I should wait on this, but...

I just can't help myself. Yeah, two posts in on a blog that looks like it's in danger of becoming neglected, and what am I going to do? That's right, it's time for me to write a vanity post. As humbly as possible.

First, the humility: I'm currently experiencing the submission itch after polishing up a couple short stories and completing my first ever piece of shit flash fiction (short-short if you prefer). I like to research the various journals and fiction reviews out there by doing exactly what they suggest; find out what their aesthetic is by buying an issue or two and reading them thoroughly. When you're broke as hell, that's not always an option, so the past couple days have been spent browsing NewPages and Duotrope's Digest in order to make a list of possible targets. I'm realistic enough to know I'm essentially a nobody (how's that for humble?), so I tried to keep the list realistic as well--no examples so as not to offend any lit mags with my subjective view. Anyway, today I've been going down the list, scouring their websites for general info and/or reading samples, and looking up any feedback on each publication.

Here's where I transition over to the vanity portion of our show: I found this website, The Review Review, and noticed that someone named Stephen Dorneman wrote a review for Alimentum, and it happened to be for the issue in which my first publication appeared. "Hey, let's see what he had to say," I thought. He talked about the stories in the order they appeared, so mine being third from the end, I eventually made my way down to see this:

And then there was “Apples” by Erik Hanson. “Apples” is about a dog, and apples, and hungry soldiers, and the evils of war, a terrible story with unpleasant characters an unhappy ending that you should read, and that will stay with you forever, because it is unsparing in the depiction of the large and small cruelties, and triumphs, that happen in wartime.

Not bad. I definitely liked the "stay with you forever" part, but that's not how Stephen made a friend in me. He mentioned the last two stories, and then says this:

...but “Apples” was the best story of the issue for me.

Ah, many happy returns to you, Mr. Dorneman. I've always wondered what it would be like to read a review of my work, and now I know. I like how it felt. A lot. I probably should get back to my research now.

Read the review for the entire issue here.

The Story Behind the Picture

I searched for a while trying to find a picture I wanted to use for this blog, and while not using a picture is always an option, I'm one of those people who prefer graphics of some sort. Maybe it's the idea of a picture being worth a thousand words. I don’t plan on writing a thousand words, but I thought I’d offer an explanation as to why I chose this one.

The picture above was taken in 1978 at East Park in Mason City, Iowa. I was four years old, and those are two of my cousins peeking out on the left. The train had a stair and handrail attached, but beyond that it was a parent’s nightmare. There were open, jagged gashes with rusted edges (you can see a huge one right below us) throughout which threatened tetanus—at best—for any of us foolish enough to ignore our parents’ instructions to be careful. If you consider crawling beyond anyplace with handholds, scaling the side to stand at the very top, and jumping from one point to another with no safety guard as being careful, then we were being quite careful indeed. Not only were we aware of the torn metal, but we would stop to inspect some of them, kicking them with our ragged tennis shoes, and sometimes even used them as the hand and footholds to some of the higher-altitude vantage points otherwise unreachable. We climbed all over that deathtrap for most of the day, and the details are vague, fuzzy action sequences which have blended together—likely because no one ever did get hurt. The one thing that still stands out clear in my memory is the turd.

Our early explorations of the train began in the obvious places: the flat surfaces of the cab and attached coal bin. I don’t recall which one of us made the discovery, but there was a summons to “come look at this” and we were all huddled in the back corner of the coal bin over an especially wide gash in the metal panel. Nestled in the shadows was a pristine turd, relatively large (but everything from childhood memories seems bigger) and so unnaturally perfect and alone that it could have been a novelty gag item—none of us inspected it closely enough to confirm otherwise, but still highly unlikely. We laughed and threatened to push each other—or some other equally effective method of making each other touch it—and once we got tired of all that, we continued the exploration and games. But now, rather than focusing on the clear threat presented by jagged shreds of metal, the area that commanded our cautious respect was the corner of the coal bin and the turd therein. Whatever we did, the last thing we wanted to do was lose our heads and accidentally touch the turd or the day would be ruined.

The point is, when I see this picture—or for that matter, whenever I drive down State Street past East Park and see the restored train with its confining chain-link fence—I can bring up memories of that time, that place, and who was there. My memories aren’t exactly crystal clear, but as sad as it may sound, it’s the memory of the turd that allows the rest to endure. It’s a strange element to pick out and hold on to, even if it’s only my subconscious to blame, but I’ve eventually come to realize that occurrences like this are convincing reasons for me to pursue writing. As a writer, that turd not only anchors my memories of that day’s events, but it’s also a catalyst that makes me ponder its back story. How did it end up there? Was it a drug- or alcohol-fueled act of juvenile vandalism? Maybe there was an adventurous couple excited by the danger of having a late-night tryst in the train, only to have one of them ruin the mood (or maybe not?) by having a bowel movement right there. Or maybe it was a vagrant who used the train since the public restrooms were locked after park hours. Maybe it was only a novelty item planted by a mischievous uncle who ended up being disappointed by our significant lack of reaction. There are all sorts of potential explanations, and without the luxury of knowing for sure, I get to choose one and run with it. To retell the story of that day on the train without the turd would be boring (assuming it’s not boring now) because there wouldn’t be anything to make it stand out, to defamiliarize what would otherwise be a run-of-the-mill family get-together.

If my career as a writer ever takes off, I’ll have to write a book on the craft of fiction and throw a revised version of this post in as an introductory chapter.

The book’s title will be The Golden Turd: When Paint Can Increase Value.

Hello, World.

The title of this post seems appropriate. I began school as a computer science major, and "Hello, World" is the typical first line of output coders begin with. I changed my major to German and spent an academic year studying abroad in Austria, which was my introduction to a much larger (or should I say smaller?) world. I went on for my MA in English and have been writing ever since--more or less.

The bond between each of those areas of study, at least in my mind, is syntax. In programming, there is little or no room for error or your application will crash. In a foreign language, an improperly conjugated verb may earn you a strange look, but your message will most likely get across. In fiction, I can do whatever the hell I want and call it art; the problem with that is everyone else might call it crap instead. Considering I hope for writing to become a significant portion of my livelihood, I may end up having to expend more effort than writing a line of code or searching my vocabulary für einen fehlerlosen Satz zu bilden. My writing needs to be as flawless as I can possibly make it.

I feel the overall title of the blog is also relevant, because I'll be the first to admit that I'm rather new (relatively) to this writing gig, which would also make me rather clueless.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some writing to do.