We got some great photos from a generous freelance Globe photographer who covered our party. Check them all out at Flickr!
We were really happy to see so many friends and fellow Grubbies at our "Grub Turns Ten" birthday bash on July 27th. If you weren't there, here's a small sampling of what you missed out on: perfectly replicated grub logos painted on people's faces, stellar readings from Hacks, 10 pounds of pulled pork and a variety of other scrumptious barbecue, 2 really heavy birthday cakes (see the rest of the Flickr photos for a visual), a fill-in-your-own-Grub-history 23-foot timeline, a smorgasbord of beer including the oh-so-quaffable NattyLight, 10-minute tarot readings, 8 kinds of wine donated by Newport Vineyards, temperatures in the high 80s that kept most of the partying indoors, indoor temperatures that weren't far from the high 80s by the end of the night, overly-loud music from 1997, over 200 guests, many adorable Grub babies, and an all-around amazing time!
And we're already planning Grub's Sweet Sixteen...
In dread,
Whitney Scharer
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Friday, August 3, 2007
>On Night
Wind slipping through the leaves of the maple tree. A dog passing by my apartment, metal tags jingling from its collar. (Is it pooping on my lawn again? The worry dissipates.) A neighbor slamming a car door, the alarm’s “wheep wheep” telling the owner, “OK, all is safe.” Lulling us all into safety, at least for one night.
Inside, the fan humming on the desk. A sax solo --- discordant, staccato --- burbling from the stereo. The sound of the computer whirring its mind. I turn them all off to hear --- or, rather, to NOT hear --- the well of night, its absolute silence.
It’s 2 am. The time of night I most revere. Especially now, summer, as the dark cool of the outside leaks slowly inside my office, by osmosis, replacing the apartment air stagnant and thick from today’s 87 degree day.
Night. The world is asleep. No one calls. No one sends me email (unless this “Penny Madison” and her ilk and messages such as “re: hot teein suycking double fuukd & faciall” count).
There is no one. And I need no one.
That is the lie I tell myself, anyway, as I click and clack, my fingers making love to my keyboard, and the last lighted rectangle of window from my visible neighbors winks out. Two am becomes 3, becomes 4. And I am still going.
Writers are told --- lo, the cliché is shoved down our throats --- that the act of writing is the ultimate solo act, an expression of “oneness,” a primal state of loneliness. No one craves and despises solitude more than writers. At 4 am, this myth feels most true, I think. I believe it. I’m seduced by its me-against-creation heroism, me alone plucking words from the stratosphere, me in tune with the croon of the cosmos --- even when I know it’s partly hogwash.
I’m getting a reputation for these late night writing marathons that turn into all-nighters. I work on deadline, and I leave the deadline to the absolute zero of the last moment. 1,200 words will be due on my editor’s virtual desktop at 10 am, and at midnight I’ll have not even started. I’ll take a bath. I’ll make myself some scrambled eggs and toast. I’ll have some chocolate, a beer or brew up a Bodum-ful of coffee. I’ll eat my eggs in the tub, read a newspaper from two weeks ago. I'll hear the faint murmurings of a late Red Sox game from my left-hand neighbor’s open window. Ah, someone is alive out there. But I will outlast him. He will sleep, and I will stay awake.
Still in the tub, I take a nap. I wake. My eyes readjust to the lighted bathroom. An idea comes to me --- a lead, a line, a kicker, a string of words for a poem I’ll never finish. This idea has come from the night. Issued from it, from the place where thoughts are born, the tunnels of the cerebellum, from the black sieve of stars and restless moon pensive in their transit over Somerville and every dark corner of the world.
Night. Who needs the sun? A new day? I prefer to struggle with the old one, to wring from it every last drop of wisdom and procrastination.
Back to my desk. To work. To race the arrival of dawn. To fight the bluish and birdish cacophony of tomorrow.
--- Ethan Gilsdorf
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
The Grub Street Rag, 7/30/07
Welcome to the Grub Street Rag, a newsletter of the Boston literary scene sent out every Monday from the balloon and party hat recycling station at Grub Street's world headquarters.
As always, if you are receiving this e-mail in horror, please advance to
the bottom of the page to unsubscribe yourself.
And now, onward to puberty
We've turned ten, and we couldn't have done it without you. We're thrilled to report that over two hundred friends and fans of Grub gathered in our offices last Friday to hear readings from Hacks (our anthology), get our faces painted, nosh on Redbones barbecue, eat birthday cake, and fill in our personal histories on the big Grub timeline on the wall. We hope you all had as much fun as we did. We're already looking forward to Grub's Sweet Sixteen!
And now, a thank-you to our sponsors and donors
We know you're asking: How did Grub pull off such a snazzy, stylish birthday party? We owe a lot to our staff, volunteers, and interns, but the party wouldn't have been SUCH a party if it weren't for our event sponsors and donors. HUGE thanks to Redbones for providing barbecue, enormous thanks to Newport Vineyards for providing wine, and big thanks to Blanchard's for donating a portion of the night's beer. We'd also like to thank all of the party-goers who made a contribution at our Donation Station: in total, you donated $188, which helps defray the costs of the evening's festivities. If you attended the party but missed the donation station, or couldn't make it to the party but would like to help us out, we'll gladly take donations online. Please click on http://www.grubstreet.org/getinvolved/donations.html to pony up.
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Memoir II morphs into a new 6-week course
Our Memoir II class has changed its length, price and start date. It's now a 6-week class that runs from August 13th to September 17th, and costs $275 ($250 for members). The objective of the course stays the same: to give more experienced writers intensive review and analysis of their creative nonfiction, and to write and revise one or two nonfiction pieces or book chapters. Call us at 617.695.0075 to sign up.
Grub Street all over the Globe
There have been two Grub-related writeups in the Boston Globe in as many days. First, check out the article about one of our favorite instructors, Lisa Borders, by clicking http://www.boston.com/ae/books/articles/2007/07/29/for_her_fames_not_name_of_writing_game/. Lisa teaches our Novel In Progress course, and her writing is just as beautiful as this article says. Grub Turns Ten also got a mention in the "Names" section of today's paper. The text is online at http://www.boston.com/news/globe/living/articles/2007/07/30/fun_and_game_plan/?page=2.
SOFTBALL DEPARTMENT (Brought to you by regular sportscaster, Chris Castellani)
DENOUEMENT
Grub Street Word-Slingers 15 BSSC Indies 16
ANDOVER - Leave it to a bunch of writers to save their most compelling drama for the final act. Leave it to the Word-Slingers to avoid the cliche of getting pummeled in the playoffs. Such a predictable end would have been savaged in workshop.
What we had instead, sports fans, was an old-fashioned thrilla.
It started with a ball that bounced out of Ben Patterson's glove into the glove of newcomer Mark Beckytuchsfriend, preventing at least two runs. Indies up 3-2. Then, at the top of the third, the Slingers took the lead with five runs, four of which were awarded as bonuses because the Indies were woman-deficient. For once, the draconian/chauvenist BSSC rules benefited Grub, who'd drafted reserves Anna Stern nee Goldsmith, Nicole Patterson and Lyssa Marksgirlfriend.
But those four runs, like free Redbones BBQ, disappeared quickly. The Indies got 7 at the bottom of the third thanks to three throwing errors and chaos on the basepaths.
By the top of the seventh, the Indies were up 13-12 after Beckytuchsfriend tied it, Jen "RBI Machine" Dupee knocked in two and Wayne Feldman provided some fireworks with a bases-loaded single that notched two more. The Slingers needed one run to stay alive, and then, miraculously, a Patterson walk sent Becky Tuch trotting gleefully home. Indies don't score again. Game tied 13-13. Extra innings. History in the making. Weak knees.
At this point, the Indies starting pitcher -- a coltish, huffy Amazon with a dash of crazy -- was ready to strangle the umpire, whose breath reeked of whiskey, and who liked to call her balls and strikes before they reached the plate. The Indies brought in their closer for the eighth, and the Slingers scored, this time on a bloop hit by power first-baseman Michael Borum, who scored five-tooled star and expert center-fielder Jeff Stern. Anchor outfielder Tom Meek and infielder Brian Runk called a team meeting to pump everybody up and strategize defensive positions in the next half-inning. Brian was still fuming from being called out at third after a brave slide, and wanted revenge. But the Indies scored anyway, and the game was tied again.
Top of the ninth. Skies darkening. Mosquitoes attacking. The Slingers don't score. Game still tied 15-15. Dead silence as pitcher Chris Castellani serves up a triple. Man on third, no outs. Then the next batter hits a line drive into center field, the man on third scores, and the game is over.
Maybe the Word-Slingers have sought over three seasons to experience all the nuances of loss. Maybe they fear the bourgeois trappings of success, the sappy losers-will-triumph happy ending. Maybe they glory in the flames licking their backs as they swan-dive from the heights each and every Sunday. In any case, they're writers. Their skin is thick, and they will fight on.
See you next year!
Cheers,
Whitney, Chris and Sonya
Friday, July 27, 2007
Two Book Reviews
Dan Pritchard here as the guest blogger. If you like my post today, I have a less-formal daily literary blog The Wooden Spoon [danpritch.blogspot.com] you can read when I'm not "The Penny Dreadful." A quick disclaimer, I work for David R. Godine, Publisher, who is doing In the Blood—suffice to say I would not write about it if I didn't really enjoy the book (my review options become limited as I read mostly galleys, haha). Thanks!
McSweeney's Book of Poets Picking Poets(McSweeney's, 2007)
is somewhat more organized than Dadaism. I mean, it could have been truly random. The curator, Dominic Luxford & company, could have begun by scattering slips of papers torn from an anthology around the room at random with poems on them and then tossed lawn darts, blindfolded, to chose which poems would go in the book. Instead they began with a whim. Ten poems by ten poets that they liked. Luxford says, in the "About This Book" foreword, "we tried to stay entirely out of the way, letting the poems in this book pick themselves."
Each poet chosen then was asked to choose one more of his/her own poems, and another poem by another living poet, and so on. The result is an extraordinary and revealing selection of contemporary poets, established and burgeoning, that spans movements, cultures, and languages.
Some of the choices make so much sense that you wonder how you didn't see it coming, as with an M. Night Shyamalan film—the twist just barely inventive enough to be concealed. Like James Tate choosing his poem "The Radish," one of his more popular poems and one he has taken to reading when he does appearances, and then bringing the reader to "The Devils" by Paris Review editor Charles Simic. Simic's poem goes, "We drank gin / And made love in the afternoon." Of course James Tate – the literary world's Keith Richards – would take us here. Of course! And both writers are so distinctive, so individual, their poetic voices making those kinds of complex native sounds no other poet could. It's like Bert picking a poem by Ernie.
Tomaz Salamun picks a poem by the student Thomas Kane and you think How did he find this Kane? but then you discover that Kane is translating Salamun's poems into English as part of his MFA candidacy. Michael Ondaatje chooses "[Untitled]" by Lisa Robertson and all at once, like a moment of grace, you realize that they speak in the same rhythms, their syntax overlaps in ways that no one could have guessed. One begins to see a community of poets in the world that ignores the normal boundaries of gender and race.
The book is not without its criticism. There are sections that are not as strong as others,– one mediocre poem quickly becomes four or five before the cycle is broken – and poems (mostly those chosen by the author from their own work) that may not have been included if there were a more dictatoriam editor. The collection avoids any extremes of avante-gard, or classicism, and in doing so a whole sub-culture of writers is exempt. But these peccadilloes exist with any collection—this or that poet was snubbed, etc., etc.
For all its inventive approach, for all the wonderful connections you see, the best part of this collection is the feeling that these poets are recommending each other to you. By getting out of the way, Luxford has washed his hands of that job. It is no stuffy editor or academic, trying too hard with indexes and anthologies. Here, each author says to you, you should read this, take it home, tear this page from the book, – you'll like it, I think – fold it in your pocket, take it. When will you ever have this chance again?
The Back-way Glance
Andrew Motion's In the Blood
Andrew Motion's In the Blood
The role of American Poet Laureate is not one of clearly defined powers and responsibilities. They are often chosen in recognition of their careers from blank page to verse. Beyond that, a laureate's role is defined by each individual poet. Donald Hall, for instance, tends to his garden in New Hampshire. Louise Glück insisted on the umlaut. Billy Collins picked arguments with undergrads. William Carlos Williams furrowed his brow at beautiful women, who passed with asphodels in their hair. Essentially they did—whatever it was they always did before, and added a line to their resumes.
Not so in Britain. A Royal Poet Laureate of Great Britain is required to write occasional verse (for special occasions, mind you, not poetry some of the time). The poet must versify – to the best of his or her ability – state affairs, moments of national triumph, hours of mourning, and everyday occurrences. The reigning British laureate Andrew Motion sums his duties up in his forthcoming memoir, In the Blood. The part of the poet laureate is played by mum. Andrew plays England, in all his slumbering glory.
"Mum doesn't knock, she just whisks open my bedroom door, crosses straight to the curtains, tears them apart, and flaps one hand in front of her face. 'What a fug!' "
Motion is well known for his fondness of meter and rhyme, and established verse forms such as iambic pentameter—he is an unadulterated lover of his national literary heritage, of which he has made himself very familiar. His acclaimed biographies of Phillip Larkin and John Keats reveal his poetic genealogy, but despite the use of classic verse forms, Motion's poetry is clear and often very personal. He is, in that respect, as much a descendant of Robert Lowell's "confessional" writing as he is of Larkin's impersonal but more colloquial style. He is very well suited for the royal position he holds—a poet capable of expressing the personal in traditional verse forms, making a connection between individual perception and feeling, and the grand historical moment.
"The best poems are those which speak to us about the important things in our lives in a way that we never forget," Motion told the BBC. One could argue just the inverse of Motion's work. His poetry is very much informed by the central themes of his early life: the premature death of his mother, and his childhood in the ever-dwindling English countryside.
Motion's memoir In the Blood (Godine, 2007) is a masterful, lyrical work of autobiography. It centers on the young poet's relationship with his mother, opening with the hunting accident that would – after a long coma – tragically take her life. Their bond is intricately drawn over the course of the book, without being focused too tightly, so that it still exists in the context of a family that is full, and fully drawn. The story is crafted so naturally that it seems almost like a novel—though few modern novelists outside of Colm Toibin would dare attempt to depict so simple and human a story.
It was from his mother that Motion was first taught the power of words. In the most middle-class, domestic way, she teaches young Andrew to use words such as "looking-glass" for "mirror," and "perfume" for "scent," because they "always have done." Their conversation is comical –nearly absurd – for its stereotypical preoccupation with propriety, however two of Motion's great strengths as a poet can be traced back to this scene. The first is his complex relationship with slang, colloquial, and working-class diction. Motion is the rare poet who is able to choose a diction that matches the occasion and themes of the poem without overwhelming them. There is a balance to be found between ideas and the words used to express them, when a poem conveys theme and mood clearly, easily, and beautifully.
The second strength is Motion's reverence for tradition. It is clear from In the Blood that the Motion clan is only recently middle-class, and no class of people since the French Revolution are more concerned with tradition and propriety than the recently elevated. In the wrong hands this reverence becomes stale language and out-dated verse forms, poems rife with dead metaphors. Motion, on the other hand, feels his place in the long line of British poets as a eminent challenge. They stand over his shoulder, they point out his naivete and flaws with the blank faces of their collected works, and he is able to use or break tradition masterfully with their expert guidance.
Throughout the memoir the importance of scenes such as this becomes clear only in relation to the first chapter, depicting his mother's injury. Thus Motion is able to affect the same layered construction of his life that is so central to the experience of being a child, and of looking back at one's childhood. Hindsight gives the quiet moments between poet and mother an emotional weight that the author-as-child has obviously not developed enough to perceive. The poet's relationship with his mother is the central event of his self-construction, and imbues him with an ability to see the true value of the present.
There are times when this book is so domestic, and so much a picture of life, that the going becomes slow—happenings are infrequent, and the world in which he grew up in England is unlike any in America, and likely has disappeared there as well. The greatest enjoyment I found was with the craft and care Motion took in his writing. He has the rare ability to draw a visage that is full of subtext, delineating a hidden life beneath the surface.
Motion was seen very much as a "safe" choice for the position of laureate, but that description belies his complicated relationship to the past, and his gift for seeing the present with a kind of immediate hindsight. This gift allows him to see his own poems in relation to the past, to the future poets of Britain who will seek their own lineage, and now to his family, on display quite beautifully in his memoir In the Blood.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Grub Street: A Romance
In honor of Grub's 10th anniversary celebration this Friday, I wanted to share a love story with you. It's a simple tale, filled with lucky coincidences, temporary break-ups and gushing praise, and has--as all good love stories do--a happy ending.
And who, you may ask, is the object of my affection? Dear reader, in this post it's Grub Street. Perhaps you'll find this love a bit unconventional: Woman and Organization, some hot female-on-nonprofit action. But bear with me, it's not as sordid as you might think (and if you were actually hoping for sordidness, sorry to disappoint).
The story begins with me, fresh out of college, my shiny new liberal arts degree hanging on the wall of my rat-trap apartment bedroom, which I was sharing with a friend and subletting for $250 a month. (In Davis Square. 5 minutes from the T. Just to give you some idea of the level of rat-trap-itude.) The moment I graduated I became one of those lost souls, the kind of person who sees adulthood stretching out in front of them as one long uninterrupted stream of mundane desk jobs, broken only by the possibility of paid vacation time increasing from 2 weeks to 3 when you hit your mid-thirties. I missed, more than you might imagine, the rhythm of the semester system, the promise in a new course catalog, the excitement of a fresh stack of textbooks. As I mail-merged and reformatted, I could actually feel my creative energy drying up inside of me. Like Tantalus, my thirst for knowledge seemed permanently thwarted.
But living in Davis Square put me in close proximity to Grub Street's first (and short-lived) plastic advertising kiosks, which were set up next to the T station and filled with shiny workshop brochures. Here, I realized the first time I picked up a brochure, was my salvation: 10-week-long courses in fiction, offered in the evenings at the end of the workday. One semester out of school, I signed up for my first Grub Street class, taught by Chris Castellani and held in Brookline's Temple Sinai, where we sat at diminutive desks and wrote and wrote and wrote. It was heaven, and Chris remains--after countless courses and two years in an MFA program--one of the best teachers I have ever had. I still have the two single-spaced pages of typed comments he wrote on one of my stories, and marvel at the dedication he showed as an instructor.
Over the next few years, I took a few workshops, all of them great, volunteered a bit and became acquainted with the Lady Behind It All, Eve Bridburg. I went to her apartment in Somerville, out of which she ran Grub Street for many years, and felt as if I was peering in at some secret club of cool, hip writers. (Part of why I felt this way was how cool Eve was. Even her apartment oozed with cool: the guest bathroom on the first floor had a clawfoot bathtub in which she had laid a mannequin's arm. Just lying there in the tub, like some sort of avant garde art installation. How awesome is that?)
My fantastic Grub Street teachers wrote recommendations for me when I decided to apply to an MFA program, and in the personal statement portion of my application, I wrote that I planned to move to Denver after I graduated to start a non-profit literary center--modeled on Grub, of course. While in school, I subscribed to the early days of the Grub Street Rag, and read it hungrily--and with a bit of jealousy and nostalgia--each week. As graduation loomed, and the same panic overtook me that I felt when I left college, I responded to a posting in the Rag for a grants intern. The director at the time, Jamie Hook, took a chance on an unknown gal from Seattle who promised to be there in July after driving her possessions across the country, and I started as an intern in Grub's old office space, a converted toilet paper factory outside of Union Square, Somerville. Then a new executive director started, Ron MacLean, who hired me on as a full-time administrator. For the first year, there were only the two of us, set up at rickety old folding tables with an odd sticky scrim covering them (I refuse to acknowledge that this substance could be anything other than the adhesive residue from Scotch tape). We had a photocopier that was so old you had to bang it to turn it on, which sat--for some unknown reason--UNDER a desk, so that when you wanted to copy something you had to sit down with the dustbunnies and old chewed pen caps on the floor, bumping your head on the desk above.
Those days are gone, and now here I sit, over three years later, in Grub's swanky digs at 160 Boylston, at a desk I assembled myself after a long and arduous trip to IKEA. How Grub has grown over the years! As I type, a few members are scattered around the space working on their writing, our summer interns are hard at work (thank you guys!), and Grub's--gasp-- multiple other employees are cranking out all the great work they do that makes Grub as special as it is.
It may seem weird to be in love with an organization, but that's what it boils down to for me. I love all of the people I've met here. I love Grub's scrappy history, its irreverent attitude towards all things that smack of stodge (if that's a word). I love everyone who works here and how we sit in the same room and interrupt each other every five seconds yet still manage to get TONS of stuff done. I love that we work hard because all of us Absolutely Love What We Do. I even love that we all talk about "making time for our writing a priority" but have trouble making it happen because there's so much good stuff to get done in the office. And most of all, I love that Grub Street is a place of happy coincidences, a place where a student and volunteer has found a place that feels as much like a home as any workplace ever could.
Oh, and the vacation time's not that bad either.
In dread,
Whitney Scharer
P.S. See you at Grub Turns Ten on Friday, right? Right?
P.P.S. I promised you "temporary break-ups" in the first sentence of this post. For that piece of my not-so-illustrious Grub history, send me an email and I'll give you the scoop.
And who, you may ask, is the object of my affection? Dear reader, in this post it's Grub Street. Perhaps you'll find this love a bit unconventional: Woman and Organization, some hot female-on-nonprofit action. But bear with me, it's not as sordid as you might think (and if you were actually hoping for sordidness, sorry to disappoint).
The story begins with me, fresh out of college, my shiny new liberal arts degree hanging on the wall of my rat-trap apartment bedroom, which I was sharing with a friend and subletting for $250 a month. (In Davis Square. 5 minutes from the T. Just to give you some idea of the level of rat-trap-itude.) The moment I graduated I became one of those lost souls, the kind of person who sees adulthood stretching out in front of them as one long uninterrupted stream of mundane desk jobs, broken only by the possibility of paid vacation time increasing from 2 weeks to 3 when you hit your mid-thirties. I missed, more than you might imagine, the rhythm of the semester system, the promise in a new course catalog, the excitement of a fresh stack of textbooks. As I mail-merged and reformatted, I could actually feel my creative energy drying up inside of me. Like Tantalus, my thirst for knowledge seemed permanently thwarted.
But living in Davis Square put me in close proximity to Grub Street's first (and short-lived) plastic advertising kiosks, which were set up next to the T station and filled with shiny workshop brochures. Here, I realized the first time I picked up a brochure, was my salvation: 10-week-long courses in fiction, offered in the evenings at the end of the workday. One semester out of school, I signed up for my first Grub Street class, taught by Chris Castellani and held in Brookline's Temple Sinai, where we sat at diminutive desks and wrote and wrote and wrote. It was heaven, and Chris remains--after countless courses and two years in an MFA program--one of the best teachers I have ever had. I still have the two single-spaced pages of typed comments he wrote on one of my stories, and marvel at the dedication he showed as an instructor.
Over the next few years, I took a few workshops, all of them great, volunteered a bit and became acquainted with the Lady Behind It All, Eve Bridburg. I went to her apartment in Somerville, out of which she ran Grub Street for many years, and felt as if I was peering in at some secret club of cool, hip writers. (Part of why I felt this way was how cool Eve was. Even her apartment oozed with cool: the guest bathroom on the first floor had a clawfoot bathtub in which she had laid a mannequin's arm. Just lying there in the tub, like some sort of avant garde art installation. How awesome is that?)
My fantastic Grub Street teachers wrote recommendations for me when I decided to apply to an MFA program, and in the personal statement portion of my application, I wrote that I planned to move to Denver after I graduated to start a non-profit literary center--modeled on Grub, of course. While in school, I subscribed to the early days of the Grub Street Rag, and read it hungrily--and with a bit of jealousy and nostalgia--each week. As graduation loomed, and the same panic overtook me that I felt when I left college, I responded to a posting in the Rag for a grants intern. The director at the time, Jamie Hook, took a chance on an unknown gal from Seattle who promised to be there in July after driving her possessions across the country, and I started as an intern in Grub's old office space, a converted toilet paper factory outside of Union Square, Somerville. Then a new executive director started, Ron MacLean, who hired me on as a full-time administrator. For the first year, there were only the two of us, set up at rickety old folding tables with an odd sticky scrim covering them (I refuse to acknowledge that this substance could be anything other than the adhesive residue from Scotch tape). We had a photocopier that was so old you had to bang it to turn it on, which sat--for some unknown reason--UNDER a desk, so that when you wanted to copy something you had to sit down with the dustbunnies and old chewed pen caps on the floor, bumping your head on the desk above.
Those days are gone, and now here I sit, over three years later, in Grub's swanky digs at 160 Boylston, at a desk I assembled myself after a long and arduous trip to IKEA. How Grub has grown over the years! As I type, a few members are scattered around the space working on their writing, our summer interns are hard at work (thank you guys!), and Grub's--gasp-- multiple other employees are cranking out all the great work they do that makes Grub as special as it is.
It may seem weird to be in love with an organization, but that's what it boils down to for me. I love all of the people I've met here. I love Grub's scrappy history, its irreverent attitude towards all things that smack of stodge (if that's a word). I love everyone who works here and how we sit in the same room and interrupt each other every five seconds yet still manage to get TONS of stuff done. I love that we work hard because all of us Absolutely Love What We Do. I even love that we all talk about "making time for our writing a priority" but have trouble making it happen because there's so much good stuff to get done in the office. And most of all, I love that Grub Street is a place of happy coincidences, a place where a student and volunteer has found a place that feels as much like a home as any workplace ever could.
Oh, and the vacation time's not that bad either.
In dread,
Whitney Scharer
P.S. See you at Grub Turns Ten on Friday, right? Right?
P.P.S. I promised you "temporary break-ups" in the first sentence of this post. For that piece of my not-so-illustrious Grub history, send me an email and I'll give you the scoop.
Monday, July 23, 2007
The Grub Street Rag, 7/23/07
the grub street rag. (Re)writing Boston since 1997.
* Resourceful Grub gossip
* Dexterous Grub events
* And then, Grub was ten.
"The story is always better than your ability to write it. My belief about this is that if you ever get to the point that you think you’ve done a story justice, you’re in the wrong business."
-- Robin McKinley
grub street gossip.
Welcome to the Grub Street Rag, a newsletter of the Boston literary scene sent out every Monday from the lakeside snack bar at Grub Street's world headquarters. As always, if you are receiving this e-mail in horror, please advance to the bottom of the page to unsubscribe yourself.
And then Grub was ten
THIS FRIDAY, Grub turns ten years old! Join us on the lawn outside Grub Street's headquarters (and inside our office) for barbecue, beer, word games, music, birthday games even a 10-year old would love, face painting, ten-minute tarot, and a reading extravaganza from our 10-year anthology, Hacks. Click here for more info--if you sign up in advance, your name will be listed on our website and entered into a raffle for free seminars and Grub memberships. Full details and the program will be posted later this week.
Darci Klein's reading--featured in this week's Globe Sidekick
At the 2005 Muse and the Marketplace, Grubbie Darci Klein participated in the Manuscript Mart and met literary agent Sorche Fairbank, who loved her (then-unfinished) memoir so much she signed her on as a client. This Tuesday (as in tomorrow, folks) we're celebrating the recent publication of Darci's dazzling memoir, To Full Term: A Mother's Triumph Over Miscarriage, with a reading and book party at Porter Square Books. Join us for the reading and head over to Christopher's afterwards to raise a glass to Darci's success!
(The Varied) Forms of Poetry
As chimerical as its subject matter, our Forms of Poetry class has changed its length, price and start date. It's now a 6-week class that runs from August 15th to September 19th, and costs $275. The subject matter stays the same: each week, students will examine and practice a different form of poetry. Taught with brio by the inimitable Chris Hennessy.
SOFTBALL DEPARTMENT (Brought to you by regular sportscaster, Chris Castellani)
FOUL PLAY
Grub Street Word-Slingers 1 The U's 22 22
MEDFORD – It took three years, eighteen heartbreaking losses, a handful of crabby and self-important umpires, as many obnoxious opposing teams, a few injuries, countless dropped balls, umpteen groundouts, and some occasional bickering, but today it finally happened: the Grub Street Word-Slingers stopped having fun.
Yes, the offense sputtered: the lone RBI came from rookie sensation Jen Dupee, who brought in Gold Glove outfielder Tom Champoux. Yes, the pitching was shameful: did Castellani think this was Home Run Derby? But the crowd (more specifically, Ben Patterson's wife and infant child) was used to that. They'd seen the Word-Slingers struggle week after week and still emerge all smiles. And on a day that saw some great defense – a spectacular Champoux catch in deep right, some top-quality dirt-dog play from shortstop Jon Papernick, a nifty hot-corner tag-out from Patterson, Glenn Morris's solid first base coverage, and tremendous assists from rover Jeff Stern – that fan and a half really might have witnessed something special.
Instead they smelled a skunk. First, an actual skunk that sprayed the field in the third inning. Then the smarmy self-satisfaction and frat- like bullying of the Unexpectables, which reeked like, well, a lot more skunks.
"They're making fun of us," beloved newcomer Brian Runk informed the team during the game. "Whenever we muff a play, they laugh and talk sh*t."
"That's not cool," said captain/catcher Becky Tuch, words that meant a lot to her Word-Slingers, who knew how hungover she was. In comfort, center fielder Michael Borum added, "they're douchebags."
Up 22-1 in the fifth inning, the U's played like it was a one-run game, which would almost have been admirable if this were, say, the major leagues. They quibbled over the score. They took extra bases and cheered every single like it was a walk-off home run. In the bottom half, they actually called a meeting on the mound. And worst of all, they derided the Word-Slingers' self-deprecating humor, which, in the end, was all they had left.
Only their catcher seemed like a decent person. "I know how they feel," she said in a post-game conference. "The team I was on lost every game last season. But now I'm on a good team."
Congratulations, U's! You trounced the worst team in the league and stomped all over their hearts. Enjoy that T-shirt you'll get if you win the tournament. If there's any justice in the world, you're all terrible writers.
Playoffs start next Sunday, July 29th, at a time and location TBD.
Cheers,
Whitney, Chris, Paige and Sonya
* Resourceful Grub gossip
* Dexterous Grub events
* And then, Grub was ten.
"The story is always better than your ability to write it. My belief about this is that if you ever get to the point that you think you’ve done a story justice, you’re in the wrong business."
-- Robin McKinley
grub street gossip.
Welcome to the Grub Street Rag, a newsletter of the Boston literary scene sent out every Monday from the lakeside snack bar at Grub Street's world headquarters. As always, if you are receiving this e-mail in horror, please advance to the bottom of the page to unsubscribe yourself.
And then Grub was ten
THIS FRIDAY, Grub turns ten years old! Join us on the lawn outside Grub Street's headquarters (and inside our office) for barbecue, beer, word games, music, birthday games even a 10-year old would love, face painting, ten-minute tarot, and a reading extravaganza from our 10-year anthology, Hacks. Click here for more info--if you sign up in advance, your name will be listed on our website and entered into a raffle for free seminars and Grub memberships. Full details and the program will be posted later this week.
Darci Klein's reading--featured in this week's Globe Sidekick
At the 2005 Muse and the Marketplace, Grubbie Darci Klein participated in the Manuscript Mart and met literary agent Sorche Fairbank, who loved her (then-unfinished) memoir so much she signed her on as a client. This Tuesday (as in tomorrow, folks) we're celebrating the recent publication of Darci's dazzling memoir, To Full Term: A Mother's Triumph Over Miscarriage, with a reading and book party at Porter Square Books. Join us for the reading and head over to Christopher's afterwards to raise a glass to Darci's success!
(The Varied) Forms of Poetry
As chimerical as its subject matter, our Forms of Poetry class has changed its length, price and start date. It's now a 6-week class that runs from August 15th to September 19th, and costs $275. The subject matter stays the same: each week, students will examine and practice a different form of poetry. Taught with brio by the inimitable Chris Hennessy.
SOFTBALL DEPARTMENT (Brought to you by regular sportscaster, Chris Castellani)
FOUL PLAY
Grub Street Word-Slingers 1 The U's 22 22
MEDFORD – It took three years, eighteen heartbreaking losses, a handful of crabby and self-important umpires, as many obnoxious opposing teams, a few injuries, countless dropped balls, umpteen groundouts, and some occasional bickering, but today it finally happened: the Grub Street Word-Slingers stopped having fun.
Yes, the offense sputtered: the lone RBI came from rookie sensation Jen Dupee, who brought in Gold Glove outfielder Tom Champoux. Yes, the pitching was shameful: did Castellani think this was Home Run Derby? But the crowd (more specifically, Ben Patterson's wife and infant child) was used to that. They'd seen the Word-Slingers struggle week after week and still emerge all smiles. And on a day that saw some great defense – a spectacular Champoux catch in deep right, some top-quality dirt-dog play from shortstop Jon Papernick, a nifty hot-corner tag-out from Patterson, Glenn Morris's solid first base coverage, and tremendous assists from rover Jeff Stern – that fan and a half really might have witnessed something special.
Instead they smelled a skunk. First, an actual skunk that sprayed the field in the third inning. Then the smarmy self-satisfaction and frat- like bullying of the Unexpectables, which reeked like, well, a lot more skunks.
"They're making fun of us," beloved newcomer Brian Runk informed the team during the game. "Whenever we muff a play, they laugh and talk sh*t."
"That's not cool," said captain/catcher Becky Tuch, words that meant a lot to her Word-Slingers, who knew how hungover she was. In comfort, center fielder Michael Borum added, "they're douchebags."
Up 22-1 in the fifth inning, the U's played like it was a one-run game, which would almost have been admirable if this were, say, the major leagues. They quibbled over the score. They took extra bases and cheered every single like it was a walk-off home run. In the bottom half, they actually called a meeting on the mound. And worst of all, they derided the Word-Slingers' self-deprecating humor, which, in the end, was all they had left.
Only their catcher seemed like a decent person. "I know how they feel," she said in a post-game conference. "The team I was on lost every game last season. But now I'm on a good team."
Congratulations, U's! You trounced the worst team in the league and stomped all over their hearts. Enjoy that T-shirt you'll get if you win the tournament. If there's any justice in the world, you're all terrible writers.
Playoffs start next Sunday, July 29th, at a time and location TBD.
Cheers,
Whitney, Chris, Paige and Sonya
Friday, July 20, 2007
Memories of Syracuse
I am one of those lucky people who loved her MFA program. I say lucky, because compared to others, I’d done preciously little research prior to applying. I made some foolish choices, too. I applied to Columbia, which I could never afford. I applied to Brown, even though I barely knew at the time what “experimental” was. But I did one thing right: I applied to Syracuse.
Now, whenever I end up on MFA-related panels, I start gushing. I gush about the generosity and talent of the teachers, who cared about our writing as much as their own. I gush about the abundance of writing time. About full funding. About Salt Hill journal. About the Living Writers Reading Series. About receptions, and parties, and the coffee hour every Friday afternoon. (I don’t gush about Syracuse itself, which is a grim little town that every winter drove me to the edge of insanity. But hey, you’ve got to sacrifice something for your art. )
The best testimony to an MFA program, though, is the work of its students, and lately I’ve been reading a lot of “Syracuse” books, which I am here to tell you about. You see, if Grub Street was my first writing-home, Syracuse MFA was the second one, and I’ve always wanted to bring the two together somehow (Grub Street, meet Syracuse! Syracuse, meet Grub Street!)
So, without much further ado, the first book on my list is American Youth by Phil LaMarche. Phil was a class ahead of me at Syracuse, but the classes were small, we all knew one another well, and we spent many evenings on Phil’s porch drinking beers and forties – I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but yes, my Syracuse gang introduced me to forties! -- talking about the state of contemporary literature, and predicting brilliant literary future for one another. And what do you know, for Phil it all came true. His novel is a huge success -- published by Random House and praised in every review. It is about a teenage boy in New Hampshire who is implicated in a shooting accident (he loads a gun, his classmate fires it, another kid gets killed). The boy is then “adopted” by a conservative youth group called American Youth. It’s a great story, and the best part about it is, it makes you forget your politics. In fact, no matter what your politics are, you’ll end up caring about the boy and his parents. Not just understand where they’re coming from, but root for them and care. Just think – we’re all writers here -- how much talent it takes to tackle an issue as loaded (excuse the pun) as gun control and to transcend the politics. But it’s more than talent. It’s also hard work, and Phil was always among the most dedicated writers I’d known. No matter what else was going on in his life (a kayaking trip, a damaged vertebrae), writing always came first. The rest of us would still be finishing our beers on that porch, and Phil would already be heading off to bed, so that bright and early next morning he could get to work on his novel again. Whenever I start slacking off in my own writing, I still think of that.
Continuing with the New Hampshire theme, my next recommendation is Twenty Grand and Other Tales of Love and Money by Rebecca Curtis. I met Becky on my first trip to Syracuse, shortly after I’d been accepted. Denis Johnson was on campus that day doing a reading and q & a, and afterwards there was a dinner and then a reception. I remember George Saunders introducing me to Becky and basically telling me what a star she was. He was right. That summer one of her stories appeared in the New Yorker. Since then, she’s had two more stories in the New Yorker, two in Harpers, one in O. Henry Awards, not to mention StoryQuarterly, McSweeney’s, Fence, and many others. And now her book is finally out. The stories in the collection are set either in small New Hampshire towns, or else in strange unidentified locations where monsters appear at your door, wolves ask for your phone number, and married upper-middle-class couples adopt something called “cute-sters.” One of the things I love about Syracuse MFA is its stylistic diversity, a healthy mix of experimental and realistic writing. Neither style is considered superior, and students are encouraged to practice either, or, as in Becky’s case, both. I can’t think of another short-story collection that dares to combine two styles of writing the way Twenty Grand does. And Becky totally pulls it off. What makes it work, I think, is that thematically the stories sort of bounce off one another. Their heroines are young women who don’t quite fit in the world around them. They are lonely. They struggle financially. And they’re frequently betrayed by their families. To me, the family betrayals are the most haunting theme in the book, and it’s the more surreal stories that really bring these betrayals to the surface.
I read somewhere, years ago, that if a fiction writer wants to write beautiful sentences, he or she must read poetry. I think it’s a great advice. I don’t do it as much or as often as I should, but I try. Luckily, I happen to have met some fabulous poets along the way – many of them at Syracuse – and it’s their collections that I usually read. The latest one is Filibuster to Delay a Kiss by Courtney Queeney. It’s published by Random House. How many poetry collections get published by Random House? The answer is, not many. Especially not by newcomers. But Courtney is amazing. She’s already been compared to Louise Gluck and Sylvia Plath, except unlike Plath’s, Courtney’s poems are haunted not by “daddy, you bustard” but by a Mother. Mother as a force of nature. Destructive mother. Unstable mother. Mother who attempts endless suicides but never dies. But the heroine of the book -- or as Courtney names her, The Anti-Leading Lady -- is the daughter, a young woman trying to piece her life together, a survivor and insomniac. Also there is love (or anti-love), sex, and Syracuse. Where would we be without Syracuse! (In fact, it’s kind of tempting to try guessing which incident might have inspired a particular poem.) What I love about poetry – and what I believe fiction should do as well -- is that it finds the most unusual and brilliant ways to express things. And Courtney is a master at that. To quote:
"Then I heard a cello and thought,
Oh. That’s how you say it."
Finally, getting back to fiction, the book I’m reading and loving right now is Better Ways of Being Dead by Christian TeBordo. If you love experimental fiction, this is your book. If you don’t love experimental fiction, this is still your book. If you love panda bears, this is most definitely your book. It’s playful. It’s sad. It’s got a love story and a mystery. And its narrator is hugely compelling. He’s a student at a university, somewhere in Cincinnati, who has to wear long-sleeved clothes because his skin sometimes breaks out in lesions. He’s in love with an agoraphobic girl who lives in the tunnels underneath the university. They are both enrolled in “Advanced Recomposition” class, held in a janitor’s closet and taught by a creepy professor everybody calls “I.” The thing about tags such as “experimental fiction” is, they scare people. But a good novel, experimental or not, will break your heart and make you forget about silly tags. And Better Ways of Being Dead does just that. Back in Syracuse, Christian lived in a tiny studio filled with books, most of which I wanted to borrow. He’s incredibly well-read, but he never flaunted it. You could talk to him about anything. Even in the midst of a Syracuse winter, when everyone else got a little wonky. Especially in the midst of a Syracuse winter. Talking to Christian would keep you sane. He used to ask me if there were panda bears at the Pittsburgh Zoo, and I kept telling him I didn’t know. I would offer to check, and he would tell me not to – because it was fiction, it was better not to know. In the end, Pittsburgh didn’t make it into the novel. But panda bears did.
Ellen Litman
http://lastchicken.blogspot.com/
Now, whenever I end up on MFA-related panels, I start gushing. I gush about the generosity and talent of the teachers, who cared about our writing as much as their own. I gush about the abundance of writing time. About full funding. About Salt Hill journal. About the Living Writers Reading Series. About receptions, and parties, and the coffee hour every Friday afternoon. (I don’t gush about Syracuse itself, which is a grim little town that every winter drove me to the edge of insanity. But hey, you’ve got to sacrifice something for your art. )
The best testimony to an MFA program, though, is the work of its students, and lately I’ve been reading a lot of “Syracuse” books, which I am here to tell you about. You see, if Grub Street was my first writing-home, Syracuse MFA was the second one, and I’ve always wanted to bring the two together somehow (Grub Street, meet Syracuse! Syracuse, meet Grub Street!)
So, without much further ado, the first book on my list is American Youth by Phil LaMarche. Phil was a class ahead of me at Syracuse, but the classes were small, we all knew one another well, and we spent many evenings on Phil’s porch drinking beers and forties – I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but yes, my Syracuse gang introduced me to forties! -- talking about the state of contemporary literature, and predicting brilliant literary future for one another. And what do you know, for Phil it all came true. His novel is a huge success -- published by Random House and praised in every review. It is about a teenage boy in New Hampshire who is implicated in a shooting accident (he loads a gun, his classmate fires it, another kid gets killed). The boy is then “adopted” by a conservative youth group called American Youth. It’s a great story, and the best part about it is, it makes you forget your politics. In fact, no matter what your politics are, you’ll end up caring about the boy and his parents. Not just understand where they’re coming from, but root for them and care. Just think – we’re all writers here -- how much talent it takes to tackle an issue as loaded (excuse the pun) as gun control and to transcend the politics. But it’s more than talent. It’s also hard work, and Phil was always among the most dedicated writers I’d known. No matter what else was going on in his life (a kayaking trip, a damaged vertebrae), writing always came first. The rest of us would still be finishing our beers on that porch, and Phil would already be heading off to bed, so that bright and early next morning he could get to work on his novel again. Whenever I start slacking off in my own writing, I still think of that.
Continuing with the New Hampshire theme, my next recommendation is Twenty Grand and Other Tales of Love and Money by Rebecca Curtis. I met Becky on my first trip to Syracuse, shortly after I’d been accepted. Denis Johnson was on campus that day doing a reading and q & a, and afterwards there was a dinner and then a reception. I remember George Saunders introducing me to Becky and basically telling me what a star she was. He was right. That summer one of her stories appeared in the New Yorker. Since then, she’s had two more stories in the New Yorker, two in Harpers, one in O. Henry Awards, not to mention StoryQuarterly, McSweeney’s, Fence, and many others. And now her book is finally out. The stories in the collection are set either in small New Hampshire towns, or else in strange unidentified locations where monsters appear at your door, wolves ask for your phone number, and married upper-middle-class couples adopt something called “cute-sters.” One of the things I love about Syracuse MFA is its stylistic diversity, a healthy mix of experimental and realistic writing. Neither style is considered superior, and students are encouraged to practice either, or, as in Becky’s case, both. I can’t think of another short-story collection that dares to combine two styles of writing the way Twenty Grand does. And Becky totally pulls it off. What makes it work, I think, is that thematically the stories sort of bounce off one another. Their heroines are young women who don’t quite fit in the world around them. They are lonely. They struggle financially. And they’re frequently betrayed by their families. To me, the family betrayals are the most haunting theme in the book, and it’s the more surreal stories that really bring these betrayals to the surface.
I read somewhere, years ago, that if a fiction writer wants to write beautiful sentences, he or she must read poetry. I think it’s a great advice. I don’t do it as much or as often as I should, but I try. Luckily, I happen to have met some fabulous poets along the way – many of them at Syracuse – and it’s their collections that I usually read. The latest one is Filibuster to Delay a Kiss by Courtney Queeney. It’s published by Random House. How many poetry collections get published by Random House? The answer is, not many. Especially not by newcomers. But Courtney is amazing. She’s already been compared to Louise Gluck and Sylvia Plath, except unlike Plath’s, Courtney’s poems are haunted not by “daddy, you bustard” but by a Mother. Mother as a force of nature. Destructive mother. Unstable mother. Mother who attempts endless suicides but never dies. But the heroine of the book -- or as Courtney names her, The Anti-Leading Lady -- is the daughter, a young woman trying to piece her life together, a survivor and insomniac. Also there is love (or anti-love), sex, and Syracuse. Where would we be without Syracuse! (In fact, it’s kind of tempting to try guessing which incident might have inspired a particular poem.) What I love about poetry – and what I believe fiction should do as well -- is that it finds the most unusual and brilliant ways to express things. And Courtney is a master at that. To quote:
"Then I heard a cello and thought,
Oh. That’s how you say it."
Finally, getting back to fiction, the book I’m reading and loving right now is Better Ways of Being Dead by Christian TeBordo. If you love experimental fiction, this is your book. If you don’t love experimental fiction, this is still your book. If you love panda bears, this is most definitely your book. It’s playful. It’s sad. It’s got a love story and a mystery. And its narrator is hugely compelling. He’s a student at a university, somewhere in Cincinnati, who has to wear long-sleeved clothes because his skin sometimes breaks out in lesions. He’s in love with an agoraphobic girl who lives in the tunnels underneath the university. They are both enrolled in “Advanced Recomposition” class, held in a janitor’s closet and taught by a creepy professor everybody calls “I.” The thing about tags such as “experimental fiction” is, they scare people. But a good novel, experimental or not, will break your heart and make you forget about silly tags. And Better Ways of Being Dead does just that. Back in Syracuse, Christian lived in a tiny studio filled with books, most of which I wanted to borrow. He’s incredibly well-read, but he never flaunted it. You could talk to him about anything. Even in the midst of a Syracuse winter, when everyone else got a little wonky. Especially in the midst of a Syracuse winter. Talking to Christian would keep you sane. He used to ask me if there were panda bears at the Pittsburgh Zoo, and I kept telling him I didn’t know. I would offer to check, and he would tell me not to – because it was fiction, it was better not to know. In the end, Pittsburgh didn’t make it into the novel. But panda bears did.
Ellen Litman
http://lastchicken.blogspot.com/
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