On AI

I've mentioned Tim O'Brien a time or two in this blog.

I first met Tim O'Brien at the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop in 1982. I served him many a meal, per my “working scholarship”, as he was a bigshot always sitting at my table. I went to him with questions which he graciously answered. We met again at a Grand Forks, ND conference a few years later, had some laughs and more questions. I even usurped the title of his book IF I DIE IN A COMBAT ZONE for my IF I LIE IN A COMBAT ZONE.

Imagine my surprise when Tim O'Brien followed me on Bluesky.

For years I'd dropped his name/handle on ex-twitter whenever a question of favorite writers or influences popped up. Closest I ever got was some guy who worked on a documentary with him.

So imagine my shock when Tim O'Brien “liked” and commented favorably on a blurb I posted about one of my novels. I quickly posted a blurb about IF I LIE IN A COMBAT ZONE—having used his books as research while writing it.

Imagine the thrill seeing 'Tim O'Brien sent you a message'.

Then consider the letdown upon realizing it was all an AI deception.

On Re-meeting Carolyn Forché

I began this blog eight years ago because I was told a writer needed a blog. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with a blog and still don't. I thought I'd begin by recording some stories of famous writers I'd met. I started with John Gardner and Raymond Carver, and—to show my versatility—filtered in Kirby Puckett (okay, it was just a tip of the helmet) and a First Avenue encounter with Michael Stipe.

With these four luminaries headlining the blog, my followers still stalled out at six. (It may say seven on the blog but two are really just one person.) Then a few friends died and my blog turn into an obituary column. My number of followers remained at six. I scrapped the name-dropping idea, even with the likes of Carolyn Forché and Tim O'Brien still left to capitalize on. After all, if getting hit on by Michael Stipe doesn't get peoples' attention, what will?

(And, yes, eight years later I still have the same six followers. I'm hoping the “follow” button in broken.)

Anyhow, word recently came out that Carolyn Forché was coming to town to read at the Plymouth Congregational Church. Couldn't miss that. The last time I was aware of her being in town was maybe thirty years ago at the Walker, shortly after I had had the pleasure of working with her on something called the Iron Range Documentation Project up in Duluth. The project teamed up writers and photographers to stay with families on the Range and included a reading on Duluth Public Radio. Very few writers signed on, which was fine with me for it left me with plenty of Carolyn's time and plenty of radio airtime. After the Walker reading we had talked at length, and she even invited me to drop by where she and her husband were staying the next night so she could look at some of my stories. This never happened as she got into a car accident the next day.

After thirty years I didn't expect much if I got a chance to speak with her again. Though certainly she'd remember the car wreck.

I arrived early and purchased her new book, What You Have Heard Is True. Her reading was terrific, her commentary on El Salvador riveting, as expected. While in line to have her sign my book, I rehearsed what I'd say to her in those precious few seconds to try to rekindle a memory.

As I reached the signing table, I spotted a tiny woman squeezing between it and the buying table. She had a large man in tow and proceeded to introduce Carolyn to him.

You're muscling in on my time, lady, I thought as I pushed the book toward Carolyn.

“I served you food at Bread Loaf back in '82,” I said to Carolyn, referring to our first encounter while she was on the Bread Loaf staff, and I was there on a “working scholarship”. “And later I was in on that Iron Range Project where—”

Carolyn interrupted by saying the tiny woman was the organizer of the Iron Range deal.

“What's your name?” the tiny woman asked.

“Will Tinkham,” I told Carolyn.

“I don't recall that that name,” the tiny woman said as my time ticked away. “No, I'm sorry, but I don't remember that name at all...”

Carolyn handed the now-signed book back to me. “I waited tables at Bread Loaf myself back in '71,” she said, then referred to my sling: “Hope your arm heals okay.”

I guess I should've mentioned the car wreck. I hope she got out of town okay.

This is an example of how I network.

On Meeting John Gardner

[Wikipedia: John Champlin Gardner, Jr. (July 21, 1933 – September 14, 1982) was an American novelist, essayist, literary critic and university professor. He is perhaps most noted for his novel GRENDEL, a retelling of the Beowulf myth from the monster's point of view.]

It was the spring of 1982 when I received a phone call from the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop asking if I'd accept a scholarship to attend their conference that fall. The call itself was a shock and came just in time for me to escape a nasty roommate situation. They asked, would I be arriving by car, bus or plane?

"On foot," I replied. "I guess I'll be hitchhiking..." I lived in San Jose, CA. The conference is held in Middlebury, VT. I was in no hurry. I had little money, no place to live and plenty of time. It took two months. (If you hang around this blog long enough, I'll likely tell the hitchhiking story.)

Twenty-five young writers received "working scholarships" that year. The "working" was waiting tables, something I'd never done before. They asked for a volunteer to take the children's table in the corner; they said the few children that had been dragged by parents to the conference always sat at that table. This seemed about my speed. The first night the table was empty and I happily ran food and bussed tables. That night a rather drunken John Gardner was one of the opening night speakers. He addressed the crowd with a succinct: "If you're not writing politically, you're not writing shit!" and stomped out of the hall.

The next day's conversation obviously centered around Gardner's "speech." That night I was in the kitchen, helping out where I could, preparing for the dinner meal, when a fellow waitperson rushed into the kitchen. "Carolyn Forché and her people are at your table!" she screamed. I protested that it said "children only" right on the table. "Tim O'Brien's at your table!" another voice called out. That can't be, I demanded as the kitchen door opened and someone cried: "John Gardner and his entourage are at your table!"

The children's table had become the big shots table (along with jokes about it still being the children's table) but that was the least of my problems: John Gardner was my "reader" for the event and had left a note in my box—along with the stories I had submitted—to meet in a few days and discuss my work.

Arriving early for our meeting, I found a University of Minnesota wrestler named George seated on the very couch I was to meet Mr. Gardner at. "I have a meeting with John Gardner," George said. When Gardner arrived he apologized for the mix-up and asked George to return in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, I thought. I hitchhike across country for an hour-long meeting with this guy and all the bastard gives me is twenty minutes. He took the stories from me—he'd made no notes on them—and proceeded to give me detailed critiques on each of the three. From memory.

He pointed to one story and said: "I bet you'd get some laughs if you read this one in front of a group." I explained that I had read it the night before at the scholarship winners reading and, yes, it got some laughs. "Sorry I missed it," he said, looking sufficiently contrite. He looked at his watch and I could see that my twenty minutes were up.

But there was no George in sight and, to keep things rolling, I said the first thing that came to mind: "So, what about the 'you're not writing shit' speech?"

"What's been the hot topic all week?" he asked.

"Your speech," I admitted.

"Exactly," he said, and still no George. After a pause, Gardner asked: "Where you from?" I said San Jose, then mentioned the two-month hitchhike. This seemed to impress him more than my writing. "How old are you?" he asked. I said twenty-five. "That's a good time to be published," he said and pointed to one of my stories: "Lop off the last line of this one and I'll publish it in my magazine, MSS." About then George arrived.

I got a ride to Wisconsin from a fellow waiter and a lift from Minneapolis to Wyoming for a friend's wedding. I was back in San Jose by September 15, when the paper ran the story about John Gardner and his motorcycle crashing over a cliff the day before.