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.

Part II: Desert Poker and Knee-deep in Porn

 Solely for my own benefit, I am recounting here my 1982 hitchhiking trek from CA to the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop in Middlebury, VT. This is Part II.

There's a spot in the middle of Nevada where several smaller highways intersect the interstate, and there I found a group of hitchhikers patiently waiting their turn for an eastbound ride. One fellow stood thumbing a ride on the shoulder while four more played poker in the dust. The gamblers were the next four in line to hitchhike, as I found out from others who sat in the desert heat waiting for their opportunity to lose money while waiting for their opportunity to proceed eastward. Those were the rules.

 (The fellow on the left is cheating.)

I sat in the dirt anticipating a Reno-like eight-hour stretch here when a car pulled over and picked up the designated hitchhiker, quickly replaced by a card player, and the longest-tenured guy in “the bullpen” moved into the game. Soon the whole process repeated itself until I found myself next in line for a card game I wanted no part of. My funds were limited, as were my poker skills.

The game seemed to be heating up as an RV pulled over—the one guy running to jump in—followed by another car that also pulled onto the shoulder. The pot seemed to have grown too big for any of the participants to risk leaving, so I ran to the waiting vehicle.

Tossing my pack in, I jumped in and found my own knees in my face—the floor of the backseat full of nudie magazines. I thanked the two guys in the front for stopping while shifting magazines till my feet found their way to the floor. They asked where I was going.

“First Minneapolis,” I said. “Ultimately Vermont.”

“You're in luck, we're goin' to Sioux Falls,” said the passenger. Luck indeed! I had friends in Sioux Falls and a roof over my head for a night or two. Having seen enough of Nevada's scenery, I picked a magazine off the pile.

“What's in Sioux Falls for you guys?” I asked, just to be sociable.

They both laughed. “See that RV up ahead?” the driver asked. “That's my old man. He come out to take me back to go to court.” He eyed me in the rearview mirror. “They wanna put me away for a real, lo-o-ong time.” The two had another laugh over that.

They didn't elaborate. I didn't ask. I did slip my handy map book inside the girlie mag, figured I had parts of three states and twenty-some hours—barring stops—to spend with a guy facing a stretch in prison and a buddy who found that hilarious. I picked the next good-sized town on the map.

“Come to think of it,” I began, “my brother's got a friend in Winnemucca he wanted me to look up because the guy owes him some money.” As the Winnemucca exit and a Motel 6 sign came into view, I said: “Just dump me here and I'll cut across this field.” The field stretched out maybe 150 yards between the interstate and the motel, a chain-link fence cut across at about the halfway point.

Dusk had set in. I trudged through thigh-high grass to the fence, climbed it and splashed down into knee-high water. Marshland in Nevada? Climbing back over, I sloshed back to the highway and a mile or so to the Winnemucca exit, then the same distance down main street—passing 'No Vacancy' signs along the way—and got the last room at the Motel 6. I believe I was overcharged. Seems there was a rodeo in town.

Back out to the interstate the next morning, I passed a couple also looking for a ride, so I moved on toward an entrance ramp that might offer me more opportunity. Before I could get there a guy pulled over. “Don't like picking up couples,” he said as I climbed in. “Nothing but trouble.” He was 35 – 40 and heading for New York City.

“Wow... Tom Waits,” I said of the music coming from his tape deck. “Haven't heard anything but lousy country music since I left California.” He seemed like a great guy. One I could've traveled all the way to New York with—except that I still had two months to kill before Bread Loaf began.

“Got some groceries in back,” he said. “Oughta be a melon on top.”

I reached back into the bag and pulled out a cantaloupe.

He reached under his seat and pulled out a two-foot-long machete.

This is what they call, in the biz, a cliffhanger. Next time: Lawnchairs are everywhere.

On May 23

Come Monday, May 23, I'll be reading at Golden's Lowertown with Ethna McKiernan and other fine local writers as part of Cracked Walnut's Spring Literary Festival. “Detached” is the theme and I'll try to be that.

Never did blog about my Lowertown Pop experience. I managed to sell 23 books, doubling my yearly total to that point (not counting those read through Amazon's library set-up). A successful and interesting endeavor to be sure.

My work-in-progress, The Great American Scrapbook, is turning into pretty much of a regional novel, as it's set mainly in south Minneapolis and the Uptown Bar back in 2003-04, though trips to Mount Rushmore and back into the 50s connect it with the other four books in my Americana series. I'm about halfway through it and, I must admit, have no idea where it's really heading.

Thoughts on Northwoods, Bread Loaf, John Gardner

On the bus back from the Northwoods Writers' Conference in Bemidji I opened a volume of short stories to one by John Gardner called “Redemption.” At the conference on Friday, Judson Mitcham talked extensively about Gardner, mentioning the accident that killed him in 1982. The accident involved him and his motorcycle going off a cliff. He also mentioned an event in Gardner's childhood in which Gardner accidentally killed his brother with a piece of farm machinery, which of course tormented him for the rest of his life. I'm not sure if I'd heard that story or read “Redemption” before but they both seemed vaguely familiar.

“Redemption,” begins with a boy, Jack Hawthorne, accidentally killing his brother David with a tractor towing a cultipacker. Their father, Dale Hawthorne, is destroyed by this, as one could imagine. He blames himself, as a father would. Then comes this passage:

“Or he would ride away on his huge, darkly thundering Harley-Davidson 80, trying to forget, morbidly dwelling on what he'd meant to put behind him—how David had once laughed, cake in his fists; how he'd once patched a chair with precocious skill—or Dale Hawthorne would think, for the hundredth time, about suicide, hunting in mixed fear and anger for some reason not to miss the next turn, fly off to the right of the next iron bridge onto the moonlit gray rocks and black water below...”

I was at Bread Loaf in 1982 (see Jan. 21, 2011 post), two weeks before Gardner died. As Judson Mitcham talked on Friday about his days with Gardner, I recalled a talk given back in '82 on Moral Fiction. Gardner strode into a packed house at Bread Loaf, the crowd hushed as he reached the podium and said: “If you're not writing politically, you're not writing shit.” With that he left the room. I recounted this story later to Judson, adding that I had a one-on-one with Gardner several days after his “speech” and asked him about it. Gardner asked me what everyone had been talking about all week. He said that he could've spent 45 minutes on the subject but it wouldn't have had nearly the impact as hundreds of people talking non-stop about it for days. Judson said that he was at Bread Loaf two years later and people were still talking about it. And here we were, thirty years after that, talking about it still.

Anyway, if you're at a writers' conference and have a John Gardner story, you're bound to get people's attention (see Feb.2, 2011 post).

On the ocean

The Northwoods Writers' Conference has come to a close. A wonderful experience! When applying earlier this year, it seemed like a good idea to stay through Sunday since the Saturday morning events ran right up to the departure time for my bus. That decision has left me all alone here with 23+ hours to kill before my bus tomorrow. On-line weather says 80% chance of rain all day.

With my time I've written a new query letter, per Sheri Joseph's--the conference fiction guru--suggestions. Took a couple hours and it's much better. The sun peeked out and I took a last walk around Diamond Point Park. I sat at the very point and looked out over Lake Bemidji. A binocular-like contraption on a stand stood right in front of me. I thought to look out through it but decided against it--I liked the vastness of the lake and didn't want to diminish it. A kid--maybe eight--ran by me and right up to the binocular set-up. He looked out, then turned to what I assume was his sister and yelled, "Look! Can see the ocean bigger!" His sister ran up and took the quickest possible look before running after her brother.

With the wind blowing in, the waves actually crashed against the shore. I got up to come back here and write about the boy. Walking along the lake I watched a bunch of older kids swimming out past signs that read: DANGER! DROP-OFF. NO SWIMMING! They were plenty old enough to read, so they obviously took this as an invitation. Gimme a kid who doesn't know a lake from an ocean any day...

It's pouring rain right now and they're probably still swimming.

Meet Bob from Bemidgi

May have found a character in this fellow, Bob Bergh (B-E-R-G-H, he said, as in iceberg). Bob came up to me at Diamond Point Park on Lake Bemidji. Told me how they used to have a diving board here when he was a kid. Some kind of wheel too--which I didn't understand. He spat tobacco into the grass and asked me if I'd ever been to Venice Beach in California. I said I had. He told me about all the things he'd seen down there when he took an Amtrack. "Was on Price is Right," he said. Before I could congratulate him, he added: "Didn't get on stage though." As I shrugged, he said: "Saw that Door #1, Door #2, Door #3..."

"Let's Make a Deal," I said.

He spat again. "Yea, Monty Hall, 'cept now they got a colored guy doin' it."

"Did you get to play?" I asked.

"Nope." And he spat again. "Used to be a ventriloquist," he said. "Got a dummy and I can make his eyes wink." He showed his technique with an arthritic looking hand. "Used to write poetry," he said and launched into a reading--by memory--of one of his poems. I thought it sounded like it should be on a sampler and said so. "Yea, maybe I oughta get it published," he said and ripped off another one.

Feeling we had a connection here, I told him I was in town for a writers' conference. "Really?" he said. "What kind of riding? Cars? Motorcycles?"

"Writing," I stressed. "Northwoods Writers' Conference."

"Is that right?" he said and started in on his bad back. We traded hospital stories for awhile till he rattled off having fallen off a roof, getting hit by a pick-up and--just to put me in my place--his heart attack. With that he said he had to go. We shook hands. "Enjoy your thing here," he said and moved on (above).

Thanks Bob!

On to Bemidji

My trip to Bemidji is still on for later this month. I've been worried about how much of an accomplishment it was to get into this fiction workshop—after all they accepted me the same day I sent in my application and writing sample. When I saw a notice extending the deadline for application because “some of the workshops” had yet to fill up, I began to wonder if they were taking anyone who would cough up the required money.

The other day I received in the mail a bound copy of all the attendees writing samples—required pre-workshop reading—and indeed there are thirteen fiction writers attending. This makes me feel that they may have at least turned some people away.

Bought a cell phone for the trip. (I know, welcome to the 20^th century.) If I figure the thing out I should have plenty of pictures to share here or on facebook. Thought about starting an Instagram (is that it?) page. Another thing to figure out...

On Lake Bemidji

Looks like I'm heading to the Minnesota Northwoods Writers Conference up on shores of beautiful Lake Bemidji in late June. They take 13 people for their fiction workshop and I'm one of 'em. (Hoping they had more than 13 applicants.) Sheri Joseph (Georgia State Univiversity and fiction editor at Five Points) conducts the workshop--I must read her books and get acquainted. A guy from Milkweed Editions will also be there. It'll be nice to get out and go somewhere, even if it does involve a round-trip bus ride and nine days in a dorm room.

A good week

Okay, I know it's been nearly two months since my last post but nothing was going on, till last week: On Thursday I got a phone call from Tom Jenks (current Narrative Magazine fiction editor, former Esquire fiction editor) accepting me into a writers' workshop he runs in San Francisco. I submitted the first three chapters of No Happier State by way of applying for the course and we spent 35 minutes discussing that and other things. He said my manuscript lacked direction and perspective. (One could probably use that to sum up my whole life...) Anyhow, that happens in January.

Then, Saturday morning, I received an email from About Place Journal telling me that an excerpt from the same novel would be included in their “Peaks and Valleys” issue. Should be out soon and I'll post a link.

Another excerpt

As promised earlier, here's the link to another excerpt from No Happier State, published in the latest issue of The Fieldstone Review. It's the last one: “The Only Good Indian.” I could make a big deal out of them deciding to call me William rather than Will, but I won't...

A review

Somewhere in this link you'll find my review of Mary Vettel's Death at the Drive-In. Buy it now on Amazon! Details also in that link.

On Being Interviewed

It occurs to me that I've forgotten to post an interview I was lucky enough to get over at Mary Vettel's blog. So here it is.

On Meeting Kevin Hazlett

First met Kevin Hazlett, I guess, when I was just a kid. It was probably playing "Fenway Park" at the Sweeney house in Interlachen Park, in Hopkins. I played Little League with the Sweeney family and spent most of my summer days at their house, which meant running all over the neighborhood to the Carr's, to the Sawyer's, to the Hazlett's. My family always seemed to be seated within screwing around distance of the Hazletts in church.

By 1982, Kevin was living in New York and I was hitchhiking across the country (lived in San Jose, CA at the time) to a writers' workshop in Vermont. Kevin was gracious enough to let me sleep on his couch for a week. I vaguely recall a lot of 4am nights, a subway turnstile jump (my bad), and spending a lot of time walking the streets, handing out free tickets to a gig his band was playing toward the end of my stay. That night ended with a drunken saxophone player behind the wheel and me in the back of a flatbed truck, trying desperately to keep their gear—and myself—from spilling out into the street.

It was 1991, I guess, when Kevin asked to join a basement band I was in. I didn't flatter myself that he wanted to play my songs; we had a great bass player sitting in with us while between bands and that was the obvious attraction. The basement got sold and Kevin got Steve Foley to let us use the Replacements' practice space while they were on tour. We got a real drummer. And a gig. The gig ended when the police showed up as I was doing the "testing, testing" thing into the mike. That's my rock star story.

Tonight I go to a benefit for Kevin. Cancer, 'nough said. There will be great music and really lousy jokes. I look forward to it.

On Meeting Michael Stipe

My apologies for not posting in a while (if either of you are still tuning in). I began a job (after over 2 ½ years unemployed) that was supposed to be just weekends but has added some week nights and I'm all out of whack. (No excuse, I know.) To recap: I'm documenting famous people (mostly writers) I've met, mostly for my own sake. So far I've made it through John Gardner, Raymond Carver and Kirby Puckett. Today's installment: REM's Michael Stipe.

REM came to Minneapolis back in the 80s. To the Orpheum, I believe. Afterward, I managed to get into an after-hours party at First Avenue on the coattails of the Fabulous Welch Sisters. I found myself at a table with Michael Stipe seated to my right. To his right were three of the sisters, all vying for his attention. Somehow I managed to squeeze into the conversation and asked Michael about a particular song lyric that was bugging me—something about Nero and that horse. He explained what he meant by it, then turned his attention back to the women. As I pondered his explanation, he turned back to me and said: "You still don't get it, do ya?"

Now, anyone out there who knows me has asked me that same question a time or two. I admitted that no, I didn't get it, and he went on to explain at length. I was very impressed that he would take time away from these lovely women to explain his lyrics to me. I mentioned that he must get stupid questions like that all the time and asked how he usually handled them. "I usually ignore them," he said and went back to the sisters.

We later found Michael wandering in the parking lot and asked him if he needed a lift over to the hotel. I was the only guy in a car full of women and he jumped in on my lap.

I can't remember the last Rolling Stone I read. I don't keep tabs on rock stars, but I tuned into one of Jimmy Fallon's first shows a while back because Michael Stipe was a guest. They began their chat by discussing Michael's boyfriend. I thought back to that night long before, how good I felt that this guy took time to have a thoughtful discussion with me about his work. And all the while, the creep was hittin' on me! 😀

On Meeting Raymond Carver

[Wikipedia: Raymond Clevie Carver, Jr. (May 25, 1938 – August 2, 1988) was an American short story writer and poet. Carver is considered a major American writer of the late 20th century and also a major force in the revitalization of the short story in the 1980s.]

The University of North Dakota conducts a wonderful—free—writers' conference every March. Back in 1986 I attended because Raymond Carver was to be the featured writer. Carver had studied under John Gardner (see earlier post), so I figured I had a minor connection and, as much as I wanted to meet Carver, I was also curious as to any insights he might have regarding Gardner.

Carver didn't arrive till the final day of the conference because of his wife-to-be Tess Gallagher's health. We went to a few parties that evening that Carver wasn't likely to attend (he'd long since quit drinking) and we finally made it to an on-campus gathering—that we likely weren't invited to—much later than I'd hoped.

We entered some sort of faculty club and there was Carver, putting his coat on and looking anxious to leave. I approached him anyway (it was my only shot) and extended my hand. "Mr. Carver," I said and introduced myself. He reluctantly shook my hand and said he was waiting for his driver. I mentioned a Georgia Review article he had written about Gardner, shortly after Gardner's death four years earlier. Carver smiled like he was pleased I'd at least done my homework. I went on to mention meeting Gardner two weeks before his motorcycle accident and his accepting a story of mine for publication. Carver took off his coat and we began to talk. His driver came down and Carver told him to wait. We talked for ten minutes about his early writing days with Gardner and my experience at Bread Loaf.

Raymond Carver died in 1988. He is sorely missed as a writer and—as I found out for ten minutes—a good guy.

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.