Adam Reger | Freelance Writer

Philadelphia-based freelance writer
July 14, 2010

Lyrics of Suzanne Vega’s “Tom’s Diner,” Reformatted as Flash Fiction

I am sitting in the morning at the diner on the corner. I am waiting at the counter for the man to pour the coffee.

And he fills it only halfway. And before I even argue he is looking out the window at somebody coming in.

“It is always nice to see you,” says the man behind the counter to the woman who has come in. She is shaking her umbrella.

And I look the other way as they are kissing their hellos.

I’m pretending not to see them. Instead I pour the milk.

I open up the paper. There’s a story of an actor who had died while he was drinking. It was no one I had heard of.

And I’m turning to the horoscope and looking for the funnies when I’m feeling someone watching me and so I raise my head. There’s a woman on the outside looking inside. Does she see me?

No, she does not really see me because she sees her own reflection. And I’m trying not to notice that she’s hitching up her skirt. And while she’s straightening her stockings her hair has gotten wet.

Oh, this rain it will continue through the morning. As I’m listening to the bells of the cathedral I am thinking of your voice…

And of the midnight picnic once upon a time before the rain began…

I finish up my coffee. It’s time to catch the train.

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July 14, 2010

This is Dumb

But this site says I write like J.K. Rowling, based on their analysis of five or six paragraphs of a short story I had lying around. This Entertainment Weekly blog post summarizes why this is dumb. I don’t know what I expected. Anyway, further evidence that genre writing is where I’m headed.

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July 13, 2010

On Economics

What I know about economics is pretty conventional, and what I have to say is pretty uninformative. My general take is that it’s a fascinating and wide-ranging discipline, capable of analyzing and explaining nearly everything, but that the interest of any particular scholarly article is invariably ruined by the appearance of math. (If you are asking why I would be looking at scholarly economics articles in the first place, rather than sticking with Freakonomics or occasionally perusing Slate: it’s because I work on a scholarly economics journal. I have to look at these things.)

I am only just catching on to the preponderance of economics-for-laymen resources that are out there. In that vein, I’d like to share an economics blog I’ve found super interesting: Dan Ariely’s. He’s a behavioral economist at Duke. Behavioral economics (again, to the extent that I understand anything) is much more focused on the applicability of economics to life, and to that end uses the observed behavior of human beings much more than classic economics. A pleasure of coming across work in behavioral economics, often, is simply noting the topics that these scholars have gotten interested enough in to pursue (and to pursue so doggedly: we’re talking, often, of long-term, labor-intensive studies looking at reams of data, if not pestering thousands of people for survey responses. It’s the kind of thing that, as a creative writer, kind of boggles my mind.). At Ariely’s blog right now he’s discussing happiness, personal efficiency, and the reasons you might let your vegetables go to waste in your refrigerator drawer. And I looked into him after being pretty impressed by this video, which follows a recent paper Ariely published on online dating.

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July 8, 2010

Manmar, Cash; All Others, Trash

Apropos of nothing except its delighting me, a story about a cheeky south Florida 5-year-old who gave himself a truly awesome nickname.

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July 8, 2010

Presumed Innocent

As has been mentioned, I had a recent encounter that softened me up somewhat to considering “genre” and “mainstream” fiction with more generosity than I typically showed either. The first book I read afterwards was Stephen King’s Under the Dome (which was a great read; it’s proving not to linger on in memory but, you know, whatevs). But I also took the step of ordering a couple books that my conversational counterpart (the one-time Franklin W. Dixon, author of the Hardy Boys series) suggested as being particularly good “genre” fiction. (An aside, to be filed under Reasons I’m Glad to Be out of Graduate School: How nice merely to put “genre” in quotations and trust that my readers have a vague-but-close-enough sense of just what I mean, without needing to strictly define, problematize, historicize, put in a specific cultural context, or otherwise footnote the term.*)

One of these books was Scott Turow’s Presumed Innocent. I’ve been working on it for a few days and though it was slow going to begin with, I’m now one late night away from ripping through it. In this case, Franklin W. Dixon’s pitch to me is worth paraphrasing: to wit, that though people get them confused, Scott Turow is no John Grisham; his prose is respectable, shapely, precise; there is nuance, depth, and great intelligence. Since I honestly had conflated Grisham and Turow, and from years of seeing Presumed Innocent‘s gawdy blood-fingerprint on the paperback cover had lumped it in with the pulpiest of pulp novels, this was news to me and I snagged a copy of the book with some trepidation, but with high hopes as well.

All of which have been justified. The novel is thorough and deeply intelligent, in structure as well as in the ordinary details of each scene. (The plot, in a nutshell, is that a deputy district attorney is falsely accused of murdering a former lover, and must defend himself against the prosecution of a political rival. The set-up is an elegant way of allowing the narrator to move from the prosecutor’s table to the defendant’s seat, where he picks apart the strategies of both his defense attorney and the prosecution team. It may not sound like much, but I feel I can now understand why Law and Order re-runs are constantly playing: the law is fascinating, and an endless source of conflict and human drama. To be ushered through it like this is a real pleasure.)

I won’t say that much about the novel, which was a big deal almost 25 years ago—I fear I’d be embarrassing myself, like if I’d just discovered the Star Wars trilogy and couldn’t shut up about it. At some point I will have to process some further thoughts on so-called “genre” writing; I feel at the moment that reading Presumed Innocent is only deepening my earlier conclusions, namely that there’s nothing wrong with it.

In terms of my own writing as of this moment, reading these more mainstream books has increased my desire and willingness to “go for it” in the sense of making the story exciting, as well as in terms of using the oldest, sturdiest fictional tricks: surprises, secrets, unadorned conflict. It’s very much a continuing development, but it’s certainly a welcome on.

*Re-reading that aside, it seems not so surprising that I’d be contemplating a move away from canonical “literary” fiction and toward the stuff that’s sold in airport bookstores and consumed voraciously on beaches, Greyhounds, diners, etc. etc. I’ve always reacted nastily to the lit-crit side of things, whether it was during my undergraduate studies or while earning an MFA.

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July 2, 2010

The Great Staycation of 2010 + The Saturday Problem

I’ve cleverly taken Friday off from work, giving me a four-day weekend. I’ve been salivating over it all week, as I was recovering from one of those weekends where you don’t really get a moment’s rest, and walk into work thinking something like “Really? Already?”

And now. My staycation. Is. Here.

I’ve generally been dubious about the notion of a “staycation” (or, for that matter, any of this kind of neologism you’re apt to read about in the New York Times Style page or wherever). It sounds like a lazy vacation, or a vacation for unimaginative people. But if you’re stressed, and just want to chill out for a few days, the idea of chilling around the house can be really, really appealing. Especially as compared with thoughts of getting to the airport, going through security, renting a car, checking into a hotel, etc. etc.

So far I’ve done nothing special—I ran, ate well, ran some errands, and have been watching both World Cup matches. (Yeah, Netherlands! And Go, Ghana!) And it has been great.

But, as often happens on lazy weekends, there’s an obligation hanging over my head. And its name is writing. I haven’t done any today. I call this the Saturday problem; it’s the problem of having, seemingly, all day to take care of the task of writing, leading one to put it off and put it off until there’s a half hour left until you’re due to go out for dinner, or it’s 11:30 p.m., or you’re about to sit down to it when a friend calls to see if you want to come out for a drink.

I’d imagine this is a common problem for writers. It seems like just another species of the procrastination problem, that cliche about writers having very clean houses because there’s always some suddenly-pressing task to be done before he/she really sits down to do it. I don’t know that I have any readers yet, but I invite any of them to chime in on this matter.

For whatever it’s worth, I do plan to get down to it as soon as the Uruguay-Ghana game ends. For real, y’all. In this instance, I’m inspired by not having completely limitless time: I’ll be going later to see the most recent film from M. Night Shyamalan, The Last Airbender. Not because I’m particularly excited about it; I haven’t seen one of his films in the theater since Signs, which I thought was pretty absurd. I also recently saw Unbreakable, which various people had talked up, and which I also thought was preposterous. And if I had limitless time and no obligations, I might take the trouble to see The Happening, which from various YouTube clips I’ve seen seems pretty amazing.

No, I’m not going for the aesthetic edification of it. (See the paragraph below.) I’m going because I am proud to bursting that my own flesh and blood, my younger brother, was a production assistant on the film and for the first time in his career I’ll be able to sit rapt through the credits, as his name will appear somewhere in there. (The premiere was this week and I got a late-night photo texted to me, a blurry screen shot of the credit scroll.)

Sadly, though, the film appears to be terrible. (Here’s a withering review from my go-to source for media reviews, The AV Club.) But on the plus side, I’ll be seeing it at a drive-in movie theater. Check it out: the theater’s website is a masterpiece of clip art. In any case, if the movie is terrible I’m hoping the novelty of the setting will help me pass the time until the part I want to see (the end credits) comes up.

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June 29, 2010

Reason #1 to Love Pittsburgh: Anthrocon

[Author’s note: I’ve often been in the habit of titling Facebook status updates along the lines of “Reason #6,387 to Love Pittsburgh: Pierogies,” or whatever. It’s occurred to me that with this blog, it would be fun/interesting actually to quantify the reasons that I love Pittsburgh. So here’s installment #1, in no order.]

This weekend wrapped up another successful Anthrocon, also known as the Furry Convention. If you’re not familiar with furries, see here or, for a definition in their own words, here. As a statement of fact, let me note that I’m not a furry. I’ve never had a desire to dress like an animal, or consort with those who do. And while I find the whole phenomenon hilarious and strange, I’m not completely down on it.

This is the third year in a row that I’ve checked out Anthrocon. (I believe it’s been in Pittsburgh since 2006.) The first year I went, a friend and I ponied up the money to attend the conference legitimately, earning the right to go to panels (on do-it-yourself taxidermy) and things like variety shows and a(n execrable) stand-up comedy concert. Last year and this year, I confined myself to checking out the “fursuit parade.” A fursuit is the image most people have of a furry: a complete animal costume, no skin or other authentic human parts showing through. The fursuit parade is thus a fascinating look at the variety and depth of furries’ commitment to this pastime/avocation/fetish: these are all people who shlepped these massive, physically stifling costumes great distances to see and be seen. There’s always great, weird stuff at these things, too: this year there was a pair of furries (I want to say they were both dogs) wearing hockey jerseys from the movie Slap Shot. What a reference!

I could go on about the furry convention, but I have some photos that’ll probably tell more than I could. And with reference to Pittsburgh, I suppose what must be said is that it’s a special city that can make furries feel right at home. But Pittsburgh decidedly has. The bars and restaurants in the immediate vicinity of the convention center (where the convention is mostly held) have always seemed game, and more than amenable to the decidedly weird, often downright-creepy crowd the convention draws in.

Anyway, the photos:

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June 24, 2010

The Best Show on WFMU

Nine or ten months ago, a friend turned me on to a radio program broadcast each week out of New Jersey, on the independent station WFMU. The friend told me I seemed “like someone who could really use the Best Show in his life.” While I took slight umbrage at that assessment, time has proved him right. The Best Show, a mongrel of a show featuring open call-ins, in-studio guests, and glorious semi-improvised call-in bits, is true to its name in being about the best thing going. The web archives have been invaluable to me as I’ve slogged through some slow days at the office. (I’ve also gotten deeply into the recordings of Scharpling and Wurster, which are the best bits from the Best Show compiled onto a series of hallucinatory and hilarious discs. Jon Wurster, an accomplished rock drummer, does a wide range of voices, from Hippy Johnny, the less-than-benevolent benefactor of a hippie commune, to Philly Boy Roy, an overly proud Philadelphian (complete with fantastic stuffed-up-nose accent), to Timmy von Trimble, the two-inch racist.)

As is only right, as I have fallen deeper into love with the Best Show I have sought to pay off my debt by spreading the word of this terrific show. So far as I can tell, others have not fallen for the show as I have, but that won’t stop me from trying. Today I put together a brief introduction for a friend who, fingers crossed, I think is a prime candidate to fall hard for the show. And I thought to myself, “I’ve got a blog now. Eventually, someone may read it. Why not post this primer there, too?” And in reply I thought, “Yes. That is actually a pretty good idea.”

And so here is a quick, somewhat arbitrary introduction to the Best Show on WFMU:

There are two archives: of complete (3- and sometimes 6-hour) shows, and of “gems,” which are (mostly) the parts described above, wherein Jon Wurster calls in doing various voices.

The gems are where I started. If you like those, and have the patience and luxury to listen to a 3-hour radio show, I’d move on to the full shows. They’re funny, Tom has good guests, and there’s usually one Wurster call-in per show.

The Gems archive here.

Within the Gems, a few good starting places:

-Bill Cheetah, a caller who’s surprisingly well-prepared to back up his trash talk.

-The manager of Club Pizzazz, presenting his ill-advised slate of upcoming events.

-Tom takes a call from Mike Sajak. Enough said.

For the advanced Best Show listener, the full-program archives are here.

Places to get started:

-Tom Scharpling and Paul F. Tompkins talk about the Gathering of the Juggalos. This one made me cry laughing.

-The following week, Jon Wurster calls in as a disgruntled Juggalo.

-Guest Patton Oswalt talks about Gallagher.

The full shows usually start with like 20 minutes of music, which made me almost not listen to them—the music’s often pretty good, but as I initially got sold on the comedy stuff I was impatient, plus I don’t like much of the psychedelic / British invasion-type stuff that Tom often plays—but if you hang in there or skip over it turns to more of a comedy show.

Enjoy! (And if you do enjoy, pass it on to someone else.)

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June 22, 2010

Weirdly Appropriate Extract from Under the Dome

I said I probably wouldn’t write more about Stephen King’s Under the Dome, but I just came across this snippet, which seems bizarrely germane to the literary-vs.-“genre” fiction stuff I was going on about earlier. The background is that this elderly English professor and his grad student love interest have been trapped in Chester’s Mill when the Dome falls, and subsequently roughed up by the local cops:

“. . . At the double doors, Thurston Marshall looked back. A shaft of hazy sun from one of the high windows struck across his face, making him look older than he was. . . . ‘I edited the current issue of Ploughshares,’ he said. His voice quivered with indignation and sorrow. ‘That is a very good literary magazine, one of the best in the country. They had no right to punch me in the stomach, or laugh at me.'”

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June 21, 2010

On Under the Dome; or, 1000+ words on literary versus genre fiction

I’m using that previous post to segue to a brief snapshot of where I am right now as a writer, by way of a long rumination on different modes of fiction.

About a week ago, I was at a party thrown by a Pitt creative writing professor. Invitations went out far and wide, and a lot of old students turned out. I ended up in a completely fascinating conversation with a guy who went through the program in the early nineties. For a few years during grad school and afterwards, he wrote under the pen name Franklin W. Dixon. If the name means anything to you, you may be freaking out now, as I was: Franklin W. Dixon is the author of the Hardy Boys series of novels.

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