I want to talk about 25 Cities, though.

I just got back into the swing of reading our 25 Cities submissions, and I am thoroughly enjoying myself.  And reading these stories has made me wonder:  might we not end up publishing flash fiction in this book?  It seems weird because each city only gets one story and you’d think that it isn’t fair to only give that story and hence that city one page (or, less than one page).

But I just read a wonderful and captivating piece that’s about 150 words, submitted to our New York category.  The story really captures the spirit of New Yorkers and New York, itself.  But I’m torn.  After all, we’ve got over 60 submissions to that category already, and might our readers not prefer to read a longer piece about one of the greatest cities in the U.S.?  And so I ask you:  does size really matter?

“Raggedy Slippers” follows Becca, a Pennsylvania farmer, as she traverses the solemn days following her husband Henry’s death. Household uncertainty is paired with “casseroles and pasta salads,” and despite the enormity of what’s happened, chores still remain. The Steelers hat of Roger, a friend of the deceased, and the Jersey cows that Becca tends are subtle reminders that this is a land of duty and a culture that has long stood without stagnation as a result of personal emotions. Becca must face what has befallen her with the same stoic resolve that has kept her community intact all this time.

Through the arrival of Seth, Becca’s son, the full effects of Henry’s death are illuminated. But what the interplay between these characters reveals is that the effects are quite different for each character individually. There is, on the one hand, the young man mournfully reflecting but still looking forward to initiating his own life, and on the other, the mother who has seemingly just lost half of hers. Both characters know this truth about the other. The final dialogue between the two is simple and yet it bleeds with the sympathy and compassion found in human nature.

In the bio of Eaton provided by Bartleby Snopes it states that she believes “conceiving a story and then living through its many transformations is like being pregnant giving birth, and raising a child: some days a joy, other days a heartache.”

I’m not sure there is a more perfect way than this to describe how “Raggedy Slippers” works. Nor is there a more apt setting than that confused and purgatorial space that exists after the death of a loved one through which to explore those feelings and themes that emerge out of simultaneous joy and heartache. On the surface of “Raggedy Slippers” are ordinary circumstances and situations that most people must face. Underneath the objective prose breathes an existence that is cyclical despite its spontaneity. There’s no telling when joy or sorrow will be found, but they lead up to the same thing. “Raggedy Slippers” is not celebration nor is it tragedy. It’s simply life; unrefined, uninhibited.

Well, things are finally calming down here at Avery, now that we’ve got A7 out the door.  Hopefully, many of you have received your copies by now.  If so, let us know what you think.

We had a great time at the July 1 release.  Tons of people were there, and we editors got a chance to meet a few of our writers, which is always a treat.  Kurt, Ben, Robert, and Jason, I hope you had a great time.  Thanks for coming.  It was great to hear your stories in the flesh (does that metaphor work?).

So, yeah, things are quieting down so I’ve finally gotten a chance to read some 25 Cities submissions.  To those of you who submitted in January and February, I am so sorry it’s taking us so long to get back to you.  But I read a lot this morning, and I thoroughly enjoyed a lot of what I read.

In case ya’ll were wondering (I’m trying to channel Tammy Taylor here – for those of you who don’t understand the allusion, shame on you for not having watched the greatest TV show on network television!) … I have found some interesting (and in some cases, weird) 25 Cities trends.

To those of you who live in Austin:  I am jealous.  Apparently, music and art and young people surround you.  More power to you!

To those of you who live in Baltimore:  I am … concerned.  Apparently, you not only have a plentitude of Chevy Impalas driving around but more concerning is the stash of drugs in the trunk.  Or in a lap.  Or in a glove compartment.  Or, just in an apartment.  Weird, my friends.

To those of you who live in Vegas:  I am not surprised to learn that it is indeed hot in your area of the county.  And that you covet your water.  Drink up!

And finally (for now) to my fellow New Yorkers (fine, I was born and lived most of my life in Cleveland but whatever, I live in the Bronx now – OK fine, Riverdale, but technically, that’s still totally the Bronx):  we have lots of roommates.  Lots of roommates.

I’ll try to keep you posted as I continue to read.  We aim to publish 25 Cities by the end of the year, so we’ve got plenty of reading to do.  And please, tell everyone you know to submit!  We’ve still got cities that are not represented!

In all seriousness, however, it dawned on me that perhaps there are those who are interested in the mind of the “lowly reader.” That there are those who would like to know what kind of writing makes me tick. Why I’m here. Why I’m voluntarily reading through tons of stories.

For anyone wondering what I might be hoping for from the slush pile submissions, I have but one suggestion: Read Bukowski’s intro to Ask the Dust.

Why? Follow me on this one. I’m not suggesting our submitters try writing like Bukowski or Fante for that matter (let’s be real here), I’m simply suggesting writers consider what Fante did to Bukowski.

Consider how Bukowski swept the shelves of the L.A. Public Library with a listlessness in his eyes that was probably more pronounced than his acne. He was bored. Sick and tired. Reading “books on Surgery” for godssakes until Fante bit him in the ass.

Fante gave him Bandini, and a voice so far up its own ass, he wasn’t sure if he should marvel or laugh. In a world dominated by Greco-Roman characters, Fante gave him Bandini, a hero who masturbated with smut. In a world of impeccably modern men and equally impeccable achievements, here was Bandini, a “writer” who clung unrelentingly to the glory generated by a solitary publication, a short story called “The Little Dog Laughed.” Here was something outrageous. Here was something unseen before. Here was something that breathed. Here was something real. Fante gave Bukowski something with feel. It fed his soul.

I think the work of a literary magazine reader is a daily search for what Bukowski found in Fante. At its best I am in a place of worship. I am letting something infiltrate my own soul. At its worst, I am reading about how to operate on the mesocolon.

My final suggestion to you is brief. It’s not enlightened. This is not technical or profound advice; I’ve read your stuff and know the last thing most of you need are pointers from a college student.  I believe in you. Consider this more of a call to arms—A plea for passion.

Pretend I’m Bukowski.

Bite me on the ass.

Be my god.

Austin – 7

Baltimore – 6

Boston – 8

Charlotte – 0

Chicago – 12

Columbus – 2

Denver – 0

Detroit – 15

El Paso – 1

Indianapolis – 1

Jacksonville – 6

Vegas – 5

Los Angeles – 23

Louisville – 3

Memphis – 7

Milwaukee – 3

Nashville – 1

NYC – 47

Philadelphia – 14

Phoenix – 6

Portland – 10

San Diego – 6

San Francisco – 16

Seattle – 9

D.C. – 9

Unclear sentences that could mean anything give the stories a dreamlike state. Concrete sentences are few and far between. (“The neighborhood is lit but no one is home.”) In this world the effects of a house fire, or a leap from a rooftop, even death itself are as in dreams, inconclusive. These tragedies come at the expense of characters (Michael, brother, mother, father) who are underdeveloped and yet eerily familiar. It is limitless and stifling all at once.

Helms isn’t telling a cohesive story. Instead he’s stacking visuals on top of each other, filling vast spaces with boyish perceptions—with fire trucks, and scratchy sweatshirts, and exploding glass. Does it work? Does it make sense? Only in that it is compulsive. Like a dreaming mind. Things appear. (You can ask why but you can’t fight the fact that those things are there, so what’s the point?) Nearly every sentence in each story begins with the subject phrase “Michael,” “Michael’s brother,” or “Michael and his brother.” Because of this, even the most meager sentences such as, “It’s summer,” and “A phonebook lies open between them,” reverberate with what feels like a crashing wave of contextual information. The resulting flow of the piece as a whole is jagged and yet entirely sure-handed.

None of the three stories tries in their 200 words or less to grip at your heart, and this is, as far as I’m concerned, a good thing. Instead each is content to rile up your subconscious, a much more manageable endeavor. Each story tactfully picks out dark places underneath already darkened subject matter. “Death In The Family” conceives those thoughts that immediately follow death. “House Fire” explores the loneliness of abandonment. The first two stories are subtle, and despite their vagueness, evenhanded.

Then “Reproduction” comes and has its way with the reader. A nearly incomprehensible slew of tit for tat remarks and revocations leaves us sure of nothing, but not exactly guessing. Here any fate not only seems possible but is possible for these characters. Death, life, nonexistence. Though the stories feel like bad dreams, what’s scary is they’re more real than that. Every word is believable.

“Oh, OK, because FedEx just buzzed,” Adam says.

“K.”

(a few minutes later …)

BZZZZZZ.

I hear a door open.

“Oh, shit.  It’s, like, a lot of stuff,” Adam says.

“What?”

(I now decide to enter the living room, thinking that perhaps my family has decided that I’m a swell person who deserves lots of gifts on Wednesdays.)

But no.  Something better.

Somehow, Avery 7 managed to sneak up on us.

And she is DAMN beautiful, people.  Damn beautiful.

As I open the first box (the Averies on top are all bent severely at the corners, but I try to ignore this), a wonderful smell emerges.  If you’ve ever smelled a print shop or if you’ve ever smelled a recently binded book, you know what I’m talking about.  It’s a clean smell, a first-day-of-school smell.  It is wonderful.  The color Sydney chose for the cover is perfect – a pink that’s more natural than girly, more slick than fancy.  And the texture.

Oh, the texture.

This time, we laminated the cover.  Before, we just used a varnish, as that’s all we thought we could afford.  But Sheridan is awesome and they made the price work for us.  The cover isn’t the only thing that’s different – the paper’s slightly different, too.  Each printing company has its own “in house” papers, so that limits your options.  I was in love with our paper for Avery 4, 5, and 6, so I worried that Sheridan’s paper might not deliver.  But it does.  It’s much more rich, I think:  it’s creamier, more off-white, and it’s actually a bit thinner.  Its thin quality works really well, though, because as you flip through the book, it feels like you’re reading a trade paperback, rather than a journal.

This is very important to us, after all:  that Avery feel like one complete book, despite the fact that its offers you thirteen distinct voices.

I know it’s gonna sound dorky, but I really hope you guys buy a copy.  Because

not only are the stories beautiful and wonderful and excellent but now that I’m holding Avery 7 in my hand, I can say with certainty that it’s a book you are going to want to hold.  So go ahead:  hold it.  You know you want to.

I just finished reading a very solid short story by Michael Shilstone called “Toys, Cribs, and Max Weber.” I don’t pretend to know much about Mr. Weber, but – having two kids of my own – I know plenty about toys and cribs.  So, this story caught my eye.  I also happen to know that Shilstone is a very young writer, so that caught my attention, too.  We here at Avery are very interested in promoting young writers.

Shilstone’s story begins simply enough:  we think we are watching a man playing with his daughter.  His dilemma is that he wants to let her learn this simple game on her own, yet at the same time this game is teaching her to “fit knowledge” into “assigned information compartments.”  He doesn’t seem to like that at all.

As we continue to read, however, it becomes clear that the man is not the girl’s father – he is her babysitter.  At this point, Shilstone manages to shake our “common knowledge,” which obviously makes sense given the themes of the story.  And with a couple references to the movie Raising Arizona, he also manages to shake our nerves:  is this dude going to steal this girl?

No worries on that front, dear readers.

In the end, “Toys, Cribs, and Max Weber” is a good story.  Its design – and here I’m speaking of the way The Narrator chooses to present it – helps its appeal, but that’s not to say it wouldn’t be a good story on its own.  I love the exploration that happens here, and I love that we think about this and that and other things after a mere one page.  Sure, I’m confused by some of it:  what the hell is a “full-body, one piece diaper,” and why is this object integral in the telling of the story? why do we finish the story with a reference to money? is this relevant to the story’s thematics or to just Weber’s role in its thematics?

Perhaps it is, and perhaps there is a such thing as a full-body diaper.  Perhaps if I had watched all of Raising Arizona and perhaps if I had read more than a modicum of Max Weber, more things here would crystalize.  But for now, I’m okay not knowing these things.  I’m okay just knowing that a very young writer is out there in the world, trying to make us think.

At this point, I’ve only checked out the cover:

I was really interested to see what the color of our cover looked like.  Obviously, we’ve seen it digitally, but things always look different in real life.  I must admit:  I’ve been pushing for a pink cover for some time now, and I’m really happy to see it in the flesh.  When you line up Avery 4, 5, 6, and 7 on a bookshelf, our spines really shine (did I just mix metaphors?).

At some point this week, we’ll put Avery 7 up on our website for pre-order, and we’ll probably offer some kind of deal with the purchase of Avery 7.  That’s how much we want you to have it.  :)

For right now, though, we have to get to work:  because no matter how many times you’ve proofed something, you can never be certain that it’s perfect.  As I look at the hard copy proof, here’s hoping it’s damn close.