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Tag: Pablo D’stair

  • Pablo D’Stair’s 2007 book about a cat is being reissued

    Pablo D’Stair’s 2007 book about a cat is being reissued

    I’m always eager to promote Pablo D’Stair’s work. It’s my kind of stuff. So of course I’m going to let everyone know that his novel, Candour, is being re-released with a fancy new cover from Goodloe Byron.

    About Candour:

    An unnamed man suddenly begins succumbing to the horrors of a nightmarish disease. Secluding himself in his apartment rooms, his only companion is his cat, Alastair Cello, who he determines to keep unaware of his impending death.

    BUY IT HERE – a hardcopy straight from the printer is 47% off list price ($4.24, down from $10) by entering the following DISCOUNT CODE: SSZ8VB6L

    re-release-candour-front

  • Part One of Three Dialogues on Literature with Pablo D’Stair and Caleb J. Ross, live at the Sunday Observer

    Part One of Three Dialogues on Literature with Pablo D’Stair and Caleb J. Ross, live at the Sunday Observer

    Increasingly, one of my favorite things is dialogue(ing) with Pablo D’Stair. He’s the sort of arm-chair thinker/drinker, literary critic type that I get on well with. Recently, he and I had yet another email back-and-forth, this one for the Montage section of the Sunday Observer (“Sri Lanka’s English Newspaper with the largest circulation”), where we wax on about genre vs. literary writing, the sound of language, what constitutes success, and more. Dare I say that this series is perhaps our most interesting dialogue yet (though, I reserve the right to someday find hidden genius in our past discussions).

    Head over to the Sunday Observer now get all icky with Pablo and Caleb sticky.

  • Reading Riddley Walker and Fighting a Cold. Likely Not a Coincidence.

    Reading Riddley Walker and Fighting a Cold. Likely Not a Coincidence.

    I’m fighting a cold. And losing. Viruses seem to attack at times that I otherwise have both time and motivation to write (fiction, that is, not a quick blog post). One day, I’ll write an entire collection of vignettes under the influence of TheraFlu. Until then, I’ll stick to complaining that my body apparently doesn’t want me to write fiction.

    Today’s bout comes at an especially bad time as I have two projects underway that I am damn excited about. One, I’ve hinted at a few times before (coded 4C until myself and the other writers involved come up with something better), which is about 80% complete. I can smell the maggots on the bloody horizon. The other, a project I haven’t much started but for sketching a few ideas and doing some homework reading, is already gnawing at me. The homework: read Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban. The assignment: a dare to write something, anything really, immediately afterwards. The teacher: Sarah D’Stair, writer and wife of writer Pablo D’Stair. Together, they are a formidable peer pair of peer pressure.

    A couple weeks ago in Chicago Sarah, Pablo, and myself (along with an entire host of friends and writers) sat down to a few drinks at Miller’s Pub. Conversation drifted to writing, then needled down to my own writing (Sarah’s insistence, not mine, I assure you), then further pricked at my style of writing, one which was described in variations of meticulous, precise, and, perhaps, over-wrought. So, a dare to write something more lose, more free-flowing, something to explore language rather than wring some beautiful (what I think is beautiful) language drug from it. I accepted. And now that I’ve had a few days to think about my drunken acceptance, I’ve leveled, but in a way that’s made me even more excited about the project than I was when first dared.

    I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to loosen up the way Hoban did with Riddley Walker—the book reads like a mix between Middle English poetry and the ramblings of a dented waterhead—but the core concept, that of letting language, for lack of a better term, flow, is intriguing. I look forward to it. Once I get over this damn cold.