Someone Shoot Me

For those of you familiar with The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, you'll recall the Vogons are reputed for having the second worst poetry in the universe. I don't remember who was supposed to have the worst, but it doesn't matter, because I've found the worst: Rosie O'Donnell. I don't know what's worse, her Prince-like strangling of the English language, or the fact that she actually thinks this shit is poetry. Now, normally I wouldn't call any attention to bad work, but when it's done this badly, by someone who has as much influence as she does, I just can't stay silent. I'm not even going to link to her blog, google her and you'll find it, but abandon hope, and poetic sensibilities, all ye who enter.

Y: The LOST Man

If you're an uber-geek such as myself, then Christmas has come early this year, my friends. According to a myspace bulletin (yeah, that's right, I myspace; it's not just for Dane Cook and other perverts) Brian K Vaughn, the GENIUS behind the Vertigo graphic series Y: The Last Man (a staff pick by yours truly in Ellipsis #2) has signed on as Executive Story Editor for LOST. This is very, very, very, very good news. I envision a new cast member, a cute little helper monkey who won't leave Claire's side, and no, I'm not talking about Charlie.

I Cannot Forget From Where It Is That I Come From

In all the holiday melee, perhaps you didn't hear that this week we lost two great men: Joseph Lodell, the creator of Green Lantern, and Jospeh Barbara, the latter half of Hanna-Barbara and creator of such notable cartoon characters as Tom & Jerry, The Jetsons, and my personal favorite, Yogi Bear.

Now I know some, maybe even most, people don't consider this literary news, but for those people I ask you this: what got you into writing? what was the first creative thing that inspired you? Without Green Lantern and Yogi Bear, I'd be selling insurance or working for my father. Both of which would suck, even compared to the penny-pinching lifestyle being a writer has afforded me. So this holiday season, tip back a glass of egg nog to two great men whose imaginations reached across the decades to influence a score of creative types. Including this one.

Ellipsis Contributor on Bookslut

Check out this recent interview with renowned author and Ellipsis Vol. 1 contributor Laird Hunt on Bookslut.com. Take note he not only mentions fellow contributor Brian Evenson, but also the publication Marginalia, edited by Alicita Rodriguez, yet another contributor.

Small Penis Rule?

Someone should really tell me about these things. Check out what a freak Michael Crichton is. Sheesh.

Great Books Make Great Movies (Occasionally)

But the chances are always higher when it's a REALLY great book handled by REALLY talented people, ie The Coen Brothers and No Country For Old Men, or Jason Reitman and Thank You For Smoking, ie NOT Ron Howard's Da Vinci Code or Curtis Hanson's In Her Shoes. Here's an interesting combo. Note that the novel in question was on the Ellipsis Eight Great Debut Novel list in our first issue.

So Then Not Everyone Who Works in TV is Deaf

Television is not the best medium to be an artist in. More so than Hollywood, content of network programming is controlled by advertisers rather than auters. So then it's no wonder shows like "Sex in the City," "Will & Grace," "Desperate Housewives" and other such inane tripe often topped Best Of Lists and won the awards. But there's one agency in Tinseltown that seems to still give a crap about quality work on TV, and surprise surprise, it's the Writer's Guild of America. Check out their nominees for this year's WGA Awards. Not a loser in the bunch, though a lot of underrated programs, some of which aren't even with us anymore.

Don't Throw Anything Away

Sylvia Plath, TS Eliot, Hemingway - these are only a handful of prominent authors who have lived by the rule that anything written, no matter its quality, should never be thrown away. Here's a good reason why.

Sally Van Doren

Illegible Resolutions

After Paintings by Twombly and Freud at the Dallas Art Museum

I will not wear feathers and beads.

I will not scribble white crayon on black-painted canvas.

I will leave my dusty ranch, but not the sight of the dirt under the cattle’s hooves.

I will put putty and terracotta in the lobby, beige on the baseboards, almond on the moldings, and honed French limestone in planks on the floor.

I will drive my Jaguar up Mockingbird Lane to the High Land Village, valet-parking in front of Chanel.

I will listen to Sonia’s advice at Neiman’s and choose the sequined toile by Valentino.

I will not be fat.

I will not walk into the next room where the man in the picture is nursing a baby.

I will wonder whether art is clothing, whether I am the subject, whether the simulation of writing is easy to reproduce.

I will not let a mister suckle my child. I will rip its head from his chest before he lets one drop of male milk sour the baby’s lips.

I will declare my sex to the curators, dealers, directors, artists, critics and designers who thrust their empty nipples into my open mouth.

I will wonder, what do they want with me anyway?

I will unwedge my Manolo heel from its crease in the poured cement.

I will write clearly in the manner of Ed Rusche and Jenny Holzer.

I will stack my words so that the finger flesh merges with the clitoris, expertly tucked away under three layers of La Perla.

Delayed Coherence

Nihilistic Islamic terrorism
did not exist when she stepped
naked onto the lawn of her
house on Andrew Drive in
Warson Woods, Missouri.
She was six. The strangers
who would come later
to pixilate her vision
did not appear that
July morning, nor did they
show their faces when
she lost her virginity
in the A-frame and weaned
her first-born son in Manhattan .
They chose to lie in wait
on the floral chintz on that sofa
in Webster Groves , where she
moved back despite her success on
Broadway. She had embraced
Allah and he promised her food
and a release from the empty nest.
She meditated like crazy
and sought to undo the stringent
Episcopalian directives
which had driven the likes of
Jonathan Franzen from
her safe mid-western kitchen.
She would not cook for him
nor would she ever admit
to being afraid. Her belief
in everything mirrored that
of Abraham Lincoln, who was
reported recently to have
been a suicidal depressive
prone to bouts of immobility.

Two Things

two things make me
this way ---

spacey, soft, undefined

even the bee does not
start me out of this

achieved bliss

Sally Van Doren's poems appeared recently in Boulevard, Margie, Parthenon West Review, Poetry Daily, and Snow Monkey. She lives in Cornwall, CT and St. Louis, MO where she teaches creative writing in city public schools and curates the Sunday Workshop Series for the St. Louis Poetry Center.

To Bibliography Or Not To Bibliography

Interesting article here on the rising use of bibliograhies in works of fiction, and whether or not it's a necessary tool or an expression of the author's ego. Personally, I think bibliographies in fiction are a good idea. Not only do they provide further reading sources in topics of interest raised by the work, they can provide a very interesting insight into the author's process, what sort of work he was looking to forge by the models he used. But maybe that's just me.

A Proposition You Can't Refuse

Okay, so, it's late, but this warrants immediate telling. There are two reasons to see the film The Proposition, aside from the fact that it's a great fucking film. 1) It's written by Nick Cave, of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, of the spectacular novel And The Ass Saw The Angel. 2) And this is the kicker, if you're me; it was reported in Variety this week that the director of The Proposition, John Hillcoat, has been named as the director for the big-screen adaptation of The Road, the latest and greatest novel by my own personal Jesus, Cormac McCarthy. And maybe it's late, maybe I'm being typically egregious, but after watching The Proposition, I can't imagine a director with a more stark, brutal or beautiful mise en scene to capture the gorgeous apocalypse McCarthy creates. Run to a video store. Now.