Booze, Brownies and Books at WORD Brooklyn

1. Gillian Telling: mom, writer, Dirty Girl.  2. Author Kate Rockland escaped Wenner and lived to tell the tale.

“I want women to be in touch with their bodies,” began Kate Rockland, author of 150 Pounds“>150 Pounds, “but not in a, you know, touchy-feely Smith College kind of way.”

And so the tone was set for last night’s reading, “Booze, Books, and Brownies with the Women of Wenner Media (Former!): Gwen Cooper, Kate Rockland, and Gillian Telling.”  It was standing room only in the basement of Greenpoint’s WORD bookstore, the double allure of Rolling Stone horror stories combined with advice on breaking into publishing having drawn a mixed crowd of young hopefuls and seasoned warriors alike.

 

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LITERARY ARTIFACTS: the quixotic search for Cervantes’s bones

Cervantes: Lost in La Mancha, Found in Madrid. (Maybe. Probably. We Think.)

Each month in the Literary Artifacts space, writer Kristopher Jansma writes about his encounters with rare books, writerly memorabilia, and other treasures in New York City and around the world, hoping to discover how the internet age is changing the face of literature as we know it.

 

Somewhere deep inside the Convento de las Trinitarias Descalzas in Madrid, historian Fernando Prado is searching amidst the holy books and cloistered nuns for the man who wrote the first modern novel, published 407 years ago today: Miguel de Cervantes— or whatever’s left of him.

The plaque on the exterior of the convent memorializes the author of the great Don Quixote, who is buried inside.  Probably.  They’re pretty sure he’s in there somewhere.  Just no one’s quite sure where.  Cervantes’s bones may have been moved to another convent nearby during a 17th century renovation.  Although it’s thought they were moved back again, and that they weren’t disturbed at all when, in the 20th century, part of the convent was converted into a courthouse.  However, what’s certain is that he was buried there initially—at least it said in his will that he wanted to be.  Though Cervantes himself was not a member of the “Barefoot Trinitarian” sect that runs the convent to this day, they once helped ransom him out of slavery, and one of his daughters belonged to the convent (they think).  All we really know for sure is that the great author died nearby, in his home, of dropsy (only it may have been cirrhosis of the liver, or possibly diabetes) on April 23rd, 1616, just ten days before William Shakespeare.  Except that Spain was using the Gregorian calendar and England the Julian… so really they died on the same day.

OK, fine.  Really all we actually know is that he’s dead.

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Franklin Park’s 3rd Annual Short Fiction Night

1. Katy Pierce, a painter, with David Greenwood, who writes monographs on tweed. 2. Sarah Caciaio, a linguistics student at the CUNY Grad Center, Melynda Fuller, an editor and nonfiction writer, Andy Devlin, a filmmaker, & Liza Monroy, author of Mexican High. 

 

On Monday, I arrived at Franklin Park Bar in Crown Heights over an hour early, in order to meet with some of my co-workers here at EL for happy hour before the reading. The bar was already crowded, and all of the seats were occupied. We just happened to be in the right place at the right time, and managed to snag one of the booths as its inhabitants were leaving. My point: if you’ve ever wondered how early you have to get to the bar to find a seat, the answer is Very Early.

Fortunately, the crowd had come for good reason: great literature, and an especially great line-up, featuring two talented hot ladies and three talented and hilarious Woody Allenish-voiced men, showcasing the wonders of short fiction. And the rest of the world is taking notice of what is happening at the monthly series, earning mentions in publications from BlackBook to The New Yorker to Time Out.

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The 2011 Story Prize Finalists

Faulkner once said that every novelist is a failed short story writer, and every short story writer is a failed poet. I’ve paraphrased (Faulkner said it with more eloquence and more words), but his point is counter to the common wisdom.

Novels typically reside at the top of the publishing and literary hierarchy, while short story collections receive fewer awards, reviews, or sales (if they’re published at all). And, of course, no one reads poetry.

Enter The Story Prize.

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WINNERS: Holiday Restraint Contest

Electric Literature is pleased to announce the winners of its Holiday Restraint contest. Below are the winning entries and a few words from the contest judge Mike Edison.

I reckon I was asked to judge this beast as much for my firm grip on the English language as for my reputation for excess (not to mention that I learned to judge battles inside of a steel cage), and without getting too puffed up about it, I was, as Keith Richards might say, positively gob-smacked about the invite.

For those of you coming in naked, the contest rules were deceptively simple: write a short story of 30 to 300 words that used each word only once.

Over 130 entries ran the gamut from failed word jazz, fractured Haikus, stoned prose poems, the worst of William Burroughs’ cut-and-paste experiments, and the stream-of-consciousness ramblings of failed beatniks and first-year English as a Second Language students, to genuine moments of insight rife with rhythm, humor, and what I like to call “zork,” although I am not sure that term has been adopted by the literary world at large.

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REVIEW: The Fallback Plan by Leigh Stein

The Fallback Plan
Leigh Stein
Melville House
224 pp / $14.95

I first encountered Leigh Stein in a Classics course at Brooklyn College in the spring of 2010.  She sat adjacent to me, and as the professor recounted the Iliad’s instances of aristia, Leigh would write furiously in her notebook any words, phrases, or descriptions pertaining to the text.  I found this technique captivating because, already having knowledge of Leigh’s accomplishments as a poet and fiction writer, I imagined her entries as alternative versions to Homer’s epic, wherein Helen of Troy develops a chronic case of acne after promising to be bestowed to Paris, or Achilles becomes fatally dizzy after chasing Hector around Troy’s walls.

Similar to this fashion, Leigh Stein’s delightful and hilarious debut novel, The Fallback Plan, is a vertiginous rewriting of what do after college when even one’s fallback plan is hardly a sustainable option.  Stein’s narrator, Esther Kohler, accepts this fate as social common sense, i.e., is externally apathetic to moving back in with her parents or watching her capricious boy interest, Jack, fumble with his prettier girlfriend.  She is reservedly jealous of her friend Tierney who writes her letters from Rome, and bemused by her friend Pickle, whose preoccupation with weed and video games starts to rub off on her.  So what does one do when job searching becomes a laughable prospect and one’s Wellbutrin recreation runs dry?  Take a babysitting job, of course, set up by none other than Esther’s assiduously proud mother.
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CELEBRITY BOOK REVIEW: Michael Dell on the Steve Jobs biography

I’m writing this in my stainless steel bathroom, No. 017. The one without the fax. Susan thinks I’m taking a shower. I don’t have much time.

It was a mistake for me to read the Steve Jobs biography. I got kind of boastful about it, especially in the office. I told everybody it would give me key insights into the competition. I may or may not have sent out a company wide email suggesting others read it. And then I started reading it. I must be ready when they ask.

In the preface to my own book on business management, I wrote, “you don’t have to be a genius or a visionary…to think unconventionally. You just need a framework and a dream.” And I really believed that. I continued to believe that right up until the point five minutes ago when I finished this darn book.

Listen, I know I’m a square. I look back on interviews I’ve done and I want to upchuck. A board member’s wife once said that I made her feel like I was about to wipe my shoes on the back of my pants whenever I talked to her. I have a fear of blushing. It makes things very hard.

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JANUARY MIX by Leigh Stein

The Littlest Panda Soundtrack

 

My first novel, The Fallback Plan, has a panda subplot. Esther, the protagonist, imagines writing a screenplay adaptation of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe starring pandas in the roles of the Pevensie children. This playlist is meant to be listened to during soft snowfall.

 

1. “Big Stuff,” Billie Holiday
During the Blitz, the Pevensie pandas are sent to live with their uncle in the English countryside. Opening credits: closeup on the littlest panda’s face, seen through the car’s backseat window.

 

2. “Surrey with the Fringe on Top,” Marlene Dietrich
The pandas play hide and seek. Their uncle is mysteriously absent. Nothing makes sense.

 

3. “Tunglið,” Ólafur Arnalds
The littlest panda finds a secret portal to Narnia in an armoire.

 

4. “Young Folks,” Peter Bjorn and John
While the littlest panda is finding a secret portal, her brother is making a veggie burger and playing Guitar Hero.

 

5. “Sea of Love,” Cat Power
The littlest panda meets a faun.

 

6. “Explain It to Me,” Liz Phair
The faun tells her that they have to save Hanukkah, and explains the curse of the evil White Witch (“Aryan white, if you know what I mean”).
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CRITICAL HIT AWARDS: January 2012

Welcome back to the Critical Hit Awards for book reviews. This is a round-up, a recommended reading list, and—why not?—a terribly prestigious and coveted prize. Nominate your favorite review of the month by tweeting it at @electriclit with the hashtag #criticalhit or cast your vote in the comments section below.

 

Normally I use this space to remind you how exciting and informative book reviews can be. But I really want to share a quote from a book review by Joshua Cohen instead:

The Department of Homeland Security’s Analytic Red Cell Unit employs thriller novelists to envision terrorism scenarios: Brad Meltzer and Brad Thor and writers not named Brad receive assignments like, “Think of a way to blow up the Super Bowl.” When I first heard about this unit a few years ago, I started going to parties, drinking too much, and telling everyone I’d been recruited to Red Cell 2: We were a group of literary novelists, tasked with envisioning the terror scenarios the thriller novelists were envisioning before they envisioned them. This was in the event that any of the thrillerists went rogue. (Soon I was hinting at the existence of a Red Cell 3, assembled to predict our predictions of predictions. It was staffed entirely by poets in Brooklyn.)

See? And that wasn’t even the best review of the month.

 

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Happy Holidays from Electric Literature and Etgar Keret


Guava

by Etgar Keret
Translated from Hebrew by Miriam Shlesinger

There was no sound from the engines of the plane. There were no sounds at all. Except perhaps the soft crying of the flight attendants a few rows behind him. Through the elliptical window, Shkedi looked at the cloud hovering just below him. He could imagine the plane dropping through it like a stone, punching an enormous hole that would be sealed again quickly with the first breeze, leaving not so much as a scar. “Just don’t crash,” Shkedi said. “Just don’t crash.”

Forty seconds before Shkedi expired, an angel appeared, all dressed in white, and told him he’d been awarded a last wish. Shkedi tried to find out what “awarded” implied. Was it an award like winning the lottery or was it something a bit more flattering: Awarded in the sense of an achievement, in recognition of his good deeds? The angel shrugged. “Beats me,” he said with pure angelic sincerity. “They told me to come and fulfill, on the double. They didn’t say why.” “That’s a shame,” Shkedi said. “Because it’s absolutely fascinating. Especially now when I’m about to leave this world and all, I’d really like to know if I’m leaving it as just another lucky guy or if I’m leaving it with a pat on the back. “Forty seconds and you kick off,” the angel droned. “If you want to spend those forty seconds yapping, that’s fine with me. No problem. Just consider that your window of opportunity is about to close.” Shkedi considered, and quickly made his wish. But not before taking the trouble to point out to the angel that he had a strange way of talking. For an angel, that is. The angel was hurt. “What do you mean, for an angel? Have you ever heard an angel talk, that you dump a thing like that on me?” “Never,” Shkedi admitted. Suddenly, the angel looked much less angelic and much less pleasant, but that was nothing compared to what he looked like after he heard the wish.

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