Friday Fish Wrap

An enigma wrapped in a mystery: What do you mean, who was J.D Salinger?

Jerome David Salinger, Author. Born 1 January, 1919, died at age ninety-one on 27 January 2010. Successful author and perennial contributor to The New Yorker magazine on the subject of cultural criticism.

His seminal work was Catcher in the Rye.

It is apparent from what has been written about what we did not know about him since his death that his relentless pursuit for privacy had been largely successful.

For many, myself included, it was the mystery of his silence, punctuated by occasional outpourings of brilliance that made him so interesting.  For thirty years, the mystery of his life kept us waiting with baited breath.

Now, after being denied entrance to his private sanctum for so long, the questing for answers has begun.

Writers and readers alike are wondering what will be found. Perhaps reams of manuscripts filled with cultural criticism that will incite a millennium of debate. Perhaps Salinger left behind a trove of new Holden Caulfield’s for them to discover, or maybe more tales of members of the Glass family.

Whatever comes, I am neither immune nor alone in the hope that other works will surface.

When that day comes, whether we shall be moved to gladness or sadness, I cannot say.

… but whatever it is, by Salinger we will be moved.

From the odd-bins:

WANTED:Translator with experience in child-speak

Part-Time owner-operator of small child requires translator conversant in one-year-oldish.

Proof of experience required. Please provide translation of the following;

gillanenous throth of fwowl

and

thilmeth prompthle wazzzal

P.O. Box 999

Somewhere

… and finally…

For Sale: Cheap

A bitter pill, a spare pet peeve, a couple of virulent viruses, a rancourous rage , a spiteful mischief, another vicious circle, a couple of vitriolic criticisms, a savage beast, a half dozen ferocious fears, a hate-filled Hattie [don' ask], a venomous villain ,a couple of poison pens, a poisonous piety for which there is no antidote , several acrid smells, and a rather nasty headache.

And In This Corner

When I first began writing, the idea of writing one’s self into a corner was, I thought at the time, a completely groundless fear. Any corner one might wander into, I assumed, ought to be escapable simply by writing in a door, a window or an attic escape ladder.

… and of course there was always the DELETE key, the RED pen, and the eraser

But, as time and experience have shown me, the real problem writers face is the fear of revision… of being willing to sacrifice a character or a setting or a particularly good set of lines because, regardless of how much one might be enamoured with them, they simply do not belong.

Do what’s write [pun intended] and the corner turns into an field full of open possibilities.

I’ve also learned that one can indeed write a story into a premature ending. Thankfully, it’s neither fatal nor does it have to be permanent.

… though admittedly, sometimes the story is all the better for it.

 

SHORT SHORTS

From the Wish I Would Have Said That department:

Watching the political scene these past weeks is giving me a migraine of epic proportions.

One would have thought that the old elephant wouldn’t forget, but like a one-trick pony, the boys and girls are out there spouting the same old party rhetoric, making the same old empty promises to the public, and the same dirty deals in the back-room with the real brokers of power (Big Pharma, the banks and brokerage houses, and all the looters and polluters).

How quickly we forget the mess left by the last old elephant, and quickly we blame those who are cleaning it up for not doing it quickly enough.

Thomas Friedman at the New York Times has an excellent take on the economy in todays Opinion: Adults Only, Please.

Random Acts

In the I don’t know Art, but I know what I like department:

If you’re in London this week, stop by the Tate Museum: British artist Chris Ofili, best known for working with elephant dung, opens at Tate Britain today.

From the Writing Well:

Occasionally, a new writer comes along that simply dazzles me with their talent. Kate Quinn is one such writer.

In her forthcoming (release date 6 April) novel, Mistress of Rome, published by Berkeley Trade, she brings us a an intriguing story based on the life and death of one of Rome’s most depraved Emperors.

Kate takes us back to first century Rome: a world of depravity, blood, and secrets. The enigmatic Emperor Domitian watches over all, fearing murder from every side . . . except from the woman who fascinates him most.

In the end, the life of the brilliant and ruthless Domitian lies in the hands of one woman: a slave girl who has come to be called the Mistress of Rome.

… and finally,in the Missing Links:

Erin Evans writes about on Writing a Shared-World Novel in her Being A Hack Column at BSC

… and Hayes Roberts at SCRIBD on Invisible Alligators.

Friday Fish Wrap

Greg Mitchell, the former editor at Editor&Publisher, has a good piece over at Huff Post entitled How I lost My Job and Thanks for asking.

In reading the comments following his article, it made me realise just how wrong it was for a publisher like Duncan McIntosh to be the owner of E&P. It seems plain that what Mr. McIntosh wanted to buy for himself was a piece of history, much in the same way that people have purchased earldoms and dukedoms in the past.

Taking the journal in the direction he wishes to move in will turn it into E&P, which after awhile will make it no more important a publication than Boating World or FishRap News, both of which are niche market publications.  Until this acquisition I’d never heard of FishRap, and I honestly doubt I will ever spend a pence upon it or BW.

I’m not going to give up on E&P. It’s too important an industry standard-bearer, but I’ll be over reading Greg Mitchell & Paul Strupp at E&P In Exile and praying that I don’t see the following image in the press again any time soon.

It’s All In the Telling

I’ve heard it argued that writers are story tellers, but story tellers are not necessarily writers. You decide.

Presented for your pleasure, an old chestnut:

Dr. Epstein was a renowned physician who earned his undergraduate, graduate, and medical degrees in his home town and then left for Manhattan, where he quickly rose to the top of his field. Some years later he was invited to deliver a significant paper  at a conference which was to be held at the medical school in his home town.

 

The day of the presentation, he walked on stage and placed his papers on the lectern, but they slid off onto the floor. As he bent over to retrieve them, he inadvertently farted. The microphone amplified mistake resounded through the room and reverberated down the hall!  Embarrassed, he managed to regain enough composure to deliver his paper. He ignored the resounding applause and raced out the stage door.

He was not to be seen in his home town until, several decades later, he learned that his elderly mother had become seriously ill. When he returned to visit her, he reserved a hotel room under the name of Levy.

The desk clerk asked him, “Is this your first visit to our city, Mr. Levy?”

Dr. Epstein replied, “Well, young man, no, it isn’t. I grew up here and received my education here, but then I moved away.”

Why haven’t you visited?” asked the desk clerk

“Actually, I did visit once, many years ago, but an embarrassing thing happened and since then I’ve been too ashamed to return.”

The clerk tried to console him. ”Sir, while I don’t have your life experience, one thing I have learned is that often what seems embarrassing to me isn’t even remembered by others. I bet that’s true of your incident too.”

Dr. Epstein replied, “Son, I doubt that’s the case with my incident.”

“Was it a long time ago?”

“Yes, many years.”

The clerk asked, “Was it before or after the Epstein Fart?”

 

 

HELL IN HAITI

 

Haiti is in shambles, the country’s cities and infrastructure have collapsed and the process of getting food, safe drinking water and medical aid to the population is complicated by limited access.

MSF (Doctors Without Borders), already in position in Haiti, is doing all that it can and will continue to increase those services, but the people there need your help.  Please visit our site, read and see for yourself what is happening there, and please donate what you can.

Thanks.

Goodbye Ellen Goodman

Ellen Goodman is retiring from the Boston Globe.

You can read her farewell column here, but there are two paragraphs I’d like to quote, because I proudly count myself as a part of that same generation of women.

What she wrote:

Looking backward and forward, I belong to a generation that has transformed our culture. We’ve been the change agents for civil rights, women’s rights, gay rights. Now, we find ourselves on the cutting edge of another huge social change. This time, it’s the longevity revolution. Ours is the first generation to collectively cross the demarcation line of senior citizenship with actuarial tables on our side.

“Senior citizen’’ is now a single demographic nametag that includes those who fought in World War II and those who were born in World War II. We don’t have a label yet to describe the early, active aging. But many of us are pausing to recalculate the purpose of a longer life. We are reinventing ourselves and society’s expectations, just as we have throughout our lives.

She may be gone from the Globe, but I thankfully suspect that it’s not the last word we’ll hear from her.

File photo of Ellen in 1980

E & P In Exile

While decisions are made about the future of Editor & Publisher, a band of hardy staffers have decided to hang in there and bring their journalistic excellence to the Blogosphere

Welcome, and we hope your stay is only long enough to get E&P back on the presses and on-line where it belongs.

The Last Day

Dear All;

We come once again to the end of another year, hoping that the coming year will be a better one, that all our hopes and wishes will come true, and that our New Years Resolutions won’t come back to haunt us.

Happy New Year to one and all.

Hark The Angel Harold Sings… Better Late Than Never, The Grinch gets his.

Twas the night before Christmas when the temperature dropped, to thirty below, 
and then the water stopped.

As the pipes burst below, there arose such a clatter, then the furnace blew up!
Now what was the matter?

He tried to light the fireplace, but the flue had rusted in, so he banged and pounded until it swung in, 
raining dozens of birds nests… and an empty bottle of Gallo Cafe Zin.

In the midst of this trial the circuits arced out, just as the water heater screamed like a tea kettle spout.

Up to the roof, he shot with all speed, to confront that old fart about his Christmas Eve stop.
Indeed, he intended to confront the old hoke, when two steps from the top, the ladder rungs broke.

He fell into his pool as the water disappeared, through a crack in the earth… could it get any more weird?

Then from down on the street he heard the laughter of the Kringle,
As his house burned to the ground, the sleigh bells did jingle.

When his brand-new ferrari drove out of sight, his iPhone beeped, and to our delight…

The text message said; You’re fired you schmuck. 
Your insurance’s been cancelled and you’re now out’a luck.

Written and performed for Rita’s  I-Hate-Christmas-Music-Contest