigh. Sorry too to anyone who is waiting for me to critique a story.
Writing wise I have finished the “coffee” story I have been working on and am looking for volunteers to critique it for me. I am way, way too close to it and can’t tell if it has merit or is utter pooh. I have a few subs “out there.” Had a really chilly rejection recently that kinda stung. I guess I am used to even my rejections being rather jolly and personal and encouraging.
I have been reading a new short story collection: “Nude” by Nuala Ní Chonchúir, and am pleased to tell you that she will be stopping by here as part of her blog tour on September 22nd. Hurray!
Right, have to dash, but hope to find some more time soon.
Tired, bitchy, drunk…race, women, writers…
I haven’t written here for a while, 2 and a half weeks ish – it’s hard to find time lately and it seems that when I do write I always seem to be tired, bitchy, or drunk (or as of right now, all three.) Oh, whatever, it’s not an exam, it’s just my blog. On with the blethering!
I am loving PANK right now. Love Roxane Gay, love some of the work she’s choosing, love her blog. She recently began a debate on “Awkward Stuff, Race, Women, Writers, Editors”
which was fascinating. I rather wanted to join in but was ensconced in an Oxford hotel that deemed blogs, facebook and twitter as unacceptable!
I have been to a few literary events and found them to be uncomfortably chock full of white, middle class British people and then realised that actually I easily pass as just that. I can fit in there. I won a short story competition whose prize was complimentary tickets to a very expensive event held in grandiose halls and surrounded by lush countryside. There was only one black woman there; she came from my area (East London) and we struck up conversation. One very tweedy woman asked her where she came from, and when she replied “Leytonstone” the woman said “No, originally.” The response “Erm, West London” had me spluttering with mirth, embarrassment, anger, incredulity.
Not sure what this tells you.
I think writing should be about anyone, anywhere, communicating with words. And an editor can’t see if you are young, pretty, black, gay, dyspraxic, whatever – so if the words are what count then why aren’t there a more diverse group of people being published. Is it down to economics? Education? Expectations?
I helped out at my twins school for a while, trying to teach/encourage reading. I think reading is the foundation of everything else and yet many of the kids I sat with came from backgrounds where books weren’t part of day to day life. Seeing little children learn to sound out words and garner meaning from the bizarre mish mash of shapes on a page is a triumph. But it’s with practice that confidence comes.
Personally I get pissed at the whole cool boys club I see sometimes. I deliberately seek out fabulous women writers that I can aspire to, but also I just soak up good words which is how I am able to admire the work of some men who are sometimes utter twunts. I’m not sure if I am going to manage to make a point here (the whole bottle of wine thing) but I shall try. I like words, all words. I will use the word “cunt” as I enjoy its power to shock. It’s just a word, and I subscribe to the Germaine Greer idea that it is kinda quaint that one of the few remaining words with the power to shock is actually merely a vulgar word for a vagina. Who has the power now boys? Dick/cock etc just doesn’t pack the same punch! What I hate though is the mysoginistic “I’d like to stick a carrot in your vag” attempt at edgy literature that I have been seeing rather too frequently. Not edgy, clever, subversive at all guys, rather it’s tiresome, insulting, juvenile and lazy.
So, erm, the point I was making is…sigh, not sure, gonna go and sleep this off…
; )
Bobbins, short stories (and Janice Galloway)
I love my job. I feel very lucky to work in such an amazingly gorgeous bookshop and to get to go in one day a week and soak up the fiction. Anyway, bobbins and short stories:
A woman came and asked if we had a copy of a specific book. Yes we do, it’s on the next floor up.
“Oh, forget it,” she said sounding disappointed and left.
Someone bought my all time favourite novel “The Trick is to Keep Breathing” by Janice Galloway and I couldn’t resist saying “Ooh, I love this book, it’s my favourite novel EVER.”
“Oh,” the customer replied. “I was looking at “Where You find It” too.”
“You MUST get that as well,” I said. “It’s amazing.”
“Okay. You know, I came in for “This is not about me” really but couldn’t find it.”
“Oh my goodness, also brilliant, it’s in biography, I can grab you a copy if you like?”
BEST CUSTOMER EVER! Oh, and for anyone who has followed my triumphant tale of selling the awesome “Where You FInd It” collection, that brings the total sold to 72. Not bad for a book we didn’t stock eh?
Exciting news is that a collection of Janice Galloway’s stories is forthcoming. How cool is that? I suppose I’ll replace my “Where You Find It”‘s with the new collection, but I’ll be sad in a way. I’m very fond of that book.
Controversially (or, erm, not) I put “Olive Kitteridge” in my short story display case. (If Annie Clarkson reads this please note that Brighton Waterstones has a gorgeous short story display case!)
In other short story news A. L Kennedy’s new collection “What Becomes” is out. I had the pleasure of reviewing it for Waterstone’s Books Quarterly: ( “What Becomes is an impeccable collection from one of the most talented writers around. These are stories that ache and resonate as Kennedy’s stylistic scalpel reveals the pain and truth inside each of her characters. Highly recommended.”)
Today a new online journal has been published. Fancy a read? Head over to The Collagist.
Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout
Wow, what a gorgeous read this was. A rare treat. It’s a “novel in stories” which relates the later years of Olive Kitteridge (and her husband, her son and her neighbours.) It succeeds so beautifully for me because it is packed with quiet truths. I love fiction which illuminates our lives, and these stories felt very real.
I don’t want to ruin things for anyone who has yet to read this so will try not to give too much away, however when Olive visits her son in New York it was the first time that the voice seemed to slip to me. As for the airport scene? Phooey. That’s what I reckon. So yeah, “Security” was the weakest story by far. The rest were perfect slices of lives, stories full to busting and yet none of it feeling over written. Wonderful.
BUT!
I would not have picked this book up in a million years. This is the cover:
and I still have no clue what the fuck it has to do with the book. Whose back is that meant to be? It sure as fuck ain’t Olive’s – we know she’s a much larger than average woman in her seventies. I can’t think of anyone else in the book who this could be either. So presumably the publishers think this is an enticing cover? It looks like a certain type of frothy book, non literary, a girly affair. It’s not. This book won the 2009 Pulitzer Prize for fiction, and hurrah, it is a well deserved win. There’s no mention of it on the cover (yet) and hopefully when there is it will give others who may pass this by pause for thought. If it hadn’t have been for Nik Perring raving about this I would not have bothered. Thanks Nik – it’s brilliant, and I wholeheartedly recommend it to all.
Churlishness
I feel churlish right now. It’s a small thing, I’m going to go jump in a shower in a minute and it’ll rinse away with the water and the lovely almond Olay with creamy ribbons. But for now I’m a bit grr. There’s a writer I know online, we have worked together at times, exchanged comments and thoughts, congrats and commiserations, you know the kind of thing. I have been delighted at their successes in the past and may have even mentioned them here. I comment occasionally on their blog, I have them in my recommended list. I went to their blog a few minutes ago and happened to look at their own list. A number of familiar names there, shared writing chums. My blog wasn’t on the list though, and I thought, hmm, well fuck them then. I felt a frizz of anger, like, oh, I suppose s/he doesn’t think I am good enough to be on her/his list, or maybe s/he doesn’t like my stories, or me. It’s the sort of thing that happens often, that sudden irritation that flashes through an otherwise calm day, it’s the bloke in the post office who pushes in front, the woman in the garden who makes a stupid comment as you walk by, it’s anyone at any time. It’s people! Here online huge furores can storm through forums, blogs, groups. In the absence of the nuances of speech misinterpretations are rife, wilful or not. All boils down to the same thing, folk being folk. Let it wash away. Except for the bastard who has snubbed me. Wink. And if you can’t, if you are sure that you need to express your hurt, anger and so on, well then go for it, but try to be honest, plain, open. All the back stabby games are so fucking tiresome.
Anyway, in an antidote to churlishness I thought I’d send out some random link love.
I am truly jealous of Ravi Mangla’s imagination. Read “Jupiter” here at the always gorgeous Wigleaf.
I have just been kindly sent a copy of “The Bristol Short Story Prize Anthology 2” which I look forward to reading.
I also just received Hobart 10 which as always looks amazing and is chock full of good writing.
Finally, for people who watch television I recommend Lowculture and its forums. Written by genuinely funny people it’s an ace place to hang out and chew over the latest telly.
Did I fuck up the tense?
Back in November 2008 I had a tiny fiction published at Every Day Fiction. People can comment on the stories EDF put online and score them out of five. The Collector of Shiny has been up a fair while now and naturally comments tailed off after the first few days. Today though I got one:
I lurched to a halt after you couldn’t marry your tenses up – “I never once cookED him dinner or manageD to wash the dishes”
And so will any editor or reader. At least take the time to proofread your work. ugh.
So, firstly, hmm, that’s rude. He may well think I fucked up on the tenses but did he really need to give me an “ugh”? Oh well.
Secondly, shit, did I fuck up? Would anyone mind having a read and letting me know? It’s only a small piece.
The piece is present tense – it still reads right to me but I accept it may not be and it’d be useful to know.
Thirdly, wow, that was unnecessarily snarky eh? And shouldn’t that “ugh” have had a capital letter? Tee hee.
This sucks…
Remember the anti-plagiarism day? Remember the whole ghastly “one writer in a workshop stole from another writer” thing? Ugh. It’s uncomfortable. I want to look away. I want to look. I don’t want to be involved, and yet as writers we are all involved really. It’s our duty to speak out. Isn’t it? Anyway, seems like it’s all out in the open at How Publishing really Works. Look. Don’t look. Ghastly innit!
Sara Crowley 