A bit of satire. (Oh what a dirty little pleasure it is to publish on Medium.) An essay about my religious upbringing. An essay about the DMZ and my Korean heritage. Short story exercises that I can’t quite call short stories yet. Since it’s winter, I’m going through a heavy reading period, finishing about three books a week. Although I really like that my website is organized in a non-linear fashion – more like a journal, or a conversation, as opposed to a CV of bylines and awards – I’m thinking of an upgrade to this website in the new year that incorporates a CV and short bio page. I’ll be killing off two of my blogs, as they’ve served their purpose – they helped me become a professional health writer (my day job) and a book reviewer. The Strong Women Project is still going strong and stronger – though it will merit its own website at some point, I look forward to sharing more results with you here.
Please enjoy the video, taken by my dearest friend Will. A joyful coincidence: Will's iPhone went off with a couple of phone calls at the start, so the first 30 seconds are in total darkness. It works because the beginning of the excerpt has to do with my character's experience as a fetus in the womb. I couldn't have asked for a prettier mishap.
I'm happy to say one of the big highlights of 2017 for me was reading at Les Bleus Salon, my favorite reading series in New York City, with my friends D. Foy, Michele Filgate and Emily Epstein. I hadn't read "The Story of Dearborn Russell" for a New York audience before. I feel I've come full circle – I'm an emerging writer, but I've also arrived at an aesthetic, so what could be more appropriate than reading Dearborn, my first short story to have made it into a print journal.
I'm feeling excited and passionate about this project, so it's time that I write a bit on my author website about how it's shaping up. Over one hundred women have been interviewed (my original target goal), and because I'm enjoying the process so much, I'm still interviewing more women, asking questions and listening as deeply as I can. The research began with a simple seven-question survey, then came the follow-up stage of Skype interviews, in-person interviews when and where possible, and just spreading the word to women I find influential and inspiring. And there's no shortage of them – I could do this for the rest of my life. And unofficially, that's exactly what I plan to do. Please stay tuned and if you want to share this on your social media networks, hashtag your post as #strongwomenproject. If you want to join the mailing list, please shoot me an email at d.aylett.stewart at gmail dot com. News forthcoming!
He stays in the hospital until the man opens his eyes. When the nurse leaves, he washes the man’s feet. He can see the veins spiraling across the man’s ankles, near the base of the feet, at the sides – threads of many colors, strained blood, dancing now, a red-and-blue alarm call. The skin of his limbs, thin as paper. His face is built of thicker, coarser material. Charles holds his hand for awhile, warmth pouring into his fingers. The man’s hand is cold but strong and his eyes are lit with thankfulness, as though he is looking at his own son. Charles returns to the hotel. He receives a call from Catherine. She is irate, how could he possibly ignore an urgent call. He listens. She calms down. She goes into the details of a Georgian-inspired necklace she has collaborated on with a designer friend of hers, a man who has visited their apartment for dinner once before. She talks about social media. Her tweets have atrophied, she says. Her voice fades out. Though he doesn’t mean to, his left ear presses against the surface of his iPhone and the call ends.
Thank you Seoul Foundation for Arts and Culture for your generosity, tranquil environment and for nurturing me during my stay. Seoul is a writer's paradise. I didn't think I had room in my heart to fall in love with another city. I'll be here until February 21.
It is a pleasure and a privilege to be able to interview someone whose work has such resonance for our time of political transition. Joel Whitney's book on the CIA and American literary history in the 1950s and 1960s is impressive, and I'm happy to say our conversation will be going up live very soon. I have learned a lot from speaking with him; the art of the interview is always changing. I expect to see many exciting interviews with Joel popping up in other places, print, broadcast, and online as FINKS makes its way across the country.
In case you don't know what this means to me: Darley goes international. I'm thrilled to be in Funhouse and you can read my latest story about a man named Scott who suffers from Parkinson's dementia – which isn't nearly as well-understood as it ought to be – right here. Illustrated by the inimitable Bridget M.
For more, please see Flapperhouse. This is a new June release, so I am only publishing an excerpt out of the huge heart-drumming respect I have for Flapperhouse and its brilliant editors, especially Joe O'Brien, who took on Polaroid, a sordid but fragile piece of prose, for which I am ever deeply thankful.
Scott does not want to see what is happening next to Marianne. She is not a woman or a bush but a cow at the slaughter. Her blood spills everywhere. It doesn't matter that she has been happily grass-fed. Lightning fast game processing: her body is being processed in under fifteen minutes. A tall blonde-haired man is sharpening his knives above her. She is a slab of meat on a table. There is a savagely skillful art to the swishing stabbing movements the man makes, cutting hard and fast into her body. She looks like a red closet waiting to be opened. A hook is flung deep into the flesh to secure the cuts being made on the other side of Marianne. Slash and rip. It is already dead. Marianne is dead. He can smell her, and she does not smell like lilacs.
My short story, "Polaroid of a Man in Love," has been accepted by Flapperhouse and will be published this June 2016. I will be giving a reading in May, so you can sample the literary goods live and in the flesh.
My essay on micro-fiction for The Brooklyn Rail is available here.
Jacob rolled down his window. He didn’t say anything. His eyes were closed, and the wind was blowing back his light brown hair. We passed by the house where I had snorted heroin for the first time, about two years ago, though the house was on the market again, now that Nick’s family moved to an even swankier neighborhood. I’d had an argument with Dad about something I can’t remember, probably my ripped-up jeans or my haircut, even though I wondered how he could notice anything about me while Mom was dying. He’d pulled out the gun, and described in detail what my brains would look like once he’d blown them out. As I ran out the door, I told him my brains weren’t worth blowing out. I thought about seeing Mom at the hospital, but that was when Nick texted me and told me to come right over. Nick’s dad was screwing our friend Brandon’s mom, and Nick’s mom worked late hours as a nurse, so the house was always empty on weeknights. By the time I came home from Nick’s, Jacob was there. Dad had been working on the paperwork all along. Six months later, me and Nick were shooting up.
Tin, stop. I’ve never heard you weep like this before. What’s the matter with you? You know our late thirties were meant to be hard. We have everything we want, and these people know it. They see it. It’s all out there to be seen. That doesn’t mean our late thirties weren’t meant to be hard. It’s always a test. It’s our age. It’s expected. We’re thirty-nine this year, next year you know what we’ll be. It’s always a test. We’re tested in our ability to feel more, or to feel less, and not only that, but at the right moments. Get a hold of yourself. You just said goddamn twice now. It’s unheard of. Exactly when did you turn into your mother?
And that did it. Sweet silence on the phone. Tin stopped crying. Perhaps she’d even dissolve herself in something other than a cocktail for a change. She could dissolve herself into all the fragmented corridors of self and memory instead, beyond control or reason, beyond propriety. And grow to genuinely appreciate those eight-and-a-half inches for what they could do. Words and tears were both dream-like things. How inane they were, compared to a real live muscle flexing down your throat. She could hear Robert rustling in the closet for the fourth time that morning. The first Saturday of the month had been something to look forward to until now.
In 2016 Maxwell’s teachers were concerned that the child had acquired sphinxian appetites and should be held accountable, particularly for falling right into a developmentally inefficacious chasm, thrashing against the hurdles of the mind, instead of clearing them sequentially. Was the child prodigy despairing over a line vanishing into the distance? Or did he think he was above looking at what was directly in front of him?
These were among the topics of the after-school meetings. The purpose of an education was to set the correct tone for the rest of the child’s life; the tone of achievable knowledge. This was especially true of a preparatory school for gifted children, and, they agreed, Maxwell was among the most gifted. It wouldn’t be appropriate to have Maxwell return to a public school education, but the more wholesome values of a public school could be grafted when necessary. The gym teacher suggested that the boy should start with the knowledge all other boys had come equipped with and were anxious to develop, the knowledge that not only separated boys from girls, but along the ultimate trajectory, boys from men – the art of attack and defense, from which Maxwell Ray was curiously sequestered. It was a shock and a disgrace that Maxwell had not been the recipient of a smidgen of full-frontal or full-dorsal violence by now, not a single tooth was sent into orbit, not an arm twisted behind his back to breaking point, not a section of the spine treated like a trampoline by his fellow young enthusiasts of testosterone. The boy was coddled, separated from the rest, and exhibited the most improbable behavior. Vagaries! Shenanigans! The rapture of the gym teacher was such an impressively primitive song of ribald self-contradiction that there was applause from the meekest and morally progressive of female teachers; all were persuaded that the child would benefit from having his expressionless face pushed into the lion-colored sand. Even Maxwell’s mother agreed, in a subsequent private meeting with the teachers – white-collar resentment leaking from the corners of the room, Venusian mascara running freely, a single bug dragging itself across the organic lightbulb – that the boy was chafed by too many unresolved questions and unable to finish his sandwich, self-conditioned to living levels removed from life, and is this how life would continue, at further and further levels of removal, the act of knowledge spinning itself out of control, taking her little boy with it?