Archive for March, 2012

March 25, 2012

Un Fracaso?

A short story inspired by NPR’s series Three Minute Fiction. This particular round of the contest required that the opening line be: She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

Here’s my entry:

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. Illiterate. Ill-prepared, irreparable marriage of fifty-four years. She weighed the pages of her life like the holy book in which she tried so hard to have faith.

For years she feared the family that would scorn her. Un fracaso. A failure. Fractured faith in her husband, children, religion. What good were they now, dissipated far beyond the margins of her pages?

With her rheumatic and wrinkled hand, she let go of the door knob behind her and stepped outside onto the gravel. A pebble lodged itself in between the sole of her foot and the chancla that protected it. It fell out as she curled her cracked toes.

She surveyed her cactus garden for the last time. Once lush and green, the cacti were drying, their pronounced needles the sign of a jaded, unrequited life. A road runner dashed past her feet with a wayward salamander squirming in its mouth. Even the prospect of death meant life to her now.

The sun’s rays assaulted her salty skin. With each step, the load of her sagging years weighed sadly upon her. Inch by inch she found herself closer to the edge of the property. She could see the stream of dust stirring down the road beyond the arroyo. She wondered again about her droughty universe. She remembered her wedding day – the last time she existed beyond the dust.

Sweat formed in the crevasses of her body so that by the time she neared the fencepost at the gate of the ranch that long held the deadbeat of a husband who’d been with his mistress that afternoon, her heart raced.

The dusty stream drew closer. In front of it she could make out the shape of the pickup truck. The reflection of the sun on its windshield blinded her for a moment. She pressed her fingers on the rosary around her neck. A wisp of her wiry gray hair fell onto her face, sticking to her wet forehead. A mockingbird jeered from the lone cedar tree in the field beyond the gate.

Callate! She swung her arm above her head.

Otra vez … the bird bawled back.

She looked at the open gate in front of her. The approaching truck. The thirsty ground. She stepped forward urgently. The bird stopped. Another step. Hard breath. Another. Perspiration. Waves of heat. Another.

The Chevy accelerated up the road. It stopped in front of her. Her husband jumped out. Cursed woman. Unappreciative like an Americana. She objected. He persisted. She stood, silenced by the laughing bird. She could smell the burning oil from the engine. Her stomach turned. Her horizon moved. Farther and farther away it moved. He saw her eyes and grabbed her in time. He held her around the waist as they returned through the gate. They passed the cactus garden. The tailless salamander limped around a horse crippler. Faintly, she heard the bird mocking, Un fracaso!

He opened the door and led her back into the house of deception. He rested her limp body on the living room chair where she always pretended to read. He brought her water and her holy book. Eyes closed. In time her hard breathing subsided.

She soon could smell something familiar cooking on the comal. He was humming an old bolero. Outside the mocking bird joined him in song. She smiled realizing they were two tone-deaf bastards. She opened her book and laughed. Pretending to believe, she turned another cursed page, and laughed.

March 22, 2012

Fiction With No Point?

I found this great quote embedded in a March 21, 2012 TheAtlantic.com article “The White Savior Industrial Complex” from Teju Cole, author of the novel Open City:

I am a novelist. I traffic in subtleties, and my goal in writing a novel is to leave the reader not knowing what to think. A good novel shouldn’t have a point.

I’ve found that the most interesting fiction I’ve read follows this dictum. I also find that my most interesting writing comes from pushing myself to write narrative about nothing. Such a thing can exist in fiction and can push the reader beyond literality. In my opinion, pointless fiction gives faith to the reader that s/he can engage in her/his own interpretation should there even be one. To me this rings truer of the way life really happens. We’ve all had moments when we simply didn’t know what to make of them. I’m glad to hear this notion affirmed by a notable writer like Cole.

March 21, 2012

Maxim #7

Punctuation is just as important as words …

literophanes

March 12, 2012

An Audio Short Story: Erasing DeKooning

My latest creation – an audio short story:

Erasing DeKooning is a short story inspired by the artwork Erased DeKooning Drawing, 1953 by Robert Rauschenberg which captivated me on a visit to MOMA – San Francisco several years ago. A young Rauschenberg acquired the original mixed-media drawing from his mentor William DeKooning. The artist allowed Rauschenberg to erase his entire work as a statement of abstract expressionism. The result is what appears to be a blank, sepia-toned canvas. This story portrays the action of erasing not only as a metaphor of the progression of a new artistic movement, but also of the generational shift in life, death and legacy.

Listen to the Audio Short Story: Erasing DeKooning

Read more from NPR’s Robert Krulwich about the creation of this work of art:

http://www.npr.org/blogs/krulwich/2012/03/12/148456099/two-ways-to-think-about-nothing

March 12, 2012

Maxim #6

My most productive writing meets the following simple test: Would it be something I’d read?

literophanes

March 12, 2012

My New Blog

I begin my journey into blogging with a quote from Virginia Woolf, one of the most influential writers on my philosophy of writing, on the creative process and transmutation – turning moments into art:

He has to have the courage to say that what interests him is no longer ‘this’ but ‘that’: out of ‘that’ alone must he construct his work. For the moderns ‘that’, the point of interest, lies very likely in the dark places of psychology. At once, therefore, the accent falls a little differently; the emphasis is upon something hitherto ignored; at once a different outline of form becomes necessary, difficult for us to grasp, incomprehensible to our predecessors.

Modern Fiction, Virginia Woolf

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