Raymond Carver
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
As for John Updike, who woulda thunk'd it that he would have written so much about our beloved Rabbit. I didn't like Couples, which was suppossed to be an bedroom break through for American couples, or some such shit. Probably banned in Ireland back in the day. But I found it boring, Sidney, boring. His other stuff is okay. But like I always say everyone should read Revolutionay Road by Richard Yates. Updike never wrote anything as good as that.
I liked the first paragraph better the first time, the imagery of sitting around with the tv on but not paying attention was clearer. The rest of the revisions are good, although I'm not sure about making the publisher chick be in love with you. I liked it when she was truly just coming to be professional, but the fat chick was the horny one who screwed it up for you. I liked the unstated possibility that upon meeting, the writer could have a romantic connection with the publisher and therefore have a match made in literary heaven.
-
sara
I haven't read Fat. I bought what we talk about when we talk about love. It has a nice cover.
I know what you mean -- Something about Mary. I really do not have any idea how to keep the humor and cut the flying sperm. The only thing I can think of is it gets on his cuff / sleeve, he doesn't notice, he grabs the pitcher, and it drops in. (in reality I don't know how that would work) This is why I do not write short stories.
I really laughed, in fact I'm laughing right now at the fact that when the pretty girl asks, what is that, the other one giggles.
I know what you mean -- Something about Mary. I really do not have any idea how to keep the humor and cut the flying sperm. The only thing I can think of is it gets on his cuff / sleeve, he doesn't notice, he grabs the pitcher, and it drops in. (in reality I don't know how that would work) This is why I do not write short stories.
I really laughed, in fact I'm laughing right now at the fact that when the pretty girl asks, what is that, the other one giggles.
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
I agree with Mav on both his points: the first paragraph being better the first time, and also questioning making the publisher be in love with you.
I don't think it's necessary to change the sperm in beer thing. It's improbable, perhaps, but I don't think it's a real hinderance to the story as a whole.
There were only two things I thought of that might need changing:
1) The fact that the publisher says earlier on "seems sophomoric" doesn't quite go with the fact that she later is known to be a fan of his writing.
2) For some reason, when using the word "mitt" to describe the fat girl's hand...the word just doesn't work for me. I'm not sure if there'd be another word you could use besides "mitt" and "hand" but then, it's obvious you were trying for a more simplistic, minimal Carver style, so why not just say "hand" again?
Good story, McC, I liked it.
I don't think it's necessary to change the sperm in beer thing. It's improbable, perhaps, but I don't think it's a real hinderance to the story as a whole.
There were only two things I thought of that might need changing:
1) The fact that the publisher says earlier on "seems sophomoric" doesn't quite go with the fact that she later is known to be a fan of his writing.
2) For some reason, when using the word "mitt" to describe the fat girl's hand...the word just doesn't work for me. I'm not sure if there'd be another word you could use besides "mitt" and "hand" but then, it's obvious you were trying for a more simplistic, minimal Carver style, so why not just say "hand" again?
Good story, McC, I liked it.
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
thanks to all who gave feedback.
JV
by McCutcheon
The rain was coming down hard. Hard enough that I had to turn the sound on the TV up so as not to be distracted. It was officially winter in Seattle. I was staring at the walls more than the TV screen. I was staring at the ceiling more than following the show. The rain came down. I turned the TV off and listened.
I was bored. I was dealing with non-functioning sobriety so I decided to get drunk. I called a few friends. They answered and said to meet them at the bar. I put on a few layers to keep me dry and walked the three blocks down the alley. My friends were there when I arrived. We sat at the bar and drank. After a few pitchers my friends went home. They had work the next day. I didn't. I was on vacation, and since I didn't have the money to travel, I've been staying home, watching TV, listening to raindrops.
When my friends left, I took a seat in a booth. I thought I'd put some music on the jukebox, order another pitcher, put my feet up and close my eyes. Maybe if I played reggae songs, something good like Errol T and Joe Gibbs, and my eyes where really closed tight and I kept all my layers on, sitting inside, I could be at the beach.
“Can we sit with you?�
I opened my eyes during ‘Colour TV'. Two girls were standing in front of me. They were swaying, so I assumed they were dancing, drunk or both. They must be imbalanced to want to sit with me. I was drunk as well. I nodded. The girls sat down. One was big and fat. Part of the American obesity problem. She sat next to me. She wanted to go home with me, she whispered. She promised a blowjob. I thought she must be very good with her mouth. The other girl was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. At least I think she was. I'd have to see her sober to be sure.
The pretty girl was indifferent. As we talked I tried to turn the flirting to her. She didn't care. She drank my beer. I wasn't too disappointed. In the back of my mind I was already winning. It's been a long time since two girls sat down and I went home with the pretty one. The worst that could happen would be that I would get a blowjob off a fat chick.
“What do you do?� the pretty girl asked.
“I'm on vacation.�
“Oh really, where are you from?�
“I live three blocks away,� I said.
“But you said you were on vacation.�
“I am. I just didn't go anywhere.�
“Why?�
“Well, I couldn't afford it. And I'm a writer. I thought I'd use the time to finish my second novel.�
“Second?�
“Yeah.'�
“Is your first one published?�
“No.�
Usually when drunk in bars talking to girls I lie and say my first novel is published. If they ask to read it I tell them to look it up on Amazon and change the subject. I'm not sure why I didn't lie to this girl. She had that rare quality of beauty that almost forced me to impress her. It was something about her eyes. She seemed in the know.
“So how is it going?� She asked.
The fat girl put her hand on my thigh. The pretty girl didn't see; it was a move made under the table. The pretty girl sipped beer and was waiting for an answer. Maybe she liked writers, or at least reading.
“So how is the writing career going?� She repeated.
“Not so good.� I said.
“Why not?�
“I don't know, I mean I write all the time, I've actually written quite a bit, but everything I sent out doesn't get published.�
The fat girl put pudgy fingers into my pants. With my beer belly and her huge hand it was a tight fit. She squeezed my limp dick. I felt very small. The more pressure she applied the stiffer I got.
“Do you send out a lot of stuff?�
“No, not actually. It depresses me too much.�
“Why?�
“Because every time stuff comes back rejected I usually go on a bender. I don't think I have an audience. If they want sex, they say there is too much drugs. If they want drugs, there is too much sex. And of course, if they want a soccer mom story I'm really fucked. I read Raymond Carver, and think my stuff is as good as his, I mean at least in my stories something happens.�
“What happens in your stories?�
“I don't know. People drink, and take drugs. Fuck. There should be an audience for all three.�
“And that is something?�
“Yeah.�
“Seems very sophomoric.�
“Maybe.�
“You read Anais Nin?�
“Yeah, kind of boring. But she does get away with writing about pedophiles, seems strange now, with all the Michael Jackson problems. I don't find her erotica all that sexy.�
By this time it was getting difficult to carry on the conversation. The fat girl had me hard. She unbuttoned my pants, and was now jacking me off, instead of just squeezing. She moved her big mitt up and down, from the tip of my cock, then crashing down onto my balls.
“You know Raymond Carver wrote about sex, but did it in a sophisticated way,� the pretty girl said. “There is no need to be so graphic.�
“Yeah,� I yelped. I came and it oozed out flowing over the fat girl's pudgy fingers.
“Eww,� yelled the fat girl.
I'm not sure what the fat girl thought the outcome would be. There is cause and effect. If you jack a guy off he is gonna ejaculate. She shook her first above the tabletop. Some of the come flung through the air and landed in the pitcher of beer. Plunk. The spunk caused the beer to fizz, and it sort of floated and sort of sank.
The pretty girl stared at it.
“What is that?� She asked.
The fat girl giggled.
“Oh gross.� The pretty girl said. She sat up straight, put on her coat and ran out the bar.
The fat girl wiped the remainder on my pant leg.
“I think your friend is pissed off,� I said.
“Yeah, she must be,� the fat girl said. “She really wanted to talk to you.�
“Me? Why?�
“We are from New York, we work for Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc. You know we published Raymond Carver and Nicholson Baker, you know, who wrote Vox, and U and I, that book about John Updike. She read your novel on PaxAcidus.com. She wanted to publish you.�
“Really? That sounds great.�
“Well, I don't think it's going to happen now, do you?�
“Why not?�
“Because you blew it.�
“But she must have read my stuff. Why would she care?�
“She thought she was in love with you or something. That's why we came here unannounced. She thought if she met you, you would get together. She read that whole website of yours. That's how we knew where you hang out.�
“Then why did you do that?�
“I hate that bitch.�
“Can you publish my novel?�
“Me? I'm just her assistant, besides I didn't like the book. I don't like writing that has sex in it. It's too trashy. I read Oprah's book club books.�
“Oh.�
The fat girl got up and left. I was going to finish the pitcher of beer but then remembered the sperm in it. I walked home in the pouring rain. I got into bed. I turned up the heat, and drank a bottle of Red Stripe. I listened to the raindrops. I wished I were in Jamaica.
JV
by McCutcheon
The rain was coming down hard. Hard enough that I had to turn the sound on the TV up so as not to be distracted. It was officially winter in Seattle. I was staring at the walls more than the TV screen. I was staring at the ceiling more than following the show. The rain came down. I turned the TV off and listened.
I was bored. I was dealing with non-functioning sobriety so I decided to get drunk. I called a few friends. They answered and said to meet them at the bar. I put on a few layers to keep me dry and walked the three blocks down the alley. My friends were there when I arrived. We sat at the bar and drank. After a few pitchers my friends went home. They had work the next day. I didn't. I was on vacation, and since I didn't have the money to travel, I've been staying home, watching TV, listening to raindrops.
When my friends left, I took a seat in a booth. I thought I'd put some music on the jukebox, order another pitcher, put my feet up and close my eyes. Maybe if I played reggae songs, something good like Errol T and Joe Gibbs, and my eyes where really closed tight and I kept all my layers on, sitting inside, I could be at the beach.
“Can we sit with you?�
I opened my eyes during ‘Colour TV'. Two girls were standing in front of me. They were swaying, so I assumed they were dancing, drunk or both. They must be imbalanced to want to sit with me. I was drunk as well. I nodded. The girls sat down. One was big and fat. Part of the American obesity problem. She sat next to me. She wanted to go home with me, she whispered. She promised a blowjob. I thought she must be very good with her mouth. The other girl was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. At least I think she was. I'd have to see her sober to be sure.
The pretty girl was indifferent. As we talked I tried to turn the flirting to her. She didn't care. She drank my beer. I wasn't too disappointed. In the back of my mind I was already winning. It's been a long time since two girls sat down and I went home with the pretty one. The worst that could happen would be that I would get a blowjob off a fat chick.
“What do you do?� the pretty girl asked.
“I'm on vacation.�
“Oh really, where are you from?�
“I live three blocks away,� I said.
“But you said you were on vacation.�
“I am. I just didn't go anywhere.�
“Why?�
“Well, I couldn't afford it. And I'm a writer. I thought I'd use the time to finish my second novel.�
“Second?�
“Yeah.'�
“Is your first one published?�
“No.�
Usually when drunk in bars talking to girls I lie and say my first novel is published. If they ask to read it I tell them to look it up on Amazon and change the subject. I'm not sure why I didn't lie to this girl. She had that rare quality of beauty that almost forced me to impress her. It was something about her eyes. She seemed in the know.
“So how is it going?� She asked.
The fat girl put her hand on my thigh. The pretty girl didn't see; it was a move made under the table. The pretty girl sipped beer and was waiting for an answer. Maybe she liked writers, or at least reading.
“So how is the writing career going?� She repeated.
“Not so good.� I said.
“Why not?�
“I don't know, I mean I write all the time, I've actually written quite a bit, but everything I sent out doesn't get published.�
The fat girl put pudgy fingers into my pants. With my beer belly and her huge hand it was a tight fit. She squeezed my limp dick. I felt very small. The more pressure she applied the stiffer I got.
“Do you send out a lot of stuff?�
“No, not actually. It depresses me too much.�
“Why?�
“Because every time stuff comes back rejected I usually go on a bender. I don't think I have an audience. If they want sex, they say there is too much drugs. If they want drugs, there is too much sex. And of course, if they want a soccer mom story I'm really fucked. I read Raymond Carver, and think my stuff is as good as his, I mean at least in my stories something happens.�
“What happens in your stories?�
“I don't know. People drink, and take drugs. Fuck. There should be an audience for all three.�
“And that is something?�
“Yeah.�
“Seems very sophomoric.�
“Maybe.�
“You read Anais Nin?�
“Yeah, kind of boring. But she does get away with writing about pedophiles, seems strange now, with all the Michael Jackson problems. I don't find her erotica all that sexy.�
By this time it was getting difficult to carry on the conversation. The fat girl had me hard. She unbuttoned my pants, and was now jacking me off, instead of just squeezing. She moved her big mitt up and down, from the tip of my cock, then crashing down onto my balls.
“You know Raymond Carver wrote about sex, but did it in a sophisticated way,� the pretty girl said. “There is no need to be so graphic.�
“Yeah,� I yelped. I came and it oozed out flowing over the fat girl's pudgy fingers.
“Eww,� yelled the fat girl.
I'm not sure what the fat girl thought the outcome would be. There is cause and effect. If you jack a guy off he is gonna ejaculate. She shook her first above the tabletop. Some of the come flung through the air and landed in the pitcher of beer. Plunk. The spunk caused the beer to fizz, and it sort of floated and sort of sank.
The pretty girl stared at it.
“What is that?� She asked.
The fat girl giggled.
“Oh gross.� The pretty girl said. She sat up straight, put on her coat and ran out the bar.
The fat girl wiped the remainder on my pant leg.
“I think your friend is pissed off,� I said.
“Yeah, she must be,� the fat girl said. “She really wanted to talk to you.�
“Me? Why?�
“We are from New York, we work for Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc. You know we published Raymond Carver and Nicholson Baker, you know, who wrote Vox, and U and I, that book about John Updike. She read your novel on PaxAcidus.com. She wanted to publish you.�
“Really? That sounds great.�
“Well, I don't think it's going to happen now, do you?�
“Why not?�
“Because you blew it.�
“But she must have read my stuff. Why would she care?�
“She thought she was in love with you or something. That's why we came here unannounced. She thought if she met you, you would get together. She read that whole website of yours. That's how we knew where you hang out.�
“Then why did you do that?�
“I hate that bitch.�
“Can you publish my novel?�
“Me? I'm just her assistant, besides I didn't like the book. I don't like writing that has sex in it. It's too trashy. I read Oprah's book club books.�
“Oh.�
The fat girl got up and left. I was going to finish the pitcher of beer but then remembered the sperm in it. I walked home in the pouring rain. I got into bed. I turned up the heat, and drank a bottle of Red Stripe. I listened to the raindrops. I wished I were in Jamaica.
-
Simon Rex
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
-
Simon Rex
I must admit I feel strange to have started this thread on Raymond Carver. I never meant my appreciation for him or his work to reflect on either Sloth or McC's writing. (after all, I wrote a whole paper on him without reading more than his one story "Cathedral", just reading about his life) I admit some of his stories aren't all that spectacular. But there are times with his stories when even though all that he's written before seems very ordinary, I get to the end of a story and I think "wow, that is really something to think about." When I got to the end of "A Small Good Thing" I thought I might cry. The guy just has the working class thing down. I don't know how to describe it.
And I loved Tom Waits and Lily Tomlin in the film "Short Cuts" based on Carver's writing. I wish Tom Waits and Lily Tomlin would star in their own film together...they were something else.
And I loved Tom Waits and Lily Tomlin in the film "Short Cuts" based on Carver's writing. I wish Tom Waits and Lily Tomlin would star in their own film together...they were something else.