What’s the best writing advice you ever received?

I was in a graduate fiction workshop at Virginia Commonwealth University and one of my pieces was up, and it hadn’t gone well. I was rope-a-doping my way through the post-mortem, resisting all suggestions to improve upon the clever perfection of my workshop gem, when some member of the workshop—I’m not sure who—said, “Get closer.”

That’s it.

And damn, if the bastard wasn’t right, and I could scarcely look at a single scene or sentence in the story without wanting to revise it, to strip away the cleverness and get closer to the sense, to the characters, to the heart of the matter, to whatever it was had me writing the story in the first place. Over and over again ever since, revising some new clever bit of boredom I’ve contrived, it’s the advice that keeps on giving: Get closer. Try it. Might work for you.

Free Art

Isn’t that nice? It seems a local artist has been giving his art away in public places, and of course this has the city upset. They claim it’s dangerous, that it might confuse motorists. Let’s step back and view the context:

Confused? I didn’t find it so terribly hard to interpret this, but I’m not talking on a cellphone.

Some argue this is defacing the public landscape, but I let you be the judge. Is the piece below defacing the public space?

Or is it an improvement on the public sculpture it graces?

I applaud the artist on his work and generosity and hope the city keeps its grubby mitts off of free art in the future.

Seven haiku

I can’t remember
seventeen syllables if
they meant my whole life.

Parked in front of a
perfect square of green jell-o,
looking through the glass.

I hear the purr, feel
it in my palm gliding on
crackling fur, recall.

Over her shoulder,
past her sunlit chestnut hair,
the clock says, time’s up.

A bird thumps the plate
glass, falls into the flowers,
dead, blood and feathers.

No one notices
but me. Maybe it didn’t
really happen. Now.

Condensed rivulets
coursing inside the plate glass
soak the moldy drapes.

March on Washington pics

As patriotic Americans, Sarah and I exercised our free speech rights this past weekend in Washington.

There was stiff competition for my favorite sign, but these two stayed with me:

And finally, the most clever sign or banner was the backbone you can see to the left of the Capitol, which reads “Impeach, Indict, Imprison.”

March on Washington

What are you doing this weekend? Do you think escalating the war in Iraq is a bad idea? May I suggest a visit to the nation’s capital Saturday? Assemble on the National Mall, between 3rd and 7th Streets, at 11 am. Rally 11am-1pm. March will kick off at 1pm. If you’ve never helped fill up the Mall, it’s an experience I highly recommend. Sarah and I hope to see you there. For more information, see the United for Peace and Justice website. Give your legislators something to think about while they’re deciding, as Chuck Hagel put it, whether they might not be better suited to selling shoes than leading the country if they can’t manage to speak out now. Democracy and freedom begin at home.

Hard-Boiled Wonderland and The End of the World

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I’m looking for an 80’s sf novel to replace Neuromancer in the literature class I teach most summers at Virginia Commonwealth University. I’ve just read Haruki Murakami‘s Hard-Boiled Wonderland and The End of the World and liked it almost as much as his Kafka on the Shore, which I plan to teach in an urban fantasy class. Hard-Boiled etc. is actually a science fiction novel with a cyberpunk trope, though a decidedly odd one, published in 1985. Science fiction, IMHO, can use all the odd it can get. Like Gibson and Blade Runner, which I plan to show, it draws heavily upon Raymond Chandler. Set in a Japan seen through the eyes of a character steeped in American culture, it makes an interesting companion to the cyberpunk west steeped in Japanese culture which is the mainstay of American cyberpunk. Anyway, it’s now on the shortlist for the slot.

I was framed!

In a shocking development in the Scooter Libby trial, Carl Rove’s teddy bear revealed that he was framed for the crime of leaking the identity of Carl’s Malibu Barbi as an U.N.C.L.E. operative during a sleepover at Scooter’s house. He said “My head was stuffed with so many important affairs of state, I didn’t know what I was saying. Carl made up the game to get even with Ken for telling G.I. Joe all his guns were made of plastic.”

From a Dream in Freiberg

From a Dream in Freiberg

And the voice comes through old,
Injured, chronically healing from new wounds—
Saying “listen to me�
—but I don’t.

What if he asks questions I
Don’t want to answer, don’t want
To hear, old questions, new
Questions, questions nobody’s
even thought of yet.
He’s only got the one answer,
And I’m not ready to hear it.

“So how’ve you been?� I say.
“You’re not listening to me,� he says,
and he’s so right, so right,
so I write.

It’s only that I thought once you were dead
You had nothing further to say on any subject,
Even you, even me.

So I only remember the voice,
No words but “listen to me.�
I am. Believe me. That will have to do.

Proud to be a Virginian

I can scarcely believe it. Just as I was about to write about Frank Hargrove, the Republican lawmaker in Virginia who told black Virginians to “just get over” slavery, John Warner, our senior Republican Senator comes out against President Surge and says he’ll vote for the Senate resolution opposing escalation. Opposing the Prez isn’t just for the left anymore. Way to go, John!
As for Hargrove, he made a factual error in his claims. He said that none of the lawmakers now sitting had anything to do with slavery. Ever hear of Jim Crow, Frank? Slavery: The Sequel? I’m younger than Hargrove, and I remember the Whites Only signs and all the other trappings of American apartheid. Slavery didn’t end with the Emancipation Proclamation.  State-supported oppression lasted well into Hargood’s adult life.

Snake on a trail

January 15th, and this snake is on the move, and so were we. It was a four day weekend in Virginia. There’s something called Lee-Jackson Day here the Friday before Martin Luther King Day, so that nobody gets the idea that Virginia is over its racist past. It was spring here—all the trees budding, daffodils blooming. We rode all over town on our bikes Friday and Saturday. When friend Denny Dobbin came to town, we took him on the 10-mile loop hike around the James River, starting at Oregon Hill, crossing over at Belle Isle, up through Forest Hill Park for a Mexican lunch, then on the buttermilk trail, across the Nickel Bridge, the northbank trail below Hollywood Cemetery, and back to Oregon Hill.

Denny recovering:

The James looking toward Hollywood Cemetery from Belle Isle: