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During the NCAA tournament, viewers have been deluged by all the usual sporting-event suspects: commercials for cars and trucks, retirement funds, Axe Body Spray, and beer. And of course, Viagra.

That’s nothing new; the world of marketing seems to have sports fans pegged, and probably correctly. What I have found completely baffling this year, though, is the odd world demonstrated by the current Viagra commercial.

Here’s the scene: we’re in Nashville; it’s 1:22 a.m. The camera pans around a music studio where a bunch of musicians are tuning their instruments; there’s an empty coffee cup, signifying that this is an all-nighter. One of the musicians, an affable-looking older white guy in a cowboy hat, interrupts the concentrated silence of musicians making preparations: “Hey, fellas. Listen to this.”
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I have never liked the comic strip Garfield. It seems I was never young enough to find the antics of the strip’s obese orange tabby funny. And I haven’t gained any ironic appreciation of it over the years, no love-to-hate-it relationship as with Family Circus or Mallard Fillmore.

But after recently checking out Garfield on the web (for no real reason but boredom), I think I may have come up with a reason to appreciate the world of this Monday-hating, lasagna-loving cat and his desperately lonely owner, Jon Arbuckle.
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It’s Leap Day

In honor of Leap Day, a re-post from Issue One of Hot Metal Bridge from personal hero and all-around good guy Michael Martone:

LEAP YEAR

They broke up then on leap day over email, sending ever-shorter messages back and forth by hitting the reply button until the final word “stop” was the final word.

They left the subject field blank except for the abbreviation for reason, re:, which multiplied with each reply to one another so, at last, the space read: re:re:re:re; etc.

Each of them, miles apart, paused a moment to read again what each had written on the screen, their fingers poised about to send the other this next leap.

Four years later, all the reasons for doing what they did are lost to them, the email program purged, but this extra day returns to both a surplus sadness.

* * *
As always with Martone, don’t skip the author’s note.

Happy Leap Day, everyone.

Myron Cope, the Pittsburgh Steelers’ longtime radio announcer, died early this morning. Even if you’re a stranger to Pittsburgh you may know of Cope for having been inducted into football’s Hall of Fame as a broadcaster, or for having invented the Terrible Towel that Steelers fans so like to wave.If you’re not a stranger to Pittsburgh, then you know this is a big deal. Maybe Mr. Rogers’ death was bigger here, but it seems unlikely. I moved to Pittsburgh after Cope’s last season (his 35th) as the Steelers’ announcer, and never got to hear him call a game. But even in the afterglow of Cope’s career, I feel like I got the idea. Read the rest of this entry »

This is old news but has escaped my attention until now: The Atlantic Monthly is accepting entries for its annual student writing contests. (Student status being of the undergrad or grad varieties.) Entries accepted in fiction, poetry, and something called “personal or journalistic essays” that sounds a lot like creative non-fiction.

Prizes are $1,000 for first place, $500 for second and $250 for third. Postmark deadline is December 1.

The best part? No entry fee.

Full details here. Good luck.

Midnight Sunday brings September to a close. With that auspicious ending comes the real, true, not-to-be-pushed-back deadline for Hot Metal Bridge’s second issue (except that you will also have all of Monday to submit your work). The theme, as ever, is “Headless.” Do you have a fine little story, a taut poem full of riveting images–but nothing relating to what Webster’s defines as the condition of having no head? A non-fiction story in which someone almost–but, ultimately, does not–lose his or her head? Send it anyway. Of course, we will like it better if you fudge a bit and say yes, come to think of it your cousin did, after that last-paragraph epiphany, ride his/her motorcycle through a razor wire, thus losing his/her head in quite literal fashion. But even so, we want your work. You will have to trust me on this, but the issue as it exists now, in an amorphous state but with many of its larger components set, is going to be awesome. You will want to be part of it. You will not regret time spent this early autumn weekend refining things, polishing things, and, mayhaps, lopping heads off things.

Stuart Dybek, Genius

The MacArthur Foundation named its 2007 crop of (”genius”) Fellows. Fiction writers have done pretty well in recent years (Aleksander Hemon, Jonathan Lethem, and George Saunders have all won), and this year the sole fiction-writing “genius” was Stuart Dybek.

Looking through the whole slate of “geniuses” is generally pretty interesting, although about half the “geniuses”‘ work I tend not to understand.

“Genius” and “geniuses” are of course in quotes because the MacArthur Foundation tends to officially discourage the grant being called that, although, really, I can’t imagine they’re not delighted by the name.

It seems that several times over the last year, I’ve looked in the front matter of a book of short stories I’ve been enjoying, and in the place where the author thanks those publications that originally printed his or her stories, I’ve seen the journal Salt Hill listed as one of them. (Although I can only think of the example of Mary Gaitskill’s Because They Wanted To at the moment.) Google “Salt Hill,” though, and you turn up a bunch of results pertaining to pubs called Salt Hill or, yes, salt hills.

It’s not just me. Fellow fiction ed. Ashleigh heroically compiled a long list of literary magazines over the summer, and her listing for Salt Hill was something like “Not sure this still exists.” We just figured it had gone the way of the dodo, so to speak.

Au contraire! Today, via Pitt’s super-useful “dist list,” comes word that Salt Hill not only exists, but is welcoming submissions for its 21st issue. It turns out too that it’s affiliated with Syracuse University.

Here is relevant info from the aforementioned e-mail, followed by an explanation of why I’m not just putting up a link:

“The editors welcome submissions of poetry, prose, translations, reviews, essays, interviews and artwork submitted by April 1. We do not accept electronic submissions.

“. . .

“To submit address your work to the appropriate editor
(poetry, fiction or nonfiction) at:

“Salt Hill
Syracuse University
English Department
Syracuse, NY 13244″

And now here is the web address they provided: SaltHillJournal.com. Click on it. Type it in yourself and see where it goes.

This is the most utterly mysterious literary magazine I have ever heard of.

-Adam

Just in case you did not know: our Call for Entries is still in full effect, and the deadline is ten measly days from right now.

H E A D L E S S

Please send us your poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and cultural criticism on the theme of headless. Horsemen, flat beer, chocolate bunnies, the guy who never gets a blowjob, zombies, animal crackers, classical statues, John Wayne Bobbitt, groups without leaders, blondes, Marie Antoinette and other unfortunate royalty, Medusa post-Perseus, the philosophy of D.E. Harding — any and all of these could fall under the heading of headless. Whatever your interpretation, be sure to stun us. We’ll know it’s good when we feel, to paraphrase Emily Dickinson, as if the tops of our heads were taken off.

SUBMISSION DEADLINE: September 24, 2007

See here for information specific to different genres.

This in fact has little to do with being an MFA student, except to suggest that real life does not in fact stop once you enter an MFA program:

Congratulations to Alli and Carlos Delgado, who welcomed their son Jonah, healthy and remarkably handsome, into the world at 1:30 this afternoon. Carlos, a third-year fiction student at Pitt, blogged about the experience here.

Sangeeta Mall graduated from Pitt’s fiction program last spring, a year early and, quite amazingly, in just three semesters. From the first getting-to-know-you e-mail anyone got from Sangeeta, it was clear she was not the typical MFA student. Beyond being married, with two children, an MBA, and a successful business background, Sangeeta was earnestly dedicated to her craft in a way few of us insecure MFAs own up to. Oh, and also: Sangeeta came to Pittsburgh from Bombay, leaving behind the aforementioned children and husband for months at a time and thus putting our own respective moves (e.g., 300 miles across Pennsylvania, in my case) to shame. Despite being far from home, Sangeeta was always as hospitable to her fellow students outside of class as she was supportive in the workshop, and her perspective–whether on a story or on the essentials of what we, as writing students, were doing–was always useful as a means of reminding yourself why you were pursuing the MFA in the first place. I asked Sangeeta for some of her thoughts on the MFA experience, and from her palatial estate in Bombay, India, she generously agreed.

Hi MFAers

The three semesters that I spent at Pitt seem like a dream from which I wish I hadn’t had to awake. I’m back in Bombay now, working on my novel, which I had turned in as my final manuscript to get my degree.

It is impossible to enumerate all my experiences in this piece. I’ll probably need to write a whole book, something I intend doing sometime in the future. So here’s the A-list of things that were positive or negative for me at Pitt. Of course the former will be much longer.

The most valuable takeaway for me from my MFA was that I learnt how to write a novel, and I mean learnt. There’s an ongoing debate about the necessity of doing an MFA, since you can always write if you know how, but Pitt proved that formal inputs can contribute immensely to honing one’s talents. When I wrote the first draft of my novel, I thought it was the most perfect thing to have emerged in the twenty first century, until Fiona [Cheong, fiction instructor] and Chuck [Kinder, fiction instructor and head of Pitt's writing program] very gently pointed out the hundred things that were wrong with it. As a result I could write a very creditable second draft, and now I’ve finished a third one. The biggest advantage I had was that I was in a hurry to finish the program and return to my family, so I turned in my manuscript very early. And then pestered the professors to read it and give me their feedback.

The richest experience in my entire stint at Pitt was the personal interaction I had with each of my committee members, and I wish the writing faculty could enhance these sessions to at least twice a term instead of just once. I don’t know if there is any kind of orientation session with faculty for new students, since I joined a little late, but if there is, faculty should ask students to turn in their manuscripts early, as early as the beginning of the second year. After all, the reason why we join the program is to emerge with a manuscript of publishable quality, and for that we need time to implement the advice that the faculty offers us.
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Robyn Murphy graduated from the fiction program last spring, one year ahead of schedule. I first got to know Robyn when, a few weeks into the program, she made me introduce her at the annual New MFA Readings series. I needed a piece of paper to write down information on Robyn, and she produced from her purse a business card for a swing-dancing place that appeared to be chicken-themed. The information I wrote on the back of the card was innocuous–she’s from Connecticut, she went to CMU and dropped out of law school after a semester–but that chicken swing dancing card gave the distinct impression there was more to Robyn. Talking more to Robyn, and later taking a workshop with her and having my jaw drop at an outrageous sex scene, confirmed it. It wasn’t until after Robyn had left Pittsburgh in late April to re-join her husband in Connecticut that many people discovered that Robyn was secretly well-published, with stories in The Berkeley Fiction Review, The Cream City Review, Parting Gifts, Barbaric Yawp, and Gertrude. Robyn generously agreed to share some of her secrets and strategies, and here they are below:

I was a junior in college when a writing professor gave me the most helpful piece of advice I have ever received.

“I think this one is done,” she said, handing me back a story that I had written for her class, and revised three or four times. “You should try to get it published.”

For many of us who are writers, the idea of a short story being done can be a difficult one to grasp. We write a story, then revise it a few times, bring it into a workshop, then tear it apart and start again. Bring in the revision, lather, rinse, and repeat. We are so used to making changes that it is a shock to be told that something is completed, and it is time to step back. It helps to have a teacher say it the first time, but when the writer is off on their own, there also comes that point when a piece is done, and the revision must stop.

One of my favorite stories in history is about Hannibal making a surprise attack on Rome. To do so, he had to bring a herd of elephants over the Alps. Getting a story published is a bit like that – after hauling a stubborn pachyderm all the way up the side of a mountain, you have reached the summit and are sitting down for a nice break when you realize that, hey, now you can see the whole damn mountain range. What you thought was your goal, writing a good story, was actually just the first obstacle.

My helpful professor did not give me any advice on how to go about getting published, and it was actually not until I was halfway through an MFA program and with several publications behind me that I met a professor willing to give practical advice on the subject of how to get a story accepted. Certainly getting my MFA was not a requirement or secret backdoor to publication – it was worthwhile for the sake of becoming a better writer, but it doesn’t make the process any easier.

At its essence, trying to get published is easy. Print a copy of your story, pick a magazine to send it to. Write a cover letter – this should start with “Dear Sir or Madam,” and include word-count and a brief description of the piece. I don’t mean “this is a story about a young girl coming of age (with the help of her beloved dog) while being menaced by the inner trauma of her upcoming dance recital.” Try to avoid that. Instead write, “this is literary fiction.” Your cover letter should be as brief as possible. Thank the editor for their time, and end with listing any previous publications. If you don’t have any, here’s what I used to write: “as I am presently unpublished, I would appreciate any suggestions, comments, or corrections.” Include contact information and your signature, and you’re done. (I did accumulate one of each over time – use paper clips, not staples; my self-addressed-stamped-envelope stamps were cute; and to put my page numbers on the bottom right-hand corner) Don’t forget to include that self-addressed and stamped envelope – that’s what your rejection slip will go into.

There are two secrets, however, that will help. I learned these through a great deal of trial and error, though in retrospect they seem rather obvious:

1) You will be rejected. A LOT. Usually with nothing more than a mass-printed slip of paper that comes back to you seven months after you submitted your story, right when you were just starting to imagine that your story had patiently worked its way up through the ranks and was landing on an editor’s desk. I have two accordion-style hanging folders that are filled (and by filled I mean absolutely stuffed to the gills) with nothing more than these unmarked rejection slips. My relationship with my mailbox is one of barely restrained anticipation and seething resentment.

To say to someone that they will be rejected seems as pointless as mentioning that the sky is blue, but it does bear repeating, because the sheer mass of rejections is amazing. It doesn’t get easier, either, after the first few hundred. It doesn’t even get easier after your first publication. It is something that must be dealt with, and accepted. You will be rejected. A LOT.

2) Simultaneous submission is your friend. Anyone who claims otherwise is a liar. Here is a concrete example – when the friendly professor advised me to try and get published, I took that story she had labeled ‘done’ and sent out seven copies. I probably spent the first three months twitching as I wondered what I would do when it was accepted by The New Yorker and Esquire. Both magazines were kind enough to solve my dilemma by rejecting my story – as did the remaining five magazines. It took about a year for those first rejections to get back to me. Had I sent out one copy of my story, then waited patiently for each rejection before sending that story out to the next magazine on my list, I would right now be unpublished, and not yet even through that first list of seven.
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Kara Hughes is a third-year fiction student from Columbus, Ohio by way of New York. She entered the MFA program at Pitt with a background in sociology, rather than creative writing, which she invoked in order to lower expectations of her work; this gambit was successful until she won Second Prize in Pitt’s Turow-Kinder fiction contest and now her cover is officially blown. Kara is a connoisseur of foods from frothed milk to turkeys to Teddy Grahams to–as discussed below–fresh, locally grown produce.

FOOD. Seriously, it’s something to consider about Pittsburgh. Graduate student budgets are usually tight and though we have a smattering of quite nice restaurants here, I’ve found that locating (or, well, growing) produce is cost-effective, quite satisfying and an excellent use of time (as opposed to, say, writing). Anyway, Western Pennsylvania has good local produce options and I think it’s a charming thing so I’ve decided to give you a few links.

CityParks has a roving farmer’s market, effective May through November. Look for the mermaid-man (merman?) who works wearing a red shirt and he will sell you nice melons, broccoli, etc.: learn more here.

Pittsburgh also has a few services through which you can subscribe and have organic products delivered to your home. Below I’ve linked to a small database of CSAs (Community Supported Agriculture – I didn’t know what this acronym stood for until right now – always learning). It might sound pricey but maybe you want to split it with a friend or friends or else you love vegetables and here you go.

You can also grow things even if you don’t have space in/around your apartment/house. There are quite cheap community gardens that, again, you can either go bold and tend to yourself, or else try to wrangle up friends so that you all can share gardening duties: see here.

There is much more (this, for instance) but I’m getting self-conscious and kind of feel that for every additional paragraph I devote to food, I’m putting on five extra pounds, upping my pig-status or generally just becoming more gross. So—welcome to Pittsburgh—buy some food(!)

Katy Rank Lev is a third-year graduate student in the University of Pittsburgh’s creative non-fiction track. In general, I have found non-fiction students to be the most enterprising and “together” of MFA students in terms of making the program work for them, and Katy may be the ultimate example. (She even has her own website.) An experienced writer, editor, tutor, and teacher (not to mention a rugby player) even before she arrived at Pitt, she seemed to know more about the program’s workings than many of the second- and third-years I met when I got here; her knowledge included that most confusing, occasionally frustrating of topics: funding. Katy was good enough to sit down in Hot Metal Bridge headquarters to answer a few questions on the topic.

Hot Metal Bridge: Can you describe what you did to get funding at Pitt once you learned you’d been admitted but without a teaching assistantship?

Katy Rank Lev: Once I was admitted sans funding, I panicked. I had enough undergraduate loans for one lifetime. I decided I was not going to pay for graduate school. I gave myself one semester to work it out, or I was going to advance my career some other way. I was given the names of three current students to call for advice, so that’s what I did. I was super fortunate to find a student in the same position as me. She was filled with advice for applicable part-time jobs on campus, key decision makers to familiarize myself with, everything.

My first step was to get myself on the graduate student e-mail list. My contact told me last-minute opportunities crop up in late summer, so I made sure I checked my e-mail twice a day. Sure enough, while I was camping in the middle of Montana with scarce internet access and no cell phone service, a partly funded position editing a gerontology journal appeared. I rounded up quarters, found myself a pay phone and secured an interview. I had to piece my resume together from the comfort of an internet kiosk.

I had done similar work as an undergrad, which was helpful. I worked ten hours per week and got half my tuition paid for and a small stipend. I took on another part-time job to make more money to buy food and this small triumph fueled my fire to find full funding. I knew it was out there! I kept making appointments during office hours, trying to nail down the procedures for applications, and find more hidden funding. I called every department and introduced myself to everyone. I tried to make sure everyone in my department knew my name, my interests, and at least something about my background. I usually said, “Hi! I’m Katy and I’m a nonfiction MFA student. Before I came here I worked in publishing and I love sports writing. If you hear of any job openings around campus or any teaching opportunities, I would love if you’d shoot me an e-mail.”

HMB: What funding did you get, and what do you have now?

KRL: My first year, I just had that partial funding. It paid for 6 credits and gave me about $600 a month. The bummer about that was that it was year-round. That meant I had to be in there working over Christmas, spring break, and all summer long. It meant not being able to work full-time that summer and earn money. Which was OK, because I would never have earned enough to pay that chunk of tuition.

By spring break of my first year, I realized that I loved my part-time tutoring job way more than my clerical position. My boss noticed my enthusiasm and told me there was a fully funded position the following year. I leapt at that opportunity! I now have full funding, health insurance, and a full stipend, which almost buys meat most weeks. I tutor student athletes in writing and composition twenty hours per week in exchange. The position was renewable for my final two years of school.

HMB: Has the experience been more useful, in terms of your degree and future career, than teaching? Or would you rather have just had an assistantship and taught comp?

KRL: I personally believe tutoring is more difficult than and just as valuable as teaching. Would a university hiring committee agree? Probably not. My goal upon graduation is to be a freelance writer. I want to write for magazines. However, I plan to return to teaching at the university level someday. I have always loved teaching. I tutored for 6 years before coming to graduate school and taught all sorts of different workshops and small group courses. I was so sad not to get to continue teaching at Pitt! I feel very thankful that my assistantship now involves teaching and still working with students. My work reminds me how valuable writing centers can be, particularly for student athletes who miss so much in class time. I really get to reinforce the teaching they receive in the classroom! My position has expanded my career goals to perhaps include writing center management.

But, I also have really crappy hours that are set each week. I work on Sundays and until 9 p.m. most nights. I can’t go out to dinner ever with anyone and I often miss speakers and reading series. I don’t have a teaching portfolio and no standard evaluations to draw from. Bottom line, I would rather have had a teaching assistantship.

HMB: Do you feel like your attitude determined how successful you were in hunting down funding? Did it prove any kind of deterrent, either to the search or
to going through the program?

KRL: Attitude was everything! I went into each meeting determined to leave with something. If not a funding opportunity, I wanted concrete answers and proactive suggestions. I know that I would still be unfunded if I hadn’t viewed each interaction as an opportunity. I just wouldn’t take no for an answer from anyone. I could tell that discussing money made people uncomfortable, that they didn’t like being reminded that we unfunded ones were out there. To heck with discomfort! If a department was full, I wanted to know how to get on the waiting list. If there was no waiting list, I wanted to know who to double check with a month later.

My attitude definitely paid off, because right after I signed my contract for the tutoring gig, I got a few other offers for things from people who remembered my name and knew I was trying to make the most of my degree. Sitting around moping and full of despair gets you nowhere! Keep your sleeves rolled up and whittle away at the university until you find something.

HMB: What advice would you give a new MFA student who is coming in without funding (at Pitt or anywhere)?

KRL: My best advice is to be go forward and be persistent. We all would rather be teaching. We need to get over our disappointment and keep trying. Seek teaching experience elsewhere once you have secured partial funding or a part-time job. I found a few gigs teaching high school students and middle school students and even a community class here or there. Take care of your rent, and even if you are miserably alphabetizing files all day you can find an outlet teaching resume writing or whatever somewhere.

For example, I am not teaching for Pitt, but my school offers a certificate in teaching. I spoke to the director of it and he was so supportive of me still being allowed to get it. He even helped me brainstorm chances to do other sorts of teaching. It would be easy to sit at home and mope about a lost opportunity, but I made it work for me. If you want something, find a way to make it happen. You’ll find helpers along the way.

Bonus Answers:

This is kind of related, but many people who aren’t funded are devastated by being denied in-state tuition. I would say not to give up on this, either. Even if you get shot down your first year, try again after you have lived in-state for a calendar year. Once you have a lease and an in-state driver’s license, you will probably get it for the second year.

This is also kind of related, but everyone should try to write for their school’s alumni publications. These are usually glossy, professional magazines that pay GOOD money for articles. We are all writers! Write an e-mail to the editor-in-chief introducing yourself as a writer and say you’d love to freelance for them. In my experience, they are happy to try out new voices and will assign you cool stories. If you aren’t leaving school with teaching experience, by golly you should have some professional clips! Even small private schools have at least an alumni newsletter.

New MFA Week is Here

Here we go. It’s New MFA Week. Let’s see how this works out.

Before we go following every tangent that pertains to the MFA experience (and I promise we will follow many tangents), I thought it might be worth pausing to reflect on the nature of the Master of Fine Arts, as a degree and as–yes, I am using this word–a lifestyle.

I’m writing this in a coffeeshop across town from where I live. I spent most of the noon hour doing nothing but walking here, and when I’m done I will walk back. It’s summer, and I’m allowed that kind of inefficiency. But even if it were October, this wouldn’t be an incredibly slothful day for me.

Yes, sometimes I feel like a slacker. On these sorts of days I think of the neuroscience grad student, probably hard at work in a lab of some kind, and of poli-sci., and law, and literature students, and of how they are probably in the library or at least poring over texts somewhere. Busy people, hard at work at tasks pertaining directly, and clearly, to their degrees. It makes me wonder if I shouldn’t also be busy, all or most of the time.
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More Contests

The Mid-American Review has three contests running concurrently: the Sherwood Anderson Fiction Award, the James Wright Poetry Award, and the (sadly unnamed) Creative Nonfiction Award. The prize for each is $1,000, and the (postmark) deadline is October 1, 2007. The entry fee is $10.* Details are here.

The Mississippi Review is also having contests in fiction and poetry. Like the MAR contests, the prize for each is $1,000, and also like the MAR contests, the (postmark) deadline is October 1. Entry fee is $15.* More details here.

*For both the $10 MAR and $15 Mississippi Review entry fees, one gets a copy of the issue that publishes the winning entries. This is better than the common entry-fee freebie of nothing, but not quite as good as getting a subscription (see this earlier post for some probably not very interesting pontificating on the ethics of different types of contests).

(Thanks to loyal blog reader AP for supplying the information on these contests.)

-Adam

is interviewed in the latest issue of The Believer, by Nick Hornby. It’s an excellent interview, complete with some U.S.-Britain tough-talk (mostly from Simon, who certainly knows his Baltimore history).

It was great to read, for me, primarily because it provided a few deeper levels at which to appreciate HBO’s series The Wire. Even though a large part of being in a writing program centers on identifying and articulating aspects of a creative work that are working, not working, or rest somewhere in between, when it comes to The Wire it’s tough for me to find more to say than “It’s really awesome,” or “I’m going to go watch The Wire now.” Simon talks about the series’s resemblance to a Greek tragedy (as opposed to, say, Deadwood’s employing a more modernist narrative strategy), in that monolithic forces like the Baltimore Police Department, or city machine politics, take over the role of the gods, against which individuals fight only in vain. There’s also a ton of interesting stuff about how the show is written and cast. (This includes an answer to the question of why so many British actors are in the cast.) If you care at all about The Wire, it’s worth checking out.

Also if you care about The Wire, two links: HBO’s cast biographies (seriously, look how many actors are British); and, apparently fan-favorite (read: me-favorite) Omar Little has a Wikipedia entry of his very own.

Early notice

At Hot Metal Bridge’s spacious world headquarters, summer is drawing to a close. Leaves are getting fat, almost ready to decay and fall. Moving vans are seen shuttling all over Pittsburgh, followed by piles of rolled-up carpet and still-viable-looking furniture. It is moving season, and in Pittsburgh that means new students are coming; a new crop of MFA students is on its way.

It’s put us in mind of our own first days here, awkwardly navigating the channels of Pitt’s program, and made us wonder what we would have wanted to know, just prior to getting here. What would we have liked to ask older students, but were too embarrassed to ask?

In that spirit, we’ll be dedicating some space for the last week or two of August (starting tentatively on the 20th) to what we’re informally calling “New MFA Week” (or, “MFA Boot Camp” if you prefer that one). Different stuff will be highlighted–I can tell you right now, funding will be discussed. We’ll hear from various MFAers about what they did right, wrong, and what they would do differently.

But it won’t be a Pitt-only party. If you’re a new MFA anywhere and have a general question, hit us up (at either fiction at hotmetalbridge.org, or ajr at pitt.edu). Write in with any questions, or just a suggestion of something you’d like to see covered. Sounds good? Good. Look for it later this month.

I pay more attention to the “Bulk” folder in my in-box than I probably need to. Occasionally important things will get misdirected there (e.g., HMB’s fiction submission from Michael Martone), but I keep an eye on that folder because I’ve had the idea for a while that I could compose a prose poem from the weird fragments that serve as subject lines for those e-mails. For a week or so I kept the ones that had promise, thinking of putting them together for a blog post, until it became clear there would be too many dirty words and mis-spelled references to genitalia.

Today, though, I got a spam e-mail that I must blog about. The title is poorly spelled and extremely vulgar, but that’s not the significant part: what set the e-mail apart was its sender: none other than Canadian actor, singer, and onetime talk-show host Alan Thicke had sent me the e-mail. Finally, after years of letters and attempts to join his fan club (always rebuffed), Mr. Thicke had gotten back to me with a very special message indeed. Let’s just say the e-mail’s subject line promised–with maybe a little less delicacy than I am using here–attractive young women doing something quite remarkable for my entertainment.

Inside the e-mail, there was a link and this beautiful sentence, which I hope is the beginning of Mr. Thicke’s novel: “Il Salaino entered Leonardo’s household in 1490 at the age of ten.” Or maybe it could be more like a Carveresque piece of historical fiction. It doesn’t have to be a novel–whatever Alan Thicke wants to write, he’s a better judge than me: of the market, current aesthetic trends, whatever. I just believe he knows better.

Not to harp on it at all, but this link about Thicke’s horribly failed late-night talk show (”Thicke of the Night”), designed to compete with Johnny Carson, is pretty funny. It was before the days of Growing Pains and Thicke was basically a no-body trying to parlay success in Canada into U.S. TV stardom. The entry–admittedly, it is on Wikipedia so, officially, take it with a grain of salt but in cases like these I trust the nerds with long memories based on the pure strength of their nerdy passions, more than I would trust an Oxford historian with his long white beard and scholarly detachment–discusses how a pre-show hype campaign forced journalists to dub the show “Sick of the Hype” (its real title was “Thicke of the Night,” get it?); and these two sentences I will just quote:

“Even the commercials that aired between segments seemed to have an axe to grind with the show and its host. In a later interview on another talk show, Alan Thicke described a maxi pad ad with the unfortunate slogan, ‘Once you try our brand, you’ll never go back to thick again!’”

I know that is all behind Dr. Seaver–er, Mr. Thicke–now, but yeesh. That is rough. I’m glad you survived, my friend, to send me this inviting e-mail message.

Like some sort of conscientious, self-loathing werewolf who chains himself up as the full moon approaches, I try to keep my most fearsomely geeky urges and tastes in check. But sometimes the full moon sneaks up on you, as in this case:

The 1987 adolescents-battling-monsters classic The Monster Squad has just been released on a special 20th Anniversary DVD.

The film mostly lives on in memory for a scene where one of the monster-hunting kids kicks the Wolfman in a most sensitive region; the Wolfman doubles over in pain, and the kid, who’s shocked to see a supernatural being hurt by such a juvenile tactic, says, “Wolfman’s got nards!” My brother and I would use the phrase pretty much all the time; I don’t really think “nards” had any meaning before The Monster Squad, but it sure did afterwards.

Two Pittsburgh tie-ins to the movie and that magical phrase:

One, Pittsburgh’s Unicorn Mountain, a collective of artists, earlier this year published Wolfman’s Got Nards: A Compendium of New American Monsters in collaboration with another Pittsburgh entity, Encyclopedia Destructica.

Two, the writer of the Monster Squad screenplay, Shane Black, is a Pittsburgh native. He’s got quite the resume: Lethal Weapon, The Last Boy Scout, and The Long Kiss Goodnight are all Shane Black scripts. However, film historians will no doubt remember Black largely on the strength of The Monster Squad.

Okay, perhaps not. But apparently the making-of feature on the anniversary DVD is longer than the film itself, so someone is taking The Monster Squad pretty seriously. (Either that or, as the AV Club review suggests, DVD extras are getting out of control.)

-Adam

Issue #1 of Hot Metal Bridge launched over two months ago, but it continues to impress me. The astonishment comes in waves: first the insider’s swell of pride at the quality of (fiction) submissions; next the excitement of venturing into the other genres, seeing the excellent poetry and non-fiction my colleagues have collected. Now that the issue has faded from memory a little, the next stage is rediscovering stuff that, by the time the issue launched, I was honestly a little burned out on.

The best example? Johnathan Wilber’s “(de)jamais vu,” which gave me fits as I proofed it for the site–it’s a textual minefield full of particular accents, footnotes, punctuational flourishes, and selections from esoteric vocabularies. (My annoyance was nothing, however, as compared to that of Carolyn, who had to format the story for publication.) It was kind of a tough sell at HMB’s editorial meeting, and it’s not surprising: it’s a weird story, and with its fragmentation and the aforementioned excess of style, it can be tough to dive into.

But it remains one of my favorite things in the issue, largely because the weirdness and style feel necessary and embedded in the world of the story, and the fragmentation pays off in the end. But, looking through the site again, I came upon almost a distillation of all the things I like in the story: the separate page that contains “(de)jamais vu”’s footnotes. I could type a while longer trying to recommend the story, but I couldn’t make it seem as interesting as do these twelve short footnotes.

-Adam

Expelliarmus!

I’ve just emerged from a solid 20-or-so hour immersion in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. If you’re at all invested, and/or are a slower reader than me, don’t worry: No spoilers in this post.

Now that I’m done, I can make note of an odd sensation that was with me from the afternoon leading up to the book’s release, to the present: excitement to finish the book that was not purely due to the pleasures of the story, but to the fear of the ending being revealed to me.

Friday afternoon, Ashleigh mentioned in an e-mail hearing a horror story about people standing in line outside Barnes and Noble, just prior to the release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, suffering the disappointment of a car full of teenagers driving past and shouting, “[Main character] dies! [Other main character] kills him!” Swearing we would not leave ourselves open to similar, outrageous behavior, we bypassed the whole midnight festivities, which had looked fun when we’d stopped in earlier in the afternoon. (I did, however, apply a temporary tattoo, which did me fairly well as a visible token of my enthusiasm.)
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Hail Satan

An anecdote: one of my students dropped by my office last semester to chat. The subject of books came up and he asked me what I was reading. I told him I was reading The Satanic Verses and rhapsodized for awhile about the book.

“Oh,” he said quietly. He looked down at his notebook for a long moment and finally said, “I didn’t think you were into that.” By “that,” I learned after a few questions, he meant “Satanism.”

This student, born sometime around 1988, had never heard of Rushdie’s novel and therefore leapt to the most logical conclusion: that I was reading a medieval spellbook of the dark arts. I assured him I was not, and he at least pretended to believe me. I tell this story occasionally to friends and colleagues in order to prove one of two points: my students missed out on a lot of cool stuff OR my students truly believe I’m the spawn of the devil.

At any rate, I’d like to take this moment to heartily endorse Salman Rushdie’s 1988 novel The Satanic Verses. Everyone knows about how the book infuriated Muslims around the world, about how Iran put a bounty on his head, about how Rushdie went into hiding. But what got lost in the political intrigue and religious outrage is the fact that The Satanic Verses is an outstanding novel.
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Sorry about that title, but note that I’m refraining from any kind of “it was the best of contests, it was the worst of contests” opening. Each of these contests has something to recommend it, and each is run by a noteworthy and worthwhile lit mag.

Zoetrope: All-Story is holding its 2007 short fiction contest. The prize is $1,000, the judge is Joyce Carol Oates, and the entry fee is $15.

Black Warrior Review is also holding a contest, this one for both fiction and poetry. Prizes are $1,000 for first place in each category, plus publication in BWR. Judges: Josh Russell (fiction), Dean Young (poetry). Entry fee is $15, but note well that the entry fee entitles the contestant to a year’s subscription of BWR.
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Coach Carver

Perhaps the most useful advice I’ve received about writing is to buy a comfortable chair. While I’ve come to appreciate the understated practicality of this recommendation (along with the emphasis it places on the non-glamorous heart of the profession), another useful piece of advice is to find a writing coach.

Although there are freelance writer/instructors who bill themselves as coaches, I was advised to seek out someone who published essays on craft: someone whose ideas made sense to me. I chose to go with Raymond Carver—he’s direct and articulate, and I still stop to consider what he had to say about workmanship whenever I think I’m finished writing a story. Coach Carver has become an inexhaustible well, someone I can return to when I need another way of looking at the craft of writing, which (to me) often feels like a Byzantine complex of intuition and instinct.

Another excellent writing coach is Michael Chabon, who offered some great advice when he recently visited Pitt (you can find the interview here). I was especially impressed by his 1997 speech “My Report to the Carnegie Institute” (which used to be available on his website—I’m not sure how one can obtain a copy now) and his musing on the concept of entertainment in his introduction to The Best American Short Stories 2005.
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The leisurely hysteria that is general across the country on the afternoon before a holiday was observed in Pittsburgh today. The clotting of major byways as people escape work, the throngs trapped in supermarket lines, and the seemingly spontaneous weekend feeling–unplaceable but real–are all in evidence this evening. Because of that and because the holiday in question is Independence Day (and because I’m moderately bookish, of course, and because a new blog post was sorely needed), my thoughts turn toward the novel Independence Day, by Richard Ford. It was a Pulitzer Prize winner and I can remember when I was 16 or so seeing its lovely paperback cover in prominent bookstore displays, the title and the photograph of a screen door with rain drops lodged in its tiny cells combining to make me think the novel would distill that listless-holiday feeling.

Let me throw this out there: I have tried to read this novel, and I have never come close to finishing it. I finished and enjoyed (moderately) The Sportswriter, the prelude to Independence Day featuring the same main character, Frank Bascombe. Certain of Ford’s stories (”Communist,” of course, and the one where the guy hooks a dead deer with his fishing rod) utterly floor me. And yet the book that’s thought to be his masterwork is so utterly tedious and unfulfilling to me that I have ended up not just bored but in that weird place of getting angry at the thing that is boring you so thoroughly; throwing-the-book-across-the-room territory.

Am I a complete philistine? Does my failure to finish Independence Day betray a fatal lack of character? Of literary taste? I am interested in being persuaded to suck it up and stick with Frank Bascombe, but I’m also wondering how alone I am in this opinion.
~Adam

Pittsburgh is unique among the cities I’ve visited or lived in, in that it has a surprising number of homeless literati-lookalikes. While running through Schenley Park last summer, I saw the homeless Samuel Beckett sitting on a bench, his creased and weary hatchet face staring off across the tennis courts. I wasn’t aware of the writer Richard Yates, but a recent photo reminded me vividly of a man I see often around Squirrel Hill, frequently talking to himself. There’s a woman I sometimes see muttering on the street with the same vivid white skunk-stripe that cut across Susan Sontag’s hair.

But there is a special place in my personal pantheon for the George Plimpton of bums. He has the grayish-white hair, patrician face and carriage of the late George Plimpton, editor of The Paris Review and author of such gonzo sports journalism works as Paper Lion and The Bogey Man. He is shorter, though, a little stouter, and in general doesn’t seem to be in as bright a mood as Plimpton often broadcast to the world. I see him in my neighborhood and in Oakland, where Pitt is, haunting coffee shops, Subways, or standing on street corners, waiting patiently to cross but appearing to have no destination in mind.

It happens that I’m in the middle of Paper Lion, for which Plimpton spent training camp with the Detroit Lions as their “last-string quarterback,” and which is great so far. Earlier this week, I was reading it in a coffee shop and, looking up, noticed that the George Plimpton of bums was sitting twenty or so feet away. Perhaps because of the coincidence, I was attuned to all the other ones–even if they were only coincidental within the framework of my life and experience–that popped up as I continued reading.

Plimpton spoke at length to defensive back Dick LeBeau of the Detroit Lions, now retired and a defensive coordinator for . . . the Pittsburgh Steelers. The year that Plimpton went to training camp with the Lions, their other great defensive back, Alex Karras, was suspended for the season (for gambling). Although Plimpton only spoke to him later on, Karras looms as a kind of shadow over the book, with then-current players recalling anecdotes about Karras’s meal-time theatricality, his exaggerated responses to practical jokes, and his ballerina-like agility on the field.

Reading about Karras’s theatrical abilities and hammish tendencies was a bit weird because Karras would go on to have something of an acting career, probably more of one than Plimpton had. Most notable in Karras’s resume, of course, is the TV series Webster, where Karras played former football great George Papadopolis (whose name is weirdly similar to that of a former Greek dictator), who’s stuck raising Webster, a minuscule, insufferably cute black orphan played by Emmanuel Lewis.

Rather than distracting me from Plimpton’s day-by-day account of football camp with the Lions, all this extra-textual stuff has made the reading really fun and a lot weirder than Plimpton probably intended the book when he wrote it forty or so years ago.

(Post-script: I might be wrong about Webster being Karras’s most notable role: I just learned he also had a small role in Porky’s. Let’s call that a toss-up.)

On a day to day basis, I am a very laugh-y person. I giggle at incredibly innappropriate times, like when my large, short-tempered 3rd grade science teacher used to scream at our class to be quiet. While my fellow eight-year-olds cowered, my reaction was to muffle my laughter–surely bred out of fear–in the sleeve of my shirt. Sometimes I laugh so hard that my eyes get puffy and red, and the muscles of my face feel frozen in a perpetual, doughy smile. It’s actually a little painful.

But all that said, I also cry. A lot. Not because a road rager flipped me off or because I realize my bank account is devastatingly sparse or because I just ate about two week’s worth of calories in one sitting, and can already see it accruing on my thighs. I cry when something moves me, and I find it fulfilling to realize that I am moved by a quite a lot. Two of my favorite ways to get my cartharsis-on are by listening to heartbreakingly beautiful songs, and by reading a good novel. The list below details the who and what of both songs and books that have seriously moved me. I hope they’ll do the same for you.

Tunes:

“One More Dollar” by Gillian Welch.

Oh, Gillian. How I love you. You and your cowboy hat!!

I loved the lyrics to this song so much I wrote a story based on them. And while I wrote, I listened to this song on repeat. For literally days on end. If this particular tune doesn’t suit your fancy, try “Orphan Girl” or “No One Knows My Name.” If she doesn’t have you crying, she’ll have you tapping your bare toes and pensively sipping some moonshine.

“This is the Dream of Win and Regine” by Final Fantasy.

If you are already an Arcade Fire fan, this song may be that much lovelier (Win and Regine are married and play in their band, The Arcade Fire, as one gloriously artistic and adorable pair of musical lovebirds), but it stands its ground entirely on its own. Perhaps I am shamelessly sentimental, but this song embodies the kind of love and loneliness and sweetness and angst that I wish I could pour into my own writing.

Life of Pi by Yann Martel.

Say what you will about best sellers, but this book is a damn good one. Beautiful. I laughed, I cried so hard I had to put the book down until I got a grip, I laughed some more, I cried a lot more.

“Remember the Mountain Bed” by Billy Bragg and Wilco, lyrics by Woody Guthrie.

Um…I can’t talk about this one right now. I’m about to start crying.

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.

I’ve read this book several times and can’t decide if it’s a really twisted love story, or a story about a couple of miserable existentialists gone a little cuckoo from all those windy moors. What I do know is it is delightfully grim, and I can’t help but be moved when, psychotic or not, a guy loves his lady so much he’d dig up her dead body just to see her again.

(*giggle*/*sniff*)

Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling (all six of them).

I have cried at the end of every single one of these babies. I don’t know if it has something to do with Harry’s whole Burdened Hero persona, his poor murdered parents, or the fact that by the end of each book I’ve spent a straight forty-eight hours prying my eyes open with toothpicks and abstaining from food and drink in favor of finding out what’s going down at Hogwarts. These books are well-written, funny, smart, sweet, and sad. Everything a good book should be, in my opinion.

I’m a sweet-and-salty kind of person, and I like my reading and listening materials to hold that same dual quality. It’s like Joni Mitchell (whose music often makes me cry) said: Laughing and crying, you know it’s the same release.

–Ashleigh

One of Hot Metal Bridge’s fantastic fiction contributors, RoseMarie London (”Don’t Make So Much Of It”), was recently named a finalist in the Emerging Writers Network’s inaugural fiction contest. The winner is here.

Never ones to rest on their proverbial laurels, the EWN is coming right back with the Second Annual Fiction Contest: details here.

Congratulations to RoseMarie and best of luck to anyone entering the new contest. The Emerging Writers Network, it bears mentioning, is well worth checking out. That is, if you’re a, you know, emerging writer.

In college, I used to really hate improv comedy. I had a friend in my school’s troupe, but I stopped going after a sketch where one of the male actors ended up with his legs wrapped around the waist of another male actor, bouncing up and down in faux coitus, shouting, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” to uproarious, bringing-down-the-house laughter.

That was my mental Polaroid of the troupe for a couple years, until my friend urged me to come to a show during my last semester. She said things were different, but didn’t elaborate, and I’m sure I didn’t believe her. 

But she was right. Gone were the easy, seemingly irresistible sex gags. Gone were the character-sketches-wandering-the-stage scenarios, with five hams mugging and grimacing all over the stage. Most of the show featured a long, improvised story involving a high school loser dating a Prom queen. Characters, setting, etc. were solicited from the audience beforehand and written on a chalkboard behind the stage for the troupe to work in.

Transcribed, the story wouldn’t have made great literature, but somehow, working together, the cast members created a story that kept the audience’s interest (including mine). The jokes that came up were organic, related to timing and character, and funny.

I’m thinking about this now because in just a few days I shall treat myself to the closest thing to that experience Pittsburgh has to offer. I’m talking about the Keystone State Wrestling Alliance, whose monthly event (this one is “Aftermath 2007″) will occur Saturday night.

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One summer, early in high school, I went on a Vonnegut tear, reading at least ten Kurt Vonnegut novels during the long, dull break.  I can still remember walking across town in the mid-day heat to the library to exchange one grubby hardback edition for another, then leaving the air-conditioned library and walking all the way back, Slapstick or Jailbird or Galapagos collecting the sweat trickling down my arms onto its musty pages.

Most of those novels run together in my memory.  One I still remember, though, is Breakfast of Champions.  It was one of those books that, although I haven’t really followed any of its examples, opened things up for me in terms of what writing could be and do.

I’m talking mainly about the drawings.  A friend and I once snuck into the film version of Breakfast of Champions (starring Bruce Willis, and I seem to remember Lukas Haas in bunny slippers, playing a pump organ) after seeing some other, respectable movie.  We were the only ones in the theater, and left after a few minutes because, dorks that we were, we were afraid some astute manager type would put two and two together and note that a movie for which 0 tickets had been sold was playing to 2 pathetic-looking college students.  But as much as that sad reason, we left because the movie was terrible.  Seriously–never see it.  It made me realize that the plot of the novel isn’t much: nothing exposes that like an adaptation to film.  The real value and novelty of the book was its sort of reckless freedom, Vonnegut’s almost-audible “I’m going to include a drawing of an asterisk now, and say that it’s an asshole–what are you going to do about it?”

This is all a long-winded way of leading up to the news that on a crowded 61A the other day, I stood a few feet from a guy who was reading a paperback copy of Breakfast of Champions, which I recognized right away when he turned to one of my favorite moments in the book.  It’s the part that discusses the treatment the writer Kilgore Trout’s publisher has given his books: they’ve written the words “Wide-open Beavers Inside!” over the covers, and shipped them to be sold in porn shops.  Vonnegut shows us exactly how these words are written on the book covers: the letters are large, bold, a little sloppy.  The narrator then, as if speaking to an audience of simpletons from another planet, explains that a beaver is a mammal with a flat tail specially adapted for dam-making; and Vonnegut supplies an illustration.  The narrator then provides a second definition of “beaver,” which I’ll omit here; and Vonnegut supplies an illustration of this second definition.

The guy reading this just stared into the pages with a look that was somewhere between annoyance and befuddlement.  He looked like he was in his late twenties, with a neat little mustache-beard combo.  I kept waiting for him to laugh; I was laughing myself, seeing those three drawings together on facing pages, remembering how funny they were when I was 15 years old.  I couldn’t figure out why this guy was reading the book, because he seemed too old to be in any class where the book would be taught.  Maybe somebody recommended it to him, or he’d asked a bookstore employee about Vonnegut and where he should start.  Maybe the book was a Valentine’s Day present, a gift from some awesome, soon-to-be ex-girlfriend who mistook his laughter at Family Guy episodes for a genuine sense of humor.  The dude never laughed.  I wished I could have swept that fact into my appreciation of the moment, and laughed at the whole situation, but it sort of bugged me.  I’m all for respecting other literary tastes, but those are two funny pages, wildly unexpected, and hardly difficult to grasp or even, let’s be honest, that offensive.  It didn’t seem to me that he was offended, only untouched by the humor of that scene.  I wanted to ask him, “What part of ‘Wide-Open Beavers Inside!’ don’t you understand?”

(Of course I’m thankful that I didn’t.)