Tuesday, 21 May 2019

Anglo-Indian poetry event

I've had to miss some recent Ely, Bedford and Cambridge readings because of other commitments. On 17th May, though bug-ridden, I managed to attend an Anglo-Indian event. I knew of 2 of the poets there, Prabhu Guptara and (pictured against a musical, artistic backdrop) Rishi Dastidar (Nine Arches Press). Usha Akella, Mona Dash, Kavita A. Jindal, Jessica Mookherjee, Soul Patel and Yogesh Patel performed too.

Rishi, fresh from being Guest Tutor at an Arvon Course ("Poetry: Towards a Collection"), read from his book the pieces I most liked - "A shark comes to dinner" gets better each time I hear/see it.

Tuesday, 14 May 2019

Becoming an international writer

How can you become an "international writer"? Get accepted by foreign magazines. Of course, there's Eire (Stinging Fly, etc), New Zealand (Flash Frontier, etc), Australia and the USA. Luckily, there are also english-language magazines in several other countries, some able to attract familiar names. Have a look at -

Thursday, 9 May 2019

"Dear Editor" (Folly Magazine)

Dear Editor,

I like reading small press magazines - all human life is there. After a while I find I've read so many contributions by some authors that they're like old friends, the kind who send letters only when there's bad news. The frequency of heart-rending incidents makes me wonder whether tragedy triggers writing or whether writers are prone to disasters.

I feel sorry for you Web magazine editors; editors of printed magazines know authors' changes of address, and from subscription cheques can see joint accounts become single ones. The biographical notes you supply say so little - concerned readers like me can piece together these broken lives only by subscribing to many magazines. I pick one author (Tim Love) but I could have chosen many others like him who have chosen share their personal tragedies in this way, unburdening themselves gradually, trying not to upset readers too much.

In "Autumn and After" (Summit 2) his wife died when they were childless. We read how he decided not to marry again, instead going to India where, in "New Life" (Dream 13), his mother died. Eventually he does remarry, but "Taking Mark this time" (Staple) tragically describes his wife's death when their son was only 4.

A sonnet "Wither the Love" then appeared in Poetry Nottingham. Trauma can induce formalism as the only way to keep the emotions under control (see Dana Gioia). Sometimes though, mannerism is sloughed off in an attempt to reach the heart of things through understatement (Douglas Dunn). As related in the free-verse "Love at First Sight" (Smith's Knoll 11) his new wife gave birth to a daughter who died before she was an hour old. This is the kind of tragedy from which women in particular never quite recover. So it comes as little surprise that his wife deserted him and their 6 year-old son in "The Big Climb" (Staple).

It would be easy to attribute blame to the author for driving successive spouses to despair, but as with Ted Hughes, it may be that there's something in his temperament that fragile women find attractive. Again, and even more remarkably, he recovers only to be dealt another cruel blow - "Late Night Shopping" (Staple) chronicles life with an autistic child. Perhaps the genes that help a writer produce such diversity of writing also manifest themselves in a less helpful gene diversity in offspring.

To the first-time reader his follow-up, "Rejection" (Envoi), would seem to be about failed submissions (it's encouraging to see that even he gets them!), but our worst fears were confirmed when in a 2004 prizewinner ("Being Open" on the Cambridge Writers web site) we saw him sink into a private hell of alcohol and inflatable dolls.

Now, just a few months later, we read in his biographical notes that he's married with 2 sons; triumphant confirmation to all us writers that we should never give up. I wish him luck.

Mel Vito, Cambridge, UK

["Folly" has disappeared, so I'm reprinting this piece here.]

Monday, 29 April 2019

Cycling from Dieppe to Paris

We managed a leisurely ride along the Avenue Verte whose comforting signposts accompanied us through villages that seemed abandoned, past many little, run-down farms, stone buildings and chateaux, along rivers, canals, and disused railways, through industrial estates and woods, and across fields. We couldn't finish at Notre Dame because of the road blocks, but we got close.

We stayed at Neufchâtel-en-Bray (smart hotel meal), Gournay-en-Bray (an appartment - we popped to a supermarket to get food), Bray-et-Lû (swimming pool in restaurant, squawking peacocks, the birthplace of Eluard's daughter next door), St Germain-En-Laye (edge of town motel), and a Timhotel a few minutes from the Louvre. We passed through Gisors, Saint-Germer-de-Fly, etc.

I've not been to Paris in decades. There were many electric scooters (the sort you stand on, hire by the hour, then dump). I wandered through the Beaubourg region at night, which was lively, and I found this poetry venue.

I read John Fuller's poetry for the first time, and even liked a long poem. I read two poetry pamphlets I wasn't so interested by. I started writing a story about a theology teacher that I think I'll be abandoning soon. We took the EuroStar back, another first for me.

Thursday, 25 April 2019

"Metastasise" (Journal of Microliterature, 2012)

Met a Star's Eyes

In sequins, in jeans, no vice untried, he's hot, too famous. Sharing in a new rage, fans without sense, ability or taste were stunned by his great disco - very dazzling; such technique, each woman with a queue. Men lined up, hopeful, frustrated - he the most. No table - a rival on the scene with his ex (pert, poisoned laughter) got there first. He could sin till late, a lewd hint enough to get what he wanted. All night stud, he made endless advances. Easy Sue pursued, taking the bait, seriously in love. With excitement he lost count of the times he got on her - danger never far away, envy. Whatever the problem, a debt recalculation got him through.

While ordering his double, he licks his lips, injects himself with the weirdest elation. Sin had transformed his life. When can circumstances change? His key moment - he had to be careful. On the Med he sins again, new cocktails. A new drug treat meant more sickly daze. She was prone to dye her hair a new colour each night. Once a rogue antagonist if led astray, hope entered his life, a recovered drunk. But his weekend spirits failed - too easy to stress doubt. Wisecracking, he scolded her each night. He still spoke too much, a claim he later denied. Liking jewels, he had a greedy side, dead mean to tell the truth, but with friends she forgot all that, said all was fine, no doubts allowed, innocence assured.

The rape he denied. Any hope she had disappeared without successor in sight. There was no missed ache. She'd tear strips off him, the pain no cure. A quiet end was what he wanted to avoid. He wanted to party, longed to be wilder - not with her, coffees piled up. Fears receded. He hadn't even won friends' love, though he loved disguise. She suddenly realised all that other people missed - defied him, began to wonder, stand apart from his ego. There were other problems though - not earning, back in trouble, a loan turned down. No time to readjust. No ring, of course. It was finished, a lover gone forever, another of life's fated, casual ties.

Metastasize

In sequencing genes - novice, untried - he shot to fame, ushering in a new age. Fans without sensibility or taste were stunned by his great discovery - dazzling, such technique. Each woman with acumen lined up, hopeful, frustrated. He, the most notable arrival on the scene with his expert poise and laughter, got there first. He could scintillate, allude, hint enough to get what he wanted. All night study made endless advances easy. Super-pseud, he took debate seriously, in love with excitement. He lost count of the times he got honoured - anger never far away, envy. Whatever the problem, adept recalculation got him through.

While ordering his double helix he slips, injects himself with a weird distillation. His DNA transformed his life. When cancer comes, stances change. His chemo meant he had to be careful on the medicines again, new cocktails - a new drug treatment, more sickly days. He was prone to diarrheoa - new colour each night. Once arrogant, agony stifled a stray hope, entered his life - a wreck; overt drunk. But his weakened spirits failed - too wheezy, too stressed out. Wise, cracking his code, deader each night. He still spoke to much acclaim. He later denied liking duels. He had agreed, decided, meant to tell the truth, but with friends he forgot all that, said all was fine, no doubts aloud, in no sense assured.

Therapy denied any hopes he had, disappeared without success or insight. There was no mistake. Shed tears drip, soften the pain. No cure. A quiet end was what he wanted too; a void. He wanted to part, he longed to bewilder, not wither, cough. Fees piled up. Fears re-seeded. He hadn't even one friend's love, though he loved his guys - he suddenly realised all that. Other people mystified him, began to understand. Apart from his ego there were other problems though - no turning back, in trouble, alone, turned down. No time to read, just knowing of course it was finished, all over, gone forever, another of life's feted casualties.

[The "Journal of Microliterature" has disappeared, so I'm reprinting it here. It's really one homonym rather than 2 stories]

Saturday, 13 April 2019

Recent acceptances

Some recent acceptances have little stories behind them -

  • A poem in "Acumen" - my 200th poetry acceptance (out of 612).
  • A story in "Postbox" - Postbox is a new magazine that takes stories: a cause for celebration.
  • 2 poems in "Atrium" - one written in 1990, the other in 2018. I can't see much difference between them in terms of maturity, etc.

Thursday, 4 April 2019

Immersion - why only writers read short stories

During March I wrote a 3000 word story - about the longest I've written. Each day I wrote one or two new drafts. I began to immerse myself in the situation before getting up in the morning, imagining myself in the back garden where the action takes place. Will readers notice that devotion? Maybe a few.

People who read long, popular novels (especially novel series) love to lose themselves in the world of the book, detaching themselves from their surroundings. They get to know the characters and the settings. Many readers seem capable of doing this. Readers who can cope with short stories are rarer - they need to rapidly acquaint themselves with their new surroundings, knowing that their investment is short-term. Reading a multi-author story anthology is harder still, becoming a lost art for the boxed-set generation.

For poetry and Flash there's sometimes the need for similar immersion. More often readers need to tune into something less palpable and enveloping - a tone, a voice, a mood. It's easier to read a single-author work than a magazine or anthology, especially if you're the kind of reader who's looking beyond the text to construct the author's psyche or identity politics.

Of course, some readers (me included, often) distrust immersion, feeling that it's a trick, looking out for the mechanics that the author's used to produce the effect. Often it's done by making the medium transparent, reducing the arty, poetic, sound/language-based effects of their work. An alternative available to poets is to immerse the reader in the sounds, the art.

Genre and stock settings/characters are short cuts to world-building. Significant details help too, as can having characters and situations that readers can empathise with. Online and in books are many tips for writers who want readers to experience immersion, and some more theoretical pieces that also consider immersion in computer games and VR. Here are just a few books and links

What character traits in readers correlate with rapid immersion? Perhaps -

  • Easy detachment from the world (daydreaming)
  • Ability to concentrate
  • Ability to deduce worlds, characters and situations from small clues

These are much the same traits that writers need, so it's no surprise that only short story writers read short stories - particularly anthologies.