27 January 2009
Daniyal Mueenuddin Has “The Singers” Running Through His Head
Categories: selling shorts |
I had the pleasure of meeting Daniyal Mueenuddin a few months ago when he came to New York a few months ahead of the publication of In Other Rooms, Other Wonders, his debut collection of short stories, introducing himself to the literary media. I quickly became engrossed in his stories about life in the cities and villages of Pakistan—this is definitely one of the first great collections of 2009, and if I know the folks at The Story Prize, they should already be setting it aside for the shortlist from which they draw their shortlist. I invited Mueenuddin to tell readers about one of his favorite short stories; in a wonderful twist, he chose instead to focus on a Turgenev story that’s stuck in his head for slightly different reasons.
Turgenev is not the greatest of the Russian writers of prose fiction—Nabokov ranks him fourth, after Tolstoy, Gogol, and Chekhov—and “The Singers” is not my favorite short story. The ending, however, has always intrigued and troubled me, and often lodges in my mind when I’m considering the endings of my own stories.
Since I’m indulging in lists and rankings, I will suggest that, when writing short stories, the hardest part is the ending, then the beginning—and then, surprisingly—the title. Beginnings are to a degree given—there’s a reason that you’ve chosen to write this particular story, something you heard or an image or a situation—and so, as you sit facing the blank page, pencils sharpened, lights adjusted—you know more or less what direction you’re heading in. And then, journeys begin with light feet and a light heart, the wind at your back and no monsters yet encountered.
Titles are a special case—some people have a knack for them, like crossword puzzles or naming dogs. We all have our favorites: Blood Meridian, The Wide Sargasso Sea, etc., etc.
But endings! Endings are vexing. There you are, with all the long puffing train behind you, pushing you, the weight of the whole story pushing you forward, now as you reach your terminus—and yet, you must go off the rails, and going off the rails, you must keep the wagons behind you upright and must pull the whole thing up to the wrong station, the surprising station, the right station, but right in a way that neither you nor the reader expected, built of ice or rococo plaster, rainswept or haunted or full of bankers.
This is where Turgenev’s story comes in.
24 January 2009
Beatrice @ The Merc: Jennifer Cody Epstein & Fiona Maazel
Categories: events |
Readers in the New York City area are invited to join me at the Mercantile Library Center for Fiction (17 E 47th St.) next Wednesday, January 28, at 7 p.m. for another installment of the only reading series I know about dedicated to debut novelists.
Jennifer Cody Epstein (The Painter from Shanghai) has written for Self, the Wall Street Journal, and the Chicago Tribune. She has published short fiction in several journals and was a finalist in a Glimmer Train fiction contest.
Fiona Maazel (Last Last Chance) has written for Anthem, Bomb, The Mississippi Review, The New York Times, N+1.com, Pierogi Press, Salon, Tin House, The Village Voice, and the Yale Review. She is the 2005 recipient of a Lannan Foundation Fellowship, winner of the Bard Prize for 2009, and a National Book Foundation “5 Under 35″ honoree for 2008.
18 January 2009
Catching Up With the Story Prize Finalists
Categories: uncategorized |
The Story Prize committee announced its finalists for the best American short story collection of 2008 a little over a week ago, so I’ve been playing catch up with the three books to see what I think. I haven’t had time to read each book all the way through to the end, but going by the stories I’ve read…
I started with Jhumpa Lahiri’s Unaccustomed Earth, and I thought the title story was very exquisitely done, so I skipped ahead to the three linked stories at the end. “Once in a Lifetime” was not quite as compelling, but still very well written, and then in “Year’s End,” which like “Unaccustomed Earth” has a second-generation Indian-American coming to terms with a widowed father’s decisions about how to get on with his life, I felt like the subject matter was becoming a little claustrophobic. And then there was “Going Ashore,” which I didn’t much care for—it depends almost entirely on the emotional investment a reader’s made in the previous two stories, and the narrative itself is fairly banal, with an ending that, for all Lahiri’s efforts to pretty it up, seemed gimmicky and exploitative.
So I moved on to Our Story Begins, a sort of “greatest hits” collection from Tobias Wolff (with a few “bonus tracks” in the form of new stories). And I don’t know quite how to put my finger on it, but while Lahiri and Wolff are both great prose stylists, there was a sense of vitality, of engagement, in Wolff’s stories that resonated a bit more completely with me. It helped that the stories showed a greater range; discovering each new environment brought an exciting edge to the reading. That’s how I felt about Joe Meno’s Demons in the Spring, too—and his range is even further afield, because while Lahiri and Wolff are for the most part solid materialists, even Meno’s most realist stories have a surreal quality to them, and at the end of each story I found myself eager to discover what kind of world he’d go and create next.
I was a Story Prize judge a few years back, and that choice was hard enough. I’m glad I don’t have to be the one making the call this year—as you might have inferred, even the collection that moves me the least excels on a technical level. Dealing with a shortlist of three books like this, each accomplished in its own way, underscores the subjectivity of trying to say one of them is “the best”—but I’ll keep turning it over in my mind as I read the remaining stories, and I’ll be curious, if I make an internal decision, to see how my judgment compares to that of the actual jury…
