White Tears, Hari Kunzru (2017)
The book you open at the start of White Tears is not the same book you close. Through a series of subtle turns, Kunzru unravels the husk of a story only to twist those threads into a rope thick and stained with blood.
A pair of white college boys run headlong into each other by way of an obsessive affair with Delta blues and the antiquated technologies for playing and recording it. Carter is charismatic and stunningly rich, Seth is bumbling and mostly-poor. Both are cracking along the seams. History and madness start to leak from this fraught relationship, blurring the edges of reality and folding time in on itself.
The true nature of the story tantalizes from corners and memories. Ghost story? Murder mystery? Psychological thriller? Under the skin of a bromance narrative pounds a rageful heart. It is a story of hobbled promise, race and class violence, and America’s legacy of capitalizing on the incarceration of Black men. Kunzru dips into and then out of this fury, barely a splash at first then a little deeper, one unsettling shiver at a time.
The climax plunges us naked into the face of this nation’s most toxic and worst kept secret. The clash between what seems and what happened results in a feat of vengeance that satisfies the conditions of justice while upending any moral balance derived from it.
Image from Publisher’s Weekly
This time last year, I decided to change how I read. Or, more accurately, to change what I read. It was one small way to keep breathing expansiveness and hope at a time when despair threatened to suffocate both.
As is true for any bibliophile, reading fills up swaths of the time I’m not working or sleeping. Certainly other activities populate the days — eating, dancing, hanging with the kiddo, chilling with the girlfriends. Church and family. In fact, I trip and tumble over the heaps of stuff comprising our days. It’s a wonder stories make it in here at all.
Nevertheless, as is also true for any bibliophile, I find a way. The rare hushed hours, those still stretches, most deliciously belong to books. Bedtime, summertime, solitary dinners. And not always solitary. Sometimes my boy and I read side-by-side at the table weaving tendrils of languid conversation into the quiet. Even at eleven years old, Bug still wants me reading aloud every night at bedtime. We travel through the fantasy worlds we’ve entered together. Having only just acquired a TV after nearly five years without, the universes of film and television hold little appeal. Our secret indulgences almost always involve the page. Continue reading “Reading Beyond”
First I picked up the books. Then the books carried me. The past several months have tried to push my head under. I could barely trust my own breath. So I read. Some came recommended. Mostly I stumbled and grabbed. Books by authors of color, books about the dangerous future. If the book didn’t buoy me, it went back in the library bag and the next one had its shot.
Dozens of authors worked their magic craft, quieting the inner cacophony. They nudged me across the churning waters into places where everyone speaks in a voice other than my own.
Continue reading “Raft of Books”
Each with his favored arm
made his foray
scorning confections and only sometimes opening a hand
dusted with the crushed stamen
of a hothouse orchid. Walt came bearing small sprouts
at least before his straight-up offer of crotch and vine
while against my throat, Edgar licked
glossed feather. I choked down Eliot’s ragged claws and talk
of Michelangelo, glancing against the vorpal snicker
Carroll carried unsheathed. The graze bared
blood beat and Baldwin fire going the way I dared not ache.
I had barely found my feet and certainly not my sense
when, whispering, Kazuo led me to a corner of the room
I’d never seen and there, Salman with a slow grin
esta-esta-estuttered open his voice in song.
It was not safe to be a girl alone
in their company. They pressed on, each
indifferent to rivals yet asking nothing less
than full capitulation of his quarry.
Clever Jasper tried coming inside
out, folding picture book origami into doors opening
backwards but I tumbled through a slice
of yellowed light into sweet William’s lap, his slings and arrows
only napping and that, not so soundly. Up on ladders to day
I climbed. Bryson and Sedaris cracking wise
thought for sure they’d trumped JD’s cutting youth
but he was a tougher contender than they had anticipated
and anyway, Collins was all along straddling straight-backed chair
with a boning knife slicing the gap between laugh
and shiver down to a crisp blue note. Snapping mm-hmm inside
Langston let his cats twine at my neck while under me
cummings with trembling firm-smoothness his liking how
Allan howled against the night. Fumbling at the sash,
virtue far from intact, my fingers pried open the window
in the center of my chest and I plunged through it
to the Rumi place where
everything is music.
belonging to whom?
Each took what they could but none took me
home. That is what the girl wants, after all.
They shrug and shamble
off. My belly growls. The spine
the book of Him
is the only one on the shelf.
Last night’s writing meetup began with a lively critique of a zero draft. Building a frame from the pulpy beginning is the most entertaining part of the process. It’s a barn-raising. “Develop the scaffolding like this.” “It needs a 10-point list and then the explanation.” “You’ve got to figure out which of these two things you are doing, because right now you’re trying to do both and it’s not working.” The author, all grace and nods, filled three pages with notes. She knew she had brought us rubbish. Her excitement about taking the suggestions home was infectious and everyone was giggling by the end of the discussion.
It turns out proofreading for a government contracting journal can be more pleasant than a root canal.
The benefits of writing group participation are obvious to anyone who has been in one. We know anecdotally that the combination of camaraderie, accountability, and feedback keep us moving towards better work. If only my frazzled doctoral students would drink the kool-aid. They hear it from everyone then hear ten more times from me: Cobble a group together early. Like first-year early, well before you head off to the Balkans or Omaha or wherever your research strands you. Before you discover you must birth this monster all alone.
Curious about the scholarship out there on writing groups for graduate students and hoping to find a study correlating participation and degree completion (I didn’t), I dug around in the education literature. The piece I wrote on the topic, Writing Better Together, notes that the intuitive benefits of group participation are supported by the research. Students who participate in groups report improvements in output, skills, and confidence.
Surely, we hoi polloi can glean a thing or two from the findings. Here is one: Groups with diverse membership showed the greatest gains. The ideal setup is a mix of native and non-native English speakers with various levels of experience and a mix of research interests. Participants are forced into a greater awareness of the reader and more dexterous communication with a wide range of audiences.
Here is another: Some folks complain that groups are a time-suck and that energy is better spent attending to one’s own work. This doesn’t pan out. Collaboration and group participation contribute to productivity, even when the attention is on others’ material. Beyond the obvious improvement from receiving feedback, folks are often surprised at how much their own writing develops as a result of giving feedback. The reciprocal advantages of peer tutoring help explain why attending to the form style, and clarity of some other fella’s work can improve the writing of the one doing the critiquing.
Finally, a good writing group thwarts the doubt, insecurity, and fear of rejection gumming up the works. Regardless of variance in skill levels and topics, folks who stick by one another report being more productive, confident, and motivated to write.
We are lucky. Our first Tuesday meetup has a solid core surrounded by a porous outer layer. The folks who stick with it have come to depend on each other. Taking our work out of our private alcoves and placing it into rough, human hands makes it better. Or rather, it makes us better at making it. Signing on forces the choice: improve or keep hiding.
Last night near the end of the gathering, our own Sir Edmund Hillary led us into a heady conversation about criticism. “What was the best critique you ever received?” Around we went, re-living the mortification of having mentors and friends pierce our inflated egos. Here are some of the scars that make us marginally better today than we were yesterday:
- Where’s the “so what”?
- The first draft is always garbage.
- Clear writing = clear thinking.
- The reader doesn’t care about this subject unless you are in love with it.
- Don’t be boring.
- Be the reader’s surrogate.
- Murder your darlings.
We go home and hammer away at our projects. Someone who knows we are capable of better and more will be asking us about it in four weeks’ time.
Commitment is a cruel mistress. She cracks the whip.
Now, how to get my students to enlist?