Tagged with Peter Orner

The Year in Stuff We Liked: Patchwork Novels

This week, in lieu of a BEST OF 2011 series, we’re running five stories focused on Stuff We Liked in 2011.

I like small things that fit with other small things to make big things. Small things by themselves are, quite honestly, kind of irritating. For example, I’ve always really appreciated flash fiction as a concept, but not always in practice, as some writers—and I’m speaking rather generally, here—think that since flash fiction is about the distillation of a story and all its elements—rather than reduction—that their final product should be so emotionally charged, so saddening or stupefying that the reader must be moved, this mistake often resulting in a hammy story that has one or two dead toddlers and three or four White Nuclear families ruined. I really do believe that, when you get right down to it (is that a Midwestern colloquialism? I love that phrase), it’s often more difficult to write an effecting or arresting short piece than a longer one with the same elements and characters and conflicts.

But when you remove these short-short pieces from isolation, when you group them with other short-short or long-short or short-long pieces that involve the same characters and places and concepts, the sum can be, pardon the cliche, greater than its parts. And for rather obvious reasons: vignettes with their own story arcs—or even just cogent beginnings and ends—are bound to resonate more with the reader. There are no chapters that merely move the plot along or fill space; everything has its place on merit.  Continue reading

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The Year in Stuff We Liked: Quality Design

This week, in lieu of a BEST OF 2011 series, we’re running five stories focused on Stuff We Liked in 2011.

Book design: You’re not going to get much of an Inside Baseball discussion from us. We don’t know much about it. We can’t offer much in the way of judgment other than that looks cool, yuh-huh, yuh-huh. Still, we know what we like — and what we don’t like.

The Publisher’s Weekly blog PWxyz offered their favorite covers of the year. It was something of a puzzling list, as the explanations were lacking (for Helen DeWitt’s Lightning Rods, they said: “The bright blue background conveys the off-the-wall aspects of the book, and the repetition of the eyes hints at a maddening condition.” Hm.) and their number one choice — Colson Whitehead’s Zone One — baffling. Another weird explanation:

The best book cover of the year offers a glimpse of an empire, mostly obstructed, put through a filter so desaturated it’s almost black and white, making the book’s dread insidious rather than explicit. It looks like an old, important photograph, but with something unsettling, though you can’t quite put your finger on it. The zombie apocalypse has never looked so subtle or refined.

What is an “important photograph”? Jackie O. with blood on her dress?

Anyways, we’re being too critical, due in large part to how much we adored certain designs this year. Here’s a few, in no particular or-der.

Continue reading

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Peter Orner’s “Love and Shame and Love”

The word epic is used rather flippantly these days, no? I hear it everywhere: film trailers, idle conversation, restaurant reviews. Of course, there’s epic the adjective—that was epic—and epic the noun—now Beowulf, there’s an epic. So when I spotted Daniel Handler’s front-cover blurb of Peter Orner’s Love and Shame and Love, I was a little squeamish. 

“Love and Shame and Love is an epic book—epic like Gilgamesh and epic like a guitar solo.”

It’s a bit of a turnoff to see that right there: on the front cover. It’s a clever little language-trick pulled by Handler, but that is an expectation-escalator, if there ever was one.

I winced on sight. I have no idea how to define an epic—noun—in the modern sense. The Greek version, of course, is so much easier to pin down. We understand what is a Greek epic and what isn’t because, well, there are lists out there and academics who trouble themselves with those questions. We know because we are told.

But if I had to come up with a workable definition, I might posit that a modern epic would find a way to organically comment or touch on or involve every sphere of the American experience. That would be an epic, for me. And I use the qualifying adverb “organically” in my definition with a clear purpose: separating aspiration form ambition. A work that aspires to be anything but lacks the ambition to be that thing will ultimately fail. Maybe that’s why the word epic is so slippery: you can pick an epic out of a lineup, but you can’t sketch one out. Continue reading

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#fridayreads

So I go to this cafe that shall remain unnamed basically every day for lunch. Given that I work in the area around Boston Common, sensible and sanitary meals are hard to come by, so my personal philosophy is: when you find a place, don’t let go.

This cafe screws up my order every single day. And I’m not talking about screwing up a nonfat caramel macchiato with brown sugar dabbed on the whip cream in healthy increments. No, I’m talking about such brainteasing orders as everything bagel with hummus, or side salad or glass of water.

Its floor design is abysmal; there are no walking lanes; if you’re carrying a hot plate: good luck. They usually burn espresso. If you complain, they are brutally nonchalant about it. Their Yelp page basically corroborates all of my experiences.

So, yesterday, thinking that I might have to find a new place to get my nom on every afternoon, I decided to order something new, that day’s soup du jour, Thai chicken curry. It wasn’t otherwordly, but my usually awful barista asked a very simple, very surprising question: Do you want croutons in your soup?

WHO EVEN KNEW THAT WAS A THING?

YES. YES. A THOUSAND TIMES YES.

Peter Orner’s Love and Shame and Love
In the creative writing department at my alma mater, Orner’s writing is required reading. Having read “The Raft” on multiple occasions in class, I picked up Esther Stories last year. It’s hard to pin down what’s so moving about his writing beyond the fact that Orner has a particular skill for deployment: his scenes are often brusque and short, but what’s contained in them is so essential (I’ve found this to be true in my foray into Love and Shame and Love). It’s unfair to call this approach minimalistic or drag Ray Carver into it. There’s just an immediacy to what’s on the page. It’s impossible to stop paying attention when what’s there so forcefully commands you to stay engrossed.

Love and Shame and Love is out Monday. Go get it.

(I’m not shilling; it’s very good.)

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