Follow us at Witts Inn Writers Retreat: Summer 2010
On foggy Monkfish Island somewhere off the Maine
Coast Near Portland (sometimes adrift it’s thought) is
Witts Inn Writers Summer Retreat (2010):
follow the fun goings on of a scribe tribe on a spooky island
& listen to the gossip as they learn how to battle their uncertain
writing & social skills.
Go to: http://twitter.com/StallingsJim
Begins May 27/Memorial Day weekend & ends after Labor Day
******More to come here on blog after Labor Day
a spontaneous Twitter novel by Jim Stallings
At Witt’s Inn: Twitter novel-in-progress
So just by accident I happened to start a narrative on Twitter from the phrase overhead “at wit’s end”. But I heard it also as “at Witt’s Inn.” And so, for a while at least, I’m having some fun improvising installments or dispatches from this island writer & artist retreat on mysteriously foggy Monkfish Island. It’s exact location off the coast of the U.S. is in question as it seems to move about along the various coastlines. The important thing is that we seem to overhear the meditations and concerns of resident writers & artists in Twitter’s 140 character frames.
The experimental dispatch novel is now only a week or two old but we’re hopeful our link to the island will remain viable and that we may learn a few things about the introvertive universe of writers in residence. Below are a sampling of recent communiques into the cyberspace void. Drop in at
http://twitter.com/StallingsJim
and read the latest.
Here on the Weblog we’ll continue to post other works-in-progress & literary commentary.
JS
Samples:
At Witt’s Inn Island Retreat, literary writers clean communal bathrm; news fr NYC: vampire novel earns 6-fig advance. Gnashing of eye teeth.
Male residents of Witt’s Inn artist retreat think Al Gore’s breakup aftr 40 yrs of marriage is only way to reclaim unsown oats. Go Al!
At Witt’s Inn female residents argue Peace Prize went to Al Gore’s head & drained his tiny bit of Jack Daniel charm & thus estranging Tipper
At Witt’s Inn Island Retreat when the fog lifted & the sun emerged, writers knew the island was all too real w/ absurd real estate prices.
At Witt’s Inn on foggy Monkfish Island, rumors started w/ resident writers that the “island” was really a boat & they were being shanghaied.
On Monkfish Island at Witt’s Inn for Writers & Artists, guests sit in small rooms & listen to rain tapping a hideous message fr the Gulf.
Poem: “My Old Friend”, fr. Notebooks 2003, Jim Stallings
My old friend
Lover playmate
Joy person
We skated
On the frozen canals
And drank libations
At parties on the shore
We hugged
We kissed
We united
Till your boat
Rock solid
In ice tied
We entered
The cozy warmth
Of naked embraces
Under your covers
Kept secure in arms
Loving smile
Tender laughter
Nights passed
In spring thaw
Freed from ice
We bade loving farewell
A kiss & a ring.
Poem: “The Zombies Pounded”, fr. flash poetry notebooks, Jim Stallings
The zombies pounded
At the doors
Pressed ugly faces
To double pane windows
They stripped naked
Humping rain spouts
Splashing in the bird bath
They ate the arbor vitae
Like tossed salad
Poked sticks up their asses
And raced about the lawn
The police fired
Rubber bullets
Canisters of tear-gas
Brown outs of stun guns
And still the zombies
Cavorted about our American Dream
Our lovely suburban bungalow
Flinging themselves insanely
Against plastic siding
And air conditioners
Chewing off chunks of
Of mid-size SUVs
Like just so much hard candy.
Poem: “So Cold Brains Cracked”, fr. notebooks, Jim Stallings
So cold brains cracked
Noses stuffed with cotton
Knees corroded with oxides
Backs frozen in Velcro
Feet stiff like brackets
An assurance hung like wires
Wrapped to nails in ceilings
The cluttering mess a puzzle
Of blocks & fragments of cloth
Awaiting an electric current
And a copper spark
Like fire from the Heavens
To activate this puppet
In its weird dance
Of simulated life
A shoe worn & sad
Flying toward the audience.
Filed under first thought, flash poetry, poetry, prose poetry, troubled people, works in progress
Poem: “Jump Into My Arms”, from notebooks, Jim Stallings
Jump into my arms
Betray me if you will
Time has our measure
Don’t let go now or ever.
The wind’s blast frigid
My face cuts with tears
Bent backs and head down
You turned in the plaza
And stared at me
Like I was a wild animal
Intending you ill—
But in truth
My efforts are more random
If such is the case
Chance plays its game
With all the human race.
Filed under Uncategorized
E-SLUSH PILE & END OF TRADITIONAL PUBLISHING: A flash fiction!!!
So it came to pass, lo, a mountain of electronic “books” were published worldwide each year. Hardbacks, paperbacks, all that former sentimental physical press history shrank into a tiny drivel of archival preservation. The blunt new truth was the so-called “book” was now an electronic text read on an electronic instrument. Everyone in the world could publish text. Almost everyone did.
The challenge for writers of electronic texts was to find an audience and build on it. Especially for writers of text who wanted to be paid in electronic credits deposited to their electronic bank accounts. After all, that was the definition of a ‘professional writer’…getting those currency credits. Herein are the tortured guts of the market consumption of texts: those who want to be paid social money credits (and a few intellectual credits tacked on for good show). But keep the chow train going. A scribe has to eat and so far, electronic food, well, it’s a mean lean meal.
E-Sluch Pile.
The electronic web at this soon to be reached point of publishing…well, you can imagine: it’s going to be a nasty war out there to make a paid living for writing and transmitting e-texts around the globe (maybe into colonies on the Moon and Mars).
For the radicals and anarchists and hermits, it probably won’t matter much who succeeds financially. They will reject such crass concerns. Writing into the ever expanding E-Slush Pile is a moral right and privilege, not to be denied by anyone.
Once denied by publishers, editors and critics, the slush pile publications, the great unwashed, the geniuses, freaks, schizos, world conquerors, puppets, psychotics and undiscovered talents, all in fact, the whole sum of the e-publishing networld, this will be the undifferentiated Mass. And who, may we gently ask, who will play gatekeeper and rater of quality of these billions of text issued worldwide each solar day/night? Who will step up and play critic? Who will find the so-called sweet two percent that justifies news about publication? Who will accept a corps of critical texts that serve to rate and rank the writers and texts in terms of worthiness?
These islands of recommended quality, more e-text themselves, will be those critical surfaces where favored texts are modeled for all to read. Cliques. Favored status. Elites. Tribes of good taste.
But these will come and go and meanwhile the tsunami of e-text publication will wash away at the limited exposure of one group’s favored, fair-haired. Literary class warfare.
And it will lead to self-erosion and a greater drift toward anonymity and freedom to write when and how you want.
So to all those writers out there struggling with the old trade book dilemmas, hung up on “making it’ in the paid, commercial fashion, take a deep breath and get ready to enjoy the freedom of nonattachment. Step back and watch the fishes play!
a crass commercial from this author still caught in a marketing age :
http://www.jimstallings.com see my latest BOOK: “Difficult People: Flash Fictions”: 172 short short stories for adult storybook reader. Stop on by and climb Slush Mountain!
Filed under erotica, flash fiction, literature, poetry, prose poetry, troubled people, works in progress
Poem: “As He Grew Frail”, notebooks, Jim Stallings
As he grew frail
She seemed to bloom
Not in spite of him
But in fulfillment
Of a unique journey
One of the heart & soul
Which in its flowering
Later than mid life
Gave proof to her theme
That patience and kindness
Were the basis of wisdom—
And the fount of joy,
Meanwhile her mate
In his exhaustion
Stood about and stared
As if there were nothing
Left to be seen.
Filed under erotica, first thought, flash poetry, prose poetry, works in progress
Poem: “The foul stench”, notebooks, Jim Stallings
The foul stench
Of soul meanness
Those who spoil
As daily sport
Joy of put-down
Envy of success
Of the real kind
Requiring heart & passion
That staring into horizon
The gaze that frees
And waits on knowledge
The shape of things to come
Like cloud masses from Canada
Weather of a changing kind
Sending the faint-hearted in doors—
There to await their polar fate.
Filed under flash poetry, poetry, prose poetry, works in progress
