A Book Saturday and the Sad Literary South

So we got back from Borders. I know, support your local bookstore. My local bookstore closes at 9:00, sadly. I didn't buy anything because I'm busy reading Bowling Alone (for the teaching), Lucky Man, and American Tabloid. But Heather bought Derek Walcott's The Prodigal: A Poem (that's right--one poem 105 pages long) and Toby Barlow's Sharp Teeth (a werewolf mystery novel...written in blank verse). Poets are funny.

I did spend some quality time reading Oxford American. Unfortunately, I didn't see anything by two of my favorite writers, regular contributors Wendy Brenner (my professor from grad school) and Jack Pendarvis. But I read some of David Payne's essay on how the publishing industry hates Southerners Maud Newton's blog tipped me off to. Reminded me of Pinckney Benedict's succinct summing up of this point. Must we fight the Civil War in letters? Though I know a writer who attended a New York writers' residency and got the cold shoulder after they found out he lived in Atlanta (for my money as hellish an urbane place as you can get). But on the other hand, we are cornpone idjets down 'ere.

How Surreal the South

Went to another reading tonight. This for the release of Press 53’s Surreal South edited by Laura and Pinckney Benedict (yep, him again). The book is filled with some great writers. The Press 53 people Sheryl Monks and Kevin Watson talked about being an upstart press and how they found their way into publishing. Benedict had a long…very long…very, very long, but fun, intro in which he assured everyone in the audience (of which there were shamefully few) that New York doesn’t give a shit about us. And that small, regional presses are a new career path, a new literary paradigm.

The anthology looks great and has scads of my favorite writers. Scads, I say.

Benedict and the Evangelical Church of Literature

I went to a reading tonight. I am always a little wary of literary readings—which makes me an avid fan compared to the common guy. But I was looking forward to this one for one reason: Pinckney Benedict. I’ve seen him several times before, and it’s always a pleasure.

Suzannah Lessard read first. She said that nonfiction writers must take life whole. And I couldn’t help to think fiction writers must eat life whole.

Then, Pinckney Benedict got up after an insider introduction from Fred Leebron (an old friend of his), and said he loved reading here because most literary readings reminded him of his Episcopalian upbringing where everyone was staid, tried hard to show no emotion, and “didn’t want to talk about Jesus.” Benedict said he was more for evangelical religion where the congregation can yell and scream about Jesus, which he proceeded to do. He said that reading here was like that—“the evangelical church of literature.” And then, he read a disturbing story called “Pig Helmet and the Wall of Life.”

Benedict blogged about the event and even included a picture slide show with action shots of him reading.

The semester begins tomorrow. Back to teaching. Back to the salt mines.