In all of the traveling I’ve done since moving to the Pacific Northwest—a journey through Glacier National Park, driving through the Rockies and Bighorn National Forest more than once, exploring Yellowstone, walking through the unbelievably tall mountains in Alaska—I have not seen a single moose. I’ve even driven up next to a lumbering bison, which by the way, didn’t smell all that good, but which was still amazing. I’ve stood 50 yards away from a brown bear lolling around on the soft carpet of moss. Black bears make my list of eyewitnessed nature, too, as I’ve taken in a newly independent cub feasting on fresh salmon in a glacier-fed river as close to the Arctic Circle as I’ve ever come. Yes, I really want to explore the Yukon now. Read More…
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Moose in the City
Counter Narratives
Some time ago I brought up the importance of back story to the intrepid novel writer. I think I declared its significance critical because all good books have rich, memorable characters who stick with us, the hearty meals of literature, or something. I talked about layers of storytelling and animating the actors in a tale, and all of that is well and good. But in thinking about some of the most well known real-life stories in recent history—the threat of terrorism, the collapse of the housing market, the latest wave of immigration in the United States, the revolutions in Tunisia and Egypt—I started thinking about counter narratives. I think about them for what they are, and how people’s perspectives motivate them to behave accordingly, but for the purposes of this little blog I’m not discussing those politics today. I just want to ponder counter narrative as a tool for the writer. (Even as I’m wishing the protesters well.) Read More…
Alternatives to Griping
Most things worth doing have their moments of frustration—it’s as if a whole world of negativity opens up, abounding with endless possibility, and all of it unpleasant. Maybe I should just give up. I knew I sucked at this. I’ll never get out from under the thumb of so-and-so. This was a stupid project to take on in the first place. Failures too, come in a variety of shapes and sizes: our own motivation may seize up, we run into grown-up versions of bullies, markets shift, opportunities close. Whatever the situation that led to this moment, we’re growling.
In this context, let’s consider the rejection letter. Read More…
The House of Promise
Long-time readers of this blog will recall that our last abode in Walla Walla did not reach the pinnacle of success as family shelters go. It did make my Top Two in House Disasters, displaced from the top spot only by the 1-bedroom apartment in Syracuse, New York, in which a 6-by-8-foot section of plaster ceiling came crashing down after a few weeks of increasingly bowing out from a rotten joist. That debacle will be tough to beat, and the “Liar House”—so named because it looked cute on the outside but was awful inside—just sucked too much to work hard enough to be king of the ignoble hill. Read More…
Toe Tapping Tuesday
As part of our ongoing welcome back from friends, a buddy of ours texted late last week with an invitation to go to the Jim German bar in Waitsburg, about 20 minutes east of Walla Walla. I’ve written about the town in this blog before, for its quaint two-block downtown and its anti-abortion protesters, who seem to assemble at random on the main corner in town. It does have a few good eateries, like the Whoop ‘Em Up cafe (low country Southern cuisine) and the Whetstone Public House, which I like to call “classy pioneer.” The Jim German bar isn’t a German tavern at all, it’s a what-is-it-doing-so-far-from-the-city nightclub of clean lines and pretentiously prepared drinks that one should sip with pinkie extended, or at least with a semblance of attitude. And when wearing a lot of black. Read More…
Excerpt from Parallax: Chapter 28
The tracks stretched so far toward the horizon that the individual rails merged into one point, and then they devolved into something indistinct. If men had laid down a railroad here, at some point it became lost to the wilderness. I followed the tracks, using a scrap of paper I’d received a couple of hours earlier. Edgar camped out where the tracks took on a look of modern sculpture, the result of a terrible derailing several years ago. Not that modern art was anything anyone had heard of yet. The old conductor told me I couldn’t miss it.
I’d been tracking him for a week, and I was running out of time. I crunched through a stream of broken glass and pottery. Moonshine bottles, brown beer glass, growler jugs, or so I guessed. Hopefully I was getting close. If the story was right then he hadn’t started to spiral down yet, but this was the last night for his sobriety. Read More…
The Guinea Pig
Being away from Walla Walla for six months meant that some activities rolled around as soon as we returned, things like dental cleanings. I’d made the appointment on the cusp on last summer, and with the snowfall looking austere in the Blue Mountains next to town, I drove to that appointment today, right as schools all along my route were sending their students home.
In Washington, DC, attempting to get more than 20 blocks entails planning for a 35-40 minute trip. In Walla Walla, it’s more like 5 minutes, but I hadn’t counted on crossing guards. Read More…
Excerpt from Superqueers
Eve’s feet stung in response to the cold tile floor. It was the downside of taking such boiling hot showers, but nothing else eased the tension between her shoulders. She tiptoed into her tidy bedroom, marred only by the messy sheets and her cat Oliver, who seemed asleep save for one sliver on an open eye.
She rubbed Oliver behind his ears, who gave a pinched half-meow in response. He lifted his head and sniffed at the room. In the next second he looked at Eve, then hissed, and jumped off the bed, running into the darkness of the closet.
“Oliver! What’s wrong?” Eve went over to the front of the closet and craned her head in, looking for him in the back, in the dark. Oliver continued to hiss.
“Oliver, it’s me! What’s the matter with you?” He’d never acted like this in his life. The hissing continued. The cat was scared out of his mind. Read More…
The Knowing of Oneself
Folks who know me will recall that I wrote a memoir a couple of years ago and have been shopping it around, to occasional interest from agents and publishing professionals. It’s a process that gets frustrating, but I tell myself that the whole thing is worth it. I’ve learned a lot, and I’ve met loads of great people who care deeply about writers, the craft of good writing, and the need to build strong networks. That Snooki got published isn’t anything I care to rant over; who will have any clue about her book in ten years? I want publishers to put books out there that will make them enough money to find interest in mine, even as I think my memoir is a sure-fire best seller. Read More…
Security Blankets
I have excised a word from my vocabulary today, because I know I rely on it too often and in too many kinds of circumstances. Perhaps it’s part of my voice, but I think I’ll survive without it. It’s the word “just.” I tend to use it in one of two ways: Read More…
Trans/plant/portation 