A bear of a reading

Please come. I promise we won't bite. Unless we're hungry.

Before Waking

1. It never rains.
2. It’s never cold.
3. You always have to pee.
4. You live for years in a world, a town, a house intimate with a person whom you have never known in waking life.
5. Someone always has a knife.
6. You always have sex.
7. Sometimes it’s with a man, sometimes a woman.
8. The dead are living.
9. The living are dead.
10. Someone laughs, head arched, menacing.
11. You are always younger.
12. You run in slow motion. You run through water, molasses. You wear cement shoes. Your toes have roots.
13. Your tooth is loose.
14. The person with the knife stabs you.
15. Your wife leaves you.
16. The dog, long dead, wants a pet, a walk.
17. She breaks free and is hit by a car.
18. You are naked.
19. Indescribably beautiful music plays.
20. You discover you’ve forgotten to write your term paper.
21. Or register for fall classes.
22. You are flying.
23. Your brother dies.
24. An ice cream truck sells a flavor you’ve never tasted.
25. You fall through the floor.
26. Your heart fills with such joy and peace, indescribable.
27. You wonder whether you have died.
28. You discover the story of your next novel.
29. It has no plot.
30. You forget all of this.

From the Not-So-Funny Pages

I love reading the crime beat section of The Baltimore Guide, our free weekly. Not because I think the city is a cesspool or anything, but for the humor. Don't get me wrong; after reading how many houses had doors kicked in and windows broken, I want to install bars and super-duper deadbolts on every nook and cranny of the house the missus and I are buying. However, there's such a dryness and lack of irony in crime beat reporting that begs one to dig deeper into those simple, declarative sentences.

My favorites this week:

"Someone entered a house through an unlocked door and stole a laptop, 40 DVDs, and a Bible." On a side note, I'm always amazed at how many people leave their doors unlocked, as well as their cars (while displaying a laptop on the front seat). But that's not as intriguing as the last item: a Bible. Really? Did the burglar perhaps need clarification on the Ten Commandments? If he or she had only had the Bible beforehand, perhaps they would have not stolen the items or, to quote George Constanza, "I didn't realize that was frowned upon here." I'm glad they'll at least have this guidance next time out.

We'd probably reject this story at jmww, but the premise is intriguing: "A couple argued and threw various and assorted glassware at each other." I'm a little confused about whether the glassware, in addition to already being assorted, was also various.

Here's a great reason why you shouldn't litter: "A man told police that he was waiting for a bus at XXX and XXX, finished his coffee, and walked into an alley to throw the cup away. He was confronted by two men who..."

But here's my absolute favorite. A heart-breaker: "Some stole a beer keg from a back yard." To quote Nancy Kerrigan, "Whhhhy?? Whhyy??"

I'd better pray the rosary like madness tonight to withstand the onslaught of karma turning not in my favor.

The Big Chew

I found out, during a visit to the storySouth group on Facebook, that they nominated me back in November for the Pushcart Prize (presumably for my story, "From Here," which appeared in the Fall 2011 issue). If this is true, and not some error, if they did in fact nominate "From Here" (and believe me, I'm very skeptical and superstitious of everything), it would be my first Pushcart nomination, and I'm very excited it's from storySouth, for whom I have such great respect.

It seems as if a lot has been happening lately. There was The Tide King winning Black Lawrence Press's Big Moose Prize earlier this month. We finally made plans and are going to Paris in May. Finally, it turns out, after planning to search for rentals, we just bought our first house instead. There were several things I wanted to do before my 40th birthday, and in a great karmic rush, they all happened.

At the end of 2011, I couldn't wait for the year to be over. Our beloved dog had died, other personal turmoil still simmered, and my life felt like overchewed gum smeared across a sidewalk. Crying felt normal, like breathing. I cherished it secretly because, in some way, it confirmed I was alive, the burn in my eyelids, the dull pain in my chest. Each day seemed its own labyrinth victory. Small steps, low visibility. I found comfort in the modest gains of a long journey.

Of course, things go in cycles, and while I may be bursting with bubble flavor now, I'm sure I'll become more fibrous and less tasteful again soon enough. I might even get stuck to the bottom of one's shoe. Sometimes, though, I like it that way. Not because I feel safe in failure, but because I don't know how to feel about success and accomplishment. I'm used focusing intensely on goals, of being the underdog in my own life. I feel a little rudderless right now. Maybe I should approach my new gum feeling the same way as the used sticks—one bubble at a time. Big, face-splattered, cut-gum-out-of-your-hair bubbles. Chew until your teeth hum with pain bubbles, until your jaw becomes a creaky hinge, until your cheeks scream uncle. Seek out every last bit of syrupy flavor. Retrieve gum out of trash for one more whirl, even though its harder than bathroom caulk. You never know when you're down to your last pop.

For your enjoyment, the history of chewing gum.

"Comfort Foods" at Forge

New (old) fiction at Forge this week:

Adeline looked around the small, clean dining room. She bought the one-bedroom rancher ten years ago, after her divorce from Ray. It seemed the perfect size for her new, modest life of work, television dinners, rented movies, and the occasional bus trip with coworkers, a life that had the right amount of excitement and softness, absorbing the disappointments of marriage and the other minor stresses.

Then Adeline’s mother moved in. Suddenly, Adeline’s life moved toward the edges, like the last item packed in a bag that barely zipped. Suddenly there were tubes of garish lipstick stuffed into her medicine cabinet, even though Adeline’s mother hasn’t worn lipstick in years. What was once an orderly if sparse bedroom closet now reeled with internal congestion, Adeline’s sweaters and pullovers fighting with her mother’s old winter coats and cocktail dresses from Hoshild Kohn, zipped in thick, obtuse plastic, smelling of mothballs. Everywhere Adeline turned her mother’s life leered at her, from the dentures in the cup by the sink to the word search books overfilling the magazine rack to little stations throughout the house, stations with moisturizer and nail files and aspirin and note paper so that, wherever Adeline’s mother was, she would not have to endure the pain of a hangnail or dry, scaly hands, a vague ache, or the omission of an item from the ever-important appended grocery list.

To read more, go here:

Moose Calls

It was pretty cool to change my bio this week to reflect the news from Black Lawrence Press. A few people have asked me what moose sound like, and I have to admit I have no idea. But it was definitely a surprise to get the call this week from Diane Goettel congratulating me for winning the 2012 Big Moose Prize and that my novel, The Tide King, will be published by BLP in 2013. More thoughts later this week about the journey there. Thanks to my gf for taking this new author photo. As you can see, the sausage curls are long gone.