KP Press Writers' Blog

Come and Read With Us

We are hosting our first reading at the Red Room Vinoteca Lounge, 1 Bennett Avenue (at 181st Street) in Washington Heights. The reading will begin with an open mike, followed by our featured writers: Jeanne Dickey, Cynthia Foo, Lakis Polycarpou, and Esdras Santana. Come to read or listen, meet us, and drink some wine! The event is part of the Uptown Arts Stroll, a month-long series of arts events of all kinds throughout northern Manhattan. If you don’t know the Stroll, you really should check it out. And next year, plan your own event to join the Stroll.

Needing Bread

I was making bread from scratch. My father loved the fresh bread but then asked me to stop. He was putting on weight.

The grunt he emitted while getting up from his place on the living room floor said it all. He’d slowed down a lot since the braided challah, 7-grain loaves and petite pans began appearing from the ovens.

I needed to make bread for some reason. It wasn’t the eating so much. I enjoyed the bread and I was at an age where the pounds flew off my body as soon as I put them on. Instead, I remember that I was a teenage boy in hormonal overdrive. The yeasty smells, kneading (slamming, pounding!), twisting and shaping; the heat of the oven satisfied a testosteronic need.

Then there was the butter, the jams and cheeses. The gooey, sweet and sticky brought out the bad boy side of me. A killer instinct was born. Other boys had cigarettes and bottles of beer. I could bake! I could take the heat. I ruled!

After the feeling a banishment from my own kitchen, I unhappily slouched through a making any bread. I skipped the prom, no slightly doughy, bikini beach girls appeared in my high school locker. I pondered the meaning of existence and felt an urgent need to join a religious group or forever slip into the hell of eating inedible store-bought “brand” breads. I read Catcher in the Rye and parked my Gremlin on a side street early mornings to smell the burnt bread aromas coming from the Los Cubanitos wholesale bread outlet. The absence of good bread - tanned and dimpled; slim and taut - saddened me. I tried to distract myself. I perfected my eggplant parmesan and but it wasn’t the same. I made a couple trays of Jiffy Cornbread while my father was at work and secretly left them for a couple of my paper route customers. I can imagine what they thought when they found the 3 muffins wrapped in brown wax paper “what this? How Nice?” But I could not tell them. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about my addiction.

I got a job at Au Bon Pain after school. They wouldn’t let me bake bread. One of the store managers, an athletic looking woman with a suspicious eye, said that it was a coveted position. I couldn’t see it. There was no labor, no sweat. Frozen bread was panned and baking with the push of a button. All you had to do was pull the bread out when the beep went off. Between the hours of 5 and 6:30 in the morning you were basically paid for doing nothing.

Luckily, the holidays arrived and there was a viable excuse for my return to baking. My father didn’t have to eat anything. I baked for all my family and friends that Christmas. The love and gratitude came pouring back. My grandmother surmised that I must have gotten myself a girlfriend, but the fact was more complex. I’d my purpose again.

--Greg Thomas

Providence in 5 Parts

1.

 I was growing my hair.

“How did this happen?” I say to myself, smiling. I’m smiling. I used to be so clean cut. My God, dreadlocks! What would my grandmother say?

 I’m thinking “My grandmother would be smiling but inside she’d wonder “What happened? Why Gregory?”

I wondered that, too, for a long time.

Then I remember: “clean cut” never appealed to me.

2.

90s Brooklyn: We’d become unhappy. She threw things at me – a large Spanish Onion flew from the kitchen I remember. It exploded against the wall and I laughed inappropriately because I wasn’t sure how to react. No one had thrown a vegetable at me before. It didn’t feel funny. The laugh had been tickled by something unfamiliar.

3.

We agreed to be separate. I moved out. A month long trial split is what we said. I found a sublet on a drab street in Park Slope with…these guys.

I’d become used to having some civility in my life. Things like a clean tub and no television. Before I’d moved out there was a cat and Concord grapes hanging from a vine. The grapes were so sweet, we couldn’t believe our luck.

Now this: dirty socks, Dorito chips on the carpet and everything always everywhere.

4.

Tim arrives. I was relieved that he didn’t, well, gloat. It was Tim’s room that I’d been staying in. He was feeling lucky-but-pensive about moving is move out West. He was leaving work and contacts behind; friends, family and a lifetime of familiar things to be with this girl…a cowgirl/horse-trainer.

“Funny, man.” I said to him over a game of Turok, Dinosaur Hunter. “I’m just dying to dump everything familiar. I just want to be far, far away from the familiar.”

“Why don’t you come? I have an extra seat in the U-Haul.” He said “If you don’t mind sharing the drive, I’d appreciate the company.”

I pause, and then I say.
“That sounds great, Tim. Let me see what I can do.”

6.

Providence. Definition: The act of providing or preparing for future use or application; a making ready; preparation.

Also, Mark Twain said: “Providence protects children and idiots. I know because I have tested it."

We are strangers together on the long drive from Brooklyn to Los Angeles. Tim and I saw the painted mountains, flat (flat, flat) earth, rain and twilight.

I was preparing to do something maybe better; maybe amazing. I leave my past behind.

7.

Arrangements have been made for me to stay with Betty in Orinda, which is a town 20 minutes east or so by BART from San Francisco. Betty has two dogs: one was happy to be with her. The other: relieved to be with me. Betty’s husband died about a year ago. I am supposed to be, I suspect, good for her.

She is good for me. She is sad and I am too. But I’m not in Brooklyn.

I cut my finger one day.

“Do you have a Band-Aid?” I ask.

Betty tells me that she is a Christian Scientist. She doesn’t have any band-aids. There is water and there is Kleenex.

That’s it. And now I see it. Right there.

I am really on my own.

8.

An aside: Every part of this is true except for the name of the cats.

I find a family to live with on Haight Street. It is a radical departure from upscale Orinda. Haight Street, is loose. It’s the best word I have for it. There are four people in the family. Anne is a large, Alaskan-born librarian with four and a half foot blond dreadlocks. Sprungy, Anne’s husband, use to sing with the Twinkle Brothers, a reggae band out of Falmouth, Jamaica. Sprungy is described to me by Anne as a heroin addict in recovery. They have two children: both wise, beautiful, and full of light. Dedan, 8 and Jamilla, 12.

 Then there are cats. 13 cats:
Hector
Weezy,
Dory,
Heidi,
Chester,
Hannibal,
Alamo,
Judah,
The Indian,
Tony Stark,
BustER (not BustAH),
Baby,
Trouble
and the boss cat Halie Selasi I…. I’m LYING.

I don’t remember the cat’s names!! I made those names up when I was writing this and it was so fun!

But there were 13 Cats. That part is true. And I had a door on my room to keep them out.

9.

Then she comes. She comes about 8 months later and I think “Wow I was so busy changing that I didn’t know that change was happening and did happen and that I let change in.” 

And the change was awful and awkward but it did happen.

She comes out not to give things another try but to check in. How do we feel about each other now?

An aside: I had become sort of popular. My nothing-to-loose attitude and my music theater background and love of all things alternative was an almost-perfect fit with Haight Street, the Castro, dancing, spoken-word, great ganja and good, strong coffee. She comes when I’m in the middle of sort-of-dating this cute girl from Shanghai.

She seems happier. We are able to talk and laugh. There’s no anger, but no chemistry either; a respectful regard for the past. We have made the shift without animosity which says a lot after all. Friends.

“How long did we know each other before I proposed?” I say.

She laughs. “Two weeks.” She says with her heavy Swiss accent.

“Then there was the honeymoon where you almost killed us in Hawaii.” I say

“I let you drive even though it was my credit card and...”

She’s right.

“Yes, not so easy to be with.” I say.

“How come you didn’t have a license? You drove much better than me.”

“Oh” without think much about what I’m about to say

“It expired and so I went on without it.”

And that’s how it ended. And that’s how I began again.

--Greg Thomas

Possibilities

The night ended in a tangle of limbs and blankets. We slipped from exhaustion into a broken sleep. I kept waking up to get water, go to the bathroom, or to simply lie, disoriented, checking the time and gazing crookedly at his poorly hung blue curtains. I would wonder where I was, recall, listen to his surprisingly rapid breaths, and drift off into a fitful slumber. 

The night before, we had talked about the sea, and the waves. I told him about the time I lived in a little house by the sea, how the fierce wind would scare me when I first moved there, and how I would hear pine cones drop on my roof at night. And how these initial anxieties eventually became sources of wordless joy, reminding me simultaneously of both qualities of my frail existence. 

I don’t think I’d ever felt more alive. And I had almost forgotten the experience. As the years went by and I moved away, it had become buried under all of the pragmatic toughness and hardness one needs to deal with the hustle and bustle of big city living. That little house by the sea seemed almost to exist in another lifetime. It was good to be reminded of it. 

He’d listened with shining eyes and a faint smile of understanding while I talked; he also loves the sea. He told me about growing up amongst olive trees and harvesting ripe olives by hand. He talked about the back-breaking labour involved, but I could see his nostalgia in his eyes. He seemed far away, existing for a moment in the bright sun, the aroma of ripening olives rising around him. 

Something about this man makes me both so incredibly happy, and so grounded at the same time. I am able to breathe deeply and slowly in his presence, and my worries evaporate.

  --datehazard (excerpted from Datehazard’s Blog)

Spring Writers’ Retreat: April 13-16, 2009, in Stormville, NY

The economy is dreadful. We’re still suffering cold spells. There were a bunch of really vicious viruses this year. A lot of things just plain old suck. But spring is coming! And we all could use a break. Join us to relax, write, critique, and talk about writing. KP Press books is hosting a spring writers’ retreat in a country home on five acres just 45 minutes north of New York City. It’s easy to get there by car or train (we can pick you up at the train station, if needed). We’ll eat lots of good food (and have a few drinks, of course!), hang out by the pond or in the gazebo (maybe play some tennis?), write, and critique each others’ work. Send me an e-mail if you are interested: renee@kppressbooks.com. Space is limited, so don’t wait too long!

Living

I sanded and painted my roomates kitchen chairs lately, for money off the rent. There were cockroaches under the seat of one of them, when I took the seat off with a screwgun. I didn't kill them. I don't kill cockroaches, or anyone, unless absolutely necessary. I scraped them out, and let them scatter away, probably twenty, between the biggest and smallest of the family. They won't hang out in my room, because I'm not dirty, nor are they. Some people are dirty, cockroaches and rats are not, nor are many animals except people. Elephants can be a little disgusting, and they have a good memory, and can be vengeful. The cockroaches have every right to life that I have. I try not to make a mess, and don't leave crumbs or food garbage around, so in every room I've lived in in NYC, they haven't been a problem with me. If they come by to visit me at all, they crawl across something conspicuous once in a while, and I talk to them. They have little interest in hanging much longer than for more than a chat, because there's nothing to eat in my room, guys - I'd give you a hand fed piece of something right now if you promised not to move your family in here. I really like your company, but have enough troubles supporting and picking up after myself. I sanded and painted these 4 chairs in the past week, in my room, and I've only seen I think two of the ones who'd I disturbed walking about. Pesticides are for lazy people, and they're bad for the environment. --Universal

Paradise City Lost

Adam. Yes, Dear? We need to split up, and work separately. Why, gorgeous one? Because there is too much work to tend to in Paradise City for us to do it together. We can get more done, and meet back here at the bridal suite at twilight. There are the awnings to scrub, the dogs to walk, the leaky faucets to repair, and invoices to print out and mail. But sex nymph of my dreams, I worry. The serpent has been rumoured to be seeking us. If he finds you alone, he will have his way with you, and teach you to question God's ways. But Adam, chivalrous one, you don't trust me? It isn't that, it's simply teamwork. Teamwork works. Workers of the world, unite! Oh Adam, don't be so old fashioned. I'll see you here later, and we'll do all of those things that make you ecstatic again. So Eve went downtown, to the financial district, whilst Adam fixed a hole in the roof of the bridal suite, in Spanish Harlem. The serpent eluded the Arcangel Michael, who was keeping watch near the Williamsburg Bridge, and came to Eve on Wall Street. Eve, you are indeed hot, a treasure to the eyes, Adam must be proud as a peacock. Please, let's have lunch. Try one of these delicious oranges. She peeled, segmented, and ate. Satan picked up the bill. That night, as Adam and Eve settled into the bed of satin sheets and a furry comforter, the buzzer rang. Yeah, said Adam. It's me, God. He buzzed Him up, cracked the door, and put on tea water. God entered, Okay, you, girlfriend, pain of childbirth, and you my man, have to work the dusty ground forever. It's all concrete and asphalt, I don't see any dust, or ground. And I've already been working since you made me anyway. Yeah whatever. Well you, pain of childbirth. But Your Holiness, it's painless these days with all the drugs. Thus Satan foiled Gods vengeful plan, Adam and Eve had babies, continued to work their asses off, and the world kept spinning and revolving around the Big Yellow Fusion Thing in the Sky.
-Universal

Art Forms

Hi People, I'd like to share some art forms, and if anyone would like to talk about them, that'd be fun.

Literature: Recent read: Mary Cantwell, Speaking With Strangers Faves: Wuthering Heights, A Canticle for Leibowitz, The God of Small Things, The Spirit Catches You And You Fall Down, His Dark Materials (the trilogy with The Golden Compass)

Music:

I have a pretty encyclopedic knowledge of pop music since the 60s. I've found lots of incredible underground stuff over the years on WFMU in Jersey City and WFUV at Fordham. I do a lot of youtube jukeboxing. Here are some recent favorites:

STUDIO - Just for listenin

Smackwater Jack - Carole King

Smack couldn't take no more abuse.

Marionett - Mott the Hoople

Really fun if you read the lyrics on a lyric website. 'And when the coffin comes, make sure there's room for two...'

Two from the incomparable Regina Spektor

'Yer gonna give yer papa a real hard time now aintcha baby...'

'Down in Bronxy Bronx the kids go sleddin down snow covered slopes...'

LIVE VIDEO - Ya gotta watch this one, it's really pretty and wow can Sia sing. 'You encourage the eating of ice cream...'

FILMS -

King of Masks, it's gorgeous, from China.
Or My Treasure is a favorite, from Tel Aviv
Children of Men
Trees Lounge
Barfly
Saving Grace

If anyone wants to share stuff, jump in the pool.

I'd like to talk about Paradise Lost by Milton sometime.

Regina Spektor is playing the Bowery Ballroom in January, a show for Planned Parenthood.

Peace on Earth

-Universal

A Note on Agents

It seems to me that agents have become a huge barrier to entry for the vast majority of writers these days. At our writers’ group last night, we were talking about our interactions with agents, and we were so enthusiastic about any positive interaction at all. These crumbs of attention are the necessary foundation for eventual publication. But it can take years to build up enough crumbs to prop us up at the table just to discuss our work. And that’s just to get our writing seen by potential editors and publishers! It doesn’t even guarantee a meeting with these folks. Why are agents so essential to the process? What are they offering writers in return for their fees and their privileged place in the writing community, able to make decisions about who is heard and who is not?

I’m sure many agents offer insight, a good read, and important notes for revision. Of course, once the agent takes your case, they work very hard to negotiate a better deal, with more money for you, from publishers. In fact, the agents that we spoke about last night were very helpful. But I want to publish fiction that isn’t making it past the agents, because it’s too daring or too different or just too. So far, I’ve seen great beauty in these works. They deserve to be published, and, as readers, we need them. I’m tired of the Eat, Pray, Loves of the world. I want something more. Maybe I just want to publish something I’d like to read. Maybe I just want to hear a different voice, because I’m tired of the same old shit. Maybe I just want to make life difficult for myself (because those big houses probably know what they’re talking about when they say something won’t sell -- and what will my family live on if we only ever publish stuff that won’t sell!). But I don’t care. I’m doing this anyway. So, send me your work — no agents needed. I promise I’ll read it with attention and give you my feedback. And maybe we’ll even be able to publish it.

Books on the M4 #2

Had some weird dreams last night. I came home from work, only to find my sister hiding in my closet with a chainsaw. Later, I found a rabbit or a bird, naked and without skin. Still later, I went to a deli and exchanged a garnet necklace and earrings for food, then regretted it. The woman I gave them to immediately put them on. The necklace looked like a fatal wound, its red beads drips of dried blood.

Maybe it’s fallout from the gothic romances I’ve been drawn to lately, guilt because the Catholic church I grew up in condemned all horror movies. As if un-priestly behavior with altar boys were less horrific!

I’m still on board with Dance of the Wolf, especially with Jared, the drug-addicted doctor who walks with a limp, a memento of a car accident that happened before the novel’s beginning. Jared is a “Halfling,” which means that he’s only part shifter. It also means that he can’t heal himself the way full-blooded shifters can, and since he’s a recovered addict, he can’t take any pain medication.

These wounded, helpless heroes remind me of Edward Rochester from Jane Eyre. Not the magnificent, Byronic Rochester of Thornfield Hall, but the later one of Ferndean. In the final chapter, much of Rochester’s wealth is gone as well as one of his hands, and his eyesight is diminished. His deepest, darkest secret not only revealed herself, but danced in flames on the rooftop of his former mansion before she plunged to her death. It’s only when Rochester is so weakened that his and Jane Eyre’s relationship takes off.

So, is the new archetype – strong woman, handicapped man?

—Jeanne Dickey