as if two committee meetings and job market prep wasn't enough

Yesterday someone parked about six inches from my driver's side door. I found this after I finished teaching my morning class, outside a building some distance from where I teach next, and I'm accustomed to grabbing some lunch between the classes and then parking again much closer to where I spend the balance of my day. When I saw the other car, I knew it was tight, but I thought the opening was wide enough that I could squeeze inside without much trouble. At least that might have been the case fifteen years ago.

After three tries to wedge myself between the door and the frame, I backed out and decided the umbrella I was holding (due to the tropical nature of North Texas weather this fall) was preventing me from contorting successfully enough to negotiate the gap. I threw it in the backseat and was soaked seconds later, and still fared no better jamming myself into the car. Now I was really pissed.

You see, in less than two hours, I was scheduled to be observed by another faculty member. These evaluation sessions happen once a year and I was acutely conscious of this as I noted my drenched shirt and slacks and the odd scuff marks under my belt from where I'd rubbed against some part of the door. In another few minutes I would spot a strange red dye smeared above my right knee, from what I have no idea.

When I was convinced I couldn't get, I retrieved the umbrella and stood by my car a moment considering the options. I could wait, of course, and hope the obnoxious Chrysler owner showed himself, but that might have been counterproductive since nothing came to mind to say that wasn't composed entirely of the most vulgar profanities I could imagine. It was likely a colleague from another department--we were both in faculty/staff parking spaces. I imagined a trip to the Dean's office. Disciplinary committees. The disappointed puzzlement of my department chair.

Of course the best choice would have been to gather my things and start the modest walk to my next destination. But I like to hit the drive-through of our locally famous Asian-fusion joint, Mr. Chopsticks, and grab a shrimp fried rice or cashew tofu for lunch between classes. I teach four classes on Thursdays, capped by a three-hour night class, and it's hard enough staying energized without skipping a meal. On the day I was scheduled for evaluation, it seemed even more important to stick to my routine, rude driver or not. At last I climbed in the passenger seat and studied the problem of sliding over to the driver's side, no small task in my 4Runner. I have a laptop computer stand, part of the permanently-installed storm chasing paraphernalia, not to mention Toyota's abnormally high center console--both significant obstacles.

I thought of starting the car and putting it in reverse, with my left foot or even my hand on the brake pedal, to back away from the offending car, but thought better of operating a vehicle in a way I was familiar with from only my weirdest, most panicked nightmares. They never seem to turn out very well.

So I tried to make the leap from one side to the other. My first try was a complete failure, I found it impossible to swing my legs around the main pole of the Jotto Desk. So I removed the upper portion of the stand and threw it in the back. My next attempt was almost successful, but the lid of the console felt as if it was about to snap, so I aborted the effort and removed the lid, throwing it in the backseat as well. On my last try, with my butt sliding across the now open console, I realized that what was likely to happen--what seemed almost certain given the importance of the day and the already comical nature of my predicament--was that my pants would catch on the exposed hinge of the console and tear the ass right off. I stopped moving and considered what I could do to stop this, but at the same time I was calculating the distance to my house, how long it would take to change clothes entirely and return to campus. I slid another inch, two more, three, and then plopped down in the driver's seat, pants scuffed and soaked but intact.

In triumph I called Mr. Chopsticks and ordered my stir-fry veggies in advance. Back on campus I ate lunch in front of the oscillating fan in my office, drying out and calming down. What a week.

big success on her first try

Friend of a friend Alice Miller saw her first published short story, "The Windmill," awarded New Zealand's prestigious BNZ Katherine Mansfield competition, with a $10,000 prize. The story treats the love affair between a young composer and her imaginative but intense partner, and the choices they make to preserve their separate futures. Miller says,  "It's a story about admiration, about what happens when you meet someone say with an amazing imagination and that's incredibly enchanting and can make you giddy, but can also threaten to take you over."


Here's a video report from a national station in New Zealand, and various print reports regarding the celebrated award. Thanks to Jeff Doty, who attended Iowa at the same time as Miller and remains a close friend, for pointing out the news.

Kind words on Cynthia Shearer's Thimblewicket

A very generous piece about my Pushcart essay, "Put on the Petty," and my novel-seeking-a-home, Remedy Wheel, by  Cynthia Shearer, author of The Wonder Book of the Air and The Celestial Jukebox, which appeared first on her fine blog, Thimblewicket, and then under the Literature tab of Oxford American Online.

Thanks, Cynthia, for the kind words!

Ajahn Brahm returns

For fans of  Ajahn Brahm, the funny and quirky storytelling monk has returned from a three-month retreat and posted a new talk entitled, "Why Me?" about the calamities life can offer.

first publication for student Frisco Edwards

A student of mine, Frisco Edwards, landed his first publication this morning, a story called "Escape Hatch," in the online journal Denver Syntax. First pubs are always memorable events, so congratulations to Frisco!

a letter from Lee Martin on The Letter Project

My friend Lee Martin, finalist for the Pulitzer in fiction three years ago, was approached by the The Letter Project blog, an online journal which collects and presents letters from authors and other artists. They require the letters to have actually been mailed to the named recipient, and Lee sent his letter to me, written in response to a Facebook message I'd sent a few days earlier.

Here's the link to Lee's letter as it appears on The Letter Project website.

Eric Nguyen (1978-2007)

My friend Eric died two years ago today. He was an artist of the highest caliber, a landscape photographer of storms and tornadoes whose work endures in galleries, books, magazines, and most of all in the imaginations of those whose conception of the natural world was changed by his imagery. For those of us lucky enough to know him well, he was a terrific friend.

One of the last times we hung out, at my old house on Jasmine Street in Denton, we'd been drinking wine and talking about a December trip to Rome and Florence when Eric grew restless and wanted to walk around the block. I didn't know at the time that a new medicine he was taking gave him bursts of energy, and I was tired from a big Italian meal earlier that night with our friend and fellow chaser Robert Hall. The wine made me drowsy and unenthusiastic about the August heat. But Eric insisted and so we set out to parallel the railroad tracks along Jasmine, turned up Highland Avenue and back down Wisteria, pausing at the corner under a street lamp to examine some bugs and give the yapping dog across the street a long look at us.

This was the first week of August 2007. I was about to quit my job in a few days, resign my teaching post to spend the upcoming academic year finishing a novel and writing some nonfiction. I worried about the decision. I also thought, in those days, that I was supposed to move to New York City in order to sell a book. Networking, I thought. All this was on my mind as Eric and I continued down the street, a slight breeze from an open field offering the only relief from the humidity, and he asked about my plans, what I envisioned for the distant future rather than the more immediate changes I'd discussed with him for weeks. When was I was going to make time for a family? I didn't have good answers for him.

It wasn't small talk; Eric wasn't very good at that kind of chatter. But nor was it his habit to engage in deeply personal conversations and stay with them. There was something else going on. I can't say what my friend imagined for himself that night, about two weeks before his hospitalization and almost a month to the day before we lost him, but looking back on it now his words rang of some solemn foreknowledge, an attempt to put things in order. And if he had some notion of his own troubles which lie ahead, then the way he steered our conversation, about my plans, and how he asked if we could make a second lap after we'd finished the first, or follow the railroad tracks into the night so we could keep talking, is why I tell people he was one of the most generous spirits I've ever known.

novel-writing kit

Two blog posts I wish I'd seen a long time ago, about how to format and approach the novel synopsis (as much fun as having wisdom teeth removed sans anesthesia) and the other, a light-hearted but substantial post called "Everything You Need to Know About Writing a Novel in 1000 Words."

Thanks to blogs by Nathan Bransford and the "Guide to Literary Agents."

why I like Bing

No, not Bing Crosby, though he was cool enough to do a song with David Bowie when Bowie was, shall we say, incongruous with Crosby's family-friendly image, but I digress. I'm talking about the new Microsoft search engine, which the New York Times claims is superior to Google in many ways I don't care about. What I care about is what happened when I "binged" myself (what else would you do the first time on a new engine?) and instead of some stormchasing link topping the hit list, this blog--my dear old writers blog--poorly maintained and often neglected, emerged the winner. Which likely means my chasing board has shed nearly all its viewers over time, from a similar lack of new content, but still, it's a milestone.

So for all three of you who visit this space regularly, thanks!

dispatch from Kenyon Review Writers Workshop in Gambier, Ohio

I'm having a blast at the Kenyon Writers Workshop this week in Gambier, Ohio. This is a charming campus with a great, hard working staff who make the conference a memorable and, more importantly, productive experience for everybody. My role here is as a Peter Taylor Fellow in Fiction, assisting with Lee Martin's workshop while also producing the same amount of writing as regular students. We hold 4 hour workshops each morning and the students have individual conferences with Lee and I both. Everybody performs at least one reading from brand new work. The emphasis here is just that: generating new material to carry you through the summer. Tomorrow I'll post about what I'm working on. Meanwhile, goodnight from Gambier!