Tag Archives: love

Resentment on Valentine’s Day – About more than commercialism?

Originally published in the Journal Inquirer Tuesday, Feb. 12, 2013
by Kristen J. Tsetsi

So “down wiv valentiney things”
“Down wiv love” I say.
Down with all the bears in mugs
IT’S JUST ANOTHER DAY!!

So reads the final stanza of the poem “Valentine Schmalentine” by Charlotte Scadeng, who submitted the poem to an Anti-Valentine’s Day poetry competition hosted some time ago by Daily Info, Oxford, an online guide for visitors to the city of Oxford, United Kingdom.

Scadeng’s entry didn’t win the competition; Anna Morgan took the prize with her untitled ode to an ex, the second stanza of which begins thus: “I hate you, you’re icky, you’re like an old leech. / I hate you, you look like a whale that is beached.” Continue reading

The nonfiction behind the fiction of Pretty Much True…


A friend told me I was being too “journalistic” when answering interview questions about
Pretty Much True… .

You wrote a fictional story in which the characters and actions were different but the feelings and the fear were the same. Get PERSONAL.

I never wanted to do that before, because I wanted to emphasize that the overall feeling of the experience, not my experience but the experience, was what was important. But she made me see that one experience, the story, wouldn’t exist without the other, the reality. Continue reading

The popular dead guy across the street.

Last winter, I moved into a house across the street from a cemetery. Not sort-of across the street, as in, down the road and across the street, but immediately across the street. If-I-press-the-gas-too-hard-when-backing-out-of-the-driveway,-I’ll-end-up-desecrating-someone’s-grave across the street.

As someone who likes to avoid all things death, yet who simultaneously spends an inordinate amount of time thinking and worrying about it, living here made me a little nervous at first, but after walking through a few times and getting to know the names of my neighbors–conveniently etched in big block letters–the creepiness faded.

What took its place was my appreciation for the hilly walking path winding through plots that go back as far as the late sixteen hundreds, and my fascination with a group of five or six young men in baggy clothes and baseball caps who would gather about once a month around one of the graves closest to my house.

They’d stand over the spot for hours, some on one side and some on the other, their voices carrying across the flat patch of grown-in grass between them, and through the open windows of my porch and into my living room through the open door. They looked like punks, but to someone in her mid-thirties, anyone who dresses like someone under twenty pretty much looks like a punk.

But they never caused trouble. It was just a bunch of guys hanging out with a dead friend, having the kind of conversation I imagine takes place between the 20-somethings who gather in parking lots and stand around their parked cars.

For the first few months, the visits were pretty regular, but I noticed recently that I haven’t seen anyone stop by in a while. (They would usually come late afternoons or early evenings, and I could always hear them from inside the house. I would hear them before I saw them, in fact. Yes, I live that close to the cemetery.) For months, no one visited the grave. I figured I must have moved in pretty shortly after the time of his death, because people tend to stop visiting after a while. You know. Life goes on.

The morning after their first visit, I cut through the tree-hedges to find out  when he died, how old he was, but there are three or four headstones pretty close together, and his friends hadn’t left anything behind that would tell me who they’d come to see.  Any time they came, no one brought anything, no one left anything behind. But any time I walked through on a short-cut to the store or on an after-dinner ate-way-too-much-pasta walk, I’d still try to guess who it was with such devoted friends.

I hope to find out soon. When I came home from work today, eight cars were parked on the cemetery path closest to his plot, and at least forty people – all of them in their early to mid-twenties -  were loosely gathered in the general vicinity of his grave, and bass-heavy music streamed from one of the cars. There are more cars now – sixteen, at least. So many they spilled onto the street in front of my house. I think it must be his birthday. The music is still playing, and somebody brought balloons. They’ve already blown away once – here in New England we’re catching the edges of a hurricane – but one of his friends chased them down and brought them back. I hope they’re still there in the morning.

UPDATE: 7pm – It is his birthday. They just sang to him.

Valentine’s Day – love it or hate it?

There was a time I was really into Valentine’s Day. Loved the fun of planning a surprise and wondering how I would be surprised. Red hearts and chocolates and all the fluffy bears holding stuffed hearts on convenience store, grocery store, and card store shelves weren’t anything I wanted for myself – bears and roses weren’t my preference – but they elicited that Christmas-type anticipation.

Then, one year, it changed. I don’t know why, but it did. And all of the people doing “romantic” things on the same day simply because the date dictated romantic things should be done struck me as far too insincere, if not a little weird, programmed, forced, burdensome, and pressure-filled.

After that, Valentine’s Day started to bother me just on principle. Spontaneous romance was how love should be expressed. All those suckers planning essentially the same evening – dinner, movie, presents, sex – in some kind of Stepford-scheduled event made me feel superior. I was outside of that freakish community. I wasn’t brainwashed. I would do no such thing. I would give gifts on random Tuesdays, not when February hit day 14.

I was no …

I was no …

No what?

No gift-giver? No dinner-planner? No crafty-card-heart-thingy maker?

I thought about Valentine’s Day today, and about how much scorn I’d been directing at people who were simply having a good time finding ways to be sappy and loving.

And I figured, so what if it’s all on one particular day? There are far more pointless “holidays” than one encouraging kissing and candles.

President’s Day, for example.

I don’t think I’m any more interested in participating in Valentine’s Day, now, but I do like that I’m able to see it as kind of sweet. Who cares how the day came to be? So what if companies making anything and everything with hearts on it scoop up billions in profits all because of a contrived “love”day? How can the result be bad? It’s the one day hundreds of thousands of couples set aside to be excessively nice to one another.

I can’t think of a better way for companies to make money. They’re not taking advantage of people – people aren’t stupid. People do it because they like it.

Everybody wins, really.

If you’re celebrating Valentine’s Day, I hope you have a good time. And if you’re someone who’s trapped into it by a partner who likes to celebrate it, if you’re someone who’s frustrated by the greedy bastard corporations looking to sell some stuff and you’re the poor sap dating a girl who’s making you buy that stuff, I hope you allow yourself to try to see the fun in it, and maybe even  use it as the perfect opportunity to do something thoughtful you might not otherwise have done.

Carol’s Aquarium reviewed by POD People

CAROL'S-AQUARIUM-COVER3 Minimalist at its finest…

There are quite a few stories in the collection having to do with a woman’s anxiety as she awaits the return of a man at war. I believe Ms. Tsetsi has some experience with that, and so it didn’t surprise me that it would be one the major themes explored in the work, but pining for the soldier lover is only one of many of the existential themes represented here: We also explore the issues of mortality, depression, desperate delusional love, jealousy, insecurity, envy, guilt …The themes are very pointed, and the writing is confident enough to deliver the emotional payload like a blow to the chest with a knife-blade.  – Cheryl Anne Gardner, POD People

Thanks to Ms. Gardner for taking the time to read and review Carol’s Aquarium.

(For the rest of the review, visit POD People. I hope you’ll visit frequently to check out this informative and interesting review blog.)

Morals & Responsibility

A couple of weeks ago, I received an email from a blog talk radio host just hours before we were due to go live. The host, afraid to upset the show’s listeners, wanted to change topics from talking (with a book club) about Homefront’s story and characters  to talking about publishing and writing, in general, because there was concern the readers of the book, and listeners of the show, would get upset.

Marriages are going through tough times with all of these deployments, and a relationship in Homefront had made some of them unhappy.

I was told my book had, among a certain group, become controversial due to some raw emotions.

It’s not surprising military marriages are going through some difficulty. A relationship can be hard to maintain a)when you’re never together b) when  your time is unexpectedly cut short when you are finally together

and c) your relationship goes from a year of heightened anxiety to time together spent trying to get to know who you’ve each become during the most recent absence. Never mind that a lot of marriages have a hard time during the first year, as it is, and many people marry just prior to deployment should anything happen (and because it can be romantic). A deployment can put stress on strong marriages; imagine what it does to the new ones. Or the already weakening ones.

The email from the radio host about the reactions of some milspouses might explain why, on Kindle, Homefront is #2 in the category “Morals & Responsibility” (and was recently #1 in “Feelings & Emotions”).

I was surprised by the Morals & Responsibility category, because I immediately went to my positive place. “Homefront? An example of good morals and responsibility? I guess that could happen. I mean, the subjectivity of morals and the various ways in which we take personal responsibility leaves room for all kinds of interpretations. It is a gray area, after all, and…”

But after remembering the above email, I realized, “Ohhhh…it’s just IN the category. The way the story ‘Harrison Bergeron’ might be categorized under ‘Utopia’.”

One of the relationships in Homefront could certainly be considered “immoral” if looked at from a black-and-white perspective. “This is right. That is wrong. No matter what.”

But I don’t believe in “no matter what.” There are certainly obvious rights and wrongs, but there is also context. Circumstance. Human nature.  Contributing elements, factors, and forces.

I wrote back, in part:

The story is meant to shed light on the very real difficulty of deployments, and forgetting that to avoid unpleasantness is kind of like sweeping all of it away. It’s not pleasant, period – there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

It was an opportunity to let them vent, if they wanted to. I was more than happy to be their target. They had things to say and it felt cowardly to not give them the chance to do it to the person whose book was upsetting them.

It would also have meant being able to explain that that particular relationship portrayed in Homefront very intentionally upset them (if you will) because that’s a reality. That stuff happens. Only, rather than approaching it in a sensationalist way, it’s approached in a way that does its best to explain how things like that can happen. (This is not a primary story line in Homefront, but a sub-plot.)

How are people with no knowledge of deployments going to know how it affects people without knowing how it really affects people?

It’s not all yellow ribbons and cookies.

There is a lot of strength, passion, perseverance, love, loyalty, elation, and dedication to be found in couples going through deployments.

There is also a lot of confusion, jealousy, conflict, anxiety, tension, impatience, anger, frustration, and restlessness.

Homefront covers the former. It would have been the height of irresponsibility to ignore the latter.

In the end, we did discuss the book and the characters and the story–mostly. The questionable relationship was avoided as if it hadn’t been written.

And, honestly, these women have so much going on already that if avoiding that relationship during the show meant NOT riling them up and, instead, just having a pleasant discussion about Homefront‘s other elements – unlikely friendships, troublesome mother in-law types – maybe it was for the best.

Short story Saturday

[This story originally appeared online at Six Sentences under the pseudonym Troy Wallace]

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Night SecretsIMG_1006

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She was wearing a sweater – I don’t know the color, but I know it narrowed at her waist and spread at her hips – when I finally saw her, and it was perfect that she should be wearing one, because we’d always been the kind of people who come together when it’s cold, who respond to fall the way animals respond to spring. Cracking leaves and chimney smoke had always made us want to kiss, would lure us outdoors to meet someplace and walk with our arms linked and our bodies huddled together.

Her hair was shorter now, but the smile was the one I remembered from high school, the same one that made me fall in love with her before I could really have known what love was. She welcomed my wife first with a hug and a nice to finally meet you! before I got myself close enough for that touch. Her head rested lower on my chest than my wife’s did, I noticed, and I restrained myself from touching her hair. She waited with us in baggage claim and drove us to her small apartment, spent the day guiding us around her Christmas-decorated and snow-frozen town, and told me while my wife slept soundly that she was happy to see me so happy.

Short Story Saturday

(the following first published online at Six Sentences)

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Killing People is an Art, he Said

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cranium clayJenny, drunk, slid to her knees and clutched and groped at his thighs, her chin raised so that she could look up into his face. “You’re embarrassing me,” he said, and he apologized to the other couple still sitting at the table with half-formed game clay molded around their fingers. “Aw, c’mon,” Jenny said, her hand sliding toward his zipper. “This is why you love me, ’cause I’m crazy, remember?” She curled herself around his legs and whispered, Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, I know you’re leaving me. He used her shoulder to shove her away, onto her back, where she flailed like a toppled beetle.