Softball Department (brought to you by guest sportscaster, Matt Biewener)

Grub Street Wordslingers 9 – Consultants of D. E. F. 10

ALLSTON--Armed with an off-season’s banquet of come-backs, one-liners, melodic-taunts, and go-get-em-cheers, the Wordslingers descended on the valley known as “Ringer’s Field” to take on the Consultants of D.E.F. Grub Street softball, in all its glory and tragedy, had returned – but the unfamiliar Allston terrain proved to be just as unknowable as the significance of their adversaries’ name. 

Despite clouds circling ominously overhead, threatening to rain or at least make things more dramatic, baseballs were all that fell out of the sky. Jeff Stern stopped one potential homerun with his back to the fence but three more happened to land beyond his reach, beyond the concrete, and, actually, pretty far back in the woods. The Wordslingers, however, were unfazed. A sudden crack of the bat sent a rocket directly toward Ethan Gilsdorf who, pausing for a moment to consider the temptation to catch the ball with the side of his face, defused the threat easily – owing, in large part, to his perfect positioning, freshly oiled leather webbing, and fanatical nihilism. 

But the moment that put a gasp in everyone’s throats was the moment when Wayne Feldman courageously (and perhaps unintentionally) collided with his teammate, his catcher, and his captain to save a run by tagging a runner coming home.  Playing all three of these positions (and, at that point, still lying on the ground unconscious due to the aforementioned collision) was Becky Tuch, who returned the following inning to make two even more amazing plays: first, a Vari-fantas-tek shoe-string grab and, second, preventing the front leg of yet another runner coming home from touching the plate by stabbing it with the ball.

Down six runs to five in the bottom of the fourth, Betsy Lawson made her bat-boy (and future Wordslinger) son proud by sprinting her way down to first with a promising leadoff single.  Unfortunately, the shift in momentum was only momentary as her dazzling display of determination was unreciprocated by her teammates who contributed three consecutive fly-outs to end the inning.

In the fifth, a Clarence Lai trademark hard grounder up the middle set the tone for the inning. A series of domino base hits even George Kennan couldn’t have predicted catapulted the Wordslingers into the lead by two runs.  But that lead was short-lived.  The valley’s violent vortex of wind robbed Amber DeFrancis yet again as it pushed her late sixth inning potential homerun back into the infield as a pop-fly.

Going into the seventh, the Wordslingers were down by only one run.  Following two clutch singles, Jen Lavin produced one of her own, sending the base-runners gunning.  But while Matt Frederick rounded third, the crowd’s cheers, the coach’s directions, and the well-audible shrieking from the bench’s least productive player (Matt Biewener) conflicted with the base-runner’s inner warrior instinct and he was tagged out on his way to home.

In the end, their strong showing in the middle innings, the glove of all-over-the outfield Tom Meek, and the conspicuous lack of any memory of last year’s season proved to be not enough as the Wordslingers lost by one run – 10 to 9.

YAWP! Read All About It!

I walked into Grub Street early last Saturday in preparation for March’s YAWP. I filled out my little form, sat in a chair, and waited for the people to come in as usual, but usual wasn’t in the cards. Last month was what may have been the largest YAWP ever, and I’d be lying if I said that isn’t incredibly exciting.

Most of these new people must have taken the poetry or screenwriting workshop because fiction seemed no larger than usual. We all took our seats in the room and went around the circle, introducing ourselves, before getting down to business. Becky, the first teacher, gave us our prompt. “Write a situation in which one character slowly reveals information to another” and we were off. Thirty minutes later, those of us who wished were able to share their pieces, and the first part of the fiction class came to a close. And as it just so happens we began to talk revision.

For us, revision was an ugly topic, it seemed like the entire room had their own opinion of it which ended with “I really don’t do it that much” and this workshop dealt with it well, editing a small piece is much easier than a larger one. After we’d been at it for a little while, the metaphorical lunch bell metaphorically rang and we took the opportunity to stretch our legs and eat.

The poetry and screenwriting class had, I gathered from other students, been up to similar activities. Following the introductions, they were handed a packet of writing examples and, drawing from one in particular, started working on a piece. After 15 minutes they would share and continue in the same manner until lunch.

Lunch was, as lunch always is, a great time. If you don’t enjoy spending time with fantastically creative and intelligent people, then perhaps YAWP is not for you. Lunch is also short, but we didn’t mind, more writing was to come.

Returning to the fiction class, we had a new teacher, Nadine replacing Becky, and as is often the case she had us read the first bit of a book. After passing the book around, we drew from it, writing about a character that pretended to be something they were not. However, no sooner had we begun sharing the poetry class began to file in for the open mic, and the last chapter of YAWP began.

But now, with all of us sitting in a room, it began. One by one we walked up to the podium, introduced ourselves, and read. We heard tales of immortality, of Jewish grandmothers who change their name and move westward, of a birthday mistake and a loveably insane husband, and of everything else you can imagine. This open mic had a special attribute, as well; it was the first one I can remember that had to be cut short, because more people had read than we had time for. Now that it’s happened, however, I hope as much as possible that it continues.

-Michael McGurk
Grub Street's official YAWP Reporter

The Young Adult Writing Program (YAWP) meets one Saturday a month for writing workshops, food, and fun. For more information visit grubstreet.org.

Peek into Publishing

Here's a recap of the November 1st chat with Elaine McArdle and Lane Zachary. Brought to you by Grub volunteer Val Maloof!

Today Elaine McArdle co-author of The Migraine Brain spoke about what it was like to co-author the book. Elaine is a journalist who teamed up with Dr. Carolyn Bernstein, a neurologist who had an idea to write an easy-to-understand book about migraines.

During the partnership, Dr. Bernstein would provide the medical knowledge and Elaine would simplify the medical terminology and conduct interviews. Elaine spoke about Dr. Bernstein as "the star." Because Dr. Bernstein had medical credentials she was the one going on the press tours and Elaine was mainly just in the background. And Elaine completely understood and accepted her position.

With her for this talk was her agent Lane Zachary of the Zachary, Shuster, Harmsworth Agency. One thing Lane advises writers to do is to get their work published. Agents are always reading different literary journals and magazines, so just by having work out there is a huge step in the right direction.

She also explained that an author's pay check is 15% of the list price of their book. For example, if a book sells for $30 then the author makes $4.50 per book.

When looking for an agent Lane suggests looking in the acknowledgment section of your favorite books-- it will usually state the agents name there. Both Lane and Elaine agreed on how crucial it is for a writer to have a strong positive connection with the agent.

Lane said that if you are to do a co-authorship with a "star," then the profits should always be split 50/50. And NEVER write for hire, according to Lane.


Contact Info:
Elaine McArdle
ElaineMcA at hotmail.com
www.elainemcardle.com

Lane Zachary
LZachary at zshliterary.com
www.zshliterary.com

Biddy Biddy Bop Bop

Grub Street invites you to check out original drawings, doodles, and musings by 28 fabulous writers, including Tom Robbins, George Saunders, Robert Pinsky, Lois Lowry, Charles Baxter, Steve Almond, Susan Orlean, Chris Bohjalian, Ben Percy, Gregory Maguire, and Lee Martin. Welcome to our first-ever “From the Desk Of” postcard auction. Guess who made what!

We mailed each of these authors a blank, 5x7 inch postcard and asked each to create whatever they wanted with it. The creator of each postcard will remain anonymous until our upcoming fundraiser, A Taste of Grub. All details on how to bid on the postcards and come to the event are listed here. Online bidding will close promptly at 5:00pm on November 6th.

A Taste of Grub raises funds to support Grub Street’s community outreach programs, which bring creative writing workshops to senior citizens and at-risk youth throughout the greater Boston area. Plus, it's a chance for us to throw a great party and thank all of the wonderful supporters who make Grub Street possible.

Please spread the word to all your literary-minded friends, and bid, bid, bid! While you’re at it, check out our Literary Silent Auction as well.

Thanks, and cheers,
Sonya

Perfect Posture

The spine is curved into a gracefully grotesque 'C.' The shoulders slouch sloppily. The stomach creases and fold, taking on the back's burden as it gives in and curls over.


The physical body is easily forgotten when in the clutch of a creative flow. While the body may suffer, hunched and gnarled, the writing is able to stretch, to bend and twist, to leap and twirl.

Eventually the streak fades and the body make itself known. Leaning back from the keyboard or placing the pen down, and one can hear each individual vertebra crack as it unfurls. The shoulders wince, the back may moan.

Yet a smile spreads over the writer's face as he or she reads over what has just been created, content to sacrifice the body when in an inspired state.

Literary Nomad

Some spend a lifetime dreaming of the sacred trip to Mecca. My pilgrimage was to the original Grub Street in London, to kneel on its slummy sidewalk and pray to the God(s?) of writing.

Grub Street, today

When I decided to move to London last month I had few worries. My writing was about the only source of real anxiety. I pictured the tail of the plane’s fuel fumes and carbon emissions on the flight over and imagined each particle of my creativity vaporizing in that trail the whole way cross the Atlantic. I still felt rather safe as I stepped out into the bustling big city, yet I walked cautiously. Around any street corner some thug muse might mug me, snatching my whole handbag of writing ability.

Self-doubt can be a humbling spirit to an accomplished author, but as a young writer it is more of a menacing ghost. I love to write, I need to write and sometimes I’m even good at it. But consider it as a legitimate career? Only in my most bohemian dreams. I am the very hack who would have found a cozy home on Grub Street in the 18th century.

My concerns were somewhat practical. In Boston I was just beginning to establish myself as a freelance food writer, even had a base of editors and contacts I knew. Would I be able to do the same in London?

Finishing my prayers on the pavement, an omen appeared. A large, greasy man walked by eating a falafel out of a bright orange ‘Fish&Chips’ takeaway box. They eat here! In fact, people all over the world in all different countries eat. I bet some even read about it. Perhaps my future as a freelance writer isn't over.

That reassuring revelation taught me something important about my writing: I can do it anytime, anywhere. So, maybe I will.

. . . . even from a little London flat where I work out of my closet.

Sarah Leech-Black

F.Y.I. What once was Grub Street is now Milton Street and is right next to the Barbican Centre, London’s hub for arts and cultures.

The Antique Store Downstairs is a Netherworld Paradise

Hey man. All I'm saying is there's a reason why the mannequin in front has one arm, and I swear it follows me with it's one eye.

Just so you know, Grub Street is located at 160 Boylston Street on the fourth floor, four stairs, four concrete slabs of construction protecting us feeble writers from the gangsters "antique" shop downstairs.

So here's my poem/letter to the old woman (in my mind, she's two-hundred and thirty-seven years old, six-foot seven with a big ol' rack, built like a Gorilla with chest hair thick like the perfect shag) who owns the store and the magic portal underneath it that transports her to whatever fifth-dimension she hails from:

Dear Gorilla-Woman,

I've seen the front of your store, explosively slipshod,
I've seen the dust powdered in dough-nut thick rings around your wares,
I've seen the hockey jersey slump next to the brass vase and poster
of an 80's hair-band,
but what I haven't seen makes me cross myself
before I cross that threshold.
shoulder
shoulder
forehead
chest.
and the way the teapot watches me
makes me tingle
way down
in my gibblets.

Oh yes, I'm on to you.
The dolls are your watchmen, the old clock with rat bites hides your portal,
(much like that movie "The Last Unicorn")
Oh yes, I've walked your floors and stooped at the sound of a quiet
'oof!'
What creatures do you hide underneath your living concrete grounds?
Where is your spaceship?
The laughter coming from inside sounds almost
human,
a rolling guffaw and toot,
but I don't believe you.

I thumb my nose,
a leg and a finger, at you.
You're not pulling no
fast one on me.

Not for a second.

But please,
keep the peace. What strange bargain you have with us
is fine enough
to me.
So I'll continue to ignore those slick eyes,
the strange lump-shaped
footprints
settling in the dust,
and I won't tread too hard on your floors.
But I worry about your obviousness,
obviously my genius
(coming from my powers as the unknown
Power Ranger Salmon)
betrayed your identity to me.

But I'll keep your secret if you keep mine.

Best wishes and luck,
xoxoxo,

Lillian.


JUST IN CASE:

Okay, this was really just a joke. I'm new to the blog thing and wanted to have a little fun, so that's all this is. There really isn't a giant man-eating octopus living in the basement of 160 Boylston, I swear. And to the people who actually own the charming shop downstairs: I'm sure your wares are very nice - and expensive. Please don't take offense, it was just a joke and I'm sure you're not towering chimps with big gazongas. But face it, don't lie, I saw the scotch-tape wrapped around the lid of that bronze jar.


In wary, weary dread,
with dreadful eyes,
dreading the people downstairs read this,

Lillian Ling