Andrew and I drove back yesterday from Baton Rouge to Houston on I-10 West through SW La.- Lafayette, Lake Charles, Orange, Beaumont - and it's more hurricane footage crammed into my memory banks. Weird: Water burns vegetation and salts flooded vehicles. What it leaves behind looks the opposite of wet. Billboards: gone. (Thank you for that.) Jack In The Box sign: forlornly on its side. Motels bombed out. Boats resting on top of boats. (One of Andrew's friends went back into his Lakeview home knowing they'd lost everything, but it crushed him that the water had moved their stuff i.e. kitchen table on the stairs.) On a good note: convoys of military, power companies and food delivery trucks from other states thread the highways. Humvees, wide and low. Bucket trucks from West Virginia. Flatbeds from Georgia loaded with MREs and cases of bottled water. I've decided I like driving in the left lane beside a convoy, tucked under its wing like that. It feels safe, nice, respectful.  

I've been remiss not talking about good things to read that've been published of late by good people. (Stupid time-consuming twin sister hurricanes.)

My favorite tattooed one time sailor, Jim Ruland has a book coming out:



Here's a cool review from Las Vegas City Life.  

Laila Lalami's first short story collection - HOPE AND OTHER DANGEROUS PURSUITS.

Excerpt:

Fourteen kilometers. Murad has pondered that number hundreds of times in the last year, trying to decide whether the risk was worth it. Some days, he told himself that the distance was nothing, a brief inconvenience, that the crossing would take as little as thirty minutes if the weather was good. He'd spend hours thinking about what he would do once he was on the other side, imagining the job, the car, the house. Other days, he could think only about the coast guards, the ice-cold water, the money he'd have to borrow, and he'd wonder how fourteen kilometers could separate not just two countries, but two wholly different universes.

Tonight the sea appears calm, with only a slight wind now and then. The captain has ordered all the lights turned off, but with the moon up and the sky clear, Murad can still see around him. The six-meter Zodiac inflatable is meant to accommodate eight people. Thirty huddle in it now-men, women, and children-all with the anxious look of those whose destinies are in the hands of others-the captain, the police, God.

Murad has three layers on: undershirt, turtleneck, and jacket; below, a pair of thermal underwear, jeans, and sneakers. With only three hours' notice, he didn't have time to get waterproof pants. He touches a button on his watch, a Rolex knockoff he bought from a street vendor in Tangier, and the display lights up: 3:15 AM. He scratches at the residue the metal bracelet leaves on his wrist, then pulls his sleeve down to cover the timepiece. Looking around him, he can't help but wonder how much Captain Rahal and his gang stand to make. If the other passengers paid as much as Murad did, the take is almost 600,000 dirhams, enough for an apartment or a small house in a Moroccan beach town like Asilah or Cabo Negro.

He looks at the Spanish coastline, closer with every breath. The waves are inky black, except for hints of foam here and there, glistening white under the moon, like tombstones in a dark cemetery. Murad can make out the town where they're headed. Tarifa. The mainland point of the Moorish invasion in 711. Murad used to regale tourists with anecdotes about how Tariq Ibn Ziyad had led a powerful Moor army across the Straits and, upon landing in Gibraltar, ordered all the boats burned. He'd told his soldiers that they could march forth and defeat the enemy or turn back and die a coward's death. The men had followed their general, toppled the Visigoths, and established an empire that ruled over Spain for more than seven hundred years. Little did they know that we'd be back, Murad thinks. Only instead of a fleet, here we are in an inflatable boat-not just Moors, but a motley mix of people from the ex-colonies, without guns or armor, without even a charismatic leader.

It's worth it, though, Murad tells himself. Some time on this flimsy boat and then a job. It will be hard at first. He'll work in the fields like everyone else, but he'll look for something better. He isn't like the others-he has a plan. He doesn't want to break his back for the spagnol, spend the rest of his life picking their oranges and tomatoes. He'll find a real job, where he can use his training. He has a degree in English and, in addition, he speaks Spanish fluently, unlike some of the harragas.

His leg goes numb. He moves his ankle around. To his left, the girl (he thinks her name is Faten) shifts slightly, so that her thigh no longer presses against his. She looks eighteen, nineteen maybe. "My leg was asleep," he whispers. Faten nods to acknowledge him but doesn't look at him. She pulls her black cardigan tight around her chest and stares down at her shoes. He doesn't understand why she's wearing hijab on her hair for a trip like this. Does she imagine she can walk down the street in Tarifa in a headscarf without attracting attention? She'll get caught, he thinks.

Back on the beach, while they were waiting for Rahal to get ready, Faten sat alone, away from everyone else, as though she were sulking. She was the last one to climb into the boat, and Murad had to move to make room for her. He couldn't understand her reluctance-it didn't seem possible to him that she would have paid so much money and not been eager to leave when the moment came.

Across from Murad is Aziz. He's tall and lanky and he sits hunched over to fit in the narrow space allotted to him. This is his second attempt at crossing the Straits of Gibraltar. He'd told Murad that he'd haggled with Rahal over the price of the trip, argued that, as a repeat customer, he should get a deal. Murad had tried to bargain, too, but in the end, he still had to borrow almost 20,000 dirhams from one of his uncles, and the loan is on his mind again. He'll pay his uncle back as soon as he can get a job.

Aziz asks for a sip of water. Murad hands over his bottle of Sidi Harazem and watches him take a swig. When Murad gets the bottle back, he offers the last bit to Faten, but she shakes her head. Murad was told he should keep his body hydrated, so he's been drinking water all day. He feels a sudden urge to urinate and leans forward to contain it.

Next to Aziz is a middle-aged man with greasy hair and a large scar across his cheek, like Al Pacino in Scarface. He wears jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. Murad heard him tell someone that he was a tennis instructor. His arms are muscular, his biceps bulging, but the energy he exudes is rough, like that of a man used to trouble with the law. Murad notices that Scarface has been staring at the little girl sitting next to him. She seems to be about ten years old, but the expression on her face is that of an older child. Her eyes, shiny under the moonlight, take up most of her face. Scarface asks her name. "Mouna," she says. He reaches into his pocket and offers her chewing gum, but the girl quickly shakes her head.

Her mother, Halima, asked Murad the time before they got on the boat, as though she were on a schedule. Now she gives Scarface a dark, forbidding look, wraps one arm around her daughter and the other around her two boys, seated to her right. Halima's gaze is direct, not shifty, like Faten's. She has an aura of quiet determination about her, and it stirs feelings of respect in Murad, even though he thinks her irresponsible, or at the very least foolish, for risking her children's lives on a trip like this.

On Aziz's right is a slender African woman, her cornrows tied in a loose ponytail. While they were waiting on the beach to depart, she peeled an orange and offered Murad half. She said she was Guinean. She cradles her body with her arms and rocks gently back and forth. Rahal barks at her to stop. She looks up, tries to stay immobile, and then throws up on Faten's boots. The girl cries out at the sight of her sullied shoes.

"Shut up," Rahal snaps.

The Guinean woman whispers an apology in French. Faten waves her hand that it's okay, says she understands. Soon the little boat reeks of vomit. Murad tucks his nose inside his turtleneck. It smells of soap and mint and it keeps out the stench but, within minutes, the putrid smell penetrates the shield anyway. Now Halima sits up and exhales loudly, her children still huddling next to her. Rahal glares at her, tells her to hunch down to keep the boat balanced.

"Leave her alone," Murad says.

Halima turns to him and smiles for the first time. He wonders what her plans are, whether she's meeting a husband or a brother there or if she'll end up cleaning houses or working in the fields. He thinks about some of the illegals who, instead of going on a boat, try to sneak in on vegetable trucks headed from Morocco to Spain. Last year, the Guardia Civil intercepted a tomato truck in Algeciras and found the bodies of three illegals, dead from asphyxiation, lying on the crates. At least on a boat there is no chance of that happening. He tries to think of something else, something to chase away the memory of the picture he saw in the paper.

The outboard motor idles. In the sudden silence, everyone turns to look at Rahal, collectively holding their breath. "Shit," he says between his teeth. He pulls the starter cable a few times, but nothing happens.

"What's wrong?" Faten asks, her voice laden with anxiety.

Rahal doesn't answer.

"Try again," Halima says.

Rahal yanks at the cable.

"This trip is cursed," Faten whispers. Everyone hears her.

Rahal bangs the motor with his hand. Faten recites a verse from the second Sura of the Qur'an: "God, there is no God but Him, the Alive, the Eternal. Neither slumber nor sleep overtaketh Him-"

"Quiet," Scarface yells. "We need some quiet to think." Looking at the captain he asks, "Is it the spark plug?"

"I don't know. I don't think so," says Rahal.

Faten continues to pray, this time more quietly, her lips moving fast. "Unto Him belongeth all that is in the heavens and the earth-"

Rahal yanks at the cable again.

Aziz calls out, "Wait, let me see." He gets on all fours, over the vomit, and moves slowly to keep the boat stable.

Faten starts crying, a long and drawn-out whine. All eyes are on her. Her hysteria is contagious, and Murad can hear someone sniffling at the other end of the boat.

"What are you crying for?" Scarface asks, leaning forward to look at her face.

"I'm afraid," she whimpers.

"Baraka!" he orders.

"Leave her be," Halima says, still holding her children close.

"Why did she come if she can't handle it?" he yells, pointing at Faten.

Murad pulls his shirt down from his face. "Who the hell do you think you are?" He's the first to be surprised by his anger. He's tense and ready for an argument.

"And who are you?" Scarface says. "Her protector?"

A cargo ship blows its horn, startling everyone. It glides in the distance, lights blinking.

"Stop it," Rahal yells. "Someone will hear us!"

Aziz examines the motor, pulls at the hose that connects it to the tank. "There's a gap here," he tells Rahal, and he points to the connector. "Do you have some tape?" Rahal opens his supplies box and takes out a roll of duct tape. Aziz quickly wraps some around the hose. The captain pulls the cable once, twice. Finally the motor wheezes painfully and the boat starts moving.

"Praise be to God," Faten says, ignoring Scarface's glares.

The crying stops and a grim peace falls on the boat.  

John Warner's written a book about writing a sure-fire bestseller - FONDLING YOUR MUSE

Excerpt:

Too many writers are caught up with wanting to be original or groundbreaking. Publishers, on the other hand, are shortsighted and risk-averse because, as we all know, risk is incompatible with a healthy bottom line. I mean, would the Ford Motor Company maintain its stranglehold on the steam-powered buggy market today if old Henry had embraced that tinker's dream, the internal combustion engine? Would Wang computers be one of the most well-known technology brands in the world if, instead of plowing ahead with their centralized mainframe business-computing model, they had replaced those huge terminals with "personal computers"? Absurd! Business is in the business of repetition, and the wise author recognizes this up front.

In today's entertainment world, risk is punished while treading the well-worn path is rewarded again and again and again. The only ground you should think about breaking is in your spacious backyard?for your new pool, paid for by your fat advance, earned by writing a book just like books that have already sold by the bucketful. Fortunately, 99 percent of today's published fiction adheres to very specific, easily replicated formulas that can be broken down to simple recipes. Just choose one of these templates, and you're off and away.

Contemporary Romance Quiche à la Nicholas Sparks
Ingredients
7,000 tons cheese (Velveeta brand preferred)
600 lbs. cardboard
300 lbs. treacle
1 towel, for weeping

Preparation
Thoroughly melt cheese over low, slow heat. Allow cheese to thicken and congeal. Fashion character-like things out of cardboard. Roll characters in cheese and drizzle with treacle. Serve lightly warmed-over with one weeping towel per reader. Tasty with a side of hackneyed potatoes.


John Grisham's Legal Thriller Stew
Ingredients
1 youthful idealist either in or fresh out of law school
1 setting in a decaying southern city
1 corrupt institution
1 pinch ethical dilemma
1 moment of truth
7,000 mixed twists and turns

Preparation
Thoroughly mix all ingredients in large bowl. Over extremely high heat, boil in pot until ingredients bubble over line of believability. Serves at least a couple million per batch, more if served with a movie tie-in.


Ayn Rand Objectivism Cake
Ingredients
1 cartoonishly masculine hero with a name that signifies strength (like Griffin Stone or Granite Johnson)
Equal amounts of:
compassion
emotion
cooperation
sacrifice
reasoning
objective reality
selfishness
laissez-faire capitalism

Preparation
Take compassion, emotion, cooperation, and sacrifice, throw them on the ground, and stomp into a worthless pulp. Discard in trash and don't give even a second thought. Combine remaining ingredients and bake until half-done. Serve to pseudointellectual discontented seventeen-year-old males who can't get dates. Warning: generally repulsive to anyone over twenty years old.


Harlequin Romance Salad
Ingredients
5 bodices
6,000,000 adjectives
1 stallion (horse)
1 stallion (human)
prose (to taste)

Preparation
Thoroughly rip bodices, pound prose until purple, and combine all ingredients in large mixing bowl. Drown with adjective dressing. Serve by the bucketful to the sexually frustrated trapped in passionless marriages.


Chick-Lit Cacciatore
Ingredients
1 unconventionally attractive, romantically frustrated heroine
1 caddish boss (can substitute caddish co-worker, caddish former boyfriend, or caddish jockey)
1 overprotective mother who wishes her daughter would just settle down
half-dozen comically embarrassing situations (use more or less, to taste)
1 perfect ending reminiscent of that last scene in Pretty Woman, where Richard Gere realizes that he really could spend eternity with Julia Roberts, even though she has spent her entire adult life as a prostitute

Preparation
You know the drill. Satisfies many, every single time. I can't explain how, either.


Tom Clancy Techno-Thriller Surprise
Ingredients
oodles of high-tech war-making machinery
1 reluctant, yet capable, hero
1 obstructionist bureaucrat
1 evil empire (can substitute evil paramilitary organization)
8,000,000,000 acronyms
1 snappy title

Preparation
Preparation is usually subcontracted to others. Let them worry about it.


Contemporary American Literary Fiction Flambé
Ingredients
12 lbs. lint from own navel
7 reams self-importance
1 generally unpalatable main character
prose, to taste
propane torch

Preparation
Mix lint with self-importance and infuse into main character. Use propane flame to overheat prose. Served in smaller and smaller quantities as the years go by.

There are other recipes out there, but hopefully these will give you a good foundation. The key is to never, ever, stray from the beaten path. Think of the American book-buying consumer as being something like a baby just beginning to eat solid food. The baby likes certain things (like the yellow mush, and sometimes the off-white mush), but if you try to feed the baby the green mush, the baby will scrunch up its face and pound its little baby fists against its high chair and refuse to eat.

When it comes to writing your best-seller, stick with the yellow (or sometimes off-white) mush.  

Can we - for a while - forget about hurricanes, DeLay, LSU's blown 21-point lead against Tennessee, and raise a pint to one intrepid rower?

He got there early, looks like:

If Oliver arrives at Falmouth on 1 October he will have:

- spent 127 days at sea solo/unsupported

- rowed 3,321 miles as the crow flies from Atlantic Highlands to Falmouth

- actually rowed approx. 4,040 miles

- an average of 32miles per day


He has followed in the "footsteps" of the first ever oceanrowers Harbo & Samuelson who made the crossing in 1896 from New York to the Scillies in 55 days.

While owing to unsupportive/unprevailing winds Oliver will not have achieved the record for the fastest crossing West-East of the Atlantic he will have achieved the following:-

- youngest (at start !) to row the Atlantic solo (Sam Knight crossed from Spain to West Indies in 2004) Oliver was 23 years 175 days at the start, Sam 23 years 215 days

- one of eight ever to have rowed solo from North America to Europe (two people having done it twice)

- the first Brit to row solo from USA to Europe (the 4 Brits went from New Foundland, the 4 French from Massachusetts).

- the first person ever to row solo from New Jersey/New York to Europe.

- the longest successful crossing of the Atlantic West-East

- 12th longest solo row (usually in the Pacific).

- 4th longest row in the Atlantic.

- 5th GB solo rower Atlantic West-East.

Currently Oliver has raised £30,500 for Hope and Homes for Children. It is hoped that this will increase as a result of the publicity following his arrival  

Pia may be too busy moving from city to city to mention that she won the Narrative Prize from Narrative Magazine for her short story “Famous Fathers,” but I'm not. I'm a proud little nuthatch and happy to call her my friend.

She's mine. You can't have her.

Congratulations and blessings, Pia. And prayers. (Everybody congratulate her in the "songs" below, okay? And sing pretty. She does appreciate a lovely song.)

tags ∴ 2005 ⋰ author ⋰ fiction ⋰ friend ⋰ Narrative ⋰ NarrativeMagazine ⋰ NarrativePrize ⋰ NewOrleans ⋰ Pia ⋰ PiaZ ⋰ PiaZEhrhardt ⋰ prize ⋰ ShortStory ⋰ writer