“Weeping Underwater Looks A Lot Like Laughter”: Strange Title, Promising Debut

By: Sleep Sunshine

Michael J. White’s first novel begins, “On our debut night in Des Moines, Nicholas Parsons murdered a high school senior in the hotel room directly beneath us.  The following morning we received a call from the front desk receptionist announcing a cancellation of the complimentary breakfast buffet, due to the conversion of the hotel restaurant into a provisional police headquarters.”

Since I’m a writer I like to think about what made me pluck a book from the seemingly endless stacks at B&N or Borders, and fork over my dwindling cash-flow to bring it home.  Many times I don’t remember.  This time, I recall reading those first two sentences and being interested enough to continue down the page, from their George Flynn, White’s narrator did the rest.

George Flynn and his family (undeveloped, minus his older brother Zach, who is, but not far beyond the lines of jock-stereotype) move from Davenport to Des Moines, Iowa just in time to begin his junior year, in a brand new high school.  George quickly finds himself alienated from his new high school peers, who he describes as “disproportional, with oddly shaped craniums packed with perversions,” and put-off by their hazing in passing notes about him around class, one of which reads: “Please put the fire out in your crotch.”

By page twenty, though, the primary focus of the novel is revealed.  Emily Schell.  Beautiful, intelligent, unbridled…all the qualities of an excellent literary muse.  George is smitten on sight.

Mr. White, though, isn’t done.  Coupled with the “dream-girl” is her younger sister, Katie Schell, whose precocious, witty, sardonic humor really pops off the page.  Katie is also in love with George, and this element–a love triangle, but not really–is fascinating to witness developing.  George can’t help his physical attraction to Emily, while he can’t ignore his intellectual and spiritual infatuation with Katie.  And lurking under the surface is an even more compelling element, which isn’t ever raised: George’s obsession with the Schell family, as a whole.

Katie Schell suffers from MS, which flares and ebbs as the book progresses; when not sick, Katie is only mobile through the use of a crutches or a wheelchair.  While physically limited, Katie’s mental capacity is limitless.  In every scene Katie is in, she steals the spotlight, especially from her older sister, who’s not all to happy about this yet struggles with the emotions of being jealous of her handicapped younger sister when she received a genetic Power-ball relative to Katie’s losing ticket.

The narration is told from present-day George’s POV.  His life is in ruin and he looks back at these several years with the Schell sisters as the point where his life climaxed and began it’s descent.  One of the weaknesses of the book is George.  He serves as the narrator, yet his characterization is not given as much weight as the Schell sisters, or even the Schell family altogether.

The story is so focused on this dynamic it leaves out what could otherwise be a very interesting and revealing character study of George and his relationships with his parents (not even touched on after page 2) and his older brother Zach (a couple scenes with Zach near the end had great potential).  Mr. White imagined George as a red-head, which, for me, made him inherently interesting, due to the stigma red-haired men in our society deal with; yet Mr. White stopped there, as if this were enough to establish George.  Other than the passing-notes near the beginning, we do not witness George dealing with much adversity.  This can be explained with the fact that George is portrayed as kind of an easy-going fella (who wouldn’t like him), but that retards his character depth, especially in contrast to the fascinating, complicated Schells.

The book doesn’t strive too far.  All you believe is going to happen, does in fact happen, with little surprises along the way.  The hook which captured my attention on the retail floor of B&N–the Nicolas Parson’s murder–turns out to have no greater significance than a repetitive fascination for George and other Des Moines characters.  But, for some reason, neither deficiency left me wanton at the end.  Through reflection, I’ve come to commend Mr. White’s instinct to not muddy the water.  The central plot arc involves George and the Schell sisters and all the emotional highs and lows having met them bring, and that, for this reader, was enough of a meal to chew.

All in all I found this novel to be an excellent read, recommend it for those Confession-ers who enjoy coming-of-age, contemporary type literature, and look forward to Mr. White’s next effort.

Wishing, as always, great words to y’all.

–SS
Michael James Greenwald (Sleep Sunshine)
Born a Jew, though through his fellow confession-ees, now firmly committed to this cathartic concept of confessional (at least in the agnostic literary sense), Michael James Greenwald is a student at Story Studio Chicago, applying for a Ragdale Residency in the fall, and waffling daily (sometimes hourly) on To-MFA or To-Not-To-MFA, that is the question. He’s focused on his Summer of Michael, ’10, where healing mentally and spiritually is the order of each day, and moving forward, onto The Next Step. His debut novel The Rainbow Child and short story collection Celebratory Gunfire are due to be published in the next several years. His personal blog site is sleepsunshine. Feel free to venture to his Facebook page or feel free to email him with any comments or suggestions for further topics, or if you had any interest in being a guest blogger on either one of his sites.

What Does A Writer Look Like? A Sleep Sunshine Contest (Part 1 of How Ever Many It Takes…)

Mother of Sleep Sunshine; Sister of Sleep Sunshine

AS POSTED ON THE PARKING LOT CONFESSIONAL:

By: Sleep Sunshine

Image is everything.

I don’t know who I heard that from, but it’s true, especially in the Modern Marketplace. And (fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at, and possibly how much of a Control Freak you are) creating, developing, and marketing an image is left solely up to you.

Sure, actors and singers and politicians have a PR person (several PR people, in many cases) on retainer, but we’re not actors, singers, politicians; we’re writers–the ones who create the stories and characters these actors, singers, politicians embody, yet when seats on the luxury liner are doled out, we’re somehow relegated to steerage.

I’m a marketer by nature, and though I look back at my college degree and most of the edjamacation that I digested through the process of obtaining it as a colossal waste of time, I will admit to coming away with quite a few strategies to selling a product in the marketplace.

No Derek Zoolander; not THAT Look.

(The rest I gleaned from MTV).

This morning, I want to talk about The Look.

Seems as though writers, being the behind-the-scene creatures we are, don’t think about The Look. But I think in this modern marketplace so focused on TMZing nearly everything, writers who want to sell books, plays, movies, TV shows on a large-enough scale to eat must think about…

THE. LOOK.

One of my tenants to selling in the Modern Marketplace is getting out there and doing readings. Not necessarily reading a chapter from your latest tome…yawn…but developing creative entertainment (yes, I said the dreaded E-word) that derive from a particular work. For instance…

• Writing a play based on your novel and having the production shown at a small-audience theater.
• Writing poetry inspired by your novel and performing it at open mikes.
• Shooting a short film based on your novel and showing it on YouTube.
• Writing an article about issues raised in your work and publishing it as an expose in a magazine.
• Having someone write a tell-all book about your addiction to plant food.
• ETC. ETC.

Writers. We need to diversify! Get our name and image out there, across the media spectrum. And more importantly, we need to come out from behind the lens and show the world our metaphorically pitted faces.

Yikes!!! I know. For many of us, this is the reason we became writers, so we didn’t have to do this. But let me tell you, to most of the Modern Marketplace, you are going to sell yourself first and your work second.

This weekend, I went away to one of my best friend’s father’s cottage on Fox Lake (Side-Note–Listen to Dave Matthews and DO NOT DRINK THE WATER, no matter how much you’re trying to impress a pretty girl…cough, cough, sneeze, sneeze…) and I was sporting my Playoff Beard. For those of you not immersed in the cult sport of professional hockey, thus have no idea the significance of the Playoff Beard…

“A playoff beard is the practice of a National Hockey League player not shaving his beard during the Stanley Cup Playoffs. The player stops shaving when his team enters the playoffs and does not shave until his team is eliminated or wins the Stanley Cup.”

My friends (the wonderful, witty, rabble-rousers they are ) began referring to me, in my snarly, ratty, bearded state, Yusef. Or the Uni-bomber. Or Late John Lennin. Asked me to bury their wallet for safe-keeping in my scruff. Asked me how much it would cost to buff their cars with my cheeks. Wanted to know how much rent I charged the sparrow that had taken up residence near my jawline. ETC. ETC.

Girls I came across that weekend who I attempted to approach in my frowzy state handed me crumpled dollar bills or coins from their change purse; inquired as to the whereabouts of my shopping cart, while pointing to a pile of discarded beer cans, commenting on how in Michigan I could earn 10 cents rather than 5 a can; and the most creative line, by a buxom blond in a yellow bikini, who asked me to stick around, in case it started to rain and grew cold, due to the fact she and all her friends on their boat would be able to burrow into my beard for warmth (she really didn’t enjoy my retort, when I asked her to sit in the bow with me in case our boat capsized, in which her huge fake cans could be used as floatation devices).

All of this good natured ribbing got me thinking.

What does a writer look like?

I perform at readings around the city. Different coffee shops, bars, at the Jackson/State Street station on the Red Line (which is rough because people don’t get the empty computer bag in front of me is where to toss their change). My material is solid. I project like a practiced Broadway starlet. All I’m missing is THE LOOK.

What does an author LOOK like?

I’m committed to the fact that Stephen King has sold as many books as he has as much for the content between the pages as his photo on the back jacket. I mean, that is a horror writer face. Right?

"Well, Lady, my answer to that would be: are you DFW? Are you? Didn't think so. You'd get it if you were. Simple as that."

Or David Foster Wallace. I mean, the dude looks like he knows he’s smarter than you (and has no trouble telling you he is smarter than you, either).

(Honk! Honk! “Bus to HELL leaves in fifteen minutes!” Gulp. Guess my ride is taking off soon.)

There’s an author, who’s name escapes me at the moment, who never takes a straight picture on his jacket cover (when I say straight I don’t mean sexuality; I mean in one I think he’s turned around so you just see the back of his head and in another he’s holding up a squalling cat in front of his face).

Actors are all pretty and classy like Nicole Kidman, goofy/beautiful like Julia Roberts, or Funny/Dorky like Michael Scott, or bad-asses like Colin Farrel–who’s never without a cigarette and some candy on (or in) his arm.

What is my The Look?

I don’t have one.

I need one.

I’m going to let you VOTE.

That’s right, Confessioners. You choose my The Look, bit-by-bit (facial hair, outfit, shoes, accessories…) and I’ll don it at my next reading.

This week, considering the interest my Playoff Beard received this Memorial Day Weekend, we’ll start with FACIAL HAIR.

Here’s six pics, six choices. May the best Look win!

1) The Aforementioned Playoff Beard

2) House Just 'Round the Next Holler

3) The Handle-Bar Stache--Built for Power AND Speed

4) Sleazy yet Sophisticated (Oh yeah, Ladies!!)

5) Like My Book Or I Take Over World

6) If this is chosen, I'll get a dictionary tattooed on my bald skull to spice it up.

Thanks for voting. Thanks for reading.

May great words find you this week.

–SS

Born a Jew, though through his fellow confession-ees, now firmly committed to this cathartic concept of confessional (at least in the agnostic literary sense), Michael James Greenwald (Sleep Sunshine) is a student at Story Studio Chicago, applying for a Ragdale Residency in the fall, and waffling daily (sometimes hourly) on To-MFA or To-Not-To-MFA, that is the question.

Yet again, he feels inspired at the chance for love.

His debut novel The Rainbow Child and short story collection Celebratory Gunfire are due to be published in the next several years.

His personal blog site is sleepsunshine. Feel free to venture to his Facebook page or feel free to email him with any comments or suggestions for further topics, or if you had any interest in being a guest blogger on either one of his sites.