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Hosho McCreesh on Hosho McCreesh.

November 23, 2010 \am\30 11:22 am

Hosho McCreesh  reviews a story by Hosho McCreesh
from [C:] an mlp stamp stories anthology 

Well, shit–to start with, it’s pretty melodramatic. Sort of saccharine too–or aims to be. And, probably, what I hate about it is what I hate about myself–though the story doesn’t have a dumpy old gut that’s easy to focus on.

I suppose I wanted it to feel romantic, but instead it reads as a little punitive, controlling even. That’s what happens sometimes–the longer I stare at the words, the more desperate they each become.

Then there’s imagining some sweeping epic. I honestly don’t know where I get off. But I’d say all the epic razzmatazz was pretty much the point. Could a sweeping epic be made in 50 words? And in that sense, I applaud the ambition. I’m always happy with ambition. I suppose I just wish it was more Lawrence of Arabia or Bridge On the River Kwai in its insights. Instead it’s got a cheapjack Gone With the Wind or Far and Away feel. And if not an epic, then at least more Cassavettes or Jarmusch than it is right now. Bah.

Still, there’s a spirit in it that’s very much true–for me.  Maybe that accidentally admits something about the sinister nature of love. Or my love, anyways. I hope not. It feels true that we have no choice but to write about ourselves–under a many a varied guise. We just don’t know any better. Even when we write complete strangers, characters supposedly unlike us–our own ugly heads come to bear.

I think I regret that the narrator didn’t build the cairns. He probably should’ve. I mean, maybe it’s not the Taj Mahal…but still it would’ve meant something. Even if she turned him away. The down side of being a love-them-from-a-distance, pining type is the tragedies we invent. And that we’re hard to reach. That we need big, sweeping gestures (amidst all our frustrating inaction) to convince our women we’re serious. Even our truest love gets caught in our dumb old heads. But the damn narrator had his principles I guess–he prefers the whole gamble, not hedging it with some breadcrumbed road back. That, too, is a thing that can be both admired or abhorred.

I admit I am glad that I am inescapable as an influence in my work. Whatever the work is, it’s definitely mine. I think I’d like it more if I could get away from this sit-com kind of convention. I guess with only 50 words, we have to lean a little harder on the familiar. For all its faults, I like the piece well enough.

Even without the cairns.


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