SCREWBALL COMEDY/STORIES GOING STEADY (2005) Forget everything you know about the plucky twentysomething woman who moves to the Big Apple. You haven’t met Rayla Sunday and her Screwball Comedy. Rayla wants to be a famous photographer, but she’s still working on the famous part. In the meantime, she’s struggling to get her foot in the door. Which wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t have to deal with a dog-kissing ex-boyfriend, a boozy best friend and an extreme mom-makeover. Toss in an apartment eviction and a racist drag queen in the workplace. But these are just minor speed bumps on Rayla’s road to success.
Miraculously, Rayla makes time for a dance card that’s filled to the gills. Unfortunately, quantity doesn’t mean quality. When she finally thinks she’s found The One, Rayla discovers there’s frequently a catch involved when it comes to Mr. Right.
In self-aware, effervescent language, Rayla Sunday narrates six connected tales full of dreams and false alarms, relationships and their expectations, with both humor and poignancy. Screwball Comedy is a shimmering, fresh take on finding your place in the world.
While Screwball Comedy represents the light at the end of the tunnel, Stories Going Steady is a journey through the darkness. A rich, bold short story collection featuring a cast of souls searching for humanity and connection in turbulent times. "A Man of a Certain Age" finds a high school teacher weighing his privacy against the truth brought about by a scandal. In "Counting Men," a Los Angeles nurse answers the question, What makes a woman star in an adult film? Loneliness and loss sends a recent widower reaching out to an unexpected new friend in "eventually…" And the narrator of the startling "A Posthumous Introduction" pays tribute to his friend, an obscure author, whose lone novel couldn’t cure his horrific obsession.
Taken together, these two volumes of stories are triumphant examples of Allen’s eclecticism and his ability to convincingly illustrate the lives of us all. He does this with clear-eyed compassion and a bracing honesty. Screwball Comedy and Stories Going Steady are ample evidence of a writer working at the height of his powers.
MY SCREWBALL COMEDY (EXCERPT FROM SCREWBALL COMEDY)
I was hanging out with my best friend, Drunk Dana, when my man-du-jour, Mark, called my cell. We were having a late brunch at Sliver, which at 2 p.m. was really lunch, but who serves squash quiche for lunch? Dana was polishing up her second mimosa, waiting for our waiter to bring her a third. And make this one light on the orange juice, she demands. My cell buzzed in my blazer pocket, I wasn’t even going to answer it, but I needed a distraction from Dana’s ramblings. Get a few drinks in her and suddenly the pendulum swings from Wilma Wallflower to Talkin’ Tina. She’s on her usual tear about how she can’t meet a good man because she’s too much woman for them. Never mind the fact she dresses like that chick who liked John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever and still wears her hair like the Farrah Fawcett poster. My guess is that in a land a long, long time ago, circa 1977, somebody hot told Dana she looked like Ms. Fawcett, and she’s been holding onto that compliment ever since. But I did say she was my best friend, so I’ll give her some slack.
JANUARY OR FEBRUARY (EXCERPT FROM STORIES GOING STEADY)
I was born with a tear-shaped birthmark beneath my right eye. And for the journey of my life I believe it provided me with the privilege to lie. My beauty mark, as my father called it, was all I needed to get out of any mishap. To my father, my blemish, my mistake, my birthmark was the root of all my problems and consequently my saving grace. Thus, he would tell my mother, She’s had it bad enough already, don’t add to it. Then just like that, I avoided any kind of discipline.
And still I lied. My lies ranged from the pedestrian to the absurd. Like telling people I was born blind, but was given my sight back by a traveling shaman. Or insisting to my teachers I was adopted. But then I grew up, and thus, so did my lies. A symptom of never being punished. I believed my birthmark would shield me from negative consequences.
A part of me wants to tell the truth. But most of me wants to lie. I don’t even think I recognize the truth anymore. But if you could spare a moment to believe a life-long liar, then that’s all I’m asking. Because I swear I’m going to tell the truth. At least the truth the way I saw it. The truth about Leonard and me and everything we went through. Not everything, but more than enough. That way, maybe you’ll believe me because I swear to you I wouldn’t waste all that time telling a lie. Most of my lies are brief.
boice: books
COLORING BOOK: AN ECLECTIC ANTHOLOGY OF FICTION & POETRY BY MULTICULTURAL WRITERS (2003)
Coloring Book: An Eclectic Anthology of Fiction & Poetry by Multicultural Writers features the traditional up against the postmodern all under one cover. Transgressive. Spoken word. Experimental. Adventure. Erotica. These are just some of the styles you'll discover. Eighty-five writers spanning the globe share prose and poetry that's sometimes personal, sometimes political, but always exciting and provocative. This expansive anthology brings together new work from both emerging voices and a few you've come to love over the years like Susan Atefat-Peckham, Farnoosh Moshiri and Emanuel Xavier. With the same talent found in his own books, Allen delivers a collection that will soothe one moment and make you toss the book against the wall the next...the way all fine art should.
PRAISE FOR COLORING BOOK: What does Coloring Book do but suggest the best of life consists of coloring outside the lines? In this admirable compendium of fresh voices, sharp visions, writers once considered on the margins or beyond are shown to be pertinent. Impressive, urgent, and rewarding. - Gregory Maguire, author of Wicked and Mirror, Mirror.
COLORING BOOK EXCERPT (FROM INTRODUCTION)
When I began writing my second novel (and first published book), The Daughters of a Mother, I chose to make the main characters white. Why? My first unpublished novel, based on my grandmother's early life in North Carolina, was the story of a black woman. I simply decided to take turns. Nothing political about this choice. No hidden agenda. Artistic freedom, you could call it. Also, I knew that this particular book wasn't about race, so it wouldn't have made a difference if they were tartan-colored. I wasn't writing a race book.
So fast forward to when my book is birthed and ready for the world to see. After people would read the book, many responded to the infamous page 10, where the ethnicity of the twin girls is revealed. I wasn't expecting that, some said. Others asked, Why did you make them white? Why didn't you make them black? Or even, I had to change my thought process when I found out what race they were. Mind you, these remarks came from readers of varying backgrounds. To be quite honest, I hadn't taken into consideration that Talulah and Cora's racial make-up would be considered. Perhaps this was naivete on my part. Or just blindness. I prefer the former; it's slightly more flattering. Anyway, my response was often, Why does it matter?
Oh, it doesn't. I just thought...
Since I'm black, my God, why in the world would I write about two white girls. Who did I think I was? A writer with talent? That's what I like to think when I'm hunched over a lined notebook. But I knew these "concerns" weren't questioning my talent. But it made me wonder, if it's not about talent (or skill), is it about the lack of empathy we possess?
JANET HURST (2002)
Our introduction to Janet Hurst begins in a suicide ward. She is the sum of her broken dreams. She lives life as if she was merely consulted “for the minutiae.” So she blames her young son. She blames her husband, Marshall. She even blames their housekeeper, Barbara, who Janet believes is having an affair with him. As she meditates on her life, we witness a middle-aged woman as she’s challenged by her health, her sanity and the expectations of having it all.
JANET HURST EXCERPT
Why would anyone want to kill me? When I can just do it myself. Of course, I say this in hindsight. Laying in a bed in the suicide ward of Mercy Hospital; the stigma of a suicide attempt firmly attached to me like an unspeakable blemish. When I came to, I saw the veil of judgment on the faces of every every caretaker. That's what I believed. You would think the routine of working with suicide patients would produce apathy. But their expressions were no different than that of my husband's. I opened my eyes to Marshall and hastily shut them to avoid that horrible expression of, How could you? With my eyes closed, I could still perceive it. I wanted to ask where our son was. But Jacob was either too young to be allowed in such a place or Marshall was simply protecting him from his mother: the quitter. I assumed that he explained that Mommy was in a special hospital where only adults were allowed. At age seven, this was age appropriate and just. But even though it's for own good, I still wanted to hold him. To feel him nuzzle his small face in the crook of my arm. He's too young, I know. But if he was there, at that moment, I know he wouldn't have worn that look his father couldn't remove from his face.
I left no note. So of course Marshall didn't understand. No one did. But it isn't what it looked like. He thought I had everything to live for and couldn't fathom why I would do such a thing. But I don't think he ever knew what I had to live for. No, that's not entirely true. I believe he knew in the beginning. Before we were married, when we were dating.
When I think of Marshall, I always think of him in past tense. Those early days when he'd recite these corny poems he'd make up on the spot. J. makes my day; in every single way; if I didn't have her; I'd go crazay. Or his surprise love letters tucked like a bookmark inside one of my textbooks or novels. Each action made me feel loved or what I thought was love or wanted to be love. I now know it was only the attention I was responding to. And Marshall laid it on thickly. They always do in the beginning. Each poem, each letter told me at the time that I had everything to live for. If it wasn't the poems or letters, it was certainly the full-body massages after we made love. I'm clearly highlighting the distinction between making love and having sex. I reasoned it had to be love precisely because the massages came afterwards. Of the countless number of men I'd been with, most considered squeezing my breasts a few times before sex to be a massage.
Marshall was the first man to make love to me. Before we were married, I craved his touch like it was oxygen. During each and every act I would think, I can feel this good without repercussions. I didn't have to worry about him reporting back to his buddies about my sexual prowess. So that's why, I believe, I fell into a facsimilie of love: Marshall treated me as if he was the first man I'd ever been with. And perhaps at the time, I thought I did have everything to live for.
THE DAUGHTERS OF A MOTHER (2000)
When twin sisters Talulah and Cora are uprooted from New York City to a Pittsburgh suburb, because of their father’s new job, the sixteen-year-old girls are less than pleased. Eager for some excitement, Cora convinces her sister to break their mother’s curfew and sneak out to Owl’s, a popular college hang-out. The twins pretend they are college students and meet two young men who will alter the course of their young lives. The Daughters of a Mother is at once the study of family and its influence. It is the story of the bond between two sisters, but it is also an exploration of how having a strict mother who never wanted children taints every decision of her daughters.
THE DAUGHTERS OF A MOTHER EXCERPT
Our Mom never taught us about birth control. We found out the hard way.
And we never told her about premarital sex. Although I'm sure she knew.
My twin sister Cora and I confirmed this when we moved to Bernarding. Our Dad chose to live here because of this new teaching job. Cora and I wanted to live in Pittsburgh instead of having to trek 30 miles into the city. But he refused, saying that we were too impressionable. So that's why we ended up stuck in this god-awful ghost town. I thought it was stupid and said as much, kind of hoping that Cora would back me up. But I honestly don't know why she would start now. She had no problem when my smart mouth got us what we wanted, because she was out doing the same thing I was.
I think that's the main reason we moved near all these hillbillies because Mom kept hounding Dad about how Brooklyn was too rough for a Christian family with young girls. When Dad would say stuff like that, I at least knew he was being sincere, but not her. She was only thinking of herself and how much easier it would be to keep an eye on us without any actual effort on her part. Dad was in bed by ten every night and slept like death, to me and Cora's advantage. But not good, old sanctimonious Mom, she stayed up for hours and hours sitting in that old lady rocking chair, reading the Good Book and drinking black coffee. That's why it's impossible she never heard us walking down those goddamned creaking steps or at least the screen door nobody cared to fix or replace. I swear no matter how many times we would practice when no one was home, we could never get that door to stop squeaking. Cora even tried rubbing cooking grease on the joints, but all it did was make it smell like somebody was deep frying chicken or something.
When we first started sneaking out, Mom would never say anything while it was going on. She'd wait until the next morning at breakfast, with Dad sitting there, saying stuff that only the three of us would get. She asked us how we slept last night. And Cora would look so suspicious, avoiding Dad's eyes - or worse, she'd stare at me with that dumbfounded look - once again dropping everything on my lap. Since I figured Mom wouldn't say anything to him, I'd just lie and say fine and shoot her the death stare. Then she'd smile because she knew she could get us anytime she wanted. All she had to do was tell Dad and he'd damn near kill us with whatever he could pick up.
