Like Dying is a flash fiction piece about a man grappling with child abuse. It was originally published in U. S. Represented in 2015.
Man to Man was first published in Cactus Heart in 2012. It follows a trans man, Ben, a ranch-hand who picks up an odd job and meets a handsome, charming stranger along the way.
The Greek Boy was published in Bosie Magazine in 2018. It chronicles the last years of Lord Byron’s life, and his love for his pageboy.
While many find Byron repellant, I find him fascinating. To say he was a complex man would be an understatement. He is so much more than just a misogynist, philanderer, poet, lover, abused child, and member of the aristocracy.
When I wrote this story, it was a love song, in a sense. I addressed Byron as “you” and used second person to peel back his surface layers, the layers people become mired in and judge him for. Second person was a way to escape that, and show Byron as the human being he was. It was also my way to speak to him.
Interestingly enough, I wrote this story having thrown my back out working at Wal-Mart. I spent three glorious weeks convalescing. I was in incredible pain at times, but it was glorious because I got to spend it writing about Lord Byron. And at the end, I completed a short story. It was the happiest I had been in probably a year.
A few months ago my friend mentioned that a local theater was looking for ten minute audio plays. It was called Project Outbreak, and the idea was to raise money for performing artists and the like who had lost their jobs (ie, waiting tables and theater) due to the COVID-19 shut-down. I decided to give it a try. I was in the midst of writing a screenplay, so I could take the characters from that. The caveat was that I had never written a ten minute play in my life, and I had a limited time before the deadline to turn in a script.
Since it was an audio play, I focused very much on sound: the sound effects that could tip listeners off, the sound of the language and the individual characters’ voices. I guess it worked, because my play And Ten More Years was selected! This knocked my socks off, especially since I had a short story rejected earlier that same day.
My play will be in a bundle of other audio plays on the theme of love, which comes out on May 8th. If you want to listen to the existing plays, you can go here and enjoy! And if you have a few dollars, please donate to the project and help support local artists.
Facebook spits out old posts — “memories” — and sometimes it yields something fascinating or insightful.
This morning, I had an old post presented to me, one which is still timely:
I’ve been working with the present tense a lot lately. I went browsing to see what other authors said about the use of present tense, and I found a lot of writers who were “down” on present tense, saying it was limited in scope, or that it was too alienating for readers, or too self indulgent with including minor details, or could not create complex characters. There were more, but those were the ones which stuck out to me.
While there is a “right” or “wrong” tense for each story, I contend that the authors who made these allegations about present tense were not looking at the issue correctly. They mistakenly confused tense with time when tense, is, in fact, texture.
Tense lends texture to the story. Why is it that present tense has such immediacy over the past tense? Texture. How is it past tense has weight? Texture.
When you approach tense as texture, possibilities yield themselves, not ultimatums against one tense or the other.
Present tense is no more limiting than past, if you are willing to be daring and think of your time/texture in unconventional ways. Present tense, I have found, keeps me from indulging in minor, meaningless details. The texture of it is too vivid, too bright, to waste on things that don’t mean anything. In creating complex characters, present tense works just as well as past, again, if you are willing to be daring in how you portray or construct those characters.
As for alienating readers . . . fuck ’em. If someone is going to be put off reading a present tense story simply because it’s present tense — they are not the reader for that story.
But texture. Not time.
I just got back from a play in which a mother kills her child and then kills herself. I found the conclusion satisfying. It made sense for the character’s arc. But most of all I found the “perversion” of such acts deeply satisfying.
I enjoy the “fucked up shit”. There is a reason I surgically graphed myself to Hannibal, and why I love Hamlet and The Color Purple, amongst other fucked up works.
For me, it’s the pleasure of visiting the precipice: of peering over the edge, into the dark void of what it means to be human. It’s not about finding satisfaction in suffering or pain, but of seeing a glimpse of our humanity in extreme situations.
Some people don’t have the stomach for this material, and that’s fine. Others protest the “immorality” of these works, as if art is rigid and uncomplicated.
But art — good art — is fluid and dynamic. It makes you think, and see, and feel the world differently. And in these cases, it’s visiting that precipice and learning about who we are.
It’s hard to pen criticism of a TV series which has had only one episode. Yet that is precisely what I will be doing with Prodigal Son.
On the surface it seems like a novel idea: a TV series about the son of a serial killer, who is a gifted yet haunted profiler.
The problems are many, however, beginning with the criminal misuse of Michael Sheen, who plays the father and was a serial killer. Sheen is a gifted actor. Take a peek at his work in Masters of Sex or Good Omens to understand what an acting juggernaut he is. In Prodigal Son he is reduced to shmarmy grinning to make him creepy.
The main character Malcolm is haunted . . . perhaps too haunted. The stereotype of the gifted yet haunted profiler is well documented by now, especially with Hannibal’s Will Graham. Malcolm is depicted taking at least half a dozen pills, suffering from night terrors, having trouble sleeping in general, potential suicidal ideation, amongst others. All of this coupled with his preoccupation with his father and murder in general. Yes, he’s haunted, but the show dove right into the deep end with Malcolm. It would have been more interesting to have Malcolm seem like he has everything together, and then, throughout the series, expose the cracks in his veritable armor as he grows closer to his father.
Next is the portrayal of “evil” via anti social personality disorder (formerly called psychopathy) and sociopathy. Evil is a nice cliche in this series: a glittering grin, a sweet looking man in a sweater, a thuggish bald white man. Evil has no name, no face. It’s just a hammy thing sent to do harm. In order to be effective, evil must have a name and a face. It must be multifaceted. It must speak with its own voice. To do otherwise is to do a disservice to victims, survivors, and to our essential humanity.
The world of the story is hammy too, screaming at you at the highest decibel. There is no subtly and it does not do any service to the plot.
Speaking of which: I think this is why Prodigal Son may be experiencing severe growing pains, and why the series, in a nutshell, is having trouble finding its footing. Fox is foolish enough to try and cram their novel idea into a humdrum police procedural. In doing so, they loose the originality and vitality of the series, and the chance to explore the characters.
I will keep watching it (I admittedly love psychological thrillers), but with reservations.
I was going through my old journals and I found this. It was written in June of 2001, by a then seventeen year old me.
I took the liberty of editing some of it simply because it was a bit bloated.
A Recipe for a Work of Art
- First and last parts inspiration
- Enumerable cups of fortitude and determination
- 3 tablespoons of compassion (a little goes a long way)
- 1 heaping tablespoon of love (again, a little goes a long way)
- Several cups of frustration
- 1/4 teaspoon doubt (more will ruin the batch)
- Many MANY cups of discipline
- A gentle sprinkle of laughter, joy, tears, etc.
- Mix well in a bowl while dancing or singing (whistling or humming works as well).
- Perspire freely into the bowl until your creation begins to solidify.
- Remove from bowl and knead with learning, choice, and care.
- Preheat the oven by means of patience and bake your creation for as long as necessary.
- Consume your creation in the same manner, dividing it up for many or few or none at all. Any way you desire, always keep a portion to nourish yourself whilest you begin your next creation.
I just finished watching Becoming Jane, and while I was glad to have done so, I found parts of the story hollow.
In some parts they teased us with a Pride and Prejudice Darcy/Bennett like budding romance between Jane Austen (Anne Hatheway) and the dashing Tom Lefroy (James McAvoy). When the characters finally surrender to their affections, the story becomes mired in heartbreak and heavy as a leaden ball. There is joy in the story, to be sure, but it is overcome with a sense of tragedy, of a relationship which never came to fruition. (Spoilers: Lefroy and Austen never marry, despite their best efforts.)
And therein lies the problem. Jane Austen lived to be forty-one, before falling ill one day and never fully recovering. But surely, between her youthful acquaintance with Lefroy and her latter years, she would have had joy in her life. She was a wildly successful author for her time, and had close relations with her family. Amongst many other happy things. Instead the film depicts the older Jane Austen as this austere woman, saddened by some long ago love.
The film-makers do Austen wrong in this. There were many ways to be a happy woman, and not all of them involved marriage, though it would have been difficult simply because of familial and social expectations. But the film-makers seem to forget that women did forge their own ways without men. Austen had a productive and probably happy life, regardless of her not marrying. This oversight helps mire the film in sorrow, and renders Austen into a one dimensional character, concerned mostly with Lefroy. I cannot count how many conversations focused on Lefroy, Lefroy, Lefroy . . . wasn’t the title of this film Becoming Jane?
Focusing so exhaustively on Lefroy diminishes the relationships Austen has with other characters, namely the female characters. I don’t think there was a single conversation between women in the film which was not about a man in some way, and 90 percent of those conversations were about Lefroy. I believe the film failed the Bechdel Test (Google it!) and as someone who enjoys Austen, both originals and adaptations, for the companionship women share between them, this vexes me. This is a poor representation of Jane Austen’s life if it can’t pass the Bechdel Test.
If the film had given light and life to other characters (ie, screen time), if it had shown women in each other’s company (no talk of a man in sight!), if it had given Austen more of a three dimensional character (at bit like Lefroy!) this film could have been stunning. Instead it it a betrayal of Austen’s life and work in some ways, and leaves you empty.
I understand it is supposed to have that effect, I just think the story could have been more, and more than focused on Lefroy to the point the story suffers.
I will, however, say this: I kind of don’t blame the film-makers for focusing so much on Lefroy. McAvoy is a charming, handsome man, and looks damn fine in those tailcoats of his. He is also a very good actor, of course. I think the entire cast was good, in fact, it was only the way the story was handled which “rubbed me wrong”.