Monthly Archives: March 2011
I just got back from a 10-day stay in Italy (don’t worry, this isn’t THAT kind of blog post), and one of the benefits of all the planes, trains, and horseless carriages that transported me around the big boot was the opportunity to read Brian Greene’s newest book, The Hidden Reality. And holy shit. That book is for real. My brains are scattered all over the Tuscan countryside.
Sometimes when I talk to people about my passion for science, they are surprised that it can coexist with my passion for writing. But I have learned (largely thanks to the response to this story in PANK) that I am not a rare breed. The sciences, especially their theoretical branches, are deeply creative; it doesn’t surprise me that other creative minds embrace them.
I spent my first two-and-a-half years in college as a Chemistry major. I didn’t know what I’d do with a BS, but I knew that I loved taking science classes. Luckily for me, the liberal arts school I attended had a substantial core requirement and I took an introductory fiction writing class to knock out of a chunk of it. I had always liked writing, but it wasn’t until that class that I read something from a writer that wasn’t dead. Whoa, I thought. People are still writing stuff? I could write stuff? People might read the stuff I wrote? Sign me up! I was an instant convert. Thanks to a very supportive and helpful writing prof, I was able to take three semesters of course overloads and finish school on time, as an English major. Three months later, I went off to my MFA program and the rest, as they say, is history (in progress).
Once I wasn’t required to read science textbooks anymore, I filled the void with reading material a bit more theoretical in nature. Though I’d chosen to study Chemistry, I’d always been equally drawn to Physics. I picked up this very early book on string theory at a used book store and tore through it. I couldn’t believe how much creativity and intuition went into developing ideas like twistors, supersymmetric strings and world tubes. Once again I found myself wondering, why didn’t anyone tell me? Of course, by then my MFA applications were already out, my chances for a BS in the allotted four years long gone.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m really happy about how things are shaking down so far. I love writing, the writing life and teaching writing. I can still engage in the world of the sciences by listening to lectures and reading about the newest developments. There are many physicists (like Brian Greene, Stephen Hawking, Leonard Susskind and Paul Davies) who are talented and generous enough to write articles and books on theoretical physics designed for the non-specialist reader. I am grateful to them.
But I can’t say I didn’t think twice about an MFA when my GRE scores came back nearly perfect in math, and only middling in verbal. It was also tough not to be dissuaded when one of my undergraduate mathematics professors called my mother to tell her he thought I was making a big mistake, wasting a mathematically-inclined mind on a life of letters. It’s also a bit sad to look at a technical note in a science book and know that my math skills are fading and falling behind. (Seriously, can we talk about some of these equations? That capital R in the Robin Hood font? What the hell is that standing in for? And the backwards italicized six? I think my calculator is missing that button.) I can understand the concepts, but will likely never again have my breath taken away by the elegance of an equation.
What does any of this have to do with creative writing? I think a lot of writers write to help themselves make sense of the world around them. This is what scientists do, too. We’re all after the same kinds of truth. They just look different from different angles.
A psych professor once told me that we laugh when we hear a joke because we make a new connection in our minds that wasn’t there before. We react to the pleasure in that by laughing. That never made much sense to me until I read Hawking’s A Brief History of Time and laughed and laughed and laughed. It is a wonderful experience to feel like you understand something new about the world around you, if only for a second.
And, for me, a second is often all that I have. Sometimes the concepts in the science books I’m reading get so complex, and the chains of reasoning so long that I can only hold it all in my head for a moment. And I laugh because it feels so good. And then, it’s gone. The picture in my head goes fuzzy. I lose some of the story. Sometimes I read chapters again and again and again, just for the rush.
If I try hard enough, I can sometimes learn these concepts, even when they’re very complex. But mostly, I just let them flow through me like water. When I laugh, my partner will say, “Tell me.” And I’ll say, “I don’t think I can.” I have come to view the experience of reading these books the same way I think about eating a really fabulous meal. I will taste it while I’m eating it, and it will taste so fucking delicious. Then, later, I can think about how good it tasted and there will be pleasure in that as well. But I won’t be able to taste it anymore. And that’s okay. At the very least, it’s no reason not to eat.
And isn’t the experience of reading a great story kind of the same? Especially if it’s all language-y and whatnot? If someone asked you, “What was it about?”, you could offer a brief summary. But what they would really want is the feeling you got from reading it. You can’t transfer something like that. It’s inexplicable. And if you want to feel it again, you have to go back and read the story again.
Here’s a comforting thought: The stories and the science will be there. Ready and waiting.
PS. In case anyone’s interested, I thought I’d tack on a very short list of a few favorite science books. These are all totally accessible to the general reader, and guaranteed to make your brain explode.
- How to Build a Time Machine by Paul Davies
- A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking
- The Elegant Universe, The Fabric of the Cosmos, and The Hidden Reality by Brian Greene (Yep. He’s my fave.)
- I love all the books in the “Introducing” series (they’re like graphic novels about science) but my favorites are Introducing Quantum Theory and Introducing Artificial Intelligence.
I’m currently writing a thousand things at once (it works for me; don’t judge) and, among them, I’m polishing up a novella-in-stories and getting ready to…what? It’s a tough sentence to finish for many reasons. First, I’m not even sure a novella-in-stories is a thing. (Anyone ever write one of these? What did you do with it?) Second, assuming it is, what do I do with it?
I’ve done a bit of research on the market for novellas, and I’ll share the results of that here. But I’m hoping others will chime in with other ideas. Please share them if you have them!
1. Apparently, you can send them to regular old literary magazines.
- John Fox has assembled a pretty good list of literary journals that accept novellas over at BookFox, as does John Woodington. I won’t re-type them here. But, seriously, don’t you already have to be famous to get a novella into AQR or The Paris Review?
2. Or you can try a small boutique-y press. This is by no means an exhaustive list, just a few ideas.
- Tiny Hardcore Press can get down with a novella-length manuscript. And they’ll make it look pretty.
- Flatmancrooked’s New Novella imprint publishes (you guessed it) new novellas.
- Mud Luscious Press can handle a novella up to 35,000 words. If you’ve got something really tiny (8,000 to 15,000 words), you can send it to their new imprint, Nephew.
3. You can send them to novella contests. I don’t love this idea because it costs money. $10 doesn’t seem like a lot, but if you send your novella to 10 contests, that’s $100 (for those of you who failed math class). Considering how many times a typical story gets rejected before I place it, those reading fees could really add up. But here’s a few in case you’re interested.
- The William Faulkner- William Wisdom Creative Writing Competition has a division for novellas.
- Here’s one at Miami University Press, specifically designed to fill the market gap for novellas.
- This one’s Canadian, care of The Malahat Review.
4. Finally (finally?), you can put your novella up against other genres in regular old chapbook contests, like these.
- The Collagist Chapbook Contest.
- Caketrain’s chapbook contest.
- Here’s one at Black Lawrence Press.
- Main Street Rag does one as well.
If you have some shorter pieces, you can package your novella together with short stories and try to place the collection with a small press, or send it to some contests. What did I miss? What is everyone else doing with their novellas?
P.S. Interesting little piece at The New York Times about why novellas are the real art form.
Today I have a new story, “Winter in Al Shuwaikh,” up at Used Furniture Review. My micro fiction is high on the list of things I’m working hard to improve. At just over 300 words, this is far and away the shortest story I’ve ever published. Next, I’m challenging myself to write something that feels like a complete story in less than 250 words. Stay tuned.
Meanwhile, hop over to UFR and enjoy this very brief piece of fiction. Here’s a taste:
The power went out on New Year’s Eve. Without the sounds of the radio and the dishwasher, I could hear tanks spitting sand in the desert. I didn’t know whether or not I should be afraid. I looked to my father. He placed a hand on my head. “Let’s play cards, yes?”
I have a short story in Issue 12 of Hobart, which is available for pre-order now. I’m delighted to be in the same table of contents as some of my favorite writers (and people) like Roxane Gay and Brian Oliu. My piece, “The Borovsky Circus Goes to Littlefield,” is about a traveling Russian circus whose promoters abandon it in a small town in Texas. This story was a bit of an experiment for me. It’s written as sort of a series of flashes, each narrated through a different point of view character. I think it came out really well and I’m super jazzed about it, so go get it!
Hobart is one of my favorite magazines and one of the fun things they do is ask authors to create “DVD-style bonus materials” to help promote the new issues. I created a Google Map of Littlefield, Texas, complete with some little anecdotes outside the purview of the original story. Go check out all the fun bonus materials, and be sure to nab a copy of Issue 12!
Here’s a little preview of “The Borovsky Circus Goes to Littlefield”:
Originally from India, Sandeep came with the circus from Russia for a two-year, forty-city tour across the Western United States. They were billed as The Great Baker Circus, though at home they are called The Borovsky Circus. There are clowns, gymnasts, jugglers, aerial artists, and a menagerie of animals whose native lands span the globe: Indian tigers, African elephants, Russian horses, hulking Canadian bears, German toy poodles that stand on top of one another like oranges in a crate.
Three cities into their tour, the promoters have pulled their money. Far from the peaceful snowdrifts of Moscow and even farther from the lush green forests of Dalma, the circus is stuck in the arid Texas desert. The performers and trainers did not know this could happen. Their contract was in English. Between them they speak most languages, but they only read Russian, Mandarin, Swedish, a little Cantonese and Urdu. The lawyer translated the basics of what they were signing. This clause, he did not translate.
Today I have a new story up at Bluestem Magazine. This one’s called “Pinocchio” and (you guessed it) it’s about Pinocchio. I’m currently working a series of flash fictions I’m calling “unauthorized fictional biographies” or maybe “counter-factual biographies.” This piece is part of that series. I’m hoping it will make an interesting chapbook somewhere down the line (hint, hint, chapbook publishers!). I’m quite proud of this piece, so I hope you enjoy it!
Here’s an excerpt to encourage you to click over, read the story, and check out the rest of the quarterly issue:
Now that Pinocchio is finally a real boy, he understands that what he really wants to be is a woman. He knows he has to tell his father, Geppetto, who spent his whole life longing for a son.
“Dad,” he says, “I need to talk to you about something.”
“Amelia,” originally in SmokeLong Quarterly, is also part of this series. And there are many more to come. Stay tuned!