about critique

I have decided I was not going to be a workshop leader. I'd rather be the host of a dinner, or the usher at the theatre. I'm experiencing existential doubt: what is it, exactly, that I get from meeting with other writers? What is it that they get?

"Writers are rarely the social type, and may even resist joining a group, for what good would that be to them and their writing? I speculate that the benefit of attending a group meeting can only be measured by the motivation to write afterwards. How do we do that?"

Read more in this essay I wrote: critique.pdf

I'm more inclined to think that a writer wanting feedback should conduct his own workshop and expect every kind of response, laudatory as well as offensive. A writer who just wants to test the waters, i.e. to check if people fall asleep or look puzzled after a reading of his work, should be able to do that as well. It's more a matter of making it clear up front.

For a real workshop, one can check the local listings for classes. I see there's one at SFSU, for example.

Celebrity

a dialog exercise... Important to maintain point of view.

“Shouldn’t you pretend he’s just someone?”

“Do you think he’s noticed we’re checking him out?”

“I think these people are oblivious to their surroundings. It would drive them crazy to pay attention to stalkers like us.”

“We’re not stalking him.”

“OK, technically I guess we’d have to be hiding. We’re wannabees. We’re his loyal followers and admirers.”

“How can we take our minds away from him?”

“Why should we take our minds away from him? He’s good conversation, as long as we don’t degrade it into gossip.”

“Degrade?”

“You know what I mean. It would be nice to talk about the beautiful man at that table, about two tables away from us in a diagonal behind my right. You just made it obvious that you’re looking at him.”

“That woman behind you is really big.”

“We’ll have to trade places. We could pretend that we want to eat the second half of each other’s entrée.”

“We usually just reach with our forks.”

“I’d just feed you from my fork, honey.”

“OK, switch.”

“Oh, now I see.”

“Oh, now you see. Now I need a mirror, like in the movies.”

“So, apart from the fact that we’d have to convert him to homosexuality, how could we get him to pay attention to us?”

“As in: get him to our apartment? The bed isn’t made. One of us would need to go ahead and change the sheets while the other entertains him.”

“I was thinking about seducing him first.”

“Do you think the woman he’s with is just a cover?”

“Oh yeah. He’s one of us. Or he’s not interested in her at all.”

“What are they talking about?”

“I think he’s saying there are two guys he likes, at that table behind the large woman.”

“No kidding? He’s been looking at us?”

“Yeah, I think so. Don’t turn your head. Don’t!”

“The good old trick of dropping one’s fork. It always works. He’s not staring at us at all. Stop glancing in his direction. Look at me in the eyes.”

“What? Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“You just said your bed needs clean sheets. You’ve got work to do before you get me into your bed.”

“It’s also your bed, remember?”

“But if it’s not good enough for him, it isn’t good enough for me. Try harder.”

“OK, I’ll get new sheets while you sit in the living room by the fire.”

“Patiently staring at the wall…”

“No, because I will have massaged your shoulders to sink you into the velour of our couch, and your eyes will be closed.”

“Mmmh, I’m starting to like the idea.”

“I’ll be back to you after a few minutes, and my hands will start reaching through the openings in your clothes.”

“Will you be naked already?”

“Yeah, but your eyes will still be closed. I will keep them closed by kissing them as I peruse my lips to feel your face.”

“Is that you pulling my shirt off?”

“Yes, honey. You can pull me over from the back of the couch, if you have the strength.”

“I do. Why does taking shoes and pants and underwear off always feel like an intermission?”

“Because we haven’t gotten ourselves to wear skirts and dresses. But I’ll get you naked before you know it.”

“I like it when you suck under my ear.”

“I like leaving my mark on you.”

“Will you gentlemen want to see our dessert menu?”

“Oh, we were just talking about that.”

“Yeah, we’ll have dessert at home.”

“Yeah…”

Dreams on January 26, 2007

In my dream I am a married mother of two. I am dying of cancer. I have a wish to move to Santa Barbara. And to live alone. Jerry and Eliot are my friends. They, too, are moving to Santa Barbara. We find us a house in a deserted mall. It’s spooky. The groundskeeper is a Russian woman who has lost a huge amount of weight. You can see it in the way she walks. The house sits on a beach. There is a a small bedroom with a cot, a kitchen. Suddenly I insist that my sons live with me. Jerry tells me all the different names of the neighborhoods as we drive around. I like this place. I am going to die here. We go on. The house is simple. I have my peace, and when I do not desire it I turn on the TV or the radio. My husband knows not to ask me questions. There aren’t answers. This is how I wish to spend the rest of my days.

Another dream. I am in India. I don’t know why. I am very homesick. I think I am also dying in this dream. I see many colors. Every color. I can see the sun. The rain has stopped. That is good. Because it has rained for so many days.

Lux

Devil's Night is a name associated with October 30, the night before Halloween, particularly in Detroit, Michigan. … Property owners unable to sell in the rapidly declining Detroit city housing market would use this night as an excuse to burn down their homes to collect insurance money.
–Wikipedia


What strong slave – riddled she – of two stones born, woman-tended, warmly blesses if carefully fed.

A plane was rising overhead, full of hundreds whose journeys had come together this chill fall evening and will separate like firework sparks.

I don't know – my wit thudded off the pavement – bigfoot's shoes swinging from a power line in a logging town maybe.

We were walking to see an old skating buddy, whose occasional messages this year hinted at an almost monastic withdrawal devoted to sketching cats and hanging out at the homeless shelter.

The cats were napping at the corners though, and he offered me yerba mate with rare good cheer, while she had a shot of carrot juice colored with cochineal and saffron.

I went to the porch to decide if I wanted to smoke something.

People dressed like goblins, others in tall hats, scuttled up the little hill.

When I returned, I noticed her looking blankly past an incense burner.

You too, I said, and it was as if I was falling into the deepest of beds.

He knew, she said, that's why the cats left and the candles are lit.

I could barely turn the circle; as she prepared the oil, stars weaved slowly, like lazy clouds, like cars turning onto the bridge.

We woke in a small clearing, the sun a bright yellow lamp, words blown away like brown leaves.

For ages afterwards we refused to speak with him, because he wouldn't go to brunch; he insisted that his happiness would blow away at the sight of the converted locomotive's red plush, and that tinsel would corrupt the pure greediness of his claws.