Last night I started writing the first short story I’ve written in years. Two or three sentences kept bouncing around in my mind, and once they were on the screen, paragraphs followed. I’m nearly done the first draft, and it’s so nice to have written a new piece of fiction. It’s a familiar voice, one I haven’t exercised since the last story set in Waterproof, Louisiana. 

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About two years ago, I emailed Kermit Moyer, a professor I had for a literature course at American University when I was a freshman in college in the early 1990s. He had given us, on our final day of class, a list for future reading. Over the years, I highlighted or checked off the books I’d read and scribbled marginalia such as library call numbers or the date I finished reading the book. Sometimes the list was pinned to a bulletin board over a desk, or just folded into a journal for a road trip. And by the time I finally lost the list, more than twelve years later, the paper was wrinkled and soft. Oh, that was a great reading list — not just the titles he suggested, but that very sheet of paper. So I emailed Kermit Moyer and asked for another copy. He had a couple of additional titles by then, and was happy to hear I’d kept the list. And I was happy when the new list arrived in my mailbox only days later.

A few advisors at Warren Wilson wrote impressive lists too, and since returning home from Asheville with no project plan for a semester ahead, I pulled out Debra’s reading list from last semester to see what I would read next (a weighty anthology of contemporary French poetry that I picked up this weekend at the library). And I’ve also begun my own list. Maybe I’ll add brief descriptions or notes on why each book is on my list, but at least you now have the titles.

One of my favorite stories to retell about a book on my list: My friend Randy once told me about how once he and his ex-wife had been walking or driving down a street – I prefer the idea of them walking slowly on the sidewalk and looking in the windows, although driving would make the story more dramatic. And his ex-wife saw a copy of Sophie’s Choice in a window display at a used bookstore. She actually got teary. And when he asked why, she said she couldn’t believe someone had parted with their copy of the book.

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Spent the past few days sick and yesterday was my first day back in action. And since this is the first time I’ve logged into my blog since then, I also have 4,502 “comments” to moderate. Primarily spam. And every once in a while, a message from Chris or Henry. Days like this one wonders if she should turn off the comments feature again.

News and successes:

1. The coffee house around the corner from my office has re-opened. This means that the business that has been the only open property in a four-block radius since the storm now has competition. Nothing like a coffee house to compete with the V.I.P. Massage Lounge. It occurred to me yesterday that in ten years our street will look very different. There are signs of promise but evidence of the difficulty of that too. It occurred to me that the evolution needs to be photographed. Or at least described. Henceforth, description.

2. In looking at historic records recently, I couldn’t figure out where the Jung Hotel was. This is why people and their stories are so important. The day after I discovered it was across the street from my office (in a building that has been gutted and boarded and abandoned since the storm), I walked into the office of a stranger for a different purpose. And luck would have it that she worked at the Jung Hotel as a young woman.

3. The cucumbers in the garden show promise. They have about 17 flowers. We check on the plants every morning and evening. It’s amazing how much changes in a cucumber plant’s life on a daily basis. I wonder: if we checked on the tomato plants this much, would they be doing as well?

Happy to read that Ross is also reading non-fiction. I didn’t understand my sudden apathy for poetry and The English Patient (which is so much like poetry), although once I sunk into a good essay (Mimi Schwartz’s “Off the Record” about her visit to Benheim, the village her Jewish family had to leave — “leave” is too gentle a word sometimes – with Rolf, her translator and a graduate student of Holocaust studies at the University of Mannheim, No. 3, 2006 issue of The Missouri Review), I remembered why I miss non-fiction so much and how it makes me think about poetry, or at least how real both forms are.

What do you make of a man who enters — “enters” is too gentle a word sometimes — his old girlfriend’s apartment and steals her Waterford crystal? Short story finally underway.

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Who knew I had chosen boutique Boston? Tonight it’s not even seven yet and I’m already back in my room, third story in a brownstone guest house on Newbury Street. I’m lounging on the settee in my room, admiring the lights in the windows across the streets. Spent my first hour in Boston feeling like a country bumpkin (”Excuse me, sir, it took my ticket but I couldn’t get through because my bag’s too big” and so he lets me through the handicap access so I can bump up the steps, step by step, to the T, carrying my father’s Samsonite because it’s difficult to pack business suits in my Ecko bag.) And so on I go with vegetables stitched on my socks, wearing mismatched gloves (at least both black and fuzzy) to the T, and though it’s forty degrees, I’m literally sweating, can feel the moisture at my back, my clothes layered like I was expecting twelve below, and everytime I board, switch trains, there’s that concern that I’m going in the wrong direction, but never.

The room at the Newbury Guest House is calm and quiet, and the lights in the trees on Newbury Street are sooo Boston and beautiful. Strolled to find dinner and walked past the place I would have stopped in had I been on that side of the street on the way out. Instead, wandered past the Berklee College of Music and the drum shops and piano stores to find an order-at-the-counter Thai place with pictures of Buddha, small, delicate shrines, and one towering bowling trophy. Ate for less than ten dollars and then began the stroll back toward Newbury Street. Where did all these people come from? After fourteen months in post-K New Orleans, it is absolutely amazing to see so many people and cars and lights — and look, a whole moon (as Sophie would say) peeking between some skyscrapers. What is this place so organized and moving, where construction appears a sign of renovation not rebuilding? I kept walking, peeking in the store windows and wondering how brownstones all look so tidy like handsome but silent men standing with their chests pushed out — and then I realized I’d just walked past what I must turn around and head back into.

The Trident Bookshop and Cafe — which felt a little like the Trident in Boulder and though I was curious did not ask if there was a relation because likely this is just coincidence — and I wandered to the magazine rack, which really IS a magazine rack!! Vogue in at least five languages! An art section, a film section. I wandered through the art magazines until pages revealed photographs of women posing as dead bodies at otherwise elegant locations like rooftops — and I thought, no, will not muddle all this excitement and motion with morbid artwork that I never really get anyway — like why anybody wants to pretend to be dead or photograph people pretending to be dead, I don’t understand. Does it actually seem intelligent or clever to some people? It must, not just to the photographer and women lounging about in fashionable clothes, but to the editor, and the photo editor, and maybe the copywriter, and probably the buyer, and the buyer’s friends. Anyway, I turned the corner to the film section, where a mother and child leaned against the wall, mother reading, kid asking what they were still doing there, and the reading mother looked up from her magazine to say, “It’s not even six yet, too early for dinner,” and the kid nodded, like this explained everything.

I found a magazine I’d never heard of before, admist a sea of magazines I’d never heard of before, which of course excited every magazine-loving nerve in my body. World Literature Today is published at the University of Oklahoma. This issue caught my attention because (well, first because there’s a giant image of a book burning on the cover — illustrated by Edel Rodriguez – which is hard to miss when it’s an image you can’t get out of your mind to start with) of the article “Translation as Art Restoration.” I have been giving much thought to the study of translation as being the ultimate study of the economy of a set of words, but the idea of translation as art restoration stumped me. What was that about? Tiina Nunnally examines how literature exposes us to a culture and how much of that is created or lost through translation.

So why the book burning on the cover? The issue is primarily devoted to censorship, and it opens with a quote from Joseph Brodsky’s 1987 Nobel Prize acceptance speech:

“Since there are no laws that can protect us from ourselves, no criminal code is capable of preventing a true crime against literature; though we can condemn the material supression of literature–the persectution of writers, acts of censorship, the burning of books–we are powerless when it comes to its worst violation: that of not reading the books. For that crime, a person pays with his whole life; if the offender is a nation, it pays with its history.”

It’s possible that when I’m finished this blog, which looks like it’s going to be the longest blog in the history of my blogging, I might indeed put my boots back on and return to the Trident. The cafe looked enticing. The problem was that I didn’t have with me a method of writing, other than notebook and pen, which should then be revised to say, I didn’t have my laptop with me. True that no one else could be found using one, which might mean they’re not allowed, which does actually happen in some cities and in some cafes, so the rest of the bubbly patrons don’t have to be surrounded by blue-cheeked mealies hunched over machines, fingertips jabbing away at the keys. Now where was I? If I return to the Trident, I will carry some reading material and a draft of an essay I’m working on. I also picked up the current Inkwell, which is also to say I picked up my very first own copy of Inkwell, which came off a shelf with dozens upon dozens upon dozens of literary magazines, a shelf as crowded as the streets and such a welcome sight. Civilization!

After I left the Trident, I began the walk back toward the guest house, keeping an eye out for the Hello Kitty store. A whole store devoted to Hello Kitty? Well that would be Audrey’s idea of paradise. So I would go in and pick out something special for her. But then the phone rang and I found myself walking without paying attention, directly into a construction zone that was actually well marked off for pedestrians to avoid, and yet, there’s some sort of internal New Orleans magnet now that just tries to trample right through the construction zone, and there I was, on the phone, maybe actually crying on the phone, trying to figure out – physically, metaphorically — how to get myself back on solid ground. So I climbed the steps to the brownstone (lovely stained glass front door) and sat in the lobby for a few minutes, examining an unfamiliar Mary Cassatt and debating whether to read there or come upstairs, or just stay there eavesdropping on the German lady getting a room for the night and trying to figure out where she can park her car.

So here I am. Must say that the GTD bit is improving writing productivity. No time fussing around with what needs to be written next, just doing whatever needs to be done next. I worked on the airplane on an essay that I have scheduled to be off to the editor by the end of the month. The major revision work is airplane work, and then I’ll clean it up as soon as I have my final packet and final evaluation in the post for school. As I was writing, the man next to me interrupted.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but when you write, do you have a clear idea about how what you’re writing relates to the topic sentence?”

Yes, it’s true, I got to sit next to this guy.

I cannot think of any conversation I would prefer to interrupt my writing than a conversation about the writing process. “I think so,” I said. “But also, I’m working on an essay that’s in the revision process, so I’m just digging into the middle of paragraphs and turning them inside out — topics are already there.”

He said he just wondered what was going on in my head to make my fingers type those sentences so fast and how was I typing them that fast and still thinking about what they had to do with the topic sentence. “Are you reading over my shoulder?” I asked.

“No,” he assured me, he was not. I did not believe him, but that’s okay

(and brief interruption to remark that what a fine step it is in my life to not believe someone!)

because I assumed he was being polite. Might have been rude to say that of course he had been reading over my shoulder and that’s why he asked. Had he not been looking, he might have only been able to guess I was writing sentences that supported topic sentences. It turns out he’s a middle school English teacher, and when I returned to my essay, he returned to the study of pronouns, which made me happy too. For years I kept a little grammar book in the bathroom because one can never know too much grammar. I have a few charred pages of it too. So I replaced it with another grammar book I’ve had since I was a kid, outdated now since it’s a 1960s textbook, but some rules don’t change, and it is actually interesting to know which have, but that book was promptly tossed into the bathtub by my three year old. Floating pronouns. Mildewy pronouns. 

The school teacher is in a poem. I didn’t know he was a school teacher when I wrote the poem. At that point, I had summed him up as a some type of community outreach leader — someone who might lead activities for a church. Now I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me to ask him if he taught in a public school or religious one. The poem is not actually about him, although he and his wife make an important appearance. I was supposed to sit between them (”Middle Seat” is the working title of the poem), which she wasn’t too happy about, and I said that if they were together I would be more than happy to take the window. Does that say enough? If you know my life well enough, and what I might have thought on looking out the window at St. Louis and the Mississippi River and the suburbs with streets like spines below — well, then you might have an idea how this couple became lodged in my brain and needed to be written about, simply because I had been assigned the seat between them and chose the window instead. It’s nice to have something pretty to look at.

But then a funny thing happened — you see, this was the same plane I had ridden from New Orleans to St. Louis, so that seat really was mine and had been for a couple hours — but I realized I was sitting in the seat where a man had previously been next to me. On that first flight, as the attendants came around and offered drinks, he ordered a club soda with some orange juice. And then he said, “Funny how you always order something different on planes.” The “you” struck me. I ordered ginger ale, which is the only soda I regularly drink, caffeine free, although I prefer different brands than they served. No, I was not ordering anything different than usual just because I was on a plane, but this was a very interesting characteristic to note. So I smiled and gave him a little laugh. “Yeah,” I said, “I guess so.”

And on the next leg of the trip, when I was in that fellow’s seat and the school teacher was in mine, the school teacher ordered a Coke. He looked at me and held it up, “I love this stuff,” he said. I shook my head like my ears were clogged. “What?” I asked. “Coke,” he said, “I love Coke.” This is a strange first sentence to a stranger, I thought, but then he added, “I never drink Coke anymore.”

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This semester has been going well. I sent my fourth packet to Joan this weekend and hope to finish my essay by the fifth packet. I had hopes of finishing by the fourth, but there was still plenty work to be done. I was able, though, to send two poems with this packet — one of which is close to completion and the other of which is barely a first draft. I’m looking forward to wrapping up the essay so I can return to my creative work, and also so I can return to an essay that I’m working on with the guidance of an editor who would like to see revisions that can render it publishable. I’ve given myself until December to finish that one, which I think is a realistic deadline.

I wrote my first short story in years this weekend. Fiction hasn’t captured my attention much since I started working on my MFA, for writing or reading. Part of that is just that my time and energy needs to be devoted to poetry since that’s what I’m focusing on, but it felt good to write a story. A friend recently sent the beginning of a novel he’s working on — an excellent beginning that I can’t wait to read the rest of. And as I commented on it, I recognized that he expanded and condensed time well. He could move through large periods of times, years, in a matter of paragraphs or pages, and then could expand a moment into so many paragraphs that the instant was felt with intense clarity. My short story takes place within ten minutes. It’s not very long — about 2,000 words — and there’s only one current primary action in the story. The content takes place in the narrator’s mind as it occurs, both in mental reaction to the current action and as flashback of a similar previous experience that happenend twelve years prior. Working on Bishop this semester has helped my writing in so many ways, and this is another — because I’m learning how to collapse the distance of time so that time present and time past merge just as they do in our experiences as we experience one event and, through it, re-experience a past event.

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