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Gente, with your indulgence, I offer an excerpt from a yet-to-be-published work, Nine Days Dead. It's a new novel of mine, set  in Chicago, with a cast of characters that include: Natalia Ruiz-Rendon, an anthropologist, Naftali Gonzalez, a Jewish/PuertoRican detective, and Iyaloya, a guardian between the worlds.

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The fever had her now, rolling waves of heat cascaded through her body, fueling this work. The herbs she'd taken were for courage and she burned white hot with it. She asked for fear to be burned away like slag from steel and there was no turning back. No conscience now, no soft hearted little lamb. There was only this minute, this choice. She placed nine pennies at the entrance to the cemetery, asked permission with head bowed. The round moon, an unblinking eye, lit the path to the newest section of the cemetery.

But she could have found her way without it, as she'd come here, it was muscle memory. Here the monuments were of thick, polished granite, sculpted and set flush with the ground. There were no ornate pillars with cloth-draped urns, no 19th century statues of winged angels asking blessings from God, no columned mausoleums inscribed with Latin, just headstones with the names of the dear dead. She left the main road and headed down the 15th row, only the slight swish of grass against the soles of her shoes audible.

When she arrived at his grave, she set down the small leather bag and withdrew a change of clothing. Preparing for the ceremony had taken most of the past two weeks. A ritual bath every day for nine days. Meditation before bedtime. Buying nine tiny bottles, filling three with white rum, Holy Water, and Florida Water, one with black coffee, the rest with spring water. Nine votive candles smelling of jasmine, and nine blood red carnations, plus a purple, fringed silk scarf to lay it all out on.

She thought of Florinda, the woman brought from Cuba by her parents as a caretaker while they jetted back and forth from Chicago and Miami, supervising their galleries, opening exhibits, and protecting the family wealth. Natalia Ruiz-Rendon was a good daughter, whose lonely life was made bearable by the daily blandishments of Florinda Cienfuegos. Natalia knew that Flori would do anything in her power to stop her tonight. When Natalia was about fifteen, she found out that Florinda was a priestess of her own House, strong with Oya. She'd eavesdropped on a conversation between her beloved Flori and a visitor who'd come and left tribute for an intercession. When she'd asked about it, Florinda bluntly told her that this was not for her to know and that to ever speak of it would enrage her parents.

But Natalia prodded until Flori told her about the House, her pledge to Oya, even her true name, Iyaloya. Then with tears welling in her eyes, she begged the young girl to be accept her own path, the life her parents had made for her, and to trust that Flori was doing what she was meant to do as well. Fifteen years had come and gone since that conversation. Natalia Ruiz-Rendon, never disappointed, never displeased, and shouldered the expectations of her parents and became the youngest PH.D. in anthropology at the University of Miami, and a star at the University of Chicago. But there were dark, liquid secrets that kept pulling her to look where she shouldn't, and when David was killed, her resolve and her promise dissolved. Blood required blood.

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JARRED (A Hoodoo Comedy) closes in just TWO WEEKS - only 8 shows left and they are filling up fast! Purchase your ticket today!

Audiences and critics agree: you've never seen anything like this on stage! Hailed as "deliciously funny" (NewCity) and a "gripping production" that "rings with truth and authenticity. (Chicago Examiner)," JARRED offers an inside peek at what happens when jealously meets witchcraft. Tickets at www.teatroluna.org
Email -- [email protected] for more information

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GOT AN OPINION? A STORY? SOMETHING TO SAY?

Then you're just the person we're looking for!

Join Teatro Luna for a FREE PERFORMANCE WORKSHOP at our Logan Square space on Sunday, December 7th from 12-3.

We're starting work on our next show, Restaurant Spanish, and this is your chance to experience our unique ensemble process first hand! You don't have to be Latina, an actor, or a writer to participate - we're looking for people who are willing to jump in and have fun. SPACE IS LIMITED, so please reserve your slot by e-mailing [email protected].

LOOKING FOR A CUTE HOLIDAY GIFT?

Check out these limited edition prayer candles featuring the kinds of saints we all really need: Saint Procrastina, Nuestra Senora Del Cuchi Cuchi, Nuestra Senora of Retail Therapy, Gloriosa Senora de la Mentirita Piadosa, and Santa Escandalosa!

There are five different candles, each featuring one of the cast members of JARRED as one of these amazing Saints! These candles will be on sale at the Box Office through the run of JARRED (A HOODOO COMEDY). The final performance will be December 14, 2008 at 6:00 pm.

After the 14th, you will be able to purchase on our website!

Pricing: $8.00 One Candle, 2 for $15.00, and all five for $35.00

Email [email protected] for more information!



Lisa Alvarado

According to Judi Clark at mostlyfiction.com, "...it can be the broadest category and in a sense is a catch all, but the intention is to list books that really draw you in with language, imagery, character insight and sense of place".

In an article in the Guardian Unlimited, Robert McCrum wrote,"What is 'literary fiction'? To many, it's the titles on the short list for the Booker Prize. To some, it's those serious-minded novels of high artistic intent by writers with a passionate commitment to the moral purpose of fiction.
To others, it's a slippery piece of book jargon. It's certainly a label that's attracted its share of critical opprobrium. 'Literary' can be synonymous with 'highbrow', but I've heard 'pretentious' and even 'unreadable'. Literary fiction is what many writers aspire to, though quite a few will also run a mile at the first hint of it, too. Every reader will have his or her idea of what constitutes such a category".

(Above quotes from an online article by Nancy Boisseau)

I have this conversation with my sister blogista, Ann Cardinal about once a month. We're both writers, both MFA people, been to writer's residencies, and learned the hard way the ins and outs of getting published. One theme we keep coming back to is the idea of 'literary' vs. 'popular' fiction. Truth be told, I'm sort of a heretic in that I feel it's a false construct, much in the same way the term 'value-free-science/history/sociology' is.

I've read that popular fiction is more concerned with plot, less with character, less thought provoking. I categorically reject this. One blurb on literary fiction really drove home the point that I want to reject: that literary fiction is equal to literary merit. There's nothing artistic, nothing popular, nothing cultural that isn't influenced by the dynamic of who's in power, who's values, tastes, mores are held up as 'norms'. How is John Cheever considered literary fiction, and Raymond Chandler not? Shakespeare in his time was the bawdy, populist, people's scribe. How is superbly crafted noir any less about alienation than Salinger? Are there puerile, self-indulgent, navel gazing books out there with little wit and heart? Of course.

But I would say that you're just as likely to find them on The New York Times best-seller list as on the sale shelves at Borders. Really, it's something that's been in my craw for a while, gente ,and so I'm opening the discussion for your two cents, too. Let's have at it!

From "The Story of the Questions -- The Real Story of Zapata:"

"That Zapata appeared here in the mountains. He wasn't born, they say. He just appeared just like that. They say he is Ik'al and Votan who came all the way over here in their long journey, and so as not to frighten good people, they became one. Because after being together for so long Ik'al and Votan learned they were the same and could become Zapata. And Zapata said he had finally learned where the long road went and that at times it would be light and at times darkness but that it was the same, Votan Zapata, and Ik'al Zapata, the black Zapata and the white Zapata. They were both the same road for the true men and women."

From current Zapatista writing: "The man who assassinated Zapata, Colonel Guajardo, was promoted to General and given a reward of 52,000 pesos for his act, instead of being tried and convicted. After being shot, Zapata was loaded onto a mule and taken to Cuautla, where he was dumped on the street. To prove that he was really dead, flashlights were shown on his face and photographs taken. This didn't destroy the myth of his death, because Zapata could not and would not die! Like Commandante Marcos, he was too smart to be killed in an ambush. Hadn't Zapata's white horse been seen on top of the mountain? Every single person in the valley of Morelos still believes to this day that Zapata is still alive. Perhaps they are right."

Will popular fiction outlast our literary writers?

Otto Penzler (owner of the fabulous Mysterious Bookshop) thinks so, writing a review of Nostalgia Ventures republication of classic Shadow novels by Walter B. Gibson--the man who turned out a million words a year.

Penzler argues that Gibson's heroic, suspenseful novels stuck in readers' minds for much longer than the writers who won National Book Awards in the 1930's.

I gotta disagree a little bit, especially since because nominees Jim Shepard and Denis Johnson are students of pulp fiction. Like many of my favorite literary writers, they mined currents of popular fiction for pacing, vivid imagery, and inspiration. Check it out:

"None of these favorites of the literary establishment have approached the staying power of their contemporary pulp fiction writers — an eloquent negation of the significance of the academics and critics who relentlessly chastise the American reading public for preferring the storytelling qualities of their inferiors."

Nevertheless, we share Penzler's love for pulp fiction--just look back at our Paul Malmont archives for some web video-ized writing advice about popular and literary fiction. Then check out the new paperback edition of The Chinatown Death Cloud Peril--in that book, you actually meet Gibson as a literary fiction hero.

When I go to a blog like, say, A Chair, A Fireplace & A Tea Cozy, and I read a post about, maybe, Buffy, and I see that that post received 3 comments, I actually read the comments. What's more, if an individual making a comment is someone I don't know, I may very well follow his hyperlink.

That's how I came to stumble upon a post called Confessions of a Reformed Commercial Fiction Slut at a blog called Confessions of an MFA Seeking Writer. That post included a hyperlink to a blog maintained by one Nathan Bransford, Literary Agent and his post What Makes Literary Fiction Literary?

Both these guys said pretty much what I've always heard--commercial/popular fiction=plot; literary fiction=character. But they went into more depth and sophistication. And Bransford, in particular, was respectful of both types of fiction. The stereotype you usually hear about is literary people looking down their noses at commercial people and commercial people getting all defensive because they feel looked down upon.

What really was astonishing about this whole thing--creepy even--is that I was talking/wondering/ruminating about this very topic just two days ago.

Now I must go back and read posts I've found at Bransford's site on whether or not editors edit. That's another subject I've been known to ponder.

My computer guy was in a bit of a panic today when he saw that I hadn't posted anything since Thursday. I think he was afraid there was something dreadfully wrong with the blog and that he was going to get stuck dealing with it. Not the case, though.

Part of the reason for my absence was the arrival of a young relative who had the misfortune of being stuck alone in a car with me for an hour yesterday. We discussed his short story writing class.

I, too, took a couple of fiction writing courses while I was in college back in the day, though they were not specifically geared to short stories. He is reading and discussing short stories, not just writing them. I don't recall reading any published fiction in my classes. If memory serves me, we wrote a great deal more than he seems to be doing.

I don't know how I feel about that. Certainly, I didn't get much out of my writing classes. I sort of just floundered around and can't say I learned much of anything. I can't recall discussing point of view, plot, anything at all. Reading and discussing some published works might have done me some good. I definitely don't believe that a person can learn to write simply by writing just anything.

But that is my frustration. Young relative is experiencing frustration of his own because he is a popular fiction kind of guy and college is a literary fiction kind of world. The short stories he's being exposed to are meaningless to him. "Nothing happens," he keeps saying.

All this leads up to the interesting question this young guy asked me in the car: Are there publications that publish mainstream fiction that is not what we call "literary?" There are all kinds of literary journals and The New Yorker for so-called literary fiction. There are all kinds of publications for science fiction and mystery. But are there magazines and journals that publish mainstream fiction that would be described as "popular?" By which I guess we mean accessible.

Accessibility should not necessarily mean without depth. And, of course, obscurity is not necessarily profound.