Must-see non-fiction. Spacious interior. Panoramic view of grief. Makes great use of lot. Motivated seller.
2 POEMS. Quiet, elegant spaces. Walls of windows to the soul. Pacific stylings with remnants of the old south. Recently renovated.
As writers, we’re constantly reminded of the fact that when you build it, they won’t come. It’s up to you to put yourself on the market, along with a pithy listing that might attract an interested audience with a short attention span. You wait and wait, knowing full well you’ve got something great to offer, but for reasons unknown, no response. For days. For weeks. For months.
To be a realtor of your own work: maddening. That’s why it’s a champagne occasion whenever someone breaks through.
Cheers are in order for current MFA student Susan Lerner and MFA grad Doug Manuel. As you’ve seen on a certain site that you’ve surely bookmarked by now, they’ve been pretty successful. And we’re pretty proud.
Susan’s memoir-review hybrid “Reflections on a Friend’s Suicide” appears in the January issue of Word Riot. Ostensibly a review of Falling Into the Fire by Christine Montross, this is no cold, critical work. The author may have her index finger aimed at the book, but she’s acutely aware of the three fingers pointing back.
The late afternoon competitions precluded most parents from attending, and sometimes the stay-at-home dad and I were the only ones in attendance. We settled into our molded plastic chairs, munched on the team’s snacks, and whispered to each other, trying to answer questions as we watched our kids compete.
Just before Thanksgiving, my friend killed himself.
I had no idea he was suffering is the thought that looped through my mind. It seemed true enough—we’d known each other a long time but weren’t close; it didn’t come as a surprise that he hadn’t confided in me. But how could I not have noticed he was dangerously depressed?
Like Susan’s non-fiction, Doug’s poetry published in the New Orleans Review is profoundly personal, yet universally stirring. “Heading Down” recounts an interracial couple’s road trip through the South, the tense ride behind a truck tattooed with a Confederate flag.
Kay and I turn our heads. The boy smiles
and waves. The man driving doesn’t
turn his head, keeps his eyes on the road. Kay
turns red as she tightens her fingers
into fists. I stare directly at the whites of her eyes.
“Goodnight Baby” is an opus in memoriam. Stark and unsettling, each section takes a new shape as the poet reaches in response to loss.
It’s Mother’s Day, the air thick. I want to believe
it is wet from her spit, from her mouth yelling my name.
When I was born, she called me Baby. The night
before she died, she said: Goodnight baby.
Be sure to congratulate Susan and Doug should the opportunity arise. And, most of all, don’t forget to be a motivated seller when it comes to your own work.