Memoirous

Monday, April 18, 2016 Meta Me OUR SOULS at Night=now a movie Meta is an odd word; it is all about me. Self-referential. And, we do it in the subtlest of ways. Right when I’m enjoying a work of fiction I get a glimmer, a suggestion, that this book is all about the author. It is likely their story. At this blog I’ve reviewed Aleksandar Hemon’s short stories, Love and Obstacles and Lily Tuck’s Liliane—all supposedly fiction, but both hovering on the edge of autobiography. With Our Souls at Night by Kent Haruf and The History of Great Things by Elizabeth (Betsy!) Crane we are easily clued in. The author actually references themselves. In Our Souls at Night the main characters talk over the morning newspaper while at breakfast and mention that that one writer, his latest novel is being made into a play. She’d enjoyed the last production the playhouse did of his work and now it looks like they are launching another. “He could write a book about us. How would you l...

Meta is an odd word; it is all about me. Self-referential. And, we do it in the subtlest of ways. Right when I’m enjoying a work of fiction I get a glimmer, a suggestion, that this book is all about the author. It is likely their story. At this blog I’ve reviewed Aleksandar Hemon’s short stories, Love and Obstacles and Lily Tuck’s Liliane —all supposedly fiction, but both hovering on the edge of autobiography. With Our Souls at Night by Kent Haruf and The History of Great Things by Elizabeth (Betsy!) Crane we are easily clued in. The author actually references themselves. In Our Souls at Night the main characters talk over the morning newspaper while at breakfast and mention that that one writer, his latest novel is being made into a play. She’d enjoyed the last production the playhouse did of his work and now it looks like they are launching another. “He could write a book about us. How would you like that?”—she asks. Louis replies to her,   “I don’t ...

I’ve been going through a dry period. Tell me this is normal!! I’ve been someone who could dash off a short story a week, about a dozen flashes, along with 3 blog posts. I kept a critique group busy every 2 weeks reading my stuff. Now I’m lucky to hold a single thought in my head for 20 minutes. I’d like to blame the Internet because secretly I’m afraid it is a sign I’m growing old. And I’m petrified of aging. It is all about the mystery. I’ve never been here before, each new year, each new day and I have all these questions. If only I knew what the future looked like, then I might not be so afraid. But we don’t have that luxury. I need to be able to ride my bike, write stories, find enjoyment in reading, meeting new people. I live in a building with an elevator, so I’m okay with letting go of climbing stairs. In fact, lately, I stare up the stairs and then walk around the corner to the elevator bank. Speaking of banks—I got my first perk of aging! I have quit ...