ivan bunin writes flash

reading: Tyomnye Allei (The Dark Avenues / Shadowed Pathways, according to another translation ) by Ivan Bunin (1870-1953). flash fiction at its best, and i had no idea.

Bunin bits:

• About the Soviet government he wrote: "What a disgusting gallery of convicts!"

• He was the first Russian to win the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1933.

• Bunin was a strong opponent of the Nazis and reportedly sheltered a Jew in his house in Grasse throughout the occupation.

• His tempestous private life in emigration is the subject of the internationally acclaimed Russian movie, The Diary of His Wife (2000).

alinait arts festival 2007

alinait has been fun.

after attending two workshops, i'm in love with felting. designs appear in my head, colours, shapes. i enjoyed the subtle layering of fibers, and working with wool. i have no idea what i'd do with my pieces--i'm not into making bags or hats (yet?) i'm going to order some wool and some basic supplies soon.

the multicultural concert / coffee house yesterday was lovely, and the kids had the space to run around and enjoy the music and the atmosphere.

tonight i went to see The Room by Harold Pinter, and everyone's performances were impressive. i loved the play, the seeming absurdity of it, and the haunting mood. when it was over, i couldn't quite connect the dots, couldn't absorb all of it to make any sense, and was left with the feeling of loneliness and discomfort. as i walked home lines from the play ran through my head, and when i was putting the kids to bed it all came together for me. the realisation what the play was about hit me. it was sudden, and somewhat unexpected, and evoked deep sadness in me.

we still have a concert to go tomorrow, and, of course, the canada day festivities and open air concerts.

"dogs" by arthur bradford

this summary is from my very much loved 2000 o'henry collection, the story was short-listed, originally published in esquire, 1999.

a man has sexual relations with a dog and spawns a litter that includes one human offspring in miniature. the father casts the child off, moses-like, in a shoebox. later the child returns, disguised as a singing muskrat, and is accidentally killed by one of the other dogs in his litter. but the little man has impregnated a woman in an iron lung who gives birth to a litter of singing pooches.

the story also appears in his short story collection, Dogwalker, i just found out after googling. i've wanted to read this story for ages. well, since 2000. maybe it is the time i buy the collection.

interestingly, bradford also worked / works with adults with developmental disabilities. unlike me, however, he believes that his stories should be entertaining and easy to read. i don't know what i believe about my stories. my humber mentor has been gently prodding me towards accessibility. i'm trying. but i generally like a bit of mystery and wonder and maybe even some subtle confusion in the stories i read, and write.

oh, and i think the miniature man survives, as obviously he is Fernando, the lover of my nameless protagonist in Postcard from Brazil, my yet unpublished flash. heh heh. i actually didn't think about this summary when i wrote this story. but maybe it has been in my subconscious for too long.

my collection

i just finished arranging my 25 flash pieces in the order i want them to be in my collection. they are all in Part 2. i think i like the order, they are sort of in pairs, each second flash somewhat related to the first.

i have 4 stories left to revise for the first part of the collection. then i will let them all sit for a bit, and read them again, and probably revise again. at one point i will need to stop revising.

i'm pleased that the collection is about 55000 words, maybe even closer to 60000. i started my writing course with 30K, and was hoping to end up with 40K.

another rejection unearthed

yesterday i put on my husband's windbreaker and found a rejection from a canadian lit mag that i really want to be in. it was a handwritten note, dated april. the editor explained what didn't work for him in the story--too disjointed and asked me to submit again. for a beginner writer such notes are gold. it was supposed to be disjointed, as the protagonist is a mental patient, but i've been told more than once already that i need to somehow make it more coherent without necessarily sacrificing the disjointed quality.

other than that and a bunch of other rejections i have nothing of substance to share. i've been making heroic efforts of getting up and writing after my kids wind down for the day. this isn't as easy as it seems, as the youngest goes to bed 2 hours later than the oldest, and then one of them invariably wakes me up in the middle of the night screaming / dreaming, and then the same youngest invariably wakes up 1 hour before the oldest. i think i am getting about 6 hours of sleep, and maybe that's why most of my stories have a disjointed, delirious quality to them. just kidding. this is how i see the world. but i do need more sleep and more time to write, and this is not happening lately.

i've had thoughts of taking a break from this blog. i will think some more, and post an update.

first drafts

i have no patience for details when the entire story is still untold. i rush through the first 1500 words. i prepare the foundation. it is my least favorite part, no matter how much i want to write a particular story. writing first drafts literally makes my head hurt.

i just finished a first draft. i've been living with this story in my head for a week. the draft is so bad, i can't even read it. and as it is almost 1AM, i am sure i won't be able to focus on it either. yet i know that tomorrow and in the next days i will settle with it, read it slowly, fiddle with each sentence, start adding details, and the story will grow, and i will be enjoying it. the story will probably change, morph into something slightly different. this will also be fun, invigorating, all-consuming.

night night.

my most amusing rejection so far

i got an email rejection from a lit mag today.

Sorry to say no to both - nice, but not really for us. I would urge you, though, to enter our contest with them.

the entry fee is $30. is he asking (urging) for a bribe, or a donation?