Virginia Quarterly Review and the awesomeness of books and moves, with emphasis on Amour and Iron Man 3

Posted on May 9, 2013 | 2 comments

I began this post shortly after seeing  Amour — a gorgeous film, IMO, with sets that convinced me to return for a second viewing, despite its difficult subject matter. And the depth and breadth of human experience it reveals  — well, for the week after enjoying this movie, I toyed with the idea that I should actually throw out my 40+ years of writing stories (yes, I started when I was six) and learn how to craft a screenplay.

Old Dog New Tricks

Old Dog New Tricks (Photo credit: maxymedia)

And. But. One: I’m an old dog, it’d be a new trick, etcetera; there is truth to adages. Two: I love stories more than I enjoy movies. Three: see my previous post; my short story has me in its howling grip and I can’t/won’t walk away from it.

Then: VQR arrived in the mail, with Richard Nash’s essay, What is the Business of Literature. He writes eloquently about the book as technology — like a chair! or the wheel! — and concludes, “Literature is about blowing sh*t up.” (He uses the entire s word. My kids read these posts so I’m making an effort to be family friendly.)

Then, in early May, we went to Iron Man 3. It is always a pleasure to watch Robert Downey Jr. in action. But the last, oh, 30-40 minutes is naught but explosions, and glistening-with-sweat near-death misses. The opposite of the still, quiet, physical-explosion-free Amour, which was, for me,  the more devestating movie.

Marcel Proust in 1900

Marcel Proust in 1900 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I have pondered the appeal of each of these films, and the motivation behind those who imagined and created them. They are as different as Marcel Proust and formulaic romance novels, yet, like each of those genres, each holds its pleasures for this reader. They each have a place in the human experience; they each have something to teach us about how to behave with each other.

And they each started with a story in someone’s head. I don’t care if you write comic books or Great Literature, an effective story is both well-told and compelling. Check out Donald Maas’ comment on Julianna Baggott’s post at Writer (un)Boxed for his succinct analysis of the false dichotomy between stories that are sold to us as “literature” versus those promoted as “entertainment.”

In Amour, the sh*t that gets blown up, as in expanded, was my idea of end-of-life care and what it may require of us, as humans, lovers, family. In Iron Man 3, the sh*t that gets blown up is more literal: buildings, oil tankers, human beings. Eye-candy fireworks.

But it’s all about blowing it up.

Put in your ear plugs, strike your match and light your fuse. Let us see your explosion.

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Standing on the table, howling

Posted on April 26, 2013 | 2 comments

My younger son has a gift that many of us lose as we mature: he makes wishes and believes, with an open, hopeful heart, there is a fair-to-middling chance they’ll come true.

1914 Santa Claus in japan

1914 Santa Claus in japan (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The universe has, in fact, provided bountiful gifts after his requests — and no, “the universe” isn’t code for “mom and dad bought it at the store and pretended it was from Santa.” The two most obvious fulfilled wishes have been (two years ago) for another cat, and, this January, for another dog (Rosie, introduced earlier this month in How many words do you need for a story?).

Virginia Kitty

Our perfect cat

Because the cat (truly, a perfect kitty) appeared within 24 hours of his expressed wish for same, when he expressed his desire for another DOG, I had an inkling that the universe might well again answer affirmatively. I sprang into what I thought would be preventive action: I talked with him, extensively and repeatedly, about the extra responsibilities and time another dog would require. Walks even in foul weather. Picking up poop. Brushing. Extra dog hair to sweep. It didn’t matter. He was game. Adamantly.

And yes, seventy-two hours later, a friend found “the perfect!” dog wandering on a rural road. Its owner didn’t want her anymore. This dog wasn’t too big, was friendly, didn’t chase cats, was house-broken and about two years old. Plus she didn’t bark! Barking is my major complaint with the current dog. The new dog would be perfect.

Engineer hubby and 12 y.o. went to meet the dog while the 15 y.o. & I were outta town. EH texted me photos: she was adorable! She wasn’t too big! They took her home.

15 y.o. & I return: turns out the dog is in heat — a fact not obvious, or mentioned!, in the text messages. Bloody drops everywhere. Well, that’s OK. We’ll get her spayed. No worries. While elder son & I have been gone, she’s been sleeping all snuggled up with the 12 y.o., who’s been walking her twice a day. All is well.

The first night we’re all sleeping under the same roof since Rosie’s joined us, I’ve given both dogs their last walk of the night and gotten into bed. It’s midnight. I’m the only one still awake. I’m savoring the silence.

Until the silence is sundered by Rosie’s howls.

howling dogs

howling dogs (Photo credit: andrevanb)

Who has made her way out of the 12 y.o.’s bedroom, descended to the main floor of our house and vaulted onto our dining room table. Where she raises her sweet doggie face to the heavens (well, the ceiling) and gives voice to all the longing a horny dog has. Which is too much, decibel-wise, IMO. But not enough, apparently, to wake any one else in my house.

And this is my extended metaphor of my story-making these days: I look around me and something ain’t quite right. I wish for another story and it arrives. It’s inevitably a mutt, not a purebred. And it usually shows its true colors only after I have settled down to what I think will be an easy night, as it were. Then it raises its head and howls and I have to get up at one AM and take it off the table, strip off the now-stained tablecloth, and sit up with it, console it with a little treat, some kind words and lots of loving. In story-making, this consists of printing it out on nice paper, then ruthlessly highlighting every single phrase that works and eliminating those that don’t; writing myself a list of things to fix in a pretty colored marker, and then shutting it in a drawer for a week.

And then there are the extra walks. And the poop-in-a-bag to be disposed of. And though I complain, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Rosie — and my howling stories —  are lively spirits of unconditional joy, alongside their demands and their poop and their decibels.

Plus I’ve stocked up on stain remover and erasers. Joy is messy.

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How many words do you need for a story?

Posted on April 2, 2013 | 3 comments
Rosie the running dog at rest

Rosie the running dog at rest

We have a new dog, Rosie, younger than our “old” dog, Penny. Rosie is a different variety of mutt: the more energetic variety. Rosie likes to herd Penny with nips to her withers, and wants to run run run run run.

Problem is, Rosie is more interested in the world at large than in us and the treats we offer, so we don’t let her off leash at this point. Penny, on the other hand, always returns to us if we remove her leash, after investigating tantalizing smells (near as I can tell, what most fascinates her are logs that serve as chipmunk mausoleums).

Last week I met a neighbor’s father in the woods during the morning dog walk. He doesn’t speak English; I don’t speak Chinese. He sized me up: one dog ambling, leash-free, the other leashed and, frankly, a bit angst-ridden. He gestured to Rosie and asked, with his face and his hands, why she wasn’t loose like Penny.

I responded, “Oh, she [I mimed running] spwhhht” (this made-up word represents sort of quick whistling windy sound made by a fast-running-away dog. I swear.).

Ah, he nodded, and he continued westerly whilst I went east.

I’ve returned to this exchange several times over the past several days, as I’ve revised, and tweaked, and tinkered with, and edited and revised again, a short story.

Which words do I need? Only the necessary ones.

I made up an exercise for myself during my latest effort at word-smithing: I subjected every single word in the story to what I now call the walk-in-the-woods test. Would I try to pantomime and make up new sounds to express what that word meant, if I were conveying my fiction to someone whose language I didn’t share? If so, it’s earned its place. If not? Delete, delete, delete.

Of course, a story written in English is intended to be read by those who understand the language, and there’s depth and nuance available to native speakers that even the best sound-effecting pantomime among us can’t touch.  But a story that doesn’t run at the heart of what I’m trying to say? It’s a miserable dog on the leash of a writer’s vanity.

Stories can show us all the places life teems invisible to those who walk fast and talk too much. Set your stories loose, and aim them at the best, most interesting part of your figurative forest, be that chipmunk mausoleums, the creek bottom, or gopher holes.

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