A completed beginning

I recently finished a story that I'll be including with my MFA applications. It's called "The Vessel" and this is the beginning:

"Here is how it is: My name is Roebuck and they call me a monster. I live in a humble shack on the very edge of town, farthest from the river but near the railroad, a few miles south of the little train station. Infrequently, people come out to catch a glimpse of me, tending the garden or returning from the general store, but they never stop to visit. Last November, someone hurled a broken handle from a cast iron pan through my bedroom window. They disappeared before I stepped outside so I put the handle on a shelf above the bed, beside the iron spikes I collect from the tracks."

(Maybe I'll post the ending when I've gotten it right).

Grad Application drudgery

I'm applying to grad schools. Despite the deadlines - which are helpful motivators for a writer like myself - nothing else about the process is enjoyable. In addition to each application, I need to complete statements of intent, personal statements, statements for the teaching of creative writing, a curriculum vitae, and writing samples. Additionally, letters of recommendation, transcripts, and GRE scores must be requested and sent. It's a confusing, expensive, time-consuming procedure that probably weeds out a number of people who also once said, "I'm applying to grad schools." The thing that torments me is the idea that after taking time off from work, fretting, sweating, and tearing my hair out to complete all these applications (which feels like a success in and of itself), there is a fair chance that I won't be accepted into any of the programs. (Statistically, the odds are always stacked against the person applying). A fortune cookie that came with my lunch the other day read, "You will soon witness a miracle." Maybe that miracle will be me completing all of my grad school applications.

Vivid dreams

Lately, I've been having vivid dreams. Particularly, I have had a recurring dream where I keep running into one of my best childhood friends, a person I haven't talked to in over a year. In the first two dreams, I come upon him in different places and I am surprised that he seems upset with me. In the last two dreams, I get a hold of him on the phone - something I have been trying to do in waking life - and he still seems upset. I desperately want to reach him somehow, outside of my dreams, but the phone just rings and goes to voicemail.

Yet the dream that has stayed with me played out a few nights ago: I am the father of three young sons and I work in a small office in the middle of a city. In the basement of the office, a secret panel slides away to reveal a hidden chamber, which in turn acts as the doorway to an escape tunnel. One evening, I ride my motorbike home only to find a police car outside of my house. But the police car is not a typical one - it is sky blue in color, the shape of a Twinkie, and the size of a single-wide mobile home. I watch my sons talk to the policeman and he leaves, suspecting nothing. The next morning, my sons accompany me into work and we sneak into the secret room under the office. The tunnel leads us out of the city, into a suburban park that features stone archways at both entrances. In the park, dozens of other people join us and it is then that I realize that we are Jews, escaping persecution. We set up a table and exchange red boxes that look like wrapped gifts. In the boxes, I understand that we have given one another information about everyone in the group - family names, addresses of relatives outside of the country - in the hopes of finding one another after the purge ends. Suddenly, a police car screeches by and stops down the street. The group disperses in different directions, red packages in hand, trying not to look suspicious. I am scared but I think up an excuse if am questioned - we are an extended family having a reunion in the park. We walk away from the park and frequently glance behind us to see if we are being followed.

A short beginning with no end

I often write short, five sentence paragraphs to kick-start different pieces of fiction. Sometimes I never finish the story. The following is one of the works I never completed:

"Margaret had felt the urge to nuzzle Bobby when he finally rolled into bed – she wanted to crush her face into his neck or his arm and allow him, if he reached out, to touch her. But he crawled into the sheets reeking of smoke, the kind that marinated his skin, and it was too strong for her to pick out his natural scent, hidden underneath. And why would he leave his shirt on anyway? She rolled over and thought about her portrait of Danny Birkus, unfinished in the basement, which had since been pushed back against the bookshelf so Bobby could reach the drain access and get the roots out. She asked Bobby to take his shirt off, he complied and he put his hand on her hip, but she continued to stare at the wall."

Them Weekly and other impulse items

Thoughts upon standing in line at the grocery store:

The whole reasoning behind giving celebrity magazines names like Us Weekly or People is so the average reader of these rags will feel less guilty about buying them. It’s easier to justify purchasing a magazine that's simply about “us” or “people” than it would be to buy a journal called Them Weekly or People More Famous Than You Magazine.

Different Names for the Same Thing

I went through a period at university where I named all of my stories after song titles - "The Last Time I Saw Richard", "Blue Valentines", etc. It was simpler to piggy-back some of Joni Mitchell or Tom Waits' ideas, as opposed to coming up with titles that inevitably wound up dramatic (The Death of Man) verbose (The Collected Journals of Guy Larson: Philosopher, Age Nineteen) or dull (Essays, etc.). Now, I devote a section in a journal to composing all the award-winning titles that still lack a story.

I thought of these trivialities as I was trying to produce a handle for this, my first blog. There is something empowering - and probably a little prideful - about choosing names for your creations. I can't imagine it stands on par with going through baby books (or the demented pleasure my girlfriend and I get upon naming our houseplants) but there is intense gratification upon finding a good name for a piece of work. It's like starting a trip with a full tank of gas.

Then again, if "Poster of a Boy" is a flop, I'll just start over and borrow something from Joni Mitchell.