On Traveling Greyhound

As I prepare to take a Greyhound up to Bemidji tomorrow, I reflect back on my one and only previous bus excursion—San Francisco to L.A.—which was made unbearable by a woman with a black eye and a handful of pictures showing her and a guy named Al in various stages of undress. Al had confronted me at the bus station and asked if I'd look after his friend Peaches. When I said, 'No way,' this solidified Peaches and I as fast friends—in her mind at least.

Thing is: Peaches has appeared in my first two novels and is now taking over a third work-in-progress. Hopefully I'll find another undeniable character on this trip. If one's gonna be miserable for six hours, one should be rewarded.

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.

On being in Saint Paul Almanac

EDIT (7/1/14): Got confirmation that my story will indeed be in the 2015 Almanac. They sent me the proof and they've inserted a couple cool old photographs. Looks very nice.
 
Found out yesterday that an excerpt from Bonus Man will be included in 2015 Saint Paul Almanac. Very happy about that (I think they even pay!). This ends a streak of seven straight stories published by magazines/editors outside the U.S.—two in Australia, three in UK/France, one in Canada and one selected by an Irish guest editor at a Wisconsin mag. Nice to know my particular form of Americana finally works in America.

On Strength

Wednesday at work I went up to help an old woman who called to say she'd fallen. She was laying there on her floor between her bed and a potty her son and his wife had set up. They were setting up a hospice for her. I told her I should call 911 (like I'm supposed to), she said she wasn't hurt and rolled over onto her knees. She started to push herself up, I held her to make sure she didn't fall back down. She pushed herself up to the edge of the bed. I held her to make sure she didn't fall back to the floor. She squirmed her way back into bed.

The son and daughter-in-law thanked me many times for my help. When I said I hadn't done anything, they didn't seem to believe me. They said she didn't have the strength. Today she found the strength to get to her patio door, open it and pull herself up and over her 16th floor railing.

On 1963

I was in 1^st grade, back in '63, and heard the news through the speaker on the wall that we got all our news from. School closed and we were hustled out of the building to our buses waiting at the curb. Our bus's crossing guard—a 6^th grader, probably very popular—kept singing that song with the line: “Deep in the heart of Texas.” I remember thinking how she seemed to think this was terribly funny.

Of course, they had only said he'd been shot—sparing grade schoolers the fact that a chunk of JFK's head had been blown away. I guess it would've seemed doubly funny to her had he been shot in the heart and in the heart of Texas. I wonder (every year at this time) if she remembers that bus ride the same way I do. I remember that—that and getting home and finding my mother crying on the floor in front of our little black and white tv.

On sale now!

The Skive Magazine “FAREWELL” issue is out! I'm very proud to have a short story in it and very sad that it's their last issue. Many thanks to Matthew Ward and the wonderful job he's done on Skive over the years. Click for details.