The Kind of Girl who writes flash fiction: Diane Williams, Lindsay Walker, Ana Maria Shua (South American queen of flash), Kim Chinquee (North American queen of flash), Lydia Davis, Mary Miller, Gay Degani, Amelia Gray, Meg Pokrass, Tania Hershman, Nicolle Elizabeth, Shellie Zacharia, Aubrey Hirsch, Sarah Rose Etter, Kathy Fish. Others.
They be glow like levitating Wednesdays.
Like transatlantic spirit bears.
Baudelaire: “Sois toujours poète, même en prose” [Always be a poet, even in prose.]
Baudelaire’s erratic personality was marked by moodiness, rebelliousness, and an intense religious tweaking of bass lures and Velveeta.
Writers know writer Velveeta by the as/like/association. Auden once said his face looked like a wedding cake left out in the rain. That makes me want to sleep him hard. Call me maybe? Henderson writes, “My father’s torso was like slipping into a hard boiled egg—the perfect cocoon.” Later: cottage cheese ceiling. Looking like charred, deflated marshmallows. A dandelion among rosy girls. They seem to fall out of the sky and twirl down like maple seedlings, these words. Respect.
Judge Deb Olin Unferth mentions tension. It’s odd, but it’s true: most good stories/vignettes/whatevers have tension. Of course just looking closely causes tension. Just paying attention, which costs.
[Aside: Deb Olin Unferth always seems cool, even when she occasionally dances with “The Man.” Yet she maintains street cred. Might be her name, which reminds one of lilies, musk, art deco installations in urban libraries, and razor blades. Not sure…]
It seems things are slipping away: tension. “Our ice cream melted…”
Things fall apart. No, the slip apart. Slide.
Kids see the adult world, fuzzy, can’t quite get it or want to. Adults see the kid world, fuzzy, can’t quite get it.
Some of the book reminds me of this poem.
What I glow about flash collections is how they whale-pod to a thing. Mood or tone or just whatever, it builds and builds. They are separate but the same, like that Fleetwood Mac album
where everyone was sleeping behind the backs and fronts of each other and it happens and it just drives the music to a fragmented whole, like settle into duck-hunting graphs mapped with green (my fav color) arrows and Ys or an unforeseen breakdown, so I mean shards in a bowl.
Above is my archery pal, Billy.
I think it’s very hard to write from a younger viewpoint. But here not so at all. They key is to write it clean, just state what happened. A memory that is told from the future, yet rendered so cleanly in the moment (past). It’s a tough thing many people try, but Henderson, she does it.
Here’s the line, the microcosm, the hot engine of this machine: “In class, we learned that humans didn’t see what we literally sensed, but rather what we thought we sensed.” Indeed.
Many of the structures are what I would call, spatially, filling a glass. Turn on tap, glass fills, and fills, more quickly, CUT. Turn off tap. Often the dénouement is deadly. The gear shifts so fast as to grind/screech and wake from the meditation. Started and startled. It’s a keen thing.
Best Seattle nachos? Just saying.
I NEED TO KNOW!
Some writers insist you follow. Example:
This line: “She is a preacher now, or an artist, I can’t remember which.”
Character not as emphasized. Situation might replace character (possibly opening the form to archetype, to fable?)
Or this: “We had an organ in the family room when I was twelve for some white trash reason…”
Or: “And there’s sex, which is free and makes people like each other.”
Two pages of the book are this amazing green.
I like an assured narrator. With command of history, mythology, and technique.
Childlike imagination runs through as a balance to lighten the elegiac journey.
There is no possible way to determine what is or what is not.
I don’t know. No, I do. Guess I’ll keep an eye. An eye out. I’d like to see more. I would.
Add Kim Henderson to list # 1 above. She belongs.