I’ve since become co-editor of Portland Fiction Project with its founder, Doug Dean, and after significant consideration of where we wanted the project to go from here (the “changing face of literature” was invoked, the digitalization of books, sustaining a reader’s interest long enough to read an actual short story before the next viral meme can drag them elsewhere, et cetera), this is what we’ve come up with: The Benefit of Doubt (yes, it’s okay, you can click on it. You want to click on it. You want to buy your ticket now).

In other news, he’s up and podcasting at Portland Fiction Project (though potential listeners beware: it won’t download in Safari), where he will also be interviewing his former professor and Dane Peter Fogtdal and reviewing said Dane’s new novel, The Tsar’s Dwarf, soon to be released from Hawthorne Books. Look for that–oh, I don’t know, late July or August, I guess–he guesses (you might remember Mijnheer Fogtdal from past posts here at Thus Around Us).

On a more personal note, the writer will be going to Maui again in about three weeks to visit a friend (an interesting story there: I’m going to the same island, same town, approximately half a mile from the same house I stayed last year when I went to Hawaii, but the person I’m going to visit is entirely unrelated to Nixy, with whom I went last year). The writer is filled with enthusiasm and apprehension about this trip. Enthusiasm because, well, it’s a vacation. With a beach and a sun and fruity drinks. Apprehension because he will be returning to the scene of the crime wherein the victim was his kidney and the culprit was a stone. Will there be a sequel? He wonders. Does lightning ever strike the same place twice? Is lightning comparable to a kidney stone? Only in the amount of pain it can generate. Apprehensive again because once there had been a time when he went to Paris once a year. As in France. As in the city of love and light. My God, he thinks. Maui? What have I become?

There’s more to be said in the personal realm, of threatened litigation and failed romances, of chance encounters both providential and not, of friends who have left, returned, sought solace and gotten pregnant, but it’s been a while since the writer last posted a blog and he doesn’t want to overwhelm you, sweet, patient reader, or himself. Remember: baby steps.

A little about the group for those uninitiated, we each get together once a week, our fearsome Editor Doug gives us a prompt word (this week the word is “band”), and then we go off and write a story during that week, partially (or not, as the case may be) inspired by that word. The next week we get another word. Every four words is loosely contained within a theme (last month it was “Elements of Style,” with the words “fire,” “air,” “water,” “earth”), and that’s it. One week to write a story, and some four-odd weeks later it goes up on the site for all to see.

It’s really a wonderful, challenging, inspiring project, but the downside is we have no idea if there’s anyone actually reading our stories, which is really half the purpose of the project (the other half being, of course, the simple joy of writing). Hence this show, to let greater Portland know about us, and maybe get  some response to these stories that we’ve all put a lot of thought and time and hard work into. So come one, come all, let us know what you think. Bring your friends and your enemies. Did I mention free food?

Worksound Gallery, 810 SE Alder Street, here in Portland.

“Oh, the Check Engine light is on,” I said. “You should get that checked out.”

“You should get that checked out,” said my ex-girlfriend. “It’s your car.”

I looked around. It was.

In the second dream, or maybe the first dream, I had just received a package, a large cardboard box, from a small African village. There were Christmas presents inside. This didn’t strike me as particularly odd, and I opened them up. There were two scarves, one with black and gray stripes and the other with brown and yellow stripes. There was something else too but I don’t remember what it was. I think it might have been a book. I tried on the scarves. They were a little big, a little scratchy under the chin, but they were very warm. I felt terrible. I had only sent the small African village a card.

Then I woke up and I was an hour late for work.

“To put it another way, the hero acts out the tenet expressed in Edward Albee’s memorable line, uttered by Jerry in The Zoo Story: ‘Sometimes it’s necessary to go a long distance out of the way in order to come back a short distance correctly.’ There’s a very short distance the protagonist travels at the end of the story, to simply read to his child a favorite story from his own childhood, but the events preceding that simple act lend all the significance in the world to that final tableau.”

Then of course there was the announcement that my story had been accepted in The Wordstock Ten last month, which was almost embarrassing how validating in felt. I remember Rick Thompson, one of the few really excellent writing professors I had down in Ashland, said once you can’t really call yourself a writer until you’ve received at least three rejection letters. In that sense I suppose I’ve been a writer several times over, but now I really feel like an author. It’s just a difference of semantics of course, but then what isn’t?

Also I was invited to join the Portland Fiction Project a few weeks ago and we had our first meeting this last Wednesday (or rather the first meeting for me). You can read more about it on their website, but here’s the process: each writer writes one story a week, based on some suggestion word (last week it was “marble”), approximately 1,500-2,000 words. The group gets together at the end of that week (which, contrary to the Gregorian calendar, is Wednesday), and puts each story through an intensive editing session. Then we each go back with our story, make changes, and then send it to the editor four days after that, who puts the story online. So basically, eleven days to write a finished story. Keep in mind my last published story took me approximately four years to finish.

Last night a friend and I were going to see a movie; we went for pizza first, but by the time the food arrived we were too late and decided to skip it and go book hunting at Powell’s instead. When we got there I remembered that The Wordstock Ten book should be coming out soon. We asked, and the man behind the counter showed us where to find it. It’s supposed to be an especially significant moment the first time a writer finds his work in a bookstore; I’d seen the proofs of the story and knew for the most part what it would look like, but it was still an amazing moment. I bought a copy, even though the publishers will be sending me one in the next couple of weeks.

I’d just gotten an email from the festival director that morning telling me they’d be announcing the winners on Saturday at the festival, so it was a little disappointing when I opened up the book and discovered that the name they would be announcing on Saturday would not be my name.

But here’s a consolation prize:

One of the publishers had sent me the proofs of the story for my approval. He mentioned a couple of suggestions, and then he wrote, “And–oh yeah–it’s an amazing story. Chokes me up every time. Did you know that?”

I find out in November if it wins wins, in which case I get $1000 and it gets published in Portland Monthly (second place gets $500, third gets $250), but this means finally some real exposure. It should be available in Portland bookstores around Wordstock time (November 9-11, I think), so pick up a copy.

Also, let it be known, Nixy is the greatest living editor this side of the Mississippi.

But first, a quick digression: I went to lunch with my friend Kelly this afternoon (the real-life subject of “Scrabble Night,” incidentally), and we were talking about the horrible, terrible, no-good stigma of the “tortured artist.” I personally can’t help but squirm at the mention of this designation, and yet time and again, it seems to so comfortably fit. Like a glove. With little needles on the inside lining for digging under your nails à la Iron Maiden. At least the “tortured” part (I am, above all, guided by humility). It’s a miserable cliché, this “tortured artist,” but the proof is in the pudding.

I remember after Nixy read “The Lie & How We Told It,” she told me that it had confirmed one of her theories about why that story stood out among the others. She said (and I paraphrase) that I had somehow managed to infuse the story with the real, raw emotion I was feeling; the gooey, drippy dregs of unrequited love; the sense of loss that seemed to permeate all my being at the time. I’ve tried to put that same weight in fiction since, when I’m happy, when I’m content, yes even when I’m in love–and I’m not saying it’s impossible–but it’s not the same.

So here goes. Once more, with feeling. I hope I don’t have to go through this every time I get a story published.

So Simon has a new bedroom. Last Friday, I had just gotten home from work and he and I were in his bedroom while Nixy went outside. I was really tired and I had lain down in his bed (about two feet too short for me). Simon sat down next to me, pet my hair, and said, “Close your eyes, Jacob.” I closed my eyes, then opened them again. “If you don’t close your eyes I’m going to leave,” he said. I closed them, then opened them again. “Okay,” he said. “I’m leaving.”

I stretched out my arms. “Wait!” I cried. “Don’t go!”

“I’m just going into the other room,” he assured me, gentle but firm. “I have to do my work.” He went out into the other room while I pretended to wail. After a couple of seconds I fell silent, and he came back in, cooing. He put a red clown nose on me, and tucked between my arms a crocodile mask and a little pink teddy bear, and then he returned back to his “work.”

And when Nixy came back inside a couple of minutes later, that was how she found me.