Forever Young

We were watching "Sicko," Michael Moore's documentary of the American health system this afternoon while I was reading submissions for a writing contest and working on my novel. If you haven't seen it, it's of course a well-done documentary highlighting the inequities between the American health system and other nationalized, single-payer, "socialized" systems such as Canada, England, France, and even Cuba (the part in which Moore takes 911 First Responders who are still struggling with medical bills and ailments then 5 years after 9/11 to a nationalized hospital in Cuba is brilliant).

Although I am all for nationalized care, the question that never seems to arise from these discussions is not cost but how much is too much? There was great article a few months ago in The New Yorker about patients in the final stages of lung cancer who were still demanding to be entered into new drug trials when it was apparent that they would not survive the treatment, increasing the costs of not only their own care, but also everyone else's. As Americans, we feel entitled to everything, including cutting-edge care, without having to pay to for it. Sure, insurance companies increase our costs, but so do $75,000 ultrasound machines and every other technological advance in the past century. The fact American wages have stagnated since the early 1970s certainly complicates the equation of what we can afford, but at what point do we acknowledge that we will die from something, throw away the pills, unhook the machines and meet fate eye to eye?

It was difficult watching my stroke-addled grandfather wither away for the last five years in his bed, not recognizing us, and not able to do anything much else except not recognize us. Or my grandmother, who died recently in the beginning grips of dementia, but not before arthritis and balance issues turned her into a stiffening paraplegic who fed herself with one very gnarled hand until that hand also became too disfigured. We don't have the luxury, like we do for our pets, of ending their suffering. But it does feel as if so much of medical technology is merely prolonging life at the expense of quality of life. I would rather die earlier with most of my faculties and mind intact than be a empty wrapper on the bed, waiting for an errant breeze to finally blow me away.

And why do we want to live forever? Should our life not have a natural story arc? One of the main characters in my novel, The Tide King, realizes that, after ingesting a mysterious herb, that he cannot die. For him, with no anchor to the traditional timeline that his family and friends have, it is a curse. He is a man looking for a connection to people who will all leave him through death.

Of course, I do not know how I will react when confronted with evidence of my inevitable mortality. Maybe I will be a terrible hypocrite and cling to every last breath regardless of expense or harm. But as medicine becomes more and more about beating death, no one seems to be questioning whether the means justify the end.

***

I was just thinking that it's amazing I'm a writer when I'm so incredibly boring as a person— one of my favorite times of the month is changing to a brand-new bar of soap when the old one becomes a slither. And maybe it's even more telling that I feel compelled to share this with you.

Options May Vary

I started writing a short story last night with the thought "the world is awash with objects and roles to play in order to receive them." In the opening sequence, a 4-year-old boy wants to be a mommy so that he can collect all the cool accessories he sees at Babies 'R Us. I wonder how to describe myself without listing the bands that I listen to or the books I read or the movies I watch or the college I attended or the car I drive or my political bent. Would I say that I'm kind, loyal, sometimes brave, sometimes very scared? Would we all say those things? But there must be more that separates us than accessories.

Disneyworld

My girlfriend dreams that my novel will be published; I dream that I am adolescent, failing a bunch of seventh-grade aptitude tests and get lost taking a road trip in a stolen 18-wheeler to Disneyworld (I accidentally book a hotel in California, near Disneyland and am halfway across the country with a friend before I realize my mistake). I wonder how I can fail a bunch of aptitude tests but figure out how to drive a truck. I read a short story once as a teenager, when I had just discovered Salinger and the Best New American Short Stories in the library and that The Rolling Stone published short stories but that they were kind of terrible (ie, Jackie Collins' "The Lifeguard and the Rock Star"). The story was called "Disneyland," and instead of the family in the story continuing to make preparations for their summer vacation Disneyland, the father becomes obsessed with building a fallout shelter in the backyard. I loved the juxtaposition of the themes. I thought it felt vaguely like my life. I wanted to write stories like that. I thought, you will never run out of pain. Therefore, you will never run out of short stories.

My mother wants to go to Disneyworld at the end of the year. For her sixtieth. She is one of those women who could go every year if she could. She never gets tired of the animatronic smiles and big lollipops, of collectibles. I want to go under the park, see what makes this strange, perfect world tick. Where its heart lies. Who pumps it up.

Wherever I lay my head

I'm looking forward to a couple of readings on the horizon—going back to read at The TNY Presents series in Pittsburgh on April 21st and "A Night with jmww" at Misericordia University in Scranton, PA, on November 17th, which is still in the planning stages. I know that readings are a necessary evil to sell books and create exposure, but what I really enjoy about readings is that they're mini-vacations to visit with fellow writers that I see only a few times a year, if that. I'm excited to visit Karen Lillis and Savannah Schroll Guz and Sherrie Flick in Pittsburgh, and in November I'm looking forward to catching up with Bill Black and our invited jmww contributors. I've been so proud of Baltimore's juggernaut of a literary scene that I often forget there are equally powerful, cohesive units of incredible writers doing the exact same thing in every city in America. I guess that's also what makes the idea of a move a little easier, knowing I will always have a home, so to speak.

I'm inching closer with the novel—350 pages with maybe 50 more to write of the first draft. Then the real work begins, I know.

storySouth Million Writers Award Nominations

Yep, it's that time of year again: time for the Grammys, Oscars, and storySouth Million Writers Award nominations. If you're a writer or an editor or even just a reader, it's your duty to nominate your favorite online stories of 2010 and give these writers the recognition they deserve! I know jmww will be looking at our 2010 issues carefully in the next few weeks!

Photos from BLIP/Moon Milk/Potomac Review AWP Reading

Jen Michalski and Rae Bryant, courtesty of Bill Lantry.



Jen Michalski, Micah Dean Hicks, Nic Small, and Rae Bryant courtesy of Micah Dean Hicks.

Who Loves You, Baby?

I've found that even though we have given up cable, we haven't quite given up TV. For instance, now that we only have seven channels, we watch much more syndicated television, which is amazing, considering the 2000s of network television came and went without my ever seeing an episode of "Survivor," "24," "30 Rock," "Ugly Betty," or any of those other big shows. The shows we watch are the "New Adventures of Old Christine" and "How I Met Your Mother," which are both on WGN, a Chicago channel we inexplicitly get in Baltimore. I didn't planned to get hooked on watching either show, and I could probably give them up if I had to, but I think the reason I'm drawn to them is because we are innately drawn to characters, to people. We revel in intimacy and its problems, even if they are not our own.

And it's the same in writing, too. We discussed this for a while during my short story class the other night, and we probably will have to discuss it in every short story class I ever teach. People care about people. You cannot write stories unless you care about people, more specifically the people in your story. They're not GPS points, trail markers in the plot. They drive the plot through their action but also by their humanity. Readers try to find a way to emphasize, to bond, with a story; if they can't, they usually give up. As an editor, I'm much more forgiving of stories with great characters but improbable plots that I am great vistas, great plots, and cardboard characters.

But characters are hard. As writers, we are required to possess a wide dynamic of human motivation, to put ourselves in other people's shoes, regardless of who they are, and blow gently into them and twist these balloons into real people. And yet sometimes I have trouble even knowing what my dog is thinking, who is the most obvious creature on earth.

Valentine's day is coming up, which fills me with dread. Not because I don't love my partner ravishly but because, although I am a personable person, I'm not a romantic one. Or, I'm not an extra romantic one. If you strive every day to be kind an loving to your partner, a whole day of extra-ordinary kindness and love with roses and wine and chocolates and surprise getaways seems insurmountable or overkill or both. Every day should be valentine's day if you're in a relationship. But maybe I need to brush up more on character before I buy my sweetheart a pair of wool socks or under armor or something (it is unspeakably cold, after all).

Well, it's not too late: WGN will play both "New Adventures of Old Christine" and "How I Met Your Mother" at least once before Valentine's Day on Monday, if I need any ideas.

AWP roundup

I did not get to hear Junot Diaz or Jhumpa Lahiri or Mary Gaitskill or Amy Hempel or Saffire read.

I did, however, get to hear Joyce Carol Oates. Now, whenever I think of cat pee, I will think of her. (If you've read her new memoir, you will not take this as an insult.)

I did not run into Amber Sparks, Barry Graham, Bonnie ZoBell, Michelle Brafman, Donna De Vitucci, Dawn Raffel, Sheryl Monks, and Linda Simoni-Wastila.

I did, however, get to see Ned Balbo, Lauren Becker, Jessica Anya Blau, Charlie Boodman, Mel Bosworth, Ryan Bradley, Rae Bryant, Goodloe Byron, Kara Candito, Vincent Cellucci, Michael Czyzniejewski, Jereme Dean, Jane DeLury, Michael Downs, Gabe Durham, Sue Eisenfeld, Dave Erleweine, Erin Fitzgerald, Kathy Flann, Heather Fowler, Scott Garson, Molly Gaudry, Roxane Gay, Jamie Gaughren-Perez, Greg Gerke, Clifford Garstang, Will Grofic, Mary Hamilton, Heather Hartley, Liz Hazen, Lily Hoang, Jamie Iredell, Ashlie Kauffman, Michael Kimball, Andrea Kneeland, Kendra Koelpeke, Nik Korpan, Len Kuntz, Dylan Landis, Tara Lasowski, Sara Lippman, Ben Loory, Robert Lopez, James Magruder, Barbara Morrison, Kevin Murphy, Richard Peabody, Gary Perscespe, Shelley Puhak, Adam Robinson, Gabriela Romeri, Sarah Rose, Dan Ryan, Jenny Sadre-Orafai, Matthew Salessses, Jane Satterfield, Laura Ellen Scott, Justin Sirois, Tyler Stoddard Smith, Ron Tanner, Ben Tanzer, Beth Thomas, Kevin Morgan Watson, Tim Wendel, Dan Wickett, Bess Winter, Susi Wyss, and Mike Young and I'm sorry if I missed you but I haven't had my coffee yet and I need to get to work. But it was so great to see so many writers/editors/good people in the flesh.

So many books/journals to read: Dzanc, Flatman Crooked, Electric Literature, Noo Journal, PANK, Mid-American Review. I haven't even unpacked my bookbag yet, but when I do, it'll be like Christmas.