A Brief Intermission

It's easy to sidetrack me. Over the last few Christmases, I have asked for the latest volume of BASS. I can't help but dive into the introduction to see what the guest editor has to say about the state of the short story, their opinion on literature in general, and of course, "the times we live in…". The editor for The BASS 2025 is Celeste Ng. In her introduction, Celeste does a fine job of detailing her story selection process as well as listing a few details about each story. I decided to place this little intermission into this project, interrupting the reading of the 1993 volume, because Celeste does a fine job of reminding us about the importance of reading fiction (the importance of reading short stories will be in another Intermission, which will feature interview excerpts with the previous BASS series editor Heidi Pitlor).

 

Below you will find Celeste's thoughts about reading fiction as they were published in BASS 2025. The disinformation portion is quite important, but please pay attention to her thoughts on empathy and emotional truths. There's a lot of that missing in our time.        

 

 

Reading fiction matters immensely, especially right now.

 

This is surely not news to you, but we're living in an era of disinformation, in which knowingly false stories—or to put it more bluntly, lies—are purposefully deployed to manipulate others, usually for the benefit of a select few. 2024 is hardly the first year this has happened (and sadly, it surely won't be the last), but this past year we've seen incredibly clearly the real-world effects disinformation can have. I'm reluctant to repeat any of the complete falsehoods that have spread on social media and in the real world alike, often from people in positions of power, but I suspect I don't need to give you examples. If you lived through this year, and the past few years, you already know that the space between reality and fantasy has become increasingly blurred in many people's minds-and to many, the distinction may not even feel important anymore.

 

So why should we still read fiction in a time of lies? If "alternative facts" are running rampant, isn't the antidote (real) facts, rather than made-up stories? Aren't made-up stories part of how we got into this mess?

 

Facts and verifiable data are immensely important-and I'm deeply grateful to those who work to counter false claims with real information. But I'd also argue that that's only one front in the battle. Research shows, again and again, that a single personal story is more likely to change a person's mind than any amount of statistics.

 

Obviously, this doesn't mean that when you read a story, you'll suddenly find yourself in agreement with its characters or author-stories are not magic spells, and I'm not saying that just reading short stories will save the world, either. But stories build our empathy by asking us to imagine what it's like to be in someone else's position, thinking their thoughts and feeling their feelings. Unlike disinformation, a short story tells you up front that it is fiction, and when you know it's all just pretend, you're often more willing to play along: Okay, sure, I'll step into this world, it's just fifteen or twenty pages, and it's all pretend anyway... It's like taking a weekend trip to a place you've never been and aren't sure if you'll like, but hey—it's only a weekend, right?

 

At the end, though—assuming the story's done its job-this made-up story will have allowed you to access an emotional truth. Facts may tap politely at the prefrontal cortex, appealing to your rational brain, but fiction snakes its way into your limbic system and nests deep in your emotions. By skirting all the rational barriers we hunker behind, sometimes fiction can reach us in a more visceral way. And in doing so, short stories in particular can act like little tuning forks, helping us to clarify our own values—then allowing us to bring ourselves into alignment with what we believe. In a time when our values are being tested daily, it's hard to think of anything more important.

 

The Struggle

 

Writing is hard. I'll write it again…writing is hard. Writing now is hard. Readers of this blog – and that is written with the assumption that I have "readers" are, at this point, probably pretty exhausted with reading about my struggles with maintaining a steady writing habit here. I believe I use these few lines about the pains as a sort of runway to get the post off the ground. It's a simple, clear runway that I can return to easily. There are other runways, but at this time, I'll use it until I get better at taking off from other runways.

Another runway I like to use is the mention of how happy I am to read (insert author's name here) again. In this case, we'll use Updike. I usually refer readers to the anthology spreadsheet linked on the side of this page to see how many times I have written about Updike or when we will encounter him again.

So, in this struggle of writing, I am exercising the ability to write and…think. At least, that's what I'm told is happening. And in exercising these two skills, I am supposed to get better at them. Rather than being told what to think, there is a bit of independent thought happening as I poke at the keys. My thoughts are supposed to develop, and the ability to convey those thoughts through writing is also supposed to improve.

At least, that's what everyone tells me… and I tell everyone else.

I guess we'll have to see about that. Perhaps all this will stave off the mental decline that awaits us as the years tick past. (This whole BASS exercise will be a great way to track my ups and downs of the reading/thinking/writing skill, I suppose). I do think this is an impressive collection for me to reflect upon someday, and perhaps this line of thought that I seem to be dwelling upon at this moment is appropriate when reflecting on Updike's story.

Encountering Updike at the beginning of BASS 1993 was a surprise as I glanced over the table of contents on the back cover. The stories are usually ordered alphabetically by the author's last name in the anthology. The last time this order was disrupted was by John Gardner in 1982.  

1993's editor, Louise Erdrich, explains in her introduction:

"I wanted to play with the order so that I could set off the strengths of each piece. The collection begins with the most evocative first paragraph, which I think belongs to John Updike's "Playing with Dynamite," an unostentatious, painful, faultless story about a crack in the ice, a marriage and a man's entry into the uneven, reality of old age."

Wow – "unostentatious, painful, faultless" – an impressive collection of three words, and then the placement of the story at the beginning of the anthology – quite the honor.

As I prepared this morning to sit and write about this story, I glanced at the first paragraph, fully prepared to skim it, and then skim the rest of the story to refresh my memory and then get into writing about it. After a quick skim and moving onto the second page, I realized that I hadn't read this story yet and that, luckily, I had some time to read it this morning before moving into the writing phase. The story quickly absorbed me as I found it relatable, and interestingly, when I came to the part of the story describing the destruction of the bird's nest, I realized that I had already encountered this story. I can only imagine reading it in an Updike collection several years ago, but it was interesting that this portion of the story triggered my memory. Surprisingly, it wasn't the mention of old age or sex that stuck with me; it was the birds. I'll have to unpack that over the next few days.

In any case, I was generally satisfied with this story, as it squared nicely with what I have come to enjoy about Updike's writing, what he submits to The New Yorker, and what they choose to publish.

In the Contributor's notes at the back of the volume, Updike writes that this particular story was written on request from the new editor of The New Yorker. He said it was a woman, so I can conclude it was Tina Brown.

Updike writes – "Flattered silly, I pawed through the slips of paper on which I jot down story ideas, often just the titles, and came upon this title. One thing led to another, as I sat at the word processor, most of them having to do with the sensations and hallucinations of late middle age. I have written about aging, doddery, nostalgic American men whose names begin with "F" before, and let loosely related incidents weave their way around a central theme, or bitter fact, before; but the recipe seemed to produce a warmer, richer dish than usual here — at least its presence in this collection encourages me to think so. Life is an adventure, all right, from beginning to end, but life after sixty is a part of the tale that perhaps is more eagerly told than heard. It is the young we love, in print as on the silver screen, as they play with the dynamite of mating. For some time, I have noticed, my heroes seem older than I feel to myself, as if, lacking sex appeal to make them dramatic, they are cozying up to death."

I chose to include this passage from the Notes section as it hit me harder than the story. The "hit" is the relatable message that is conveyed by Updike. Sure, it was there in the story, but to read the message without it being deciphered caused me to re-read and rub the thick pages of the anthology between my thumb and index finger a few more minutes before setting the book aside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Best American Short Stories 1993 - Introduction and Contents

 

I rub my dry hands across the thick paper cover of this volume. Its bright yellow cover with orange, blue, and black writing stares back at me, laughing, daring me to ignore it over the next many days, weeks, months, and years that it might take me to finish.

I give this physical book a voice as my hand passes over it. The callouses on my palms act as phonograph needles scraping against the woven pattern of the cover. The pages blow air back at my face as my thumb runs down the side. I hear its voice. Perhaps it’s the collective voice of the authors, the stories, the characters all begging me to discover them again.

With physical objects like this book, I often wonder about the journey it has been on before it landed in my hands. What shelves did it grace? Where did it travel from? How long did it sit with other books in a box in my basement before being pulled for reading? Giving a bit of life to these books allows the development of a relationship with them. Could that be the reason why I spend so long carrying them around?

Over the last sixteen years of this project, various volumes of this collection have moved with me from home to work, room to room in a house, state to state, sheltered from the elements and exposed, and have been a burden physically and psychologically as they have accompanied me through some of the most important years of my life. Am I heaping too much weight on these books? Perhaps. However, their influence on me and the lessons they impart have been something that I value and cherish, and I will endeavor to continue to write about their influence.

BASS 1993

As Katrina Kenison writes in the Forward of this volume, as the BASS Series Editor, the stories for this collection’s anthology were originally published between January 1992 and January 1993. As I do when reading these books, I’ll often try to remember that year, psychically place myself back in that year, and approach the story with that mind. My present mind will creep into thoughts about the story, which is part of this exercise’s magic.

Louise Erdrich is the editor of this volume, and we’ve encountered her twice before. Her story “Scales” was selected for inclusion in the 1983 BASS collection, and her story “Snares” appeared in the 1988 volume.

We’ll get a chance to hear her voice again in the 2003, 2015, and 2016 BASS collections.

I’d like to highlight a point that Erdrich makes in her introduction.

“Usually these collections are structured alphabetically, according to author. I wanted to play with the order so that I could set off the strengths of each piece. The collection begins with the most evocative first paragraph which I think belongs to John Updike’s “Playing with Dynamite,” an unostentatious, painful, faultless story about a crack in the ice, a marriage, and a man’s entry into the uneven reality of old age. I’m also pleased that Mr. Updike should for once appear first since he is usually last by alphabet in this collection.”

At this moment of writing, I can’t recall any guest editor placing the stories in anything but alphabetical by the author's last name since John Gardener’s selections for the 1982 BASS.

I should note here that that collection was one of, if not my favorite, BASS.

 

Additionally, John Updike is a favorite of mine, and to have him kick off the volume, I feel, sets me up for success… perhaps Erdrich gives us a little treat by providing some rhythm to this collection – in what would usually just be a composition decided by our alphabet.

Erdrich does mention the “New Yorker” story “issues” with these collections, and I suppose at this point in my introduction, I should note that there are eight stories from The New Yorker, and coming in second would be two stories from Harper’s.

I can’t say that discovering where the story was originally published has had any sort of impact on my feelings about the story – but I will say that the availability of The New Yorker as a publication that prints great short fiction has kept the fire of interest in this art alive for me. I felt I should mention this as I have commented on it before, and Erdrich took the time to mention it.

Here are the contents as listed on the back cover of the volume and as they appear in this volume.

Playing With Dynamite - John Updike - The New Yorker

The Girl On The Plane - Mary Gaitskill - Mirabella

A Real Life - Alice Munro - The New Yorker

Silent Passengers - Larry Woiwode - The New Yorker

Queen Wintergreen - Alice Fulton - Triquarterly

The Man Who Rowed Christopher Columbus Ashore - Harlan Ellison - Omni

Poltergeists - Jane Shapiro - The New Yorker

Red Moccasins - Susan Power - Story

I Want To Live! - Thom Jones - Harper's

Charlotte - Tony Earley - Harper's

What The Thunder Said - Janet Peery - Black Warrior Review

Naked Ladies – Antonia Nelson - The New Yorker

Man, Woman And Boy - Stephen Dixon - Western Humanities Review

Winter Barley - Andrea Lee - The New Yorker

Concerning Mold Upon The Skin, Etc. - Joanna Scott - Antæus

Pray Without Ceasing - Wendell Berry - Southern Review

Gold - Kim Edwards - Antæus

Great Barrier Reef - Diane Johnson - The New Yorker

Terrific Mother - Lorrie Moore - The Paris Review

The Important Houses - Mary Gordon - The New Yorker

So…I suppose we should start the clock!

Stop the Clock

On February 20, 2020, I typed “Start the clock” when I introduced BASS 1992.

I also wrote this line: “I've written several times about the various stages of my life, and here we are at another. It'll be very interesting to see what develops”.

Here we are

4 years, 11 months, 4 days

Or

1800 days later, and I can finally close the cover on this volume, Finally.

There is simply too much to write about concerning developments in our lives over the past 1800 days, so I’ll just have to revisit this post someday and reflect on our lives from 2020 until 2025. I will say, though, that the highs (good things) vastly outweighed the lows (bad things) over the five years, and I consider us very fortunate in that sense.

Can’t say that I gave the volume a fair shake. I could have easily finished the volume in 20 days if I read and written about a story every day until completion. One month if I took the weekends off.  

No, I had to take 1800 days.

Running into some old friends – JCO, DFW, and Tobias Wolff was great. 

I’ll remember where I was in July 2024 when I read DFW. Where I was in January 2023 when I read JCO, the one story I read in 2022, Community Life by Lorrie Moore, Emergency by Denis Johnson in January 2021, and Days of Heaven by Rick Bass in June 2020 – when the world was very interesting.

So, onward with life and reading. 1993 awaits us. 

Firelight – Tobias Wolff

 

I haven’t started recommending authors yet to my oldest son, and I believe that I could be coming in late on this move…can’t recall if my father recommended books/authors to me when I was my son’s age, but I feel that if I’m going to start attempting to lay down some examples for him, now would be a great time. We are working at nurturing a book-reading habit in them, but now perhaps would be a good time to stoke his interest in reading by offering suggestions of writers that I think he might enjoy.

As I’ve written over the years, this series has opened my eyes, heart, and mind to authors I am sure I would have never come across on my own. Of course, I will offer my copies up to the boys to read in a couple of years, but now, perhaps I’ll just stick with authors that I think they might find enjoyable.

Tobias Wolff is, without question, a writer that I’d recommend to my sons. I’ve had the chance to comment on his stories a number of times on this platform, and I always find comfort in turning the page and seeing that his story is next up.

A 2004 interview with him in the Paris Review, which I wrote about here back in 2011, gave meaning to this BASS project, and I’ve returned to his thoughts about reading and writing over the years.

Looking over my spreadsheet, I see we won’t encounter Wolff again until the 1997 BASS. He’ll surface again in 2006 and then again in 2008. Given my reading habits, I’m not necessarily pleased with the space between his stories – but that’s on me.

A part of Wolff’s short stories that I always look forward to usually lands in the last few paragraphs of the last page, and in this story, “Firelight,” Wolff delivers again.

“I watch the fire, watch the changing light on the faces of my family. I try to feel at home. And I do, mostly. It is a sweet time. But in the very heart of it I catch myself bracing a little, as if in fear of being tricked. As if to really believe in it somehow make it vanish, like a voice waking me from sleep.”

I enjoyed this story as it provided me with an interesting look at a young man’s relationship with his mother. It allowed me to step into a fictional character and gain a different perspective on a mother/son relationship.

And that, right there, is why reading fiction and short stories is so important.

In his contributor’s notes at the back of this issue, Wolff states, “The origins of my stories are always hard for me to pin down because the act of writing them inevitably tangles history and imagination in a way impossible for me to untangle later on.”

With that statement, we can see that a bit of fact might always seep into fiction – perhaps just enough at the right time to give us (perceive) that perspective we would not be afforded if we did not read the story…and become that boy.

 

The Golden Darters - Elizabeth Winthrop

 

Before I dive into this wonderful little story, I’ll do what I always seem to do in these entries and wander down a path that has absolutely nothing to do with the intended (I don’t think I ever actually outright concretely stated) purpose of this multi-year long exercise in reading and writing.

I spend much too much time online – in front of a screen. Today, as I was writing a post to share on a particular social media platform, I noticed that in the space where I was to paste my written content, a prompt offered to assist me in writing the “content” with the help of AI. For some reason, today, that hit hard. I have been reading and listening to people who are smarter than me discuss how AI and generative AI can stunt/damage a human’s ability to write – and possibly, as a result, to think. I need to do more reading on this validity, but I am leaning toward understanding and believing that this is true. As I sit and write this, the ideas flow from my brain onto the screen in a Word document. I am also fully aware that these words will probably be sucked into a LLM for training purposes. Perhaps it’ll be used to develop a personalized AI assistant for me that will be marketed to me someday, and they will take this chunk of content and use it to “sell” it to me.

Perhaps I am lucky that I experienced the written word and the ability to write without the taint of AI invading my thoughts. Will my children, though? Will they have the opportunity to suffer over written sheets of paper, struggling for the right combination of words to effectively communicate their feelings, such as I am doing now? Or will they select from a library of prompts that will generate a set of sentences allowing the reader to attempt to understand what they are feeling?  The in-person meeting, free of digital devices, might one day…or perhaps, it’s even now, the only authentic form of transmitting thoughts and ideas to one another. It’s not hard to find reports of the damage that these digital words have inflicted on the humanness of humans.

Looking back on our lives, perhaps we can remember that coming-of-age moment or a rebellion against control.

Perhaps the moment or act was something subtle and peaceful beneath the surface of everyday life over an extended period.

Perhaps the moment or act came crashing all at once, forever altering our lives, violent, hurtful.

Perhaps we had more than one moment that occurred during different stages of our lives.

Perhaps that coming-of-age moment hit at 40…or 50…buying that shiny red Corvette or finally getting that tattoo.

These moments can be quite impactful not only for us but also for those that we surround ourselves with.

They can change how others view us, perhaps for a moment…or forever moving forward.

 These transformations, these moments, these acts of rebellion are special – they make us human; they allow us to evolve, grow, and mature.

They bring forth the crazy electrical connections inside our squishy grey brains struggling to help us function in this shared reality.  

 

 

 

Under the Roof – Kate Wheeler

 

It happens, of course – After realizing, through reading hundreds of these stories over the past sixteen years, that not every story will deliver…something…anything. It took some time to realize this – but then again, how would I have known?

I sat with his story for some time and contemplated its message, just as the monk in the story considered his position in the space he occupied. It concerns me to some extent that perhaps there is part of me that would have quickly picked up on the message at one time, but now, after having my brain soaked in the digital waters, I have forgotten how to breathe oxygen. I struggled with the length of the selection, something that may not have been an issue a few years ago, but then again, Wheeler confesses that she too felt that “I’d come to believe that it was too slow, too long and serious.”

The time stamp on this post accurately reflects when I gave the story its most serious consideration, and even though I did first read it several months ago, I took the time to skim it over once again…giving it a mild second chance.

I approached my considerations from a few angles – as an expat, someone who has always found Buddhism interesting, the male/female relationship, and family relations (extending into step-family members).

I finally had to resign from a post stating that “Under the Roof,” and I couldn’t find common ground.

Forever Overhead - David Foster Wallace

 

I remember February 20, 2020, picking up the BASS 1992 anthology, flipping it over to read the list of authors collected, and seeing DFW's name listed. As I slowly worked my way through this collection, each story arriving before me through a very interesting period of my family's life (nothing scandalous…just a move and the growth of children), each story, of course, was colored by what I was going through at that moment. It's taken me 1610 days to reach the story and finally write about it.

I was excited to read it but intimidated to write about it. 

I mean, it's DFW – so much has been written about this guy, and he continues to draw love and hate from the lit world. My encounters with him have been mostly positive. I bring him up in conversations at least a couple of times a year, and his famous commencement speech/book has caused me to become more empathetic in traffic and grocery lines.

This story hit at the right time. Getting here has been a long slog, but it aligned perfectly, as far as I can tell. The story was enjoyable, and some passages hit home. It's a fast read that pulls you in.

I've mentioned before that I find the contributor's notes of this anthology so rewarding, and this is another that I feel delivers.

As the months drifted past between my first thoughts about this story and my thoughts about commenting on his Contributor’s notes, I decided to place them below and leave them – without spoiling them with my amateur musings.

His reflections are fun and very different from most BASS anthologies' notes. If they weren’t…I suppose I’d have more to say about it.

I was happy to have this insight into the story and again grateful that these little windows into the writers exist.  

 

 

DAVID FOSTER WALLACE is the author of a novel, The Broom of the System; a story collection, Girl with Curious Hair; and, with Mark Costello, a book-length essay on race and music called Signifying Rappers. He lives in Boston and is at this very moment restructuring his whole c.v. around inclusion in this anthology.

 

• This is a bit embarrassing, and I'd rather not discuss it, but will, since certain authorities have been polite but firm about these little post-story discussions being strongly encouraged, and I'd probably submit with cheer to way more embarrassing requirements if it meant getting the old snout into the B.A.S.S. trough.

 

The embarrassing issue here is I'm not all that crazy about this story. It's one of very few autobiographically implicated things I've ever tried. I did, like probably lots of kids, have a high-dive trauma. My real trauma was much more plain-old-sphincter-loosening-fear-based than the existential conundra this story's kid encounters. I basically got to the top, with a long line of jaded souls behind me, and changed my mind about going off. It was excruciatingly shaming, but in no way deeply or exceptionally shaming. I think it wasn't the memory of the shame so much as current shame that allowed so pedestrian a shame still to haunt my esteem-centers, prompting me to make the story so heavy, meditative, image-laden, swinging for the fence on just about every pitch. The thing seems to me a performative index of every weakness I have as a writer and as a person. And God knows why I let my desire for an Alienated Narrative Persona lead me to use the second-person point of view; now I'm scared people will read this and think I'm just a McInerney imitator in a black turtleneck, a copy of Kierkegaard under my arm.

The thing went through dozens of drafts, the first of which still sits in the pages of my undergraduate "Stories That'll Prove I'm a Genius" notebook. I went to grad school in Tucson, which is where I guess the thing picked up its setting: you can't spit in Tucson without hitting a pool, though darn few are public like this one is public.

I completely deny ever once kissing any part of my sister's feet at any time whatsoever.

I'm noticing that, with respect to any piece of fiction, my dissatisfaction with the final draft is directly proportional to the excitement that precedes the first draft. I remember doing the tortured artist thing back in school, all ego and caffeine, and thinking I had a genuine Big Idea for this story here, and seeing it finished, Big, published, lauded as Important by bearded titans. This was before I even bothered to start to try writing the thing. I preconceived it as deeply moving and imposingly cerebral at the same time, at once tender-psyche'd and tough-minded, just the sort of thing Eminences would pluck out of the glabrous herd by choosing for a prestigious anthology. By the second draft, my head was more or less permanently attached to the wall I'd been pounding it on. In black-lit contrast to the timelessly Big thing I'd preconceived, the actual ink-on-paper story seemed pretentious and trendy and jejune and any number of bad things: it seemed like the product of a young writer who was ashamed of a personal trauma and who was straining with every fast-twitch fiber to make that trauma sound way deeper and prettier and Big than anything true could ever really be. And here I mean "true" both artistically and historically.

I don't know why I kept putting the thing through drafts. I kept getting late-night twinges of that original preconceptual excitement. I kept seeing the thing as maybe just one image or two epiphanies away from blossoming, from honoring its entelechy of Bigness. Six years and many other completed projects later, I sent this story out in the old brown envelope. I sent it out for the same reason most young writers I know send stuff out: to have an excuse to quit thinking about it. My surprise when Fiction International took the thing was nothing compared to my feelings about the august endorsement that occasions this wordy little confession. Do not get me wrong: qualms about the story's failure to be anything more than a lumpy ghost of what I remain convinced was its initial promise of Bigness have not inhibited me from calling pretty much everybody I know and casually working in the B.A.S.S.-selection news. I'm extremely and yet of course also humbly grateful and moved and etc. I'm just coming to realize that I have very little personal clue about whether the stuff I do is good or bad or successful or not successful* which like most bits of self-knowledge is both mortifying and kind of a relief. It makes me glad I have opinionated critical friends and politely firm editors, not necessarily in that order.

 *Is "successful" the same as "good," here? Does inclusion in B.A.S.S. render a story de facto "good" the way a human reverend's pronouncement effects a legally binding union?

 

The Way People Run – Christopher Tilghman

 

When I was reading and writing here more frequently, I remember the feeling when the story delivered a surprise. I’m not talking about something within the story…but usually some odd connection that comes through something in the story or, in the case of this story, information about the author.

Pulling up his Wikipedia page, I learned that Christopher Tilghman served three years in the Navy. The page also provides a link to a story that appeared in the Virginia Quarterly Review in the Spring of 1986. The story titled Norfolk, 1969, describes Norfolk in such a way that he had to have spent some time in my old city. What a pleasant surprise to read about neighborhoods, streets, and places I knew so well. Pulled a little at my heartstrings. We’ve been out of Norfolk for more than a couple of years, and this time has allowed memories to reappear – good and bad. Of course, the digital world brings images and friends from Norfolk to me daily, but I’ve found that more personal feelings and emotions are being stirred. I miss Norfolk – not enough to return permanently, but the city where I spent most of my life is still part of me.   

 

The Way People Run was first published in the New Yorker on September 9, 1991. In September 1991, I was just beginning my sophomore year at Norwich. I think the strongest memory from that time was hearing Nirvana for the first time on our college radio station and blasting the Pearl Jam CD from my roommate's stereo system. My sophomore year was a huge difference from my freshman year, and we had a great time.

I’ve always felt that stories published in The New Yorker had a certain “feel” to them, and this, too, has that “feel.”

My introduction to BASS 1981 where Hortense Calisher describes the typical New Yorker story – and I believe, that 10 years later, in 1991, her assessment holds up.

“Perhaps this is a good place to talk about the “typical” New Yorker short story, since the proportion of my inclusions from that magazine will give pain to some. There is no typical one, really, but I can describe what people think it is: a story of suburbia or other middle-class to “upper” milieu, which exists to record the delicate observation of the small fauna, terrors, and fatuities of a domestic existence, sometimes leveled in with a larger terror—a death, say, or a mortal disease—so that we may respond to the seamlessness of life, and of the recorder’s style. To move on casually from these stories, as we often do, is a guilt, since they are as often, if subduedly, about the guilt of moving on. Muted response is the virtue. Never break out.”

I’m excited though to see how her assessment holds up in 2001, 2011 and 2021!

Down a little side path here – I haven’t read New Yorker fiction in quite some time…I also feel that there has been a shift in the New Yorker where what they publish isn’t of interest to me anymore. I think I’m still part of their targeted readership?!

Back in the main path – in the Contributor’s Notes at the back of the volume, Tilghman states that he “composed “The Way People Run” as a collage of visual images I have collected on the northern Plains.”

I immediately felt this composition when first reading this story, before turning to the back of the book and him laying it out in his notes.

I can’t stress enough how much I appreciate these anthologies' Contributor’s Notes section. They provide such insight into the author, and like their short stories, I feel that they work hard to really provide a rich, detailed look into the author’s mind around the time of inclusion in the anthology and perhaps a reflection of where they were (in their heads) when they wrote the story,

I found this last passage of his notes interesting.

“About a year later I was driving through the boarded-up towns of rural Virginia (it could have been anywhere in the U.S.A., of course), and my character Barry came back to me as a simple image of economic decline and moral exhaustion. I realized my story was not about the West, where it is set, but about the coasts, from which Barry has run. The fact of decay seemed to offer its own sufficient reason, so I polished up the first draft and sent it off. I don't like describing things that are falling apart — it's the shape of the story that bothers me more than the pessimism - but I'm afraid we'd all better get used to it.”

 

“…but I'm afraid we'd all better get used to it.” And here we are over 30 years later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Annick Smith - It's Come to This

In most of my reflections on these stories, I write about how they provide an outlet for discovery – mostly self-discovery. This story did just that during the reading and thinking about it, but it was in the research of Annick Smith that there was additional discovery. Nothing earth-shattering…just kinda cool.

In the “Contributor’s Notes” at the end of the anthology, it’s casually mentioned that Annick is a writer and filmmaker who lives in western Montana. Additionally, “She was the executive producer of Heartland, a feature film about a woman homesteader’s life on the Great Plans, and helped to develop Robert Redford’s forthcoming film, A River Runs Through It, based on the novella by Norman Maclean.”…”this is her first published short story.”

Okaaaayyyy…

Smith writes: “The heart of “It’s Come to This” is true to my life; the rest is fiction.”

It’s worth your time to read this story. I struggled through it but was rewarded at its conclusion.

Honestly, I’ve found it very difficult to get through these stories, and this one really threw up a huge speed bump in my path. I had such high hopes for the stories of the early '90s
…but I think the problem is not with them but with me.

I have lost my way.

As I mentioned above, one of the purposes of reading these stories and the writing that I place here following the readings has been mostly about self-discovery. Looking back to the introduction of this volume, I see that I uploaded it to this site on Feb. 20, 2020. Since beginning this volume, I’ve only read and written about 15 stories. I’ve found it hard to focus and concentrate on reading fiction over these past three years and nine months. I haven’t stopped reading, but I noticed that most of my reading has to do with work or current events. I’ve paid close attention to make sure that this reading hasn’t impacted my mental health. I believe that I have been able to pull away from the news when I need to, and there are times when I can go a couple of days without reading it (weekends) and not miss it.

Now, I do feel that there has been a huge impact on my attention span and the ability to focus on reading at length – both fiction and non-fiction. I have started to adopt some behaviors that I hope will allow me to regain my focus. One of those behaviors is an attempt at picking this writing back up on a more regular reading and writing schedule.

I need to get back on the path. 

The Fare to the Moon – Reynolds Price

 

Spanning pages 230-269 in the anthology, and with my battle to regain my attention span, I found this story to be a mountain to climb. In preparation for writing about the story and researching Price, I think this is one of those entries on this blog that will be short, revealing more of my discovery of the author and the publication that ran the story. Having lived in the south my whole life and knowing that Price was just a few hours away in the next state over – both now and before we moved, I always feel a special connection to these southern writers. This story first appeared in The Southern Review – a perfect host. I once had a nice collection of this particular literary journal and found that it featured stories worthy of its reputation. The story was written in the early 90s, with its genesis springing from an encounter Price had at a grocery store, witnessing the interactions between an interracial couple during his adolescence (1940s?). The story shines a light on race relations, an issue that remained and evolved from the 40s to the 90s and remains today in the 20s. It always amazes me where authors can find inspiration. According to my spreadsheet, Price made four appearances in BASS, but only one will be reviewed in this project.

The Names and Faces of Heroes – 1964

Night And Day at Panacea – 1975

Broad Day – 1976

The Fare to The Moon - 1992  

It has also been said that Price did not receive a great deal of scholarly attention …less than other members of his generation, such as John Updike, Philip Roth, Thomas Pynchon, Joyce Carol Oates, Toni Morrison, John Barth, Sylvia Plath, Susan Sontag, Don DeLillo, and Cynthia Ozick. Admittedly, this is the first time I’ve heard of him.

Of course, if I had made my way through my reading at a regular pace, I might have encountered his story before his death.

Price died at the age of 77 on January 20, 2011.

Joyce Carol Oates – Is Laughter Contagious?

 

What a feeling it is. Gently resting on my lap, the opening a book, the paper cover and inner pages under my dry fingers. I rub the pages feeling and listening to the noise they make. A sort of groaning. A swooshing sound as I flatten the pages with my hand to look closer at the ink on the pages. Real ink. Real paper. I move the sticky note that I’m using a bookmark to reveal the title of the story that I read so many months ago and that I’m finally getting around to writing about. I take comfort in reading that it’s by Oates – perhaps she can propel me back into this project as I’ve been corrupted by digital devices. Phones, laptops, tablets, TV. Giving my brain what it unconsciously calls out for—inflicting damage that will only surface over time. 

I’m sad that I have fallen so deeply into the pit of digital distraction – and isn’t it funny how I find myself typing out these characters to be posted on precisely the medium that I concern myself with. Perhaps I can find a happy point of coexistence. Discipline myself enough to exist in the real world and enter into this digital world to conduct this bit of record-keeping.

That’s what this exercise is about. It does serve a greater purpose. Someday, my children will find it…and in doing so, they’ll find a little bit more about me.

It’s now the second week of 2023, and I’ve found the mental space to begin writing here again.

How I love to encounter an Oates story in anthologies from the late 80s and early 90s. She does such an excellent job transporting the reader.

The world I encountered through this particular story was one that I found very familiar.

Back in my early 20s, I encountered middle-aged women, mothers, wives, that fit the description of Mrs. D, a wife and mother in the 90s - perfectly.

I saw them mid-day with their children at a country club pool – passing those last few hours of the day before their husbands came home. Swimsuit covers flowing, hats shade faces, and sunglasses shield puffy eyes. Gliding through the hot, hazy summer days of south Jersey. Bestseller in hand, flipping pages on the lounger, scolding kids between chapters.

I wondered if they were happy. I could sense that there was some effort to mask the strain of their lives.

I was only in my early 20s…what did I know of their lives?

I had it all figured out.

Not- really though.

Written in the 90s, read by me in the 2020s, I can easily see the strain (through their contagious laughter) burdening suburban homemakers today traveling across time from beside a pool in south Jersey.

The passage of time

 

This past weekend marks the passage of another year of this exercise. I named the blog (exercise) and made my first post on this platform on May 29^th, 2008. 

I remember holding the 1978 volume in my hands as I spoke to my father on the phone from a vehicle service shop in Norfolk, making plans for our trip to the island. Fourteen years have passed, and I have recorded some of the changes in our lives (M and I), having our lives transformed from us to them and us when children arrived. I have faced many challenges in this exercise. Writer's block, having my attention sucked away by distractions online, my inability to focus, my lack of sleep, and I can go on and on. 

I suppose that the passage of time also contributes to this exercise as it allows me to encounter the stories at points in my life where perhaps they would hit me differently if I had discovered them earlier. I suppose I wouldn't know unless I reread one or two that had the most impact. I do know that the anthology made me love the authors of the late 70s and early 80s. I would have never discovered them without this exercise – and perhaps I wouldn't have appreciated them now as I did then – wouldn't have come to love them. The foundation was laid, and now new loves are arriving on scene as I move into the early 90s and reflect on a significant developmental period. 

These stories will act as a match to ignite old memories, and fortunately, I still have many of those memories kicking around in my head. 

Let's put this little entry aside now and get back to our regularly scheduled lack of reading and writing as we move into the 15^th year of this exercise.   

Community Life – Lorrie Moore

 

In the early 2000's we took a trip to Vermont. Coincidently, it was almost ten years after the publication of this anthology, and as I pause and look back on that coincidence, I realize that time was so much shorter and closer back then. I'm so far from the 90s and early 2000s now related to progress on this reading adventure, but I'm so fortunate to be able to continue on it with my reading and thinking.

It was just the two of us, and there wasn't a purpose for our getaway – it was just that. We made our base camp at the offseason Killington resort hotel and explored the various attractions within 50 miles. Of course, Norwich was a highlight, and we had a wonderful time walking around the campus and spending some time with some old friends there. And as these stories and this project does, it allows me to drift back to visiting Ellin and reflect on her sudden death several years ago.

One afternoon, as we strolled through a typical Vermont small town, we happened into a small bookstore, and I picked up a collection of short stories. I was still a few years away from truly loving and appreciating the short story form, but the book's subject matter was more aligned with my interests at the time. It was a collection of stories all taking place in or about libraries.

At the time, I was considering making library work a more serious occupation than my work as a library clerk at the newspaper. Of course, library school was on the horizon, but my lack of interest in engaging in any additional schooling at that time was preventing me from moving forward.

Contained in this collection of short stories was the story that BASS 1992 brought forward, "Community Life." Here we are, reunited with this story in BASS 1992, read some 20 years after first coming across it.

Now, I struggle to recall if I read Community Life in the other collection. I would have remembered it since there is a Romanian aspect to it, and to put the icing on the cake, portions of the story occur in Vermont. So, we have libraries, a Romanian and Vermont. The closest I ever came to matches like that was Donna Tartt's "The Secret History" novel.

Given that I felt so close to the main character, Vermont and libraries, I think these story ingredients are what pulled me through it. There is a more profound message that Moore points out in the Author's notes contained at the back of the anthology, and I recognized those messages…but if it were not for my connection to "the three," I would have struggled through this story.

Let's be honest… I'm struggling through all of these stories anyway. I wrote the introduction to BASS 1992 back on February 20, 2020. It's now March 2022, and I still have nine stories to read and write about in this collection.

At this pace, I'll finish the book sometime in 2023?

I've read and listened to a lot of writing advice, and most of it encourages reading and writing to get better at writing.

I'm trying.

I run to get healthier and to be a better runner. I lift weights to get stronger and to be healthier.

I need to work on my reading and writing to be a better writer.

I'd also like to bring my writing about these stories back to what they once were. I invested much more research into the authors and a deeper analysis of the story. I'll work on doing that moving forward.

Unfortunately, as I make this effort, I see that the next Author is Alice Munro…one of my most challenging authors. 

Fortunately, this is the third time we've run into Lorrie Moore in this anthology, and it appears that I'll encounter her several more times as we move through the project – Moore has a total of seven stories included in the BASS.

 

JunHee - Marshall N. Klimasewiski

 

 

So much can be said in silence. I forget this, but when I'm reminded of it, its truth is familiar, and it stings because I work on living a listening life but too often fail in this effort. When considering the silence between two people, what isn't said can be dangerous – depending on the situation. I know and always push hard for openness in communication – again, in some instances – but yes, the power of silence, applied in the right environment, says so much more.

Citing the power of the short story again, and this anthology and this project, I doubt that I would've ever intentionally picked up a story about a Korean émigré woman. If I did, I doubt that I would have finished a longer story/novel about her and her life. Even if I ran across this story in the New Yorker, where it originally ran, I doubt that I would have turned all the pages to finish it. Which, to their glorious fault, stems from the fact that they publish too much good content.

But, because of this project, I am committed to reading these works of art and commenting on them (sometimes just rambling), but the learning comes from consumption and digestion of them. Sometimes, I read them, mull them over in my mind for a day, a week, a month, or more – and then, all the pieces fall into place, and their message appears to me, and I can write about what it has given me.

With JunHee, Klimasewiski allowed me into the mind of this young woman, to see the world through her eyes, her mind's eyes. To hear and not to hear her husband. To hear the harsh words spoken to her by her father across the miles. To hear her dead mother's words come to her at night in dreams. And finally, to experience her loss and her grieving. A good author can create a character, set them in a story, and formulate their setting so powerfully that it allows the reader to honestly experience the character's life.

 

As a distraction and to take a trip, I often browse the archives of The New Yorker and check out what they published alongside the story that I just read. JunHee ran in the January 14, 1991 edition of The New Yorker… I was starting my second semester as a freshman at Norwich. Glancing at the table of contents, two entries catch my attention. "Report from Moscow" by Robert Cullen and "Books" by my man…John Updike.

You'll have to bear with me as I fall down the hole of nostalgia and interest in the Soviet Union as I completely veer off writing about JunHee and switch over to writing about what was happening in Russia in December of 1990. 

In Jan. 1991, there was still a USSR, and Cullen wrote of western cigarettes still being used as currency. Soviet citizens still waited in long lines for basic food staples. Eduard Shevardnadze also resigned his position as Foreign Minister taking Gorbachev by surprise. Cullen's conversations with his acquaintances detailed that many had lost faith in Gorbachev and his campaign for "openness" and reforms, and they felt that the "revolution" Gorbachev launched five years before would soon reach its "Thermidor." 

I became restless with my studies and struggled to decide exactly what I wanted to focus upon. Events in Eastern Europe and the then Soviet Union captured my attention, and I began to explore shifting my major away from Economics and focusing on International Studies. Norwich also offered Russian as a modern language, and I decided that when classes started in August of 1991, I'd embark on a new course of study. 

Summer break in 1991 allowed me to unplug from the traumas of freshman year at Norwich, and when I returned in August, a new world was unfolding in the Soviet Union. Predictions from December of 1990 were correct. Events accelerated in August with the Coup, and by December of 1991, we see Gorbachev resigning and turning the launch codes over to Yeltsin. At the Kremlin, on the evening of December 25, the Soviet flag was lowered as the State Anthem of the Soviet Union was played for the last time and the Russian flag raised in its place. 

In the Fall of 1991, I can't recall my Russian professor's attitude or thoughts about events taking place over there during these events. We had a pretty decent-sized class, and I'm sure he was working hard to drive the basics of the language through our thick skulls.

 After returning from Christmas break, the USSR no longer existed, and I'm sure we had some discussions…but again, they seemed to be erased from my memory.  I recall that my fascination with the Russian culture and language continued to grow during this time. 

I was fortunate to experience this atmosphere of learning during these pivotal events.  

 

The Pugilist at Rest – Thom Jones

 

I encountered this story not knowing anything about the author or the story itself – the way I experience most of the stories in these anthologies. 

Discovering these types of stories is terrific – knowing they are great and then researching them and the author and developing a greater appreciation of the work. I'm intimidated now, writing about this story because I feel that this post will get a few more eyes on it because of its popularity. Not that I don't appreciate people reading what I write, but I think that what I'm writing about here really isn't what most people will be looking for when it comes to doing research on this story.

This bit of reflection brings me back around to the "why" of this blog. Since I started this writing back in 2008, this place has offered me a reliable location to get thoughts about life on record. I suppose it's also a bit of a recording for my children – a hope that someday they will take the time to learn a bit more about me after I'm gone. I'm confident that they'll be able to find these words and make another connection with me.

There's another thought – a connection. I've made a few connections in this space over time—some fascinating ones – relationships that have educated me and enlightened me. You know who you are, old friend – and I think of you often.

This is also a space where I can practice my writing without being "graded" on the writing. I can use the story as a jumping-off point and just write.

Again though, the eyes that'll be drawn to this post just because of the story…

Onward – this story…

This is another New Yorker story – honestly, though, I don't think it fits into the typical New Yorker mold for that period. In this piece by JCO – for the New Yorker, about Jones after his death, she details how this story landed on her desk at the Ontario Review – and how her husband at the time ultimately rejected it – (because of its length) and how Jones had submitted it to several publications – one was the New Yorker, that eventually published it. She acknowledges his good fortune for having it picked up there and the fact that a few more of his stories finally landed in that publication's pages again. We'll encounter him in the BASS anthology in later '90s collections.

Jones seemed like a writer's writer. When this story was picked up, he was in his 40's working as a janitor – granting him the chance to read several thousand books during that time. Earlier in his life, there was time spent at the Iowa Writer's Workshop – so between his reading and his workshop experience, he found the code for producing the perfect publishable short story. He also struggled with substance abuse – eventually overcoming it.

Yes, I do think that there is a code/formula for producing this type of story – of course, it has to land on the right desk at the right time, and the first reader of that story has to be in the right mood to ingest that story (hopefully they are focused enough – not distracted by their own lives) to drive it through to eventual publication.

Of course, you can fire and forget your submissions…hoping to hit that right combo. Was Jones one of the lucky ones? No – I don't think so – he did enough groundwork before setting off on his quest.

Of course, as it happens with these stories in this collection, he died recently – in 2016.

I enjoyed learning about this story because Jones wrote and created a reality that he never actually experienced – the mark of a true master. He took his own life experiences, friends, and family members' experiences – refined them through the knowledge gained by all his reading and developed this incredibly convincing fiction. Sometimes you can see through the fiction – not with Jones.

It was true fiction.