How To Finish A Story, or My Correspondence School Mark Wallace Indefinite clamor defines direction decisions out of obstacles "the moment of composition" thieves of time "don't take my last complacency" the stairs were closed for lack of use as were the stories One continues, if one does, without a younger urgency, without conviction The city from the window is fuzzy, white sky records unhealthy heat indexes, cars pass under the bridge of destination Which of the following terms defines your relation to self-production: ironic inebriated illicit inimical incadecent indecent OR: "When materialism is rotten-ripe magic takes root" "immersing myself in the tension between horizontal and vertical lines" "a round of dreams, work and meals, evening conversation love and loss, how are you going to change the world" "giddy from feeding on disease they discussed their theories of culture day dawned, jobs and money fell from windows..." couldn't have happened that way unless the other hand. Still, considering not if he doesn't pay his dues. like that sometimes. But not all few and far between. He postured duress and instability. Facing the prospects what friends there were running scarce, solely conditions of removal any time you say." care how they feel "and that's all I have on his coat, walked thinking of it later. determining a formal path maze of experience. But delving unforseen structural contradiction. deploying resources, considering a thoroughly imaginary consistency. obligations to former love them anyway," sinking guess that's fine but back to this again?" "To think I thought industrial regions. meat preparation requires commission. Regulation other administrations believed contaminated, relaxing being and seeming. Originating non-geometrical representation a falling out. He left to defections from the former self and other. Hypothesizing wheat and tobacco school board decree salary dispute. Then omissions of products glaringly left out. raised his glass. "After all these someone I can trust." unless you mean it. that simple, but Mistakes in configurations. Mutated versions of animals, and problems with friends. An earlier genre described as speculative. Transcending the limits of the known, the limits of the known transcended us. Two hours to lift off, his presence still undiscovered. Faulty conceptions, hurried conclusions. Another excuse to waste lives. At last, the horizon opened out, cheers were heard. Back at the scene of writing, complications seized participants. Extent of accountability, relevance of emotions. He confused his era and himself. Tales of the final days differ. New problems with new machinery. A series of embedded squares. Foolish consistency perhaps, but excellent marketing. At least as much chance in other worlds. Confused with a patriot, but on different terms. Metaphysical hope with undercurrents of social despair. Misunderstood predecessors a necessary condition. "Say what you want, but I'm listening." Neglect the framework, plunge right in. If a gun goes off somewhere in space. How to calm the rise in hysteria. Glorifying the scenes of excess permutations of chance a long trip along technological night persuasions with a competitive edge sturm and drang, illusion and gesture love found quick in swigs of dismay play on words, it's the thing flash of thought, lethargic days a reason to make it work they seek charlatans, hate all experts ways to say we're science fiction at last a break in the chain counting good fortune, a view of the city aesthetics of a traffic jam intensification of confusion bad sense in the moments one light night, one dark day belief in the calling of art look at the shiny shoes of the leader it may not happen today spend, mend and defend instigations to new explorations considering available options visit overseas, meeting new writers relentless autobiography Sherlock Holmes and lessons of attention is time running out creation and negation relations light my candle with yours look up there strange beasts are roaming my eyes are strangely on fire Once upon a time, in the darkest recesses of the mind, a factory began to feel bad about itself. This factory, despite being well-respected and having plenty of friends, thought that something was missing. People worked in it all day, it spewed out all the smoke it wanted and its products were suitably faulty yet what, really, was the meaning of it all? Politics and literature left the factory cold. If I could be a space station, the factory thought, maybe I could realize my potential. As soon as possible, the factory began restructuring. It laid off workers, got rid of old equipment, brought in the latest technology and a highly expert staff. This took time, but a year later the factory was ready to lift off. The only question was where to go. The moon had been done. Mars was War and Venus love, mere human wastes of time. But Saturn had those beautiful rings and soon the factory was there sipping Pina Coladas, and doing geological surveys. It's true, the factory thought, even a factory needs new horizons. With that in mind, the factory began to write its memoirs. Dear Sir: Can you please tell me how to start my own literary magazine? Out here in the swamps it's easy to feel isolated, and being an editor just may stop me from becoming alcoholic. Dear Sir: Is it true that night is blackest just before the dawn? Dear Sir: Why is it that most animals with wings are called birds, but some are called bats? My boyfriend says my interest in this is twisted and sick. He thinks I should go to hairdressing school. But at night I lie awake wondering. Dear Sir: A figure with three sides is a triangle, but figures with four sides can be called squares or rectangles, depending on the lengths of the various sides. Dear Sir: I wonder a lot if there's a conspiracy. My wife says no, that people are motivated more by confusion, greed, blindness, and a deep-seated and ineradicable instinctive animal fear. But she can be naive, and doesn't know Chuck as well as I do. Dear Sir: What makes you think I'm going to let you get away with it? Dear Sir: I have a constant urge to do things that will embarrass me, sometimes even that will physically harm me. Is there money in this? THIS IS AS SIMPLE AS IT SEEMS BUT NOT AS IT GETS References will be footnoted improperly. The capsule can be swallowed or flown to Mars. Let me express my fears about this relationship. Applause. He recorded in his diaries his concerns about extending the franchise. High modernist fiddling has not captured the attention of the masses. Dinner will be served promptly at eight. the hurried and obsequious night. The festival was held last weekend to rave reviews. The funniest novel of the last 5000 years, it knocked me off my horse. Does Man evolve or revolve? High winds kicked up waves that undermined the base of the houses nearest the shore. If you don't have it at least you can't give it to me. A clause. A computer can create new notions of form where chunks of prose can achieve three-dimensional effects. But Cindy didn't want to go to the dance. Every Saturday night we have a game, but tempers can run pretty high. Nabokov's discussion of the problem with finding an English equivalent for the Russian shum declares "noise" to be insufficient. The end of all centuries is the same, a sham of earlier good intentions. Writing 102 needs to be reorganized. No one exists for the sake of self-interest? Oh no here goes the symphony again. If you bring in your people, I can't promise to restrain rivalry. Arrested was a former police officer. They've overlooked procedure before but this is unforgiveable. Dear Sir: I don't know what to do about many things. It's hot out, the sun is shining, I love my friends. I've read a lot of theories about society. Where do you start changing people's minds? At home? Through education? Through legislation? Do you want to change people's minds? I think I do but I'm not always sure what I think. Do you know who's to blame? Is anyone? Is it structures or consciousness? Is it ignorance or malice or both? Is it fear? What needs to be done? Am I happy or unhappy? I worry a lot, I'll tell you that much. What about you? During High Modernism belief in the absolute significance of art and the need for devoting yourself to it above and beyond all other concerns was common, almost a cliche. Most writers of supernatural tales don't explicitly state that they believe in the supernatural, which raises the question of why they write supernatural tales. One of the central confusions in the contemporary avant garde is the relation between politics and literature. The above sentences, all of which are statements, have an uncertain truth value. You cannot trust them. That does not mean, however, that they are made in bad faith. Which brings us to other problems. How do you know if something is done in good faith? In what circumstances does it matter or not? Do you prefer to finish a book or to start one? What's the difference between a poem and a story? What makes something a narrative or not? Do you think of yourself as part of your society or outside it? What is social and what metaphysical? I'd like to think my poems explore. But I'm never sure how much I think I know in advance. ??