David Klein's Blog, page 65

I Must Kill My Darlings

William Faulkner said, “In writing, you must kill all your darlings.”

What does this mean? It’s a common piece of advice for writers who must cut sentences, scenes, characters, even entire plots because they no longer work within the story world. They might be beautifully written. You might love them. Still, they must be axed.

I’m doing some darling murder these days as I take another swing at a novel that I wrote a few years back. A SERIOUS LAPSE was rejected by a multitude of publishers, much to my own and my agent’s dismay.

Something wasn’t quite right about the way the story unfolded, or the character arcs, or the pacing or structure. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the novel and so I’ve taken up my editor’s tools and have been rewriting. The first thing I killed was the title: my new working title is FLIGHT RISK.

If I had to describe the novel in one sentence (and I do, although I hate doing it), I’d say something like this:

A plane crash survivor endures a reluctant journey into the core of his identity as a husband, father, and provider.

The novel revolves around Robert, who survives the accident, and his wife, Sasha. But I’ve eliminated an entire subplot about Sasha, and here are a couple of short passages that I really liked but have had to snuff out:

She remembers the first time she kissed a boy. She was thirteen. It happened behind a barn. He leaned in and her back pressed against the barn and she felt a pinch below her waist and above her behind, in the exposed flesh between the cropped bottom of her shirt and the top of her jeans, and later when she still felt the pinch she looked in the mirror and noticed a sliver of wood embedded in her skin, a tiny dark shard, but she didn’t tell anyone and she didn’t dig it out and when the spot began to get infected she rubbed on antibiotic cream. After a few days the redness and swelling went away and the sliver seemed to burrow deeper under her skin, and soon it was just a shadow as if drawn by pencil and after that it disappeared altogether, absorbed by her body, she imagined, but still inside her.

I clung to that passage because I found it meaningful and evocative, like an important memory, but it has no place in the narrative now. RIP.

Here’s another very brief one:

Sasha found Robert’s pants hanging in the closet and took the hotel keycard from his wallet. It was easy to find. There was nothing else in his wallet other than his license, a single credit card, and a thin sheaf of bills. He carried so little. There were no photos of her or Erin. No receipts. He wasn’t one of those men whose lives spilled out of their wallet.

I liked that passage because in a few words it helped define both of the characters. But having Sasha going through Robert’s wallet to look for the hotel key no longer worked within the plot. RIP.

There are many more passages and sections I’ve had to scrap. Oh, darlings, forgive me. I will miss you. At least I’ve resurrected you somewhat here.

The post I Must Kill My Darlings appeared first on by David Klein.

It Might Be Time to Fly the Flag Again

I don’t fly my country’s flag very often. I used to put it out on Memorial Day or July 4th or Labor Day. Harriet once questioned my appreciation for the flag, because to her it seemed more of a Republican symbol — they were the flag-waving party.

I insisted that we can’t let Republicans own the flag. It belonged to all of us. It represented our entire country. I still feel that way, which is why I don’t fly the flag at all anymore. To me, our country is an embarrassment.

In fact, the last time I flew the flag, I flew it upside down, which is considered a signal of “dire distress in instances of extreme danger to life and property.” That was November 2016, when Trump was elected.

My neighbor noticed my upside down flag. He didn’t condemn me, he simply asked if I was flying the flag that way because of recent events.

It might be time put my flag out again. Upside down, of course. I believe we are in dire distress. I believe the leaders of our country are inept and corrupt. I believe they will do anything to stay in power. As my friend Kevin said,

If Republicans wait for greater certainty before restarting the economy they are without a doubt headed to massive electoral defeat. So the play is to open now and hope the cavalry arrives in the form of treatments, testing or a vaccine. If help doesn’t arrive on time and a second wave ensues — the Republicans lose, which is the same outcome that would ensue if they wait for greater certainty before reopening. Their only hope for clinging to power is to take a wild-assed chance now, risking the lives of tens or hundreds of thousands of Americans.

I used to be honored to be an American. I felt lucky. I remember after I graduated from college I took a trip to Europe and in country after country I held my head up thinking I was a citizen of the world’s leader. I proudly displayed my passport at borders.

Last year when I went to Europe I felt very differently. I was thinking then, and I’m convinced now, that if I were younger and my kids were younger, I would do my best to move to another country. One where the government cares about its people. One where wackos aren’t wielding assault rifles during protests about “liberty.” One where healthcare is a right and not a privilege. One where the rich are actually taxed, and education was funded, and immigrants are welcome, and the poor and the downtrodden are helped.

Is it too much to ask for? Apparently it is in the U.S. There are so many good people in our country stepping up to help others, but right now the power is in the hands or the corrupt, the cruel, the selfish, and the ignorant.

Boy am I in a mood. That’s what dire distress can do to you.

The post It Might Be Time to Fly the Flag Again appeared first on by David Klein.

The Most Important Novels in My Life

I have set myself a task for 2020: reread the ten most important books in my life. To qualify for the list, the novel (or novella or short story collections; I’m including those also), must meet one or more of the following criteria:

It was so profound and meaningful to me that I’ve read the novel multiple times.It significantly influenced my own development as a novelist.The experience of reading the novel is inexorably linked to and illuminates a moment or period of time in my life.

It’s going to be challenging to pick the ten books. I’m not concerned that I’ve forgotten any important book, because if I have, then that book by definition wouldn’t qualify for the list. I’ve started with 25 titles, from which I must cull down to ten.

Why am I doing this? I’m interested in how the passage of time and accumulation of life experiences have changed how I feel about a book that I once placed on a high pedestal. Has the book stood the test of time? Have I? What’s changed?

For now, I’m listing my initial list of 25, in no particular order, and without explanation. When I get down to ten, I will provide context as to why I chose each one to read again.

UPDATE: I’ve re-read some on this list of 25 and updated their status below

THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP, John IrvingAMERICAN PASTORAL, Philip RothSELF-HELP, Lorrie MooreA FARWELL TO ARMS, Ernest HemingwayA VISIT FROM THE GOON SQUAD, Jennifer EganTHE SLAP, Christos TsiolkasTHE EXORCIST, William Peter BlattyDUNE, Frank HerbertCAT’S EYE, Margaret AtwoodTHE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING, Milan KunderaTHE ROAD, Cormac McCarthyIN THE GARDEN OF NORTH AMERICAN MARTYRS, Tobia WolffLITTLE CHILDREN, Tom PerrottaSMILES ON WASHINGTON SQUARE, Raymond Federman10:30 ON A SUMMER NIGHT, Marguerite Duras. Off the list, didn’t stand the test of time. Pretentious, obtuse, somewhat boring. THE CATCHER IN THE RYE, J.D. SalingerA PALE VIEW OF THE HILLS, Kazuo IshiguroLOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA, Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Likely top ten. It’s the writing, stupid. Many have imitated, but there’s only one GGM. BELLEFLEUR, Joyce Carol OatesTHE HOURS, Michael CunninghamLEGENDS OF THE FALL, Jim HarrisonTHE THINGS THEY CARRIED, Tim O’BrienMARIETTE IN ECSTASY, Ron Hansen. Likely top ten. The writing and language is incredible. The setting of the convent like another world.THE ACCOMPLICES, Georges SimenonWHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT LOVE, Raymond Carver

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Home Gym is Getting Busy

I’ve been working out alone in my garage for years. It’s a spartan space: unheated, floor of concrete, shelves packed with garagey stuff. There are bicycles, tools, garbage cans, recycling bins. Unfinished walls.

But I’ve got a set of dumbbells. And I’ve got a pull-up bar and a yoga mat and a Bosu and a jump rope. I’ve got everything I need to get a solid workout.

And now I’ve got company. With area health clubs closed due to the coronavirus, and my family working or schooling from home, a few new members have joined in my “gym.”

Some exercises we do together, others we go our own way. We had some music on the other day, which I’ve never really done.

My workout lasted longer with two of my favorite people at my side. I managed to cram in all this in about 45-minutes:

Rope jumpingJumping jacksBosu hopsKettle bell swingsBosu burpiesSquatsForward lungesSide lungesOverhead pressCurlsPlanksPush-upsPull-upsCrunchesBalance workGlute bridges

Special thanks to Harriet and Julia.

The post Home Gym is Getting Busy appeared first on by David Klein.

THE GLASS HOTEL, Emily St. John Mandel

I loved Emily St. John Mandel’s dystopian love ballad STATION ELEVEN and was looking forward to getting my hands her newest, THE GLASS HOTEL. I was not disappointed.

Mandel has a gift for writing intersecting narratives that seamlessly move back and forth through time and between characters. Despite the non-traditional structure of the storytelling, there is nothing discordant or choppy in how the novel unfolds.  

The main story focuses on Vincent (named after the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay), a young and unsettled but apparently very beautiful and sexy woman who becomes the “trophy companion” to a Bernie Madoff-modeled financier, Johnathan Alkaitis.

Vincent rises from bartender to the “world of money” virtually overnight. She fulfills her role as a lover to an old guy and a Fifth Avenue shopper in a somewhat detached, workmanlike manner, although Alkaitis seems satisfied with the relationship.

There were sections of the novel called The Office Chorus that focused on Alkaitis’ complicit team of Ponzi-schemers. They served as sort of a Greek Chorus to the tragedy.

There was also a touching and authentic-feeling thread centered on a shipping executive who was one of the bilked investors and resorted to living on an RV with his wife and traveling the other America. Scenes of Alkaitis in prison were sprinkled in. Also, a mostly dysfunctional relationship between Vincent and her brother, Paul, which was a more puzzling part of the novel.

It may seem like a lot going on, but Mandel handles the voice, pace, and structure beautifully. She’s a fantastic writer whose sentences flow, one to the other, and the next thing you know you haven’t looked at your phone for an hour.

5/5 stars

The post THE GLASS HOTEL, Emily St. John Mandel appeared first on by David Klein.

Am I Suited to Social Distancing?

I don’t even know what week of stay-at-home we’re in, which shows how time is changing, most days are the same, one can be exchanged for the other. Maybe week 6. But time passes differently now. It lacks momentum and change.



Stories about hospital nurses dying, or parents spreading Covid-19 to their kid, who then dies. Stories about people who can’t pay rent, are hungry, are sick. Or have already died. And heroic stories of sacrifice for others. And helping each other out. These are the real stories so far. What right do I have to record a coronavirus diary? My answer: my story isn’t finished yet. How do I know I still won’t face the worst of the pandemic, that I will suffer and die, or worse, one of my loved ones will. Or better: I do something helpful and heroic. So far it’s only been staying home with my family and giving blood.



Although I wanted to hug a friend today I wonder if I’m actually well-suited to social distancing. I was never skilled or natural at the hugging and hand-shaking and kissing hello and goodbye. I’m often not sure what to do, even with friends. Parties are the worst. I don’t like getting touched by people I don’t know well. Maybe people think I’m gross and don’t want to touch me. Remember: This person I hug, that one is a handshake of one style or another, that’s a kiss on the cheek and hug combo. For others this is a natural talent, but not for me.



I have an advantage over others during this time: sheltering at home with my family is one of the best outcomes for me. It’s not always easy and smooth, but always there is love and ultimately togetherness. My family is everything to me. I’m savoring this time to be with them and get to know them better.



Look, there’s a robin out my window. Hop, hop, peck at the ground. Head up, eyes forward and scan. Hop, hop, peck at the ground. There’s another robin. They both look well-fed. Such freedom and impunity on my lawn. Which means my cats are aged and largely retired from sport hunting.

The post Am I Suited to Social Distancing? appeared first on by David Klein.

Today I Wore a Face Mask

I wore face mask for the first time today when I went to pick up dinner for my family from a local restaurant. I parked in the lot and slipped on the mask and took a few practice breaths to get accustomed.

My mask was the homemade type, fashioned from a bandanna and two rubber bands. The fit was snug. Breathing was a little harder. I checked myself in the rearview mirror and the eyes that stared back at me were laced with uncertainty.

I hesitated to get out of the car. For some reason, I felt embarrassed, even ashamed. And more than a little sad. Not because of the way I looked (actually, I liked the camo pattern) or because I had been told by Governor Cuomo that I must wear a mask in public when social distancing is not possible.

My discomfort was larger than that, yet more opaque. What have we come to that we have to avoid each other, hide from each other, protect ourselves from each other?

Not that I would consider defying the mask order. I’ve followed all the guidelines. I’m not one of these people protesting at state capitols that my liberties are being violated. Don’t get me started on that. I feel enough anger and anxiety as it is.

As I approached the restaurant there was a sign taped to the window asking all customers to put on their masks before entering. Seeing this made me feel better, like I was doing the right thing, joining my fellow citizens in a call to arms.

The pickup area was clearly marked with arrows about where to walk and where to stand. The employees all had masks on and were also protected by a heavy, clear plastic curtain with a hole cut in it to conduct the transaction: food passed out, money passed in. Smart. Well-designed.

There was one other customer in the restaurant picking up food. But this guy didn’t have a mask on. He defied the governor’s order. He defied the restaurant’s request to have a mask on. My reaction was immediate: I bristled with fury.

I almost said to him, “Where the fuck is your mask?”

Almost. I said nothing. I wasn’t afraid of a confrontation — in some ways I wanted one. But that would be the wrong thing to do. It wouldn’t help the situation. It wouldn’t educate this person or shame them into wearing a mask. It would only make me feel worse.

I picked up my food. I paid for in cash (with a big tip) that I set on the counter. I touched no one. No one touched me. I walked out into the fresh air. I was alone now, no one around me. I wore my mask all the way back to my car.

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4/20 is a Special Day

April 20 (4/20) is weed day. The day got its name in the 1970s in California when a group of high school students met after school around 4:20 to get high and 4/20 became a code phrase they could use in front of their parents. Its reputation spread from there.

420 Magazine, founded in 1993, has a mission around creating cannabis awareness. I hadn’t heard of the magazine until its editor contacted me to say they wanted to review my novel STASH.

Here’s the review.

The headline read: “420 Product Review: STASH by David Klein.” As if my novel were any other product they might review, such as a new vaping pen, or shatter, or strain of flower. I thought that was pretty cool. People buy products.

The review, written by Doc Bud (yup), was overwhelmingly positive. Here’s the money quote I love:

Sex, money, power, fear, regret, booze, weed, greed and politics all come together, along with an intricate, yet fully believable story line to create an absolutely fantastic read.

Thanks to 420 Magazine. And happy 4/20.

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What it Means to Be a Man: Part 2

Part 1 is about the masculine art of crushing bugs. This Part 2 is about shaving.

One thing new I’ve done while staying home during the COVID-19 pandemic is to take an online course offered free through Yale: The Science of Well-Being. Fantastic experience. Engaging professor. I learned ideas and actions that should improve my well-being, all backed by science. It made me miss college, not that there were online courses then.

One thing I learned was the importance of taking time to savor. I liked the word, savor, and so the concept became meaningful to me. Savor, as a verb: to taste, to experience, to revel in, to enjoy and delight in.

I definitely could use more savor in my life. Who couldn’t? The question is what should I take the time to savor. I can’t savor everything, that would be like savoring nothing. There are sunsets and moments of love and connection. There are the wind chimes to savor. A slice of Harriet’s cake.

You choose. Choose any moment to savor.

Can a Man Savor Shaving?

I chose to savor the experience of shaving, a grooming behavior that many men perform every day of their adult life, or at least most days.

I don’t fall into the regular shaver category. That’s one of the top advantages working from home as a writer. Unshaven is the norm, shaven the occasion. This is actually the reason why I became a writer — because I was never enamored with the act of shaving. Not from day one of my shaving life.

No one ever really taught me how to shave. My father didn’t, although he did tell me when I needed to start shaving. I quickly discovered there was nothing masculine about shusshing a razor blade through mounds of pimples to slice away the errant, annoying, and increasingly plentiful whisker tufts.

As an adult, for my few years holding a job where the expectation was clean-shaven, I resented what for me was a chore. Day after fucking day. What was the point? Side note: I sympathize with women who feel compelled to meet many additional levels of visual expectations.

With blade in hand, I hurried, and often I knicked. I’d feel the quick sting and get pissed off. Almost always the neck. I would have to stick a scrap of toilet paper to staunch the blood. Other times I had to rub a teaspoon of saliva off the ends of my fingers to clean a throat wound. Screw you, Adam’s Apple. Once I bled for so long I got a few drops of blood on the nice collared shirt I wore with complementary tie to an important event. Someone pointed out the stain to me.

Still, I kept shaving. I adhered to expectations. I wanted to look my best. I was never really a beard guy, anyway. Only a few times in my life did I have one.

There are other reasons a man might shave regularly. No man wants to rough up his woman’s inner thighs, so if she prefers you clean-shaven for that reason, or for any other reason, I think a man should seriously consider her wishes.

Razor, Please

Today, in the spirit of The Science of Well-Being, and as distraction against the pandemic, I vowed to savor the shaving experience.

I showered first, and so my face was soft and warm and damp. I filled the sink and boy was I generous with the shaving cream, giving the dispenser an extra press. I applied a thick coat of foamy white, rubbing in gentle circles to cover my cheeks, dabs in my moustache and chin area, long strokes down my jaw and neck.

I should have changed to a new blade, and was about to, but then the idea got in my head that I don’t have many blades and what if the stores run out and are never resupplied . . . some of that pandemic thinking.

Back to savoring.

My blade was still sharp, my old Gillette razor trustworthy. I dipped the blade in the hot pond I’d made in the sink and began.

I skated careful, gentle strokes along my cheeks and jawline, rising and carving a neat border for the high sideburn. I rinsed my blade often. I used my left fingers to gently press and pull my skin, to give the blade a flatter landing surface.

I was engaged, I was enjoying. Tiny strokes beneath my nostrils, feathering around my lips. I saved my neck for last. I held my flesh firm near my collarbone and raised my chin, like you might when anticipating victory or certain accomplishment.

I shaved. I rinsed. I shaved off three days of bristles. I paid attention to my technique. I made tiny improvements. I tried my best moves around my throat. I respected my Adam’s Apple. I was totally savoring.

When I finished I felt my cheeks and chin and neck. How smooth. How undamaged. But then I felt a rough patch–a spot I hadn’t gotten completely. Immediately I went after it, but somehow in my haste, I scraped when I should have shaved. The blood welled. The toilet paper got called in, then the saliva. I savored it all.

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LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA — Gabriel Garcia Marquez

This novel, which I read when first published in 1988, had stuck in my memory and made my list of top 25 of all time. I just reread it as part of my “Reading in the Time of COVID-19” project.

It’s a simple story about a lifetime of unrequited love finally becoming requited after 50 years. Florentino Ariza pursues Fermina Daza beginning as a teenager, but she eventually rejects him and marries another man, Dr. Juvenal Urbino. Florentino romantic folly remains alive, and 50 years later, after the death of Urbino, he expresses his love for Fermina again.

While the story is simple, the telling is anything but. The narrative is rich and sumptuous — exactly what we expect from Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I folded over many pages where I read passages that took my breath away.

He was too young to know that the heart’s memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past.

He had two advantages working in his favor, however. One was an unerring eye that promptly spotted the woman, even in a crowd, who was waiting for him, though even then he courted her with caution, for he felt that nothing was more embarrassing or more demeaning than a refusal. The other was that women promptly identified him as a solitary man in need of love, a street beggar as humble as a whipped dog, who made them yield without conditions, without asking him for anything, without hoping for anything from him except the tranquility of knowing the had done him a favor.

While the idea of a love triangle and the meditation on the passage of time is intriguing to me, there were times when the novel didn’t enrapture me. The writing never falters, but the story itself lacked turning points and momentum. And I can see why readers today can be angry about the novel’s glossing over, even ignoring, rape.

I have not read Marquez in a long time–perhaps since I first read this novel, and in those intervening years I’ve not read anyone else like him. Overall, I was transported. When I was reading, I mostly forget the world around me. That’s what great fiction can do for you. Nobel Prize indeed.

4/5 Stars.

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