THIS WEEK IN LITERARY HISTORYAfter his wife Vera rescues a manuscript from a fire,Vladimir Nabokov decides to call his work Lolita,changing it from his initial title,Humbert Does Dolores. | 24 April 2006  I’m doing great,aside from feeling like the burnt side of a grilled-cheese sandwich. Also,I have a headache,caused,I believe,from gremlins dancing inside my skull.
Did I tell you I was sick? Well,I’m telling you,I’m sick. My weekend was spent in various fetal positions and immobility attributable to a non-lethal variant of the Martian death flu. In fact,the highlight of my Saturday to Sunday rest was making it to the bathroom before I stained myself. In the "fun department,"I rented "The 40 Year Old Virgin,"which is quite a hoot,if you haven’t seen it. Really hit close to home. I was unable to write anything resembling fiction or blog,and if you were wondering,"Gee,I miss that Bookfraud! I need something to hate,"now you have an answer. Every time I sat down to type,my fingers went to jelly. This illness had not disappeared by Monday morning,incapacitating me,in terms of coherence. So instead of my spot-on observations regarding the literary life,I’ll leave that to someone else,who raises the problem of blogging vs. writing. Writing,in the sense of fiction,of course,as this woman shut down her blog because she wasn’t writing her novel. I don’t know why that a blog should get in the way of Making Literature,but I’ve been coughing up loogies that resemble the Crab Nebulae and I really don’t know what I’m talking about except make the voices stop. The highlight of my day is eating soup,and I will shut up now,but not before leaving you with something so amazing that it is a miracle we’ve been able to survive all these years without them:ladies and gentlemen,I present the greatest dwarf KISS tribute band ever,MiniKiss. 
20 April 2006  Remember me?
I was the ORIGINAL party animal. I was on TV all the time. My name was known from coast to coast. People would see me walking in the street and yell,“Hey,Spuds! Party on!”as I did my business on a fire hydrant. You must remember the commercials! There were these hot chickies standing above me,wearing these low-cut spangly dresses,saying “Spuds Mackenzie is the original party animal!”They sang “Go,Spuds,Go,Go Spuds Go!”Then I’d do a dozen beer bongs. (I didn’t have much interest in those girls,though I tried humping one on the leg,and after that,she wouldn’t take my phone calls.) Those were the days. I went to A-list parties,the Super Bowl,and got to sniff all the butts at the Westminster Dog Show. I was on the top of the world. Everybody knew who I was,even kids! (Speaking of which,I want to set a little matter straight. All those charges that the beer companies used me to market beer to children…come on! I’m a pit bull,for God’s sakes! I bite children! So what if they thought I was cute. No kids wanted to drink beer because of me. And if they did,that Bud Light stuff is just piss. It would take a six pack for a 70-pound girl to get a buzz. Also,I didn’t crap in the President’s limo.) Bookfraud,this very strange human who called my agent,said he wanted a blog from someone who we haven’t heard from in awhile,and that Vanilla Ice,Corey Feldman,and Tama Janowitz weren’t available. Hadn’t heard from me! I was insulted. Spuds hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s just readjusting his career priorities,that’s all. I decided to turn the tables on that dog and beat him at his own game. I looked at “Best American Short Stories”and “The O. Henry Awards”collections from the early 1990s,about the same time I was at the peak of my fame. 
Everybody wanted a piece of me!
You know what? I hadn’t heard of any of them! Since I’m an illiterate dog,that would make sense. But I had someone read the names to me,and I noticed that some people kept appearing in them:Alice Munro,Joyce Carol Oates,George Saunders. Then I checked out “Best American Short Stories 2005,”and guess who was in it? Alice Munro,Joyce Carol Oates,and George Saunders. But nobody else from the early 1990s,writers who even Bookfraud had to admit he barely recognized. Then I went way back and check out award-winning writers from the 60s and 70s,and even if you’re a English professor,you’ve never heard of these guys. Forget about it. They’re even more forgotten than Joe Camel,that asshole. These books and writers were considered the best,but nobody’s reading them anymore. And if they’re still around,those writers aren’t publishing many new ones. I decided to get even more ambitious,and check out the best selling works of fiction of 100 years ago: 1. Coniston,Winston Churchill (An American —not the British dude who looked like a bulldog)
2. Lady Baltimore,Owen Wister
3. The Fighting Chance,Robert W. Chambers
4. The House of a Thousand Candles,Meredith Nicholson
5. Jane Cable,George Barr McCutcheon
6. The Jungle,Upton Sinclair
7. The Awakening of Helena Ritchie,Margaret Deland
8. The Spoilers,Rex Beach
9. The House of Mirth,Edith Wharton
10. The Wheel of Life,Ellen Glasgow The human said he’d heard of Edith Wharton and Upton Sinclair,but the rest? You know more about who came in last in the 1973 Kentucky Derby than the rest of them. I’d bet all the territory I’ve marked on my life on it. I thought that 1906 was a bad year,what about 1956? 1. Don’t Go Near the Water,William Brinkley
2. The Last Hurrah,Edwin O’Connor
3. Peyton Place,Grace Metalious
4. Auntie Mame,Patrick Dennis
5. Eloise,Kay Thompson
6. Andersonville,MacKinlay Kantor
7. A Certain Smile,Françoise Sagan
8. The Tribe That Lost Its Head,Nicholas Monsarrat
9. The Mandarins,Simone de Beauvoir
10. Boon Island,Kenneth Roberts Maybe you’ve heard of “Eloise,”a children’s book,and probably Simone de Beauvoir,because she was in love with some famous bug-eyed French dude. And “Peyton Place”got made into some skeevy flick,and someone told me that some celebrity blow job magazine just did a profile on the author. 
Know her?
But have you read “The Tribe That Lost Its Head,”or maybe “Don’t Go Near the Water”? I hear that “Auntie Mame”and “Andersonville”were famed in their time,but what about now? And have you ever heard of Kenneth Roberts,Nicholas Monsarrat,or Grace Metalious,who sounds like the name of a Christian heavy metal band? Didn’t think so. Like some people’s unexplainable preference for Lassie or Rin Tin Tin,I’m sure that these nice humans have some fans to this day. But fame and awards are fleeting,I can tell you that from experience. If you don’t the love the work behind being a celebrity,you should get out of it,fast. It was great being a party animal — the booze,the babes,the steak bones — but those goddamn frogs came along,and everybody suddenly forgot about Spuds! Bookfraud says the same thing about writing. He’s got this pitiful blog to generate what he hopes will be fame and fortune,but he tells me that hasn’t materialized. He writes fiction for “fun,”though that sounds like a crazy way to spend an afternoon. My idea of a great day is scoring some bitches and hanging out in the dog run. I don’t know why any sane human would become a writer. We all want fame and fortune,even us canines! You’d think that you would pick something better to reach your goals,like bank robbery or gambling. But I feel for Bookfraud. I really wish I could be famous again,instead having to deal with my issues,one day at a time. Aw,screw the AA shit. Gimmie the beer bong! 16 April 2006  Want to test a writer’s honesty? Ask him to name his favorite literary critic.
If he answers,“My favorite literary literary critic is the one who likes my books the most,” then you know you’ve got a straight shooter. Oh,one could argue that a book review is not simply about the author or even the book,that it should probe deeper meanings that lie beyond the confines of a book’s covers,but when it’s your book,something that you’ve poured years of blood and tears and toil into,not to mention lots of dollars donated to mental health professionals,all you really care about can be boiled down to a single query:“Is Michiko Kakutani gonna like it?” In the rarified world of book criticism,Kakutani,a reviewer for the New York Times,occupies the firmament. She has gotten a lot of grief over the years,most lately in a full-throated takedown earlier this week in Slate,but is one of the few book critics recognizable to the casual reader. She is also most certainly the only book reviewer ever mentioned on “Sex and the City.” Not a theorist hailing from the academy nor an essayist in the tradition of Alfred Kazin or James Wood,Kakutani is the master of the one-off review. Her aim is usually straightforward:saying if a book is worthy or if it stinks,leaving the philosophizing to others. Kakutani is known both for her love letters and heartless eviscerations. As recently as Friday,she began a review with the following gentle,balanced,thoughtful lead:“A.M. Homes’ dreadful new novel,‘This Book Will Save Your Life,’ reads like a cartoon illustration for a seminar on men and middle age.” “Damn,that’s harsh,” you say,but it’s typical. Kakutani likes you,you’re the shit;if not,you are shit. (Then it’s time to research if you want to commit suicide like a) Hemingway or b) Sylvia Plath.) The knocks on Kakutani are worth examining. There’s never a middle ground in her verdicts,even when trying to stake such a claim:she’ll say that a book is both “derivative” and “affecting,” for instance,but only one of those adjectives is going to stick. Her reviews are chided as an excuse to trot out the thesaurus,and naysayers complain that she writes like a mechanical,graceless hack,not unlike the authors she slams. Kakutani has been ruthlessly lampooned for limning her reviews with lugubrious repetition,particularly for using the words “lugubrious” and “limn.” Here’s where things get interesting. The most accomplished of writers can go apeshit when you mention Kakutani,and the Slate article quotes no less than Salman Rushdie,Norman Mailer,and Susan Sontag bashing Michiko. It strikes me as positively weird the amount of breath writers spend in talking about one particular reviewer. Granted,Kakutani is one of the most powerful book critics in America;she’s not the only writer of “Books of the Times,” but she’s undoubtedly the most widely regarded,Pulitzer and all,and nobody is writing essays dissing Janet Maslin or William Grimes. And I’m sure Kakutani can make or destroy careers. But the authors who complain that she’s too harsh,or inconsistent,or crazy sound sometimes like the nut jobs protesting the Muhammad cartoons — if you’re a first novelist,you might be worried where your career goes if Kakutani slams your book,but do you really need an order of protection from Michiko when you’re Susan Sontag or Normal Mailer? Then there’s the matter of history. Something tells me that we’re not going to be turning to Kakutani for a verdict on English literature of the past 25 years,the same amount of time she’s been reviewing books (non-fiction as well). That’s not necessarily because she lacks the intellectual chops to write broad critical essays,but she chooses not to. Which makes the attacks on her all the more interesting,because if it’s a legacy you’re worried about,Kakutani is not going to have much of a say in determining it. Unlike most of her contemporaries,don’t expect a book compilation of her pieces that will influence legions of writers and critics to follow. Because the world of literary,highbrow fiction is relatively small,someone in Kakutani’s position becomes a larger-than-life specter,someone who receives serious navel gazing on the part of the literary community. I’d bet every dollar spent on “The Bridges of Madison County” and “Bridget Jones’ Diary” that most of the public doesn’t give a damn about Kakutani’s opinion,or writers’ opinions about Kakutani. I can’t say I hate her work,clunky writing and all. Admittedly,I like a good slam. (My brief with Kakutani is that she seems to enjoy building ‘em up and knocking ‘em down,like a kingmaker or a drug-abuse counselor:she’ll love the first novel,despise the second,and we’ll see about the third if there is one.) 
Everyone’s a critic
I admire Kakutani for being an equal-opportunity basher. Rushdie,John Updike,and Margaret Atwood alike have been targets of her poison pen. She doesn’t play favorites or try to curry favor from (or friendships with) the literary establishment. Another thing I admire about her is that she’s consistent,in terms of aims and style. She is what she is,damn the people who can’t stand her. This leads to my free-of-charge suggestion,Michiko,if I may call you that,if you’re within sniffing distance of this blog. Here’s a way to put your estimable talents to good use while not having to suffer the slings and arrows of outraged writers. Do the reverse of your colleague (and former film critic) Janet Maslin:ditch the book game and become a film critic. This makes so much sense that it probably appears ludicrous to Michiko or her admirers,but bear me out. Kakutani often labels books “performances,” and her thumbs-up-or-down approach is perfectly suited for the movie-review business,in which readers mostly want to know if a flick is good before plunking down $10 to see it. In addition,she excels at breaking a book into its components such as plot,characterization,and style,just like a good movie critic breaks a film into the script,acting and directing. And being a collaborative art,film offers many more targets to criticize or praise,which is what she does best. She won’t have to focus on the defenseless,lonely writer who ends up looking like the victim of a vituperative attack. And no single movie critic — not Roger Ebert,not Anthony Lane,not even the late Pauline Kael — ever wields that much power,thus insulating yourself from the harsh criticism that you’re impossible to please. The fact (I’m guessing) that not one major critic found “Porky’s” a cinematic masterpiece on the level of “Throne of Blood” or “The Rules of the Game” did not relegate “Porky’s” to failure. Horny teenagers weren’t about to let that to happen. Listen,Michiko,this is a total winner. Movie reviews are perfect for you. Sure,you’ll no longer be the Big Dog — there are far too many moviegoers and film critics for you to wield the type of power you’ve got now. But when you call something “dreadful,” even a sub par Spielberg or Altman effort,it might sound reasonable,because we all know how many terrible movies are out there,and even Hitchcock made a few stinkers. You won’t sound bitchy,and when you like a film,you’ll prose will sound positively rapturous compared to some of the jokers writing movie reviews out there. Like I said,this advice is offered free of charge,Michiko. I doubt you’re going to take it,but remember the spirit in which it was offered. And if I am ever fortunate enough that my novel receives your scrutiny and you decide that it’s “dreadful,” remember that my suicide will be on your conscience. 14 April 2006  I squandered a good deal of my childhood listening to the vocal stylings of Allan Sherman,a Borscht Belt singer whose schtick entailed silly parodies of familar tunes,including “Hello Muddah,Hello Fadduh,”otherwise known as “Camp Grenada”(“Hello muddah/hello fadduh/here I am at/Camp Grenada…”).
Most of my friends enjoyed Allan Sherman’s company as well,but not one,a kid named Marlon who lived down the block. At nine,a year older than me,Marlon was the alpha male of the neighborhood group,and he seemed to take pleasure in trying to humiliate me. One summer afternoon as five or six of us were playing in Marlon’s front yard,he decided to hold court on my tastes in art and music. He thought that the fact I liked “Snoopy,Come Home”was stupid,for instance. He had particular scorn towards my tastes in records. “[Bookfraud] listens to stupid music,like Alan Sherman,”he said,positively spitting out the words. It was humiliating,I’ll give him that. Fortunately,Marlon didn’t know when to stop. “Allan Sherman’s stupid,”Marlon said. “[Bookfraud] doesn’t like good songs,like ‘The Candyman.’” The Candyman. The mere mention of that title brings Sammy Davis Jr.’s voice into my head:“The candyman can ’cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good…” The song might as well be a paean to child movie stars’drug dealers. “The Candyman”is a punch line without a joke,while “Hello Muddah,Hello Fadduh”is widely acknowledged as a classic. I was right;Marlon was wrong. Revenge is mine! Looking back,the realm of treble and bass clef stands as one of the few things from my childhood and adolescence that doesn’t embarrass me. High school,when one’s allegiance to Band A or Band B defined your persona,was a time of particular pride:I hated REO,but loved the Ramones;I hated Rush but loved Devo;I despised Journey but loved the Clash. For these very things I was mocked,forced to wear a crown of thorns! Years later,in looking at the Big Playlist of Life,I can say that my music was great;theirs sucked. Revenge is mine! 
We must repeat
Marlon,The Candyman,and Devo don’t have much to say about the literary life,per se,but it’s come to me lately how much resentment and the need for revenge motivate people to create art. As I’ve noted before and will probably note again as the idea-factory known as my brain reaches its natural limit,fiction writers usually do not start their quixotic journeys from a shiny,happy place in their hearts. Those who do simply are setting us up to have our hearts broken. Do you want to read about the happiest childhood ever with completely functional parents,a story about how great it is to be rich,and why this narrator wallows in bliss,all delivered without a shred of irony or perspective? Perhaps you do,which probably explains why you are drawn to my painfully earnest prose. Viewed from the surface,Marlon doesn’t display much in the way of inner turmoil,except as perhaps a bully;he’s a fine caricature. Marlon could write a book featuring characters who are always right. Or take those who dominated the hierarchy of high school — jock kings and cheerleader queens. Can you think of one good novel,story,or movie that looks at them in anything but an unsympathetic light? It’s because the people writing those books about high school were the outcasts,losers,stoners,and sensitive folk nobody wanted to emulate. They were the people who were listening to the DKs and the Sex Pistols;they were the people sitting in the corner,smirking,suffering,being ignored,and counting the days until they could escape the hell known as adolescence. If they were lucky,they could play a mean guitar and grab some girls. The sense of alienation motivated many of us to write,usually terifficaly pretentious poetry that we’d rather eat than have to read aloud. But for someone who wants revenge,I always get the picture of an angry nerd saying “I’ll show them. Everybody who makes fun of me is going to regret it,” and,as a result of such anger,starts Microsoft or arrives at school with an AK-47. (I often wonder if it’s still the same —in suburbia,I imagine that the jocks and cheerleaders still rule the roost,but “alt culture”has become mainstream enough that the mohawked punk —or even the computer nerd or gay teen —may not be a de facto outcast). 
Best served cold
It’s a nice feeling,being vindicated. But ultimately pointless. Feeling superior for things I loved 20 or 30 years ago is empty solace,proving absolutely nothing. I also greatly exaggerate the sense of separation I had from my classmates;it makes me feel superior,which is a feeling I’d just as rather not indulge. Those who are motivated to take revenge on the unpleasant memories of being 16 probably are best served by something called therapy. But damn,did I hate those years. If someone says high school was the happiest time of his life,punch him in the nose. I’ll pay your legal bills. 10 April 2006 Update:Someone has lent Wife a book by the author discussed below. I guess there’s just no escaping the bugger. — The Eds. Most of us sane folk generally avoid contact with snobs,assholes,and other loathsome types. We also try not to give them our financial support. Such an arrangement plays out like this: JERK:You stupid shit. I’m smarter,better,and handsomer than you. YOU:Here’s my money. JERK:I am so supremely talented that the rules don’t apply to me. YOU:Here’s my money. JERK:Fuck you. YOU:Here’s my money. As ludicrous as that sounds,it’s not a far stretch from what happens when we patronize artists who are jerks. And patronize we do. 
And five wives to show for it
The obvious example are the entertainers — musicians,athletes,actors — whose condescension and exquisite sense of entitlement make them revolting. Writers,with less media coverage than Russell Crowe or Christina Aguilera,don’t have the rep for being such types,at least in the eye of the general public. But you and I know better. The lecherous middle-aged fart preying on coeds at MFA programs or the seductress of married men working the conference circuit,the full-of-themselves jackholes who slam other writers in workshop,the monstrous “genius” who destroys others but gets away with it because of his talent. The problem is,some of them are great writers whose work can enrich our lives. I’m thinking of one writer in particular,of course. This person is known as a snotty,pretentious ass and a genius with the word processor. I know the former is true from both media reports and personal accounts. A magazine story chronicled this writer’s refusal to associate with other writers on a trip,deigning them unworthy of his or her time;I have heard from a reliable source that this writer showed up to a group dinner at an expensive restaurant,ate,and left without paying,as if entitled to be wined and dined. Unfortunately,this (young) person has published several books to almost universal praise,won awards,been feted and lauded,and generally thought to be one of the best spinners of fiction today. (And if you think I’m going to say who it is,let there be a cottage industry on the response board trying to figure it out.) For these reasons,I can’t bring myself to buy one of his or her highly acclaimed novels. Can’t do it,even if it would make me a better writer. A psycho writing teacher (and I have had more than one) would scream at me and say,“Fool! Read everything. You have to learn as much as possible,even if the writer runs over cats for fun.” “I’m not buying Mein Kampf,either,” I would say back. In the 20th Century,when media made private lives public,we can see plenty of brilliant writers who were about as nice as cancer. Saul Bellow was notoriously churlish and mean,evidenced by his five marriages. D.H. Lawrence (nutjob!) thought of himself as a Superman,and once wrote to a dying woman that he was glad she wouldn’t be around any more. And Hemingway was…well,in addition to turning on his friends and being misogynist while leeching off women,Hemingway was way way way fucked up. 
Great writer
I’ve read all of these folk,and as a writer,have purloined and learned from their work. But I take comfort in the knowledge that they are dead,and any money I spend on their work goes to their issue,who probably suffered mightily for it. All the bloody time I make this compromise in my life. I’ll watch a Russell Crowe movie even after he plunked a telephone at a hapless desk clerk. I rooted for Sammy Sosa and the 2003 Cubs even though Sosa was a selfish,steroid-inhaling loser. Brahms was a hateful crank,but I love his music. Really,my position is indefensible. Just as I wouldn’t buy a book by a lousy writer just because he or she is a saint,I probably shouldn’t disqualify writers who are crappy human beings. In fact,that would probably remove half of the Great Books ever produced. So I’ve got a new attitude. I’m going to start using the library. 7 April 2006  While serving the two-year prison term called graduate school,I gave a reading at a bar featuring other students. It was the first such public display of my work,and since my friends,classmates,and Girlfriend would attend,I wanted it to be perfect.
Taking the advice of the many who had walked before me,I went for humor. My choice was a self-contained section of my thesis-novel,and I knew that it was chock-full-o’-yuks. Each line was hilarious. Everyone would love it. But as I read,fear got the better of me,and I stumbled from one sentence to another. I heard a giggle here and there,but no big laughs. Finally,I got to what I considered the funniest section of the piece. It had a great punchline:“‘There is no Horny the Dwarf?’he asked. ‘Then I guess Snow White is shit outta luck.’” I was so certain of success that I paused for the inevitable hilarity to quiet down. But there was silence. Not a single laugh,not even a pity laugh from Girlfriend,not even a modest push of breath through the nose that would comprise a snort. Then I saw the looks on people’s faces:squinted eyes,frowns,eyes turned away. They were cringing. I wanted to throw myself before a pack of abused pit bulls that hadn’t eaten in a fortnight. Anyone who goes to enough readings or sits in enough workshops has witnessed (and been told of) cringe-inducing moments galore. And,in the spirit of trying to make myself feel better,today I’m going to share some of them with you. 
One cringe inducing performance…
Sadly,I think everyone enjoys reading others’embarrassments,as it makes them look better. At least I do. Cringe-Inducing Moments 1. One poor lady served up a piece about a newly married couple that featured a female rocket scientist;a scene where they cried about not being able to have children;and a camping scene in which the husband was not able to fight off a bear with a stick,because “the stick was too small.” QED. 2. When I was in grad school,a student read a story in class about a woman who was worried she had contracted herpes. The protagonist wasn’t infected,but in the final scene of the story,a rapist attacks her. “’Don’t do this,’” she said. ‘I have herpes.’‘That’s funny,’he said. ‘So do I.’” THE END. We all stared at the floor. 3. At a conference,a frumpy,middle-aged housewife presented a story that consisted completely of S&M,explicit sex,and a certain act involving one’s fist. I guess you don’t know what happens behind closed doors. (Thanks to Friend of Wife for this great tidbit.) 4. Also in grad school,a fellow student wrote a embarrasingly awful rip-off of “Beloved”in the form of a short story. Told in the voice of a slave,it read like a Klan textbook on black diction:“Ise nots bein’good for massa,he be whippin’me,”for instance. 
…and another…
Everybody in class shifted back and forth in their seats,not wanting to blurt out that it was a stupid,racist piece of crap,until one person said,“Damn. I didn’t know that ‘Ise’meant ‘I.’I thought that the guy’s name was Izzy.” 6. “He was her Calgon.”We all went back and checked our Greek mythology on this one,but found no Calgon in the encyclopedia. No,the writer meant the bath soap Calgon,which (according to the commercial) “takes you away.”When the teacher slammed him for this,the guy got all defensive,and the rest of us said nothing. 6. Random bits:
–(punctuation uncorrected):“I see a man. I said to my sister “you want to see a man? that’s not a man I can take you where youll say thats a man she said. –(dialog) “You have found the most important archeological discovery in the last 50 years. Now,make love to me.” –”They kissed like animals eat.” 7. I’ve saved the worst for last. At a public reading series hosted at a bar,the audience was treated to the fiction stylings of a shaved-head,ear-ringed,motorcycle jacket-wearing dude of 25. He was hip,he was edgy,he gave the most awful reading I ever hope to endure. 
…and yet another
He read from his (unaccountably) published novel,telling of a sexual encounter involving the narrator and a transvestite prostitute. The dude read fast and loud — very loud,practically yelling at us. In one sentence that lasted about five minutes,he told us in graphic detail about The Fun With Trannies,“framed”by a background story that involved something about shooting heroin and going back to the womb and masturbating in high school and he WAS READING AT US LIKE THIS. As he neared the end of his sentence,he said the words that are unfortunately burned into the brains of myself,Wife,and everybody else who heard it:“And then the transvestite hooker grabs my ass and the butt juice runs down my leg…”The butt juice. He said “butt juice.”Not just cringe-inducing,it was horrifying. Butt juice. I can’t get that out of my head. In a sense,edgy reader guy has won. 4 April 2006  I appeal for your help.
As any writer will understand,I am constantly chancing upon emotional and mental states for which the English language has no apt description. Such as the state of being in which one makes repeated trips to the refrigerator with the expectation something in there will interest you. You know what I’m talking about. You’re bored,you check the refrigerator. You’re depressed,you check the refrigerator. You’re procrastinating,you check the refrigerator. You think you want to eat something,but there’s more to it than that. No,you check the refrigerator obsessively to see if:1) elves have magically stocked the fridge in the three minutes that have elapsed since you checked last;2) you’ve suddenly developed a craving for random foodstuffs,like wanting to eat a bowl of ketchup;or 3) there’s mold. Have my provisions suddenly developed mold? Now’s the time to check. Again and again and again! There should be a name for this activity,specifically “feeling the need to check one’s refrigerator (or,to a lesser extent,the pantry) several times over the course of a day as a means to relieve boredom,depression,or anxiety,or as a reason not to write.” I know that everyone partakes in this constant re-checking the refrigerator,but I don’t know what to call it. “Refrigeroptimism”? “Icepectation”? “Hasfoodmagicallyappearedinmyrefrigerator”? “Masturbation”? This inability to conjure a word bothers me greatly. Joyce and Faulkner made up words,so why can’t I? This doubly bothers me when I consider that special state of being when every single word I write is instantly crap,thus leading to an overwhelming sense of failure and depression. This is when you write a paragraph and immediately delete it. This is also when you write a sentence and immediately delete it. And this is also when you write a single noun,verb,adjective,adverb,article or preposition and immediately delete it. “The”sucks. “Because”sucks. “Chinese delivery”sucks. 
No help
Worse,one finds their entire body of work lacking in all respects,even published stories or pieces that have earned lavish praise. You read an old story in an effort to convince yourself,“Hey,this isn’t bad — maybe I can write after all,”only to find yourself saying,“The exhaust fumes from my Uncle Murray’s Oldsmobile are better than this.” Not only does one feel like an unworthy writer,but an unworthy person,since so much of our self-image is tied into what we type. So it becomes an negative feedback loop:my writing is crap,therefore I am crap,and thus my writing is crap. (This emotional trauma also leads one to find alternate ways to spend one’s time,including such soul-enlightening activities like watching the “She’s the Sheriff”marathon on TV Land. If one continues to write and delete,it eventually leads to multiple trips to the refrigerator). There has to be a word for this bad state of affairs. And since I fancy myself a writer and cannot come up with a suitable word,this makes me all the more miserable. “Self-loathing”doesn’t cut it,because you could apply it to anybody,from painters to garbage men,and it isn’t necessarily self-loathing to despise your own work (though it often is). Similar words,including “disgust,”“debasement,”and “depression”are also disqualified because they all start with “d.” Calling this “writer’s block”doesn’t work,either,because writer’s block is a result of one’s emotional state,not the other way around (I think). In addition,I’m trying to think of something pithy. Two words is one too many. 
You may already be a wiener!
Let’s review some (lame) candidates for this particular form of writer ennui: “Writehatred:”Has a nice beat,and you can dance to it. But doesn’t really get to the guts of the matter. “Bookfraud:”“I’m feeling very bookfraud today.”But I feel that way all the time. “Typeshitting:”This may be a winner. “I’m trying to write,but it’s just typeshitting.”Or,“Leave me alone. I’m totally typeshit right now.” Readers here are generally intelligent souls,particularly those who find this site by Googling “joshua bell naked”or “hot man-on-man action.” If not “typeshitting,”what? Any suggestions for this writer’s disgust or the refrigerator obsession? Here’s what. I’ll make this a contest. The winning entries will make it into a future blog entry. That’s the grand prize. Second place is a set of steak knives;third place is you’re fired. (Or may I offer you a Bay City Rollers LP?) Not enough incentive? Then the winner gets a portion of the future profits from my novel. As well as the movie rights. Not to mention the “genius award”I’m bound to get. It’s all yours,for just a couple of words. 1 April 2006  The greatest concept cannot be truly be considered art until it is made flesh,and the number of unrealized ideas that seemed wonderful on paper far outdwarfs the number that ever made it for public consumption.
For instance,about three years ago I became obsessed with combat robots. They had their own television show on Comedy Central,“Battlebots,”on which these machines tried to destroy each other in an enclosed ring. With names like Biohazard,Son of Kobyashi,and Disector,these little geek-love substitutes would flay and mangle steel as their engineer-minded creators controlled them from afar. After watching “Battlebots,”I realized that there could be no higher form of sports entertainment. The show was pure destruction — my inner 15-year-old said,This is the most totally awesome thing ever. Plus,“Battlebots”entailed a cold,heartless machine randomly tossing aside a work that took hundreds of hours to create. I could relate. Thus inspired,I came up with my own idea for a combat robot. The one to rule them all. My idea for a battlebot was so simple and elegant — but deadly — that it amazed me that it had not been done before. The robot would be shaped like a volcano,with angled ramps on each side;the ramps led to a giant chasm in which two giant spiked gears rotated at 10,000 rpm. The idea was to get the opponent to slide up the ramp and fall into the volcano,or the pit,where the giant gears would annihilate it. But that wasn’t the best part. Listen to this. Just listen. If the robot had a pit,and the idea of the robot was to cause as much harm as possible,it would be a pit of harm,or: HARMPIT. Get it? it’s a “pit of harm.”Harmpit. Not an armpit,but a Harmpit. Get it? Is that the coolest thing you’ve ever heard or what? Without any notions of basic engineering or mechanics,I quickly sketched out Harmpit on paper — as well a plan for taking over the combat robot world. I wrote an introduction for the ring announcer to boom through the stadium before my robot went to battle:“He’ll kick your ass —no shit! It’s Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarmpit!” 
Fig. 1. Harmpit
Once Harmpit conquered the “Battlebots”Heavyweight Championship,the rest would fall into place. Harmpit action figures. A Saturday-morning cartoon. Harmpit-authored books. Oprah and Larry King. And of course,the ultimate achievement:a movie deal. My pitch to producers would be as brilliant as it is straightforward: Harmpit,a funny-looking,outcast combat robot,grows up to become the world champion while saving the planet from Destructo,his childhood nemesis robot who is bent on world domination. I see Tobey Maguire starring as Harmpit,James Franco as Destructo,and Kirsten Dunst as the woman torn between them. OK,maybe they’re tied up for “Spider-Man 3.”How about Mike Meyers as Harmpit,Bill Murray as Destructo,and Julia Roberts as the woman torn between them? Spielberg has to direct. In a pinch,Steven Soderbergh will do. A friend who makes a living in the realm of physics (he was the co-genius behind the truly most world-altering philosophy ever) was taken with the idea of Harmpit,sending me a book called “Create Your Own Combat Robot.”But before I could turn my living room into a workshop,in which Wife could serve me divorce papers,“Battlebots”was canceled. 
Fig. 2. Harmpit Vs. Godzilla
Even if I had been able to engage my friend’s interest enough beyond the purchase of a book,I really don’t savor the possibilities in building a power transmission,determining motor constants,and contemplating equations such as Cpeak=log??(?rdx/?e). My real interest in Harmpit is all about the details:the name,the slogan,the movie,the action figures. Unlike certain ideas for fiction that unfortunately were put to paper,Harmpit never had much of a chance to come to life. I often wonder if other writers come up with similar schemes. Harmpit was clearly a case of a thought gone sideways;with my knowledge of engineering,I might as well have been trying to write Chinese opera insterad,with which I at least have a passing familiarity,thanks to my favorite movie star. There are playwrights who pen short stories,and poets who write fiction. Novelists dream of selling a screenplay;screenwriters dream of selling a novel. At least those folk are experimenting with their forms. Sometimes I feel like these occasional harebrained schemes of mine are not as much inspired rather than elaborate forms of procrastination. Then again,I could totally envision “Harmpit:The Movie”at a theater near you. The movie would make millions. It would set me up for life. I could write fiction to my heart’s content,and not worry about spending all my spare money on the lottery any more. Perhaps if I got Naomi Campbell to play the Evil Robot,I could sell the movie to producers,without a doubt. She certainly knows how to attack. | My Favorite BF Posts;Probably Not Yours |
I’m doing great,aside from feeling like the burnt side of a grilled-cheese sandwich. Also,I have a headache,caused,I believe,from gremlins dancing inside my skull.
That’s What You Said