Eat A Peach: An Excerpt from Jen Michalski's THE COMPANY OF STRANGERS

Lynn always waits near the far end of the farmer’s market in West Hollywood, in the food court. That way, she can see the women before the women see her. If Lynn gets a bad vibe, or just a case of bad nerves, she can slip out to the parking lot and drive away. Her sister Lucy thinks it’s strange that Lynn treats these outings more like drug deals than the blind dates they actually are, but given Lynn’s bad luck, it’s the only way she can get herself (halfway) out there.
“She doesn’t sound like a catch,” Lucy said on the phone last night of Rachel, the woman who Lynn is meeting today. Lucy is married and lives in the Atlanta suburbs with her husband and children in a five-bedroom house, the kind you see on cable shows, clean but soulless, with quartz countertops and en suite master bathrooms.
Lucy is usually right about most things, and as Rachel enters the food court and navigates the maze of tables, both hands gripping the strap of her purse, eyes squinting, body closed, like a tourist in a Tunisian marketplace, Lynn presses her sandaled feet on the ground, ready to bail into the throng of Saturday shoppers. Rachel’s online profile was full of red flags—widower, young daughter, not necessarily ready to date but feeling like she should wade back in a little. But then again, Lynn’s own life on paper—massage therapist, maxed credit cards, barely affordable studio apartment in Echo Park—is nothing to crow about, either.
Lynn watches as Rachel scans the faces of those in her immediate area, her lips slightly parted, and something about her expression, the soft glassiness of her green eyes, the haphazard way her hair curls over her ears and a little in her face, makes Lynn stay a minute longer. She knows this is a mistake—but this private moment of Rachel’s vulnerability tugs at her. She lets Rachel find her, watches her face lock into a smile, one hand unattaching itself from her purse to give Lynn a quick, enthusiastic wave.
“I was just coming to meet you,” Lynn lies, standing up. She leans over and hugs Rachel with just her fingertips. “You look exactly like your picture.”
“You too.” Rachel holds onto Lynn’s forearms. She keeps her close for a second. “Your hair’s even redder in person.”
“It’s the sun,” Lynn says. The picture she used for her profile was taken indoors, her face shadowy, lit by candle. Her friend Michael said it made her look mysterious and artsy.
Then, she doesn’t know what to say. It’s been a long time since she’s let it get this far. There was Yuki, who she slipped out on, fearing she was too trendy and possibly shallow, and Kim, who had too many tattoos. And Sandra, who she simply stopped talking to on the dating site because she’d discovered a sixth degree of separation between Sandra and her ex.
“Something came up, by the way,” Lynn lies. Even when she lets it get this far, she always builds herself an out. “A last-minute appointment—so I only have about forty minutes. I hope that’s okay.” 
“Well, we’ll just have to make do,” Rachel says a little too brightly, and Lynn can’t tell whether she’s disappointed, whether she knows Lynn is lying. “So, do you have time to grab lunch, or just walk around?”
Rachel wears real perfume and not essential oils. Her makeup is so bare Lynn can see a light smattering of freckles, the faint lines of crow’s feet around her eyes. She’s definitely in her late thirties, as listed on her profile, five years older than Lynn. Her TOMS look like she’s walked a thousand miles in them, and Lynn gives her bonus points for thinking ratty canvas slip-ons were fine to wear on a first date.
“We can do both, I think,” Lynn reassures her. Maybe she should have given herself an hour. She has aborted so many trips to the Farmer’s Market she’s never actually shopped here. That, and Ralphs is more her price point. She puts on her straw hat and sunglasses and walks beside Rachel toward the Littlejohn English Toffee stand. The girl behind the counter offers them hard, flat, sample squares of toffee. As Lynn bites into hers, she watches Rachel wrap her sample in a napkin and slip it in her purse.
“For my daughter, Maggie,” she explains. “I always feel guilty, going out without her.”
“How old is she again?” Lynn asks. She hears Lucy, slightly nasal, on the phone. You’ve never wanted children, Lynn. You’re going to take care of someone else’s?
“She’s seven,” Rachel answers. Her skin is pale, like Lynn’s. She hides it under a faded denim button-up, her neck swaddled in a scarf. “She was five when Deborah passed away, and she still worries when I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about this.”
“Why?” Lynn’s throat is still thick with sugary toffee. “It’s your life.”
“So, you’re a massage therapist?” Rachel glances at a text on her phone before dropping it into her purse. She smiles at Lynn. “You’re a healer.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Lynn laughs. “More like a body mechanic.”
She did a semester at community college in North Carolina, then massage therapy school in Studio City. She was surprised that she liked massage, touching stranger’s bodies, kneading their pressure points, freeing them from pain, their own self-imposed stresses. She was worried she’d have to offer words of comfort, of understanding, but most people don’t want her to talk at all, only listen. Most of the problems—cheating spouses, budget overruns at the studio, the actor who is a liability—she wouldn’t know how to solve, anyway. Her friend Michael, who she moved here with, says the only problems people have in LA are the ones they make for themselves.
“You’re the healer,” Lynn says after a moment. “Working in oncology.”
“I always thought I’d be a concert pianist,” Rachel answers. “But life took some detours. I would have never met my partner if I’d been a concert pianist.”
“Was she an oncologist, too?” Lucy is almost screaming into Lynn’s ear now. Run, don’t walk, away.
Rachel looks straight ahead. “She was my friend.”
“I’m sorry.” Lynn touches Rachel’s wrist lightly. She doesn’t have to date Rachel, she thinks, but she can be sympathetic. She understands loss. She understands things being ripped away from you.
“I knew she was terminal.” Rachel says the word ‘terminal’ like ‘left-handed.’ “And I thought at the time there was no way I would get involved. I mean, what did I think…but I wouldn’t have had Maggie if I hadn’t.”
Rachel stops in front of a produce stand.
“Want a peach?” She holds one in each hand. “First of the season.”

---

Editor’s Note: “Eat a Peach” was originally published in Chicago Quarterly Review.

The Funny Business of Writing: In Conversation with K. E. Flann and Jen Michalski

K. E. Flann and Jen Michalski workshopped short stories together for years as part of a writing group in Baltimore (they both hosted fiction-reading series there, as well), and they each published a couple story collections. Their latest books have taken them in different — and yet parallel ‚ directions: Jen Michalski's third novel, You'll Be Fine (NineStar Press), is a family comedy featuring LBGTQ leads, and K. E. Flann's How to Survive a Human Attack (Running Press) is a humor book, the first-ever survival manual for zombies, cyborgs, mummies, nuclear mutants, and other movie monsters. Flann and Michalski got together to talk about writing groups, persistence, and risk-taking, among other things.

*

JM: Congratulations on How to Survive a Human Attack, K. E.! As someone who is a prize-winning short fiction writer, this is a new direction for you. How did the idea come about for the book? Were you anxious about writing for a different audience than say, one that enjoys literary fiction, or do you think there's an overlapping sweet spot of readers?

KF: And congratulations to you, as well, on You'll Be Fine. I sometimes still don't grasp that we are on opposite coasts after being in the same city and the same writing groups for years. It's great to mark this occasion together at long last, not least because I had the privilege of reading early drafts of your novel. It’s delightful. People are going to love it.

How to Survive a Human Attack began when my husband was watching "The Walking Dead" in the other room, and there was so much screaming. Those zombies were getting slaughtered! Someone should really help them, I thought. I wrote a short advice piece, and it was published quickly. Pretty soon, I started to suspect there were other monsters that needed help. I wrote and published a few more and a few more. And here we are.

Monsters are definitely a new audience, although I suspect a lot of us are at least part monster, even if we don't know it. I got started in the "advice" milieu thanks to the story collection, Self-Help, by Lorrie Moore, which revolutionized my thinking about form and tone. I also love pop culture and B-movies. So now I'm the horrible hybrid creature before you. I do hope there are others! We’ll see.

It seems like your trajectory has been the other way. You started with the fantastical in The Tide King, while You'll Be Fine has autobiographical elements, making it — in certain ways, at least — reality-based. How was it different to work on this book as opposed to previous ones?

JM: It's funny you mention trajectory, because when you start out with your first book, there's an assumed trajectory, in genre, in audience, in sales, but my trajectory as a writer (and published author) has been anything but an upward trajectory — it's sort of been all over the place, up and down, different mountains, even. I'm pretty undisciplined in that I write about whatever interests me at the time, because that's where the energy of the words is. And yes, my first two novels, The Tide King and The Summer She Was Under Water, both had elements of magical realism at play, and they were both serious and kind of sad in places. And it's funny, because I would meet people who'd read my books and they'd be confused, because I guess I wasn't morose enough, and they'd say, "wow, you're funny in person." Which is kind of, I don't know, weird? So I knew, at the onset, I wanted to write something a little more accessible and lighter. Something that was more attuned to how I see myself as a person. And yet, it's still a little heavy — I started working on it right after my mom died, and a mother dies in the beginning, so it still manages to squeak in a little bit of serious and sad.

Now you, you're a very funny person, and you have a lot of work out there that attests to that, in McSweeney's Internet Tendency and other places, but when we were in a writing group together, you were working on a memoir about your dog, Clark, and there was some pretty heavy stuff in it. I wonder if a lot of the variation in our work is also the result of just growing as writers and as people. Is there anything that's surprises you about the writer you are now as opposed to the writer you started out being?

KF: Ha! The same thing happened to me. With my short story collections, I had people say, with equal frequency, Wow, that book was funny and Wow, that book was depressing. It bummed me out when people told me that my books were depressing because I didn't see them that way and because I hoped to buoy people with my work, rather than make life feel heavier.

I didn't set out to write humor, exactly. I simply entertained myself writing advice for movie monsters. Then, while I was working on the book in earnest, my dad was diagnosed with advanced, terminal cancer. One night, he fell and hit his head, and he went to the hospital. It occurred at the beginning of the pandemic, when visits were not allowed. We didn’t know he was in his final decline until nearly the last moment. Thankfully, we got him home for his last few hours.

To say I was reeling would be an understatement. As soon we got home from the funeral, I started a period of composing short humor pieces that ended up in McSweeney's, The Weekly Humorist, and other places, while also continuing to work on the book. I probably needed to laugh, but there was also the element that it made me feel closer to my dad because he was so funny. I also wanted to be useful to other people who were suffering, and I wasn’t sure what else I had to offer. I have no idea if reading, for example, the eulogy I penned for Real Pants, actually made a difference to anyone. But I offered what I could. I have only recently felt emotionally equipped to work on the "serious" projects I couldn't face during that time, like the memoir project you mentioned about moving to Europe with my dog.

I wonder if it’s common to write funny stuff when we're struggling and serious stuff when we’re content. Do you find your own emotional climate and your work to have a relationship that’s more parallel? Or what about your work as editor of JMWW journal? Do you ever feel that the tenor of your own work is affected by the pieces you publish there?

JM: Wow, that's tough, and I'm sorry that you went through it. It was definitely a very fertile period for you, in terms of humor, and very bittersweet to know what was underneath the surface while you were producing those stories. For me, although You'll Be Fine did sort of mirror my life at the time and felt cathartic in some ways, most of my work is emotional prepping for the unknowns. I feel like I'm always trying to figure out how to live, because in my real life I feel like I'm just winging it. So my work is often a response to questions I've posed to myself: what if a parent died? What if there is sexual abuse by a family member? What if you could live forever? What if one's life isn't what one wanted it to be? I love that as writers we get to game out these scenarios and live vicariously through other characters and their situations, good and bad. And I love that I get to read other writers' works and respond to their characters also.

I do feel the tenor of my work can be affected by what I'm reading, but it's less emotional and more technical, more craft-oriented. Of course, it's why writing instructors drill their students to read, read, read! I love that sometimes I find the tools to address deficiencies in my own work through other books. For instance, this summer, for fun, I read a lot of Emma Straub. And although I loved the beachy read vibe (I was on vacation), her novels also helped me figure out how to be more accessible to readers through her voice and sentence structure.

Of course, another way to hone one's craft is through writing groups, and you and I are battled-tested veterans! I feel like over the past 10 years we've been members of at least two groups together! What have you taken away from being part of a writing group?

KF: It's funny that you asked about writing groups because I was just speaking to a student today about how important it is to be involved with other writers. If we see other writers only from afar, we are aware only of finished products that get published, often announced online with trumpeting fanfare. We never see (a) what didn't get published and (b) the struggle behind the things that did. This lack of information can lead to a faulty assumption that success is frequent and effortless for other writers.

Being in a writing group with you specifically has always been a masterclass in discipline. You are not only one of the most curious and imaginative people I know, but also one of the hardest working writers I know — always crafting a major project alongside smaller writing projects, as well as editing a literary journal. In pre-pandemic times, you were often running a reading series. Plus, your day job involves using your writing and editing skills. In the groups, I saw how thoroughly you revise, as well as how creatively. I remember you talking about how you wanted to challenge yourself to cut a 5000 word story down to 1000 — and you did it, which required seeing the story from a totally different angle. A beginning writer who did not have the privilege of witnessing your process might look at your five highly-acclaimed books and many published stories, and fail to grasp what goes into that.

I learn a lot besides craft and discipline from other writers when I'm in a group, too. You talked about your trajectory being all over the place, but I interpret that as creative fearlessness. You worked on a graphic novel script, at one point, and I was like, Wow! So that's how you do that? In some way, I probably absorbed a measure of your adventurous spirit, and it no doubt emboldened me to try to some new things, too. When a group works, I think it becomes a kind of organism, providing energy or nourishment to each person. I'm curious to know how you see the groups. Is it the same for you? Even though we've been reading each other's work for so long, I never asked you what the group experience has meant to you, or if the perception of their value changes over time.

JM: Thanks for the nice words! It's such high praise coming from you, whose work I have admired continually over the years. I agree completely with your assessment on writing groups. I've had the privilege of seeing early drafts of your stories, as well as many other writers, and seen the work involved in revising and revising again. In a group, you also see the life cycle of submissions, your own and other writers — I've seen writers have stories rejected twenty times but then get picked up by a high-tier journal! I remember when Roxane Gay had a blog, years and years ago when she was just starting out, called I Have Become Accustomed to Rejection, where she detailed the ordinarities of her day but at the end listed which journals had sent her rejections. It was such a brave blog, in terms of not being embarrassed by rejection but also showing how often you need to submit, to not become discouraged after a few "nos." Anyway, I love the title because, in a way, groups are where you become accustomed to rejection and the grind of the writer's life.

But the group kind of mitigates the grind as well — I always feel very excited after I attend a group meeting, ready to get back to work. Critiques constantly open new windows for you to see things in a different light, new dialogue, and I'm always so excited to respond to that dialogue. There's also the deadline of submitting something to the group that keeps one writing, if you're not inherently self-directed. I also think groups humanize the writing process. It's easy, as you said, to see someone's successes touted on social media and be jealous or depressed, but it's harder to be anything less than 150% supportive when you've had a front-row seat to the writer's journey (and all the inherent stumbles, rejections, and disappointments that happen just as often, usually more). And, in a good group, you trust the writers in it and aren't afraid, as you said, to take chances and try new things without worrying about people judging you.

I think, even outside a group, though, it's important to take chances. Sure, the publishing industry is very much about brand, about building one's platform in one genre or another, I think it's important to write about what resonates with you emotionally, even if no one ever sees it. I've written novels that are just for me, because I know I have a particular taste and the fun for me is in writing it. And I really love that you started out at the very serious literary end of the pool but now you're books about monsters! It's very brave, because humor is hard and can be just as insightful and deep as literary fiction, but then all of sudden you're not supposed to write a novel that's a contender for the National Book Award because you've been pegged as "funny." But I'm totally sure you're going to write a book that's going to be a contender for the National Book Award, so screw those guys.

After writing You'll Be Fine (which is kind of funny but also sad), I realized that novels don't have to be either "serious" or "funny." A good novel can be both, and a good novel should be both. This blew my mind and it's strange that I finally "got it" after writing some pretty sad novels and novellas. Oh, and I wanted to point out that you wrote a freaking craft book (WRITE ON: Secrets to Crafting Better Stories) right before you wrote How to Survive a Human Attack, speaking of creative fearlessness. What are you working on now?

KF: Well, one aspiration is to write a novel, something in the long-form. I tend to be full of ideas. I bing-bong from one short thing to the next. I mean, no regrets. Certainly, my short story skills provided a great foundation for other short-form work, like essays, humor pieces, and the columns that led to the craft book, and short story skills even help my work in the classroom. Aspiring novelists I teach sometimes get lost in the woods of their own narratives, and as someone with a succinct vision of plot, I can help them counter-balance some of that. But can I find within myself the commitment novelists demonstrate to one project? How is it for you working in both forms? Did one come more naturally to you? Were there times in this latest novel when you weren't sure if it would come together?

JM: I tend to keep a lot of balls in the air, working on short stories and novels at the same time (sometimes even two novels, ie, going back and forth between them when I become stalled on one or the other). I'm happiest when I'm working, and it's the process of putting words on the page, rather than the long-term goal, on which I try and focus. It's kind of like running for me, which I know you'll appreciate — run the mile you're in. However, I have a harder time writing short stories, so I admire your succinct vision of plot! 

In terms of You'll Be Fine, this novel felt pretty cut and dry while I was writing it — for once, I didn't try to make this big literary statement — it doesn't try to be something it's not. I wanted to write something that entertained the reader, and that's it. That's not to say it didn't go through many drafts to be what it became. And I was very open to criticism from all comers — I tried to recruit as many people as I could to read, and I promised myself at the onset to be very open to any advice because I wanted it to be the best novel it could possibly be and not let my own hardheadedness get in the way. 

Critiquing can be hard, though, both receiving and giving criticism. Giving criticism, there's what you think should happen and maybe what you want to happen, but what matters is helping the author get their vision on the page. Conversely, when receiving criticism, it's very subjective, with people saying, "Well, I think that character should be different" or "I don't think that's how this situation should unfold," but how much of the critique is just their personal preferences or how they would write it? Art is really hard. It's not like being an accountant. But you absolutely shouldn't forgo the critique process, because there's always some piece that will resonate with you and you never know from whom it will come. I remember working on a novel when I was in the master's program at Towson, and in my novel critique class there was this guy I just couldn't stand. You know, he was that guy. And yet in one offhand remark, he solved a huge problem hanging over the plot of my novel, so I was grudgingly grateful, LOL. So the process can be infuriating but also mysterious and wonderful — writing in a nutshell.  

Speaking of clouds, we haven't talked about that mysterious fog writers must fight through after publication, you know, how to actually get the word out to readers and convince them to buy your book in a field of 30 million others! Has the pandemic impacted your book tour plans, or the way in which you hope to market your book, or maybe some new and different opportunities have emerged in the process? You've been teaching on Zoom now for over a year, and you're such a natural on camera! I would totally go to a virtual K. E. Flann reading. 

KF: I couldn't agree more about the experience of being in a workshop with someone I find, ahem, challenging. I have seen this both as a workshop participant and a workshop facilitator. Quite often, there's someone whose interpersonal skills leave something to be desired, and yet has razor sharp insights about the other writers' stories. That's a hard combination. If someone has bad interpersonal skills and little insight about the work, we can dismiss that person's opinion. Or conversely, if someone has great interpersonal skills and great insights, well, we love that person. So in either direction, that relationship is easy. But someone who offers razor sharp insights with a razor-sharp delivery style can be tough to take. And I think the knack to receiving criticism is finding a way to hear that person and even to relish that feedback because it is direct and easy to understand, not obscured by niceties. We don't have to incorporate that feedback, but we don't have the chance even to consider it if we're not willing to listen. I've had the same experience as you have of receiving a key piece of criticism, something that solved a big problem, from someone who rubbed me the wrong way in that moment.

Speaking of big feelings, though, you asked about the post-writing fog — that period of promoting something that's finished. I'm sure you're going through that right now, too, and with so many books under your belt, maybe you can give me some advice. I'm so nervous about the release of How to Survive a Human Attack that I find it hard to focus on loading the coffee maker, let alone on writing something new. Also, I drop items made of glass and bump my head on open cabinets. It's like the Benny Hill show at my house. How do you cope?

JM: Oh no, K. E., I see you! I totally understand. And the experience is different every time you have a book out, depending on your publisher, your intended audience, what's expected of you in promotion. I always tell people that promoting your book is your second job, the one you go to after you get off work (or maybe before work), on weekends, on vacation. You have to keep your book out there, make it feel inevitable in people's lives (and bookshelves) while at the same time not turning people off. It's almost an impossible equation, and people tend to scatter to two opposite poles — those who are too timid, embarrassed even, to promote their work and those who are the marketing equivalent of a flamethrower, piling it on everywhere and anywhere. I tend to fall into the former category (I literally cringe sometimes before I hit the post button to share something), but at the end of the day, the only person who really cares about your book (unless you're Stephen King's agent) is you. No one else is going to do it for you, and although you may have varying levels of help, it's up to you to make the case for your work. 

And you should promote it how you're comfortable (or to the edge of your comfort zone). I know someone who only visited book groups — for his debut novel, he scheduled visits with 50 groups! Other people might not be able to handle such repeated intimacy, and maybe online marketing is better for them. Maybe you do a lot of giveaways. For my first novel, The Tide King, I did a lot of readings — I visited bookstores, colleges, reading series, classes, and a few book groups. But I found that I didn't sell many books that way, or I couldn't figure out which venues produced book sales. Once I had an event of 50 people, and nobody bought a book, and another event, 6 people showed up and I sold 6 books (weirdly, they were all bought by the same person — I always wondered what happened to her). It was then I realized, unless you are a highly industry-supported author with some Reese Witherspoon movie option, your book's success is really a crap shoot.

Which was kind of freeing! There's so much you can't control, from how the publisher promotes your book (eg, either spending tens of thousands of dollars on your campaign or giving you a stack of bookmarks and wishing you good luck) to a 2-year pandemic that obliterates family, friends, and book tour. So this time I didn't set a goal for the "success" of my book. I literally don't have any expectations. There was a time when I was extremely worried about being a "successful" author, and it really was depressing and an awful strategy for maintaining a healthy self-esteem. Now that I'm older, it's not the most important thing in my life anymore, thank goodness. (I still have "I'm such a failure" days, but that's sort of like a colonic for my soul.) Being healthy, the people I love being healthy, and trying to have fun amidst random body pain are much more important. Plus, you get to define what makes you a "successful" author. I'm happy my book is out, I'm happy I wrote it, I'm happy that strangers so far seem to like it, and that's good enough for me. 

This was a long way of saying, I think as long as you're genuine, people understand, and they're not going to roll their eyes when you've posted for the 50th time on Instagram about your book. It's a hard job, I have an instant soft heart for every post I see on social media of someone hawking their book. Also, I hope everyone buys your book — you always make me laugh, and having your book is like having you make me laugh whenever I need it! At any rate, if I may quote myself, you’ll be fine.

KF: This is reassuring to hear, Jen. I’ve appreciated the advice (from several corners now) to do as much promotion as one is comfortable doing. I mean, if we took that advice too literally, we might do none? But I think the point is that there’s an endless amount one could do, and at some point, we have to say, Okay, I’ve reached my capacity for now.

I wrote the book out of an urge to make people happy. Life is hard, especially now, and what can you do sometimes but laugh? Yet, out of that urge to buoy people in some small way, I’ve ended up the recipient of support from so many people in the literary community. It’s enough to make you think humans are actually all right sometimes.

Compromised Lives of One Sort or Another: A Review of Jen Michalski's Could You Be With Her Now

I doubt that anyone would argue that the two novellas of Could You Be With Her Now are not different stories. I mean, “I Can Make It to California Before It’s Time for Dinner” focuses on danger experienced by a mentally challenged fifteen year old, told in his own words. To the contrary, “May-September” omniscient tracks the romance that blooms between much-older woman and the young writer the much-older woman hires to work on her memoir blog.

Sure, these two stories have a relationship (compromised lives of one sort or another) and combine together into an interesting whole. However, there is an impressive range of writing ability between the two.  They are crafted quite differently, function differently, and impact the reader in different ways.

A brief sample from each demonstrates the variance of the two prose styles. Contrast the following “I Can Make It to California Before It’s Time for Dinner” sample:

I watch the TV for my girlfriend Megan. She’s fourteen and I am fifteen and every day she’s on the show that I watch about her. She’s pretty and I wish we could hold hands and kiss. My brother Josh is seventeen and doesn’t play with me and doesn’t like Megan. His girlfriend is not on TV and she’s not pretty. Josh and his girlfriend call me retard and laugh. My name is Jimmy but I laugh too.

with the following “May-September” excerpt:

In the living room Sandra found the sheet music, Concerto in F by Gershwin. For years she had known most music by heart, but the last few years a note would fall out here, there, and she could not find it, would stop playing and begin again, only to drop a note someplace else. She began to forget entire songs altogether. Sometimes she could not reach quickly enough to the high notes or the lower notes, and her soles hurt when she pressed on the foot pedals. She had had enemies in her life, surely everyone did. But she hadn’t expected her hands or her piano to turn against her.

Obviously, the prose of “I Can Make It to California Before It’s Time for Dinner” is much simpler than that of  “May-September.” It has to be, since the former is told through the voice of mentally challenged Jimmy whereas the latter alternates between the heads of the older woman, Sandra, and the young writer, Alice. Regardless, I was impressed by the prose difference between these two novellas. For me, this was a significant part of the joy of reading the book.

Of course, variety in prose style is not the only aspect in play in these two pieces. As I mentioned, they operate differently, though both in ways that I enjoyed.

“I Can Make It to California Before It’s Time for Dinner” seems to function by contrasting the innocence of Jimmy’s voice with what the reader understands about Jimmy’s situation. Jimmy is a good kid, but there are bad things around him (or involving him) that he cannot understand:

I am on the deck now. I want to hug her goodbye. She pushes at me.

“Get away, you retard!” She screams and I put my hand on her mouth.

Megan bites my hand. I push her away. She is smaller than me and falls against the glass door. I feel bad and put my arms around her to pick her up. We are up half the way. She hits me in the chest and the face. I get mad like I get when Josh hits me and leaves marks. She hits me in the face again and it hurts bad. I put my hands on her neck and twist real hard, back and forth. She puts her hands on my hands but I am bigger. Her face turns all red and it’s kind of funny how red. She keeps moving and kicking and I try to stop her. We are up half the way when she falls asleep on me. She is so heavy I let her fall and then I wait for her to stop make-believing because people on TV are always doing make-believe. The way Josh fake sleeps until I go away.

We understand, but we know that Jimmy does not. This creates an amazing amount of tension despite Jimmy’s pleasant and simple talking. We want to yell to Jimmy to protect him, but he couldn’t understand us anyway.

On the other hand, “May-September” waves back and forth between Sandra and Alice, between their past and their present:

Oh Sandra, you’re never any fun. Georgi got in on the passenger side, pulled on the radio knob. Do you know the way to San Jose, I’ve been away so long. Come to Bali without Jack. We can do girl stuff.

Alice met Sandra by the closet. She moved so quickly, from couch to closet, that Sandra dropped the coat.

I’ve got it. Alice threw it onto the couch and then put her arms around Sandra.

Sandra leaned over and cupped Georgi’s right cheek in her left hand, brushed her left cheek with her lips. She could smell Georgi’s hair, her breath.

Sandra, stop. Georgi pushed at her.

Sandra stood stiffly, feeling Alice against her.

The resulting effect is as complex as Sandra’s and Alice’s emotion. Through that slipping between the two lovers, and between their situation and their history, what they feel and how they act against it, the reader gets closer to experiencing life as Sandra and Alice.

Really, I am not sure which story I prefer. “I Can Make It to California Before It’s Time for Dinner” crafts Jimmy’s voice marvelously and brings me to the edge of my chair. However, though “May-September” doesn’t have the same simple charm, the more sophisticated story is captivating. I guess I’ll just have to like Could You Be With Her Nowas a whole and not worry which novella is better.