Tuesday, September 30th, 2008
It’s true I’m not a big fan of chippy, but perhaps I’m drawn to this week’s pieces as an expression of my own sadness at a life grown too busy to continue on here at SMITH. I want to thank Larry and all the writers who have contributed and corresponded with me and made my life a better place these last months. Your struggles never fail to lighten my own.
“I imagined that jumping would feel like flying until I hit the ground at which point would come the release that I so desperately longed for,” writes Alyson Mayes in “Stopping for Lunch.” My favorite part of this is that it doesn’t offer up pablum for time-starved consumers seeking to wrest something useful out of time spent reading, as in, how would I pull myself out of a suicidal depression? The conceit is clear — of course the writer didn’t do it — and the fact that it comes without a sticky sweet ode is delicious.
Swinging in the opposite direction is Keith Adams’ “My Night as the Anti-Christ.” Adams writes, “I was beginning to believe I was capable of more than I ever imagined, and had developed an almost messianic view of my own destiny.” The beefcake shot alone is worth the click, people.
Last but not least is “This is What Hoping for Someone Else to Save You Gets You.” My writing teacher, the divine Ms. Sue Shapiro says the problem with most confessional writing is that it’s not confessional enough. Darling Nikki doesn’t have that problem. She admits to fabricating a rape story for sympathy, loads of sleeping around and forecasts her own impending divorce. “But for now, I am here. I am with him, and if I don’t let myself feel disgust at the neediness of my being, I think I may feel happy.”