daniel prazer

Cover by Ann Prazer

For the past three years, my wife Ann and I have designed the Story Week Reader for the Columbia College Chicago Fiction Writing Department, where I got my M.F.A.

This year, like every year, it feels like a marathon to design—even with the templates Ann created in InDesign—because, unlike other literary journals, the writers go through several rounds of revisions with an editor. This year, that included sending each writer a galley of their story for their approval. It was easy from a technical standpoint, and really fulfilling to see the stories of emerging writers go from raw submissions to layout.

Kudos to all the writers, and especially to editors Jotham Burrello, Dan Duffy, Leah Tallon, and Maggie Ritchie. You’ll be able to read the entire book online at the above link later today.

I’ve got a fancy-pants wedding coming up that I’ll be attending at the Greenbrier resort in West Virginia—black-tie optional, wearing a tux (I’m a groomsman) that I just bought and had altered. So I’ve been reading up on etiquette and manners; I don’t want to make a fool out of myself. And maybe the best book on this that I’ve read has been The Ultimate Man’s Survival Guide: Recovering the Lost Art of Manhood by Frank Miniter. Besides how to break up a fight and how to pack a first aid kit, the chapter on being a gentleman has a few lists of great gentlemanly codes—think King Arthur’s knights, the U.S. Marines, etc. My favorite, though, is the following list of A Gentleman’s 20 Rules of Conduct, with Miniter’s explanations omitted unless they require some clarification:

1. Always be polite.
2. Don’t curse around ladies.
3. Don’t shout.
4. Don’t lose your temper.
5. Don’t stare: ogling a woman is poor form.
6. Don’t cheat: a relationship is a pact a man doesn’t break; if it isn’t working and can’t work, end it; if you do that before accepting other companionship, you’ll be an honorable man.
7. Don’t spit.
8. Respect your elders: use sir and ma’am when speaking to an elder you’re not on familiar terms with.
9. Don’t laugh at others: if someone spills a drink or trips, help them. Don’t chuckle unless they do.
10. Take off your hat indoors.
11. Wait for everyone when sitting down for a meal.
12. Always open doors for ladies.
13. Always help a lady with her coat.
14. Help her with her seat.
15. Give up your seat: that goes for tables, buses, trains, etc., for ladies or, I would add, the elderly.
16. Stand up for a lady: during formal occasions, stand when a lady exits a room or table.
17. Give her your arm when escorting a lady to and from a social event.
18. Ask if she needs anything at social events—a seat, a drink, etc.
19. Dress better than the occasion.
20. Have impeccable hygiene: You can have dirty nails when splitting wood, but not when you take a lady’s hand.

I can’t argue with any of these, and neither would my wife. Since reading this, she’s said I’ve been “much more sweet” to her, but the truth is that I’ve only been doing what I ought to have been doing all along. These are simple guidelines that I wish more men would follow.

It’s not exactly new news that Ben Greenman, an editor at the New Yorker, has a new “book of fiction” out, where he inserts pop culture figures into classic Chekhov stories. In his interview on The Daily Beast, he says it’s a project he directed, more than he wrote.

That said, Nerve.com has an alternate story, and if this taste of how the father of the modern short story dresses up for Halloween under Greenman’s direction, I have to say, I love it. The first paragraph:

Before setting off for her audition, Lindsay Lohan kissed all the movie posters. Her stomach felt as though it were upside down; there was a chill at her heart, while the heart itself throbbed and stood still with terror before the unknown. What would she get that day? An offer? A callback? Six times she went to her mother for her blessing, and, as she went out, asked her sister to pray for her. On the way to the audition she gave a homeless man five dollars, in the hope that that five dollars would atone for her ignorance, and that she would not forget her lines or what her character was feeling.

Chekhov is brilliant and required reading for anyone who wants to call himself or herself a writer. But his stories are also just a damn good read. Let’s hope this literary mashup gets younger readers to give Chekhov a chance.

Chris Abani, who, besides being an amazing writer, is an all-around great guy, had his novel Graceland yanked from a 10th grade reading list in Jacksonville, Florida. Why? An anonymous parent complained about it.

You know, the novel that won the:

PEN/Hemingway Award and the Hurston-Wright Legacy Award; it was a finalist for the Commonwealth Writers Prize for Africa, the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize.

Oh, and is that the Today Show Book Club sticker on the cover? I think it is.

Frankly, Chris, I’d take this as a compliment. Keep doing what you’re doing.

It’s been done before. Joe Meno did it with the gorgeous cloth-backed short story collection Demons in the Spring, which had each story illustrated by a different artist. I remember, a few years ago, when I worked at Borders, having a signed copy of David LaChapelle’s superfolio Artists and Prostitutes, and I thought they were nuts for leaving a copy of a $4,000 book out for people to touch. The damn thing weighed over 40 pounds, and there were just two of them, counting the fingerprinted copy, in the largest store in the country.

But the thing is, both of these books are stunningly beautiful, an object to behold, if only for the sake of holding it.

Now there’s this one, Modernist Cuisine: The Art and Science of Cooking, which, at $625 ($421–it’s on sale at Amazon!) is a six-volume desk set. I can’t help but feel that for foodies and chefs alike, it is as the LaChappelle book is to photographers.

But I’m heartened, in this age of iPads and Kindles and all of their various clones, that people like Meno and publishers are willing to go out on a limb and make beautiful books for the sake of making books. Nothing feels like something that you can hold in your hand and savor (pardon the food pun)—the smell of the paper and ink, the weight of it in your hand, the beauty of it sitting on your shelf.