A Giant’s House

Some time back, I posted about Elizabeth McCracken’s short story collection, Here’s Your Hat What’s Your Hurry. Though I’m far more likely to read short-form work than long-form, I liked McCracken’s collection enough that when I came across her novel A Giant’s House, I picked it up.

I’m glad I did. One thing I liked in McCracken’s short stories was the way she handled the weird. While obviously fascinated by odd people, McCracken always takes care to make her characters human. When she writes about circus freaks or lying old ladies, she does a great job handling the interplay between humanity and oddity. The novel is mostly about a boy, James Carlson Sweatt, who is a giant (as in, he grows abnormally tall), and a librarian, Peggy Cort. Both of these characters are deeply weird — James because he’s physically weird and Peggy because she so adamantly refuses to participate in life the way others do. I think what I liked most about this book was that McCracken gets the reader into these people so well that I ended up in their world, perceiving the normal people as weird.

There’s a great scene where James tries to appear as part of an advertising campaign for a shoe store, but puts them off when they discover his feet are terribly infected. The infection has come about because James can’t feel his feet and doesn’t take care of them. Peggy tries to wash his feet and take care of him. The scene is great because it brings James’ situation so clearly to the forefront. He’s just a boy, but he’s terribly sick, and Peggy’s best efforts really aren’t good enough.

I find it harder to take excerpts from novels, but here’s a little one:

Ordinary-size people, they don’t know: their lives have been rehearsed and rehearsed by every single person who ever lived before them, inventions and improvements and unimportant notions each generation, each year. In 600 B.C. somebody did something that makes your life easier today; in 1217, 1892. Somebody like James had to ad-lib any little thing: how to sit, how to travel.

Fairy Tale, Embedded

Today, I read Aimee Pokwatka’s “The Glass Mountain,” in The Greensboro Review. I was interested in how this story skated on the edge of fairy tale. Obviously, it plays a great deal off its fairy tale namesake, with sections like this:

In seven years, only one knight came close to saving the princess. He arrived in golden armor, and in the sunlight, he looked like a man made of fire. The princess bowed her head when she heard him charge, but the sound she expected, the sound of gold kissing glass, was replaced by the sound of horse hooves cracking their way closer. From her window, it looked like the knight was riding on sky, and he leaned forward, readying his burning body to pluck an apple from the tree. Just as he approached the peak, the witch, who had turned herself into a hawk, sailed down and sunk her talons between his horse’s eyes. The horse fought for only a moment before it began its downward slide, its hooves engraving the mountainside with a deep furrow.

The princess listened as the townspeople began digging a new grave. She lay her head against the window and closed her eyes.

The story, however, turns out to be set in the present-day United States, and is largely about childhood friends reunited through mutual grief:

“She always had a crush on you, you know.”

“Who?” Gnome asked. “Eva?”

“She used to put apples outside her bedroom door before she went to sleep, in case you came at night to rescue her.”

His face screwed up, and I could tell that it upset him to hear this, but I kept talking, telling my sister’s stories, listening as her name filled the dark spaces between us, until I felt too tired to talk anymore.

You could, I think, class this story as a straight mainstream story with an embedded fairy tale. The author doesn’t make exaggerated claims about what the main characters are up to. I thought it was cool, though, how the mood and importance of the fairy tale bleed into the main story and transform its tone.

The Strange Case of Fathers

“The Secret Life of Engineers,” a story by David Borofka, just went up on the Emerging Writers Network, as the winner of the 2007 short fiction contest. It is a story about the strange and patient unraveling that goes on when, as a grownup, you try to understand things about your parents’ lives. The narrator’s mother feels abandoned by the father’s business trips, and slowly gets derailed:

Those last years before he moved her into Willow Springs were tough on my father; my mother had become a habitual night walker, and she had been quick to open a door and beat a hasty exit in all kinds of weather. She was looking for my father who was asleep beside her in their queen-sized bed. But he never saw the irony: her great fear of abandonment had given wings to her feet, thus leading to the separation that she feared most of all.

I liked the pace of this story. It was measured — the story gave plenty of time and room to enjoy the mysteries of the parents’ lives, but never slowed down to the point that my attention wavered.

Three Mormon Pieces

I was reading some more in the newest issue of Storyglossia, and came across Peggy Newland’s “Mama Took the Bacon.” I enjoyed reading it — it’s the type of story where a slightly ridiculous situation escalates to the breaking point and beyond. When two Mormons come to housewife Mrs. Williams’ house, they find her in an unusual state, since she’s just stolen and used her son’s drugs:

I keep my face pleasant but I realize my voice is very loud, louder than I’ve had it in a long time. “You’re staying for a special supper.” And I whip that sword around in the air making calligraphy spirals. Garnett makes for the door. “Hey! Get back here!” And by accident—I’ve never really hurt anybody, not that I haven’t wanted to—I clip the side of his ear. He screeches when he touches blood on his neck. Charles holds his stomach.

“Ma?” It’s Randy.

“Hi, honey,” I say, and this time he doesn’t tell me to stop calling him honey.

“The sword’s very sharp,” I explain.

“Are you on drugs?” Randy mimics me in a pleasant-but-concerned mother’s voice.

“Why, yes, I am,” I say. Swords make good microphones. Easy to move around and light. I finish my Tina song. “What’s love but a second hand emotion?”

The funny thing is, this is the third thing about Mormons I’ve come across recently. Earlier today, I was reading an interview with Brian Evenson about how he approaches Mormonism in his work. And I also recently read Remittance Girl’s “The Central Registry,” which is also about a visit from two Mormons that doesn’t go as the higher-ups would have intended (note: this story is erotica, so if you’re offended by that or are underage, please refrain from clicking).

In the interview, Evenson talks about how these types of coincidences can seem very meaningful when they strike at an opportune time. I don’t have any particular connection to Mormonism, but I am interested in the underbelly of religion. Growing up, I found religious imagery largely terrifying. No matter how often I heard sermons or stories about a God who loved me, what stuck in my mind were the images of blood sacrifice, Lot’s wife becoming a pillar of salt, and Elijah laying down the law. What I’m seeing in all three of the pieces I’ve mentioned here is that, in the presence of people who seem to only see the skittles-and-rainbows side of a religion, the idea of opening them up to the darker side is nearly irresistible. Remittance Girl’s story is about sexual corruption, Evenson’s interview is, in part, about violent episodes, and the Newland story is a bit of both. In all three cases, I notice myself reacting to the insanity with glee. I don’t think this is just because I’m a twisted person — the subgenre that seems to be going here suggests that my reaction is not uncommon. I’m not sure where the glee comes from, but I’d be curious to see what others think.

3-Day Novel Aftermath

I’m still suffering a bit of post-3-day-novel depression. The night after the contest, I lay wide awake until 4 a.m., as excited and uncertain as if I was about to take an international flight to Spain. The next day, I put the novel draft in the mail, trying to ignore how crazy it was to send it out without doing anything to it, because that is how the rules of the contest work. I went to about 4 bookstores and bought a pile of books.

I enjoy writing nonfiction, but the change back to my day job felt abrupt. I’m in the middle of working on a feature for the November issue, and the work of revising a feature is a jarring change from the work of pouring out a draft at high speed. I’m hoping to get back to normal soon, and, in a few weeks, start taking a look at the draft I produced.

Done!

I just finished my draft for the 3-Day Novel Contest. It clocks in at 45,000 words, just about, and I’m happy with it. I didn’t get a chance to blog yesterday, which was unfortunate.

Yesterday was by far the hardest day. I was slogging through the middle and worrying a lot. One minute, I thought the story was great, and the next I thought it was lame. Yesterday, I did most of my writing at my sister’s house, which was great, because she fed me meals and helped pick me up off the floor when I got depressed. I quit at 1 a.m. when I started falling asleep mid-sentence, but much sooner than I’d hoped to quit. I made it through about 15,000 words.

Today, I had adrenaline working very much on my side. I wrote all day at Borders, in the coffeeshop where my husband works, starting at 9 am and ending just now.

It’s really way too early to know anything at all about my draft. I made it through 20,000 words today, which is pretty surreal. The middle was full of surprises, but I was able to steer the characters toward the ending I’d envisioned. I have three main characters, with three interlocking storylines, and that seems to have worked out OK. About 7 pm, I started wondering what the hell I thought I was doing. The idea of writing a novel in 3 days seemed insane and meaningless. Then I put one song on repeat on iTunes and powered through until I got to the end.

Whatever happens with the contest, I have a draft that I think will be workable for revision. I’m way stoked about getting it printed and mailed in the morning.

I don’t think I have many more coherent thoughts left. I’m about to pop over to visit the weaklings, and then call it a night.