UPMARKET FICTION

 

If you’ve heard the term, you might have wondered what it is. There’s a good post on Upmarket Fiction here.

 

But this post is about what it is to me, personally.

 

Upmarket, the sort of fiction that holds supreme commercial potential while also manages to be literary, is what I aim for every time I sit down to write.

 

Upmarket is what most agents want to represent.

 

Upmarket is most publishers’ dream: strong sales potential while also gaining the prestige of literary awards and bragging rights of association.

 

Upmarket is this magical straddler that has one foot in the rarified and another in the common.

 

Upmarket may be the tallest order of them all.

 

I continue to work on it— never quite there on either mountain top, but not for lack of striving.

 

Let’s face it: upmarket must be simple linguistically (commercial) while elegant (literary). Plots must move in rapid clip (commercial) while layered (literary). Themes must be basic (commercial) while holding philosophical heft (literary).

 

Try climbing two mountains at once this way, one foot on either. It’s mechanically impossible.

 

 

But the word “impossible” is another to forget, because here I go again, always trying.

©Toni McCorkle

WHEN THE UNIVERSE SENDS A GIFT~~~

 

I accept with gratitude

 

I have been following a blog of a folk artist and her home improvement specialist husband for a few years. These can-do folks also have two glorious cats and a lovely old dog. The pictorial tales of how and what they do to make their already near perfect home become pristinely perfect, is a spot of bright light in what otherwise could be a drab world.

 

Lorraine doesn’t call herself a folk artist, but I could call her nothing else. Her painted-rocks hobby and sometimes business, which she named I’VE GOT ROCKS IN MY HEAD, bespeaks of golden hands and a big heart.

 

One day, out of the blue, I got a text from Lorraine asking for my home address. We only know each other from the blogosphere and she wanted to send me a rock.

 

Why? And why me? I certainly had done nothing to earn it.

 

The gesture made me happy. Perhaps especially because it was unearned.

A few days later, this brilliant hand painted treasure joined my rock collection, made of much more humble painted stones left by the side of the road over the last three years.

During the pandemic, when we were admonished to stay inside and go out only if we had a dog to walk, (I don’t) folks around my neighborhood took to placing painted stones with signs like “take one” for passersby. These were testaments of compassion for the existence forced on us and the wish to connect even if not in person. Sometimes one of the stones touched me in some way and I’d bring it home. But for the most part, I left them there for another who had greater need for a pick-me up.

 

Lorraine’s gift now sits as a glowing tiara over the memories of those lonely walks. They make me feel remembered, touched, and that in the end— connectedness is the real gift.

 

You can see more of Lorraine’s work (as well as other glimpse into her life) here:

https://clamco.blogspot.com/

THE TAIL/TALE OF TWO CATS

 

Many years ago, in a land far away, I had two cats who grew up as brothers.

 

One, named Kitten, was no kitten but a hefty oversized gray tiger cat. The other, named Blue Boy, had a more apt name because he was a Blue-point Siamese with the bluest eyes.

 

Here they are in an old photograph—

These brothers, no genetic connection, got along well. They even devised plots together to fool their parent, which was yours truly.

 

You see, they were put on special diets because of health (Blue Boy) and heft (Kitten) issues. They were not supposed to have the same food. They agreed on this point, but not on which food was for each. No matter how carefully and cheerfully offered, the moment I turned my back I’d sense them sleekly sneaking their way, each to the other’s food bowl.

 

My stern look and vocal admonition would quickly make them reverse course back to their assigned places. But then, if I looked away again, there they went doing their switcheroo.

 

This got me thinking about the human aspect of coveting what others have. In some instinctive way we share this with animals.

 

There’s a reason it’s one of the Ten Commandments. (Number ten, to be exact: “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s.”)

 

My cats told me it is basic, instinctive, and not rational in the least. 

A reminder when bringing fictional characters to life that reason does not rule them.

AUGUST MEMOIRE

 

I grew up in Israel before every home had air conditioning, and the month of August was a challenge even for the august and robust among us.

 

Memory #1: the heat so suffocating, my best friend and I lay splayed on cool tile floors and as soon as the tile underneath warmed from our boiling bodies, we crawled to the next not-yet warmed tiles.

 

Memory #2: Getting yelled at for sticking my face in the refrigerator and keeping its door open. I wanted to step inside and stay there.

 

Memory #3: Volunteering to go to the supermarket for the daily grocery shopping only to open its freezer case and pretend to be undecided as to which ice-cream I was about to put in my grocery basket. Getting yelled at there also, only this time it was the store manager.

 

Memory #4: Mothers setting a large washbasin with cold water on the front porch. My best friend and I dunking ourselves in. This stopped as we got older and our cold bathing began to draw a small crowd of onlookers.

 

Is it any wonder I chose to live on the Northern California coast, where, to paraphrase Mark Twain, “the coldest winter is the summer”?

 

As the earth heats, I wish y’all working air-conditioners and robust ice-dispensing fridges.

BARBIE and ME

I was a president once.

For one whole year, I was the president of The Jerusalem Chapter of the Barbie Club.

 

This claim of life achievement would rightly strike most as dubious. But oh, what a glorious year that was.

I returned from a stay in Paris with two new Barbie dolls, one for me and a second for my best friend. The dolls included a form to send to Mattel, the dolls’ maker, to form a club. I sent it with my mother’s help (it was in English) and thought about it no more until…

 

A large box appeared a month later, with six membership cards, a book with instructions on how to form the club, and suggestions for activities.

 

At just about that time, Barbies made their appearance in the one “fancy” toy store in Jerusalem. But very few kids had them. I forged ahead and formed the club with the handful of classmates who succeeded in persuading their parents to purchase these dolls.

 

We met periodically at each other’s apartments, played with the dolls and made accessories for them.

I remember two “scandals” associated with our club. The first was when our homeroom teacher called me for a meeting to say our club was exclusionary because not everyone could join. I stood my ground. I told her anyone with a Barbie doll could join. It was The Barbie Club, after all.

Our teacher was not happy, but she didn’t have a good answer for that.

 

The second “scandal” occurred when we were busy making mini-Christmas trees for our Barbies, per the easy instructions from Mattel’s Club book. The parent in whose house we met to make these asked why we are making Christmas trees and not Hannukka menorahs.

My answer (very presidential): “Because Barbie is Christian, not Jewish.”

 

And that no-no was the end of our club and my presidency.

 

It was long ago.

 

 Pink Barbie and her Ken are now gracing the silver screen to record ticket sales.

No, I haven't seen the newly released feature film. Not yet, and likely never.

I grew up, and in my mind, I hoped Barbie did also.