Nola Writers in the News

Again! Jamey Hatley, one of my writer friends I made while in Nola was interviewed by Galley Cat as an "up and coming writer." We used to commiserate over writing troubles, post MFA blues, Fresh Comp foibles and all that at The Rue.

Moving = Blerg

Saturday I face my third major move in three years. I am upgraded to pro status. The trailer hitch is installed. The stuff has been pared and pared and pared down. The cat valium has been drawn and quartered.

There’s no help for the moving sadness though. It took me a year but as I’ve said goodbye to people this past week, I realized I had more friends, and I’d settled in more than I thought. Some of Nola I can take with me. Peychaud’s bitters, Camellia beans, Crystal hot sauce and an oil barrel-sized Tony’s. Against moving wisdom I’m hauling a tub of Mardi Gras loot. (Need sparkle pretties).

Here’s some of what I can’t pack:

1. My local grocery, Zara’s on Prytania. Many times, as a writer/online teacher, Zara’s was my only outing of the day. It never disappointed. The wall of gumbo, 23 brands of hot sauce, all parts of the pig, King Cakes, Creole tomatoes, Zapp's. And most important, standing in line to cash out which leads to…

2. Random conversations with Louisianans at the store, at bars, on the street, at the bank...

3. Tropical flowers. Courtyards.

4. Parade!

5. The rattle of streetcars on St. Charles. I can only hear them in my apartment during the wee hours, when traffic is low and they can speed.

6. Candy-colored shot gun houses.

7. Evening walks. Last night I was so close to a new kitten. It seemed every palmetto shrub housed a litter of fuzzies. I was strong and did not put any in my pocket. But it hurt. Every time one jumped out, I wanted to name it for a cross street. Marengo. Delachaise. General Taylor. Antonine.

8. Playing shows at the Hi Ho Lounge and Checkpoint Charlie’s and Whisky Dix. Late night drinkies with my bandmates where we, through the help of Absinthe, solve the world’s problems.

9. My writers’ group, which I found through the improbable source of Craigslist.

10. Poolside cocktails on balmy nights with the Gulf breeze that makes everything feel possible.

Nola Writer Wins A Room of Her Own

I confess the phase"Gift of Freedom" strikes me as unfortunate, rather like ad copy for a maxi pad. But hey, for $50,000, pass the Diva Cup. For those who don't know, the Gift is a grant based on the Woolf principle that every women needs a room of her own. Rooms require cash.

One hard adjustment, Post MFA, is losing this instant community of writers gathered together for a purpose. I moved to Nola so that I could meet writers, thinking that given the history writers would be here. They are, and I have met quite a few. Although without the MFA structure it's kind of like corraling fleas.

Barb Johnson is a Nola writer I never met. She seems cool though.

I'm almost applied for this grant last fall. I thought as a 40 year old with 22 years of restaurant experience, I might qualify for that romantic vision — Woman of a Certain Age Pursues Dream. I'm glad now, reading Johnson's bio, that I didn't bother. She runs an all woman construction crew rebuilding homes here in Nola. And she can write. She made the ever-awkward statement of purpose pretty.

Yay! Women writers over 40 are no longer Bronte shut-ins coughing blood into lace hankies.

Only in New Orleans

When I marched in the MJ second line, I took a picture. A man, assuming I was a tourist shouted, “Only in New Orleans, darlin!” Next to me a woman gushed, “Oh my God, I love it here. I’m moving here. This place is so much better than New Jersey!” She had the Nola fever.

True, amazing events like an MJ second line are only in New Orleans. It’s a crazy, wonderful place. Sometimes though, it’s just crazy.

The weather forecast this week is thunderstorms. A break from the heat is nice, but while New Orleans might be celebrated for its food, music, and diverse culture, the drainage system is lousy. My car flooded this spring because of a rainstorm (Not hurricane. Not tropical storm. Just heavy rain.) A thousand dollars later my Camry was bleached for mold and the wiring under the carpet painted gold to prevent rust. My neighbor’s car was RIP. I was lucky that the engine and transmission did take in water.

I confess when my mother first said she would give me her Camry I was grateful but not excited. A silver VW Golf hatchback would have excited me. Or a Prius. Camrys don’t handle exactly, nor are they sexy. But after driving one for three years, can I just say:

Camry you have taken me out West. You have retraced the journey of Laura Ingalls Wilder. You have spun out on an icy mountain overpass and kept me safe. You have towed a U Haul trailer across the country with a 4 cylnider engine. You did not run out of gas nor falter when I evacuated for Gustav.

Mucho respecto, Camry.

I need my car to move in two weeks. I need my car to get me through grad school. And this poor, much abused, lion-hearted Camry deserves better than a watery death.

My street floods. My surrounding streets flood. Unless you have elevated parking, your car will flood. People tow from their elevated parking spots or keep them gated. Their water gushes down on my street. My landlord offered elevated parking a mile away. But it’s really no fun to walk a mile in torrential downpour.

My courtyard also floods. I arrived sopping at my house, to find six inches of water. To get to my apartment, I took off my shoes and waded through what looked like a cholera pool. I prayed I would not step on a drowned rat. I believe I already mentioned the torrential downpour. Right before I get to my door, a banana bunch cracks off a neighbor’s tree and drops on my head.

Ow.

That night, after a long day of writing and grading papers, I’m ready to relax with a glass of wine and Season Four Weeds. But my landlord sprayed the courtyard that morning, before the rain. Going to open the wine, I heard clicky-clacky scuttling noises. Bad feeling followed. I flipped on the light. My kitchen looked as though it had been redecorated in cockroach wallpaper.

Yeah, I freaking freaked out. I hate nasty chemicals but I busted out the Raid in one hand and wielded my roach shoe (the one I keep handy for murder) in the other. I had this bizarre personality takeover. As if I were in The Matrix and just downloaded “Roach Ninja.” It was like watching this other person at work. I’m pretty sure there was a great deal of screaming and yelling involved. And then a roll of paper towels and Clorox.

Thus concludes my bad day story. Thank you.

New Orleans, I'll Miss You

My lease ends in two weeks here at 1521 St Andrew in the Lower Garden District. That means a year has passed since I plopped on Anne Marie’s doorstep, soaking sweaty-wet, having dragged a trailer 2,285 miles from Montana, two spitting cats in the back seat.

The cats and I have returned, full circle to the The Moviegoer malaise days of summer. We are back to collapsed on the floor, panting and boneless. Mardi Gras beads droop in the trees. My tiny tropical courtyard, what functioned as fall/winter/spring adjunct office, is once again an uninhabitable mosquito fest.

July and August in New Orleans are the January and February of Montana — it’s best to hole up and wait for better times. For now life is hot weather hibernation, a slowing of the metabolism and mind. I wish I had a pool. Growing. Sleepy.

The end my time, of course, inspires reflection. Writers can’t help but want to describe New Orleans. We try and we try. One of the best reads of my past year was the Oxford American post-Katrina edition. Capturing New Orleans as a whole is impossible. The OA was wise in that it abandoned that doomed approach, and let each writer tackle a specific.

I certainly don’t feel up to the task of taking on Faulkner, Warren, Percy, or Toole.

In these situations it's best to quote Welty. I underlined this passage from One Writer's Beginnings two years ago.

“I’ve never resisted it when, in almost every story I ever wrote some parade or procession, impromptu or ceremonious, comic or mocking or funereal, has risen up to mark some stage of the story’s unfolding.”

Dialogue and character/setting tips from WWE

World Wrestling Foundation's entertainment division, WWE, can be counted on for high budget B-movie magic. 12 Rounds (#1 in the most-rented wall at Blockbuster, I'll have you know) features a flannel-clad, pug loving character played by professional wrestler John Cena. Things you can learn from 12 Rounds, useful for writing, are as follows:

1. FBI Agent with a trouble past must always carry a matchbox car. Nervous twitch: flipping car hood back and forth to remember the past and assuage the guilt over lost comrades/sting gone bad.
2. Preferred dog breed to escape explosion of home which claims the lives of unwitting plumber who arrived to fix the gasket man-of-the-house promised to fix but didn't citing money troubles: Pug
3. Preferred New Orleans hotel to stage elevator explosion caused by tampering from a rogue air conditioning maintenance person who was really bad guy: Hotel Monteleone


I ask myself why be a poet, obscuring up the place, when all you need are direct proclamations to convey urgency/surprise/dismay/anger? Why be a poet when dialogue--direct and clearly enunciated--can provide all the cues necessary for proper (re)action:

1. "I can't stop the train!" Streetcar operator upon learning streetcar's break lines were cut as the car barrels toward street festival.
2. "Get out of the way!" John Cena's response to people in the way of said streetcar.
3. "He played me all along!" Cena's response to realization that, regardless of his choice of multiple paths in each round, the bad guy would have killed those people/blown up that building/stolen all that money.
4. "You sonofabitch!" Angry John Cena outburst directed toward well-intentioned but reckless-choice-making, matchbox-car-toting FBI agent following the near explosion of bomb strapped to beloved's chest.

Michael Jackson: My Latest Excuse

Perhaps you heard. Michael Jackson died. I don't want to be premature or negative but I suspect drugs. When the autopsy results come out, remember, 3 Ps broke this story first.

As I continue to avoid writing, I admit I've been scanning the You Tube. The memorial silks and wreaths piling up at Neverland disturb me. Why would people pay tribute to a pedophilia lair? Okay, maybe only God knows the truth about what really went on in there, but we all know this: whatever went on, it wasn't right.

I also found a live performance video, and watched thousands of people pee their freaking pants when MJ pulls a glove out of a suitcase. It's crazy that MJ could create such drama out of what, if we really think about it, is a pretty silly fashion statement. But he did. He really did. I'm not sure if that's good or bad, but it's something. One thing I know for sure, Bilie Jean has the kickenist bass line evah. And MJ singing as a young child? Undeniable. Makes me cry I am filled with such sorrow over what will happen to him.

For me, MJ died with Thriller, and the rest has been a protracted, excruciating, most ungraceful exit. I'm relieved the spectacle is over.

MJ's death inspired me to reconsider life as a bizarre recluse. Time for an activity besides lying on the floor with my cats, sweating in front of a fan. Time for an outfit besides wife beater and boxer shorts. So I went to the Seventh Ward yesterday for the MJ tribute Second Line. I have learned I do not have a future as a documentary filmmaker, but here's the vid.



And here's a little number I call "Yeah, Shake That Ass (It's On My Mind). " Man, I wish I had run the vid longer than five seconds. I swear, this is a hit.



And YSTAIOMM: A Redux

“The fear of failing was my primary motive” New Orleans: Part III of III

On my last day in New Orleans for the Tennessee Williams Festival, I went to see Richard Ford speak. Usually at these panels, in the interest of having something remotely more intelligent to say than “it was cool” if asked about how the panel went, I take notes. This endeavor happened to be complicated by the fact that, unbeknownst to me at first, Ford’s wife sat down next to me. She offered to make the seat in between us “the drink seat”, as I was fiddling with my camera to take a picture of him. Sure that she’d see my note scribbling in crazy stalker penmanship (see above) AND afraid for her husband’s well being because I was taking stalker pictures, I tried to keep it all very casual. This resulted in my notes looking something like a Bingo board, all marked up with the little purple marker dots. Shorthand quote here. Squiggle there.


Richard Ford had some great things to say about the practice of art. The "precious habit of art" he called it. Carving out the time to just go ahead and write. He talked about the genesis of his craft. He was in law school, which turned out to be “one of many failures.” He turned to his roommate one day and told him about an idea for a book he had and that he’d decided to be an author. The roommate turned down the idea.

Ford described writing as one thing he hadn’t failed at. Therefore, he knew it would stick.

He also explained that having an audience is, in fact, why he writes. Probably why we all write. I don’t think this has to be counter to the belief that we write for ourselves, maybe as a means of communication with the self. But then once we leave the little hovel with one light bulb we write in, we should acknowledge at some point we’re writing in the hopes that someone else will read what we wrote and take some meaning from it—it isn’t for money or a fame. It is because we are social creatures.

Later, Ford took questions. One audience member mentioned her church book group finished one of his short story collections. I forget now what the question was, but the church bit prompted Ford to talk more about writing for an audience and mentioning “life is our last resort.” Probably not what the woman was looking for, but it’s bold of him to admit.

Ford’s next novel, Canada, takes place in Great Falls, MT (and later in the novel, certain Canadian provinces). I hope the O’Hare Motor Lodge makes it in there somewhere.

Before leaving for Chicago, I went back for more pirates. And houses that reverse the aging process.

Remember to tip your server. New Orleans: Part II of III

On Friday evening of the Tennessee Williams Festival Kelly and I volunteered for the two evening theatre events. This was a stroke of genius from K, who earlier signed us up for volunteering, which scored us a free panel pass. We were pros at this, having learned about and watching people volunteer at AWP New York while working at the CutBank’s booth at the bookfair.

We nabbed the concessions stand, feeding the theatre-going crowd alcohol or alcohol and bottled water. We then saw the plays, relishing the night of free entertainment. The first, a one-man play, Bent to the Flame, featured Doug Tompos as Tennessee Williams on the verge of NYC stardom. This satisfied the Mark-Doty-Master’s-Class void by weaving in Hart Crane’s “Voyages”. It explored the personal connection Williams had with Hart Crane’s poetry. The second, Kingdom of Earth was a later Tennessee Williams play. It featured an impending hurricane, a nudie picture & cross dressing. The meaning was deeper than that, but these are the things I recall.

“I could never remember / That seething, steady leveling of the marshes / Till age had brought me to the sea.” New Orleans: Part I of III

I just returned from seeing fellow MFAers Anne-Marie and Kelly of Post-MFA fame in New Orleans a week ago today. We’re inseparable. We’re still shifting around in the fetal position, mainly. And missing our third of the three, Trina.

New Orleans involved various encounters with bodies of water. Yes, this is not a shock. And yes, it served as a reminder of New Orleans’ resiliency. Some of these personal encounters were permanent and expected (Mississippi River, the nature trail in Houma, LA), some uninvited and smelly. And all ominous enough to be perfect backdrop for the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival and the ensuing moisture-laden events.

Let’s get the anecdotes out of the way. Cars flooded. Kelly’s car in particular. She will always have a little piece of LA with her no matter where she is. Water stays with you. It levels with you. Literally. Up to the cup holders. It doesn’t let you go.

Cars routinely flip over in front of or somewhere in the vicinity of the following items: Street lights. Stop signs. Streetcars. Other cars. The cops did not appear phased. I take this as a sign that disorder is still accepted and encouraged. Louisiana, you grew on me.

Large cockroaches with horrible antennae can only be killed with a shoe. This is why Clorox surface cleaner was invented.

I saw a lot of stuff askew. I also went for the literary mingling. Well, okay, I went to watch other people mingle while I sat in the back of the classroom.

Months ago I was revved up to take a Master’s class (not as awe-inspiring as the name seems to hint at) with Mark Doty. I’m a big fan of his work, My Alexandria in particular.

Friday morning came and I rushed down the sidewalks of the French Quarter to get there in time. I can’t be late! That’d be rude. No. What was rude, I discovered, was being that one earnest sneaker-squeaker bee lining down the very narrow sidewalk in…the Quarter. People meander, keeping to the left or right or middle as they choose. They very often dare to look up and stop walking to admire goodness knows what. The gall of tourists visiting the very touristy Quarter--on Friday of Spring Break no less! Call me crazy but sidewalks are for getting from one place to the next as quickly as possible. In the heat. In the rain. Move, people, move.

And then the Mark Doty event was cancelled. Family emergency. Well, I felt like a douf. I made it up to myself by spending the next hour hanging out in the Quarter walking slowly, respecting everyone else and even stopping to check out the pirates, musicians, smelly bars and doughnuts.


(The titular lines are from Hart Cranes’ “Repose of Rivers”)