From One Story comes ten

Next to music, the short story has to be the most perfect art form ever to exist. So I'm naturally drawn to any top ten list, if for no other reason than to find an unearthed jewel -- or rediscover an old one.

Last week, One Story came out with a Top 10 Short Stories of All Time for Flavorwire, which I just had time to look at. The One Story blog has a "long list" of other stories considered, along with comments from readers. (Turns out I wasn't the only one to find the absence of anything by Hemingway a little strange. Even on the long list? Really?)

Most of my favorites weren't mentioned; "Sonny's Blues" and "The Things They Carried" stand out here. But it was nice to see Denis Johnson's "Emergency" on the Top 10. I just heard Tobias Wolff read it on a past New Yorker fiction podcast recently. Still odd, funny, and totally mesmerizing.

One of the things I'm very interested in is what makes a short story's value last through generations of future readers and writers. While it's helplessly subjective on one or more levels, One Story's list does nothing but boost my intrigue -- well, that and give me more stories to check out.

The new DWW - Read It or Beat It

So I'm up to 50,000 words in the novel I'm writing. (I would call it my "first novel" but it could also be my last, so I'll wait until there's a second.) It's close enough to being done that I've decided to take a look at this blog, which in theory could become some kind of landing place for anybody curious enough to find me after reading something I wrote.

I was surprised to find Dead Wall Window is -- WOW -- five freakin' years old, which, I don't know why, just seems like forever to me. A ton of stuff has changed in my life during that time. Most importantly, I have two more children, Sonny and Declan. A laugh-riot, those two. I also got out journalism when the getting was still good, and through a few odd turns, managed to successfully transition to a new career making better money. I'm kinda proud of that. And I joined a writer's group, which is the key reason why I have a nearly completed novel and writing this here post today.

But the main thing I realized upon reviewing this blog -- or rather, could feel -- was the solemn frustration and aimlessness behind most of my posts.

Frankly, this blog never really had a point. It was entirely an impulse, a place where I could record odd memories and thoughts about stuff that caught my interest, and occassionally stretch my writing muscles. The expectations were extremely low. It was an outlet. I didn't think anybody would read it or even find it. I didn't even tell my closest friends. And as I kept reading, I could sort of see why.

Many of the posts represented some achy, vague grievance that I was trying to put my finger on. In retrospect I think these posts were extremely helpful to me on a personal level, and were well worth expressing. But to the outsider, they couldn't have been much fun to read (I'm speaking generally; I know some folks read things and liked 'em -- and I thank ye kindly) and I sort of knew it at the time I wrote them, due to the amount of apologizing I did for "whining." All of which seems silly now. One writes to be read. If I didn't want people to waste their time, I should have bought a diary.

And so anyway, I started asking myself: What impression does this blog leave folks who don't know me? And should I care? Up until now, Dead Wall Window read like what it is, and what I initially decribed it as -- "a writer's toilet." And a very self-obsessed toilet, at that. It struck me that this is no way for a writer trying to reach a broader audience to work. I should aspire to something more. Frankly, I better.

So I began thinking about changing the look and tone of this blog. I even mulled starting all over. But then I thought of the past five years and all the stuff that's happened ... and I realized that this blog might have its own story to tell. At the very least, something my kids could point at and say, "See, I told you Dad was a sicko."

So I'm sticking with DWW. And I'm committed to (and I'm going to say it out loud, so hopefully it sticks) posting more, putting myself out there more, sharing insights about writing and publishing (to the degree I'm comfortable doing so), and maybe -- god forbid -- serve as a source of information or guidepost for somebody. The frustrations will still be here, I'm sure. But it's time to kick it up a notch.

I want to fly like an eagle, to the sea

This is a whiny post, so please forgive me or ignore it...

I guess it was bound to happen. Today I looked in the mirror and decided, I'm old. Not in grandpa old. But old in the sense that, well, I just don't look the same. To me.

Which is weird because I always felt I looked younger than I was. People told me this for years, in fact. I still get carded about once in a while. And those carnival folks who think they can guess your age within five years? They're never, ever close with me.

But I've come to the decision--ME--that I am not a young person anymore. You know, it's easy to kind of fool yourself into thinking you're not much different than you were in high school. You look at yourself in the mirror day after day, year after year, and you don't see the changes build up. It's self-delusional, perhaps, but effective -- thinking that you're not getting older really helps when you're trying to start something new.

Well now I'm looking in the mirror and I see someone totally different. A sea change, even if I'm the only purpose who notices. And it's tied into the fact that I've missed any chance to play professional sports, become a movie star or sell millions of records -- not that I ever had a chance at these things anyway, but now I KNOW I can't do them because I'm too damn old. I'm even kinda old to be starting a career as a novelist. OK, not really, I guess... But most of 'em seem to have started earlier than than I am.

About the only new careers I'd be young at is politics or bathroom attendant. Don't know what more to say about that.

Anyway I'm 43 years old and I have a full head of hair and three gray hairs -- not counting the ones in my beard, which purposefully hides my small chin and keeps me (I hoped) from looking younger than I really am. But now my head and face is fatter and my eyes are noticeably heavier. The crows feet have grown into crows legs. And there are new lines and dryness on my face where neither existed before. The whites of my eyes will never be totally white again.

Physically, I've felt older than my face for some time. Remember those days where you could just, you know, break into a full sprint at the drop of a hat? Totally fucking gone.

Which is probably the saddest part of this whole state of affairs, especially for a guy. Losing the ability to make a break for it.