"Many young writers, I think, are drawn to what is unkindly called 'purple prose,' and most find themselves pilloried for their efforts. This kind of lavish, ambitious language is easy to fail at and easy to make fun of. Almost all of my own early work was met with rejections, dozens and dozens of them, that began with the chilling phrase 'The prose is beautiful, but...' The typical response to this barrage of criticism seems, sadly, not to continue trying to write better, richly metaphorical, muscular prose, but to retreat into something flatter and less adorned. For fiction writers there's no way round having to write some fairly serviceable sentences—'Nina had spent the night in the living-room' (Alice Munro), or 'The house wasn't clean' (William Trevor)—but that isn't a reason to give up on the excitement and the possibilities of language. The notion of a painter who isn't interested in paint is baffling, but many writers (I exclude poets) don't actually seem that interested in language. They are convinced that the interest of their work lies in characterization, plot, and theme." —Margot Livesey Anonymous telling Westboro to chill out. Laura's cool Field Guide to one of my favorite prose writers, Blake Butler. OMG. I missed the Word on Wayne White. But I'M HERE NOW. This dude is a stellar artist.
On a cold winter night, Roland Jarvis
looked out the window of his mother’s house and saw that the Oelwein
police had hung live human heads in the trees of the yard. Jarvis knew
the police did this when they meant to spy on people suspected of being
meth cooks. The heads were informants, placed like demonic ornaments to
look in the windows and through the walls. As Jarvis studied them, they
mumbled and squinted hard to see what was inside the house. Then the
heads—satisfied that Jarvis was in fact cooking meth in the
basement—conveyed the message to a black helicopter hovering over the
house. The whoosh of the blades was hushed and all but inaudible, so
Jarvis didn’t notice the helicopter until he saw the heads tilt back on
their limbs and stare at the cold night sky. By then, Jarvis knew he had
to hurry: once the helicopter sent coordinates to the cop shop, it
would be only moments before they raided the house.
Who is your favorite NBA player of all time (and you can't say Michael Jordan)? - Ryan Rader
Scottie Pippen, hands down. As a kid, I was amazed by how well he played the sidekick role, how he did lots of things soooo well, yet never was THE GUY (okay, the MJ baseball years, he tried, man, he tried). I've always been impressed with hoopsters who can guard nearly every position, can seem comfortable in whatever position they need to be in, can fill up a stat sheet. And yes, I now realize probably he was a little jealous or something, but he got his rings and his Olympic stuff and his Hall of Fame spot. And most of the time, he was the second best player on the floor, and that is perfectly cool.
Just for kicks, My All-Time Team Made Up Of Players I've Actually Watched Play: PG- Steve Nash, SG- Brandon Roy, SF- Scottie Pippen, PF- Lamar Odom , C- Shaq
What is the pull/draw of elliptical poetry, which is your mode? What does it risk that other modes don't? - Todd McKinney
I’m in Layne’s living room and there it is an elliptical machine, a basic model, no fancy buttons or beeps, but the churn churn legs, and you’re absolutely right. This “elliptical” type deal is what I do. It’s how I live. It’s how I think. So, it is how I write.
First, my mom owned it. Then, I got married and she gave it to my wife. Then, I got divorced. My ex-wife didn’t want it, so I gave it to my best friend. Each person using it differently (my mom like a coatrack, Layne like a soapbox car going uphill). And me in my pjs staring at it each day, each place, each person in some far off place.
As far as the risks, I think it risks becoming too esoteric, too much of a self-centered process, too much of a stupid running circle that people don’t give a shit, don’t find relevance, don’t want anything from it. I think the reward for this risk though, hopefully, can be the personality shining through, the poet’s thinking being so wild and wacky and going-going that otherwise distant thoughts and perceptions get written in nice letters. It risks its audience so that maybe the speaker/writer and the audience can find something together!
Did I not answer the draw part? The draw is that it might be the only way I can write and feel like I’m being true to the T-Gob. It is what falls out of this dummy head of mine.
What are three things that help you write things you like? - Layne Ransom
See the writing process answer
READING IS CRUCIAL TO WRITING DUH. As I’ve become more into small press literature and working with Vouched Books, I read a lot of new books, as well as the new-to-me stuff that classes/friends presented. However, it is really important to me to return to those books that have seriously shaped my writing, or caused me to want to write in the first place, or remind me why I continue to write: Dean Young, Frank O’Hara, The Drunk Sonnets,
Doing shit. I had a coworker today say, You do a lot. Without hobbies, without wandering, without friend time, what the hell would I write about? What the hell would I live for?
Who is your favorite bartender of all time (and you can't say Michael Jordan)? - Ryan Rader
The Nicks. Nick (?) at Savage’s. Nick Teaford at Be Here Now.
What would be the critical analysis of your poems with dance? More specifically, what kind of dance are your poems? Basically, will you dance with me? - Mike Krutel
Maybe, maybe hopefully, it is as weird of a dance as that.
Or maybe my poems dance a little awkwardly, but that's just because it's a slow hump, and that gets the point across I guess.
Or maybe my poems dance like that dreadlocked guy I used to see at Fairfield Church hardcore shows, floor punching and spin kicking.
Probably they're a little too flustered to dance, but if they get up the courage, they'll surely dance with you!
Who in the indie lit community do you look up to most? - Laura Straub
Christopher Newgent - VOUCHED BOOKS IS THE COOLEST Matt Bell - the commitment and work ethic yet still a real good human being Ashley Farmer - She's the nicest person I've met in this scene and that counts for a lot in my book, people! Not to mention a freaking rad writer, that ability to be poetic and tell a cool story. Mike Young - absolute for real wild mind Roxane Gay - editor of one of my favorite journals and presses; serious blogger across the topics J.A. Tyler - He is real! And he is relentless! Heather Christle - The closest thing I've ever seen to lit magic. Ryan Ridge - His ability to write across genres and to be funny or serious or neither or something wild. Brian Oliu - Made me rethink "the essay;" is a constant online presence and still gets good writing to come out of his head; able to write "series" so well and that is something I am interested in doing.
Viscosity questions - Lauren Lowe
1. Thick or thin salsa? THICK 2. Thick or thin BBQ sauce? THICK
3. Chunky or creamy peanut butter? Creamy…and gotta be natural.
4. Maple syrup or honey? No contest: honey. Smash up a banana, drop a couple globs of creamy natural PB and a handful a raisins on top and soak in honey. BOOYEAH BREAKFAST.
5. Body wash or bar of soap? I still haven’t figured out how to use a bar of soap effectively. 6. Do you always squeeze your toothpaste from the bottom of the tube? I’m a mid-tube kinda dude.
7. Milkshake or sundae?Milkshake for its go-ability! 8. Bile, phlegm, urine, or blood? Ha. For what? Are we still talking about eating? My own or others? BLOOOOOD
9. Thick as thieves?
Film
Thick as Thieves (1998 film), a film directed by Scott Sanders
Thick as Thieves (2009 film), a film directed by Mimi Leder starring Morgan Freeman
Thick as Thieves (1991 film), a Canadian film featuring Tony Munch
Thick as Thieves, a 1999 pornographic film starring Buddy Jones
Literature
Thick as Thieves, a Hardy Boys Casefiles novel
Thick as Thieves, a novel by Marie Ferrarella
Thick as Thieves, a novel by Pat Quinn; basis for the 1998 film
Music
Thick as Thieves (album), an album by Trooper
Thick as Thieves, an album by Kicked in the Head
"Thick As Thieves" (Cavo song), a song by Cavo
"Thick as Thieves", a song by Dashboard Confessional from The Shade of Poison Trees
"Thick as Thieves", a song by The Jam from Setting Sons
"Thick as Thieves", a song by Kasabian from West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum
"Thick as Thieves", a song by Natalie Merchant from Ophelia
"Thick as Thieves", a song by The Others from Inward Parts
"Thick as Thieves", a song by Peter Wolf from Come as You Are
"Thick as Thieves", a song by Roxx Gang from The Voodoo You Love
"Thick as Thieves", a song by Short Stack from Shimmy a Go Go
"Thick as Thieves", a song by The Summer Set
"(You & Me) As Thick as Thieves", a song by Bang Bang Eche
Television
"Thick as Thieves" (Benson), an episode of Benson
"Thick as Thieves" (Cold Case), an episode of Cold Case
"Thick as Thieves" (Highlander: The Raven), an episode of Highlander: The Raven
"Thick as Thieves", an episode of All About Me
"Thick as Thieves", an episode of Born and Bred
Thick as Thieves (TV series), a 1974 British sitcom starring Bob Hoskins
10. Thick or thin skin? Who me? Depends on the day, the time of day, who I’m with, if I’ve had any food within the previous two hours, if I’ve been drinking, if I like you, if I like myself, if “I’m Bad” by LL Cool J is playing, the weather, the size of my to-read stack, how the heat changes the pigment of your cheeks.
11. Jello shots? No thanks.
12. What do you want to be poured on and is someone going to get impatient waiting for you to come out of the bottle? GROSS
14. Alan Thicke or Robin Thicke? Francis Thicke
15. Someone who lays it on too thick (writer, famous person, someone you know?) Doink The Clown
16. Someone who doesn't lay it on thick enough (writer, famous person, someone you know?)
I googled "Doesn't lay it on thick enough" and this picture was hit #1
17. Favorite pop culture interpretation or representation of slime?
We meet in an open field. U hand me the bk & something else. What is it & why we out here, anyway? - Layne Ransom
It’s a future copy of yr book and we read poems back and forth to each other until we fall down from joy.
1. Heather Christle published this broadside with a bunch of quotes of advice from writers, wacky and general and useful and weird. One of the neatest is "Get big bread" by Shannon Burns. If you are of the Burns philosophy, these stories by Christopher Newgent are scrumptious. They are heavy and a little bit of a treat; you'll be a little regretful and probably fatter but full of that weird feeling of being satisfied yet somehow shaken up. BUT BUT BUT YOU SHOULDNT WOULDNT COULDNT HAVE IT ANY OTHER WAY, MAN.
3. Newgent is the closest friend I've ever had to have a chapbook published. There is something important in that fact.
4. These stories fit well with my poems because where I'm flailing and fearful, Newgent remains sturdy and a little scary. My poems are the trying to stay together but falling apart inevitably. Newgent's stories are about falling apart, but they are tight as shit.
5. These stories work well alongside Oliu's essays because they both come tossing images like starter sticks and the bang is the jolt sustained or not of humanity, interaction, inevitable collisions.
6. My favorite story in this collection is "Joe." I know it is pretty autobiographical. I want someone to punch me in the face because I've been that idiot. The speaker tells us of a coworker who tried to console him after his mom died by talking about how he felt when his beloved dog died. Then it ends:
I told him the day my mother died I went looking for my buddy Joe. Joe could throw a punch. his dad taught him how to throw a punch, and he taught him right. His dad taught him the way to throw a punch is to only throw a punch when there's nothing else handy, when there's nothing else left. Save your fists, his dad taught him. Better a broken stool or pool cue than a broken fist. I wanted Joe to break his fists against me.
I asked him if that's how he felt when his dog died. If he went looking for his buddy Joe.
7. Newgent reading some of the stories.
8. One time, we went to Akron together. It was nice.
9. One time, our super friend Ashley took this picture of us with the book. HOW CUTE
10. There is a lot of fire in these stories. Also, bones.
11. I kept thinking about how these stories stick with me because they combine the two elements that seem most sincere in storytelling: affecting images and unapologetic emotions. No, they are not emotional stories or asshole stories or photographs. The emotion is the base that feels hot and rough on your feet so you start hopping but you don't really move anywhere, just up and down on the hot rough ground. The images (a pregnant woman gnawing on fossils, "The pattering of snow piling on more snow, the small feet of little prayers" to end an abortion story, a nurse replacing geraniums each night to keep an elderly patient from knowing her husband is dead) are the voices at the end of the line whose whole phone call is to say WAKE UP IDIOT.
12. I published "In the Nursing Home" in Stoked. This story is about a speaker who tells the bits of nursing home life, both strange and sad: a birthday pinata made of cancer bones, the speaker's children leaving her to get the hang of shuffleboard, and the men shredding all the old files. This makes me angry, not sad, how most of the stories initially do, at how dumb life is for sucking the life of most slowly. I'm like STOP BEING A WUSS BAG and wallop me upside the head, one good death blow already!
13. The end of "In The Nursing Home" is incredible. "We wither. We wail. We wait for what comes for us." It is on my list of possible tattoos.
14. I might've lied earlier. SORRY. "Joe" has big hands that tug at the head and won't let your eyelids drop and won't let you plug those nice ears of yours. But "Yellow Geraniums" is one of those stories that you wake up and suddenly want to remember every word. Or you are trying to sleep and you realize how lonely this queen size bed is, but shut up man you're 23 and remember mostly everything. It is the story told by a nurse who replaces the yellow geraniums of a patient who has Alzheimer's and forgets her husband has died. The nurse, despite the other nurses' advice and the considerable work, replaces the flowers, tries to "move how an old man might move towards his wife lying in bed," and the story closes with the nurse letting the lady rest her head on his chest "till she can sleep again." Shit.
15. "Pregnant On The El" does this natural back and forth where the speaker talks of the woman then about the self. A smart move, yes yes, smart move I say, allowing the brevity (the story fits on a single tiny hardcore page) not to shrink the scope of the story but let the moment ride and shift and explode into the dream ending. Here is the opening and ending paragraphs:
When you got on at Pulaski, I stood and offered you my seat. I didn't even hesitate. You looked tired, slack-shouldered and cradling your belly
........................................................................................
In a dream last night, I saw you in your driveway on hands and knees, shoveling scoop by scoop into your mouth. I wanted to go to you, offer you a glass of milk, but you had swallowed up all the earth between us. In the canyon below a museum of fossils, and you gnawing and gnawing.
16. I'm a Vouched Books-er and Christopher started Vouched Books. VB has that Single-Sentence Review thing in its pocket. I'm gonna let this one out for this chapbook: If you like short stories about people in all their bare burning flesh, vulnerable crouches, heart-wrenching and meaty points of existence, and you don't want to read these stories, WHY ARE YOU DENYING YOURSELF SUCH FULLNESS WHILE YOU STILL HAVE A CHANCE?
17. Christopher's tour bio says he probably doesn't want to fight you, but these stories say he's already started. Maybe, that's another SS Review. Who knows!
18. Death is such a strangedifficultoldhathuge thing to write about and I'm impressed that not once in all the dying, the aftermath, the turmoil of it, do I question it, yawn, hate the writer, etc. It's the constant focus on the people, the goodness existing through it all, the human of death, that is sustainingly sincere for me. It's never about death in a trenchcoat.
19. The Opening Sentences In Order:
"When he fell to the ground clutching his wallowing chest, she almost told him he wasn't funny."
"When I returned to work, a coworker attempted empathy by telling me how he felt when his dog died."
"Not until the fireman presented the charred remains of the lasagna to Michael did he remember the oven."
"I came home drunk and we lit ourselves on fire."
"When you got on at Pulaski, I stood and offered you my seat."
"He takes pen and paper from his pocket, writes, Talk to me, and slides it across the table to the woman who is not his wife."
"Habit being so strong, Mary simply began putting them away."
(Skipping "The River" since it is only one sentence, a powerful sentence, that you should read on the page.)
"Jim says I've too much of a conscious. I think he means conscience." (duh these two together)
"For my birthday, they have fashioned a pinata made of cancer-bones; the men in my family all die of cancer-bones; the forgetfulness takes care of the women."
"She's bald, but this isn't a cancer story."
"'Charles, is that you?' Her voice is creaky and tired."
20. The Last Sentences In Reverse Order
"I lay there till she can sleep again."
"That's what I say." (ooooooooooooo mystery)
"We wither. We wail. We wait for what comes for us."
"'I screamed for her, for all of us'"
(THE RIVER IS SKIPPED OVER AGAIN I DIDNT GET WET A BIT)
"She snatched the receiver from the cradle, 'Hello,' she said, but there was nothing more than that low, hollow moan on the other end."
"The pattering of snow piling on more snow, the small feet of little prayers."
"In the canyon below a museum of fossils, and you gnawing and gnawing."
"Especially winters here when I scratch at my elbows and they flake into ash."
"Michael watched as the paper made its way across the table toward him."
"I asked him if that's how he felt when his dog died. If he went looking for his buddy Joe."
"She stared, this metal slowly turning to oxygen, the coffee steaming on the tile, these things turning into air."
(I guess I already quoted a lot of these. I bet that tells you something.)
21. It isn't intentional I'm sure, but the way the title of "The Fire Scene" pops up as the first words on the second page of the three page story is perfect.
22. Roxane emailed us and said she wanted to use "The Fullness of Everything" as the title of the book as a whole as well. Brian and I were both stoked about it. Newgent seemed both humbled and shaky. I think it matches, no no holds, these three chapbooks together so well. Newgent's for obvious, hopefully by now, reasons. Oliu's essays are each about a different place in New Jersey, and each one, though lyric though short, packs "everything" tight and swirls it around in total awesomeness, not holes or fluff. I had hoped that my poems were a little more socially aware and meaningful as compared to my two other chapbooks which were way more self-centered and involved lots of internal wandering. So for me, maybe, The Fullness of Everything is more of a reminder than a title.
23. Lots of names in this story. Speak up, Christopher Newgent, how do you choose names for your stories?!
24. THE FULLNESS OF EVERYTHING IN THAT COVER
25. I don't think I've ever told him this, but I've never really been able to read "The Last Time" all the way through without pausing, quitting, sighing for ten minutes. It is a story about a man and his partner setting themselves on fire and her leaving and him trying to stay solid and this, "The cops encouraged you to stay the night with a friend. It was all they could do with no burn marks to show. I never touched you when we were on fire, a promise I hope you noticed." I'd get to that part which is like a third into the story and I'd wilt in shame, in guilt, in sadness, reminded of my idiocy and my ex-wife and the goodness she had. I haven't talked to her in a couple months and I hear she is doing really well and I just read the story all the way through and I'm feeling alright. That is what a real story does, man.
26. Did you watch that video of Newgent reading some of these stories? Seriously. That was at a reading with Matt Hart and we had an interesting discussion about readings afterwards and the reading being a totally unique experience in comparison to reading that story on the page and that is exactly what Newgent does: that pacing of the voice, the way he holds his body up, the banter. I can't do that here.
27. Everytime I hear this song, I think of these stories. I'm not sure why, but okay.
1. After four years in Muncie, I can honestly say that Muncie is a cool town. Sweet bars. Lots of mostly fun/mostly free activities on campus. A good disc golf course. The Greenway. Killer food spots (Eva's, Greek's, Savage's, Concannons). Pretty much everything I need.
2. I think I'm a take-for-granteder. It's been a pleasure being able to see some people so often/so easy/so reliably. I think it goes without saying that moving is more out of a necessity than anything to do with getting away from anyone. Like Vega said, "Why would I wanna leave? Everyone I love is here."
3. This sucks: Clark moves to Muncie from Terre Haute, I move from Muncie to Elwood.
4. I'm going to start bowhunting again with my Dad.
5. I'll probably play more cornhole (because of my Dad) my first week at home than I did in my four years in college.
6. Now that I'm home and don't have to pay rent, I'll have more money to spend on cool things (read: books and activities). Future books: everything from Dark Sky and Brand Wells' book. Future activities: Bright Eyes/Mountain Goats, Polyvinyl 15 year celebration, Indiana State Fair, AWP 2012.
7. Muncie people: I plan to visit at least every other week, being only a half hour away. If you'd like me to stay with you, I'd be stoked. Also, you are welcome to visit anytime here in Elwood.
8. My parents are awesome.
9a. My last night in Muncie last Saturday was kickass. Got to see a great deal of budz. Had some great one-on-one time with two of my most cherished (and often taken-for-granted; see above) people: Ashley and Sara. Got to see Cody on his last night in town as well. Saw The Bonesetters shred. Fun fun time.
9b. SUPER BUMMED LAYNE COULDN'T BE THERE:(
10. Besides the people, the number one thing I'll miss is being able to go to pretty much every appealing literary/music event in town.
11. I plan to read a ton of books, write many stacks of poems, throw so many discs into so many baskets, hangout with pygmy goats, and learn lots of things about bikes and musical instruments. Hold me to that.
12. Having no car and a good bike in a town with a great public transportation system and plenty of car-pals is sweet. Being able to borrow either of my parents' cars in a town without public transportation and most of my friends a half hour away is sweet.
13. This
Plus This
Plus This
Plus This
14. Things might not have worked out between Sara and I, but they certainly are heading in a better direction than they were six months ago.
Abraham Smith spits up rural life in beautiful fragmented songs in his debut collection, Whim Man Mammon. Exactly where it comes from, I can’t say. I know it reminds me of my Grandpa Gobble and his porch, that old shack at the end of the dirt road in North Carolina. And his whiskey in the fridge and the stories of my Dad’s youth.
Wherever he comes from and whatever he’s been through, Abraham Smith has shaken it loose and tossed it on the page. He speaks and it’s the trembling sound of the self, of throwback, of removed in America. Smith hopes, “may we live live live/forever far from walmart, among/the husk and husky peas and husky voiced singers/who ring among rusts and thrive on good boot gals.” He is not speaking from beside me in Central Indiana but broadcasting in his loud spoken word. A removed throwback self. These poems strike the sense that beg COME OUT AND PLAY. The best kinds of poems pull me out of my apartment, off my couch, away from the computer; Smith’s poems taunt and punch me out of my comfort hole. You want experience? Take this:
in work jeans
patched four ways with pants I ripped the ass on
kneeling to my first still warm deer
my knife just so my hand slid in
and all the plates began a claim
on hopeful blues
vultures and crows sky-locked
waiting to fall to steaming
Abraham Smith is not shouting the gospel of a distant way of life. He’s breaking open the bottle to prove there’s whiskey inside. In these moments, Abraham Smith knows the knife is more than a knife and the blood more than blood and those pants and their patches remind him (and us) that those bits live on. And he can pull close to himself, to others, to us remembering a grandpa:
it goes without saying my grandpa’s head is one helluva circus never was religious man people say he walked with deer tickled their chins flipped kernels of field corn off his thumb in and down their dog nun hatches alzhimer’s now sad because never would have wished to live this far from deer happy when he doesn’t pine happy when is bed is cut from skin of moon how much you need?
This collection isn’t easy to talk about because this isn’t a man sitting down to write the next great American poem, this is the man cutting his poems from the mud and muck of the American rural. Though some of the poems blew themselves into too small of bits or rattled too far, Abraham Smith’s first collection is one to be reckoned with, the work of a man possessed by the where as much as the what.
Elysia Smith and her Chicklitz palz will be reading tonight and guess what IT'S NATIONAL POETRY MONTH. How nice of a combo! I think it'll calm something in me. Or at least, I'll stand in the back, clap appreciatively, and not act like an idiot.
Abraham Smith teaches at Alabama and I saw him and I was nervous and I didn't say hi and I think that was lame of me and he seems a 10 on the INTERESTING DUDE GOTTA KNOW YOU chart and yeah I keep that chart and these poems all called DEAR WEIRDO are holycow and this video maybe the best reading I've ever seen and YIKES TO WRITE WITH SUCH GOGOGUSTO.
1. Admission: when I write in all caps, I don't use the caps lock button.
2. It's NBA time and while some might not think this matters, I assure you it does to me. Lakers are playing the Kings right now and Kobe just threw down an oop. NICE. Tomorrow is Blazers/Thunder at 10:30. I gotta date with my couch, yes.
3. Speaking of the NBA, these commercials are pretty funny.
4. Spur of the moment grabbed Words For Empty, Words For Full by Hicok at the library. Loving this dude lately. Challenges me as a human being poet. Read the first four poems and they seemed to bite.
Ball in black space, pitcher head like crap, then boom outfielder on wall, crowd explodes like at a Charlie Slick show. I saw this baseball video in the weight room. Me and buff dude #1 and buff dude #2 beside me had faces like the pitcher around 1:21 of this video. O O O. That is a picture of our faces. We may or may not have high-fived. The kid beside me in this computer lab is staring at his crotch and bobbing his head, no headphones, no music, looks sad, like poor pitiful guy. I knew this kid 4 years ago, but no longer. I doubt he even likes WOW anymore, or dorms. He had long hair then. Hey, put your hand over your mouth, kid, like the outfielder. Hey, check out this video, it'll make you happier than now than now than now. I don't even like baseball. None of us do, but it is part of life. I don't even like life. None of us do, but it is part of space.
