Author Archives: Tim Elhajj

Shoot the Buffalo

Although I rarely read fiction these days, I do read a little, especially if it’s good.

Shoot the Buffalo, Matt Briggs latest novel, is my kind of fiction. A coming of age story set in the dark woods of the Pacific Northwest, it features some of the saddest, yet most oddly compelling characters I’ve read in a long while.

I seek out coming of age stories. The best memoir is written to read like fiction, so all the coming of age stories I read actually count as research toward my own on-going memoir project. One of the inherent problems of writing this kind of story is that something big has to happen to your main character, but not so big as to prevent a minor from rising to the challenge and overcoming in a way that’s believable and (hopefully) compelling to read.

In American literature, this sort of story often presents itself as a Hero’s Quest, typically a redemptive story where the hero overcomes some great adversary. But it’s not always so cut and dry. In This Boy’s Life, Tobias Wolff’s well-known coming of age memoir, a no-account stepfather is young Wolff’s big challenge. In a stunning act of guile, Wolff manages to (literally) reinvent himself, escaping to a prep school in the Northeast. Wolff’s use of deceit to overcome his situation has always made the story stand out for me. There is nothing more poignant then a child trying to cope with grown up issues the best he can, especially if that child is saddled with lousy parents. For a boy in this situation, the most believable thing to do is make a poor choice.

Shoot the Buffalo deals with the guilt a boy feels after he leads his siblings into the woods in search of their parents and his little sister dies of exposure. What struck me was the clever way Briggs uses the story’s structure and setting to move the main character from childhood guilt and confusion to a believable resolution as a young man.

It’s fiction, but it feels real. It’s just a genuine story about a hard childhood.

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No Country For Old Men

 

The triumph of evil over good.

Good has nothing going for it in this movie. The last violent scene felt like the punch line to the whole movie: Not even random bad luck can stop an evil man. In contrast, Moss (Josh Brolin) refuses to abandon or even mess around on his wife and for this he gets greased by a truck full of Mexican drug dealers.

Sheriff Bell (Tommy Lee Jones) is a good guy, but he can’t stop even a single one of the bad things that happens. The old man with the cats saying he would forgive the person who (presumably) had put him in the chair is good, but his situation is pretty bleak. Hell, Moss would have gotten off scot-free if not for his need to do a good deed.

Chigurh (Javier Bardem), the bad guy with the bad hair (and an unpronounceable name), steals the show. The scene with the coin and the old Texas gas station attendant is more effective at articulating an evil character than anything else from recent memory. And it contains no blood.

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Foreskin Tales

Shalom Auslander

Books I have read on how-to-write memoir occasionally suggest boiling down into the fewest words what your memoir is about. From Shalom Auslander’s new memoir, Foreskin’s Lament, here are a few words that do just that:

I believe in God.

It’s been a real problem for me.

I have very little sympathy for veal.

I find Mr. Auslander inventive, irreverent, and incredibly funny to read. Most of his stories center on his experience growing up in an Orthodox Jewish family in upstate New York. But his memoir is also an exploration of fatherhood: ambivalent memories of his father, feelings about his own role as a parent, but mostly he offers stories that feature the antagonistic relationship he has with his Heavenly Father. This is how to write memoir.

Earlier this year I read another memoir about fatherhood by Neal Pollack. For some reason, Jewish fathers who write memoir seem to fixate on the circumcision of their son’s penis. Everyone has a story. Even me! 

So what’s a nice Catholic boy like me doing with a circumcision story? No idea. Maybe I was adopted.

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Operation Christmas

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I almost had an appendectomy for Christmas! Almost. Instead, I kept my appendix and got injected with a small amount of narcotics.

Starting last Wednesday, I got stomach cramps and low grade fever. I’ve been on a diet, so I thought that might have something to do with it. I hunkered down. Come Friday afternoon, I still felt lousy. I called the doctor at the health club and followed his advice. Didn’t feel any better.

Next day I went to see the on-call doctor at my doctor’s office. He felt pretty strongly it was appendicitis and sent me to the ER. The ER doc said it’s definitely appendicitis and asked me to sign some forms while he talked to the surgeon. The surgeon said he wanted me to get a CAT scan. The CAT scan said my appendix was fine.

So I ended up spending the whole day Saturday in the ER and then I got to go home with my appendix, some stomach cramps, and a small injection of dilaudid.

Not a bad haul.

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Why Do We Write Memoir?

 

Because it’s the hottest new upcoming genre on the publishing scene?

Perhaps. God knows writing about one’s own self is nothing new, but memoir has been very popular for about the last ten years. Recently James Frey famously taught us that labeling fiction as memoir can make your work more interesting and publishable.

But not everyone is as mercenary.

Listening to a broadcast on NPR earlier this month, I was astonished to hear the family of a former slave discuss their ancestor. The radio show featured David Blight’s new book, A Slave No More, which includes two never before published escape narratives written by former slaves. To celebrate the stories coming to light, the show invited three generations of Washington’s–descendants of one of the authors–to discuss their ancestor’s story.

Okay, fine. But here’s the astonishing part: Until Blight approached them, they had no idea their ancestor was a slave. The whole story was news to them. News to most of the people in the family. A family secret, even to the family.

Discussing the reasons why the manuscript may have been hidden, the eldest Washington (granddaughter to the author) mentioned the stigma of being a former slave, of their earlier generations wanting to put those years behind them. Thirty years past the Civil Rights Movement, this stigma seemed a little odd, especially now that we celebrate these types of narratives.

This former slave probably had little formal school. His family didn’t want him broadcasting his past. And even though he had written his story after the Civil War, he was still writing in a hostile world, with the odds decidedly against him. But he found the time and inclination to write it all out. Maybe he just wanted to leave a record for his ancestors. Maybe he wanted to better understand his journey.

Or maybe he just new it was a good one. Too good to let go to waste.

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A Good Teacher is Hard to Find

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Brevity recently posted about a writing teacher with a problem: one of her memoir students was afraid that if she told her story people would think she was a jerk. This particular student’s story involved higher stakes than most of us will ever face (her remorse over the death of an innocent man), but if you’ve ever tried to write memoir, you know this fear. No matter your circumstances, memoir writing always includes the challenge of putting yourself out there in a story.

What struck me was the homerun advice this teacher gave her student:

The following week, I struggled to find something to tell her. Then I found a quote that for me defined the real purpose of the personal memoir. It was from Margery Williams’ The Velveteen Rabbit:

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day…. “Does it happen all at once or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You come. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are REAL, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are REAL, you can’t be ugly, except to the people who don’t understand.”

I told my student that she had to be real. If she revealed her true self and experience to the world, then she could only be a jerk to those unwilling to understand.

— Debbie Hagan

Where do you find teachers like this?

I ask this literally. I had excellent teachers when I was an undergraduate, but choosing them was completely dumb luck. I’ve tried taking classes since, and while I haven’t had any terrible teachers, I haven’t been that impressed either.

I have tried different strategies to find a good teacher, all to no avail. One of my recent teachers, who published a wonderful memoir and was teaching at one of this area’s more prestigious (and expensive) schools couldn’t articulate how to use present tense verbs to make temporal transitions. Teaching is a completely different skill set from writing. I have no doubt that this teacher knew how to make these transitions in her own writing, but she couldn’t explain it to save her life.

To be fair, I’m not sure I could clearly explain the mechanics of grammar. And I’m not even sure that’s what I want in a creative writing teacher. I am more interested in reading my work and listening to other’s work. I like the feeling I get collaborating with other writers. So what do I want from a teacher? I want encouragement. Honesty and good judgment. If I am frightened, I want my teacher to struggle the following week to find something to say.

I am not sure it’s possible for someone to teach you to be a financially successful writer, but it shouldn’t be so hard to find a good teacher.

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