Joyce Carol Oates

I recently came across this book in the biography section of my local bookstore, promptly purchasing it. Joyce Carol Oates is one the world’s most prolific and accomplished writers, having written works of fiction, poetry, plays, and numerous collections of nonfiction and essays, many of which deal with important humanitarian themes. She’s received many awards for her work, including “The National Humanities Medal,” awarded to her by President Obama in 2010.

The book pictured here is a collection of letters she’d written to her biographer from 1975 to 2006. Just like her fiction and essays, her letters are like works of literature, albeit casual and personal as well, including insights into her ideas about writing, thoughts about her published works and works in progress, impressions of other writers and their works, and a variety of other topics, some personal and some about the world at large.

Joyce continues to publish new works and is an active contributor on Twitter (x). I’ve had the pleasure of interacting with her several times on Twitter and discovering that she quoted a few of my own commentaries, which was a thrill for me.

I’m looking forward to reading her collection of letters. I have an interest in epistolary writing, which is a fancy term for letter writing. Epistolary works are sometimes fictional, other times actual correspondences. I’ve previously attempted epistolary writing in the form of fiction, and it worked out well at the time. I’m interested in pursuing this further, as it seems to fit my style of writing, or one of my styles.

Dystopia #2: The hills

Traded my bus ticket for an old phone with a journal app. No service or WiFi. The bus ticket was useless; where could I go on the remaining $4.72? I’ll travel by foot from now on, journaling as I move along, from place to place, kind of like Marco Polo in Invisible Cities.

So, today, on my way to nowhere, I passed a scraggly looking man in a stained white T-shirt, torn jeans showing too much like a flasher, and a cap with “Sinner” on the front. He was sitting on the sidewalk curb with an old tattered bible by his side, pointing a finger towards the city limits.

I pretended to fiddle with my phone, when he said in a trembling voice, “Fella, watch out for the girls in the hills over there, they’re not fully human.”

He repeated the same to a straggler passing behind me, my curiosity was piqued.

“What hills?” I asked him.

“Down yonder, over there, beyond the city.” His crooked finger still pointing and appearing frozen in place, catatonic like.

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Dystopia #1

Hey Jack,

The hospital discharged me this morning. They pushed us out, padlocked the doors, and boarded up the windows with wooden planks. I’m sitting on a cement step outside the locked facility. There’s just enough space for my frozen butt, the bitter wind whipping spits of snow at my face, hard as beach sand. I borrowed—without permission—a defunct script pad for this letter. I’ll read it whenever I locate you, whatever state of existence you’re in, dead or alive. How many years has it been? How is your mom, Mrs. Rizzo? I had a crush on her early on. You knew that, right? Sorry if you didn’t. Got into big trouble over my crushes and mother complexes, even as a kid.

So, my phone is long gone, confiscated at the start of my commitment here. My excuse for not keeping in touch. I wonder what the smart phones are like now? Doesn’t really matter. I don’t know where anyone is living or if living, nor their situation or phone number. Everything has changed.

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Rambling love

Dear Rebecca,

First off, I’m not being critical my love. I love you as is! It is just that, well, you always seem to be in flux, eluding my mental net of insight into you, which sometimes frustrates me to no end. And so I’ve been wondering, is this a premeditated effort on your end, for the fun or adventure of keeping me guessing? This seems to be a popular pastime among younger women nowadays. Or, is this changeability the product of your young, restless mind, always channel surfing or role playing one possibility after another, never settling down for long? I think it is mostly the latter.

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Desert heat

If you believe in Satan, then imagine him as a trickster, silently positioning the potholes of life where you are most likely to trip and fall into them. Watch your step! – David M. Rubin

My love, have you noticed those seemingly perfect specimens of men living at our desert complex? Oh yes, I know that you’ve noticed them, as I’ve noticed you noticing them, with their enormous muscles, cryptic tats, and whatever else that fascinates you about them. They sit around the pool – 24/7 – with cold drinks, smiles, laughs, and the pretense of texting someone; all the while watching you…always watching you…keeping one eye on you, sometimes sneaking snapshots of you wearing THAT BIKINI purchased in 110 degrees of desert heat. Required pool attire, we now call it.

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