Gertrude's Flat

Nineteen in '72

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 02:00:00 +0000

Probably wait to submit this for the summer editions, but felt it was time to let go.

Sea-Bright Jersey midnight ocean

bodies running mascara salting

my cellist fingers finding your note
the small of your back l'Arc de Triomphe

Do you remember that summer solstice

far far away from the madding crowded

envious bar in that cloud-stained joint

high school undertow pulling us down

A name never asked but what’s in a name

more sweet girl than either imagined

memory epiphany joy and regret

to be so young once more in your eyes

Something unspoken some thing not offered

given taken not given withheld

too soon we surrendered shining immortals

these days these winters I cuddle your light

Commuter

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 02:43:00 +0000

Technodominant morning PATH
filled with Asians frantically working
opposable thumbs sending last farewells
the end of our world sweeps into the car

there's meaning in shadows
suddenly
baked onto concrete walls

witness the new generation learning
feel the air suck away from the platform
empty silent watching the train and
smile it's you who are left behind

Somebody's Watching

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 02:02:00 +0000

Sometimes, when I'm late driving home from the city, I stop at one of the NJ Turnpike Nathan's and grab a Small #1 and the latest issue of Popular Mechanics. PM used to be every boy's entree into the future and full of little ads for ACME Rocket Launchers YOU CAN BUILD AT HOME and other useless but very cool stuff. There were also adds to meet Russian Women but I knew my mother would intercept any mail while I was in school so I never partook, but I did waste many a one dollar bill on "Additional Information" which every budding 8 year old physicist needed to stay abreast of the latest developments. I have fond memories of Heath-Kit radios and backyard catapults and one disastrous DRANO bomb that went off sooner then calculated. My favorite issue was the one projecting jet cars and people movers and food synthesizers ala Star Trek—all by the year 2000. Blew that one—huh.

The magazine’s a bit more grounded these days, and this month there's an article about video games and IT gadgets watching you while you’re watching them. Wii is pure evil in the making; devious Google is slowly setting us up for the final domination. I just began using SKYPE for business, and according to PM I’m literally opening the front door and inviting Big Brother to take a chair. Remember the shot from inside the POD in 2001? HAL is watching me as I type.

But I've found a solution.

We’re a couple weeks past Christmas now. Today I took the tree down and went through the bag of stuff we got from siblings far away and nieces not so far. What do you get the AARP couple who has everything? Of course, a set of tea cozies hand knitted by wealthy children attending their innovative private school on sale at the annual Craft Show (or Crap Show, as my neighbor likes to say). Only one problem—I drink coffee and Maria drinks—I’ve stopped trying to name it. But these cute little earthen tone tea cozies make perfect web cam tents. They even hug the microphone. I’d post a photo but my Cannon Digital supposedly has an embedded serial number hidden in every exposure, letting someone somewhere know someday what I like looking at.

Popular Mechanics and MAD Magazine. Viva la Revolucion!

Cooking Dinner

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sat, 25 Dec 2010 00:25:00 +0000

There are seven Spaniard’s cooking in my kitchen (my wife’s family). I’m not allowed to help so I’ve been splitting my time splitting wood and watching White Christmas. They communicate by yelling at each other. They’re all drinking wine and chopping things and yelling. The yelling is somehow comforting. I’ve always liked Christmas and earlier today I lit a candle for those who cannot be with their loved ones this year. It sounds pretty hokey until you do it. Go on and be alone and silent and light a candle for all those who cannot be home listening to their in-laws yell as they cook. It actually takes some courage. Not something you’d think requires strength…

They’re yelling again. It’s time to eat.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Peace.

Bono Moe

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 15:12:00 +0000

I went to a very cool Christmas Party this evening. We’ve been working down in the Garment District this year and the guest list mingled Devel-Wears-Prada folk with Union Construction execs. It was one of those roof-top bars with loud (but not too loud) music and columns of flame housed in six foot glass cylinders. The flames flared to the beat. There was lobster and sushi and oysters on three tiered silver trays and exotic Brazilian caterers who actually looked like the models they were serving, having body fat in all the places the taller women used digital enhancement. Models look funny in person, especially their eyes. I think the fashionistas we rather impressed how well the construction workers cleaned up. Of course, it was their designs we were wearing. I met what’s her name and chatted with that nice tan man from the movie.

I can’t drink anymore, thanks to NYU getting all their blood from junkies and street people back in the eighties when I had my accident, so I left around 9:30. The groove was settling in. The crowd had finally melded and Tony, one of the marble guys, was lifting models into the air, trying to guess their weight. Several designers standing nearby were discussing how they might integrate men into the Ample-Woman market. The buzz had been circulating all night on so and so’s third quarter earnings, had I bought the stock? I went down in the private elevator with one of the more prominent designers, also a non-drinker. We smiled. The party was over. He, once again, the demanding client and I the contractor draining his budget.

The above is required to set the scene for when I got home and sat down on the toilet. It’s where I get all my reading done these days, the only place I won’t talk on the phone. This fall I have been alternating Franzen’s FREEDOM and Hemingway’s COLLECTED LETTERS with a dollop of TIME every Friday and maybe, if it’s a good issue, Saturday morning.

For months now the back cover has been an advertisement for Louis Vitton. Bono and Ali are wearing blah blah blah and walking away from a classic Cessna parked in a soft golden field of waving African grass. Bono is holding his guitar case like a shotgun broken down for the hike; Ali is setting off in the wrong direction (Bono will fix this momentarily; he sees their target off in the distance) and she is holding a bag I am sure houses one self setting tent complete with carbon fiber safari chairs and a titanium tea setting for two. The fine print says all the profits from the bag and the clothes pictured in the add will be donated to one of Bono’s charities.

My first thought (actually my second, Bono’s eyewear always makes me smile) is who the F is Ali—his wife, girlfriend, some other pop-star I haven’t heard of? She’s too fat in the photo to be a professional model, but I’m betting she looks as good in person as those Brazilian servers did earlier in the evening. The whole shot is making me very uncomfortable—the opposite of what I am trying to accomplish before going to bed. Then it hits me: that should be Hemingway with a Remington Slug Gun; the girl should be Francis Macomber’s soon fated wife. Do they really think anyone entertaining the purchase of a Louis Vitton bag doesn’t know how much “profit” is actually left after a bunch of lawyers and accountants get done with the figures?

This all flashes by in a millisecond because the true “aha” is how the add is really targeting me—us—not the buyers of such things, but the target market of TIME whose guilt must be assuaged, the ones who must envy the other who can afford such accoutrement, the ones who create and support the illusion. We are the middle class sitting here on our johnnies taking it up the rear instead of getting it out, the one’s shrugging off yet another irony we now have the education and worldly exposure (even a lowly carpenter like myself) to understand. Ugly Truth. We all stood there tonight in the restaurant we never get into wearing the clothes we cannot afford looking out great glass walls above the city of cities—the one we built—for a moment, tasting the universe we have created for .00000015% of the planet’s population. Do the math, then pat yourself on the back and go watch The Simpson’s.

Ode to Jon Stewart

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 11:34:00 +0000

I really did want to go

for many reasons

but I had shit to do.

Kudos to those who made it.

I will vote

no matter what,

continue to challenge,

gently engage those I meet

filled with fear and bigotry.

I will listen

and understand,

a futile gesture—I know.

Eons from now

the Gods will say

we did not deserve this paradise.

Asked at a reading: Why do you write?

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 13:18:00 +0000

This is my latest attempt to answer the question and still, it misses the mark. Don't you find that as well?

As a young child I was a teller of tall tales. In 7th grade I wrote one down. Mr. Gasperini let me read it in front of our English class and when I finished Stephanie Smith was staring. I wrote another and she stared again. Craig Sprenger asked if I wanted to hang out and listen to Beggar's Banquette. You would think the lesson was one of acceptance but no, it was that they understood.

Asking a writer why they write is like asking a biker why they ride. If you do, you know why and if not, try it. Then you will no longer feel the need.

Nineteen in '72

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 14:38:00 +0000

Sea-Bright sand

sweet summer sweat

oceans ending breaking

our bodies

running mascara
tight flat muscle

whiskey gin breath

and the small

of your back as

my cellist fingers

find the note

Bursting woman

cover of darkness

there is no moon

barely a star

but this will do

melting and slipping

lover's sighing to

touch and be touched

music and light creep

back over the dunes

ending our running away

Sudden chill

a sea lapping stroll

drifting apart but not

till the squeeze

of your hand

does epiphany come

envious cloud-stained

opposite ends of a bar

among friends

names never asked

but wondered

Within Without You

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 11:11:00 +0000

Where is my staff

my sorcerer’s light to lift you up

from a long dark sleep,

cast a spell that will take us back

to that day your voice, like Juliet's

whispered over my outstretched hand,

bade me trample your toes at the dance

and smile, years later, when you married a friend.

All of us knew you were fading,

believing the day would not come

where you lay in this room so pale and still,

white upon white, fragile breath

forgotten, remembered, returning

each time to your empty body,

weightless hands,

as if you were standing high on a cliff

we are here now, waiting

within without you.

Soon the earth will open cold and damp,

the sun will not warm our faces,

winds will sigh the bending trees

and prayers, whispered, will not comfort those

who have lost their sweet girl,

dear wife, loving mother, cherished friend…

they will go on alone.

How lucky you are not to be the one

who will cast the rose, the fist full of dirt

when the sound of your heart goes silent,

how lucky not to need these words

as if they might be magic,

keeping you here

if only a moment longer.

A Couple of Good Poets

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Tue, 04 May 2010 23:55:00 +0000

Not to beat a dead horse 'cause I've said this before, but I want to point out the elegance of "The Judas Horse" by Jennifer Bower over on Referential Magazine. I think what makes a good poem is the experience created for the reader, either knowing themselves a bit better or knowing the poet - the direct experience of another. This may not be as pretty as some of her other work but when finished I felt as if I knew Jen a bit better. We've never met except through our words. Two people knowing a thing together - is there anything finer?

The Judas Horse « Referential Magazine

The same can be said of Steven Hellyard Schwartz. Goggle the guy. Lots of fine things there as well.

The New Verse News: FOR PHOEBE

And while we're at it, another fine example of

of a gifted writer coming through loud and clear in the most unassuming way. Christopher Allen at

http://imustbeoff.blogspot.com/

Livingston - Day167

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sat, 17 Apr 2010 18:07:00 +0000

Another installment. Not sure what I want to do with these yet, but they describe an era when we thought we could do most anything, not as now, where we seem to be afraid of our own shadows. Felt it was a little too long for the blog so I put it up over on Fictionaut. http://www.fictionaut.com/stories/derek-osborne/livingston-day-167

Carvel

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sun, 28 Mar 2010 15:06:00 +0000

“Carvel!”

“Yeah, Carvel!”

Someone had chanted the magic word.

“Who wants to go?”

Well, we all did.

“Too many,” Pooh said. “We’ll get stopped.

Pooh was the first of our little group to get a Farmer’s License. His real name was Steve Nankervis but we already called his older brother “Nank”. The summer before I’d found a Winnie the Pooh bear under his bed while looking for my sneaker. He never did live it down.

“We’ll need to pick up some feed,” Mike said.

“I can’t see my mother this stoned.”

“We can say we’re getting gas.”

“Are you high?”

That spring, anticipating our coming emancipation, we had fixed up an old Chevy wrecker Mr. Romanovich gave us, spray painting it green in the Ward’s garage. It took almost two cases of Krylon and we probably should have sanded the fenders but it did have a certain charm, we named her Big Green, and we all looked like aliens the next day in school. We splurged on Rustoleum Red for the gantry. Holmdel was nothing but farms back then. There were five other kids my age.

“Let’s just do it,” Nancy said. She was Mike’s girlfriend and the only girl in the group.

“All of us?”

“Maybe they won’t be around.”

“They’re always around,” Tommy said.

The Middletown Cops--they were the problem. A ‘pledicament’ Mrs. Ward liked to say. Mrs. Ward was Mike’s mother and Japanese. Carvel was over on Rt. 35 across from the Middletown Cop Shop and Chief McCarthy’s window overlooked the parking lot. Chief McCarthy was a major asshole. His cops had been trying to bust us for years. Middletown was suburbia—Holmdel the country; Middletown had over fifty officers—Holmdel had two, Chief Brady and Jimmy. We were those hippie farm kids who rode their dirt-bikes out on the Tatum estate.

"We’ll say we’re going to Wilson’s to help with the mowing.”

“Yeah, we can all ride in back.”

"I'm pretty sure that's illegal."

"I wouldn't be to sure about that," Drucker said, suddenly present. His dad was a lawyer.

“Let’s just go,” I said.

“Yeah fuck it, let’s go.”

We all hung out at the Ward’s. Their property connected to the Tonti’s, which connected to Pooh’s farm, and then Tommy’s, and all them just a pasture gate closing away. The Ward’s place also ran along Township Line Road and Tatum’s estate, six hundred acres of horse trails, abandoned haylofts and Mrs. Tatum’s pink lemonade, stood just across the way. To get there on our dirt-bikes we had to sneak across to the Middletown side.

You had to be sixteen to get a farmer's license and it was only for use on ‘farm business’, though the statute left things a little vague as to what exactly ‘farm business’ was. At first we were cautious, only driving legitimate errands, just being out on the road was thrill enough, but soon we started pushing the envelope, riding around Holmdel and making excuses whenever Chief Brady or Jimmy stopped us. Jimmy was easy, he used to smoke pot with Mr. Ward, but Chief Brady was reaching his limit when one day we pulled his car from a ditch (he was drunk again) and swore an oath to never tell Mrs. Brady. After that we had the whole town to ourselves—‘farm business’ or not. We even went out after dark.

But going through Middletown presented a challenge. We soon invented all kinds of farm business, hooking up Tommy’s flat-bed trailer and towing Pooh’s tractor, claiming a trip to Belford Repair. We piled hay in the back bed, the cherry-red top of gantry just sticking out, and swore we were making deliveries over to Wilson’s. We discovered a loop-hole, it seemed there wasn’t a law against stopping for errands along the way, and since all roads led to Five Corners and Carvel happened to be there—we stopped. Then Mr. Ward suggested we throw a few bags of feed in the bed and say were coming from Agway. That did the trick, a 50 lb. bag of Purina and we were good to go.

It was hot that day in August, with all the chores done, and the seven of us hanging around the Tonti’s pond, bored, with a solid case of the munchies. We’d swum ourselves out and were laying in the grass under their big spreading elm when Drucker suddenly sat up.

“Carvel.”

We were kids. It was summer. This was America.

“Fuck it!” Pooh said. “Let’s go!”

We were down across Township Line Road in less than a minute.

Some days stand out more than others, maybe even define us—they capture the essence of who we were and how we've come to measure things now. I remember rolling along that day, the blur and vibration under our feet, pulling my t-shirt off and feeling the hot sun on my shoulders, the wind drying my sweat, ice cold as we stood in back of the cab hanging onto gantry and riding through dappled green tunnels along Holland Road. I remember the look on every face, as though we were running and I laughed and leaned way out over the side with Tommy holding my belt and yelling in through the window—how pretty Nancy looked inside that battered cab—and then that first taste of Banana Split, vanilla ice-cream on my tongue, strawberry syrup dripping all over my chest and using one of those little white napkins to wipe it away. I remember sitting on the benches they had out back in the little grove of trees telling stories, how the big, blue, iridescent letters on the car snapped us back, the young cop inside looking like he’d just won the lottery, and the questions, like we didn't belong, the smirk and the I’m-not-buying-it look while he wrote out the ticket and called for the township wrecker.

What a dick.

Valentine's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 13:59:00 +0000

The only Valentine I ever gave or got was Robbie Wharton in the second grade. We had already traded lunch boxes, but the following day we had to trade back because hers was pink with Barbie Dolls and mine was camouflage green with scenes from Combat.

So it's Valentine's Day, 1960, and we're allowed to give out our cards during snack. Mine's just a big red heart on glossy white stock, my mom bought it at Neisner’s, and I leave it blank inside except for my signature. We're still learning to write cursive and I really suck at it. Hers is all flowery with sparkles and the big question is written inside by hand. She’s drawn a little heart after her name. The penmanship is perfect. Bobby Jakes and I punch each other after reading each other’s.

Then right near the end of lunch we have another air raid drill. The Army thinks the Russians are going to Nuke us any day now. We all march single file out into the hall and Robbie and I press our faces up against the cool beige tiles. It's our private time, these air raid drills. We make a little tent out of both our jackets and kneel there, whispering.

“Will you save me if they bomb us?”

I say sure, just as Billy Schwartz throws up on the other side of her. Billy's 'nervous' and can't make friends. His dad's in the FBI. Billy's always talking about certain people in our town who might be ‘subversive'. I figure he means they came there in a submarine. His puke does change things, though; the Russians never bomb us again after lunch.

I don't remember us breaking up. Like most children, we faded into other people. Last time I saw her was fifth grade when the new school got built and they divided the town in half. I don’t remember her after that.

She's still my only Valentine.

AARP and the Wise Man

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 17:15:00 +0000

The ads all tell me

I’m 56

They say I am only beginning

It’s true

I see as I look around

old dreams now dreamt are fading

How soft were those lips

How brilliant the stars

How glorious were the battles

Oh youth

don’t waste of it ever young friends

Don’t dare let go without fighting

You want of my wisdom

I give it here now

Make sure and take plenty of pictures

Venting the Light Fantastic

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 22:11:00 +0000

I may have mentioned my wife teaches yoga. She’s pretty good at it, so good she’s now a partner with one of the bigger names in the business. I call it a business because they refuse to. In fact, most people teaching or taking yoga think the word business is evil, that Yoga isn’t about money--it’s about spirituality, living green and building community—you know, health shit.

Just open a copy of Yoga Journal and tell me it isn’t a business. Tell me Yoga isn’t about having a nice ass and wearing three hundred bucks worth of gear while you’re on “the mat”. And what’s with all this gear? Thirty years ago we didn’t have poly mats and suede bolsters or leggings suggesting more than just warmth for ones legs, all that heat having to rise somewhere. Thank Bikram for bringing your morning practice out of the closet. And don’t be fooled by that funny, secret language either. I’m pretty sure Laxmi in its original form stood for screwing your neighbor out of every last cent while smiling contently and chanting Om. Don’t kid yourself; spiritual leaders can cook the books with the best of them, especially over in

India

. Where do you think the guys over here learned to do it?

The reason I’m so pissed is because after all the crap we went though when our own guru fell from grace I still see people falling for the hype, my wife included. Today she asked if I could overnight a contract for her. No problem, except when I got to the post office there wasn't any street address on the cute little yin-yang sticky note she gave me. The zip code was wrong, too. Do I lose my cool? No, I took a deep breath, bent like grain in the wind, and looked at the agreement to get the address there. But there was no address, not on the title page, not in the section where parties are identified, and nothing on the last page under the signature lines. In fact, there was nothing anywhere to identify who the hell the two parties were, just a couple of names.

I’m stood there flipping through page after page muttering “What kind of agreement doesn’t have an address?” when this guy standing next to me whips out a card and places it down on the counter.

Johnson, Johnson, Corley & Liebowitz

Corporate & Contract Law

Robert Corley – Attorney at Law

SSID, CCPA, BBMF

One thing I learned from living in an ashram—pay close attention when the Universe intervenes. We’ve got an appointment this Friday.

My God didn’t raise no fool.

AA Fuel Top Eliminator

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 01:03:00 +0000

They start the bike

all fire and thunder

Shining black lacquer and chrome

Nitro fumes sting his eyes and

ten rows up the grand stand rattles

Gauntlets stretched

Visor down

He straddles the machine

and sets the throttle

Lights come down and

they launch

Seven lost seconds all violence and prayer

Not until he shuts

the beast down

do his senses return

The crowd is roaring

The bike rolls meek and empty

shaking it off

still among the living

No one knows

that he just struck his hand

through the dragon's heart

his quest reduced to a circus act

his sword a black felt pen

Lancelot living in a double-wide

Copy a Classic

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 23:58:00 +0000

The fine art of Parody is something every creative writing student endeavors to learn. It makes for a valuable tool in your kit, a fun way to understand plot, character and the finer points of composition. I have come up with a variant to this discipline, one designed to help the new writer break onto the scene. It's really quite simple. Copy a Classic.

That’s right, word for word, so simple a cave man could do it. Go grab your favorite novel (I’m using Hemingway’s "The Sun Also Rises" in our example) and copy it into Word or your favorite processor. Don’t cheat. Copy every sentence and period exactly how it was published. For better results, change your page settings to mimic the published book’s format, the reason will soon be apparent. Depending on skill it might take a few days but don’t get discouraged and remember, this counts toward you daily discipline quota. This is writing; you still have to work: I never said it was easy. I’m simply helping you get out there on the circuit where the money and casual sex ain’t bad.

Now that you have it copied save an original file and create a new working file. In this way you can draft on the fly. First thing to do is change all the names. This is fairly simple with Word as you can do a SEARCH and REPLACE ALL. Have fun. Don’t try and line up your ducks just yet. Let it build organically. And don’t get hung up on this or any other step. It’s easy enough to go back and simply cut and paste once you see the new novel taking shape.

Change the setting. Go wild. Turn Paris to Newark; the Pyrenees for the Louisiana Bayou. Spanish farmers sitting on bus roofs will now become migrant laborers swigging Boones Farm and pissing in empty Gatorade bottles. Jake (now Hugo) will catch Bill’s (now Elwood’s) eye and silently communicate all that truly matters in life—a good game of online Texas Hold ‘em—and Robert Cohn (now Evan Ishvwitz) will fall in love with Bret (not Lady Brett, mind you, though this new love interest, a guy, will still have the lines of a yacht. Just don’t use the word "yacht" to describe him, it’s too familiar). You can leave some things alone, like Jake wishing Robert would just go away, and in your version of this classic novel, Jake will still be a steer but not in his pants, he will now have PTSD induced impotency in deference to pop psychology (I still got hurt in the war, sort of) and he’ll buy generic Viagra from Canada online. Bret can be his buddy from college, always longing for but never consummating their man-love. That first night in Newark they’ll both sit close in a cab with bad brakes, waiting in traffic outside the Holland tunnel. “Oh Hugo,” Bret will say, “Life really sucks.”

Now come the big ones—Plot, sub-plot and counterpoint. Don’t get your panties in a wad. Just dive in. Make them insurance people. After coffee one day at the local Starbucks the word comes down on Katrina, get out there and start denying claims. Jake (Hugo) will work very hard and wait while other adjusters destroy lives just to hear themselves laugh. The International Poker Competition is being held in Vegas the following month. Hugo (Jake) can work in New Orleans, maintain his famous integrity, then he and Elwood can meet up in Louisiana and get high while huntin’ ‘gators. They can lay on their backs in the swamp and slug warm beers while making snide remarks about Evan. Evan will have to go back to New York and work in his family’s textile warehouse (He’s still Jewish). Bret can be there for a few off-off Broadway auditions, one or two tête à tête’s with Evan's uncircumcised member (counterpoint), then dump him and come out to Vegas where he’ll meet the reigning poker champion, a Mexican dwarf named Rauole. Of course, Evan will follow, spineless mama’s boy that he is. They all have a grand time, meet a wealthy clown from Cirque du Soleil (The Count). They’ll get high as kites, watch people ruin their lives over gambling, say nothing about it, and Hugo will break up a fight when two Italian American gentlemen insist on making fun of Bret when Evan doesn’t man up.

Once you finish, do another SEARCH and replace all the "and" conditions with commas. The original may still be fresh in some junior assistant’s mind. Shift F7 will resolve any fragments or run-ons. Getting the picture? Two weeks, tops. "An 80,000 word novel about people who go all to hell.”

Next week we’ll look at using Google for templates on query letter hooks and how to con art students into creating Lulu book jackets for free.

Case in Point

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 14:58:00 +0000

I've been trying now for some time to isolate what it is I don't like about the current popular forms of fiction, specifically Flash, Uber-Flash (under 500), Specific Word Counts, and Twitter. While they all take skill and some result in some brilliant writing, most of it is garbage, the illusion of solid exposition and character development, and the majority is masturbatory angst at best - you know, college crap.

Yesterday I rubbed one out, "The Good Samaritan" (link to the left). It's only 750 words. You should go read it and then come back. I'll wait.
http://www.fictionaut.com/stories/derek-osborne/the-good-samaritan

Not bad, right? But not great. Let's see why.

Plot - I've seen this somewhere before. Can't quite put my finger on it, but I know I have. Twilight Zone? OK, maybe it's updated or place specific (New York Subway) but been there / done that applies. I'll give it a 5.

Character - If I read (or write) about one more

Viet Nam

era vet and his PTSD my head's gonna explode. The beauty of this, though, is the fact that the reader probably feels the same and knows this guy backward and forward. No need to flesh him out, he's like a can of Coke in a vending machine. You know exactly how he'll taste from first sip to last. And then there's the mugger. I could have just said "There's the mugger" and you all would have profiled him right on the spot. I felt compelled to at least acknowledge his sneakers. (How many people pictured them as perfectly clean and white?)

Plot-Twist - Oh please, not another weird guy doing weird things for the greater good of society, but when you’ve got all these stock characters hanging around you’d better do something.

Emotional Payoff - We have to come, bottom line. And we've gotten so good at quickies. This thing takes four minutes to read. Do I hear Chapbook? Do I hear online zine collection? Do I hear favorite on Fictionaut?

Clever - but not too. I'm a guy. Clever translate to cute. Girls are cute. Women are clever. Really clever women are elegant and one can get extremely elegant with these short forms and not become old, which all clever women (who are only clever) become. But clever hooks young writers wishing they could be clever. Clever is key.

Did I mention first person present?

Story arc - Guy on the subway. Guy getting mugged. Guy wants to get mugged? Guy's done this before? Guy's on a mission. Guy poses a question that doesn't have a simple answer. Like all good questions, the explanation leads to God. God is great, as the popular saying goes.

And now for the main ingredient, the one thing it’s got to have.

Putney says the new short fiction has got to have tone.

Putney, Putney Swope. In theatres everywhere May 21^st.

For all you youngin’s, “Putney Swope” was a break-through Blacksploitation film of the ‘70’s that fooled African-Americans into thinking they weren’t being exploited, yet again. The trailer was a voice over announcing three times the third world has got to have soul. Like any hook it is still stuck in my mind forty years later. Tone, with a capital T, is a full 5 points from the judges. Plot, character and all the rest account for another 4. Originality will get you a perfect 10. I have yet to come across a perfect 10 except for the vignettes Hemingway inserted between stories in “In Our Time”. Want to write good flash, go read them.

So, why does Flash ultimately fail? I think for the same reasons TV is mind numbing and films inspire. Our brains need to be engaged for a certain amount of time to eliminate external stimuli and open internal paths. Like meditation, a good 3000 word story accesses deeper parts of the psyche; novels transport.

It’s hard to explain.

Young Poets

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 00:52:00 +0000

These young poets

I don’t get them

Holding out lamps

covered in black shades

full of pin pricks

their brilliance teasing

but never quite seen

not full on

not naked

Twittered elegance passing for genius

Fantasy worlds mistaken for real

Beauty

these days

not even skin deep

projected instead in 3D surround

Space more important

than words

But then

I shouldn’t be able to understand

Climbing the Mountain

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 15:47:00 +0000

Some years ago I completed my first novel. It was not such a bad novel, though it was a very poor novel. I got an agent and she pushed it on all the big houses. The rejections were interesting. My favorite? “Some of this is brilliant, but most is just plain awful.” Still, I was proud of actually finishing the damn thing. I'd proved I could do it. Then my business took off so I put the book in a drawer, thinking when things calmed down I'd give it another try.

All went incredibly well for a number of years, then Enron fell and so did my company, forcing an early retirement. Times being what they were, I started writing again, applying the discipline I knew had brought some success in my other ventures. I made some good friends on URBIS and work shopped the novel, making sure I wrote something each day for at least two hours. Slowly, my narrative voice developed. I started publishing on some of the ezines. I built this blog, joined Facebook, twittered with other writers. All the while I carried the belief that even if I failed, I'd given the game the old college try. One or two writers who I dared call writers said the same of me. Then editors said it, too. I even published a poem. I started my second novel.

And then something happened. Through a series of innocent and random conversations I was contacted about that first novel. They wanted it, maybe, was I willing to change this and that? Why not? I knew how to fix it. Give me a month and I'll send it over. I told my wife and we popped a bottle of cider. I slept like a baby. The next morning I climbed to the loft with my first cup of coffee, opened my laptop—and thought I was having a heart attack. For a solid week now, fits of anxiety come and go at all hours. I've faced union goons holding 2x4's. What changed?

Psychology 101 doesn't cut it. Ego, self worth, still proving myself to mother—horseshit. Some of you understand. Writers have come up with all kinds of clever phrases to deflect the embarrassment, keep their hearts safe and the vultures arm's length. Mountaineers still have the best line, “Because it's there.” It's not because it's there; more to the point: because it is. I remember sitting at the stern of my yacht (Yeah, I was one of those guys), smoking a Cuban and sipping cognac, watching the evening light up Nantucket and thinking, “This ain't it.” All my hard work these past thirty years and all I'd achieved was cliché.

I write because I'm a writer, I am that, it is me. I cannot help myself. I tell stories, at times it's gotten me into trouble. No amount of therapy or losing of friends or even the threat of jail has changed it. So confess, mes amis, all you ever were and all you will ever be is a writer, for richer or poorer, Kindle or no, till death do you part. Since that very first story, that anxiety you felt, that you're feeling now? It's all there to teach you. Listen. Suck it up and keep going. Shut them all out. How could they possibly know?

Speak, Christmas Memory

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 21:08:00 +0000

An 8 Bar Tweet

9 years old, first erector set. Lee, Rick and Chris get one too. We combine them and build Co-Op City. I swear Mark’s dad stole our idea.

12 years old, brand new drums. Leopard skin, man, our names in the paper. Hey Joe, where you goin’ with that gun in your hand. Amplified.

14, new boots, Barney clearing 6 feet plus. All the kids come and watch us practice, even on Christmas, ears pinned back and snorting fire.

16, with Nancy, zippered house coat there by the fire. Her parents laugh when they drop the Bible, hearing us scamper out in the den.

17, high, sleds and Boone’s Farm. Charlie falls off, dies of concussion. Billy gets dosed, hangs himself. Wisdom comes hard that Christmas.

19, drafted, dumped and alone. Mother and I don’t see eye to eye. Spend the day in a bar down in Sea Bright. Far from alone, Xmas cheer.

21, clean, school’s going well. I may be a writer, mother frowns. Friends are home, safe and sound. I sit and wait for hell to freeze over.

56 and beginning once more; been there, done that, seen the big world. All that matters are words on a page, not about me, but you and I.

Talking Shit

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 16:42:00 +0000

I love fun writers. I love writers who are funny. I love reading funny situations. Life is so funny, and cute, don’t you think? I think it’s cute. I love how funny it is to imagine gnawing my hand off. I love funny, ironic endings, especially if they involve aliens or something. Those are my favorite. I’ll “favorite” you any time you are funny and alien—and brief. Don’t forget to be brief. I don’t have all that much time.

I love how funny my life has been, for realsies. It really was funny, and cute, all of it. The war, my hand, finding my friend hanging, these things can be funny if you try. It can be arranged. And I love how someone can make it all funny in 500 words or less. Those are my favorites, too. Ironic Flash. I love irony, especially if you mix it with popular horror. Clever is funny too, like that talking dog, but irony mixed with horror—I can read stuff like that all day.

But please, don’t make me work, or think—whatever. And if I can’t finish reading in the time it takes for a cigarette (not that I smoke) or a decent dump don’t bother. 3000 words is so last century. You know, I hear that shit, I mean real, smelly shit, is all the rage, especially if you’re a lesbian. If you can write really funny, ironic shit and blend in some sex then I’m so in love. That’s the best. I don’t care which site you’re on. And straight guys talking about sucking off other straight guys? That’s really cool. I mean, girls did it this whole decade, now it’s the guy’s turn. I can’t believe AIDS and the Holocaust are boring but they really are. Who needs to hear about that? Well, as long as it’s short. Maybe Twitter or something.

Workshops

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 14:29:00 +0000

I know a great many of we "indie" writers have voiced an opinion on this subject. This is mine.

They seem to run a pattern. Like being the new kid in town, everyone's curious. It takes a few submissions and critiques to get noticed, and then all of a sudden you’re receiving a great deal of attention. You even get laid a few times (metaphorically) but sooner or later the established clique comes down hard. If you haven't spent time sucking up to a certain crowd (five or six seems to be the critical mass) the subtle rejections begin. A form of mob rule soon manifests, and you're out. The presence of some form of rating system assures this will happen. Those on top want to stay on top; it is, after all, human nature. One could say these little microcosms behave as the real world does, so suck it up and get on with the show. Which is what most of us do. Oh yeah, I forgot, this pattern applies to those who can actually write.

To be fair, I've been on the good side of a clique. It was a lot of work. A daily presence and group participation was required. We even identified our own evil-doers and sent in the troops, accordingly. At one point I suggested my daughter do a paper on it for her psychology major. After a solid run, we spun off and started our own, private workshop. A good thing. Like all regimes, our time was at hand and the people were secretly gathering off-site, spreading the word. We all got on a plane one moonless night and split, declaring victory to the press and taking as much loot as our bags could hold. This group of twenty or so has now filtered down to four or five serious writers. We work with each other on a consistent basis. In the end, how many opinions do you actually want? I’ve heard several versions of this from other writers.

To be clear, I think these workshops are a good thing, especially for those of us no longer in school. Finding one with diverse talent is a bonus. My first workshop lead me to a better one, and now I have found a third. Initial feedback from this new group has been constructive and from people I consider my peers—people getting published by ezines—Indies like me. It’s the next step, A-League ball, what remains to be seen is how the major leagues reinvent themselves. For all I know, Folded Word is the next Google.

So by all means, workshop. Get your feet wet. Watch the politics. Know you will encounter frustrated people wanting to only give pain. Think of them as fledgling literary critics. Listen to those whose work you respect and weigh it against your own wisdom. Do not bend with the prevailing wind. Bend, on occasion, for editors. In the end, it is the power and originality of your narrative voice that will win the day. And don’t forget to practice. Only through discipline will your voice develop.

End transmission.

Some Thoughts on Writing

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 15:52:00 +0000

We all know a story or two; good times and bad, and we've all been in love, some to war, some who have known excellent adventures, others who grew up with gang-bangers, and those who have witnessed nature's power. We know how to write it all down, construct an entire world on paper (or tablet); create one fleeting moment of recognition for the reader. There are easy audiences; people with burdens will flock toward anyone telling of their story. We love to debate, for the umpteenth time, our personal take on the one true God. And never neglect the gallery, as Shakespeare cautioned, we're all waiting for Tiger's fourteenth girl to show. It’s a proven formula: develop a solid discipline, go out and find a relevant topic, practice good writing and find an agent—it can be done.

And for some of us that is enough, and that’s a good thing. Try and write a genre romance or an enjoyable travelogue. Not easy. Never put down the successful author, even the one hit wonder. Twilight, for all its shortcomings, has entertained millions, and millions make the difference between having a day job and making a living in the word dodge. Do I wish I’d come up with Twilight? Damn straight, though I’d probably use a pseudonym. Been drafting a bonnet novel (those Amish romances where no one even gets their first kiss) as a way to pay some bills.

But the magic, that illusive combination of all things on the printed page; attaining that requires one more ingredient. Just as humans differ from apes by a mere 1% of chromosome content, so does the difference between good writing and great. It isn't only desire, or intellect, a natural talent and simple hard work, and luck, don’t forget luck, not even the combination of all those things; it is something more: the accumulation of disciplined access. Ask any spiritual master and they will say you must dig one deep well, else you only end up with a field of holes. Go and see Edvard Munch's painting, The Scream, knowing he over-painted that canvas 79 times. Othello, King Lear and Macbeth are numbers 27, 28 and 29 out of 37 plays attributed to Shakespeare. As a writer, an artist, you must go there again and again. The Universe rewards persistence. Holden Caulfield could not have sat with Phoebe at her window without it; Jake Barnes could not have looked over at Bill, silent, revealing all that had ever happened and all that would; or owl-eyes standing in Gatsby's library announcing, “They're real…Absolutely real—have pages and everything.” Those authors could not have written such memorable scenes without working, everyday, no matter what.

If you want to be good at anything, truly good, and face the world head on and knowing it, you will probably aim for some level of greatness. The reward is in the doing a friend of mine once said. If you are not willing to strive for greatness be honest, at least with yourself, just okay is still a wonderful place to be. Anytime you feel bitter or failed just look in the mirror, blame is most often found there. All those clichés like loved and lost, at least I tried, he was a good man or she was a good mother—if that’s what they stood for—then rest in peace. But this writing thing, this goal of literature…

And if what I have said here angers you, my arrow has found its mark. If you think of writing as a hobby you have my envy. I've spent four decades doing everything but. Going to God, money and yachts, drugs and booze have only delayed the inevitable. Being a writer has always been there, lurking about in the shadows, ever since 7^th grade when Stephanie Smith seemed to notice me for the very first time after reading my first short story aloud. Now I'm hoping there's still enough time to develop my craft and “go there” often enough to be able to say that I did it. There is my mirror, how did you last find your own?

Brilliance for Brilliance Sake

noreply@blogger.com (Derek Osborne) — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 13:55:00 +0000

I don’t like pretty writing; writing that calls attention to its own structure and elegance. It speaks to me of fragile egos and failed men standing in classrooms impressing young minds. It betrays those who have stood by in life and watched others live. It is the difference between masturbation and making love, where jerking off is almost always perfect while love is messy and full of risk. For me the craft should always be more akin to a movie score, even in poetry, enhancing and moving the story along, breaking the forefront only to punctuate, extend the moment, but never be the story itself. It is why I studied Joyce but still read Catcher in the Rye once a year, Too often, I think, we are impressed with clever writing instead of clever writers. Like the runway model its beauty is only skin deep; like the ballerina, get too close and you smell the sweat, see the bleeding toes and misshapen feet.

This is not to deny any room for experimentation. As in any intellectual game, there is both enjoyment in its creation and some benefit in the practical world. Any writer who’s found their voice has no doubt shown off on occasion. And I do not wish to cast any negative comment on the world of academia or the avant-garde. Two very bookish men taught me what good writing was. There is a time and place for all of us here in the word dodge to read Ulysses, and there must always be an extreme; the fringe, by definition, must remain narrow and focused, but if you are trying to tell a story, if the play really is the thing, then get out of the way and just tell it. Don’t be too impressed with yourself as a word-smith. Nobody likes a show-off except another show-off. We can all describe what a beautiful woman looks like when taking a sip of wine, but it’s the artist who gets the reader to imagine the scene completely, feel her lips touch the glass—to be so absorbed who cares how its done.

I’m seeing a lot of overworked prose these days, poems that look like schematics, even song lyrics too pristine for their own good. It’s a wonder of the new age; this stuff would never have seen the light of day ten years ago, except in some workshop or seminar. Not that I have much clout in saying so, just look at how many follow this blog, but if you are one of those writers who post neon signs in the margins that flash “Look at Me” you might consider your own reading list. Get over your own brilliance. Nobody stares at the sun for long.