World Series thoughts, some of which are about baseball

Max Scherzer, trendsetter

Every time Detroit pitcher Max Scherzer is interviewed on TV, I can practically hear the internet clog up as people rush to their computers to Google what the heck is going on with his eyes. Scherzer has heterochromia iridum—his eyes are different colors. But not just a little different, as is the case with Jane Seymour and Mila Kunis and Christopher Walken, all of whom (yes, I Googled this) have the same condition. Scherzer’s eyes are wildly different colors—one brilliant blue, the other dark brown. They’re mesmerizing and exquisitely beautiful to look at, and they contrast with each other so drastically that the only similar examples on the Wikipedia page are white cats and Malamutes. I predict that, thanks to Scherzer, mismatched eye color will soon be the hot new fashion trend. Contact lens moguls are watching this World Series, rubbing their hands in greedy glee.

  

The magic necklaces are back

A few years ago, I ridiculed the Texas Rangers for wearing ropey magnetic necklaces during the playoffs. They lost anyway, and I had fun immaturely taunting the TV—“Where are your magic necklaces now?” But the necklaces are back with a vengeance: More than half of the players in this year’s World Series are wearing them—sometimes two or three at a time, as if they had sailboats tethered to them, bobbing around just offscreen. The magnetic necklaces are said to improve circulation and help players recover more quickly from injury, and I know these guys have to do everything they can to stay healthy and make enough money to last them the rest of their lives. But every time I see one of those necklaces, I wonder if, under his socks, the player also has those Kinoki “detoxifying” pads stuck to the bottoms of his feet.

What we look like at 5,000 frames per second

In this year’s postseason, Fox Sports is debuting its new toy: a super-slow-motion camera that takes an astonishing 5,000 frames per second. This is not the first time this year we’ve seen that technology—NBC trotted out a couple of super-slo-mo cameras at the Olympics. But NBC used them for evil, often to show—and make fun of—the contorted faces of gymnasts and divers as they torqued their bodies into unnatural twists. But Fox has managed to make their baseball slo-mo shots beautiful: the rippling muscles of a batter’s arms, the flex and bend of the bat as it contacts the ball, and that fantastic, iconic shot of Giants pitcher Sergio Romo yelling in the rain just after he closed out the final game of the NLCS. Of course they have to occasionally show us grotesque shots of pitchers practically breaking their elbows while throwing fastballs, but that’s nothing new. All I can say is, thank God these cameras weren’t around when Joe Theismann broke his leg.

 

Go, Sleet!

There are no tigers in Detroit (zoos don’t count), and I’m pretty sure there are no giants in San Francisco. So these team names are wrong and show no civic pride. I think teams should be named for something that’s actually in their city, something the locals know and love, or at least ruefully acknowledge. I’ve never been to Detroit, so I’m not sure what to recommend there—the Sleet? The Chryslers? The Bridge to Canada That I Can Never Remember the Name Of? But San Francisco, which I know well, offers a lot of tantalizing choices. There’s the Homeless, of course (could lead to some sort of reform or awareness, or maybe just a lawsuit). The Hospital Curves. The Dirty 30. The Cranes. But I’m going to go with…the Peets. Because they’re everywhere. (But their apostrophe must go.)

The Panda protects

In closing, here’s one of my favorite clips from this past week: newscaster Paul Robins getting pooped on by a seagull at McCovey Cove. The bird must have pegged Robins for a Tigers fan; notice that Bethany Crouch, in the Panda hat, makes it through unscathed.

My Year in Books, Part 1

This was the year I started reading again. Why I stopped reading is a long tale; the nutshell version is that a few years ago I came down with a mysterious illness that made me dizzy—constantly, every waking moment. Many things aggravated it: driving, walking, anger, talking to people who made me nervous, stress in general, grocery shopping, and—perhaps most distressing—reading. So for two or three years, books piled up around me but I couldn’t read them. It’s only been in the past year that I’ve been able to read again, but I found I was out of practice; I didn’t have a set reading time and routine like I used to, and I’d become embarrassingly addicted to television. But all those books were calling, so I figured it out—more or less—and am happy to present some book reviews from the past year’s catch.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★  The Mount
Carol Emshwiller (2002)

2012’s not over yet, but I can’t imagine finding another book that will take this one’s place as my favorite book of the year. The premise of this lyrical, wildly entertaining sci-fi tale is an uneasy one: Aliens have invaded Earth and enslaved humanity, but not in the usual TV-movie way, with plucky rebels taking potshots at sleek spaceships. In Emshwiller’s far more frightening world, the toddler–size aliens are so much smarter than humans that they’ve turned us into beasts of burden who work the fields and are ridden and raced by the wealthier aliens for pleasure. By the time the story takes place, this enslavement has gone on for many generations, and the humans are largely resigned to it. And for the protagonist, a young man who’s the favorite mount of an alien aristocrat, it isn’t a bad life: He gets good food, plenty of exercise to keep him in racing shape, and a warm stall to sleep in at night—often curled up next to his alien owner, also a youngster, who is completely devoted to his human pet. How the aliens control the humans—with a sense of entitled stewardship and the sincere belief that the humans would die or descend into barbarism without the aliens’ care—mirrors our own justifications for slavery in the past and, more immediately, our attitudes toward the animals who live alongside us right now. This important, mind-altering book is also a rollicking good read that may change the way you look at the cats, dogs, and horses around you.

★ ★  The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Stieg Larsson (2008)

Sometimes a thick, mass-market blockbuster lives up to its hype—Lonesome Dove or The Firm, for instance. And sometimes it doesn’t, which was the case with this book that probably needs no introduction. I’m going to swim against the tide here and say that though I tore into this first volume of Larsson’s trilogy with relish, I ended up quitting about two-thirds of the way through. It took too long to get going, and the dark parts were so dark that it made me not want to spend my evenings with this book. I gave up crime novels long ago for this very reason—they focus too much on a small, twisted segment of human society that I don’t want my dreams to dwell on. I did love that bleak little Swedish town in winter, though, and I kept feeling like the book was about to knock my socks off—any time now, any day now, maybe right around the corner. Then I just got tired of waiting and decided to read something I enjoyed instead.

★ ★ ★ ★  An Old Junker: A Senior Represents

Howard Junker (2011)

Disclaimer: I know Howard Junker, a little. He published one of my poems a few years ago in his fine journal ZYZZYVA*, and many of us West Coast writers consider him literary royalty. So I was delighted to find that he’d written a book about his experiences as an editor, and as a college student, and…well, as a person. And this book does not disappoint. Basically a collection of blog posts, it runs the gamut from reminiscences about his school days (and an astonishingly large number of soon-to-be-famous schoolmates) to the vagaries and gossip of life in the litmag world and the motley and combative writers who make up the San Francisco “scene.” The book is—like its author—funny, erudite, wide-ranging, and sometimes scathing (don’t get him started on Dave Eggers), and it touches on dozens of authors that I now want to read, particularly Ploughshares founder DeWitt Henry, about whom Junker writes elegantly and affectionately. The only curious speed bump is that An Old Junker is presented (at least on Howard’s website) as a “blognovel of old age,” which calls into question how many of the perfectly plausible stories are actually fiction. Similarly, the subtitle A Senior Represents doesn’t do the book justice; this is a fresh, entertaining journey through an unusual life, told through the very modern device of short, snappy blog posts. So, while I wished that the book would have picked a less ambiguous genre (or spelled out more clearly what makes it a “novel”), I loved An Old Junker and genuinely couldn’t put it down.

But that's not all . . . part 2 is here.

* When I got published in ZYZZYVA, I was invited to read at an issue-release party at the San Francisco main library. As part of the deal—and perhaps even more thrilling—I got to have dinner with Howard, along with a few other starstruck contributors, at a Thai restaurant. There were too many of us to sit at one table, so we had to split up into two groups. Normally well-mannered, I shoved my way through the crowd to grab a spot at Howard’s table. And I swear, it was like having dinner with Gore Vidal—he was gracious, charming, and funny, shifting gears effortlessly between literature and current events, world travel and good restaurants. But he was no snob; I got the impression he could converse just as easily about Netflix vs. Hulu or where to find a good mechanic.

Pet Names My Cats Might Call Me, If Cats Could Speak English

Pinky

My Big Hairless Pear

Boring Monstrosity

Flatface

Inedible Biped

Sissy

Doesn’t-Lick-Back

Pokey

Strictly Ornamental Nose

Depressed-y-Doodle

Leadfoot

Not-Worth-Killing

Foody

Little Things That Editors Hate

A while back, I talked in this blog about that moment when an editor is sitting there looking at two good poems or stories, but she only has room in the journal or anthology for one. She likes them both, but one of them has to get stuffed into its SASE and sent back to the minors. That’s a time when a few polished touches in your submission, like a straightforward bio and a non-scary cover letter, can tip the scale in your favor.

But there’s a dark side to this, and that’s where we’re going now. In my years as an editor, I’ve seen writers shoot themselves in the foot countless times with a bit of attitude or carelessness that probably seemed harmless when they did it, but turned into a deal-breaker when that submission was pitted against another. So, to give your work its best fighting chance out there in the literary trenches, here are a few little submission boners to avoid.

1. Don’t provide the editor with “helpful hints” on how to deal with your submission.

Cover letters can go so wrong, so fast. Sometimes writers get mixed up about who’s doing the writing and who’s doing the editing, and they feel compelled to tell the editor how to do her job. Even a hint of this sort of attitude can scare off an editor. Here are some examples, paraphrased from actual cover letters I’ve seen over the years.

“I think your readers will enjoy these poems.”

A lot of writers use this seemingly innocent phrase. It’s the equivalent of small talk at a cocktail party—I mean, you’ve got to say something to be polite, right? But this line instantly undermines the author’s credibility because it sounds both insincere and slightly arrogant. And it doesn’t say the writer has read the journal; in fact, it makes me suspect that he hasn’t. This writer is better off saying what he admires about the journal—the overall tone, or a poem he liked in a recent issue—proving he’s done his homework. If he hasn’t seen the journal (I don’t condone that, but I know it happens), he might mention something about its website or blog that he liked (because he probably looked at those when he was getting the guidelines). But if you can’t pull that off with honesty, just go the direct route: Avoid the chitchat, and wow the editor with your excellent poem or story.

“Please consider my story and, if you like it, feel free to edit it.”

This is another phrase that sounds sort of polite. But it implies that the author knows the story isn’t quite there—and also implants that idea in the editor’s head. Even worse: “Feel free to edit it down to your maximum length.” That just makes me scratch my head. I start thinking about those ballpoint pen refills that you can cut with a pair of scissors so they fit all kinds of different pens. Remember those? Messy. Inky. And what am I supposed to cut out of this story? The bad parts?

“I have not included an SASE because most publishers respond via e-mail and you should too.”

This is code for “Publish my piece, you stupid Luddite.”

“I have made my story just long enough to fit on three pages of your publication.”

OK, this one’s pretty rare, but it happens. And it’s sort of endearing. I mean, this author has counted up how many words (or, in my OCD fantasies, characters) fit on a page in my journal. And he’s done me the favor of editing it so I won’t have to touch it—it already fits! This puts me in mind of those “starving artist” sales, where you can buy an oil painting for that weird little phone alcove in your hallway, and another for the spot next to the bathroom sink—all for 50 bucks. Who cares what’s on them? They fit perfectly!

2. Don’t scatter your contact information all over your submission.

This one happens a lot. Keep in mind that, at some literary journals, the person who opens the mail is also the person who reads the submissions, at least in the first round. And while a good story or poem will trump any number of gaffes, it’s wise not to piss off this first reader by putting your name at the top of the cover letter, your phone number in the middle, and your e-mail address at the end. That poor editor is probably logging hundreds of entries into a database, and you’ll gum up the works by not making it easy for him. One time when I was logging in several hundred submissions, I found myself frequently barking the m—f word when people didn’t put their name and contact info in the upper left corner and the genre in the upper right, as they were asked to do in the guidelines. I spent hours logging those things in, and I got tired. Tired and mean. I’m just sayin’.

3. If there’s a postmark deadline, don’t mail your submission by Priority Mail, which costs a couple bucks more than First Class.

This is money down the drain. If it’s a postmark deadline, the journal or contest will build in a few extra days for the stragglers to come in—the envelopes that got wedged in the door of the mail truck or delayed by that storm in the Midwest. As long as your letter is postmarked by their deadline, you’re good. Priority Mail and its overnight kin—Express Mail, FedEx, etc.—all carry a hint of desperation and wastefulness that will make your editor a little uncomfortable right off the bat.

4. Don’t forget to include an SASE, or at least an e-mail address and phone number.

I know—who in the world forgets all of these things? It always surprises me, but it does happen sometimes. I can only assume it’s an accident, and I can’t get on my high horse about how stupid it is, because I’ve done some careless things when I was cranking out submissions in a hurry, like sending out simultaneous submissions when I didn’t mean to, and addressing letters to the wrong editor. But this gaffe is a heartbreaker because even if I love your work, I’ll have a hard time contacting you. And you’ll think I’m the world’s worst editor for not even having the decency to send you a rejection. Unhappy faces all around. When I used to kayak a lot, I kept a bonehead checklist by the door—paddle, life vest, and even boat—to keep me from arriving at the lake without the kayak or drowning myself out there. If you’re as forgetful as I am, a Post-It note next to your computer can save you a disaster or two.

5. Don’t use those big Tyvek, polyester, or spun-bonded envelopes that have to be cut open with a pair of scissors.

This is actually my number-one pet peeve about submissions. I hate, hate, hate those big, rip-resistant envelopes and their lumpy cousins, the yellow bubble envelopes. These inventions from hell make me put down the letter opener and sort through all the junk on my desk to find the scissors—which are always far, far away—just to open that one damned submission. You’d think this would only factor into the early envelope-opening, logging-in part of the process. But oh, no—I will remember that submission.

Honorable mentions:

6. Cigarette smell wafting out of the envelope.

7. Not putting enough postage on your submission so it arrives at the publisher with postage due.

8. “I wasn’t sure how many poems we could submit, so I sent both of mine.”
(I actually sort of love this one.)

Poem: Bair Island

Why eulogize
that great burnt plate,
hoary grey grasses
petrified with firework ash?
A nightmare of salt
and iodine, its gullies flash
in rust and ochre,
crystalline fur
like the pelt on a dried cat.
And the smell—
somewhere between
a lobster pot
and dead impatiens,
a wire brush in the mouth.

Next year they’ll break the dikes
and let the fish return.
How strange to mourn
this scarry land we walked
so many Sundays
when we loved
and gulped the brave air in,
our bootsoles marking
the old sea floor,
the new sea floor.





Posted for DVerse Poets’ Pub
Open Link Night #60
Hello, DVerse poets!