Consider the Writer

It's another rainy weekend in Boston, but the gray sky and pervasive damp are only part of the reason for the grim pall--late last night, news broke of David Foster Wallace's untimely death at the age of 46. DFW is best-known as a writer of satire, absurdism, and the eccentricities of contemporary American life. He made a splash in the literary scene from his very first post-modernist novel, "The Broom of the System" (1987) and continued to build up steam, and a cult following, with story collections, journalistic articles, and books of essays, before publishing what is largely considered his masterpiece, the novel "Infinite Jest" in 1996.

As I can't speak to the influence or genius of these novels, I will defer to those who know. What I can say is that Wallace was the kind of writer who challenged the restraints of popular literature and consistently produced the kind of writing that made people question what they thought they knew; the kind of writer who took a Gourmet magazine assignment to cover the 2003 Maine Lobster Festival and turned it into a sprawling rumination on not only the lobster's place in the "pop food industry" and American tourism, but also how the way we eat is emblematic of the way we think about mortality, killing, and the difference between humans and all other living creatures. He told things like they were, in a voice that was gentle in its harsh honesty, as though he understood the reluctance of mainstream culture to accept truth.

Wallace's death shook me, not because I am a devoted fan (admittedly, I've only read a couple of his essays), but because his death is only the latest in a long and storied line of visionary writers who've seen life as--well, as unlivable. Woolf, Hemingway, Plath, Sexton, Thompson, Spalding Gray, Hart Crane--the list goes on. What is it about writing, and about art as a whole, that causes such desperate melancholy, abject loneliness, and absolute faithlessness? Of course, it's not a problem associated solely with writers, but it's no coincidence that some of the greatest writers of modern times have ended their lives while in the prime of their writing careers. What does this say about writing as an art form, and writers as artists? Is writing truly an exercise in solitude--a solitude so vast for some that it cannot be bridged by success, critical acclaim, or fame?

I don't know. I'm no creative genius, and sometimes I can barely cobble together a sentence that makes any sense. But I do know that the world seems a little more sad, a little less full, with every literary (or musical or visionary or theatrical) talent that we lose, just for knowing that we won't learn anything else from them.

Fringe 16 Rocks It.

We tried something new in Fringe 16. Now that we’re only publishing four times a year, we’re giving you more of that Fringey stuff you love. This issue features doubles – two poets, two short nonfiction writers and two short shorts, along with our first-ever audio pieces and some brilliant paintings.

This issue is all about small moments, from the moment a fish hits the sizzling oil to a fever dream to the decision whether to use that last vein (in the penis) to shoot a little heroin.

Watch for the theme of food, which appears in several of the pieces. We’ve got telling footnotes, bright colors and the strange taste of fake cheese in our mouths, so come experience the joys of Fringe 16!

• In An Ocean View, Brent van Staalduinen gives a lyrical account of the way Sri Lankan tourist culture changed after the tsunami in a piece of short nonfiction.
• Michael K Meyers uses audio collage to tell two strange tales in the (de)Classified section.
• Joe Clifford, a former heroin addict writes about the moment that the TV show Cops became about him in the short nonfiction piece Fear and Reality.
• In her four poems, Francine Rubin shows the reader sparkling moments – fish in oil, a pirouette and her life as a celebutante.
• Christopher A. Williams uses curvilinear bursts of color to create Rube-Goldberg machines.
• Siel Ju describes four people and one slice of veggie cheese in five poems.
• The short short Out by Munson Creek by Chuck Taylor explores man’s timeless desire to shoot things.

Joel Wright’s short short Fever chronicles the illusions and realities of a fever that came on the heels of a snowstorm.

Art: Dog Eat Dog City by Christopher A. Williams

CERN Rap

It's just too good.

Join the Fringe Army

So Fringe is in the thralls of restructuring the way we do things, and we need some help:

Fringe magazine is looking for enthusiastic volunteers to help us keep our one-of-a-kind journal running. We are a quarterly online literary magazine dedicated to political and experimental literature. Each month, we receive 20,000+ unique users.

All the positions are unpaid, but are great resume-builders for folks who want to learn the ropes of web publishing or build a reputation for blogging.

We ask that all those interested familiarize themselves with the magazine before applying. Please send resume to fringeeditors@gmail.com, with cover letter in body of the email.

Fiction Editorial Intern
Duties would include reading, responding to submissions, managing readers, and other administrative tasks assigned by the Editor. The internship is unpaid, with an approximate five-hour commitment/week.

Chief Copy Editor
Duties would include managing copy editors for each genre and reporting to the Editor-In-Chief. The position is unpaid and would require 5 hours every quarter.

Genre Copy Editors
We need copy editors for the fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and criticism. The position is unpaid and would require 5 hours every quarter.

Non-Profit Accountant
We need an accountant to handle annual tax returns and manage the magazine's minimal expenses.

Bloggers
Fringe is looking for bloggers to post weekly or bi-weekly on a varied list of topics. Possibilities include, but are not limited to: literature, gender and race in the media, the writing life, the reading life, new media (graphic novels, flash animations, Second Life, etc.), reviews (books, anthologies, readings, music, art, film), and the future of publishing. Email fringetheblog@gmail.com if you're interested. Please include what you'd like to write about, and how often you'd be able to contribute. Thanks!

Botox and Apologies

It's been a while since we posted in this space, and I simply wanted to assure you that we don't intend to neglect it for much longer.

Fringe has been undergoing some internal changes, and we're hoping to be back soon with a more frequent and Fringier blog that has at least a few posts a week.

In the meantime, I just had to post this video by Sarah Haskins, who has a unique take on corporations that market to women.



See you soon...

Deporting the Bereaved

I just wrote a letter to my congress representative for the first time. What drove me to such action? The "Widow Penalty” was what did it. Yes, such a thing exists and is being enforced all over the country.

The Widow Penalty was brought to my attention by a friend whose brother died after being married for just under two years. In addition to the sudden heartache of losing her husband, his wife is now in danger of being deported because she was not scheduled for a green card before her second wedding anniversary. Her American-born son, however, can remain on American soil.

This is not a poorly written script of a made-for-TV movie—this is the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service at work. Because of this obscure loophole in legislation, the courts are expending much time and energy to deport law-abiding, tax-paying women and men who have lost their spouses because the administrative process of obtaining a visa took too long.

Please visit the website for Surviving Spouses Against Deportation and call or send a letter to your congress representative (it takes less than 90 seconds). If you still can’t believe this is for real, or if you’d just like to learn more about it, there is a great This American Life interview with my friend’s sister-in-law. And 60 Minutes will be airing the story in the fall.

Staycation?

Oh summer in Boston--the subways crowded with boisterous Red Sox fans, the Common swarming with nocturnal creatures, humidity fogging up sidewalks and street corners from downtown to the 'burbs. Don't get me wrong--Summer is my favorite time of year. I've already begun to dread the winter as each deliciously simmering summer afternoon slides into night. Summer is the time for sundresses, the beach, ice cream, cookouts, and outdoor concerts.

Though I'm happy to bask in the Boston sunshine in the tiny park behind my apartment, I've got a serious case of wanderlust, and it's not helping that every time I check my Facebook account, I'm bombarded with notifications that so-and-so has added pictures from their vacation to Paris, or Rome, or Greece, or Mexico. Several of my good friends are having wild summer adventures--one is interning in Ghana, another is writing about the Olympics in Beijing, one is getting married and honeymooning in Tahiti, another is traveling the country doing lord knows what. I love getting caught up on their travels. I love seeing their pictures. I enjoy the postcards. But it's hard not to feel even more pent-up than I do during the rough New England winters.

I picked up The Weekly Dig the other night on my way home from work, intrigued by the banner on the cover--STAYCATION it beckoned in bright colors. The article made the promise to offer alternatives to a great summer vacation, for us poor schleps stuck in Boston. I was underwhelmed. First of all, the options were narrowed to our neighboring New England states: Connecticut, Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, and Rhode Island. Suggestions included heading to Fenway, taking the commuter rail to gawk at big houses in Wellesley, going to the beach, eating pizza at Pizzeria Regina, and taking a "hike" around the Freedom Trail. I'm sorry, but even a trip to one of our neighbors doesn't classify as a vacation. I'm from Rhode Island, and I go down at least twice a month. It's no big treat.

The last several "vacations" I've taken have been 2 or 3 day affairs to major American cities to visit friends--of course, I always have fun, but I can't really say any of these jaunts can be classified as a true vacation. In August, I am flying to San Francisco to attend a week-long conference for work, and then taking a 3-day extension trip to Seattle to see a friend. I'm thrilled, since I've never been out wes before, but really? 3 days on a friend's couch and a week spent running around making photocopies and grabbing coffee for the higher-ups? Sorry, still not a vacation.

I'm ready for a real, leisurely, sun-laden, get-me-a-daquiri kind of vacation. And since it's clear I won't be getting one of those for quite a while, I am taking suggestions on how I can equate a similar feeling of relaxed bliss here in Boston. Anyone have any suggestions?