15 Ways to Bury Jane Doe (1st Draft) October 1, 2009

1. The Author

Maybe the best way to do this writing exercise would be to tell the story of a funeral for someone who had no one mourning her at all. There is a problem, though. Who are these fifteen characters telling the story going to be? It’s interesting that I would immediately be interested in this Eleanor Rigby-esque pathetic character. Maybe I’m depressed.

2. The Editor

Oh, great. Another short story that came from a writing exercise. Am I getting paid to read this? At least I don’t have to smell the formaldehyde. Or sit in a chair awkwardly next to people I don’t really know. And try desperately not to get the giggles. I hope all the paragraphs are as short as that first one.

3. The Funeral Home Attendant

When this body arrived I was annoyed. I was hoping that my overnight shift would give me a chance to sleep. When they brought the body in and I cataloged its clothing, I kept a few things. Twenty dollars from the wallet, and a movie ticket stub from the pocket. Yes, I said “the pocket,” “the body,” and so forth. What does it matter, if it’s a she? Do I look like a necrophiliac to you?

4. The Coffin

You and I are going to be touching for such a long time. Maybe after a while neither one of us will feel the other. Maybe after a while you will hold me as much as I hold you. You are heavy and will grow light. I am dense and will grow brittle. I look forward to the darkness and the quiet. It will be more like being a tree. Perhaps I will yearn for the faint warmth I feel during the day. I ache for the sun. I ache for fresh air. But at least I will not be so alone. I will not feel so mutilated and ridiculous. I will not be stared at. I will be I will be I will be around you you you.

5. The Obituary Writer

What can you do with an MFA in Creative Writing? Well, this. It’s like any form. You become comfortable within its rhythms and feel the openings to stretch the limits. And you can do it in your pajamas. That’s something.

6. The Gravedigger

I hope she’s not pregnant. I hope she’s not pregnant. Jesus, if she’s pregnant. Why can’t she be like this stupid bitch. Dead. Not anyone’s problem anymore. I hope she’s not. She’s a lying bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Cunt. Digging holes just reminds me of her, her, her, her. I hope she’s not. Not. Not.

7. The Florist

Why can’t people order flowers for something different? To celebrate the completion of a triathlon. To mourn the passing of a presidential administration. To poke into the showerhead and confuse your roommate in the morning while he’s still half-asleep. To give to prisoners. To sell to raise money for the NRA. I just want to feel challenged for once. I just want to care.

8. The Butterfly

Lovely lovely oh it’s dead. Oooh that’s not far and that looks lovely lovelylove.

9. The Reader

But who was this Jane Doe? Was she like me? Was she like someone I don’t like? This is weird. This is fun. I’m not a reader at all. I’m an author. Oh christ. Authorial intrusion. I’m not just depressed, I’m delusional.

10. The Forensic Investigator

Nothing suspicious here. I want to go home and have a nice long bath and some tea. I want to go home and fuck my wife so hard that I’m absolutely one hundred percent sure she’s alive. I want I want I want.

11. The Sparknotes Employee

Irony. Multiple points of view. Death. Repetition. I got an MA in English Lit for this? Maybe I’m depressed, too.

12. The Carpet

I like the lonely people the best because they don’t attract those other people who just want to step on me and oppress me and grind me down and spill their drinks on me and leave me without a backwards glance. Hey, #11? I’m the ultimate subaltern and I want to rise up. I want I want I want too!

13. The Coin

Someone superstitious put me in here, in this mouth. I will never get out of here. But I still know what I am. I am Lincoln. I am shiny. I have something written on my back. I will endure.

14. The Soul
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15. Jane Doe

The end.

“Workshop” May 4, 2009

You sit down in a small room around a conference table with sixteen strangers. One of those strangers will decide how your artistic talent translates to a grade point average. You are a Creative Writing major because you didn’t know what else you wanted to do with your life. You’re a graduating senior and you wish you’d picked something that ended in Ology instead. You will spend almost three hours in the late afternoon here once a week until you graduate. You will be tired, hungry, bored, and foxholed.

Essay: The Cult of Awkward April 30, 2009

My generation worships at the altars of awkwardness, irony, and metafiction.

For example, every other comment in my fiction writing workshop is, “I want to see more of that awkward moment.” Which I agree with, of course. My favorite TV show Curb Your Enthusiasm. The hardest I’ve ever laughed was at the Found Footage Festival. If it makes me squirm, I want more.

In this semester’s fiction workshop, I’ve read short stories about a lot of topics, from an obsessive-compulsive girl’s first period, to an obsessive-compulsive collector brought down (ironically!) by a packrat, to an obsessive-compulsive husband who’s a little too in love with his wife. Are we sensing a theme here? My generation’s boom isn’t oil or the Industrial Revolution: it’s a fascination with what happens when the human brain goes awry, and what the resulting misery ironically says about the human condition.

Half of my instant and text message conversations (which, in and of themselves, are both representative of my generation and reprehensible to many members of earlier generations) consist of people ironically using phrases and abbreviations that are so thick with “isn’t this ridiculous? Aren’t I being so cute by using it?” that I want to die. In a fire. Or, you know, DIAF. I can’t stop doing it, too. OMGWTFBBQ! See? See what I just did? Aren’t I soooo cool? Win. No, epic win. Because you know what, Homer? Vergil? Totally on the same scale as things in my day to day life! And victory or failure, just like in wars and stuff, is within my reach. Totally. Oh, I mean ttly.

Also, I am willing to wager all the money in my wallet (which, to be fair, is only $1.50, but still) that over half the people who say “that’s so meta” totally think it means metaphysical…yet totally grok the concept anyway. Metafiction is the only kind of fiction that makes sense anymore. Consider the popular show “Lost.” Wouldn’t its writers seem a little out of touch if they weren’t surfing the message boards to see the reaction to new characters and plot threads?

Nothing means anything to me unless it’s a pop culture reference. Bring up a topic, and I can quote a Simpsons episode that refers to it. As I pointed out in a response to my original blog post, I can also think of a lot of more obscure references to, you know, books and things. But the problem is, most of my generation doesn’t read very much. Cartoons are a much safer conversational bet. There’s something so egalitarian about making a good Simpsons reference. It doesn’t mean you’re lowbrow or highbrow. It just means that you, like almost everyone else in your age cohort, watched a certain, universally appealing television program, probably multiple times. And no matter how smart you are, the Simpsons contains (well, at least used to contain, back in the day!) delightfully intelligent and subversive commentary on just about everything.

Nothing means anything to me unless it’s hilarious. One of my current favorite television programs – and again, one that most of my generation watches, regardless of other factors such as socioeconomic status, intelligence, political leanings, or what have you – is The Office. It’s a parody that works on the level of Dilbert for some (hey, aren’t cubicles silly!), and on the level of Voltaire for others (watch out for that bat in the office! It’s going to give you rabies and inspire the whole office to do a charitable run for the rabies cause!). But regardless of why I like it, or why my friends and acquaintances like it, or why perfect strangers that I need a conversational “in” with like it, it just wouldn’t do unless it had several cringe-inducing jokes per minute. And of course, the “cringe inducing” is the key phrase in that sentence. We are laughing at the characters’ expense, but not really meanly: since we are laughing at their awkwardness, we’re really laughing at our own expense. We, too, have spent time with co-workers outside of work that was painfully awkward. Well, perhaps they weren’t as awkward as the characters on the show. Perhaps, then, the appeal of pop cultural awkwardness is that it reaches an extreme that we can be gratified that our own life has never risen to…yet, at least. But is a reduction ad absurdum really necessary in a country that’s itself risen to record absurdity levels, these days?

Nothing means anything to anyone these days. Well, I would have said that a month ago*, without compunction. Sure, I was guardedly optimistic about the election, but convinced, deep down, that McCain was going to steal it by foul means (election machine fraud!) or fair (oh, those stupid red states!). Most of my favorite moments throughout the campaign either involved Sarah Palin making an ass of herself, or (even better!) Tina Fey ironically mocking the way Sarah Palin was making an ass of herself. But then came November 4^th. Barack Obama’s election is the only sincere joy I’ve felt and shared with my peers in such a long time.

Maybe, as a friend commented on my blog, it’s time for a post-irony era to begin. The idea of the whole nation pitching in to fix our current mess, planting victory gardens or participating in public works projects, is oddly appealing. Perhaps it’s time for me to prefer broad, James-Thurber-esque humor to the more sarcastic and worldly kind I’ve enjoyed for pretty much as long as I can remember. Is my generation with me? Only time will tell.

*Written in December 2008