A short story I wrote last year for Lighthouse Literary Journal has been longlisted for a prize in the Sunday Times! Very exciting! I am dead chuffed, as they say here in in England (at least I THINK that’s something people say…). Or as they say in Colombia: ¡QUE EMOCIÓN!
You can read all 19 Short Story Award longlisted stories on The Sunday Times website. Among others, they include Yiyun Li (I’ve been a big fan for years), Colin Barrett (on my to-read list for ages) and Mark Haddon (author of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, a long-time fav). QUE ES ESTA LOCURA.
In other news (just to make this post a little more than here-is-the-thing), I went running today in rain that gradually turned into wet slushy snow and then back to rain again. It was intense. But I had to do it, ’cause I am running the Lisbon half-marathon in March. I’m looking forward to discovering the land of my Portuguese ancestors (although they mainly inhabited the Azores).
Also, here is the poem I posted today on my poem-a-day (um, more like every couple of days) blog, which I really liked:
Poem That Wants to Be Called the West Side Highway
You can do the work just by starting it. You can
do whatever you want. A bill
is drafted on a train to Albany, or in a black
limousine. Like how one day I walked
the entire length of Manhattan, except I didn’t.
I didn’t finish. Not nearly. How could I?
Stopped as I was by the boat basin. These
credit cards fill with gin
and tonic. They pool with the stuff. Maybe
I get a little lost sometimes,
start thinking I went to Yale. Once I swam
to Governors Island, between the ferries
and freighters. It was like a job you should’ve seen
me quit. Maybe they looked for me. Maybe
it wasn’t someone else’s shift, and then
it was. Sometimes people are just turnstiles.
You have to tell them to keep
turning, keep turning into someone else. The rain
crashes across a cab, and the road
has filled. We’re waterborne. Or whatever
the word is for that little moment
when the heart lifts. Why don’t you devote
yourself the way you once did? It’s
an old answer, and an early
one. The alarm goes off for a while after it
stops. In your face in the bathroom
mirror. You play that little song to look at
your teeth. My teeth. They haven’t been cared for.
The class giggles at my age. This is
my hearing. The chances taken on a new face.