Welcome to the Second Issue

Hello and welcome—

You’ve found the second issue of The Online Companion to The Southeast Review. We’re glad you’ve stopped by for a spell. Here you’ll kids, food, and rock ‘n’ roll. And, of course, much more, including discussions of craft and the art of writing.

In this issue, The Riff is devoted to writers who are parents: Josh Russell with tears in his eye, Karen McElmurray looking for a son, and Beth Ann Fennelly telling Batman goodnight. This parental theme continues in our Feature: The Lives of the Writers as Emily Russo answers for us a few questions about her papa, Richard Russo. And, here, the Russos aren’t the only literary meal-takers; Manuel Martinez takes us along with him while he dines with Kurt Vonnegut before Kurt’s last public reading.

In Aimee Nezhukamatathil’s contribution to The Bedside Table, we can almost taste the mangoes of south India. Here you’ll segue from the delicious to the rockin’ with David Rivard’s list books to read, and songs to have on your iPod. Barry Faulk leads us further into the rock ‘n’ roll scene in his blog, while David Kirby takes us on a whirlwind tour of the world of revision that includes Miles Davis, the Beatles, the Wizard of Oz, the "Last Supper," and more in his poem “Ode to Myself as a Rough Draft.”

And speaking of advice on writing . . . John Pursley III formulates a plan to make better writers from better readers, and Ken Gordon commits the crime of not writing and goes on the lam. Elsewhere, dead bodies are left all over our Cutting Room Floor. Joshilyn Jackson tries to kill a character who won’t die on her own and Emily Franklin leaves a dead body behind for her characters to deal with.

Headlining all these leaps from dads to Wilco, from murder to mangoes, is Eleanor Wilner who shares with us a lecture ("The Mutable Magnitudes of Metaphor") on magic of leaping in poetry.

And be sure to check out our new subscription page. You can now order copies of our print edition using your credit card.

Here’s a sneak-peak of what’s coming up next:

An interview with Rick Moody
Kurtis Davidson stalks Donald Rumsfield
Robert Olen Butler and other “virtual panelists” on the short short story
A photo gallery/essay by Mickey Adair, photographer of Joyce Carol Oates, John Updike, & more . . .

As always, feel free to send me feedback at editor@southeastreview.org. I appreciate your comments and suggestions for future issues.

Keep reading!—

Sara Pennington 

COMMENTS

Some Good Ole Rock 'n' Roll

The kind folk of The Southeast Review asked me to provide some notes on this year’s concert life in Tallahassee. Here’s my top five so far; I hope it offsets the general impression that we live in a concert wasteland, too far from Atlanta or Tampa to get bands that matter, or that we’re just another outpost for mainstream music. Contrary to rumor, you don’t have to look too hard to find pop music in this town that’s exciting and adventurous. We still have some things going for us in this regard: unlike most cities our size, we have more than one good venue in town where bands can play, an exceptional college radio station, WVFS, that helps school the community, and visionary booking agents with sophisticated taste, working hard for the public good.

I’ve limited my Top Five to touring bands I’ve seen this year: but perhaps my Generous Editors will let me do this again, and talk about our local scene next time. Truth is, I probably enjoyed local guitar hero Pat Puckett’s lively set of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers covers, at a special show of local bands paying tributes to rock legends at the Club Downunder, as much or more than anything else I’ve seen this year. Pat and the band dug deep and found something fresh and tough in Petty’s songs that reminded you why the Heartbreakers were a good idea in the first place.

1) Alejandro Escovedo, January show, at the Club Downunder.

Escovedo played in front of a friendly, good spirited crowd and seemed fully recovered from Hepatitis C. In fact, he seemed in rude health, and played a set of new songs that balanced hard rock with the moody, introspective ballads that have secured his reputation as songwriter’s songwriter. But I admit that I enjoyed the encore of Stooges, Nuns, and Neil Young songs the most. Escovedo brought long time partner in crime Pat Puckett to add to the guitar squall; score one for the home team.

2) Sharon Jones and The Dap-Kings, February, the Beta Bar.

Old School Soul: Ms. Jones may be small, but makes a very big noise. She danced, testified, and stalked the stage with a ferocity that made Iggy Pop seem demure. Behind her, the Dap-Kings: a classic soul combo: fiery, explosive, yet in the best soul tradition, poised and absolutely self-possessed.

3) Andrew Bird, February, Club Downunder.

Blessed with good looks and a silky voice, suave beyond his years, Bird has all but perfected the art of writing perfectly crafted pop songs that sound like instant classics, although with more arch, ironic lyrics than most. Check out “A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left” for example, with its clinically detached view of what, before postmodernism, we used to call “the human condition.” Bird played solo at the Downunder two years ago; this time, he brought a guitarist and a drummer, but didn’t need them. A talented multi-instrumentalist, Bird’s capable, with the aid of technology, of looping a guitar strum, a pizzicato violin line, or his incredible whistling, into a lush soundscape.

4) The Hold Steady, February, the Beta Bar.

Punk rock, turned middle aged (I can relate). The Hold Steady clearly have an album or two from Foghat or Boston in their collective possession, along with their Jem Import copy of the first Clash album (that cost a lot of drug money back then). Craig Finn doesn’t sing, but raps lyrics Beat style. The subject matter varies, but it’s usually rough fare: bleak takes on the rock lifestyle that’s killing you, kaddish for dead friends, jaundiced views of the indie rock “scene.” The music’s grounded in classic rock clichés, and while the band’s smart enough to know they’re working with clichés, they’re never campy or condescending. As a result, the music doesn’t seem tired at all: just dangerous.

5) Dinosaur Jr. and Dead Meadow, April, at the Moon.

Dinosaur Jr. surprised me: J. Mascis doing extended solos, searching for the right note as earnestly as Duane Allman once did, taking time to get there, and occasionally hitting it. The Situationist pranksters who run the soundboard at the Moon thought Mascis’s massive Marshall stack required EXTRA mikes, the result being one of the only shows I’ve ever seen where you couldn’t hear the drums over the guitar. How cool is that? As much as I enjoyed Dinosaur, especially the instant nostalgia of the “Freak Scene”/mangled Cure cover encore, I liked Dead Meadow even more. Slow, heavy riffs of the sort that make you feel like you’re sinking in a tar pit. Guitarist Jason Simon mumbles something that sounds copped from H.P. Lovecraft or the Satanic Bible, hits the wah-wah pedal, holds a note for what seems like an eternity but may only be five minutes, and your Third Eye opens. Mine did, at least: thanks for enlightenment, guys.

OK, 6) Wilco, March, at the Moon.

I wasn’t wowed by Wilco like all my friends were, largely because I’d seen the band play virtually the same set in New Orleans the year before, and felt the solo breaks—you know, the noisy bits where Tweedy and Co. pretend they’re Neu or Television —were more fresh and inventive then. But I give Tweedy high marks anyway for being moved by the sight of the comely Tallahassee audience; “You’re all so gorgeous,” he says sweetly, genuinely surprised, in a lull between songs.

. 

COMMENTS

Our much beloved professor--one about whom some SER editors cannot stop raving (cough--Tony Levenstein--cough)--Barry made his online debut this year discussing Paul McCartney's latest album, "Chaos and Creation in the Backyard." You can listen to that podcast of WFSU's "Perspectives" if you click here.

I am happy to welcome Barry to The SER fold as our new online correspondent. Check back periodically for dispatches from him on music and marvellous miscellany.

Gushing about Creative Nonfiction

Being the creative nonfiction editor for The Southeast Review is an incredibly rewarding and an invaluable learning experience. Although I am primarily a writer of fiction, creative nonfiction reading has always been a source of inspiration for me both in craft and in life. I admire the essayist in a way that can be construed as gushing; however, I hold that the writer of creative nonfiction is the bravest of writers, the most willing to elicit criticism and scrutiny, and many times the more admirable for this. It is not merely their work, their writing, they are putting on the line, it is their experience, their lives, and how they have processed it through their writing that they put out for the world to consume however they please.

I am very protective of my section of the magazine and its contributors for this reason. Although the primarily unsolicited and therefore somewhat anonymous submissions are read by all of my section readers, and publication decisions are made democratically, as editor, I enforce a strict ethical and aesthetic policy and each submission, each “jewel,” is handled with the care of a jeweler. We are looking for writing of all walks of life, from both established and up-and-coming writers. More than this we are looking for fresh experience, and especially fresh insight into these experiences. As for style, I admit, I’m a sucker for narrative form, and look for the same tools being used as I would find in fiction and poetry: strong voice, scenes, illuminating details and descriptions, dialogue, and other techniques. What I look for that sets creative nonfiction apart from fiction and sometimes poetry, is that the essays relate a personal experience, or a true story, as honestly as possible, that the writer give unity to the experience, and that the writer give the experience in the most universally compelling way they can.

As I am a student and will be moving on sometime this fall, I will be passing down my editorship to my assistant, Samantha Levy, who will carry this vision forth as she also makes her own way, bringing with her her own proclivities, in the editorship. With this said, we look forward to reading new and exciting literary prose and welcome submissions year round (however, see submission details for our reading times). 

COMMENTS

Friends, Readers, Contributors: Lend Me Your Ears…

I’ve had a rewarding run as poetry editor of The Southeast Review for the last year, but as I’m preparing to move from the verdant burg of Tallahassee, it’s now time for me to pass the post into the capable hands of Dominika Wrozynski, who has been serving as the assistant poetry editor these past few months. I’m happy to have been part of the SER editorial staff during such an exciting time, as the last year has seen the advent of the SER companion website, the inclusion of art in the journal, and a comprehensive overhaul of all the behind-the-scenes operations that make SER possible. I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to work with the rest of the poetry staff and to learn from their insights into the poems that come into our office, and I’m thankful too that I’ve met (even if only across the abyss of cyberspace or in the contents of a letter) so many talented and dedicated poets. I wish you all the best.

So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu,

Jennifer

COMMENTS

SAMI'S AWP DOWN AND DIRTY DIARY

Here's the scoop: as assistant creative nonfiction editor, I thought it'd be wild to document SER's trip to AWP Austin. Little did my travel mates know that their most embarrassing moments would be recorded--in the car, at the hotel, getting a taco on 6th Street.

So, in the spirit of keeping nonfiction as nonfiction as possible--this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Bon apetit!

March 2006

Tallahassee, FL to Austin, TX

The Players:

• Sara Pennington (editor)
• Jennifer Perrine (poetry editor)
• Dominka Wrozynski (assistant poetry editor)
• Jen McClanaghan (staff)
• Sami Levy (assistant creative nonfiction editor)

Total miles: 1,743

Number of cars: 2

Fastest speed driven by Dominika: 73 mph

Fastest speed Driven by Jennifer P: 72 mph

Number of times Jersey Sami wanted to strap heavy weight to driver’s foot: 58

Number of paper David Kirby cut-outs traveled with: 1

Number of billboards passed that read "GLASSCOCK": 1

Top trinket bought at gas station: beer koozie that reads “shuck me, suck me, lick me raw”

Top CD listened to: comedian Mitch Hedberg (RIP man)

Favorite car food: Gummy Sharks

Least fave car food: Juju bee fish

Favorite car game: Sex, Drugs, and Rock n’ Roll

Fave sex answer: “Narcolepsy” followed by some idiot asking, “What does that mean?”

Fave rock n’ roll answer: “Iglesias comma Enrique”

When threatened to be dropped off in the middle of nowhere, Jen responds: “If you dropped me off at Shoney’s, I’d get a book deal.”

Or worse, at a rest stop in Mississippi, she says: “Oh cool. I like doll arms.”

Number of states Jen posed for a picture with a Burger King hat – er, crown – on: 5

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Those of you out there who, after reading this, think Jen is a little coo-coo: Unanimous

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AT AWP:

Filthiest panel: Steve Almond and company “Sexing the Story” – totally HOT

Number one question asked of me after said panel: “Do you like being in love with someone named after a nut?”

Answer: YES I DO!

Best cabbie: Marty – we love you!

Best cabbie comment: “Look at that numb skull” – referring to some numb skull in another cab

Best table at the bookfair: The Southeast Review!!!! DUH!

Best moment at the SER table: A mother and child peruse the layout. Child starts roughing up paper cut-out David Kirby. Mother says to child, “Leave that poor man alone.”

Number of times cut-out David Kirby was molested: 14

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Number of times real David Kirby molested cut-out David Kirby: 2

TOP FIVE “YOU JUST HAD TO BE THERE” MOMENTS:

#5 – Jen says, “There’s some serious fuzz out there.”

#4 – Sami says, “Why isn’t he here? Isn’t this, like, his mother ship?”

#3 – Dominka says, “I was hitting her, trying to get her to go. And she said, ‘No! No you stupid human!’”

#2 – Almond joy encourages writers to read Song of Songs. Much to the chagrin of roommate Jen, Sami borrows a few pages out of hotel’s bible to bring home with her. Luckily, Sami’s a Jew. We don’t believe in hell.

#1 – Dominka screams at note taker, “Do not write that down! Do not!” (Note taker will not reference what this was in reference to. Let me assure you, though, it was juicy.”)

COMMENTS

SMALL BUT MIGHTY

Last summer, my colleague, the poet Jimmy Kimbrell, handed down The Southeast Review to me—an ungainly choice for a man who’s usually so gainly. I didn’t want to do it. I whined and said things like, “I don’t want to do it,” because part of me knew—in fact whole territories of me knew—and knew well—that I would fall in love with the damn thing.
 
The deciding factor was simple: I didn’t have a choice. Mark Winegardner weighed in. He had just published The Godfather Returns, and he had this new air that made me afraid to disagree, even though I don’t own a prize racing horse. It was, suddenly and irrefutably, part of my job here at Florida State’s Creative Writing Program (home to winners of the Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award, and a faculty known not just as writers, but as teachers of writing—including the author of the most-adopted creative writing text in the world).
 
With absolutely no authority or other options, I made the obvious choice: to negotiate. I told Jimmy and Mark that I would accept the role if, and only if, I was given complete freedom. They agreed quickly—which had the unfortunate outcome of making all of the consequences of my decisions my own and leaving them wholly blameless. It was an academic jujitsu move for which I had no defenses.
 
Literature, as a whole, needs more readers. (This isn’t news. That’s why it’s in the blog section.) And some literature actually deserves more readers—and, I quickly realized, that The Southeast Review clearly falls into the deserving category. SER's staff of editors and readers had done incredible work, lurching through stacks of submissions to find the pieces that most compelled them and that they thought would truly compel others. The poems and stories certainly compelled me, and I became bent on building a wider audience.
 
Now, there’s this thing called the World Wide Web. It’s newfangled. I don’t understand it, but then I just barely understand that the television set isn’t filled with very small people moving set pieces around in a box. I decided we should go after the web audience. But I didn’t want this World Wide Web presence to repeat the print version. I wanted the online presence to be something else: a resource, maybe even a mouthy resource—sometimes passionate, sometimes irreverent, sometimes startlingly insightful and intimate—one that focused on craft, how image and story moves from the writer’s head and becomes this thing we call literature.
 
I had no idea how to do this. Enter: Sara Pennington. Pennington is small but mighty. She is, as our beloved David Kirby puts it: Pocket Hercules. Without her, this site would not exist—or it would in some muddy, wobbly, sad little woe-is-me version of itself. She is a genius. Not only an amazing poet in her own right and a gentle leader for our wily crew, she has an unerring eye, an editorial prescience, and, well, one of those spooky brains that can be stunningly articulate and imagistic while understanding all things technological. Shortly after meeting her, I demoted myself to Consulting Editor. Clearly Sara Pennington was the chief editor of this magazine.
 
With Michael Garriga on fiction and Jennifer Perrine on poetry and Brandy Wilson on creative nonfiction and Fred Von Drasek on book reviews and Sara Pennington on everything, we started to muse, beginning quite simply with a list of poets and writers we admired and some notions of what we’d like to know about how those writerly minds work. Why not ask Stewart O’Nan and Eleanor Wilner what they cut and why? Why not ask Mark Halliday and Michelle Herman about the inner workings of their reading lives? We wanted to know what it was like to be raised by a writer only to become one, what it was like to be an assistant to a well-published writer only to become one. And why not a photography gallery? And why not a downloadable reading with Ann Patchett?
 
Much hefting effort later, here we are, with more than a little help from the beautiful brains of our contributors—to whom we owe a great debt—and may be able to pay off one day (especially if they accept payment in The Southeast Review beer coasters).
 
We hope that this site is a resource that you come to rely on for insights on craft, for ongoing arguments, for intimate looks into writers’ lives, and occasional irreverence.

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