Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery" The Authorized Graphic Adaptation by Miles Hyman

Swim Back to Me by Ann Packer

Ann Packer's book The Dive From Clausen's Pier is one of my hands-down favorites. It's a book that I have read and reread, each time feeling something new and rediscovering the meaning of hot tears.

However, I haven't been moved nearly as much by any of Packer's work since. Enter Swim Back to Me.

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Boys and Girls Like You and Me by Aryn Kyle

Anchor Book of Short Stories

Places I Never Meant to Be edited by Judy Blume

Portions from a Wine-Stained Notebook by Charles Bukowski

the dog says how by kevin kling

I read this book sometime in October. It was spectacular. Well, err derr. Kevin Kling is a professional storyteller, a playwright and an NPR contributor. The short stories here completely jumped from the pages right into my imagination. Squirrel monkeys, family dinners, car trips, Australia, morphine, Of Mice and Men, bachelor parties, and schoolyard interactions all receive at least a mention...and I was thrilled at every turn.

Regardless of the amount of detail used or the affectations of his own speech, Kevin Kling is gifted as a writer. There are many stories that I could quote, but given the season and my own place in the world, I give you an excerpt from this:

the view from the card table

(please note that immediately preceding these paragraphs, Kling has just spent some time explaining his aunt's breathing sounds, complete with onomatopoetic exclamations and making a comparison to someone running in corduroys. Ba-zing! Zhuup Zhuup, Read sisters!)




Uncle Dale blesses the food and our fellowship and that everyone made it safe. He prays in Jesus' name and calls him, "Our Savior." Our Savior. I start thinking, Jesus is our Savior? Don't you have to be in big trouble to be needed to be saved? I mean, doesn't a drowning person need to be saved? And Jesus is constantly having to come to earth to save us. What does that mean?

Then, I remembered the Meyers's cats. My friend, John Klein, was hired to watch the Meyers's two cats while they were out of town, these lazy, hedonistic cats. I mean, I never saw 'em move, but there were signs of destruction everywhere: chair legs shredded down to toothpicks, an acrid odor in one corner. But, you'd look at these cats and they'd sit there like, "Yes, I know. It was like that when I got here, too." Lazy, hedonistic cats. So anyway, Mr. Meyer told John to feed them twice a day and give them a treat "when you think about it." John and I laughed at what the treat might be. Then, one day, about a week later, we're riding our bikes, and I mention to John, "How's it going with the cats?"

John hits his brake and says, "The cats! The cats! Oh, the Meyers's cats! I forgot all about them."

I said, "They'll be okay, John. They can go a couple days without food."

"No!" he says, "it hasn't been a couple of days. It's been a week. I forgot this whole week."

So we raced over to the Meyers's, and the cats were still alive, but, I mean, just barely. Luckily, the toilet seat was up, so they'd had something to drink. And when they saw John, they didn't think, "Oh, there's the guy who forgot us." No, they saw John as the one who saved them. Every time John came back from then on, those cats would see him and go crazy. "Oh, there he is! He's back." I wondered if that happened to God. "Earth. I forgot all about earth. Oh, my, me, I better get down there. Hey, what if they're mad at me? I know, I'll send the kid." And Jesus came down, and we all went crazy like the cats.

Going Away Shoes by Jill McCorkle

Confession: I basically bought this book for two super lame reasons. The cover is orange and there's a quote on the back from Jayne Anne Phillips. It should be mentioned that I've never actually read Phillips, but know of her for her reputation among other writers that I admire (notably that David Foster Wallace mentioned his jealously of her success as a writer and as an instructor).

Touted as a collection of stories of women and the complications of love, I was full of doubt and hope. Phillips writes, "...laugh-out-loud funny, full of sharp, incisive humor that explains us to ourselves." Explain me to myself? Sure thing.

Ultimately, I found these stories to be surface level pap on the lines of Jane Green or Sophie Kinsella...minus the humor. That'll teach me to think that I can read like a girl.

A Multitude of Sins by Richard Ford

At the Barnes in Chicago, I worked with a guy named Jose. He used to sing random Paul McCartney/Wings songs to me, which led to him calling me "Jet" all the time. He was an English writing major at Brown (now a successful writer by profession) and was snottier than me. Richard Ford was his favorite contemporary author. I picked up (Pulitzer/PEN/Faulkner winner) Independence Day by his recommendation. Didn't love it, but liked Ford's writing enough to also pick up this book of short stories.

Whenever I can't "get into" a novel, I go back to short stories. This one is dog-eared to no end and has a random Post-It note in the front cover that reads "next Thursday night baseball game with Mark & Al" and includes two phone numbers with 303 area codes, which means I first read this after living in Colorado.

Random backstories to say that I am intrigued by Ford's characters and the way they unfold. He uses words like "fugue" to explain their emotional outpourings. This collection explores the larger theme of intimacy. This week I've been reading them while listening to The National and Tom Waits, which leads to a beautiful melancholy. Whether the relationships are breaking or rebuilding, it's just right.

Phantoms by Chad Simpson

Last night I was exhausted. I'd finished a book earlier in the day, and was (am) in the middle of another two. But what I really wanted was sleep. So I put on Miles Davis Kind of Blue and started my nightly routine. Sure to be asleep within minutes, I picked up these very short stories-hoping to make it through one. The first paragraph caught me thinking about how short story writing is a specific talent. Next thing I know, Kind of Blue is over. And I'd read all nine of the stories.

Chad Simpson is one of these specific talents. I found him through my friend Ben's bookstore. In Galesburg. Simpson teaches at Knox, lives in Monmouth. Oh, and as been published in Esquire and McSweeney's. Bingo.

Huh. The last few weeks have found my tastes changing. Poems and short stories. Who knew?

The Nimrod Flip Out by Etgar Keret

One look at this cover and you know that this is an odd collection. These stories are incredibly short, mostly hovering between 3 and 6 (the longest at 16) pages.

Quirky, obsessed with sex, and never really establishing any kind of connection-I love them. While most short stories seem to nail down the essence of the characters, these rarely do. But not to the point of distraction.

For me, it might be the highest compliment that I can't verbalize why I find these stories so moving. Art should be visceral, both in the creating and in the reception.

Short Stories...by Raymond Carver, Dorothy Parker, David Foster Wallace, John Updike

There are a few short story collections sprinkling my book collection, but I very rarely commit myself to reading them. They are generally filler, picked up between books and before bedtime when I'm in need of a distraction or my senses need to be dulled towards sleep.

Raymond Carver, however, is an exception. Carver has the ability to captivate me. His ability to turn everyday life into a grandiose experience calls to grab a cup of hot tea and settle in. Which is what I did, multiple nights in a row.

That led to turning to other old favorites...perhaps stories shall be turning up on my list more frequently.

HOW WE ARE HUNGRY By Dave Eggers

The thumbnails that I could find online for HOW WE ARE HUNGRY do no justice to the aesthetic of this book. The physicality is representative of my experience as a whole with it-and Eggers in general. Every time I touch it, every time I look at it, each time that I attempt to negotiate these stories I react differently. Sensory overload, in the best of all possible ways.

Similar to poetry, short stories haven't been a medium that I've long identified with; however, when done well and in my language, I relish in all of their offerings. I won't try to classify or summarize Eggers' writing. Simply said: If you haven't, you should.

Haunted House and Other Short Stories by Virginia Woolf

Guess what? I love Virginia Woolf. Shocker. If you've known me much longer than 2 weeks or ever asked for some sort of "top 5", you already know this. I love Virginia Woolf so much that she shows up on not only my book list, but also plays, movies, and music. Ferreals. Her name has come up twice in conversation recently, so I went to the shelf and revisited my old friend. Here's the deal: I don't generally like short stories. And I'm more apt to be drawn to Woolf's journals or nonfiction (go read Room of One's Own. NOW.) than her fiction. However, in this collection the prose is tilted slightly toward her typical stream of consciousness style, so it still seemed as if she was talking to me. Just to be clear: I LOVE CRAZY LADIES. Her writing is at times so effortless it has the cadence of poetry. Mmm mmm mmmh.

"Flaunted, leaf-light, drifting at corners, blown across the wheels, silver-splashed, home or not home, gathered, scattered, squandered in separate scales, swept up, down, torn, sunk, assembled-and truth?"