Monthly Archives: February 2013

“Futuristic Casket”

Today I read:

I wrote stories from the time I was a little girl, but I didn’t want to be a writer. I wanted to be an actress. I didn’t realize then that it’s the same impulse. It’s make-believe. It’s performance. The only difference being that a writer can do it all alone. I was struck a few years ago when a friend of ours—an actress—was having dinner here with us and a couple of other writers. It suddenly occurred to me that she was the only person in the room who couldn’t plan what she was going to do. She had to wait for someone to ask her, which is a strange way to live.

– Joan Didion, interviewed in The Paris Review

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“Gold on the Ceiling”

Today I read:

. . . all fiction has to content with the experience of time passing.  First one thing happens and then another: that’s a story for you.  This parade of events is what distinguishes the narrative impulse from the purely lyrical one.  A poem can carry out its investigations within an endless moment, it can abide in stillness if it wants to, but fiction pretty much has to unfold in sequence.  A story can arrange events in any order it finds useful, but it does have to move between then and now and later.

– Joan Silber, The Art of Time in Fiction

Oh, so I’ve been a poet all this time?  OK, I guess.  Thanks, Joan.

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“Blood”

If there is a threshold between sense and nonsense, I have crossed it.

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“Love or Prison”

I may have missed Karen Russell’s reading today, but luckily Recommended Reading has a story from her up online:

The Graveless Doll of Eric Mutis

I can’t wait to read this when I am not madly scrambling to get work done.

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“Black Guitar”

Rather a hectic day, but it had its payoffs.

And today’s words of wisdom:

“The reason life is so strange is that so often people have no choice.”

–William Mawxell, So Long, See You Tomorrow

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“New Alphabet”

Today I read:

There was once a woman called Right Velmy, who lived in a small, crooked house that sat upon a hill. Each morning, a fog swirled up the hill where her crooked house sat. The fog swirled as high as the windows and it tapped at them. This woman had eyes like candle flames and two hands with nimble sewing fingers and she wore her long black hair in a high and haughty ponytail. Right Velmy was not a witch, though she did know a little magic.

– Allison Wyss, “Right Velmy,” in Pank

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“In A Landscape”

I’m really delighted to be able to say that I have a piece of flash fiction up on Lightning Cake, LiAnn’s newly minted flash zine.  She’s curating and illustrating short-short stories of a speculative bent and I’m so excited to see what’s up next!

You can check out my piece, “Teeth,” here.

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