Chop Wood, Carry Fucking Water

What happened is I didn't get the Journey Prize. Neither did Kevin Hardcastle. This guy named Alex Pugsley did for the story he wrote, "Crisis on Earth X." It's a story I like, so I can't even be sore about how shit shook out.

Here's the thing: a fuckload of money is always nice (kick out the legs of anyone who says otherwise), but at the end of the day (in my case, this was a day where the only thing I'd eaten that resembled food was free and then not-free beer) it's beside the point. Being in writing and publishing is a lot like owning a cat. You put a lot of love and care and time into this thing that could care less about you, and you're happy to do it. But every once and a while that little motherfucker jumps into your lap for snugs and your goddamn heart explodes. Being up for a prize, or having some stranger mention maybe liking or appreciating something you've written or worked on, is a heart exploding cuddle.

It's hard to be resentful in this industry. In his acceptance speech, Mr. Pugsley alluded to luck's role in the award, and this luck certainly has a lot to do with that shit. But before the luck, all there is is work. I feel really fortunate to have sat awkwardly in a suit in a theater full of hard fucking workers. Writers, editors, publishers, volunteers: these people destroy certain important corners of their whole lives to foist their product on a world that on some days couldn't give less of a shit. And they're all happy to do it, and not even everyone needs to mollify rancorous minds with booze.

I know some Buddhist said this first, but I like to attribute this quote to a man named Peter Henderson, who's managed to manage the Bookshelf Cinema for about as many years as I've alive: "Before enlightenment, chop wood and carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood and carry fucking water." All there is is work. Any story or book you read is just the placid head of a duck that's kicking like fucking nuts under the water. And the thing about these award things is no matter who wins, everyone goes back to work the next morning. Or, in my case, you ignore the wood and water for a day while all those cans and pints of Mad Tom IPA get tired of punching you in the brain.

Yak and Forth

In the lead-up to the Writer's Trust foofaraw, Fiction Prize nominee Alix Ohlin and I back-and-forthed about how hard writing can be and how awesome it is when it's over. Read this at the National Post, or here's the text:

Andrew Hood: Howdy Alix! Not to get off on a weird foot, but I was in the crowd when you launched Babylon and Other Stories in Montreal, way back whenever that was. I was in my second year (or thereabouts) of a creative writing undergrad and can acutely recall holding onto you and your book of stories as an example of a youngster’s (I guess I’d qualify as a toddler, or maybe zygote) ability to deftly boot the door in. You’re four books in and still pretty spring chicken-y, but do you remember “You” when Babylon came out, or “You” in the time before? Is there writing stuff you’re hip to now that you wish you’d known then?

Alix Ohlin: Hi Andrew! That’s not weird, it’s very nice. Thanks retroactively for coming to my Babylon launch. I’m always amazed and grateful when anybody comes to an event who isn’t an immediate family member or old roommate. I don’t know if I feel that much different now, as a writer, than I did back then. I still think of myself as someone who’s learning the ropes – if not about publication, then certainly about writing itself, which is so slippery and intricate a task that I may never master it.  All I can do is keep trying. How about you? I know your second book came out this spring. Was it a different experience from the first one, and if so, how?

Hood: That first book came out in an impossible way. None of those stories had been published before, so they were written with a real youthful alacrity – I hadn’t gone through that necessary meat grinder of submitting, you know? From that naivety came this fleeting feeling that I knew what I was doing. When that first book did okay, that initial aplomb was pretty quickly replaced by dread. I felt, and still feel, in over my head. My second book of stories was kind of written as a reaction to those indefatigable, marrowy feelings of inadequacy. It’s weird that people like it and that a story in there might win an award. Inside‘s already got a few nominations under its belt. How does that slippery, always-trying feeling co-exist with outside assurance that what you’ve done is tenable? Or does it even?

Ohlin: Yes, I hear you on the feeling of inadequacy. Worry is the real constant of my writing life; it’s my companion and my home town. Compared to awards or other assurances, which are fleeting and external, the intensity of my self-criticism is exponentially more powerful. I think this is actually good in a lot of ways; it keeps me from being complacent and keeps me working hard. It always directs my focus to the next book, because I hope so very much that it will be better than the previous ones. That’s one of my favourite parts of the process, in fact: the dreamed-of perfection of the new thing. I write towards that perfection even though I know I’ll never achieve it. What’s your favourite part?

Hood: The best part of writing is totally the idiot barreling towards a perfection that probably isn’t and shouldn’t be there. Maybe it’s a nerdy disposition that has every failure (even when it’s briefly debilitating) feel like an opportunity to try again. But at the same time, there’s no better feeling than pulling a piece off. A story working out feels like the end of a heist movie – like you’ve gotten away with something huge. And it’s a rush that, time after time, never dulls. I’ve been working on a novel for two years and suspect that, should I ever finish the thing, the payoff will be an emotional wallop requiring either a lot of sleep or a lot of beer to recover from. Do you get this? And if so, how does finishing a short story compare to finishing a novel?

Ohlin: I like that heist description; I think it’s apt. And I have had the lucky experience, a few times in my life, of pouring a story out all at once and knowing right away that it was, if not done, then set and proper in its outlines. It just felt right. Such a great feeling! With a novel, unless you’re demented or on drugs, I don’t think that’s ever going to happen. It’s such a long process with so many ups and downs built into it. You don’t so much finish as finally let go. So the emotional wallop is, to me, almost wistful, if that makes sense. (But sleep and beer are called for, yes, absolutely.) But I feel like I’m making writing sound more like drudge-work than it really is, so let me switch tacks and say that I love how funny your story “Manning” is. As I was reading it, I was wondering if you were cracking yourself up while you were writing it and came up with the idea of calling one of the characters a “big pile of human being” and then just “the pile.” Were you?

Hood: I wasn’t cracking up, but I was certainly keeping myself entertained. Because – you’re absolutely right – the work, when it’s going well, is anything but drudgey. I tend to gravitate to dark and mean-spirited subject matter and I think the humour comes from having to entertain myself while I’m slogging around in the muck I’ve chosen for myself. Plus, I have a hard time subjecting readers to the kind of negativity I’m into without cracking wise. I wanted for the epigram of my second book a Tony Millionaire comic strip: Guy 1 chuckles to himself, Guy 2 asks what’s so funny. Guy 1 answers, “The horror of being alive.” I love that; it wound up in the acknowledgements. Where do you stand on this, Alix? From Babylon and Inside I get the sense that you’re very much interested in testing the emotional and psychological tethers in people, but you’re much better at keeping a straight face (that’s not to say that there’s not a great deal of humour in your writing) than I am. Do you set course for these destinations, or do you tend to get blown there by whatever winds?

Ohlin: Many of my favourite writers combine humour and pathos (aka the hilarious horror of being alive), so I’m definitely aligned with you on that. For me, the process of finding the right tone for a piece—sometimes overtly funny, sometimes less so—has to be pretty organic. Before Inside, I had written a comic novel and a number of stories that featured similar narrators, usually a young woman with a skeptical view on the absurdity of the world. I was interested in broadening the kinds of characters who appeared in my work, and I knew that in order to tell their stories in the right way, I might wind up broadening my style as well. Do you ever think about sameness and variation in your writing? Or, to put it another way, how and where do you find surprise?

Hood: There are sort of two phases to how I write: the first is a rush of opinion, or mood – usually both caustic or maudlin; and the second, the meat of the work, the editing, is something like an adjudication of my initial inclinations. I usually end up disagreeing with that first rush, or get sad that I’d been hemmed in by something fleeting. This is where that surprise lives. Before I start to worry about sameness in my writing, I worry about sameness in my living or in my thinking. And I’m definitely there now. Chock it up to nearing thirty, maybe. I try to stay out of writers’ lives, but since I’ve got you on the horn here maybe I’ll ask about your life and your writing. Do you have an I Love Lucy strip of tape dividing one from the other? Or is the membrane pretty porous?

Ohlin: Do you mean in terms of writing autobiographically?  I think every word on the page betrays something about a writer’s life – because of how personal the process is, and how much it derives from your preoccupations and perceptions of the world. But as I get older I’m becoming much less interested in excavating my own particular experiences. I’m more curious about other people, trying to figure out what makes them tick, or exploring narrative structures and events that have nothing to do with myself. I think we’re closing out on this Q&A, so I’ll ask, how do you handle endings? What do you think makes a good one?

Hood: As an adult, I’ve yet to really write a plotted story where the resolution of the animating conflict would be the end. Writing the stories that wound up collected as The Cloaca (which “Manning” kicks off) I was aiming for satisfyingly unsatisfying endings, where the characters don’t really come to understand anything, but understand that something is there be understood. “Manning” has one of my favourite endings, with the son and mother managing to create some meaning from a situation in which they’ve both sort of missed each other’s point. Ending a short story is tricky, as that traditional epiphanic moment has become so tired. A bad or expected ending can blow an otherwise great story all to hell, I find. There’s that old Flannery O’Connor anecdote about Flan not knowing her bible salesman would steal Hugla’s leg until it happened. I really subscribe to this. A good story is usually pregnant with a good ending, and I guess the writer’s job is to make sure that everyone comes out screaming and hale when the right time comes. I want to ask you about the ending of Inside, but don’t want to give it away. Maybe I’ll ask you this (and leave you with the last word): did you know how it was going to end when you began? Do you ever know your endings when you start? Have you ever stolen someone’s prosthesis?

Ohlin: I don’t tend to go for the completely wrapped-up ending either. Instead, I cross my fingers and hope that there’s enough resolution – usually thematic or emotional, rather than plotted – for readers to come away with some sense of what the story is about, while leaving room for them to bring their own interpretations.  With Inside, I didn’t follow the characters all the way home, so to speak, but I tried to show how they were headed there. I don’t like to know the exact ending before I start.  But I often think of writing as if it were a piece of music, and I know, in a general sense, the kind of note I want to finish on: the big swelling crescendo, the fade away, a major chord or a minor one. I imagine that note lingering in the reader’s mind, and aim for it. And I have never stolen a prosthesis, though I have come into possession of an abandoned one. But that’s a story for another day.

Comedy

Horse walks into a bar.

Bartender asks, "Hey, Horse. Why the long face?"

"Because my life is terrible," says Horse. "Beer, please."

Dumpster Driving

Now watch this video with the sound off, and imagine this man is explaining how to break a sassy dog's spirit, or is describing an hilarious crime he witnessed, or trying to understand how the robot warrior he built went astray. Then go read his story Gorilla Painting 26' X 32' Acrylic On Canvas at Joyland. Once you're through with that, track down the rags he's previously stained--one awesome one made it into the Journey Prize. And once you've read all there is to read, just sit there and wait for him to deign to publish a book.

Totally Something Worth Leaving Your House For

So I don't know who you are, let alone where you are. But let's say you're a person in the Waterloo, Ontario, Canada region who's into writerly things. If that's the case, then holy shit do I ever have good news for you. In both your very own backyard and in your very own wheelhouse, there's going to be a writer's festival. And even holier shit: I'll be there!

Throw some pants and a cleanish shirt on on November 3. I'll be yakking it up in chairs and maybe behind a table with Alexander Macleod and Tamas Dobozy. I've never met Mr. Dobozy, but musclebound Kris Bertin has nothing but nice, non-violent things to say about Mr. Macleod, so I can only assume this panel will be the best thing ever, totally worth leaving your house for.

Find out more about the Wild Writer's Literary Festival HERE, whoever you are.

"I Can't Get Out of This!"

 I killed this past June in Arizona, where instead of finishing my novel, I changed the thing completely. When I got this Journey Prize questionnaire, I was staying in a KOA Kabin in Flagstaff, beering more than I was writing, hiking up Mt. Elden in the day and at night reading Whitley Streiber's Communion. Thinking and talking about old writing while sweating new stuff is not always a good feeling, let me tell you...

1. What was your reaction when you found out your story had been selected for The Journey Prize Stories?

There was elation and pride, sure, but later on. The first feeling was a sick feeling. I think I found out about this whole to-do on the second day of working full time on the book that I'd gotten some support and quit my job to write, and those first few days went pretty miserably. What I like to call The Dread was unpacking it's bags, cuing up episodes of The Simpsons to watch in lieu of doing anything worthwhile. To get word that something I'd done a year ago was considered decent by a cadre of people who should know  triggered a kind of panic. What I'd done and what I was doing had absolutely nothing in common. That was another guy who did those JP stories. I'll tell what would be awesome: if you could somehow, impossibly, find out about these nods while you're in the throws of fret. Future You lands his rigged phone booth into you office and assures you that the garbage you're working on will turn out okay in end.

2. Who is the first person you told the good news to?

I told The Dread first, and it was all like, "Fine. Okay. But what have you done lately?"

3. What is your story about, and what was the inspiration for it?

"Manning" is about a son and mom trying to sell a split dad's card collection at basically a flea market. "I'm Sorry and Thank You" is about a drunk we don't know much about encountering a mother changing her baby on his front lawn.

"Manning" is somewhat inspired by this one time when I was a squirt and decided I'd sell all my sports cards, which I had been collecting just out of habit. I put an add in the Pennysaver and that Saturday set up a card table with my collection splayed out on it. All these fat, sweaty adult men showed up and got really mad at me because my cards were in no order and I had no idea what I had.

"I'm Sorry and Thank You" comes from a fairly literal source. I was working in this bookstore and on my lunch breaks I'd go to a bar down the street and usually drink two pints.This one day, I saw a hippy woman unwrapping her kid on the lawn of the pub. Seeing the mess, it occurred to me that a pre-solid baby basically makes a birds mess, and for the life of me I couldn't remember what the hole that birds have was called. When it came to me later on in my shift, it was an amazing, troubling feeling.

4. When did you write it? How long did it take?

"I'm Sorry" was written probably in about the time it takes to read, which never happens to me and will probably never happen again. "Manning" also came out quick, but I spent a while tinkering, taking our and adding curses. Both stories happened sort of simultaneously, at a time where I was keeping a notebook and forcing myself to meet a daily quota. I'm not doing that now, and so produce very little it turns out.

5. Did you do any research for the story?

I was going to ask, "Does beer count as research?" but it occurs to me that I'm nearly thirty and that's sad. So, no.

6. Did the story, its themes, or its characters surprise you in any way?

Pickle wanting to keep the Rance Davis card for himself came as a surprise. I know we're told every character should have a Want, but I don't usually think of story in these terms, and I think my characters aren't usually desire-driven. It's sad to admit, but when all of a sudden this character had a clear Want in the story, I got a bit scared. I didn't know how to write that.

7. Did you have an “aha” moment while working on the story?

8. What is your favourite line in the story?

My favorite lines are probably the best examples of bad writing. From "I'm Sorry:" "A bunch of people had died somewhere because of something, he read." From "Manning:" "Whatever happened, something would happen."

9. What is the best advice you’ve received about writing?

Trevor Ferguson once told me that, in the current climate, it's against all odds that anyone ever will read anything you write, let alone like or understand it, so you can feel free to write your goddamn heart out. He said it with a few more flowers though.

10. How many attempts did it take before your story was accepted for publication?

I detest the submission process, so I rarely submit. With both stories, I got on base with the first swing.

11. What advice do you have for someone looking to publish a story in a literary magazine?

At the time when I was submitting like nuts, I was submitting garbage and getting raw about it being rejected. Besides patience and sympathy for the people who have spend their days up to their tits in garbage submissions, I think a young writer should spend a lot of time honing an understanding of how publishable their stuff actually is. If a young writer's going to be a grouch about having a story rejected, then they should have to back that attitude up with a thirty page essay, with a works cited, on why they think their story about a young girl coming to the city from the country and finally knowing what it is to be free deserves to be published.

12. What do you love most about the short story form?

There are a lot of things I don't like about the short story form, but maybe this isn't the machine to do that particular laundry in. What I love about short stories that I love is this lie that they tell you. I'm thinking here about Munro and Hemple and Lorrie Moore. Some people will tell you that the way to structure your story is with conflict and resolution, and then put an acetate on the overhead showing a graph of rise and fall--what I like to call the Stereotypical Male Orgasm Graph. When the writing's good, graphed stories like this can be good. But what I absolutely love about the short story form is it's ability to balk this structure in a way that novels can't. There'll be the opening conflict usually--the lie, like I was saying, or we can call it the arousal--but instead of the story being a machine of resolution, that climbing rise and fall, a great short story can--to maybe misremember a Leonard Cohen line--cover its reader with unspecific kisses, can be about constant, pleasing tension in a way that I have more trouble tolerating with longer forms.

13. What is your favourite short story and/or short fiction collection, and why?  

I love Amy Hemple's Collected Stories, and Lorrie Moore's Collected Stories (which I had to order from the UK). I feel safe when I've got these books handy.

14. Are there any short fiction collections or short story writers you feel should be better known?

I don't know who's known and who's not--it's been a while since I've travelled in those circles. As an up-and-comer, I love this guy Kevin Moffett. His first collection, "Permanent Visitors," I really love. I think he might be better known in the US than he is in CA.

15. What is the last short story or collection that really made an impression on you?

I got Kris Bertin (fellow JP nominee) to hand over his manuscript. His stuff is just thrilling to read. It's hurt and smart in a way that I crave from writing.

16. What are you working on currently?

Holy moly. I'm writing a stupid novel. I tried. I tried so hard to keep the story a short story, but it wouldn't do it, wouldn't have it. I'm answering these questions from a cabin in Arizona (and now typing them out in a bar in town with wi-fi) where I'll hopefully finish the stupid thing. It's about two estranged sisters who sort of go looking for their father who vanished in the Superstition Mountains while searching for the Lost Dutchman's Mine. I think it might also be about what reality is. I have no idea what I'm doing. The stupid thing might be terrible. I'll tell you, right now's one of those times when I could really use a visit from Future Me. In his stead, beer will have to do. Beer and the urging of The Dread.

 

Between You & Me, I Sneak Beer Into Movies

Hey you cloacas! I know I haven't been keeping this place up to date... There are more sad, personal reasons that I've been a slouch, but also I've been building up a blog for the Bookshelf Cinema. Said infidelity can be found HERE.

I don't know if you know this, but The Bookshelf in Guelph is one of the, well... uh... BEST PLACES EVER. And I'm fortunate enough to be from time to time employed by them. Currently, I use the daytime cinema lobby as my office, where I'm currently writing the aforementioned The Kingdom of Reality.

So hang in there. I'm sure there's enough Blog to go around. If not, then this space shall slowly but surely become a source for what's current and coming at the Bookshelf Cinema.