REVIEW: Mostly Redneck by Rusty Barnes

I first read Rusty Barnes’ Mostly Redneck last year.  My intentions were to write a review at that time, but, in all seriousness, I just needed to recover and read it again, I believe, in order to think more clearly on the stories in this collection.

You see, the first time I read the book, I froze up.  My fingers would just hover above the keys of my computer, my brain in overdrive trying to convince my inner storyteller that I was worthy enough, had enough to say, that it made sense to even sit down to work.

If that sounds like overkill, then so be it.  It’s the truth.  And the truth’ll stand when the world’s on fire.

Gradually, I found myself, my voice again.  Barnes had pulled me into his fictive world so fully, so expertly, for a time I only wanted to read his sentences again and again and ponder how the trick was pulled off, where the lady in the box had vanished to.

The fact that I’m late to the game in talking about this powerful collection of stories is not lost on me.  But having now read them again, I found I learned more than before – about craft, about struggle and hurt and triumph and, most importantly, about humanity.  The stories in Mostly Redneck show us humanity again.  Not the kind of bitter or bored opinions we see daily on the national news or overhear in grumbles at local places of business, but the true human soul alive in all of us whether we’re good, bad or indifferent.

Within ten minutes of reading, I stopped and placed the book in my lap after reading the second sentence of the second story, “The Howling”,  partly a coming-of-age story and partly an examination of our animal nature versus our capacity to care for others .  I read that second sentence again: “The sky outside was the color of an old dog’s mouth.”  As expected, Barnes was going to be handing me moments of prose that had been worried over, worked at and polished.  Words that would unfold into stories just as original as those smaller choices, just original because of those smaller choices.

The very best writers, I’ve believed for some time now, will work in that way – sentence by sentence.  And it can be a huge undertaking.  Barnes is without question one of our best at this, and someone who makes it look effortless in the meantime.

Take this section from “Where Water Fails” in which Richard and Maggie face a tough decision after learning a child is on the way, something not in anyone’s original plans for their marriage.  Maggie has just told Richard and his reaction is to wonder aloud if the doctor in Elmira takes care of this sort of thing anymore.  With this, Maggie makes a decision of her own.  Walking to a nearby creek, she strips herself of her pants and, finding a stick, perches on a rock in the middle of the stream.  Richard approaches, apologetic and concerned, and is stopped by Maggie’s outstretched palm before opening her mouth.

“If you think it’s nothing.  You come do it.”  She strips stray branches from the stick in her hand and spreads her legs, offers the stick to him with one hand.  It looks like a knitting needle.  Richard can feel his breath come harder.  “You come fucking do it.”

Arranged in three parts, the eighteen stories that make up Mostly Redneck move from the rural area of Appalachia in which Barnes grew up to the less regional landscapes and circumstances, something Barnes has shown in past interviews he enjoys doing, rather than being considered an Appalachian writer and nothing beyond that label.

More often considered a writer and poet of Appalachian subject matter, in the second and third sections of Mostly Redneck, we learn differently or see our expectations met, and fast. 

In the story “When Sylvester Dances”, Barnes tackles what I consider one of the hardest topics to approach in fiction – that of Alzheimer’s disease, and that subject without the Intro to Writing type of sentiment too often smeared across pages handed to professors with trembling hands.  In Barnes’ story there is almost a celebration of man’s life, Sylvester, who confuses his granddaughter’s boyfriend with an old army buddy, mistakes his fuddled mind as having had too many beers with the guys, an aged man of the world who is currently living in 1942 and wants only to “go see Glenn Miller at the Tropicana.”

Barnes also brings the poignant slow grief of family into focus with skill in the story, as well.

“His daughter Judith and his wife Esther want him to sit up and pay attention to something, want desperately for him to weave a way through the barely translucent wall age has created between him and the rest of the world.”

And by the conclusion of the story, we are still with Sylvester while he dances across the floor of his youth, even as his end is near, even while his wife “buries her head in her hands” at the news.

“…Sylvester’s feet are tapping slightly against the metal rail of the bed, his fingers thrusting up and down in time, and they all gather, continue to gather, till there’s a small crowd, crying and laughing and panicking all at the same time, because it’s 1942, and when Sylvester dances, the world, by God, pays attention.”

Barnes takes what other writers might toss aside as trivial or sentimental and brings those dismissed notions to the highest caliber of prose in Mostly Redneck.  I’ve seen few other writers who can make words jump through rings of fire with as much ease and give us the circus that is our lives in a way that makes perfect sense to anyone lucky enough to pick up this book.  

The Occupation that Won't Let Go of Me: INTERVIEW with Darryl Price

Sheldon Lee Compton: So glad you had some time to have a chat with me, Darryl.  I've been eager to talk with you for some time.  The first thing that comes to mind when I think of you and your work is how generous you are.  I'm always happy to receive your "gift poems" as I've come to refer to them.  You write, it seems more than most anyone I know, to share in that way than for any other reason.  If there were no more journals and no more publishing, I can see you still writing and sending your work to others for no other reason than to share something beautiful that comes from your heart.  These gifts I, and no doubt others have received from you, always have that feel about them - this was a moment, a feeling, you wanted to give to another.  Care to talk a little about your tendency to do that?

Darryl Price: I''ve always said that we are responsible caretakers of the world. The words we choose to use and manifest in our daily lives will insert themselves into the architecture of our beings,into all being, and they don't want to come out again in the same way. They become what we are made of. In that sense I'd like to add some few chosen words that I think might build something a little more caring all around us. This has to do with freedom of choice as much as it does with cocreating a better world. Philosophers have thoughtfully mentioned this fact for centuries. We make the world appear to be as it is as we speak it and name it so. Since everyone is doing this, both consciously and unconsciously, the world is constantly mutating around us. I just figure I might as well add my own poetic two cents worth to the mix. Ever go to a great music concert and wonder why the world doesn't instantly change right before your very eyes from the powerful words being embraced together by so many at once? Well, it does,it actually does, it's just subtle,not invisible so much as everywhere and in everyone and gets carried off into the night in many more pieces.It's the miracle of the fishes and loaves. How does everyone get fed? The Beatles were experts at enlisting words to do this special kind of work to the planet as a whole, but they couldn't keep it up, not to that sort of intensity. Still it worked beautifully, for a little while. That's the nature of the beast. It still has to be fed again the next day. So I bake up a few of my own poems here and there and feed whatever hungry mouths I can.It's the least I can do. A little beauty here. A little flash of truth here. Forgiveness. Mercy. Tenderness.Generosity. Kindness. The words for these things matter and manifest as well and as quickly as the more hateful and fearful ones. It's a question of balance, not of overcoming. It's flowers not bullets.That's all.

SLC: I like that a lot - caretakers of the world.  And the concept of creating works that feed the hungry.  It seems people are still hungry for words, even in this day of short attention spans.  You're one of the most frequent writers to contribute and offer feedback at Fictionaut, a online community for readers and writers and, in fact, the place where I first had the pleasure of coming across your work.  How is this type of community important to writers these days?  And, of course, with the vast number of pieces you have available to read at Fictionaut.  You have plenty enough to bring the world a fine book of your work.  Any plans for that in the future?

DP: People are always hungry for the connection that art provides. Creativity with words attracts all of our senses. It thrills us, inspires us,comforts us. It opens up pathways to both dreaming and doing. I think short attention spans have more to do with boredom and maybe fear than a lack of education, or a lack of understanding, or a lack of feeling. People can go deep, but they have to want to. Poetry opens the door, but it doesn't kick you in. As far as Fictionaut and its type of community they couldn't be more important for the present age if you ask me. The world is different now. The new social media has seeped into everything. It can never go back to what it was.That romance is dead. It's time we started flirting with the new one. It must be embraced and faced and come to terms with. We don't know exactly what it will bring about in our brains yet, but we do know we still want to read and write new things for it. A short story of mine,SPY VS.PARK,was picked up recently by ThriceFiction magazine. They had like two thousand hits for a free download of the issue in less than a week's time! That's simply amazing to me.If I thought I could sell 3.000 copies of anything I'd be in heaven! Speaking of books, did you know I've published 33 chapbooks of poetry in my lifetime so far, but again that was in a different world, 100 copies at the most? Well it's true. I've been at this game since I was five. I'd love to put together a really good Darryl Price reader, but no editors have approached me with the same idea yet. I'm very much these days into the book as object. I want it to be lovely to look at, lovely to hold, to give, to share, to own. I think any book of poetry right now should be a piece of art in and of itself.It's not enough just to print one up.Every now and then I put a free chapbook on Fictionaut just to see if there's any interest out there, but so far it's been minimal. And right now I have an e-book,SAFETY FIRST, over at the Camel Saloon.

SLC: Much to think about, for sure.  I especially connect with this statement of yours: "People can go deep, but they have to want to.  Poetry opens the door, but it doesn't kick you in."  That sums it up perfectly, I think.  I knew you had published books, but I was not aware 33 of your chaps were out there.  I'll be looking for them to be sure.  There's so many romantic notions about the act of creating works of poetry or stories or novels or any form of writing.  It's refreshing to hear of someone who writes with sharing in mind, rather than directing attention to themselves in sort of an exclusive way.  On that note, is it difficult for you to both write and keep creativity as a pure thing while at the same time having little choice but to promote and more or less represent yourself to the masses?

DP: All those little chaps of mine,some no bigger than a pocketbook for change, were limited editions, or most of them, done with fellow young artist types of the time, but that's not so important to me now. There's a Beach Boys song called, HANG ON TO YOUR EGO, off of PET SOUNDS,which I've always dearly loved--because I believe it's the best advice. Getting rid of your ego is suicide. The problem is to determine exactly how much of it you might actually need at any given time in the creative process to keep things real--a little dash will do ya! Pepper in a soup or a stew can add just the right amount of kick to the flavoring, but too much can ruin the whole meal, so to speak.So,yes,to answer your question at long last,it is always somewhat difficult to keep the creativity at a place where I am truly happy with it and to also keep an eye out for its intrinsic entertainment values at the same time. I want people to like my stuff. I don't write it to shove it in a drawer and hope for a miracle resurrection to take place while I am sleeping. It's hard work, and it can be lonely,frustrating work as well. I'd love for people to want to share it with others. That's happened to me a few times already,where someone has asked my permission to copy and paste something of mine onto a Facebook account. I always say yes.The more the merrier. There are a million writers and a million more being born every day. That's where I think a site like Fictionaut becomes very helpful to those of us who use words to express ourselves, it lets you stay in the game.It gives you forum,purpose, and media. But it doesn't do the writing or the thinking or the editing or the shaping of the art for you. You have to ring that bell all by yourself. And if someone else hears your song and smiles or hums along or adds to it in anyway because of its unique tone,and it means something to them, then you my friend are one very lucky person in the universe.

SLC: I can only speak for myself, but talking about the writing process has always been something I struggle with each time it's required of me.  Rather than ask about the details of your process, let me inquire as to when you knew you could write - I mean the year during which you said: Okay, I'm likely a better writer than the average person and maybe I can do something with this.  And how, if at all, did that alter the course of your life, your goals, your confidence?

DP: It was very early on--in school I think, I always loved English and generally aced any exam I was given. I was always amazed when my friends struggled with writing. I couldn't understand it. It seemed natural and easy. Then friends would explain how it baffled them--putting one word after the other--and it humbled me. I realized it was a gift that not everyone had received equally. This made me more aware of its potential to harm or to help, to be a weapon or a kind of spiritual medicine. The problem is you can't help but misuse these words eventually because you are feeling grouchy one day or sad the next or lonely or left out or whatever. You can't beat yourself up over this.It's probably pretty human. The goal is to keep trying to get it right, or to accept the inspiration when it comes and give it the proper respect it deserves from you.There have been many times when a hazy line will start unfolding in my mind and it won't stop creating more stuff out of itself until I get up and write it down. This can happen at any time during the day or the night. The problem being of course that it can just as easily blow away and disappear from you if you refuse to pay it any attention. It knocks, you answer, or you fall back asleep and it goes away.This always makes me mad at myself.Why didn't I just get up and receive that hug from the Muse? You know how much she means to me.Why would I treat her this way?What's wrong with me? Nothing. You're okay. Just tired. She'll be back with any luck because she already likes you.

SLC: I once tried to stop writing all together, possibly because of the very strain of keeping up you just mentioned.  I made it about six months and that was it.  Have you ever made a similar effort?  If so, care to explain?  If not, I'd love to hear about that, as well.

DP: When I was laid off from my job as a book buyer, things became very dire around my house. We still had lots of bills to pay, a kid getting ready to go off to college. For a long time I couldn't justify the time or the energy spent on making my art. It felt like something I just didn't rightfully deserve anymore, that I had been reckless with. It didn't bring one red cent into my family to help us along financially. It didn't feed us. It only fed me, and only spiritually,emotionally, even if it did wonders for others. I was still getting letters and notes from around the world from people telling me how much my work meant to them. But it felt selfish to continue, so I put it down, but this made me extremely unhappy. I felt utterly lost, useless. I realized I needed it to remind me of who I am, even if it didn't pan out in gold, it gave me a sense of belonging in the world, so gradually I began to write again, to post again, to hope again, to dream again. There have been two other times,not having to do with money,where I lost faith in myself, in my writing. I just couldn't seem to come up with an original thought, I was trying too hard to please others instead of being real. I put it down then, too,knowing that it just wasn't me, but inspiration strikes you and you answer the call, which is what I did. The poetry wasn't done with me yet, even if I was tired and getting older, or even a lot sadder.It's what I do. I'm a poet. A writer.I fashion things out of words. Sometimes these little things of mine mean something to someone else. This gives me a profound joy. I try to share that feeling and be brave about the occupation that won't let go of me.

Catching the Storm: Readings and the Wish List

I had the pleasure of giving a reading from The Same Terrible Storm and a couple pieces from the upcoming collection Where Alligators Sleep, as well as sections from the soon to be finished novel Brown Bottle yesterday. 

Though the room wasn’t exactly packed, the folks who attended were lively and full of cool questions and provided lively discussion.  I love when that happens.  I think when a story brings out questions in readers, not those of confusion but of interest, it means a storyteller is doing something right and the reader is thinking more deeply about the work.

It's always easier to talk about craft with a pen in  your hand

Next up will be readings at Readmore Bookstore in Presto and then Louisville before heading to Lexington to read at The Wild Fig courtesy of Crystal Wilkinson, owner and wildly talented writer in her own right.  Still grateful, as well, to have the open invite from Sara Lippman to read for her Sunday Salon series in New York, a trip I’m looking forward to a great deal. 

On a related note, I’m so pleased to be chosen as the visiting writer at the University of Pikeville for a week this coming October.  Couldn’t ask for more things to be falling in place at just the right time.  So thankful.

I usually start my work day around 5:30 a.m., but this morning I went all Amazon-wish-list crazy.  Books I’ve added when I probably should have been working on my own include titles from Tom Franklin, William Gay, Blake Butler, Brian Allen Carr, Ron Rash, Michael Kimball, Matt Bell, Pinkney Benedict, Joe Hill, Ethel Rohan, Sam Pink, Mark Richard, Scott McClanahan, Kyle Minor, Kirby Gann…the list just keeps going.

Currently re-reading Mostly Redneck by Rusty Barnes.

Currently drinking hazel nut coffee.

Currently wearing a true (not factory distressed) vintage Ghostbusters t-shirt I found for a buck at the Goodwill store.

Currently thrilled with the Braves.  CHOP! 

He Was the Worst Man of His Name

In the time he was on the blacktop, Devlin saw, spoke to, and touched across the shoulder his younger self, a boy who thought fighting hardly more than the post-match reverie from a bar stool or the cradle of his father’s arm.

He might’ve been drunk, his older self, watching and thinking on his boyhood, grabbing for an easier time, less painful, less full of bare knuckles, the yelping gawkers blocking off traffic, the knuckled money and the slobbering and coughing.

This was a fair fight, and it was all but lost now.  He made a rundown of his injuries from his place on the blacktop.  Broken nose, split eyebrow, cracked jaw, a wheezing that pointed to his lungs and probably a few green stick ribs.  There was a larger reason, a purpose for why he was in this position, but it was as clear as mud from this spot.

Sixty-thousand pounds from each family.  The words train-spiked inside his head, worse than the ache.  He made another mental note as best he could – possible concussion.  Sixty-thousand pounds for a fair fight with his own cousin in this remote section of countryside.  Folks from both sides of each family were at opposite ends of the stretch of blacktop road.  They would stop any traffic, even county officials for as long as possible, until one man was left standing or until one of the two called it off.  Everybody involved, down to the gawkers with traffic duty, were reliable because all of them had money invested.  In Devlin’s case, it was a matter of easy money for his family.  He, the King of the Travellers.

The man he fought today, a cousin from the Joyces, was a tattooed version of his younger days.  The lifted face of Che Guevara inked across his right side moving like a reflection across the skin, his arms without a touch of fat, eyes steady.  The boy was more than Devlin could take on. 

He played through his previous five fair fights over and over, one elbow to the ground now and rising, though his chin still lagged.  And while he recapped what he had done before, the loss came more easily in the here and now.  Inside his head, he was still young.  Not the granite fighter breaking a Joyce’s bones, but a boy pressing his fingers into the bicep of his father, drinking from the same glass, when fights were stories told with laughter and losing was part of a dead language.

The Good Work and the Good People

It’s been a busy time, and I’m glad for it. Since my short story collection, The Same Terrible Storm, went up for pre-order at Foxhead Books I’ve seen several good folks get on board for a copy. Couldn’t be more appreciative and excited all at the same time.

Also, I’ve had some luck getting readings booked, though I had to reset my trip to New York City to be part of Sara Lippman’s Sunday Salon lineup along with some cool people due to work-related issues. In addition, local bookstores have asked me to do book signings when hard copies of the collection arrive, so I can’t ask for more on that front. Advance thanks is also due to Crystal Wilkinson, owner of Lexington’s Wild Fig Bookstore and author of Blackberries, Blackberries, among other titles, for agreeing to have me visit for a reading and book signing there at some point this spring.

And the indie lit community has been amazing as far as talking with me about the collection. This has included interviews so far with Robert Vaughn for the Lit Pub and with Meg Tuite for fwriction:review, as well as a short piece on process for Necessary Fiction’s upcoming new section called “Research Notes”. All this and more, not to mention the basic buzz that has come from so many fine writers and friends spreading the good word about TSTS, as well as a story from the collection, “Blueprint”, published just today at Metazen. All you folks rock.

I learned this week that administrators with the University of Pikeville will be having me as the visiting writer during their homecoming festivities in October, which is also an honor and something I’m greatly looking forward to, especially since they are actually going to pay me a stipend for doing something I would have done for free.

So it’s been busy on the public front in the last month or so, and I’m still working daily on my novel, Brown Bottle. I hope to have this book finished in time to submit a manuscript to Foxhead soon after my second story collection, Where Alligators Sleeps, is brought into the light of day. However, I’m also working half a day each day on expanding Alligators. My goal is to double the number of stories of the manuscript I submitted to Stephen Marlowe at Foxhead this past fall.

Wish me luck, good people, and thanks again to everyone.

GUEST POST: Dennis Gillenwater

Fearfully Made

(Psalms 139:14)

The thing I can’t get out of my mind when I’m in a crowd of people is all those beating hearts squishing blood in and out of valves and coursing through veins and arteries, and spongy lungs expanding and contracting—cold air in, warm air out—and coils of guts squeezing the last mashed food and liquid along, and yet the people walking around, talking and laughing and praising the Lord or cursing the natural and the Super Natural, like nothing’s bound to happen, while all those necessary life functions go on just beneath the surface. I tell you, it’s a hell of a pitiful thing—life on a string. Freaks me out. Maybe I see things different because I used to be an EMT working on the Big Creek emergency squad, riding up and down Rt. 10 between Salt Rock and Logan, picking up scraps of people and human remains from head-on collisions, chain saw accidents, and coal mine disasters—trying to put those mutilated parts back together. I don’t know the exact reason, but I can’t keep from thinking about the internal workings, what’s really going on inside a body, and how precarious life is. When people stop to think about it, which isn’t often—usually only when they’re flat on their back in a hospital bed—they rebel. They question the Almighty. Why did he design a body this way—so frail? Why all those nerve endings, synopsis, sinews, ligaments, muscles, arteries, veins, valves, corpuscles, and what not, so many possibilities for catastrophe? It’s bound to happen. Three score and ten? There’s a painful joke. That’s like the blink of an eye. Who’s ever ready for it? On the other hand, the first time around, the angels were indestructible. In fact, all of them are alive to this day, all the legions of angels still up there somewhere. Indestructible. Emotions, no doubt, that we’re subject to, maybe a degree of pain. Nevertheless, indestructible, especially when compared to human flesh. So, what did the angels end up doing with all that indestructibility, eternal life, etc.? For the record, they took a wrong turn, a third of them getting into all kinds of mischief, and everyone’s been paying ever since. So, here we are, human flesh, a new design, and this time there’s no call for pride. There should be humility all over the place, coming down like a rain storm.

The Same Terrible Storm Now Available for Pre-Order

My collection, The Same Terrible Storm, is now available for pre-order at Foxhead Books. Visit here, if interested in getting your hands on a copy, and thanks.

I was highly pleased to see that Steve Himmer blogged about this at Necessary Fiction, and even more pleased with the support I've received from many of my friends since this morning. It's good to see writers and others spreading the word about this little book of mine.

In addition to Foxhead's website, the book will eventually be available for purchase at Amazon and other places.