Carissa Halston's Blog, page 11

For Kevin

To you, who always laughed with your entirety,

whose humor was both light and dark at once,

To you, who made choices based on truth rather than ease,

whose voice was soft but sure and always certain,

To you, who made hope real and made real hope,

whose wit was sharp, but never unnecessarily so,

To you, who thought both critically and kindly,

whose life could only be made better were it made longer,

To you, who deserved more than we could give–

On graduating and transitions

Today was my last day of work. Since September, I had worked in the English department at the University of Massachusetts Boston. Mine was a work-study position. Since today was the last day of finals week, the semester is officially over. That means I’m officially a college graduate and therefore am no longer eligible to hold a job reserved for students.

During this semester, I took what is unquestionably the most difficult class of my college career. It was an independent study which required me to pull my own brain apart and reassemble it in a way which could be easily read later. I read a great amount of theory for this class. I read and re-read thousands of pages of primary texts. I dreamed and daydreamed about the dead author whose essays and fiction I read over and over again. Despite this, the class was delightful and a bright spot at the end of the longest day of my week, which fell on a Wednesday, and went like this: a forty-five-minute commute, three hours of work, four hours of class, then my independent study. I frequently printed things out and read them during this class, a rehashing of my brain rearrangement.

The thing that made the class delightful isn’t a thing at all, but a person. My professor, Neal Bruss, who already meant a great deal to me before this semester (he’s a linguist–just in case you don’t know my feelings about linguistics, see here), saw me through this independent study and made my thoughts make sense and read not just my criticism about other people’s literature, but my literature as well. That is, he read my book (the one that’s coming out next month) as well as short stories I threw his way and the in-progress novel that I’m currently writing. He gave me feedback on everything and it was the sort of feedback that any writer or student really wants, the constructive feedback of an astute reader, the type of feedback that makes you actively think about the project and the problem, so you’re thinking forward rather than downward. His comments would always be structured as, “Yes, and–” rather than “Okay, but–” Moreover, he’s just horribly bright and really funny and I wish that he’d adopt me.

Anyway.

He dealt with my ridiculous schedule (of work and classes) all semester and gave me his time and attention whenever I needed it, even outside of class, because he’s committed to helping me learn, but also to helping me be the writer/thinker that I want to be/am. He believes in me and tells me so and that’s such an amazing feat, I can hardly stand it. So, when we had lunch today and talked about where I see the next year going (and, I suppose, all of life going), I didn’t really hold up well. I should mention that I’ve been a wretched mess this whole semester, crying left and right, and today was no exception. I think this has something to do with being aware that I’m being taken care of. I never feel like anyone’s responsibility but my own and I prefer it that way, but when I realize that someone else is actively trying to do things for my benefit, I’m bowled over by the kindness, by the attention, by the unexpected compassion of it all. I’m blindsided by it. The best part about working with Professor Bruss is that he deals with me regardless. He accepts that I’m kind of shaky sometimes, but he lets me work right through it. He challenges me in the best possible way. I wish I could carry him around with me somehow (even though I know I’d eventually drive him crazy).

I’m so lucky to have met the people I did during the time I spent at UMB, my classmates and professors and co-workers and colleagues. I’m lucky that they accepted all the things I’d already done with my time and the skills I already had. They were kind enough to help me fold so much information into what I already knew and make it pertinent to my work. I got what every undergraduate education purports to provide–an enriching experience, an applicable addition to that which I’d already devoted so much effort–but I also feel like I was made part of a family. And, like families do, they helped me go to college.

I spent eight years not going to college and when I think of the things I did then, they seem both remote and close at hand. Bookselling closest of all, though I haven’t been paid to sell books in nearly eight years. I started selling books and writing around the same time. I was eighteen. I was lonely. So I wrote to stave off loneliness. I wrote to try to grow. Luckily, I’m still writing (and still growing), so I blame that for my perennial emotional proximity to bookselling.

Yesterday, Neil Gaiman–whose work I read a lot when was a bookseller, whose characters I loved so much, I got them tattooed on me (which is funny because I’ve had them so long that they remind me of other books I’ve read since (like Invisible Cities (my tattoo of Dream is from a panel wherein he meets Marco Polo in the desert) and Infinite Jest (my tattoo of Death is a beautiful woman, and so too was Wallace’s description of death)), whose work I imitated when I first started writing (but certainly did not surpass)–gave a commencement speech at University of the Arts in Philly. Because I’m graduating this year and because I’ll commence in two weeks, I watched the video of his speech and was reminded that I’m a writer-who-reads-her-work-to-other-people because I saw a recording of his Last Angel Tour at the Aladdin when I was 20 years old. I remember thinking what a great thing it would be to tour performing my own work. When I went on tour in 2009, I felt a bit like him even though I was reciting work and not reading it. And I’m about to tour again, which is exciting and scary.

But before tour, commencement.

And before that, I’ll probably watch Neil’s speech again because it’s applicable to writers and artists and anyone who’s ever made things and doubted and continued making things, despite their doubt.

The busiest I’ve ever been

And it just so happens to coincide with illness.

I am rip-roaringly sick right now. Congestion, coughing, sneezing, queasiness, exhaustion, aches. It must be my body’s effort to make up for all the cool things my mind wants to do.

You know what, body? I’m doing them anyway.

On Friday, I went to the release party for the latest issue of Consequence (in which my story, “1964: Berkeley,” appears, many thanks to their editors, especially Catherine Parnell). At said party, we screened some shorts produced by Community Supported Films, which included some troubling documentaries about life in Afghanistan. I found–as I often do when watching foreign films–that things are both the same and different than I expect them to be. In Bearing the Weight, a woman who lost a leg and her husband during a rocket attack has to deal with being disabled in a place where discrimination is already so prevalent. As if that weren’t harrowing enough, the footage that showed her leg revealed that she hadn’t been properly mended, so to speak, but also that the doctors felt it was good enough. Malpractice knows no societal bounds.

I went to the fin-de-semestre Write on the DOT reading and met some lovely local writers. Aaron Devine, one of the series co-founders, announced that WotD has a collection out for their one-year anniversary: a bargain at $3. Get ‘em while they’re hot off the presses.

I’m about to delve into the final round of edits for my short story “Extensions,” due out from Little Fiction in 32 days. When I’m done, you’ll get to read it as a little ebook, which I think is a great way to highlight short stories as stand-alone pieces.

I’m also soon to take another pass at my novel-in-progress, Conjoined States. There’s honestly too much to say about that, so I’ll leave you with this: I need to have fifty pages in shape in the next three weeks so I can send them off to Wesleyan as my manuscript-which-I’d-like-to-get-feedback-on-please-(and-thanks). I’m hoping to offer the first fifty pages, though I’ve never been one for editing in order so, more realistically, I just want to get the draft in good shape. I want my protagonist and I to settle on a plan and move from there. He’s talking to me intermittently lately and I’m giving him as much attention as I can currently spare.

Distractions from that include the Mere tour, which has blossomed to include a date in Virginia and may continue growing to encompass Baltimore as well. We’ll have to wait and see.

Until then, I point you to my last post, wherein I linked to the book trailer I made for Mere. Thoughts and feedback, as always, are welcome.

On that note, I’m off to wrap my face in a pillow–and to all a good night.

Pictures as in words

Making a book trailer for a book about language is challenging. I wanted to use words as a visual subject without requiring the viewer to read everything on the screen. I wanted the text as visual to be representative of what they should expect from the book. I also wanted the video itself to be compelling to watch.

For those of you who are interested, here’s a link to the currently unlisted book trailer (meaning you can’t find it if you search for it online), and here are the reasons why I chose to use the footage I did.

1/We begin with a shot of a dictionary. Mere (the protagonist) is a lexicographer. A lexicographer compiles dictionaries.

2/The first headword we see is father (headwords are found at the top of a dictionary page and serve as guides for the words that can be found on that page). A large part of the book deals with Mere’s strained relationship with her father.

3/A hand appears to flip through the dictionary and then point us to another headword: paralysis. Mere suffers from facial palsy. She feels attached to paralysis, as a term. This comes across via the excerpt I read in the voice over.

4/As for the motion itself, we start with father and move to paralysis, mimicking the pacing of the first chapter, wherein we start with information about her father and move to information about her paralysis.

5/Thereafter, the same clip plays in reverse. This serves two purposes.

5a/The plot is non-linear. We move back and forth to show Mere in the present (paralyzed and estranged from her father) to the past (not paralyzed and still speaking to her father).

5b/Mere’s father has been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s. Just as the book and trailer move backward, so will his memory.

6/The clip plays again. A re-reversal returning us to “real time.” When the pages start flipping forward, we hear the word “four words” in the voice over. I can’t resist a homonym.

7/Regarding sound, the trailer begins in silence (other than the flipping pages), after which follows the voice over, “I tossed away my hours on silent text,” which is exactly what we’ve been watching.

Let me know what you think.

Tour dates for The Mere Weight of Words (and other good news)

I just went through the first round of edits for The Mere Weight of Words. And by “the first round,” I mean the first final round. I’ve been taking passes at the manuscript since I finished the first draft in 2010. Since it was accepted, I’ve added approximately 6,000 words. I respect where it is now. Soon, it’ll be out of my hands. Soon, it will be in yours.

To celebrate that daunting notion, I’ll be reading/signing copies of the book in the following places on the following days:

Brooklyn, NY – WORD – Tuesday, June 26, 7pm

Bethlehem, PA – Moravian Bookshop – Saturday, July 14, 1-3pm

Brookline, MA – Brookline Booksmith (with Jill McDonough) – Tuesday, July 17, 7pm

More events are sure to follow, but those are the definite ones for now. If you’re having an event and you’d like to include me in it, let me know! I’m willing to travel within all of New England and some of the mid-Atlantic states. The official release date of the book is June 30, so after that, I’m all yours.

Until then, my short story, “1964, Berkeley” (the second installment of “The Daughters,” which is the section that precedes “Sacramento, 2006″) is in the latest issue of Consequence. And I’m happy to say I have three flash pieces coming out in the next issue of TRNSFR, which is a slick art mag that highlights the way written work is also visual art (a practice of which I’m always a fan). Very much looking forward to seeing the issue.

And, the most exciting news in a post filled with exciting news, I received notice today that I’ve been awarded a Wesleyan Scholarship to attend the Wesleyan Writers’ Conference June 14-June 17. Not only does that mean I get to spend a good portion of time just working on my novel, but also that I’m headed in the right direction with it (they had to read an excerpt in order for me to be accepted). Also, the last time I was in Connecticut (other than all the times I’ve passed through on my way to somewhere else), it was 2003 and I was doing research on Hartford for my first novel.

One last also–going to WWC means I get to meet Amy Bloom.

!!

I lied. One more also: here’s a video I made that belies my excitement. But please know that I am, in fact, very excited.

Symptomatic omens

Workaholics always choose the easiest things to do and whittle them away. Tasking tasks. Busy work that no one else wants to do. Rituals that no one else can do. It’s a safe way of avoiding what really needs to be done since every task needs to be completed sometime. It’s the hard-working person’s method of procrastination.

Many artists are workaholics. We love to work on things–revise, revise, revise: rework, rephrase, recycle. As long as we’re always working on something, we’ll always seem productive.

However, the root of production is product.

Eventually, we have to finish whatever it is we’re working on.

I don’t assume to speak for all artists, but I go through periods wherein I hate everything I’ve ever written/made/done. I believe that I’m only as good as the last thing I’ve finished, which means if I write something that I think is really great, that feeling of accomplishment will wear away if/when the next thing I write isn’t up to snuff.

This is a regular occurrence. I’ve figured out how to work around my own disdain.

That said, I’m now running into a different problem: I don’t want my current projects to end. I want to keep working on them and I put off seeing them through to their logical conclusions because those conclusions seem so final.

I think this stems from loneliness, from fear of a lack of any hypothetical ear or eye to hear or read me. When I’m in the thick of things though, I don’t really consider that. It’s just me and the story and the pursuit of its proper conclusion. I guess I just need to return to that thickness, as it were. If only I could figure out how. Until then, here I am, distracting myself with thought processes about my thought processes, when I should be reading or writing.

Stories and reviews and interviews

Four links.

One in which I recommend that you read John Cotter's Under the Small Lights because it's poignant and resonant and changes you, even if only to make you a little more aware of who you are (thanks to Molly Gaudry at The Lit Pub);

one in which I talk about art and math and language (thanks to Brian Warfield at Turtleneck Press/Pachydermini Books);

one in which I tell a story about commuting (thanks to Matt Rowan at Untoward);

and one in which I talk about being a writer and working on long-form projects while also being a full-time undergrad student (thanks to Paul Driskill at Mass Media).

Also, to everyone who has sent submissions to apt in the past month, you've overwhelmed us! Literally! We've closed submissions for a week just to catch up! Reopening on April 2. See you then!

New story, Sacramento 2006, at Precipitate

I've got a new short story, "Sacramento, 2006," in the latest issue of Precipitate.

I'm really happy to have a piece with Precipitate because of their focus on art that concerns environment/place. "Sacramento, 2006″ deals with the emotional/mental environment we relegate ourselves to when we live for our parents (even after they're dead) and children (even before they're born).

And, if you like it, you'll be happy to know that it's the last section of a three-part story entitled, "The Daughters." The second part, called "1964: Berkeley," will be in the next issue of Consequence, due out in the next month or so.

Until then, check out "Sacramento, 2006." If you want, I'll even read it to you. Just follow the link and press play.

Availability for new and upcoming work (in reverse order from which they will appear)

My words are coming. They're coming for you.

JUNE:

"Extensions," a short story about memory and family and one's responsibility to both — forthcoming from Little Fiction, June 9

"Excerpt from The Mere Weight of Words," which is exactly what it sounds like, forthcoming from The Collagist, June 15

The Mere Weight of Words, a novella about linguistics and imposter syndrome and paralysis both emotional and physical, forthcoming from Aqueous Books, June 30 ($14)

APRIL:

"1964: Berkeley," an excerpt from a longer story called "The Daughters," forthcoming in the next issue of Consequence, which is due out in the next month or so ($12…don't quote me on that price)

APRIL-ISH:

"I'm a Stranger Here Myself," a short story about trains and crowds and independence, forthcoming from Untoward sometime in the spring

TOMORROW:

"Sacramento, 2006," another excerpt from a longer story called "The Daughters," in Precipitate, Vol 3, issue 2.

NOW:

"The Dual," a short story about love and math, part of the Pachydermini Book Series from Turtleneck Press ($2) (also forthcoming, an interview–how nice!)

Links will appear as soon as I know them.

Also, another interview as soon as I have time to properly talk about it.

And an article that Jhumpa Lahiri wrote about the importance of the sentence.

And my thoughts on cover art.

And AWP.

And I'm tired.

Goodnight.

Two new stories coming

A month or so ago, Little Fiction started following me on Twitter. I saw their handsome little book covers and wanted one to have my name on it. So I sent them a story. As luck would have it, Troy Palmer (editor and founder of the press) likes it and has accepted it, so sometime in April, my short story, "Extensions," will be available as a tiny ebook from Little Fiction.

There's a new(ish) lit journal called Untoward and it's run by Matt Rowan, who contacted me today to accept my short story, "I'm a Stranger Here Myself." (NB: I'll send a note sealed with a kiss to the person who can name that showtune reference without looking it up.) That will also go up somewhere in the nebulous region that is April.

I'm excited to have work forthcoming from so many places I like. It makes me feel like I'm making progress.

Speaking of, the first venue for my mini-tour for The Mere Weight of Words is nearly confirmed. And a couple of others are in the works. I'll let you know when they're 100% official.