Archive for the ‘Stories’ Category

An excerpt from my essay, “That’s It, I Quit, or This Essay Could Save My Life,” up now at The Good Men Project.AntiqueTypewriter

There are some days when I’d just as soon give up.

Over drinks with a writing friend recently, I confessed that I believed I could be happy not writing ever again. And I say confession because as all writers understand: to suggest that you don’t breathe and eat and sleep writing, that you don’t need to write, is profane. It’s like a priest saying he could be happy without God, like a mountain goat saying it could be happy without the mountain. Saying shit like that gets you kicked out of the writer’s club. You just can’t say it and ever be considered legitimate again. As I confessed my sometimes desire to quit, my friend shook his head. Nope, nope, nope. He didn’t believe it—mountain goat, no mountain.

“You won’t be able to do it,” he said, shaking his head further as he threw back a shot of tequila and chased it with a PBR, a consequence of his own struggle with writing, I suspect.

Read the rest at: The Good Men Project

P1030019My long essay, “What I Learned from a Cockfighter,” is now out in River Teeth 15.2*. And Nichole Reber reviews the issue, including some thoughtful words on my essay at The Review Review.

“Full of juxtapositions and subtle implications, the strands finally come together soothingly, pensively, as Bundy grapples with his entry into middle age…”

Read an excerpt from the essay below:

Hundreds of crowing cocks broadcast their territory in a never-ending loop of five notes. A concert of noise that will either drive you mad or set you smiling at nature’s harmonies. And the birds, feathers glistening like bourbon in a glass, black and red and orange, the colors of scandal and sin. They waltz as far as their tethers will allow, their beady bird eyes watching me sideways. I’m out of my element, a city kid in the country, and I step lightly.

*If you’d like to read the entire issue on your Kindle or otherwise, it’s only $3.99 at Amazon.

I recently had the pleasure of reviewing Rebecca Lee’s wonderful story collection Bobcat and Other Stories for the Chattahoochee Review (33.2-3).

lee_bobcatBobcat and Other Stories. Rebecca Lee. Algonquin. 2013. 212 pp. $14.95 (paperback).

One of my favorite poems is George Herbert’s “The Pulley,” in which he speaks of the “glass of blessings” God bestowed upon man at his creation. God imparts strength, beauty, wisdom, honor, and pleasure, but withholds “rest,” believing that if he gives him everything, man would “adore my gifts instead of me.”  As Herbert writes,

Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.

 The characters that populate Rebecca Lee’s Bobcat and Other Stories experience the same restlessness of Herbert’s poem. Lee’s characters are all propelled by desire: for love, connection, recognition, understanding, and a place in the world. Their desire as perpetual restlessness drives Lee’s stories and their characters, most of them academics, artists, and students.

The book opens with “Bobcat,” a big story in a small setting, and perhaps my favorite, about a dinner party between friends and narrated by a pregnant lawyer questioning the authenticity of her friends’ troubled relationships, as well as her own. I had just read the title story when I visited a friend one night while his wife and daughter were away. Over dinner we caught up on the routines of our lives. My friend spoke about a recent outing with his family he described as “nearly perfect” if not for an ongoing disagreement with his wife that left him frustrated and weary. He believed they would never settle the issue, and the constant friction troubled him. It was then that I fully understood Lee’s story, particularly the sentence in which the protagonist’s husband is seen squatting in an Irish field: “This field grew out of not dirt, but pebbles really. It surprised me that anything could grow out of those stones, but there was a bright-green grass that seemed to be thriving, and a lot of bluebells” (16).

Lee guides us through the cozy but extravagant dinner party with friends and colleagues, in which the French dessert, a terrine the protagonist attempts, the “perfect melding of disparate entities,” reflects how relationships survive and fail in similar states (3). Such an assembly of ingredients, such care and effort to create a dessert barely contained in its own wobbling shell. The volatile mix of components feels like the marriages we witness in the story—a chaotic splendor, each one on the verge of collapse. It’s what they, and, by association, we do with this potential for collapse that keeps us invested and going forward. When a friend of the protagonist declares she wants none of it and asks why people fall in love and get married, the narrator rationalizes that “nobody really knows. But that doesn’t mean you’re allowed not to do it” (12). It’s in the doing, in the attempt at order, that we find the answer. Lee reminds us, “You would no more expect to find peace within a family than you would expect to find it in yourself” (16). We are all chaos barely contained. Though the protagonist’s marriage will not survive infidelity and a miscarriage, she recognizes, like her client, a Hmong immigrant on trial for allowing his wife to die when he refused to seek Western medical treatment, that sometimes God requires “a living sacrifice in place of a person, to balance out the forces of life and death” (19).

I found familiar territory in the other stories too, as Lee evokes nostalgia for an academia cradled in perpetual autumn, when professors were wrapped in “elaborate historical” (65) selves, comfortable and imposing in offices overlooking campus color, when “murderous innocence” (63) and youthful desire were offered in exchange for knowledge and distinction. Her nostalgia is steeped in an appreciation for art and language, its limitations and possibilities, musical descriptions affectionately rendering scenes on college campuses, across elegant dinner tables with colleagues, and at rural artistic residencies. There were so many lovely passages that my copy of the book is dyed in yellow highlighter. This review could easily have been a collection of those lyric moments. Lee’s characters allude to Ovid, Rilke, Auden, and Wharton. Readers outside academia or the arts might find the nostalgia isolating. But academia merely gives Lee’s characters a setting in which to struggle with the universal desire for permanence and order. Lee finds particular wealth when she mines the relationships between student and teacher, as told from the student’s point of view, reflective, often whimsical, first person recollections that probe the mysteries of relationships, art, and language.

In “The Banks of the Vistula” we witness a relationship borne of deceit when a freshman plagiarizes her first linguistics paper in order to stand out. Her professor recognizes the plagiarism, stolen from a rare text of Soviet propaganda, and they embark on a game of cat and mouse in which the young woman’s professor befriends and eventually coaxes her to own the text she has stolen at a university symposium, despite its outdated and shocking content. The student Margaret says:

He was my teacher… and [he] stood in front of the high windows, to teach me my little lesson, which turned out to be not about Poland or fascism or war, borderlines or passion or loyalty, but just about the sentence: the importance of, the sweetness of. And I did long for it, to say one true sentence of my own, to leap into the subject, that sturdy vessel traveling upstream through the axonal predicate into what is possible; into the object, which is all possibility; into what little we know of the future, of eternity—the light of which, incidentally, was streaming in on us just then through the high windows. (65-66)

The beautiful “Fialta” explores a similar student/teacher dynamic when an architecture student discovers the incongruities between desire and fulfillment at an artistic residency (Fialta) hosted by the fabled mentor Franklin Stadbakken, whose single restriction is that residents not sleep with each other. The protagonist finds his longing for Sands, another resident, is complicated by Stadbakken’s own problematic interest in the student. He asks Sands if Stadbakken is in love with her. “‘Not in love, no,’ she said. Which of course made me think that his feelings for her were nothing so simple or banal as love” (169). Like many of the other stories in this collection, underneath the narrative tension we find that life is like “the simplest buildings,” which ought to be “productions of the imagination that attempt to describe and define life on earth… an overwhelming mix of stability and desire, fulfillment and longing, time and eternity” (178).

In “Min,” Sarah, a restless American college student in the late 1980s, accepts an invitation from her classmate to spend a summer in Hong Kong working for his father at an overcrowded and politically sensitive refugee camp. She also agrees to interview prospective brides for Min’s arranged marriage, using the notes his grandmother took when fulfilling the same duty for Min’s father years before. While Sarah wrestles with her own desire, for both Min and a clearer understanding of a world out of balance and suffering “compassion fatigue,” she discovers that longing does not always lead to fulfillment (102). In the grandmother’s notes, she finds a formula for women: “two-thirds contentment, one-third desire,” a principle that “seemed to capture the entire world in its tiny palm” (117). Summer ends and Sarah concludes her interviews, introducing Min instead to an unlikely prospect she meets in a street market: an outspoken Filipino amah whose background would be “a lot to overcome” (125). As Sarah witnesses Vietnamese refugees preparing to be deported, she realizes that desire can sometimes become a liability, an ache that will never be satisfied.

Lee unearths beauty in every landscape whether in a post-dinner party bliss and the fantasy of timelessness that resides there to the “collection of mangled bones” that “every man stands before as he declares life good.” Like the husband in the title story, Lee believes words are “fascinating—their origins and mutations, their ability to combine intricately,” and shades each story as a “collection of treasures, a pleasure-taking, a finding of everything praiseworthy.” Her characters long for fulfillment professionally and personally, but find that human relationships are thorny and happiness is elusive. In this transformation of desire into art Lee finds life in the “little treats—little chocolates and liqueurs, after the meal, so that as the night decelerates there is no despair” (28).

Puerto del Sol
Vol 47 – Summer 2012

Part I: The Gin and Tonic and Lime

My short story “A Very Wiggly Tooth” is out in the Summer 2012 issue of Puerto del Sol.

This story has had an unusual evolution. I began the story during a lull in the novel draft I have just finished (“For the Love of Mary Hooks”). I find it helpful (at least I did this one time) when a longer draft begins to sag in the middle and I need to kickstart the imagination, I work on shorter fiction or nonfiction. The novel demands such a long stretch of a single note that it’s difficult to hold that note through to the end without taking a breath. Working on shorter pieces feels like that necessary breath.

So it was that I took advantage of a break in the routine when my wife and daughter left me at home while they traveled and wrote a bunch of short fiction, among them the initial draft of “A Very Wiggly Tooth.” I had the key image for “Wiggly Tooth” in my head for some time–the gin and tonic and lime that opens the story.

“It happened when I was seven and losing teeth.

I tell you that because tonight I met a man who smelled of gin and tonic and lime. The smell of my father: the way I will always remember him. Even his last breaths were minted with that sweet cocktail of gin and tonic and lime as I lay over him trying to push air from own my lungs into his. In bars and restaurants, at parties, if I see a man drinking a gin and tonic from a highball glass or get a green whiff of juniper, I’ll go home with that man, if he asks, even if he doesn’t. There is no bitterness there, only pale-green memories of a man I adored.”

I’ve long wanted to tap into what I’ve learned as a father of a daughter–a unique relationship among parental relationships. Like most parents, I suspect, I worry about the million ways in which we fail our children. And by “we,” I mean I. But even the best of parents doesn’t always get it right, for whatever reasons. Yet, our children love us no less for our failures and faults. God help them, they just keep on loving us, forgiving us without even realizing they’re doing so. Ideally, that understanding–our recognition of our own failures and our children’s capacity for loving even the weakest of us–leads to being better parents, better people. In my own obsessive way, each night I recount in what ways I’ve failed my daughter that day. It’s almost always the small stuff–a preoccupation with the computer (“just five minutes, peanut, just one more email to send then…”), a need to sit and listen to the radio for a few minutes, a household or work-related problem to solve, etc. It all boils down to not spending time with her or not spending enough time with her. And that’s all she really wants from me–my time.

I wanted to write a story about a father who fails his daughter in much grander ways–as a dysfunctional, drunk oddball whose grief for his lost wife has proven insurmountable. But he loves his daughter and she loves him and they get by on what seems like that alone. The potential for a maudlin story, I hope, is undercut by the daughter’s strong, rambling voice and the father’s not always sympathetic behavior.

Originally, that potential was undercut by a zombie–that’s right, the father originally had returned as a zombie because he wanted to make sure his daughter was taken care and knew that he loved her, which she was all right with. I think I just really wanted to write a zombie story. I abandoned the zombie and just made him an oddball, but part of me still feels like this is a zombie story.

Part II: The Wiggly Tooth

A Vary Wiglee Tooth
by HLB

The wiggly tooth has a different evolution–the photograph above. I took this photograph because I wanted to make sure I never lost the image. My daughter, the losing of her first tooth imminent, wanted to keep us updated on the status of the tooth. She posted this sign on the bathroom wall to let us know that the tooth was, indeed, “vary wiglee.” I liked the simple posting so much–misspellings, drawing and all–that I left it hanging for as long as it would stay stuck to the wall. Then I took the photograph.

And then the tooth wiggled its way into my story. And then and then and then…

The story employs a rambling (lots of long sentences), first-person narrator (the daughter) developing a non-linear story that often recoils on itself and runs off on tangent after tangent, spiderwebbing finally into a cohesive narrative. The wiggly tooth of the title was at first a red herring that never resurfaced after the first sentence. Later, after the zombie father was removed, it made its way back into the story.

The story and narrator are both unconventional and will probably drive any reader with a short attention span mad to the point of tossing the journal at a wall in frustration and disgust. For those with more patience, I am hopeful you will find what the editors of Puerto del Sol found–a story of a deeply flawed father and his loving daughter.

I sent the story to Puerto del Sol because they are a journal that often takes a chance on an unusual story, often publishing fiction that plays with form but still loves narrative. Thanks to the editors at Puerto del Sol for seeing what I hoped they’d see in this story. / CB

Next time on Animal Planet: I recall a serendipitous glimpse into the world of cockfighting and the wilds of nature after a weekend of adventuring in the South Carolina low-country.

2011 St. Lawrence Book Award Finalist

Posted: October 26, 2011 in News, Stories

My short story collection Walking on the Moon has been chosen as a finalist for the 2011 St. Lawrence Book Award (visit their blog for a list of all finalists) from Black Lawrence Press. Congratulations to all of the other finalists!