Blog #99; In Memorium, Michael Curtis, fiction editor of the Atlantic

 The other day I did something I rarely do anymore. I googled an editor-friend from back in my active

days in the academic/literary publishing world. I had tried to get in touch with him a couple of times,

but he seemed incommunicado. Well, I found out that Michael Curtis passed away this January. He,

especially in the early days of a correspondence that lasted almost thirty years, taught me much about

writing stories, and about writing as a craft to incrementally master. For that I will always be grateful.

He first started writing me back in 1992, and I saved every one of the dozens of rejection letters he sent

back. At first, it was just a sentence or two, just suggestions. As time went on the sentences grew to

paragraphs, and Mike exhibited a warmth, and a solid encouragement, and for that I will always be

grateful, too. I got to meet him twice during this time of correspondence; once at Rollins College in

Winter Park, Florida, where he was giving a talk to the writing students set up by our mutual friend, Phil

Deaver. The other time was in Columbus, Ohio, at a workshop. He was understanding about my

emotional awkwardness in those early stories, and taught me to fashion the discomfort into

vulnerability and compassion.

When I moved out West to be with my wife Erin in Utah, we started up a literary magazine. Of course,

the first person I thought of when considering who to interview was Mike. The back and forth turned

out to be very fruitful, and as a result, a new vision of how to approach fiction writing opened up to me

as a writer. Mike was gracious, as always, giving gems of advice freely as the interview went on. A few

years ago, he stepped down from The Atlantic, and, of course, that ended an amazing apprenticeship

with him, as the incoming fiction staff had different plans for the magazine. I miss his notes, towards

the end hand-written and warm and personal. It was an honor to have worked with him, and to have

learned by his hand.

Blog #98; A Vigorous Argument for Interesting, Compelling Fiction

 A story, more than anything, must be alive.   It must have a pulse and driving emotion that hooks the reader into the narrative.  As more time goes by and I find myself further distanced from the academic, "literary" world, it becomes more clear to me what makes great fiction in my own mind.  Unlike what I have heard in some academic circles, it is not a prerequisite that to be admired a work must put the reader to sleep.   It is actually very freeing to read someone like Harlan Coben or Stephen King and enjoy it for the pure storytelling aspect, the propulsive drive from page to page, the addictive compulsion to keep turning pages.

 

Reading such a book is indeed satisfying an addiction and in a way that I would say is much healthier than most addictions.  With my wife, I currently belong to The Book of the Month Club, and good reads abound there.  The most recent novel I have read came from there, SHE STARTED IT, a deliciously twisted plot line of a British book, where a wronged high school outsider and talented artist gets her revenge on four bullies ten years later at her hen party. 

 

I am also exploring William Styron's nonfiction, and quite frankly, I have been given a revised point of view on that work too.  His "Darkness Visible" will always be my favorite work of his, followed closely by SOPHIE'S CHOICE, but most of the collection of his nonfiction that I read dealt mostly with current affairs of his day and the literary social life of Manhattan. I find it best to stay warily awake regarding the  "woke" movement of contemporary fiction.  I mostly stick to historical fiction.

 

Enough said on that topic.  I have looked at my late friend and mentor Phil Deaver's work, particularly how his work is faring posthumously.  I told Phil while he was still alive that I would do all I could to preserve his literary legacy.  I don’t know what his family and other loved ones feel about preserving his work.  I imagine the warm-hearted, generous-spirited man that his memory bequeaths to us is what ultimately lives on, both in his published work and his private moments with family and friends.

Blog #97; A Number of Random Thoughts About Life and Literature; Book Giveaways this Month

 I have been down lately, not only because so many people I know and love have died in the past few years.  I no longer dream of achievement or success on a material, or reputational, level with mainstream or literary publishers, but that leaves me feeling that my pursuit of writing is somehow disillusioned.  I decided a long time ago, years ago now, to focus on self-publishing, so that I have taken myself out of the running of being respected as a fiction writer.  It all just saddens and confuses me.  I have my own little corner of the Mormon literary world, and that is fruitful in what I read and write.  Dean Hughes' Children of the Promise series is magnificent, and I hope to meet him in person some day.  I think some of my historical fiction work may have a chance with LDS, or other Christian/inspirational type publishers, but I don't have a full book manuscript to show them.

So, self-publishing, with Mormon undercurrents, with historical themes.  That seems to be where I will focus my time.  That, and trying very hard to write an honest spiritual memoir.

Later on in the month I will announce my giveaways.  As always, if you are so moved, please send a line...

Blog #96; A Meditation on Death; Elegy for My Cousin, Catherine Kelly

I have been very depressed lately, starting two days ago when I found out that my cousin Catherine passed away.  She and I were on parallel courses for a long time, having been born less than one week apart.  She was actually my second cousin, daughter of one of my father's first cousins.  Catherine is not her real name.  With the help of my father, she escaped an abusive marriage and changed her identity.  That decision probably saved her life and that of her son.  She was a good-humored, witty woman, who was fond of puns and word play.  We got along great together, and I will find in the months and years to come a big hole in my life because of her absence from this Earth.  

Her passing causes me to think about my own mortality, and how she and I are literally the same age, and I am guessing, because she struggled with diabetes related illnesses her whole life, and both of us struggled with diabetes.  But if her passing is not a wake up call for me to take better care of myself, I don't know what is.  I swim twice a week.  I do recumbent bicycling a few times a week, but I need to increase all my physical activity, and control my diet better.  I want to be around a long time for my family.

I remember Meditation 17, by John Donne, which says, roughly, all people's lives are at one with a continent, and when one of us loses his life, it detracts from the mainland.  I feel that loss tonight, Catherine's bright laughter, and sharp wit.  Such funny jokes.

My personal beliefs are along the lines of the Mormon faith, as I understand it.  When we die, we go to a kind of spirit school, where we learn spiritual lessons, and if we were not given the opportunity to learn Christ's Gospel before we die, we will there.  Then we will be re-united with our families and loved ones, and live on for eternity close to Heavenly Father.

I pray for her soul tonight, that it is at peace, and I pray her son can also find comfort from God and his friends and family.