This week’s First Words/Last Words feature comes as a total accident. I was researching the poet Hiromi Ito, and came across the Japanese-Canadian writer Hiromi Goto, whose work strangely enough has a lot of crossover with Ito’s, and with my own obsessions, specifically with stinky brown alien girls. I’ve only read some of the stories in Hopeful Monsters, of which “Stinky Girl” is one, and look forward to reading more. (The collection is partially accessible through the Google Books feature.) I’m including “first words” here this time, too; what, I never said I was systematic.

As I understand it, Goto writes both “young adult/children’s” literature and “adult” literature concerning—much to my delight—alien abduction, depressed Asian girls who go on epic quests to save their neglectful mothers, abnormal or hysterical pregnancies, unconventional bodies, monstrous bodies, a woman who slices off her painful lactating breasts and transplants them onto her husband, then gently instructs him to “do what comes naturally.”

From the back cover of Hopeful Monsters: “Hopeful monsters” are genetically abnormal organisms that, nonetheless, adapt and survive in their environments. In these devastating stories, the hopeful monsters in question are those who will not be tethered by familial duty nor bound by the ghosts of their past. Home becomes fraught, reality a nightmare as Hiromi Goto weaves her characters through tales of domestic crises and cultural dissonance. They are the walking wounded — a mother who is terrified by a newborn daughter who bears a tail; a “stinky girl” who studies the human condition in a shopping mall; relatives on holiday with a visiting grandfather who cannot abide their “foreign nature.”

Then the cover says something about magical realism which I think is a somewhat simplistic way of getting out of talking about the urgencies and immediacies of what Goto does with the writing in this book, with the body, with sexuality and maternity and monstrosity, how monstrosity is conceived, and how it can be reclaimed.

In the essay “Alien Texts, Alien Seductions: The Context of Colour Full Writing,” Goto writes: “How will we go about dismantling our desire to read the alien? How will we disrupt our desire to be seduced by that which does not seek to seduce in the first place?”
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1,024 is the average number of words per minute a media buyer can speak?

Ron Jeremy was a media buyer before he was an accountant? (This is a different Ron Jeremy.)

Media buyers are born with three kidneys?

After a buyer succeeds at getting a TV station’s advertising sales executive to lower his rate for the 3rd year in a row, the TV sales executive is slaughtered and his head is mounted on the media department’s wall?

Media planners are born with their adult teeth?

“Media buyer” is the third most popular childhood dream job, just after “firefighter” and “money launderer”?

Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone specifically to buy advertising space for his newly-created exercise product IncredibleAbs in the October 10, 1876, issue of People magazine?

Alexander Graham Bell using his newly invented telephone to place an ad in People magazine

Media planners lack an epidermis?

The phrase “I can’t hear myself think” was coined by a woman sitting next to a media buyer on an airplane?

Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin?

The exclamation point and ellipses were first used in print when describing a media buyer?

Are you familiar with other media department facts? Write yours in the comment section below.

When I was three, my mother abandoned me. She  gave me up to become  a stripper at the Clown’s Den in Denver, and then she became a hooker.  When I was five, she  went to prison for solicitation.   That same year, a man molested me  the first time.

About the time my mother left,  my father went to graduate school. That was when I lived with my grandparents.  I called them Mama and Papa Bear. I loved them. They had two Siamese cats, Romeo and Juliet.

I used to wear my grandmother’s silk nightgowns and stand on the balcony outside her bedroom and wait for someone.  Probably I waited for my father  because  I was in love with him.

I used to write notes to an old woman  who lived across the way. I used to play with trucks.

For a long time, my grandmother was the only person to speak to me about my mother. She saved pictures  and other stuff I lost on purpose.  The only thing I wished I had now was a statue my mother made of herself pregnant with me. My father kept it on display in our library for years. The statue  was faceless. And that was what she  was to me.  She could have been anyone.

This past July,  my grandmother had a stroke. And then she had another. She also  developed a blood infection called Merca.

Right now, my grandmother lies in a bed in a nursing home unconscious because they give her morphine for the pain. Half her body is paralyzed and she shits on herself and people who don’t love her  change her diaper.

Where’s the dignity? What kind of life is it?

Back in the day, my grandmother was hotter than Jane Russell. I’ve seen the photos. I always wished I looked like her.

Two years ago I had a  conversation with my grandmother  in which I told her I loved her (again) and then said, “I don’t  want anything to ever happen to you.”  I started sobbing.

Fifty times since her stroke, I’ve wanted to call my grandmother. I’m so afraid lately.

In 2001, I applied to graduate school and nobody—not my parents, not my writing mentors, not my friends—believed I’d get into one of the  most competitive MFA programs in the country.

I opened my “Letter of Intent” with a quote from James Allen. “I think it; therefore it is.”

Simply put, I was  fearless.  But I don’t  know who that person is now or  where she went. Once in a while I feel her  when  I write.  Hard-solid flinches.  Glimpses.

My grandmother  believed I’d get into the MFA program, and when  I did, she  paid for the move from Colorado to Oregon, which was  expensive. On our  way there, my five-year-old son drew with crayons on a notepad and sang with the Backstreet Boys. All you people can’t you see, can’t you see how your love’s affecting our reality?  Every time we’re down you can make it right. And that makes you larger than life.

I thought I’d finish my short story collection before my grandmother died. Here I thought  I had plenty of time. Years I’ve  imagined showing my published collection  to her then  pressing it into her hands.  “I did it, Granny. Thank you.”

I also thought I’d finish my first novel before my grandmother died.

Life since graduate school has been tough.

I didn’t end up where I thought I would.

It’s been years since I thought of  James Allen. Who is he?  A man  who published a book in 1903.

Jim Carrey once said creation required desperation.

Maybe I’ll finish my story collection before my grandmother dies. Depends on how long she decides to go on like this.

Do Something! Do Something! Do Something!, Joseph Riippi‘s debut novel, received some harsh criticism (here, for example). Part of that was due to the fact that, due to its fragmented nature, it apparently lacked character definition and conflict. Another part had to do with the book’s hybrid form between novel and story collection. Now, I didn’t read Do Something! Do Something! Do Something!, so I really can’t judge. But I can tell you this: with both the fragmenting and the genre-mixing, Riippi decided to take it up a level with his next book, The Orange Suitcase.

I read a blog that called The Orange Suitcase a ‘novella of sorts’. The editor who sent it to me called it ‘creative non-fiction’. The announcement on the author’s website calls it a story collection. So what the hell is it? Here’s my two cents: it’s a collection of loosely related literary fragments with a protagonist that shares the writer’s name and partial biography.

What is real and what isn’t? Riippi plays that game with a passion. An example: a lot of the book is about the marriage of the protagonist, and at the end of the book, there’s a picture of the author. Just the author. The caption says: ‘Picture of Joe Riippi with his wife.’

To be called a novella, a book would need a much more defined plot and a lot more character development. To be a story collection – or, rather, a collection of flash fiction pieces, as the fragments are quite short – the pieces, individually, would need more bite.

That’s not to say there are no good bits. For example, ‘Something About Marriage pt. 2’, previously published in PANK, is a really well-written, well-rounded story that can stand on its own but also serves a purpose in the bigger context of the book. And it’s bloody hilarious, too.

Another good one is ‘Something About Someone Else’s Poem’, where an old friend emails the protagonist/author a poem. Instead of commenting on the poem, or replying at all, he opens a beer and sits down to write something himself. Because he just doesn’t want to go to bed without ‘getting something done’. He writes something, deletes it, rewrites, redeletes and ponders the word ‘redelete’. He is completely stuck as a line from the friend’s poem keeps going through his head: “I am the right man for the job.”

It is a painfully clear picture of what being a writer is about. As life passes you by, you sit alone at night at your kitchen table drinking. Unable to do what needs to be done, but also unable to just go to bed and call it a day. And, through it all, you are sure you are ‘the right man for the job’. Style-wise, it feels like Bukowski without the bragging.

Or, what about the dazzling imagery and latent sadness of ‘Something About Swimming With Sea Turtles’ (previously published on Everyday Genius). Or ‘Something About Remembering A Couch Or A Person’, which is a prose poem if I ever saw one.

On many occasions, though, Riippi’s prose is beautifully lucid and his images are great and skillfully painted but they don’t take us anywhere. For example, in ‘Something About Borges and the Blind in Chelsea’, he writes: “I’d like to know what a Borges story feels like. I’d like to know what the word goosebumps feels like.” Now, that all sounds very poetic and deep, but what does it tell us, really? In the same story, Riippi has a dream about blind people wanting to beat him to death with their walking sticks. I’d say a writer would need a pretty good excuse to put something like that in a book—the same goes for a fragment of an unpublished novel. Yet, that’s what’s in ‘Something About The Unpublished and Unfinished Novels’.

Sometimes, even Riippi’s fluid, pleasantly casual style forsakes him, resulting in ‘Something About Drinking In Baton Rouge’, a rather bloodless anecdote, and ‘An Exchange’, a dialogue fragment with musings about love and art that just don’t do it for me.

It feels as if Riippi, as a writer, makes things just a little bit to easy for himself. The Orange Suitcase is autobiographical enough not to require too much imagination, but the suggestion of fiction relieves the author’s obligation to be precise. The fragmented, loose form can be a legitimate literary tool but it is also a convenient excuse for not building a strong storyline. The man can write, but he needs to shape up and stop hiding behind his literary tricks.

Joseph Riippi, The Orange Suitcase, Ampersand Books, 118 p., coming in March 2011

—

P. Jonas Bekker is a writer and a poet from the Netherlands.

Do Something! Do Something! Do Something!, Joseph Riippi‘s debut novel, received some harsh criticism (here, for example). Part of that was due to the fact that, due to its fragmented nature, it apparently lacked character definition and conflict. Another part had to do with the book’s hybrid form between novel and story collection. Now, I didn’t read Do Something! Do Something! Do Something!, so I really can’t judge. But I can tell you this: with both the fragmenting and the genre-mixing, Riippi decided to take it up a level with his next book, The Orange Suitcase.

I read a blog that called The Orange Suitcase a ‘novella of sorts’. The editor who sent it to me called it ‘creative non-fiction’. The announcement on the author’s website calls it a story collection. So what the hell is it? Here’s my two cents: it’s a collection of loosely related literary fragments with a protagonist that shares the writer’s name and partial biography.

What is real and what isn’t? Riippi plays that game with a passion. An example: a lot of the book is about the marriage of the protagonist, and at the end of the book, there’s a picture of the author. Just the author. The caption says: ‘Picture of Joe Riippi with his wife.’

To be called a novella, a book would need a much more defined plot and a lot more character development. To be a story collection – or, rather, a collection of flash fiction pieces, as the fragments are quite short – the pieces, individually, would need more bite.

That’s not to say there are no good bits. For example, ‘Something About Marriage pt. 2’, previously published in PANK, is a really well-written, well-rounded story that can stand on its own but also serves a purpose in the bigger context of the book. And it’s bloody hilarious, too.

Another good one is ‘Something About Someone Else’s Poem’, where an old friend emails the protagonist/author a poem. Instead of commenting on the poem, or replying at all, he opens a beer and sits down to write something himself. Because he just doesn’t want to go to bed without ‘getting something done’. He writes something, deletes it, rewrites, redeletes and ponders the word ‘redelete’. He is completely stuck as a line from the friend’s poem keeps going through his head: “I am the right man for the job.”

It is a painfully clear picture of what being a writer is about. As life passes you by, you sit alone at night at your kitchen table drinking. Unable to do what needs to be done, but also unable to just go to bed and call it a day. And, through it all, you are sure you are ‘the right man for the job’. Style-wise, it feels like Bukowski without the bragging.

Or, what about the dazzling imagery and latent sadness of ‘Something About Swimming With Sea Turtles’ (previously published on Everyday Genius). Or ‘Something About Remembering A Couch Or A Person’, which is a prose poem if I ever saw one.

On many occasions, though, Riippi’s prose is beautifully lucid and his images are great and skillfully painted but they don’t take us anywhere. For example, in ‘Something About Borges and the Blind in Chelsea’, he writes: “I’d like to know what a Borges story feels like. I’d like to know what the word goosebumps feels like.” Now, that all sounds very poetic and deep, but what does it tell us, really? In the same story, Riippi has a dream about blind people wanting to beat him to death with their walking sticks. I’d say a writer would need a pretty good excuse to put something like that in a book—the same goes for a fragment of an unpublished novel. Yet, that’s what’s in ‘Something About The Unpublished and Unfinished Novels’.

Sometimes, even Riippi’s fluid, pleasantly casual style forsakes him, resulting in ‘Something About Drinking In Baton Rouge’, a rather bloodless anecdote, and ‘An Exchange’, a dialogue fragment with musings about love and art that just don’t do it for me.

It feels as if Riippi, as a writer, makes things just a little bit to easy for himself. The Orange Suitcase is autobiographical enough not to require too much imagination, but the suggestion of fiction relieves the author’s obligation to be precise. The fragmented, loose form can be a legitimate literary tool but it is also a convenient excuse for not building a strong storyline. The man can write, but he needs to shape up and stop hiding behind his literary tricks.

Joseph Riippi, The Orange Suitcase, Ampersand Books, 118 p., coming in March 2011

—

P. Jonas Bekker is a writer and a poet from the Netherlands.

Paula Bomer is interviewed by Gian DiTrapano for Vice. Go buy her book, Baby, which is a must read book.

J. Bradley has words in Camroc Press Review.

Spork features fiction from Jac Jemc.

Aaron Burch offers up A Prayer for a Babe on On Earth As It Is.

The 2 River Review includes poetry from Nicholas Ripatrazone.

Jimmy Chen fails better at Failbetter.

Fresh From God, by Ethel Rohan is up at Hot Metal Bridge. This story is part of Ethel’s collection, Hard to Say, which will be released by PANK in 2011.

Firebox fiction from Matthew Salesses is up at Night Train.

Prick of the Spindle has writing from Donna Vitucci, Corey Mesler, Jim Valvis, Carrie Murphy, and others.

New flash fiction from Michelle Reale and Ryan Ridge.

The latest issue of Weave includes Eric Burke, Feng Sun Chen, Beth Thomas, and others.

Todd McKie writes about Uncle Robert at Staccato Fiction.

In the Catalonian Review, Salvatore Pane, George Moore, and James Valvis.

Heel by Brian Kubarycz is live at Everyday Genius.

At the Eunoia Review, a little something from Laura LeHew. She is joined by SJ Fowler, twice, three, no four times, and more.

The Winter 2011 issue of Moon Milk Review includes fiction from Michelle Valois and Andrew Roe.

Len Kuntz’a Backyard is the featured story at Matchbook.

At Wigleaf, a short short story from Sean Lovelace.

Future Tense Books is publishing Jamie Iredell’s Book of Freaks, which is now available to order. You’re going to love this book. What’ I’ve read of it is awesome.

Read this interview with Ethel Rohan at The Story Prize blog.

At Smokelong this week, a new issue with work from Andrea Kneeland, Aubrey Hirsch, Ravi Mangla,Jen Michalski, and others.

Paula Bomer is interviewed by Gian DiTrapano for Vice. Go buy her book, Baby, which is a must read book.

J. Bradley has words in Camroc Press Review.

Spork features fiction from Jac Jemc.

Aaron Burch offers up A Prayer for a Babe on On Earth As It Is.

The 2 River Review includes poetry from Nicholas Ripatrazone.

Jimmy Chen fails better at Failbetter.

Fresh From God, by Ethel Rohan is up at Hot Metal Bridge. This story is part of Ethel’s collection, Hard to Say, which will be released by PANK in 2011.

Firebox fiction from Matthew Salesses is up at Night Train.

Prick of the Spindle has writing from Donna Vitucci, Corey Mesler, Jim Valvis, Carrie Murphy, and others.

New flash fiction from Michelle Reale and Ryan Ridge.

The latest issue of Weave includes Eric Burke, Feng Sun Chen, Beth Thomas, and others.

Todd McKie writes about Uncle Robert at Staccato Fiction.

In the Catalonian Review, Salvatore Pane, George Moore, and James Valvis.

Heel by Brian Kubarycz is live at Everyday Genius.

At the Eunoia Review, a little something from Laura LeHew. She is joined by SJ Fowler, twice, three, no four times, and more.

The Winter 2011 issue of Moon Milk Review includes fiction from Michelle Valois and Andrew Roe.

Len Kuntz’a Backyard is the featured story at Matchbook.

At Wigleaf, a short short story from Sean Lovelace.

Future Tense Books is publishing Jamie Iredell’s Book of Freaks, which is now available to order. You’re going to love this book. What’ I’ve read of it is awesome.

Read this interview with Ethel Rohan at The Story Prize blog.

At Smokelong this week, a new issue with work from Andrea Kneeland, Aubrey Hirsch, Ravi Mangla,Jen Michalski, and others.

This week’s Last Words comes a couple days earlier and is a holiday double feature! Here are two endings from Jalal Toufic; one from The Withdrawal of Tradition Past a Surpassing Disaster, the other from Graziella, both of which are available for download here on Toufic’s very generous website.

From Aaron Kunin’s introduction to his interview with Toufic in Rain Taxi:

“Most things that are strange are actually strange in a fairly predictable way–e.g., ‘You’re different from me, but I understand you completely; I know exactly what you’re going to say.’ Jalal Toufic, who is, in his own description, ‘a writer, film theorist, and video artist,’ writes books that really are different from anything else I’ve encountered. To say, for example, that they’re about film or dance would distort the way in which they’re engaged with—or obsessed with—these subjects. To say that they’re about politics or psychology would require forgetting their fundamental disengagement from politics as it is usually practiced, and from conventional accounts of consciousness. To say that they’re autobiographical would be missing the point: they’re about death and undeath as well as life.”

Toufic describes himself as “a thinker and a mortal to death.”

I think the first book of his that I read was Undeserving Lebanon, which I loved, with all its vampires, its ruminations on the stage directions for the ghost in Hamlet (“Enter the Ghost, Exit the Ghost”), its omnivorous and digressive wanderings around Thomas Bernhard, Hitchcock, Tarkovsky, David Lynch, Alain Resnais, Gaspar Noa, Diamanda Galas, Rabih Mroua, Raphael, Nietzsche, the Bible, Artaud, post-war Lebanon, the 1982 invasion of Lebanon, Egyptian and Syrian war prisoners, the multiple arrests, imprisonments and tortures of Riad al-Turk; there’s much more, I’m being spare and neglectful. His books have a totally singular way of engaging with disaster, with all forms of the undead and undeath: with zombie martyrs, with massacre and evil (even Evil), with blood and death, with ghosts and vampires and mortality, with the human and inhuman; with real haunted people, haunted places, haunted things.

A conversation from Undeserving Lebanon goes: “My favorite films all belong to the horror genre. What’s your favorite film?”— Hiroshima mon amour —it is the only zombie film I care about.”
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Metazen is releasing a Christmas e-book to microfinance a small business through Kiva. Consider making a donation and on Christmas Day, you’ll receive this awesome e-book with writing from all the writers listed above.

One of the joys of being a writer is buying things to make us better writers. For some this involves treating themselves to a latte, an iPad, or—in my current case—a writing chair. The couch and bed have trumped my desk for the past six months because I dumped my ratty desk chair that kept dropping screws. I have had my eye out for the perfect replacement since. While perusing Craigslist today, I scouted some strong contenders:

The Here’s a Lady Chair with a classy asking price of $50.

•     •     •

The Vintage Chair With Cushion chair at a modest  $50.

•     •     •

The Wine Barrel Chair on Wheels for $99.

The wine barrel chair is actually swanky; I’d consider it if it didn’t remind me of my great uncle’s dungeon office from the late ’80s.

All ad titles were written by their sellers, which reminds me— one of my dream jobs is to write item descriptions for Craigslist and eBay.

What creature comforts do you need to make yourself a productive writer?