Once upon a time, there lived in nice house on a nice street in a nice town, two teenage boy cats. Their names were Damon and Clooney, and they were very difficult teenage boy cats. Every day before they left for school, they went through their middle-aged mother’s wallet and took money that didn’t belong to them so that they could go to 7-Eleven during their lunch break and buy Slurpees. It should be noted that by engaging in this activity, they broke not one, but two rules, as not only is stealing wrong, but leaving the grounds of their high school was a privilege given only to seniors.
When their middle-aged mother would confront them after school, they would both deny having taken the money and would point their paws (claws retracted) at each other. One morning, Damon and Clooney went about their usual morning routine of eating Captain Crunch cereal and washing it down with lemon lime club soda. Just prior to leaving, they indulged themselves in routing through their mother’s purse, from which they pocketed her cash. When lunchtime came, they scampered off to the local 7-Eleven and purchased the unholy concoction of Dr. Pepper, Mountain Dew and Orange Gatorade mixed Slurpees. They exited the store, and proceeded to suck the drink as they walked back to school, fat and happy little teenage boy cats.
While Damon and Clooney were engaging in their illicit behavior, their mother was at the mall searching for new bras, which happened to be on sale at Macy’s. This was a chore that she would do once every two years – stretching it out as long as possible (quite literally) as the task was a tiresome one. Approximately two hours later, having exhausted herself by trying on a dozen Maidenform, Warner’s, Bali and Playtex medium to full –figured models, she selected four (two white, one black and one ivory) and made her purchase, paying for her new undergarments with her Macy’s card. She made her way to the parking garage and proceeded to exit the mall. At least that was the middle-aged mother cats’ intentions. Unfortunately, after handing the parking attendant her parking ticket and opening her wallet to extract her cash, she discovered much to her annoyance, that her two teenage boy cats had once again . . . cleaned her out. The middle-aged mother cat of two teenage boy cats projected a doleful expression toward the attendant and apologized for having to use a credit card to exit the garage, in turn causing a loud and irritating honking of horns and inconvenient backing up of vehicles. It was at that moment, that deep in her heart, she experienced a mixture of middle-aged mother cat rage, resentment, disappointment and hopelessness directed toward her teenage boy cats. These teenage boy cats have pilfered from me for the last time, she thought to herself. Had she known that at that very moment, Damon and Clooney were leaning back in their chairs in the middle of Chemistry I and Major Women Writers of the 19th Century respectfully, belching loudly and creating a commotion of their own, she may have gone straight to the school , instead of going home.
Upon their arrival home that afternoon, Damon and Clooney were informed of the consequences of their selfish act, and were told that they would be grounded for the next two weeks. The two cats looked at one another and sniggered. Their mother cat told them to go upstairs and do their homework and not to bother her until supper time. Supper was a dismal affair, as the mother cat has spent the afternoon stewing over her teenage boy cats’ misdeeds and did not feel like preparing a nice dinner. Instead they were given bowls of cereal with no milk, and sadly, no lemon lime club soda to wash the dry mess down with. Shortly after they retired for the night, and certain that their mother was asleep, Damon and Clooney decided to sneak out of the house, go to 7-eleven and use their own money (they did after all have part-time jobs) to purchase a more satisfying dinner. Once out the window, the cats were on their way and celebrated by singing an insipid little ditty about a less than virtuous young lady cat and her personal attributes. Just as they were finishing up the chorus, they were shocked to discover that bags had been placed over their heads, their paws had been tied behind their backs, and they were being goose-stepped away. Judging from the absence of the aroma of 99 cent big bites, it was clear that they were not headed in the direction of 7-eleven.
After a quick car ride, Damon and Clooney found themselves in a room full of comfy chairs, large feathers and numerous squeaky toys. For a moment they thought they’d died and gone to cat heaven. That was until they heard a deep growl coming from behind them. They turned to see a large grey Mastiff dog wearing a blue and green Pasha’s hat.
“What the . . .” started Damon.
“Silence!” roared the large grey Mastiff dog. The large dog stood up on all four legs, towering over the two teenage boy cats. Damon and Clooney sank as close to the floor as they could go and put their ears back. Clooney tried desperately to stifle the hair that was quickly rising along his back, but was unsuccessful.
The large dog walked slowly around the two cats, sniffing and nudging them occasionally with his nose. As he walked, the cats became aware of a clacking sound coming from his blue and green Pasha’s hat. Upon closer attention, the sound was revealed to be caused by a fringe of cat teeth hanging from the hats layers, which would bang together as the large dog moved about.
“What do you want from us?” asked Damon nervously, resisting the urge to wash his face with his paws.
“We have some money for 99 cent Big Bites,” said Clooney, hopefully.
The large dog leaned in close to the cats’ faces and scoffed, “I have my own money for 99 cent Big Bites.” His voice became a growl “I choose not to indulge in them.” He sat down again, inspected his toe nails for a moment and then crossed his paws. “Besides,” he said in a matter of fact tone, “they’re bad for you, you know?”
The two cats looked around the room, eyeing the many cat toys just inches away from them. Clooney, sensing a caring side to the beast, sat up and asked “Where’d you get that squirrel on a string over there?”
The large dog looked at the squirrel on a string, and yawned. Clooney took a step toward the toy, but thought better of it, when he heard a low growl emanating from the large grey dog.
“Are you going to tell us what you want from us?” asked and impatient Damon, his ADHD clearly getting the best of him and cancelling out any common sense that may have been lurking in his small teenage boy cat brain.
The large dog swung his large head toward the cat, letting loose a long strand of thick drool which slapped Damon across the face. Damon flattened himself against the floor again.
“What I want from you two, is to watch you play.”
The two teenage cats looked at one another and shrugged. “Mmm ok,” said Clooney, who again set forth toward the squirrel on a string.
“Not with that!” snapped the large dog. The two cats looked at each other again. Damon asked “What do you want us to play with?”
The large dog sat up taller, glared at the two cats and said “I want you to play . . . Patty Cake.”
“Seriously?” asked Clooney, tearing his head away from the treasure that lay before him.
“Seriously,” answered the dog.
And so the two teenage boy cats were placed upon a desk where there sat two computer monitors depicting the images of boy cats whom Damon and Clooney could only presume were previous victims of the large grey Mastiff dog.
“Commence play” growled the large dog, and so the two cats took deep breaths and proceeded to play Patty Cake. When they had finished, the dog said “Again!” The cats looked at one another, sighed and continued their game. Somewhere into the sixth hour, they began to tire of the activity. With sore paws and back muscles at their breaking point, they even forgot the pattern. At this, they became short tempered, frequently called one another “Dude,” and eventually resorted to fisticuffs. They did however manage to pull themselves together and resumed their play. This went on for nine and one quarter hours, until there was a rap on the door.
“Enter!” bellowed the dog. The door opened to reveal the middle-aged mother cat, holding her car keys and wallet protectively.
“Thank you,” she said to the large grey mastiff dog. The large dog bowed and replied “Certainly. I haven’t fed them, but I have kept them busy.”
And so the middle-aged mother cat left the home of the large grey Mastiff dog Pasha, with her two errant teenage boy cats in tow. When they returned to their home, they were grateful for having not been eaten by the large dog, and they vowed to their middle-aged mother cat to never take money from her again.
Below is a video confiscated from the home of the large grey Mastiff dog’s Room of Penance for Wayward Teenage Cats. WARNING – this video may be painful to watch.
Written by Lisa Emig, May 12, 2011
Not to be reprinted without permission of the author.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
The Demon Sheep A Cautionary Tale
Once upon a time, on a small farm in Greenwich, Connecticut, there lived a group of teenage sheep. Chelsea, Kelsey, Courtney, Amanda, Brittany, Morgan, Lauren, Campbell and Sally liked to hang out together after sheep high school, and talk about things that mattered to teenage girl sheep. The prettiest of the teenage sheep was named Morgan. All of the other girl sheep liked to sit next to her in hopes of becoming her best friend, and always made certain that their hooves and bottoms were clean of sheep dip before approaching her. The sheep had been together since they were born and some of them even shared the same mother (their paternal lineage was never discussed).
As the sheep grew up, they looked very much the same, and the farmer needed to mark them with a tag in order to tell one from the other. Morgan on the other hand seemed to stand out from the other sheep, as her fleece was just a bit whiter and softer. Whenever the sheep were put out to pasture for their sheep exercise, they would jump around and pose seductively for the herd of teenage boy sheep that lived on the other side of the fence. Lauren and Amanda even smoked the occasional sheep cigarette.
One day while out exercising, the teenage boy sheep began to take notice of Sally. Sally was a little fuller in the hips than Morgan, and her fleece had more of wheat color to it. It was however, very fluffy and soft. One teenage boy sheep named Dylan approached the fence and called out “Hey, tan sheep! You want to go bowling on Friday?” To which Morgan responded, “Who are you calling tan sheep? My fleece is as white as snow!” Dylan wrinkled his nose finished chewing a blade of grass, coughed up some of the grass and said “Yeah, you’re fleece is white, so you should have figured out that I wasn’t talking to you Snowy.” Morgan looked taken aback; in fact she took a few steps back, and passed a small amount of wind. She shook her head and said “Well then who are you speaking to?” The other teenage girl sheep looked around the herd nervously, inspecting the shade of their own fleece. Dylan, whose mouth was once again full of grass, took his time chewing, and when he was done, pointed with his nose in the direction of Sally, who was trying desperately to lose the attentions of a determined fly buzzing around her ears. The other sheep in the herd looked at Sally and then at Morgan and then at Dylan and then at the grass in front of them. Some of them even pawed the ground embarrassed.
“Tan sheep! I asked if you want to go bowling Friday night.” Dylan managed to get out while repeatedly hacking up balls of wet grass.
Sally looked at Dylan and then at Morgan, and then at the grass in front of her. “Um . . . “she began but before she could get out a proper sheep answer, she looked back at Morgan who was flaring her sheep nostrils in a furious fashion. “Uh, no thank you. I’m not allowed to go bowling with teenage boy sheep yet.”
Dylan looked up from his regurgitated ball of grass and responded “Meh!”
This proved to be a very bad turn of events for Sally, as Morgan became irrationally jealous of her fellow sheep whose fleece was wheat colored. That night after the teenage girl sheep had had their dinner and were finished watching The Vampire Diaries, Morgan began to send text messages to her fellow herd sisters. “Sally’s a hoe,” said one message sent to Courtney. “Don’t talk to Sally; she’ll steel everyone’s’ teenage sheep boyfriends,” she sent to Chelsea. “Sally’s a devil sheep” read Campbell read on her cell phone. And so it transpired, that over the next few days, Sally was omitted from the group. She felt terrible about this, but mostly just felt lonely. The farmer noticed that the other sheep wouldn’t go near Sally and he worried that she was inflicted with some kind of dangerous teenage girl sheep disease. He called the vet out to his farm and showed him how the other sheep were treating Sally. “What do you think it is Doc?” He asked nervously. The vet climbed over the fence and approached Sally. Sally was so happy to have someone pay attention to her, that she gladly ambled over to the vet and allowed him to pat her. He looked in her ears, he checked her eyes, opened her mouth and inspected her teeth, ran his hands down her legs. When he was finished with the inspection, he looked at the farmer and said “Nothing wrong with this sheep, in fact, she’s the most beautiful sheep I’ve ever seen. Problem is the other sheep know it. These teenage girl sheep are tricky. I imagine that there is one in the herd who is intimidating the others into shunning this one. The sheep until now had been moving slowly together toward the vet, the farmer and Sally. When they heard this, they stopped immediately and began to wander aimlessly in different directions, with Morgan running the farthest away. The vet watched the sheep for a moment and said to the Farmer “There’s your leader, that one out under the tree. If it were my sheep, I’d give her a taste of her own medicine.” The farmer thanked the vet profusely for his advice and set about thinking of an appropriate punishment for Morgan.
The next day when the farmer called the sheep for their breakfast, they all appeared except for Morgan. The girl sheep were halfway through their breakfast of Eggo Waffles and Sunny Delight, when the door to the pen opened and in walked what appeared to be a demon of sorts. “Damn!” said Brittany scooting as far away from the demon sheep as she could get. The other sheep followed suit. The demon sheep seemed to have a bit of difficulty maneuvering the pen, but clearly had set a path for the other sheep. As soon as it would get within a few feet of the herd, they would shift to another corner of the pen. This went on for most of the morning, until the demon sheep gave up, found a corner and laid down. The other sheep found a corner in the opposite side of the pen and laid down in a heap together. They didn’t close their eyes however; instead they lay watching the demon sheep. A little while later the farmer came into the pen and approached the demon sheep. He bent down and removed what appeared to be the face of the demon. The rest of the herd gasped as they recognized the familiar fluffy white face of Morgan. “Now, let that be a lesson to you! No more ostracizing the pretty sheep. You have to play with everyone, or I’ll make you wear the mask and I’ll take away your Starbucks gift card. And that goes for the rest of you!”
Eventually the herd gathered enough courage to approach Morgan to see if in fact it was her. By the end of the day, Morgan had apologized to Sally for excluding her and starting hurtful and unimaginative rumors about her character. The teenage sheep eventually grew into adult female sheep, married, produced lambs of their own and proceeded to bully their lamb’s teachers and more gifted friends.
And that is the legend of the demon sheep.
If you'd like to see Morgan in her demon sheep mask, by all means, click on the link below - I must warn you though, it is not a pretty and may not be appropriate for teenage girl sheep).
As the sheep grew up, they looked very much the same, and the farmer needed to mark them with a tag in order to tell one from the other. Morgan on the other hand seemed to stand out from the other sheep, as her fleece was just a bit whiter and softer. Whenever the sheep were put out to pasture for their sheep exercise, they would jump around and pose seductively for the herd of teenage boy sheep that lived on the other side of the fence. Lauren and Amanda even smoked the occasional sheep cigarette.
One day while out exercising, the teenage boy sheep began to take notice of Sally. Sally was a little fuller in the hips than Morgan, and her fleece had more of wheat color to it. It was however, very fluffy and soft. One teenage boy sheep named Dylan approached the fence and called out “Hey, tan sheep! You want to go bowling on Friday?” To which Morgan responded, “Who are you calling tan sheep? My fleece is as white as snow!” Dylan wrinkled his nose finished chewing a blade of grass, coughed up some of the grass and said “Yeah, you’re fleece is white, so you should have figured out that I wasn’t talking to you Snowy.” Morgan looked taken aback; in fact she took a few steps back, and passed a small amount of wind. She shook her head and said “Well then who are you speaking to?” The other teenage girl sheep looked around the herd nervously, inspecting the shade of their own fleece. Dylan, whose mouth was once again full of grass, took his time chewing, and when he was done, pointed with his nose in the direction of Sally, who was trying desperately to lose the attentions of a determined fly buzzing around her ears. The other sheep in the herd looked at Sally and then at Morgan and then at Dylan and then at the grass in front of them. Some of them even pawed the ground embarrassed.
“Tan sheep! I asked if you want to go bowling Friday night.” Dylan managed to get out while repeatedly hacking up balls of wet grass.
Sally looked at Dylan and then at Morgan, and then at the grass in front of her. “Um . . . “she began but before she could get out a proper sheep answer, she looked back at Morgan who was flaring her sheep nostrils in a furious fashion. “Uh, no thank you. I’m not allowed to go bowling with teenage boy sheep yet.”
Dylan looked up from his regurgitated ball of grass and responded “Meh!”
This proved to be a very bad turn of events for Sally, as Morgan became irrationally jealous of her fellow sheep whose fleece was wheat colored. That night after the teenage girl sheep had had their dinner and were finished watching The Vampire Diaries, Morgan began to send text messages to her fellow herd sisters. “Sally’s a hoe,” said one message sent to Courtney. “Don’t talk to Sally; she’ll steel everyone’s’ teenage sheep boyfriends,” she sent to Chelsea. “Sally’s a devil sheep” read Campbell read on her cell phone. And so it transpired, that over the next few days, Sally was omitted from the group. She felt terrible about this, but mostly just felt lonely. The farmer noticed that the other sheep wouldn’t go near Sally and he worried that she was inflicted with some kind of dangerous teenage girl sheep disease. He called the vet out to his farm and showed him how the other sheep were treating Sally. “What do you think it is Doc?” He asked nervously. The vet climbed over the fence and approached Sally. Sally was so happy to have someone pay attention to her, that she gladly ambled over to the vet and allowed him to pat her. He looked in her ears, he checked her eyes, opened her mouth and inspected her teeth, ran his hands down her legs. When he was finished with the inspection, he looked at the farmer and said “Nothing wrong with this sheep, in fact, she’s the most beautiful sheep I’ve ever seen. Problem is the other sheep know it. These teenage girl sheep are tricky. I imagine that there is one in the herd who is intimidating the others into shunning this one. The sheep until now had been moving slowly together toward the vet, the farmer and Sally. When they heard this, they stopped immediately and began to wander aimlessly in different directions, with Morgan running the farthest away. The vet watched the sheep for a moment and said to the Farmer “There’s your leader, that one out under the tree. If it were my sheep, I’d give her a taste of her own medicine.” The farmer thanked the vet profusely for his advice and set about thinking of an appropriate punishment for Morgan.
The next day when the farmer called the sheep for their breakfast, they all appeared except for Morgan. The girl sheep were halfway through their breakfast of Eggo Waffles and Sunny Delight, when the door to the pen opened and in walked what appeared to be a demon of sorts. “Damn!” said Brittany scooting as far away from the demon sheep as she could get. The other sheep followed suit. The demon sheep seemed to have a bit of difficulty maneuvering the pen, but clearly had set a path for the other sheep. As soon as it would get within a few feet of the herd, they would shift to another corner of the pen. This went on for most of the morning, until the demon sheep gave up, found a corner and laid down. The other sheep found a corner in the opposite side of the pen and laid down in a heap together. They didn’t close their eyes however; instead they lay watching the demon sheep. A little while later the farmer came into the pen and approached the demon sheep. He bent down and removed what appeared to be the face of the demon. The rest of the herd gasped as they recognized the familiar fluffy white face of Morgan. “Now, let that be a lesson to you! No more ostracizing the pretty sheep. You have to play with everyone, or I’ll make you wear the mask and I’ll take away your Starbucks gift card. And that goes for the rest of you!”
Eventually the herd gathered enough courage to approach Morgan to see if in fact it was her. By the end of the day, Morgan had apologized to Sally for excluding her and starting hurtful and unimaginative rumors about her character. The teenage sheep eventually grew into adult female sheep, married, produced lambs of their own and proceeded to bully their lamb’s teachers and more gifted friends.
And that is the legend of the demon sheep.
If you'd like to see Morgan in her demon sheep mask, by all means, click on the link below - I must warn you though, it is not a pretty and may not be appropriate for teenage girl sheep).
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Time to Paint the Toenails
Ah May Day! A day where we say goodbye to winter, welcome spring, and more importantly, paint our toe nails. I have an acquaintance who celebrates May Day by shaving her legs (sorry about that, and no, I won't divulge her name). I'm pretty sure that my son, who is a freshman in college, celebrated May Day last night, by going to a party and drinking beverages that he shouldn't. My 16 year old daughter is still sleeping, so I'm not certain as to what her May Day celebration will be comprised of. I'm going to guess that it will involve taking notes for her AP History class and pleading to go to the mall. My husband ironically, has to work today, so he will not be celebrating at all.
As for me, I've already done my part by painting my toenails. Having rifled through my daughter's selection of nail polish, I settled on n.y.c. brand's Fuschia Shock Creme (this isn't as bad as it sounds, and if you wear it with, a fuschia-colored Lacoste shirt and jeans, it will do).
As for me, I've already done my part by painting my toenails. Having rifled through my daughter's selection of nail polish, I settled on n.y.c. brand's Fuschia Shock Creme (this isn't as bad as it sounds, and if you wear it with, a fuschia-colored Lacoste shirt and jeans, it will do).
Saturday, April 30, 2011
10 Questions for Bradford Morrow
ou’ve written books for children, novels, and poetry. What is your favorite genre to write in?
I’ve written quite a few essays and short stories, as well—I have a collection of stories coming out this fall, The Uninnocent—but far and away my favorite form is the novel. The nice thing about writing a short story, children’s book, or an essay (haven’t written a poem in years) is that it can be accomplished in a relatively brief period of time. Novels, at least my novels, take years, and so there’s a marathon element involved. That said, the novel is such a large, inviting, empathetic, generous, embracing art form that I find myself deeply drawn to it as a medium of expression. A writer’s largest and tiniest thoughts fit into its frame. As a reader, also, I’m far more given to reading novels than any other literary form (though I read poetry and nonfiction nearly every day, as well).
Is there a genre that you haven’t tackled yet that you’d like to?
I always thought it would be wonderful to write or even direct films. To work in solitude for a period of time and then emerge to collaborate with actors and other artists, and see the vision spring to life has always seemed like a dream job to me. On the other hand, I’m very aware that filmmaking—precisely because it is collaborative—often involves decisions made by committee. As a novelist, for better or worse, I have artistic control over the final text. And that’s one aspect of being a writer, a “solo artist” if you will, that I really like.
All of your novels deal with the importance of family. How has your own family influenced your writing?
Family is so crucial to me as a novelist because it’s central to our lives in the best and worst ways. Family, home, is where our journeys begin, but it is also the place we long to escape. It’s where we find profound love and nurturing, but also at times deep anger and resentment. Home is where we feel safest, but most vulnerable as well. Family and friendships that are as tight as blood family—this is the most complex emotional and spiritual locus of them all. So I naturally gravitate to family as a Pandora’s box that holds every kind of human desire and fear.
Many of your characters are strong, determined women searching for their places in the world. Who are your role models for these women?
I was raised in a family whose women were storytellers. There wasn’t much of a library in my childhood house, some Modern Library titles and a smattering of college chemistry stuff, but I grew up hearing plenty of oral narratives being spun. My grandmother Hoffmann, who was a dirt-poor farm girl when she grew up in Red Cloud, Nebraska, was the most memorable bard in the family and the epitome of a strong, determined woman. She was a real survivor, and made a great impression on me. (Oddly, the paternal side of my family was made up of taciturn men, quiet and mostly gentle types.) Our matriarch’s stories mostly centered on family history, family agreements, family discord—another possible reason I’m drawn as a writer to focus on families, be they broken, loving, or otherwise. That said, I think that my models for the women in my novels who are searching for a place in the world are finally a composite of any number of women (and men) I’ve met in my life. I rarely if ever model a character on an individual I know, however, and imagine that the characters in my books are all ultimately fragments of myself, and represent my own search for identity.
Your scenes in the outdoors are so fully described that nature is almost a character in the book. Where does that knowledge and respect come from?
Growing up along the front range of the Rockies, I spent a lot of my youth in the mountains and down in New Mexico and elsewhere in the Southwest, so nature was just a fundamental part of my life. My aunt and uncle had a very isolated ranch near Steamboat Springs, and I spent a lot of summers in the heart of high forests there, camping and fishing. Having lived for the past thirty years in New York City, I still get off into the woods or back out to the Southwest as often as I can. The names and nature, if you will, of trees, flowers, birds, clouds—I can’t explain exactly why these things are so important to me, talismanic really, but they are. Nature is fundamentally magical and metamorphic, and I think you’re right in saying that it invariably becomes so central a player in my narratives that it achieves the status of becoming a character, interactive with human characters, subtle and powerful.
I mention in my review that your writing is so fluid and calm that I often felt sedated while reading it. It made it very easy for me to relate to the confusion and doubt that Cassandra was experiencing. Was your intention to cast something of a spell over your readers, or did it happen by accident?
No, I can’t honestly say that I deliberately set about casting a spell or creating an atmosphere of calm, though I have heard other writers comment on this as being an important part of how The Diviner’s Tale works. I’m very aware that conventional mysteries unfold often with more overt and strenuous action. There is a lot of action in the book, obviously, but her voice enveloped me while I was writing, and I imagine that sensuous skein of voice envelops the willing reader as well.
You are a teacher, an editor and a writer. If you had to choose one of these professions over the other, which one would it be?
They all have a crucial place in my life. I adore my students and editing Conjunctions is honestly one of the best jobs in the world. My first love is writing, though.
Do you plan on writing a sequel to The Diviner’s Tale?
I have to finish my new novel, The Prague Sonata, first and then I’ll think about it. Of all my narrators, Cassandra is certainly one of my favorites and I would love to travel with her again if the right story rose to mind.
The Diviner’s Tale is a literary novel with a murder mystery tucked inside it. Do you have any plans on writing a more traditional detective story?
I wouldn’t know how to write a traditional detective story. It’s too much in my nature to break the rules of genre, stretch it into fresh forms. And whatever it is about my writing that makes it “literary” isn’t something I could suppress or change even if I wanted to.
Who are your favorite authors?
Among those of the past century or so I’d include Thomas Hardy, W.B. Yeats, Virginia Woolf, Willa Cather, Samuel Beckett, Thomas Bernhard, and more recently William Gaddis, John Fowles, Angela Carter, Cormac McCarthy, David Foster Wallace. This is a difficult question for me to answer, though, because I’ve published over a thousand writers in Conjunctions and on Web Conjunctions and since I only accept work I feel very strongly about, all those writers could also be considered among my favorites.
I’ve written quite a few essays and short stories, as well—I have a collection of stories coming out this fall, The Uninnocent—but far and away my favorite form is the novel. The nice thing about writing a short story, children’s book, or an essay (haven’t written a poem in years) is that it can be accomplished in a relatively brief period of time. Novels, at least my novels, take years, and so there’s a marathon element involved. That said, the novel is such a large, inviting, empathetic, generous, embracing art form that I find myself deeply drawn to it as a medium of expression. A writer’s largest and tiniest thoughts fit into its frame. As a reader, also, I’m far more given to reading novels than any other literary form (though I read poetry and nonfiction nearly every day, as well).
Is there a genre that you haven’t tackled yet that you’d like to?
I always thought it would be wonderful to write or even direct films. To work in solitude for a period of time and then emerge to collaborate with actors and other artists, and see the vision spring to life has always seemed like a dream job to me. On the other hand, I’m very aware that filmmaking—precisely because it is collaborative—often involves decisions made by committee. As a novelist, for better or worse, I have artistic control over the final text. And that’s one aspect of being a writer, a “solo artist” if you will, that I really like.
All of your novels deal with the importance of family. How has your own family influenced your writing?
Family is so crucial to me as a novelist because it’s central to our lives in the best and worst ways. Family, home, is where our journeys begin, but it is also the place we long to escape. It’s where we find profound love and nurturing, but also at times deep anger and resentment. Home is where we feel safest, but most vulnerable as well. Family and friendships that are as tight as blood family—this is the most complex emotional and spiritual locus of them all. So I naturally gravitate to family as a Pandora’s box that holds every kind of human desire and fear.
Many of your characters are strong, determined women searching for their places in the world. Who are your role models for these women?
I was raised in a family whose women were storytellers. There wasn’t much of a library in my childhood house, some Modern Library titles and a smattering of college chemistry stuff, but I grew up hearing plenty of oral narratives being spun. My grandmother Hoffmann, who was a dirt-poor farm girl when she grew up in Red Cloud, Nebraska, was the most memorable bard in the family and the epitome of a strong, determined woman. She was a real survivor, and made a great impression on me. (Oddly, the paternal side of my family was made up of taciturn men, quiet and mostly gentle types.) Our matriarch’s stories mostly centered on family history, family agreements, family discord—another possible reason I’m drawn as a writer to focus on families, be they broken, loving, or otherwise. That said, I think that my models for the women in my novels who are searching for a place in the world are finally a composite of any number of women (and men) I’ve met in my life. I rarely if ever model a character on an individual I know, however, and imagine that the characters in my books are all ultimately fragments of myself, and represent my own search for identity.
Your scenes in the outdoors are so fully described that nature is almost a character in the book. Where does that knowledge and respect come from?
Growing up along the front range of the Rockies, I spent a lot of my youth in the mountains and down in New Mexico and elsewhere in the Southwest, so nature was just a fundamental part of my life. My aunt and uncle had a very isolated ranch near Steamboat Springs, and I spent a lot of summers in the heart of high forests there, camping and fishing. Having lived for the past thirty years in New York City, I still get off into the woods or back out to the Southwest as often as I can. The names and nature, if you will, of trees, flowers, birds, clouds—I can’t explain exactly why these things are so important to me, talismanic really, but they are. Nature is fundamentally magical and metamorphic, and I think you’re right in saying that it invariably becomes so central a player in my narratives that it achieves the status of becoming a character, interactive with human characters, subtle and powerful.
I mention in my review that your writing is so fluid and calm that I often felt sedated while reading it. It made it very easy for me to relate to the confusion and doubt that Cassandra was experiencing. Was your intention to cast something of a spell over your readers, or did it happen by accident?
No, I can’t honestly say that I deliberately set about casting a spell or creating an atmosphere of calm, though I have heard other writers comment on this as being an important part of how The Diviner’s Tale works. I’m very aware that conventional mysteries unfold often with more overt and strenuous action. There is a lot of action in the book, obviously, but her voice enveloped me while I was writing, and I imagine that sensuous skein of voice envelops the willing reader as well.
You are a teacher, an editor and a writer. If you had to choose one of these professions over the other, which one would it be?
They all have a crucial place in my life. I adore my students and editing Conjunctions is honestly one of the best jobs in the world. My first love is writing, though.
Do you plan on writing a sequel to The Diviner’s Tale?
I have to finish my new novel, The Prague Sonata, first and then I’ll think about it. Of all my narrators, Cassandra is certainly one of my favorites and I would love to travel with her again if the right story rose to mind.
The Diviner’s Tale is a literary novel with a murder mystery tucked inside it. Do you have any plans on writing a more traditional detective story?
I wouldn’t know how to write a traditional detective story. It’s too much in my nature to break the rules of genre, stretch it into fresh forms. And whatever it is about my writing that makes it “literary” isn’t something I could suppress or change even if I wanted to.
Who are your favorite authors?
Among those of the past century or so I’d include Thomas Hardy, W.B. Yeats, Virginia Woolf, Willa Cather, Samuel Beckett, Thomas Bernhard, and more recently William Gaddis, John Fowles, Angela Carter, Cormac McCarthy, David Foster Wallace. This is a difficult question for me to answer, though, because I’ve published over a thousand writers in Conjunctions and on Web Conjunctions and since I only accept work I feel very strongly about, all those writers could also be considered among my favorites.
Music and Writing - Do or Don't
I grew up in home that was always filled with music. My father, an artist, would work on illustrations in the basement while listening to classical music on WQXR. My brothers would be listening to Jethro Tull in their room, and my mother would have Cole Porter playing in the dining room. As a result, I listen to music all day long, and pride myself on my ability to multi-task without finding the sound of music (my apologies to the Von Trapps) a distraction. I’ve actually sat in my living room, watching a basketball game while the Metropolitan Opera’s live broadcast plays in the background. The Tar Heels hit another 3-pointer, and Angela Gheorghiu just finished the Vissi d’Arte from Tosca.
My day job, or the one my husband refers to as “the grown-up job” often requires me to write. While the writing is primarily geared toward fundraising and doesn’t necessarily require excitement and intrigue, the fact remains that the letters don’t write themselves. If there is such a thing as a fundraising muse, it has not been frightened away by Beethoven. The notes pour out of the radio, and I tap merrily away on my keyboard composing lovely fundraising prose.
Creative writing however, is another story entirely. I cannot listen to music and produce fiction simultaneously. Recently, I needed to do some editing on a project and was unable to summon even the slightest bit of enthusiasm for the task at hand. I needed to write some background material for a character, and in desperation, decided to see if the chore could be dealt with while listening to something other than the sound of the keys on the keyboard. I made the mistake of diving right into the contemporary stuff and popped in a Rolling Stones CD. It was difficult to concentrate with Mick Jagger for company, but I was determined to give it a good try, so I struggled on.
After about 20 minutes of stray thoughts, I managed to type the following “Having grown up in New York, his family connections enabled him to see the girls go by dressed in their summer clothes . . .” Well, it almost worked, but not quite. Ok I thought to myself, contemporary music isn’t going to work. In fact, anything with lyrics would be out of the question. I turned instead to something classical, hoping that it might do the trick. I browsed through my collection of CD’s and settled on Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition.” This is a massive piece of music that contains a lot of color and strength as well as vulnerability. I’ve always found it to be a great motivator – at least when faced with a room in need of vacuuming or a sink full of dishes. Excitedly, I sat in front of the computer and listened to every note, waiting for the words to flow. Imagine my disappointment when they not only failed to flow, they didn’t even manage a trickle. This proved to be just as well, as I needed to put the writing (or lack of) on hold while I left to pick up one of my kids.
I got into the car, slid a Police CD into the disc drive, and bingo, there it was. I arrived home happy, peppy and ready to write. I sat down, turned off the speakers on the computer, and within 28 minutes managed to flesh out a well respected, beautifully imbalanced psychopath. Music is an inspiration, but like everything else in life, it needs a proper time and place.
Do you write with music? Or is it a distraction?
My day job, or the one my husband refers to as “the grown-up job” often requires me to write. While the writing is primarily geared toward fundraising and doesn’t necessarily require excitement and intrigue, the fact remains that the letters don’t write themselves. If there is such a thing as a fundraising muse, it has not been frightened away by Beethoven. The notes pour out of the radio, and I tap merrily away on my keyboard composing lovely fundraising prose.
Creative writing however, is another story entirely. I cannot listen to music and produce fiction simultaneously. Recently, I needed to do some editing on a project and was unable to summon even the slightest bit of enthusiasm for the task at hand. I needed to write some background material for a character, and in desperation, decided to see if the chore could be dealt with while listening to something other than the sound of the keys on the keyboard. I made the mistake of diving right into the contemporary stuff and popped in a Rolling Stones CD. It was difficult to concentrate with Mick Jagger for company, but I was determined to give it a good try, so I struggled on.
After about 20 minutes of stray thoughts, I managed to type the following “Having grown up in New York, his family connections enabled him to see the girls go by dressed in their summer clothes . . .” Well, it almost worked, but not quite. Ok I thought to myself, contemporary music isn’t going to work. In fact, anything with lyrics would be out of the question. I turned instead to something classical, hoping that it might do the trick. I browsed through my collection of CD’s and settled on Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition.” This is a massive piece of music that contains a lot of color and strength as well as vulnerability. I’ve always found it to be a great motivator – at least when faced with a room in need of vacuuming or a sink full of dishes. Excitedly, I sat in front of the computer and listened to every note, waiting for the words to flow. Imagine my disappointment when they not only failed to flow, they didn’t even manage a trickle. This proved to be just as well, as I needed to put the writing (or lack of) on hold while I left to pick up one of my kids.
I got into the car, slid a Police CD into the disc drive, and bingo, there it was. I arrived home happy, peppy and ready to write. I sat down, turned off the speakers on the computer, and within 28 minutes managed to flesh out a well respected, beautifully imbalanced psychopath. Music is an inspiration, but like everything else in life, it needs a proper time and place.
Do you write with music? Or is it a distraction?
Review of Marcus Sakey's The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes
A few pages into Marcus Sakey’s latest crime novel The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes and I felt as though I was running blindfolded at full speed through a dark hallway while being pursued by dangerous individuals. This feeling is similar to the one experienced by Daniel Hayes, the novel’s protagonist. The story begins with a man staggering from the surf, alone, naked and freezing on a deserted Maine beach at night. Not exactly the best of circumstances in which to find oneself, but add on the fact that he doesn’t remember who he is or why he’s there, and you have the makings of a fast-paced, nail-biting thriller.
After Daniel struggles from the surf and realizes his predicament, he staggers off the beach and finds a car parked nearby. Inside he finds clothing that fits and which is somewhat familiar to him. He also finds an envelope with cash, a gun, a Rolex and the car’s registration listing the owner as Daniel Hayes of Malibu, California. With no other leads to his identity, Daniel makes his way back to his home on the West Coast. During his weeklong trek, he is pursued by police in other states, and he becomes aware that he is wanted in connection with a crime. Unable to remember the security code to his house, he breaks in and, once inside, searches for clues to his identity. Having tripped the alarm, he is aware that his time is short, and as the police close in, Daniel flees with his laptop. After changing his appearance and checking into a seedy hotel, Daniel heads for the internet in hopes of discovering why he is being sought by the police. He quickly learns that his wife, Laney Thayer, a television actress has been killed in a car crash on the Pacific Coast Highway, and Daniel is wanted for questioning.
Throughout the novel, Marcus Sakey weaves themes of identity, trust, and the lengths one will go to in order to preserve one’s life. As soon as Daniel sneaks into his home, he finds that he has only his instincts to guide him, and must put his trust in people that he believes he knows, yet can’t remember. At one point Daniel accuses an actor, who was his wife Laney’s friend and colleague, of having an affair with her, only to be told by the actor that he is gay.
Sakey’s third person narrative allows the reader insight into the character’s thoughts and motives. Daniel is a likeable character, although you don’t know whether that opinion will change if and when he gets his memory back. Early on the reader is introduced to Bennett, a blackmailer looking for a diamond necklace which Daniel’s wife Laney had promised him. Bennett is portrayed as a smooth, controlled killer, determined to get the payoff that is owed to him. He’s as menacing holding an ice cream cone as he is holding a gun. While Bennett pursues Daniel, he, in turn, is being followed by a young woman named Belinda Nichols. The reader doesn’t know whether Belinda is following Bennett to kill him, or because she hopes he will lead her to Daniel. The most colorful character in the novel is Sophie Ziegler, Daniel’s attorney. Sophie is something of a noir throwback to those women who inhabit the novels of Raymond Chandler. She talks tough, has a heart of gold, and can handle anything thrown her way. You love her, and only wish she appeared more often during the story. Although the detecting in Sakey’s book is done primarily by Daniel, there is a detective assigned to the case. Detective Roger Waters (yes, there is a Pink Floyd reference) has just a small part, and like Sophie Ziegler, I wished he had more time on the pages.
Sakey delivers just what the reader wants in a crime drama – a story that hooks you from the first page, complete with believable characters, a busy, modern-day setting that spans from a beach in Maine to a busy Hollywood movie lot, and enough twists and turns to keep you on the edge of your seat when it ends 387 pages later.
After Daniel struggles from the surf and realizes his predicament, he staggers off the beach and finds a car parked nearby. Inside he finds clothing that fits and which is somewhat familiar to him. He also finds an envelope with cash, a gun, a Rolex and the car’s registration listing the owner as Daniel Hayes of Malibu, California. With no other leads to his identity, Daniel makes his way back to his home on the West Coast. During his weeklong trek, he is pursued by police in other states, and he becomes aware that he is wanted in connection with a crime. Unable to remember the security code to his house, he breaks in and, once inside, searches for clues to his identity. Having tripped the alarm, he is aware that his time is short, and as the police close in, Daniel flees with his laptop. After changing his appearance and checking into a seedy hotel, Daniel heads for the internet in hopes of discovering why he is being sought by the police. He quickly learns that his wife, Laney Thayer, a television actress has been killed in a car crash on the Pacific Coast Highway, and Daniel is wanted for questioning.
Throughout the novel, Marcus Sakey weaves themes of identity, trust, and the lengths one will go to in order to preserve one’s life. As soon as Daniel sneaks into his home, he finds that he has only his instincts to guide him, and must put his trust in people that he believes he knows, yet can’t remember. At one point Daniel accuses an actor, who was his wife Laney’s friend and colleague, of having an affair with her, only to be told by the actor that he is gay.
Sakey’s third person narrative allows the reader insight into the character’s thoughts and motives. Daniel is a likeable character, although you don’t know whether that opinion will change if and when he gets his memory back. Early on the reader is introduced to Bennett, a blackmailer looking for a diamond necklace which Daniel’s wife Laney had promised him. Bennett is portrayed as a smooth, controlled killer, determined to get the payoff that is owed to him. He’s as menacing holding an ice cream cone as he is holding a gun. While Bennett pursues Daniel, he, in turn, is being followed by a young woman named Belinda Nichols. The reader doesn’t know whether Belinda is following Bennett to kill him, or because she hopes he will lead her to Daniel. The most colorful character in the novel is Sophie Ziegler, Daniel’s attorney. Sophie is something of a noir throwback to those women who inhabit the novels of Raymond Chandler. She talks tough, has a heart of gold, and can handle anything thrown her way. You love her, and only wish she appeared more often during the story. Although the detecting in Sakey’s book is done primarily by Daniel, there is a detective assigned to the case. Detective Roger Waters (yes, there is a Pink Floyd reference) has just a small part, and like Sophie Ziegler, I wished he had more time on the pages.
Sakey delivers just what the reader wants in a crime drama – a story that hooks you from the first page, complete with believable characters, a busy, modern-day setting that spans from a beach in Maine to a busy Hollywood movie lot, and enough twists and turns to keep you on the edge of your seat when it ends 387 pages later.
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