Writing Workshop

A fellow SF Writer's Workshop participant, Peg, is offering her own writing workshop starting May 20th: northbaywriters.wordpress.com. Peg is a wonderful writer and offers very perceptive and helpful comments on other people's stories, I can see her being a great teacher. Unlike me, she doesn't rush in and start rewriting other people's stories from scratch.

An excuse

The excuse this month is that I'm writing a poem a day: http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/

The exercise fills me with a certain dread and a sense of futility and the notion that I really need to start reading English-language poetry. The language is not an issue any longer, now it's just about the time and the methods of reading. Of course, also about my deeply buried belief that poetry has to do with the sublime, the kind of sublime that by definition is denied to me.

Max Frei is coming!

Max Frei's book The Stranger is getting published in English by Overlook Press! Maybe one day her anthologies will also get translated and sell :) I just got word that 78 is going in for a second printing, and I've earned another 1800 rubles. That's between $50 and $60! Depending on when my brother chooses to pick up the cash.

Translation

Mine is a brilliant one, no less!

http://www.ezratranslation.com/Fall_2008.html

I'm inspired to write more :)

Books and Books

I'm doing alright. If I'm lucky, I might finish two, even three books tonight. Plus, visit a gallery and another bookstore in Miami. I went to one yesterday, Books and Books in Coral Gables. It was a busy place with a lovely cafe in the courtyard. When I was leaving, they had two reading groups starting at the same time in two wings of the building, one in English, one in Spanish. There's a university nearby, that must help things.

Also, the South Beach. I drove into South Beach yesterday. It took me an hour to find parking: apparently, the city owns garage buildings that charge a dollar an hour. The city obviously tries to keep them a secret from tourists, because there are no signs whatsoever. When I walked out on Ocean Drive, I felt homesick for San Francisco. But then I drove to Books and Books and that was perfectly lovely. I've been looking for Mary Gaitskill's stories everywhere, but so far no luck.

Driving in Miami

I rented a car to get around Miami -- and I am slightly regretting that decision. I passed six pile ups in ten miles on my way from the airport to the hotel last night. I'm not a confident driver to start with, and didn't receive a surge in confidence from the sight. I don't feel the slightest temptation to make fun of Florida drivers. The hotel charges $30 to keep the car overnight, as I found out at the registration desk. My mistake for not thinking of that sooner. And now it's already 2 pm local time and I'm still at the hotel, having accomplished maybe 5% of the planned reading for the day. I should stay here and keep reading, but instead I feel obligated to take the car out for a ride. I can already imagine the parking charges I'm going to pay in the tourist hot spots.

Last night, shaken up from the drive to the hotel, I took a walk to the nearest walkable destination: the mall. A mall is a mall is mall, but this had Argentine grill at the food court and five different ice cream shops. Everyone seems a little confused around here, as if they were all me, not sure what they are doing here and severely shaken up on the way. I talked to a woman at the checkout line at Publix, the local supermarket, who had blueberry muffins on her shopping list, but didn't know what they were. I tried to explain, but she just waved her hand, "Oh, it's too complicated." I said, "But they are right there!" and tried to point her to the bakery section, but she just folded her list and stuffed it in her pocket. "I'll just let it go," she said. I bought a bag of organic Gala apples for $4.95 and a chocolate chip cookie for 72 cents. The apples are very watery and not quite ripe, but I am not complaining.

The Keys to the Lost House

Or "Key Moments," my story in The Writer's Eye magazine:

"I FEEL NOTHING," Aisha thought, letting go of the ropes as her swing approached its maximum height. “I touch nothing.”

But she didn’t launch into flight. She didn’t even fall to the ground. Instead, she remained firmly attached to the wooden board as it swung backwards between the two pine trees and over the patch of wildflowers, dandelions and forget-me-nots. Holding her arms straight into the air outside of the ropes, her legs tightly tucked underneath the board and bare feet touching the rough wood, Aisha closed her eyes until she swung upwards again.

(continue)

Flying car

I love living in the future!

http://www.terrafugia.com/

Names

Another great place to get good character names is spam. Just this morning I got messages from Asha and Abbott and Erwin Blount. This is a gold mine!

Salted ramson stems are delicious, especially when my father brings them home fresh from the farmers' market. I've tried the bottled marinated variety lately, and it's absolutely not the same, but still edible, I suppose. Also, Ramson or Ramsons is a great name for a character. I'm going to use it after I've exhausted Clove and Amber.

The blogs turned up a list of must-read Austro-Hungarian literature. Must-read in the next life, that is. Still, Olga-2009 cannot calmly pass this by.
I would start with these:
The Road into the Open by Arthur Schnitzler
Wedekind, "Spring Awakening"
Hugo von Hofmannsthal, The Lord Chandos Letter
Elias Canetti's three-volume memoir

Yogurt

Every week in the summer my grandmother made a fresh batch of yogurt in the little glass jars leftover from the time when the store-bought mayonnaise used to come in the little glass jars. She slopped a teaspoon of sour cream at the bottom of each jar and filled the rest with fresh, unpasteurized milk--in the years when fresh, unpasteurized milk was available. Later it became Parmalat, a white-colored liquid that could last three months without refrigeration. She placed the jars on the middle shelf in the small cabinet underneath the eastward-looking window in our stand-alone kitchennette. Or maybe it was the lowest shelf. Whatever it was, it was always the same, and the jars were always arranged in the exact same order, last week's yogurts migrating up to the front and the newest taking their place in line at the back. Her favorite jars--those with no chips--to the left, others to the right. She consumed the yogurt religiously, one jar every day, after supper. I knew she didn't like it because sometimes if my brother and I begged enough we were allowed to skip the dish altogether. Not often, but once in a while, she'd let us eat just the top creamy layer of it, and leave the rest for her to finish up. As a way of encouraging our consumption, she'd let us mix in plenty of sugar. When we grew older and the age of the plastic tubs of foreign-made yogurt descended, we were excused altogether. She frequently procrastinated on eating the home-made yogurt herself. She'd put a little jar in the pocket of her apron--I suppose, the jars were loosely closed with metal caps--and take it up to the house with her at the end of the day. She also brought a teaspoon along. In the house, she'd put the little jar on the table in front of the television, and eat it bit by bit as she watched the evening programming or read the paper.

Lately--long after I've reached adulthood and learned somethings about somethings--I've began to wonder if my grandmother's yogurt routine was maybe a way of prevention or cure for yeast infection. Isn't yogurt the primary home remedy women used to use in the world before the anti-fungal medicine? I remember when my parents first discovered anti-fungal creme to cure my grandfather's crippling case of athelete's foot. That was a big deal, and even though we were not supposed to know anything about it to maintain our childlike innocence, they had difficulty holding back their excitement. I suppose I could ask my mother about this yogurt-yeast infection theory, and maybe I will one day, but somehow, right now, blogging about it in English seems easier than phrasing a direct question in Russian. In fact, I don't even know the name of the condition in Russian, and Wikipidia returns an entirely unfamiliar word. Either they used euphemisms or I was a martian child.

A conversation

how I won't tell Pandora that I like Erasure's Breath of Life
Is it Era-[cer] or Era-[sher]?
are an English synth pop duo
Erasure poetry
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erasure_poetry)
back to meatloaf

I blame Al Gore. He made me into a cyborg.

Narrative Magazine on Kindle

"Narrative is proud to join Time, Newsweek, Forbes, and a select group of other major national magazines now available on Amazon's increasingly popular electronic reading device, Kindle.

Kindle, with its free, global, wireless means of downloading material directly to the handheld device, offers Narrative for an inexpensive monthly subscription of $3.49.

Each month, Narrative publishes new works not only by celebrated authors but also by the best new and emerging writers on the horizon. Many famous writers, such as Annie Proulx, Maud Newton, Alexi Zentner, and Min Jin Lee, have been launched by the editors at Narrative, who continue to discover and promote tomorrow's writers.

For travelers, business and entertainment leaders, commuters, aesthetes, technophiles, and all other readers who enjoy Kindle, Narrative adds great storytelling and literary art to the news and information already provided by the other major magazines on Kindle."

(this is the literary magazine for which I'm volunteering these days)

My flash story "Between you and me" has been published by an online journal CRIT (Crossing Rivers into Twilight) -- it's been up online for a few weeks already, but I've never been sure that the issue is officially released and the link stable. I'll assume so right now.

I also checked in with Drollerie Press this week -- back in July they wanted to publish my story "June's Flowers" in a book called Trick the Object: An Anthology of the Literary Weird. In September that project fell apart, but now they are planning to include my text in another spookily titled anthology Things that go Bump in the Night. Deena the editor promises that it'll be out as an ebook by the end of the month.

I finished both pieces at least 2 years ago -- and while I learned a lot while writing them, I learned even more since. To look at them now is almost embarrassing -- and yet I know I should be proud -- but really they have no relationship to me any longer. Maybe the idea I had when I was 12 of signing each new story I wrote with a different pen name was a brilliant one and should be carried on. Maybe I should even reuse those names, heavy on vowels and elfish spirit: Aolin Faoly, Elian Daily, Velly Berg. Maybe I should also type up those stories, edit and translate them, and attempt to get them published: after all, even then I was writing about separation and space. My most recent accomplishments pale in comparison.

The Poetry Society of London

They start their meetings on time. Latecomers need to wait between the acts to climb down a creaky staircase to the meeting room behind the red velvet curtain. The event (American writers in European exile) is popular and the room is full: a few people are even sitting on stage with the performers. The cafe upstairs is selling wine and tea and very sweet chocolate chip muffins, but good luck navigating the small room with a glass of wine and a plate of muffin in your hands. The members generally know each other at least by their first names. They clap with discrimination: only after pieces they like (music or a humorous line will do). After three American women and one Congolese man read their pieces, the members plunged into the discussion of the topics involved. Are or should Americans living in Europe be ashamed of America? Why did you say that you "escaped" from Texas? What are the differences between the Tube and the Subway? I just want to make a comment about cowboys, that they only existed for a short period of time between 1880s and 1890s. Is running away from prosecution and coming to a place where you're not necessarily welcome better than staying in Congo and suffering? That last one generated a lot of discussion. Things are very bad in Congo, you have no idea. And Zimbabwe. Escaping to South Africa is a poor option. In the UK people are actually quite friendly and make you feel welcome. The English have a strange culture, but they are generally awesome. Awesome is an American word that became generally used after I left, but I'd like to include it into my vocabulary. They charge 4 pounds entry fee and give out some magazines.

Pubs in Belfast

At the top of the list is certainly John Hewitt, so named after a Northern Irish poet (Note to Self: read John Hewitt). According to the woman from the TI office, they promote the art of conversation: hence no TV screens and no background music. They have open mic some nights a week and lunch menu that looks all the more enticing because they stop serving food at the end of lunch hour.

Kelly Cellars advertises itself as the oldest pub in Ireland. Dave doesn't buy that, and what does it matter? It's not like beer ages well. I say, a bar is only as old as its oldest patron. The crowd here is between 25 and 65. We met a local woman out on a date with a Brit who's traveling around the world. Also a bunch of people who taught Dave how to say Cheers in Irish. We both had some girley drinks: hot Bushmills for me and a shot of Baileys for Dave. The British guy recommends Bushmills distillery as an excellent tour, a North Irish equivalent to the Jameson Factory in Dublin.

Maddens could've been fun if we weren't too shy to talk to people. But we were on our first drink of the day and wrote postcards instead.

The Duke of York is located in a charming alley with plenty of outside seating for smokers. It's well painted on the outside and richly decorated on the inside and is all kinds of other good things -- unless you're starving. Then even the cute guy smoking in the alley won't convince you that the place got sandwiches. Starving people don't think well, that's why they invented a menu.

White's Tavern serves lunch even if you missed the lunch hour. But if you're asking for a sandwich, make sure to have a sandwich in mind!

The Deer's Head might be a lot of fun on weekends if you're not ordering food. On a quiet Monday night all it's got to offer is its benign Victorian interior and curry that tastes jut like boiled, frozen, and microwaved gravy with a hint of spice.

Note to self: pastry shops.

Yesterday the Royal Guard played a nice selection of Christmas Music. Apparently, Their repertoire is quite silly, indeed:




My Outlook is stuck in an email downloading purgatory: it can't stop itself from downloading.

An interview with Tamim: http://therumpus.net/2008/12/the-rumpus-long-interview-with-tamim-ansary/

London

Harold Pinter died. No Man's Land is playing in London -- see if we can get tickets. Today is Boxing Day, whatever that means.

Last time we were in London for one night only, on our way to Athens. We spent the night in Soho, going from a cafe to a wine bar to a pizza parlor. Then we trekked to Paddington, to the train station back to Heathrow. This time, we're staying at a hotel near Paddington and this is causing that spooky wow, I know what's around the corner feeling. Christmas Day in London is populated by tourists (Brasil and Spain, Eastern Europe, Korea), pool hall in the China Town, Indian restaurants and Middle Eastern pastry shops. If you're interested in Tandoori, please make your enquiiries witihn.

I read Sloan Wilson's "The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit" in transit. I got the paperback at a white elephant gift exchange, but the first page captivated me and I kept reading. It takes the wrong turn somewhere down the middle, but the best and the worst passage are on the same page close to the end of the book. Tom Rath, the man of the aforementioned suit, delivers a very thoughtful speech about beeing a 9 to 5 man and working for money but living for his family. And then his boss, a genuinely likable workaholic and millionaire Hopkins freaks out in an Ayn Rand fashion: "Somebody has to do the big jobs! ... This world was built by men like me! To really do a job, you have to live it, body and soul! You people who just give half your mind to your work are riding on our backs!" And then he goes back to being himself.

Sale!

End of Capitalism Sale: 75% off books at Small Press Distribution (SPD): http://www.spdbooks.org/root/pages/endofcapitalism.asp

Books I would buy if I hadn't read them already:

• DEGREE: OF STABILITY by Gennady Aygi (Duration) $1.25
• ZOO, OR LETTERS NOT ABOUT LOVE by Viktor Shklovsky (Dalkey) $2.99

Books I will most likely buy:

• AURELIA & OTHER WRITINGS by Gerard De Nerval (Exact Change) $3.49
• PARIS PEASANT by Louis Aragon (Exact Change) $3.99
• THE POET ASSASSINATED by Guillaume Apollinaire (Exact Change) $3.99

Alfred Jarry's The Supermale should also be excellent and crazy.

Netherland by Joseph O'Neill

It's always great to find a St. Petersburg reference on the second page (fine, 4th if you count one page for the epigraph and one blank page) of a new novel: "principally he was pitiable -- like one of those Petersburgians of yesteryear whose duties have washed him up on the wrong side of the Urals." This, talking about a London Englishman who misses life in NYC. I wonder which Petersburgians he means? Surely, many of them have found themselves in Siberia in the past, but who has ever done it out of the call of duty (vs. being imprisoned and sent to a labor camp)? Nobody comes to mind who might readily justify the metaphor. Perhaps, there's a confusion of mountain ranges here. If by "yesteryear" O'Neill means the 19th Century, then, yeah, duty frequently found "Petersburgians" on the wrong side of Caucausus mountains (i.e., Pushkin). Of course, he might be speaking of "duties" ironically, because since everybody knows that nobody goes to Siberia out of their own whim, so isn't it funny to imagine some old-fashioned Petersburgians with their quaint ideas of duty going to Siberia on purpose? But why Petersburgians then? Wouldn't Moskovites look as funny trying to cross over? This Petersburgian is confused.

Congratulations! You've won a $10 Gift Certificate to Green Apple Books at 506 Clement Street @ 6th Ave - Inner Richmond courtesy of funcheapSF.com and Green Apple Books!

Exciting! Of course, it's also totally evil. This store has books. and magazines.

Leda & Leda

New blog hasn't set in yet. I would love to be able to post a meaningful entry at the end of each writing session, but I'm so rarely satisfied with my writing sessions! So instead of posting, I brood. I'm deeply envious of those who are able to brood in writing.

I've been writing a character named Leda. Today I read a Fanny Howe's story where she uses the name. My Leda and hers have nothing in common with each other. In fact, my character would be happy at the coincidence, since she picked the name herself. She thinks it's a better way of spelling Lida, and Fanny Howe certainly confirms. Her character is classy, if not nice. My Leda is definitely not nice. Still, I'd much rather the name were unique.