Louisville Reading Went Well, Folks

The old reading in Louisville was a fine event, and the book gathering just before that.  I did okay, I guess, even though I had to sit down to read my pieces.  Well, just look at the chair...it was far too comfortable to pass up.

Note the Jesco Nation shirt.  No coat and tie for this mountain boy.

An Amelia Earhart Prompt Written for a Recent Interview

This came about as a prompt posed to me by Robert Vaughn.  I took a shine to it, so I thought I'd share it here.  The full interview, to appear in The Lit Pub, will be out sometime down the road.  For now, here's a sampling.  Thanks for reading.

Crossing a small creek while listening to “Take It On the Chin” by William Elliott Whitmore, I find her jawbone, strong and determined, even in that tiny vein of water.  Later, along a ridge north of where we came ashore, I trip across her leg, the boot laces still pulled tightly into an impressive knot.  I’m listening to Townes Van Zandt’s “Flying Shoes” while admiring the sturdy boot and the leg that had flown so high for so long.   I grow tired after several hours and find a shanty of some sort made of slim branches and great leaves spreading out for a roof.  As I enter, listening to Tom Waits’ “The House Where Nobody Lives”, I find a large stone.  Along the side of the stone is a single fingernail seemingly embedded into the rock, seemingly still clutching for purchase.  I’m about to heave when I leave the leafy shanty and lose my footing, sliding several yards into a clearing.  At my feet I see what at first appears to be a dead animal, its fur matted and clumped.  The closer I come to the thing I see its hair, a half inch of her scalp stretching across its underside.  The Pixies “Where’s My Mind” finally rolls through my ears.  I can still hear that distinct cry of the guitar as I make it back to the shore line.  I’m the first there, so there’s no news to share.  I walk the line, listening for the others when a foamy wave moves in over my ankles and then out again.  And now she’s looking at me.  Those eyes, blinding if stared at for too long, pushed back from the sea and onto the shore of her private and expansive cemetery.  And as I look at her eyes, and only her eyes, Hank Williams is there singing “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”.  And I do.   

Grandfather Bob, the Stories to Come

My grandfather, Bob Mullins, a man who broke the mold himself.

Of the many family members I've included, with artistic license of course, in my work I've never explored my grandfather, Bob Mullins.  That's about to change.  I'm currently working on a story called "The Favor" which has a character based closely on him in the works now.  I cannot understand how I've went for more , than 20 years writing every day of my life and not found myself writing about this man.  The story of his life, the things he done, both good and bad, are the stuff of fiction.  Perhaps only believable through storytelling.

Left an orphan at a young age, he lived from house to house in his town, relying on the kindness of the clannish population to give him a bed and a meal in exchange for back-breaking chores through the day.  This developed a certain character within him that people still mention to me today when they find out he was my grandfather, though he's been dead nearly three decades.

Looking forward to diving into this well of information and select few memories I have.  The challenge: carving away at sentiment and presenting the story as it might be told by a longtime friend or town folk who hold to memories and tell them over and again.  It's time for me to join this storyteller's group.  I hope what I come up will be as interesting to you as it seems to be with nearly everyone I meet in my small town.

A sample?   Sure.  You see here he's wearing a deputy sheriff's uniform.  He did work at this for a time, his primary concern during this time (though he never drank his entire life) was to confiscate beer and liquor from those he pulled over and take it home, this coming after an agreement to let the boys off with a warning.  I still can't figure what he did with the booze, but I'm sure he figured something out.  We're talking about a guy who use to trade cars because one had more gas in it than the other.

At long last I may have put my father away as a primary subject, having now made peace with him, now gone just over two years, a man who once said after reading a recent story of mine: "McCoy Lee, you've killed me over a hundred times in your stories!"

Before I sign off, I think this Fictionaut discussion started by flash writer Meg Pokrass is an important one:

 http://www.fictionaut.com/forums/general/threads/1903

Please have a look and add any thoughts on the current trends at this reading and writing community that has done so much for readers, writers, editors and agents over the past several years.

In the Lit Lab with Kuzhali Ehm

I've come across a handful of stories over the past several years that have truly stayed with me. "The Ash Eaters" is near to the top of that small list.  I'm so very pleased to have the the author, Kuzhali Ehm, write a few words here today about that story.  To read the story, visit here.

"The Ash Eaters" is based on some of my experiences in school in Chidambaram. I don’t like mentioning this, because sometimes people will say things like, ‘what is a Chidambaram?’ and I don’t know what the answer is. Once I wrote a story that mentioned a place called Neelankarai and someone contacted me via the internets to say, ‘I wanted to read your story but we all had to pull out an atlas to find out where Neelankarai is and we couldn’t find it.’ I felt like they wanted me to do something about this but I wasn’t sure what to do.

Anyway, another reason why I don’t like mentioning that ‘The Ash Eaters’ is based on my school experiences is because sometimes people say ‘well why couldn’t you just write about that normally? Why make it deliberately difficult for the reader?’ And that makes me feel bad. I know I shouldn’t feel bad because writers are supposed to be like pfft you didn’t get my story because you are stupid but I feel bad anyway.

I actually did try to write this normally. When I did that, the piece was longer and very awkward and filled with detailed explanations for everything, especially the non-English words. It was among the worst things I have ever written, and I have written many very bad things. The editing and revision process for this story was a massive pain in the bum, because I kept feeling like I had to explain everything. I’m not sure if this is part of the baggage of being an Indian Writer in English, where you feel like you have to provide italics and explanations because if someone doesn’t ‘get’ it, you fail and you should kill yourself. I ultimately did away with all the explaining and the piece dissolved into a single paragraph, which was pretty close to what I wanted to say. It was also quite close to what school was like for me at the time. That was normal, at least for me.

I like to think that this piece has some meaning beyond the “difficult” names and constructions. I like to think that you don’t necessarily need to know what this piece is “about” to get something out of it. I also agree that this would have probably been an easier piece to ‘get’ if it had made more of an effort to explain itself. But I don’t know if getting someone’s explanation means that you get their story. I think that means you’ve just understood their explanation and the story is often a very different thing. Also, I think it’s slightly flabbergasting to assume that all narratives about school or anything are going to be the same, just because they are in English or just because they are about something we all share.

I want to say that I write this as someone who dismissed a lot of writing because I didn’t get the words or the narrative made me think and work a bit harder. I feel this is my loss. I do believe there are stories that challenge the idea of how a story should be and they aren’t what we’re used to, and I think everything gets a little more interesting when we allow ourselves to be open to the possibilities of what a story can be or say. I’m not sure if ‘The Ash Eaters’ does that, but it is a piece that made me really think about that, as a reader and a writer.

If Tom Waits is an Archangel, then I'm a Neurosurgeon

BY HEATHER McCOY

The black tar in his head was more than he could handle.

Scalpel........baboom-chhhh

Drill............ch-ch-chaaaaaah

Craaaaaaaaaniotome.....yeah!

Toe-tappin fun with his fingers deep in some dude's brain.

"Look what happens when I poke him here....Guy near beat himself out cold.  Good times.  Good times."

Air drummin' with a scalpel and scissors.  Little dewy drops of blood flickin' on everybody - the nurse's shirt pocket, Scalpy-guy's face, the wall.

Now it flows.  Yeah.  The music.  A cool crisp stream within the sludge.

Blessed Beyond Words...Somebody's Holding My Storm

I'm blessed.  I'm blessed every day, regardless.  But check this out:

That's my book trailer for the collection from Foxhead.  Yep.  Stoked.

And folks are already getting their hands on copies.  Just this morning, my broster Jereny Tackett, a fine fine writer in his own right, got photographed in the act of having his hands on a copy by the love of my life, Heather McCoy, a fine fine photographer.  Everything is in line and perfect.  Check out Bern (my name for him since grade school) getting ready to get his read on:

So it's here, folks!  I'll be hitting up some places for readings over the next several months, starting with a reading in Louisville on May 25 just across from the Brown Hotel beginning at 10 p.m.  I'll keep y'all posted on upcoming readings as they get situated.

New work at (Short) Fiction Collective and Other Points of Possible Interest

I'm pleased to have a set of linked micro pieces "Courtship: Five Micros" up this morning at (Short) Fiction Collective.  Thanks to Patrick Trotti and any or all involved in seeing these pieces published.  So very grateful.  Hope you enjoy, if you have time to read them today.

Also, if you haven't had the opportunity to read my review here of Rusty Barnes' Mostly Redneck, please set aside some time for that today, as well.  The post can be found directly below this one.

On a somewhat unrelated note, I'll be traveling to Lexington this week to the Wild Fig Bookstore for a book drop off and to talk with Crystal Wilkinson, a writer who spends as much time inspiring others writers as she does producing fine work of her own.  Looking forward to that visit, as I have a loose date to read at her bookstore in the near future.

As for readings, I have another set up in Louisville on May 24 that I'm excited about.  Many of my old MFA mates will be there and it's always good to catch up and share words.  As for next publications, fwriction: review's Meg Tuite spoke with me for an interview that will appear there at some point this month (May 7, I believe the date was), along with my short story "Snapshot '87", a piece first appearing in the Appalachian anthology Degrees of Elevation, edited by Charles Dodd White, and one that also is included in my upcoming collection, The Same Terrible Storm.

Also, from what I can gather from twitter feeds flying about last night, me thinks The Same Terrible Storm will be shipping soon.  Can't wait.

A few more things before I start work this morning.

Jim Robison, a true writer's writer and all around grounded guy, made available his author's website at some point this past week after run-ins with gremlins of sorts.  Have a look.

Great interview with a former teacher of mine, Kirby Gann, at Matt Bell's The Collagist.

Okay, time to work.  My second collection, Where Alligators Sleep, is calling and it's never easy to double or even triple (my fantasy goal for the book) story count in a quick but craft-worthy fashion.  Then it's onto work on the novel, Brown Bottle.  This in addition to going through nearly 300 photographs from Heather McCoy for which I plan to write a flash collection including the photos either called Cold, Hard Pieces or A Thousand Words.  I do love a full day of work.

Oh, on tap for reading: Currently - Tom Franklin's Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter; Coming up - Pinckney Benedict's Dogs of God, Adam Johnson's Emporium, and Jane Bradley's Are We Lucky Yet?