WHY I LOVE THE INTERNET . . .

According to The Answer Bag . . . "fiction is a made up person , place or thing and non-fiction is history or something that is really true using real people's names real places and real things”(actually, this is according to a user named “preen teen me” -- eek! Should we quote preen teen me? Is that illegal?)  Really?  What is "real" any way??

 

The Answer Bag 

Stableboy says: “Fiction admits to being a bunch of lies!” (and then I think he ran off with preen teen me on a wannabe stallion and they had fictional babies!)

Mister Rogers takes the wimpy way out (surprised?) and quotes WikiPedia (which conveniently uses the term to define the term. “What IS fiction? Why, it’s fiction of course!” “What is nonfiction? Why, it’s truth!” But when is “the truth” never shady . . . ? And isn't fiction just as fabulous - if not more so - at illuminating truths?):

Fictional works – novels, short stories, fables, fairy tales, films, comics, interactive fiction, animation, video games – may include or reference factual occurrences. The term is also often used synonymously with literature and more specifically fictional prose. In this sense, fiction refers only to novels or short stories and is often divided into two categories, popular fiction (e.g., science fiction or mystery fiction) and literary fiction (e.g., Marcel Proust or William Faulkner).

Non-fiction is an account or representation of a subject which is presented as fact. This presentation may be accurate or not; that is, it can give either a true or a false account of the subject in question. However, it is generally assumed that the authors of such accounts believe them to be truthful at the time of their composition. Non-fiction is one of the two main divisions in writing, particularly used in libraries, the other being fiction. However, non-fiction need not be written text necessarily, since pictures and film can also purport to present a factual account of a subject.

. . . So, a false account of the subject in question - even though the writer/storyteller thinks it's truth - is nonfiction?  What do you think?  The theory of relativity?  Don't tell the courts!

Allikatzpop tries to get snarky/political by saying “libertism and conservatism” but misspells things.  If we go in order of the question, then it would seem that he is saying that "libertism" is fiction which makes absolute sense seeing as the word is not an actual word. 

Frances Romances gives my favorite answer: "About a $10.00 difference. No rubber checks please." 

Although I would argue that the difference is only about $2 -- sometimes, $.50.

http://www.answerbag.com/q_view/153807

You think THIS is funny? Try asking The Answer Bag “What is truth?”  (The answerbag.com is one of those awful, highly unreliable sites upon which anybody can put their two cents in on the answers to pointless questions.  Fun stuff.  I'm thinking The Answer Bag is secretly calling for poetry . . . )

(please note: pic up top of "The Answer Bag" was not intended to offend anyone should it remind them of a family member or friend.  I simply image-searched "old hag" and this was one of the first pictures that showed up.  I imagined The Answer Bag as a character who thinks she knows it all and who would kick your ass if you pissed her off. That is all.  I think she's quite beautiful. Peace.)

Erik Samworth by Rachel Hartley-Smith (not sure if Erik and I really connected . . .

to improve this, I think I'll have to consider more of Erik's need for prestige . . . I tried)

Erik Samworth, 27, male
Scandinavian Catholic Lawyer
6'9", jet black corse and thick hair, engaging hazel eyes
divorced, Dad is a pastor, Mom is a psychiatrist, no siblings
Collects bottle caps and newspapers, loves snowboarding, sushi and the color teal
Has a partner named Steven
Biggest dream?  to rule a city
Biggest need?  prestige
Biggest secret?  deviant sexual desires
Is most comfortable home on the toilet, naked.  Loves Polka music.

Well, now what? I’ve been in enough of these stifling rooms, stared at enough blank walls, enough polished oak trim. If they didn’t have suede sofas in their centers, then they had plain benches for kneeling – and always one, little darkened window. The illusion of some sun, but nothing distracting. If this doc expects me to confess in so many words, if he can’t read my problem on my face, he’s up for another thing. Confess. Confess. Confess. I heard it daily – nearly every other hour – from my parents. When I was a boy, instead of making me sit in the corner, they sat me on a chair, and then they both stared at me, waiting patiently for my confession. Now, Erik, what have you done? “God is listening,” father said. And God’s forgiving but he’s also angered quickly. And in the other accusing face, God was mother. God was always watching. I can feel her eyes on my back now, here in this little room. She might be on the other side of those dusty venetian blinds.


This doc has to know that it’s wrong to make a man come into his office and ASK for something like this when he’s otherwise tall and strong and healthy. The pills sold late at night on television don’t work, so I need a prescription for the stronger stuff, a cure, something to help the blood flow as well as it should be flowing for a twenty-seven year old – if you know what I mean. That’s as close as coming to a confession as I get. The doc has to know that it’s not right for a man to throw himself under the eye of scrutiny. He’ll want me to say I’m dysfunctional, weak, problematic. He might want me to flop it out. And it’s a god damn power trip for the doctor. He could care less of my dysfunctional Scandinavian salami (as father never called it). Me either. I don’t need it. I’ll be damned if I’m staying.

I can’t make myself leave. I’ve already put this paper gown on. I wish I was home on the toilet. Give me my downtown office and an open window. Give me my legal secretaries – “Yes, sir” they repeat and repeat. Give me a bite of sushi. My Grampy’s old Polka music.

What would my father think? Mother could write me this prescription herself. But who would ask his mother for it? And this low ceiling, so stifling.

I miss my clients. I miss Steven. He is the only person I could ever kiss who stood right at my lip level. We are a pair. We scare my clients, together, towering over them. But Steven is so kind. He worried about losing my law office money, so he stopped coming downtown. This was good because my parents were seeing too much of him, passing the two of us on the streets, catching the two of us eating lunch in the Market. I won’t be confessing another thing to them, ever. Ever. They can go on confessing to each other and breaking bread like it’s flesh. I don’t care. I’ll have Steven. At least as long as I can rally up the courage to ask for this pill. I might work myself up to punching someone as soon as this door opens.

Not even one newspaper in this room. The room smells vaguely of Pine Sol. And this bed is covered with a nice shade of teal blue vinyl – and the pictures on the walls – the doc’s degrees and whatnot – all have the same color in their frames. It’s relaxing. The color reminds me of the sky in December when Steven and I went snowboarding. The scent of pine illuminates it all. We grappled that mountain. We came away with half of the thing stuck to our boots. We made love in a makeshift igloo. We melted the snow under our parkas as they laid under our asses. We invited another couple in, a man and a woman, my idea. Around the fireplace at the hotel, they seemed beautiful, innocent but hungry, and friendly enough. Steven hadn’t been happy with it. He was never happy when I had deviant ideas. He could accept that I kept him a secret, but when I overstepped his boundaries, he would shake his head and, with each instance, he’s grown more distant. It’s taken this to see it. Maybe my penis has stopped working of its own accord. To teach me a lesson.

Since that very day – that evening on the mountain, convincing young strangers that we were gods in all of our magnitude and genius – I’ve been crying over Pippin the Small.

Mother would call it self-imposed karma if I asked her. Father would say Satan is sitting on my shoulder, imposing a curse. Maybe they’re both right. Or maybe I could sue the Hotel for their soft lighting and erotic lobby music. Maybe I could sue the entire Ski Lodge for making their snow too warm and wet, making it too easy to build an igloo.

Once he shows himself in this room, I might strangle the doc for his note pad. I’ll kill him, escape, and then write my own damn prescription. On the note, I’ll write “supply: endless.” Now THAT would earn me power. Power to gain Steven back. Power to rule a city now that I think about it.

As we venture into Flash Fiction . . .

. . . consider Ernest. 


There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

                 ~  Ernest Hemingway

Max and Lilly

She patiently waited with her father, her hair neat and clean and pulled to the back not much past 8. Her father a buisness man of some kind, bent coat playing on his lap, as his tie dripped from his neck like a long green paste. He had one arm tucked around the little girl on the bench made of wood that was harder than concrete to sit on.

The little girl kicked her feat back and forth, not yet able to touch the ground. She smiled and asked the man, "Daddy is Max alright?" pretty soon a man in a lab coat came out and approached them, "I don't think Max will make it through the night!" His voice was a sturdy rumble, one that choked the air with sounds. The man shook his head and replied, "Can you bring him out so she can say good-bye?" The Vet looked at the little girl and nodded with a grim smile.

The Vet walked into the back. It seemed like years had passed before he returned shuffling an old, weathered dog. The dog looked like each step was planned to cause as little pain as possible. "I gave him some pain killers to help a little," the doctor mumbled. The little girl jumped from her chair and hugged the dog. Max looked up at her and wagged his tail a few times as if saying good bye. She kissed him on the cheek and said, "I will see you tomorrow Max." She seemed pleased with her answer, and the dog tilted his head not wanting to ruin the girls day. The Vet looked away tearing up a little he told the father, "This is the hardest part of the job." The father who was clinging to his coat with passions of sadness said, "Lilly let's go mommy is waiting for us."

The little girl bent down one last time and kissed Max whispering, "I will miss you." The dog drew a sad face and licked the girl on the cheek on last time. The father stood and bent down he grabbed the muzzle of his friend like he had probably done so many times before and said, "Don't lose your squeaky toy."

The Vet turned and shuffled Poor Max back into the back. The Father and his Daughter Turned and headed towards the door. From the backroom there was a loud yell, "Hey sit!" Pretty soon Max burst around the corner and approached the little girl. He eased his head under her hand. Then took the time to lick her cheek on last time before calmly reversing his steps and walking calmly to the back. The little girl replied one last time, "I love you too Max!" The dog kept going un-waivered by the girls words. He walked around the corner, and the father, daughter duo walked away. Max never came back out nor did the girl return. All she knows is he is in heaven, and from a far Max watches her grow.

A few Sayings I live by!

The best things in life are doing the things you hate... Just instead of doing it alone you are doing it with someone you love!

Death is not an end it is a beginning!

To love yourself is more important to love your neighbor.

Don't change yourself to fit your friends, change your friends to fit yourself.

To be scared is normal, to fear not is unhealthy.

The biggest enemy is yourself.

Taking care of your is the best way to take care of the one's you love.

Warm-Up to those VOICES . . .

Chapter 2: Voice

The Warm-Up on the first page has a drawing by Saul Steinberg similar to the one above (I couldn't find the exact image in the book, but I got close!).  So, based on either the image above and the image in the book on page 36, you should complete the Warm-Up as follows (reply with your creative response in a comment):

Write a few sentences that might be coming out of the mouth of [at least three] of these characters.  What is each likely to be talking about?  What do the drawing styles suggest about the voice, vocabulary, sentence structure, and tone of each?

(See this and more drawings by Saul Steinberg here:  http://www.saulsteinbergfoundation.org/index.html

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