I love being edited. Not copy-edited or proofread or “workshopped”: I mean edited, from thought to word, about how a piece of writing connect (or doesn’t) with a reader. Its a process I thought, until recently, had evaporated from the publication landscape. Pieces I did for lit journals endured a quick, unchallenging copyedit before publication. Magazine pieces hit stands untouched (and *not* because they were “that good”). My last online reviewing job was short, unpaid, and ill-fitting; a TV/film gig for PopMatters that I quit due to a distinct lack of editorial clarity; my editor’s frustrating inability to find that key area between my aims for the piece and the reader’s requirements for it, then be the main player in that negotiation. I read those pieces now, and it feels like two, disjointed people were in there writing them.

Which is why I’ve felt so lucky as of late. Doing stuff for Moviefone is great because I feel part of an assembly line of pros on a quick turnaround. My editor, Andrew Scott, works–quickly and undismissively–to meet you half way on every tiny post, and you feel less alone as a result. And my recent experience with the Williams (Giraldi and Pierce) during the four rounds of hard edits for my last piece at Agni was by far the best I’ve had in the lit-zine world. Then there’s Altschul at The Rumpus, who send me the occasional email about my “tendency toward the long, overly complex, syntactically labyrinthine sentence,” and isn’t afraid to reconstruct whole chunks of my reviews entirely. End result: cleaner prose and better work for what’s quickly becoming one of the best online culture mags out there.

So as a tribute to fine editing, here are links to my recent reviews and interviews. If there’s anything you like in there, its the result of The Rumpus’ drive to maintain high expectations and only publish the best of their writers’ efforts, and chances are I only had about 60% to do with it. Which is how it should be.

The first time it happened was a few weeks ago, when I saw that longtime buddy Joe Hall mentioned me in the front matter of his heartbreaking (but also invigorating) poetry collection, Pigafetta Is My Wife. Less than two weeks later I got a package in the mail from friend Zachary Watterson containing the latest issue of the Massachusetts Review, which features ‘Insulatus’, Zach’s short essay of very distilled bravery. I turned to the contributors page, and there I was tucked in between badasses Patricia Engel, David Shields, Brian Christian and Charles Johnson.

The feeling, initially, of appearing on those pages is a kind of reactive gratitude for the gratitude, a swell of unnamable pride; not that I had anything to do with the quality contained on that page, but that I was ever able to somehow associate myself with it to begin with.

Joe wrote the earliest version of Pigafetta when I was at work on a terribly tone-deaf nonfiction book about luck. We were were both DC-dwelling fellows in our thesis year at George Mason’s MFA program, and we did not share work. What we did share were long, traffic-choked rides into Fairfax over which we discussed hovering frustrations about the months and years ahead, conversations that carried an itchy, beleaguered desperation that sometimes grew so thick that I lost concentration on the road and nearly steered us into oncoming cars. I always felt about Joe then as I often do about my wife: he tolerated me. The work that ended up in the book — written during the long, humid weeks in between those pained conversations — is something strange and remarkable, sewn together with a beautiful, elliptical severity, and I refuse to believe I had anything meaningful to do with it.

Likewise with “Insulatus,” which Zach sent me early drafts of following a writers conference we both were scholars at in the summer of 2008. It was about crime, mothers, heredity, and loneliness, and what was on that page was immediately more daring and compelling than anything I’d ever written. I think I read it, suggested Donald Antrim’s The Afterlife — which is also about mothers, heredity, and loneliness – then gave Zach some vague, useless commentary about persona. Next thing I knew the thing was slated to come out in the Mass Review, and I’ve been lucky to read the work that’s sprung from that first piece, which is even more daring, even more spellbinding.

To be acknowledged for your role in accomplishments like Joe’s and Zach’s is satisfying, but not in a “yes, I did help” way. Its satisfying in that the pride gives way to a colder humbling, particularly when you realize how tentative your connection to the text is; that these writers would have done the same quality work had I never met them. But its also a reminder that I’m glad I did. The acknowledgment is just a galvanizer of my proximity to that work, something that allows me, if nothing else, to be grateful that I had access to its growth.

What I’m trying to say here: thanks for the thanks, guys.

And here’s what the Washington Post said about the exhibit (w/ bonus slideshow):

The sweaty masses packed last weekend’s “Call + Response,” a collaborative exhibition that asked 16 artists to respond to stories by 16 writers, transforming the gallery into a giant, disjointed picture book. Standouts: Magnolia Laurie’s delicate architectural fantasias done in gouache and graphite [...] Another hit: artist Bryan Rojsuontikul, who memorialized TV icon Mister Rogers via minimalist icons Carl Andre (yes, you may step on Rojsuontikul’s linoleum tiles) and John Baldessari (those 1960s text paintings, which Rojsuontikul riffs on). The work is a shout-out to Mike Scalise, author of a story about the Cardiganed One’s indifference to death.

Read a little more at the CP, who had semi-nice things to say about the pairing, and at Roll Call, who was brief but complimentary.

That’ll be it for art gallery-related self-promotery. More news soon.

Above is part of the tremendous installation Bryan Rojsuontikul did in response to a cleaned-up and revamped version of this tiny thingy. Below is me, Klam, Joe, and Wade stuck in the thick of the crowd like Waldos. You can see the back of my head.

Next up: the chapbook, coming later this week. More soon.

Now, this week, two more appearances. The first one is with my excellent poet buddy Gerald Maa (pictured here with the slick mohawk) at Joe Hall’s reading series, Cheryl’s Gone. It will be my second time taking part this thing. I read at the very first one back in October 2007, a long-winded essay about sink pissing that went over like a lead balloon.

This time I’ll be reading a chunk of stuff I worked on at Bucknell–topics covered: inappropriately-named doctors, obsolescence, shit for brains, and Andre the Giant–so I hope that mix of subject areas will work better this time around. (2/5 update after the jump.)

Then, two days later on 1/23, I’ll be one of about 16 different writers featured at Call + Response, which I wrote about here. The curators have expanded the website with bios and a statement, and put together a press release (PDF) that should be able to tell you all about the situation, which remains very exciting. I have not yet seen what Brian R. has made of my contribution, but when I do,  I’ll throw pics up here.

So, to be clear: come see me read Thursday, or come to this art thing on Saturday. Or both. Adios.

UPDATE: Here’s a pic from Cheryl’s Gone from buddy @adrian_parsons, in which there appears a weird orb of light where the podium top is. To me, it just looked like lackluster words.

I’m matched with Duct-tape ninja Bryan Rojsuontikul, who’s a fellow at the Hamiltonian Gallery in Northwest DC, where this thing will be held from January 10 - Feb 13. Aside from me, the roster of writers/artists is unstoppably brainshaking: Matt Klam, Sean Carman, Tati Suarez, Joe Hall, Leah Frankel, Danika Stegeman, Mike Dax, Jen Girdish, Gerald Maa, Eleanor Graves and many many others.

11/20 UPDATE: you can follow Call & Response on Twitter here.

I have a tendency towards glibness.

Now: I’m not trying to pick a fight with Dinty Moore here. I was in one of his workshops at the 412 Festival a few years ago and found him funny, pleasant, truly helpful, and I’ve enjoyed much of what I have read of his work. But can someone please explain to me, in sober, clear, and intelligent terms, what makes “I have a tendency towards glibness” an “essay”?

I’m not nay-saying or shit-talking. I just need someone to answer this question for me. I have done a few of these things myself, but I’m certainly no aficionado. And I’m aware of the trend of micro-lit out there right now, and generally enjoy it, if only because it highlights basic structures/values of the form it chooses, regardless of how short; sort of a celebration of what the form can do without much text-adornment, which is always fun. SMITH’s Six Word Memoir Contest–inspired by the Hemingway story “For sale: baby shoes, never worn”, which is undoubtedly a fully-realized piece of narrative, matching many well-known traits of short fiction (character, conflict, etc.)–traffics in this territory very successfully. “Memoir” for their purposes seems to be “that which is remembered,” like: “Canoe guide, only got lost once.”  and “Birth, childhood, adolescence, adolescence, adolescence, adolescence . . .”; and the SMITH memoirs sometimes tend to take on the form of personal narratives that have more in common with fiction, as memoir often does, such as Justin Taylor’s “Former child star seeks love, employment.” (I stole examples from here).

Cell Stories take the form of text messages and generally have a resemblance to some aspect of genre form, and even Creative Nonfiction–the kind of father journal to Moore’s Brevity–has a daily, Twitter-driven contest that asks followers to “tell a true story in 130 characters or less” (examples here, here, and here), yet CNF really isn’t concerned with explicitly defined form, just that it’s a “story.”

The identification of “Self-Critique” by both its author and its journal as an “essay” is a curious one, and I have been wondering since I read it where, exactly, the thing overlaps with the essay form as we know it. Moore’s piece is funny and contrary, which might fit with aspects of what Philip Lopate talks about excellently in the preface for The Art of the Personal Essay (which I’d quote from if it was not on a bookshelf several states away). And I suppose one could look at Moore’s piece as a basic, rhetorical act, proposing an argument about whether or not the author’s persona is glib, if its a “tendency” or something more, etc. But if we look at essay in this light–as the written half of a conversation with the reader; the posing of an idea for them to chew on; a perspective for them to absorb–in the case of “I have a tendency towards glibness,” what can the reader possibly give back? Or has “essay” just become this kind of catchall, a grab bag for true, yet undefinable prose?

And yes, yes, I’m aware that the “argument” posed by the thing might just be “is this an essay?”, but I’m collecting opinions anyway: is it?

Dead serious here. I really want to know. Leave posts in comments, and I’ll highlight the most helpful ones.

ALSO: More (smarter?) things from HTMLGIANT here.

Missisippi Review: “Self Critique” by Dinty W. Moore

Brevity Creative Nonfiction Blog: “Shortest Essay Ever?”

The Yellow Pages have nothing under Flag. There’s actual interior tension: Nobody walks by or stops their car and says, “Hey, your house doesn’t have a flag,” but it gets easier and easier to imagine people thinking it. None of the grocery stores in town turn out to stock any flags. The novelty shop downtown has nothing but Halloween stuff. Only a few businesses are open, but even the closed ones are displaying some sort of flag. It’s almost surreal. The VFW hall is a good bet, but it can’t open til noon if at all (it has a bar). The lady at Burwell’s references a certain hideous Qik-n-EZ store out by 1-74 at which she was under the impression she’d seen some little plastic flags back in the racks with all the bandannas and Nascar caps, but by the time I get there they turn out to be gone, snapped up by parties unknown. The reality is that there is not a flag to be had in this town. Stealing one out of somebody’s yard is clearly out of the question. I’m standing in a Qik-n-EZ afraid to go home. All those people dead, and I’m sent to the edge by a plastic flag. It doesn’t get really bad until people ask if I’m OK and I have to lie and say it’s a Benadryl reaction (which in fact can happen)…. Until in one more of the Horror’s weird twists of fate and circumstance it’s the Qik-n-EZ proprietor himself (a Pakistani, by the way) who offers solace and a shoulder and a strange kind of unspoken understanding, and who lets me go back and sit in the stock room amid every conceivable petty vice and indulgence America has to offer and compose myself, and who only slightly later, over styrofoam cups of a strange kind of tea with a great deal of milk in it, suggests, gently, construction paper and “Magical Markers,” which explains my now-beloved homemade flag.

Also worth reading: John Hodgman’s “Welcoming Remarks Made at a Literary Reading, 9/25/01“

Tomorrow morning I drive up to Lewisburg, PA for “four months of unfettered writing time” that I have been very much looking forward to since I found out about it in May.

The *plan* is to be as scarce as possible as I try to put the finishing touches on a large project that probably should have been finished a while ago, and it seems Lewisburg is the right place for that kind of thing. Bucknell is–quite literally–at least 3 hours from any place I have any meaningful connection to (see map). I’ve also instituted an embargo on useless, time-burgling web ephemera, which means that my year old Facebook account was sent to a much-deserved grave earlier today. Of course that means that I won’t be updating this site very often, which I rarely update anyway, so to the people who actually still read this thing–topped out at 40 whole hits in recent weeks–get used to more of the same.

But before I leave, here’s some ware-peddling for people I know:

Jennine Crucet’s book, How to Leave Hialeah, has come out, and was named recently by Curtis Sittenfeld as a “favorite book.” Check out the most recent issue of Storyglossia for a sample of the goods. Also, please do the same for PIK Kara Candito, whose Parie Schooner Book Prize-winning Taste of Cherry is also out, and excellent. Samples of Kara’s work can be found, among other impressive places, at Ink Node.

And speaking of Ink Node, very excited to hear that the journal’s founder, PIK Brian Christian, has inked a deal with Doubleday to write a book where Brian will “‘train’ for the 2009 Loebner Prize, an annual competition [...] that aims to instantiate the Turing Test by asking judges to interact with a set of human beings and computers and then deduce which is which.” I’m imagining the whole exercise will be a Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for the A.I. set, which I cannot even begin to articulate my excitement about. Go to Web Conjuctions and read Brian’s essay on “lag”–which references Dharma & Greg/Roland Barthes/necker cubes–to get a sense of what’s coming.

OK. Off to PA. More soon. Maybe.

Here is a snippet of Ryan’s post at HTMLGIANT:

[...] due to some “legal issues,” whatever those were, Fellner decided to delete his criticism of ALC; fortunately, this was an ineffective, though no less meaningful act, as the post is still widely available online (not Fellner’s fault). Thanks to Google, you may read Fellner’s post, titled “Why a Creative Writing ‘Firm’ May be the Most Unethical Entity in the Literary Community At Large,” either as a page in Google’s cache or in your Google Reader (simply follow Fellner’s blog, Pansy Poetics, and the post will show up in the feed). Here’s a tidbit from Fellner’s post, in which he questions the firm’s basic concept:

Or am I reading this “under construction” website wrong? Am I supposed to read this as a parody? As a satire of the idea that one should ethically manipulate their art to receive possible help from other poets and fiction writers? Is the firm also broadly mocking Kaplan Education Centers? Where students pay a tidy fee to improve their test scores? Where test scores are considered to be the measure of excellence? Is the firm ridiculing the inherent nature of MFA programs? That within colleges, institutions that offer grades, art is something that be measured and assessed with perfunctory, mechanical accuracy?

Look: other than a curiosity about the distinct lack of “creative nonfiction” consulting services offered by Abramson Leslie (perhaps we all know how to get into MFA and PhD programs all by ourselves?) I categorically have no public opinion on these matters.

If you do, however, I encourage you to leave them, anonymously or not, either on this blog, HTMLGIANT, or in the comments section of Seth Abramson’s blog, the Suburban Ecstasies (relevant post here).

HTMLGIANT: Abramson Leslie Consulting v. Steve Fellner (link)

Lorca Lorca: Steve Fellner on Seth Abramson’s Creative Writing Firm (link)

The Suburban Ecstasies: [ALC] (link)

Abramson Leslie Consulting (link)