This week we published our first essay in three years: “The Point of a Compass” by Shoshana Sarah. You can also read a rundown of this week’s new books. At the end of this email you will have a chance to win a book.
Dear Identity Theory Readers,
This’ll be a less intense email than the recent ones about epilepsy and the casino nature of literary publishing. It’s a holiday, after all. (No, not Halloween. Today is Nevada Day.)
Back in the spring of 2000, in my final semester before graduating from the University of Florida, I took a class on modernist poetry to complete my extremely useful English degree.
One day outside the building in which the class was held, I stood against a ledge overlooking the passing students. A guy standing next to me looked heartbroken and miserable, staring off into the distance. It was Jesse Palmer, quarterback of the Gators football team. Why did he look so sad? He wasn’t in the class, so I don’t think his mood had been darkened by T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land.”
That was the last (and only) time I saw Jesse Palmer in person. He went on to become a NFL quarterback and a contestant on The Bachelor. I still wonder why he was so sad that day.
20 years later, when the pandemic hit, my partner and I got really into baking shows. I don’t mean “really into” in the sense that we watch them closely or even follow what is going on in them; I just mean we got really into having them on the TV at the end of the day as a happy, mindless white noise to help wind down from the stress of the 2020 life grind.
We started with the Food Network holiday shows: Spring Baking Championship, Halloween Baking Championship, Holiday Baking Championship. They’re cheeky and sorta terrible, but they emit the positive energy of people goofing around improvising cakes that look like pumpkins or bunnies or Santa Claus or whatever.
My favorite host on the Food Network baking shows is Jesse Palmer. He’s never sad on the show like he was the last/only time I saw him. Nothing but cheerful positivity from that guy now! Maybe it’s because he’s Canadian. Or maybe he managed to stay away from “The Waste Land” his entire life.
Anyway, once my partner and I ran out of all available seasons of the American baking shows, we obviously/inevitably got hooked on the Great British Bake Off.
Still not hooked in the sense of following it too closely, but we like it better than the American shows. There’s no urgency of prize money, no drama like IF I DON’T WIN THIS $25K I’LL NEVER COVER MY BILLS FOR MY MOM’S CANCER TREATMENT, I MUST BAKE THE PERFECT CAKE IN ORDER TO SURVIVE CAPITALISM. The contestants are nice and go there to improve their baking and enjoy some friendly competition.
Unlike American shows, the British baking show trusts the sweet actuality of the event rather than overhyping it and turning it into an insanely competitive spectacle.
I want to start using some phrases from the British baking show when evaluating story submissions to our magazine.
I envision something like this:
Handshake. (A rare and memorable achievement!)
Job’s a good’un. (Publish it!)
The bake’s there, but the flavor’s off. (Well written but not interesting and/or appropriate for us.)
The flavor’s there, but the bake’s off. (Cool ideas or flashy sentences but poorly executed.)
It’s underproved. (Needs more work.)
Soggy bottom! (Something’s gone horribly wrong.)
Perhaps it was the baking shows, but lately I’ve been sending sweet treats to faraway people and dressing the dog in candy corn outfits. (Technically his “mom” bought that at Target, I think.)
I was/am still excited about the prospect of sending donuts to Identity Theory contributors. Danielle Shorr, author of “Bird Bones,” was happy to receive Krispy Kreme:
Our newest contributor, Shoshana Sarah, lives in Israel. Do you have any idea how I can get donuts to Israel? Seriously, let me know…I have to coordinate a lot of donut shipments in the coming months. Our publication schedule is filling up.
“The Point of a Compass”
Speaking of Shoshana Sarah, her essay “The Point of a Compass” was the first CNF we’ve published in three years. She says the lyric essay was inspired by another of our contributors, Eula Biss.
Here’s a clip from Shoshana’s piece:
I left home before graduation and moved in with him when I was seventeen. My mother called the police and said he was “harboring a minor.” The police car picked me up at his apartment to take me home. I went back the next day. She also took my passport. I reported it as stolen, and he bought me a new one. We went to the courthouse on my 18th birthday and signed the marriage certificate. A month later, we were on a plane to Israel.
The first compasses did not always point north. Early compasses pointed east.
Mother: “You need to ask yourself, why did you decide to marry him, and go to a foreign country with him? Why have you stayed together this long? Do any or all of these reasons still exist? Whatever you have done or not done, or whatever he has done or not done, is it forgivable? Can you move on and stay together?”
Compassare, from Vulgar Latin, “to pass or step together.”
I left him when I was 25—when I met Sasha.
Elisheva: “Some of the things you say sound eerily familiar. I tell you when a man or woman does not feel satisfied it takes on a life of its own. I’m glad about the way he has made you feel. Every woman wants to feel lost in love (or lust) as you are.”
It has a magnetized pointer free to align itself with Earth’s magnetic field.
Mother: “I know this may sound strange to you, but somehow I feel that I am to blame for your present situation. Maybe if I had been a better parent, or maybe if I did not give you money to go out, you would not have met or become involved with this guy.”
Read the rest of “The Point of a Compass.”
This Week’s New Books
15 years ago, I interviewed Canadian writer Craig Davidson about his macho, fight-clubby story collection Rust and Bone. This week, he released his first story collection since then, Cascade. You can read about that book, plus new titles from Louise Glück, Alison Stine, and Farah Ali in our new books roundup.
The Last Good Halloween
This week, I had the half-baked, too-late idea of soliciting true Halloween stories. I was inspired by the title of Giano Cromley’s book The Last Good Halloween. The idea being that people could send in stories about their “last good Halloween” and I’d send them a copy of Giano’s book. But no one did it. Not a single person! I suck at publicity. And/or it was too short notice. But I still want to send copies of Giano’s book for Halloween.
So, if you respond to this email with a story about Halloween—anything from just a sentence to a full-blown novel—I’ll enter you for a chance to win the book. Deadline is the end of Halloween.
I also promised to give away a copy of the book to a random person who signed up for the newsletter this week. So, I’ll draw a name from that pool after I hit send on this email and contact you if you’ve won—assuming you live in a country where you can receive the book…
One More Cup of Coffee
I need to make more coffee now, but before doing that, I want to encourage you to:
Join our staff. We’re adding a few people to the staff in the coming weeks to help with our fiction and essay sections.
Submit a story. I will send you a treat if your story is accepted. Most likely it will be donuts. Unless you hate donuts. In which case it will be something else.
Follow our new(ish) Instagram. I’m still fumbling around learning how to make passable Instagram posts. Most of my recent posts are underproved and have soggy bottoms. Probably by the time I get good at it, Instagram will be called Metagram. (Who am I kidding? I’ll never get good at it.)
Anyway, here’s another picture of the dog before I go. He does not like this candy-corn trick. He much prefers treats.
Happy Halloween!
Your Boo,
Matt Borondy
Founding Editor
Identity Theory