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Sport has long had a fascination with blood. The blood of the Roman gladiators, mopped by a sponge from the arena, fed a profitable business; perhaps the athlete’s ultimate commitment to promoting their brand? Today blood is even more relevant to sport.

The post Bloody Olympics: Rio, 2016, and the history of illegal blood doping appeared first on OUPblog.

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I have been busy and have neglected this blog. I forgot to make a post here about some of the most exciting news of my year: I have a story in the current issue of my favorite literary magazine, Conjunctions. It's titled "Mass" and it is about, among other things, a mass shooting.

Early this morning, at least 50 people were killed and 53 wounded in a gay nightclub in Orlando, Florida. The New York Times is currently calling this the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history.

I'm not going to write about the gun politics of this. For that, please read the work of Patrick Blanchfield, particularly "So There's Just Been a Mass Shooting", "God and Guns", and "The Gun Control We Deserve". (He's excellent on Twitter, as well, if you want his most recent thoughts.) I have sputtered on about the topic in the past, not always coherently. Patrick is better at it, and better informed, than I. Thinking through the complex, contradictory, vexing, and emotionally charged landscape of gun politics, I'm better (or at least more comfortable) in fiction. Thus, "Mass".

(Titles fascinate me. The title of this issue of Conjunctions is Affinity: The Friendship Issue. Affinity is something more than friendship. Friendship is useful, it feels good, it glues us socially, and sometimes it may be, yes, an issue. But affinity is more: its etymology [via Latin and French, a story told by the OED] is rich with ideas of relationship: relationship via marriage; any relationship other than marriage; a neighborhood; relationship between people based on common ground in their characters and tastes; spiritual connection; structural relationship; adjacency.)

A character in "Mass" has been reading theoretical physics:

“Not especially detailed theoretical physics, but introductory sorts of texts, popularizations, books for people who don’t really ever have a hope of truly understanding physics but nonetheless possess a certain curiosity. And its words are sometimes beautiful — a tachyonic field of imaginary mass — who couldn’t love such a phrase? I find it all strangely comforting, the more far-out ideas of quantum theory and such. It’s like religion, but without all the rigmarole and obeisance to a god. Or perhaps more like poetry, though really not, because it’s something somehow outside language, but nonetheless elegant, and of course constricted by language, since how else can we communicate about it? But it gestures, at least, toward whatever lies beyond logos, beyond our ability even to reason, though perhaps not to comprehend. At my age, and having spent a life devoted to language, there is comfort and excitement — even perhaps some inchoate feeling of hope — in glimpses beyond the realm of words. There is, I have come to believe, very much outside the text. What is it though? Call it God, call it Nature, call it the Universe, call it what it seems to me now to be — having read and I’m sure misunderstood my theoretical physics — call it: an asymptote.”

And then there is "Blood". And Blood: Stories.

"Why did you give it that title?" people ask. There are a lot of answers. (And that, in itself, is an answer.) Here's one: As a child of the early AIDS era, I always knew queer blood is politicized and scary. Scary, thus politicized. Politicized, thus scary.

Until recently, the FDA prohibited any man who had had sex with men since 1977 from donating blood. Now, if you've been celibate for a year, you can donate. The massacre in Orlando brought this policy back into the news, with various outlets reporting that while queers were attacked, and blood was needed, any man who had had sex with a man in the last year could not, under FDA rules, donate blood.

Blood is a reality and blood is a potent metaphor: beautiful and terrifying, wonderful and evil.

Consanguinity.

Blood is life and blood is death; blood is family and blood is genocide.

Is there an opposite to blood? What is water in our metaphors? It washes blood away, but also sustains us as we live, for much of what we are is water. Tears are made of water, salt, enzymes, hormones. They taste like oceans and look like rain.

Water is what we weep.

I weep for my queer brethren. I weep, too, for the inevitable homonationalism as queer shoulders are put to the wheel of US imperialism and US exceptionalism; as pride is wielded for Us against Them.

But I am not feeling political today.

Sometime looking backward
into this future, straining
neck and eyes I'll meet your shadow
with its enormous eyes
     you who will want to know
     what this was all about          

—Adrienne Rich,
"A Long Conversation"

Yesterday, my aunt, after (as they say) a (short? long? relative to what?) illness, died.

We had never lived near each other, but she was a profound influence on my life. She and her daughter, my cousin, gave me Stephen King stories when I was much too young for them. Night Shift, Skeleton Crew. The titles are still magic to me, the covers of the old paperbacks as powerful as any personal icon I have. So much of what I became as a writer is because of those stories. So much of what I became as a writer, then, is because of her.

She was a brilliant artist, a fun and funny person, so smart, so straightforward, saucy, even, and strong as the mightiest metal. She had a magnificent life with magnificent people in it, as well as hardship, oh yes, hardship, indeed, as we all do, yes, but still: she struggled, persevered, survived, didn't let the bastards get her down.

I will miss her forever and cherish her forever. Her husband, my uncle, provided me with my middle name, and I am always proud to have been named for him, one of the best people I know.

(The cover of my book called Blood is a picture of a man with his heart removed.)

At the wedding of my youngest uncle some years ago, my oldest uncle, this great man now a widower, gave a toast in which he said ours is a motley family of steps and halfs, of once- and twice-removeds, of marriages and unions and affinities, but in the end those designations don't much matter, because family is family, and that's who we are, and what we are, and what we have, because we love each other.

Affinity. And even more so that most important of political cries: Solidarity.

I remember that Auden kept revising his poem "September 1, 1939", because he couldn't decide between "We must love one another or die," "We must love one another and die," or nothing at all.

Here, then, my own tentative, inadequate revision: We must love one another or nothing at all.

I loved my aunt fiercely, and I love fiercely all you queer folk out there aching and screaming and scared and willing to fight, and all who dance against the gunfire, hands held together through the pain, lips together in solidarity, lives together as we live and live and live — even if separated by oceans, even if drowning in tears — always striving, even if never reaching, like asymptotes, like believers and holy fools — as we remember and honor the dead, as we go on, as we must, you, me, all — whether strangers or the oldest of lovers, we are — we must be — a mass of friends, family, water, blood.

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Why adapt Zola? What’s he got to say to us today? If the novels are so good why not leave them as they are – as novels – and forget it?

The post On Adapting Emile Zola: Notes from a BBC script writer appeared first on OUPblog.

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World Blood Donor Day 2015 is celebrated on 14 June each year. This Sunday, the theme is "Thank you for saving my life," a chance for everyone who has benefited from a blood donation to thank the donors that selflessly donated to the cause. The demand for blood is always high as the shelf life of donated blood is only 42 days.

The post World Blood Donor Day 2015: blood types [infographic] appeared first on OUPblog.

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The first book written for adults that I ever coveted and loved and read to pieces was a short story collection: Stephen King's Night Shift, from which my cousin read me stories when we were both probably much too young, and which was one of the first books I ever bought myself. Ever since then, short story collections have seemed to me the most wonderful of all books.

I started publishing short stories professionally with "Getting a Date for Amelia" back in 2001. I barely remember the kid who wrote it (in the summer of 2000). I'm not a prolific fiction writer; I've been lucky enough to publish most of the stories I've written in the last decade or so, but I average only two stories a year. Fiction is the hardest thing in the world for me to write. Some stories have taken many years to find a final form. The kid who wrote "Getting a Date for Amelia" also managed to write a novel; it was mostly terrible (or, rather, not terrible, which might be interesting. Just nothing at all special. Rather boring, in fact. An extraordinarily useful exercise, though, dragging yourself through a novel-length piece of writing, even if the end result isn't all that great). I like fragments and miniatures too much to ever write a proper novel, I expect.

And—

What? Get on with it? Ah.

Yes, I am dithering here.

Because I am about to write a sentence that still feels unreal, though I've been writing various forms of it into emails to friends for a little while now:

I am the 2014 winner of the Hudson Prize from Black Lawrence Press for an unpublished manuscript titled Blood: Stories that will be published by BLP in January 2016.

The book will mostly contain reprints, and finally bring together all of the stories I've published since 2001 that are 1.) worth bringing together and that 2.) play well with each other. There are also a few unpublished stories, ones that I've never found the right home for but that felt to me like they belonged with the others, both gained and added context from/to the others, and were worth publishing. The editors at Black Lawrence Press agreed. One of the things I love about story collections is the way they can recontextualize stories, and the greatest excitement for me of this collection is that it will finally allow stories that have been scattered across a wide range of publications over many years to speak to each other.

I'm also incredibly excited to have found a publisher that is excited by what some others have considered either a fault or danger of the collection: its breadth of genres and styles. Perhaps out of sheer stubbornness and delusion, I was convinced that I could not be the only person on Earth to think the overall perspective of the work would create a coherence beyond genre or tone, that there was, in fact, a persistence of voice and vision. That's what the BLP editors told me attracted them to the manuscript, and when they said that, I knew I'd found what may be the perfect publisher for my work.

So I am excited. Beyond excited. I don't have words to convey the feeling of achieving something I've work toward for so long, something I often gave up hope of ever achieving. I wanted to write this post not only to let the world know the news, but also to preserve this moment so that, working through the more difficult parts of the experience (oh gawd, people might write reviews!), I can look back and remember what it felt like to be at this moment of triumphant possibility.

And to thank you, whoever you may be, who felt that it was worth some bits of your time and attention to read my words. I hope to continue to reward your interest.

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I can't seem to look at any food now without seeing it in this 'top, side, and section view' way. I find myself analyzing things in the grocery store for their drawing potential, trying to visualize them cut open, and lined up like this. I've bought a few things that didn't turn out to be very good subjects, but luckily since its all food it just gets worked into dinner or a snack.

Oh, this was done with Prismacolors on Bristol, and is 4" x 9".

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The other day, I asked my industrious screenplay-writing son whether he thought it might be helpful to get a handbook on the art form, to help with the next leg of his journey.  He has been too much like me, perhaps—trusting his own instincts, going his own way, paying little attention to the known "shoulds" of crafting stories for big and little screens.  He's been at work as a writer for more than half his life now, and that work has become remarkably good—cleverly plotted, well-paced, full of dialogue zing.  But what are the next steps?  How best to take them?

I was thinking about this again yesterday as I read Gabrielle Hamilton's bestselling, nothing-if-not-vivid account of accidental chefdom, Blood, Bones & Butter.  Hamilton had not set out to open a restaurant (the beloved Prune).  Nor had she set out to become a writer.  Both things happened, and her memoir tells us how.  It reflects, most profoundly, on what education is—how it finds us, when it matters, what to do with the taught and the merely surmised.

A third of the way through the book, Hamilton tells of the time she spent enrolled in the master's program for fiction at the University of Michigan.  She had drawn the conclusion (prematurely, as it turns out) that a writer's life might yield greater meaning than the life of a cook.  She had made her way into the program based on talent, as opposed to provable familiarity with literary theory.  But that master's program was, she discovered, a foreign, alien world, where the talk centered around, in Hamilton's words, "second person static point of view," "indirect interior discourse," "narrative strategy," "chiaroscuro," and "diction."  It all threw Hamilton back onto her heels until she tipped forward and discovered (again) how much meaning there is in preparing food with one's hands, in doing, rather than theorizing.

I have never gone to graduate school and my education is rooted in the History and Sociology of Science, not literature.  I empathize, then, with the marginalizing nature of lit theory talk, have had my share of being purposefully shamed by those who bandy about terms in my presence, just for the sake, it has often seemed to me, of bandying, elevating, and hopefully (their hope) dismissing others in the room.  Yes, I have thought, you are right.  I don't know what whatever it is that you just said means, and thus and therefore, you are smarter and more valuable than moi. 

I have thought that, then shrugged and gone back to writing my books.

Hamilton, though, refuses to kowtow at all, as she fearlessly expresses here.  I plan to share this passage with the many writing students who ask me whether graduate school is the next right step for them.  I don't know the answer, because there is no single answer, because I will never pretend to know such things for absolute sure.  Hamilton's experience is her experience, her stridency is, too.  Still, it is worth listening to:

In the university program where I was supposed to be emancipating myself from the kitchen, preparing myself to go back to New York having at least answered the question of my own potential, the novelty and thrill had thoroughly worn off.  I could not find the fun or the urgency in the eventless and physically idle academic life.  It was so lethargic and impractical and luxurious.  I adored reading and writing and having my brain crushed; but those soft ghostly people lounging around the lounge in agony over there "

1 Comments on Gabrielle Hamilton (Blood, Bones and Butter) on Writing vs. Doing, Lit Talk vs. Literature., last added: 8/13/2012

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Serena said, on 8/13/2012 7:23:00 AM

I still struggle with this question of whether I "need" an MFA to be a published poet or a good one for that matter.

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Kyi, Tanya Lloyd. 2012. Seeing Red: The True Story of Blood. Illustrated by Steve Rolston. Toronto: Annick Press.

Seeing Red is the odd pairing of a nonfiction chapter book with a comic book featuring goth teenager, Harker.  The comic story line weaves information from the nonfiction text into the evolving tongue-in-cheek story of Harker's acquaintance with a vampire girl who tries to recruit him.  Strangely, it works.

Seeing Red traces the role of blood in history and culture. The seven chapters include "Blood and Ritual," "The Bloody Facts," and "Ties that Bind."  Seeing Red is definitely not a scientific treatment, but nevertheless, readers will learn some interesting science (blood typing, forensics), history (Aztecs, royal bloodlines), and culture (blood in food, rituals).  While some concepts in the printed text will inspire deeper thought, such as blood violence in video games, some breakout illustrated sections are purely for shock entertainment,

That Takes Gall
If you were a Gaul warrior, here's how you'd celebrate a victory:

• Cut off all your enemies' heads.
• String the heads together and use them as a necklace for your horse.
• Sing a victory song.
• Nail a few heads to the doorway of your house, like hunting trophies.

If you'd won an extra-impressive victory over a particularly dangerous foe, you might want a special souvenir.  In that case, you'd embalm an enemy head in cedar oil and stash it away in a cedar chest.  You could show all your friends the next time they stopped by!

(to accentuate the point, the bullet points are skulls)

Further Reading, Selected Sources and Index round out the book.

I was interested in Seeing Red after hearing a preview in Booklist's April webinar, "You've Got Male: Great New Books for Boys." I requested a review copy, graciously provided by Annick Press. Kirkus gave the book an "anemic" review. I, however, believe it lives up

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Someone in need of some fresh blood?
The lesson here: "Making the best out of any situation."

Thanks for visiting my website and/or my blog!

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A pen that sharply scratches in the skin and acompanying typographic logo design for the Dutch satirical writer Luuk Koelman.


The old bloodpen was also a Sevensheaven production.

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This fellow is a bit SHAKY after a gluttonous bender. He has eaten his fill and is ready fly to the next level. Washed in the blood of the lamb (chop), he will be born anew. Welcome to a brave new world, maggot.

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Cover illustration for the Dutch medical magazine Arts en Auto, about so-called serious games that allow apprentice surgeons to practice their future tasks.

More at www.sevensheaven.nl

Join me at Twitter [I mainly write in the Dutch language]

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If you're new to In Search of Giants, you might not know that the one feature I manage weekly is "Amusing Monday" - attempts at light-hearted week-beginning-ness.  Alas, you will need to wait another week to revel in a brand-new Amusing Monday post.  There will be no amusement today.

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This was a special request by my niece Marisa for a good friend of hers, Sara, who is a huge fan of a certain Crime Scene programme on TV :) Blood red icing, a dagger plunged into it, a bullet in its side and a hangman's noose draped over the cupcake ... as well as the DO NOT CROSS police tape -- I hope I added enough murderous implements to satisfy her!

And here's the magnet that just won the Today's Best Award over at zazzle.com :)

   

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