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.
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