It’s a pretty traditional story and venue, but I like to think I can write in different tones, moods, structural situations. It does hit upon an obsession of my writing life, matrimony (the glow of, the groan of). I wrote it a few years ago during my Raymond Carver years.
You had your Raymond Carver years, right? I hope so. Then I hope you left them behind like pinkish-gray lanterns.
Rattle put my Nursing Notes prosey poem thing online. So to all those people who say, “You should write about when you were a nurse.” Shut up. I just did.
Next I’ll write about the time I worked with a nurse who was obsessed with ordering delivery pizza to the nursing station. She ordered 5,6 pizzas about twice a week. Though the food was appreciated (sometimes), she had no sense for when/when not to order pizza. We would have pizza at 8 in the morning, or worse, directly after lunch, when everyone was satiated. It was awkward. You’re trying to get work done, or overwhelmed with admissions or some crisis, and all these pizzas are sprawled about the station.
On a side note, I always thought nurses eating in the station hurt the profession. I rarely ever saw a physcian eat while on duty, at least not in the actual work station, as opposed to the lounge. Maybe it’s me, but I just always shuddered when seeing a nurse chart a patient in one hand, while scarfing a deep dish pepperoni in the other…
That pizza nurse was eventually fired. Not for the pizza. For several things, culminating in her screaming, “Fuck you!” in the face of a psych patient. Uh, this is not good nursing practice.
CEllA’s Round Trip Goes Global Party:
The Happy First Issue Bash!!!
Join the CRT staff in celebrating the successful launch of our first online issue – a virtual collection of amazing writing and artwork at www.cellasroundtrip.com. CEllA’s Round Trip was created and edited by Ball State University Creative Writing Program students and faculty.
In this case, “round trip” means all around the globe and back again backwards. Loopy house parties are the greatest! CRT and her buddies will be offering up tasties from all corners of this round planet in honor of its contributors. Guests are encouraged to bring their own little international recipe specialty creations (but you certainly don’t HAVE to).
Bonus: an El Supremo Nacho Bar in honor of nacho aficionado, Sean Lovelace.
If you are in the Muncie area and love lit mags of glee, e-mail Rachel at firstname.lastname@example.org or drop on by.
A little mouse says Ander Monson might appear in the next issue. Think about it, publishing next to Ander Monson! That’s like waking up in bed next to Cher!
By the way, who is that holding the DISC GOLF trophy in the front, while Ander looks on forlorn???
(blog note: I can bang on Ander ’cause he’s a pal. Lifetime, he has me 666 to 14 in disc golf)
The Loudest Sound I Heard Today: My wife walking into the kitchen and telling me my 4 year old is “feeling hot.” This means he stays home, with me. Lorrie Moore rivals Carver as far as a writer who people imitate. Ever read a 2nd person POV narrator? Thank Moore.
(From “How to Become a Writer Or, Have You Earned this Cliche?”)
First, try to be something, anything, else. A movie star/astronaut. A movie star/ missionary. A movie star/kindergarten teacher. President of the World. Fail miserably. It is best if you fail at an early age – say, 14. Early, critical disillusionment is necessary so that at 15 you can write long haiku sequences about thwarted desire. It is a pond, a cherry blossom, a wind brushing against sparrow wing leaving for mountain. Count the syllables. Show it to your mom. She is tough and practical. She has a son in Vietnam and a husband who may be having an affair. She believes in wearing brown because it hides spots. She’ll look briefly at your writing then back up at you with a face blank as a doughnut. She’ll say: ”How about emptying the dishwasher?” Look away. Shove the forks in the fork drawer. Accidentally break one of the freebie gas station glasses. This is the required pain and suffering. This is only for starters.
Anyway, she is also a mom, and once noted the experience of raising her kid was “like an atom bomb on the village of my life.” A bit of hyperbole for the always funny Moore. What she means: “Damn, I wanted to write today.” Oh whales. Guess I’ll spend the day playing Lego Indiana Jones. We’re having trouble beating the rope bridge at the end of Temple of Doom.
If you know how to, tell me.