The Word Nerd

Crimes Against Writing

I just read A Million Little Pieces by James Frey, not the most timely of reads given the circumstances, but I wanted to see if the book was worth anything beyond Oprah's stamp of approval and a little controversy. I treated the book as fiction and it was fairly easy to see why people were so made. The book simply isn't good. Now that's not to say A Million Little Pieces was bad, it just wasn't particularly good. There weren't any moments that the so-called memoir flopped, but there wasn't any place it shined either. To hear Oprah talk you would have thought this book was a masterpiece, like Nabokov and Faulkner made sweet, sweet love and that baby was A Million Little Pieces. Sadly it was just an average piece of non-fiction.

I do have a biased against non-fiction, I'll admit it. I'm a fiction man. But there are plenty of non-fiction books I enjoyed, but for the most part I find memoirs bland and lifeless. “Lifeless!?” you say. “How can it be lifeless when it's based off of life?” The problem is that non-fiction sells, so two things happen: books are pushed out way before they're ready and the books are conceived by writers with only a small amount of talent but big ambition. Ultimately though the biggest problem with creative non-fiction is the people reading it. For some reason, if a story is true or claims to be true readers give it a sort of special dispensation. Which means they're much more forgiven with the prose and more likely to cut the writer some slack. They believe that even if the writing is bland the truth in the moment makes up for that. Does truth equal beauty or does beauty equal truth? For me, if something is magical it becomes true, and a hack is a hack no matter how much of himself he puts on the page.

But as non-fiction goes, I've read worse than A Million Little Pieces. I can't go so far as to say that the writing is good, but it wasn't outwardly bad (which I think is saying a lot for the genre). Personally I don't care that James Frey lied, I was much more concerned with the style. However, the back lash against him was because readers felt robed. However, the book was somewhat true, it can't be completely discounted. His only real crime was that he made himself a tough guy. I've been in countless writing classes with dudes who think they're Hemingway man's men, and while the results were usually less than spectacular, I never held it against them. James Frey painted himself to be a major league criminal that hit a rock bottom that just didn't hit. What we know for sure about Frey is that he drank too much, he was arrested for a traffic violation, at least once, spent three hours in jail, and maybe did some coke. He's definitely more of a bad boy than myself, but not nearly the menace to society Frey painted himself out to be. It's that story of recovery that moved so many of his readers. By painting himself to hit an ultimate low and being able to recover (and being able to recover through sheer force of will), he gave hope that his readers could recover just as easily. By lying about his story, he suddenly deleted their prospects.

The second problem readers would have had was that James Frey talked at length in A Million Little Pieces about truth. About the importance of truth. About the Tao ringing true. And he painted the boastful, lying character of Bobby as despicable. The fact that Frey was proven to falsify much of his life then puts into question basic tenants of his book. That truth will save you and admitting the truth to yourself is the beginning of recovery.

A Million Little Pieces was originally written as fiction and rejected something like 14 times. The reason, of course, was pretty simple: mediocre prose and a melodramatic atmosphere. I don't blame Frey though, I feel like he got cornered into it by his publisher. Given the choice between not being published at all and hundreds of thousands of dollars, it was a pretty simple choice. I do blame him though for killing off his great love. Through there wasn't anything even approaching genuine emotion between Frey and Lilly, but I kept wondering how was Frey going to get out of this. Their relationship was hokey love at first sight. That's not real love and it's kind of hard to pass it off as that in a memoir. So, how does he got out of this fake relationship? He kills her. And not only Lilly, but James Frey killed everyone—he killed anyone that could possibly corroborate any of his story.

As it turned out, the scandal didn't hurt Frey's sales one bit. The sequel became a best seller. And Frey recently published his first book of fiction (which turns out to be his third book of fiction). All in all, the moral of the story is to lie your ass off, but if you do, make sure you kill all the witnesses.

I ran across this blog that I, well, I can't say that I liked, but I found it interesting. Literary Rejections on Display does exactly that, displays rejections. A great concept, but only an okay blog. My big problem with Literary Rejections is that all the rejection letters are form letters. Form letters just makes me think that they're simply an untalented writer. I mean, we all get form letters, but to have nothing but form letters is not a good sign. Another problem is Literary Rejections on Display is just not a snappy name like Wolf Gnards. Gnards just roll off the tongue.

Although, I think I'm going to start posting my rejection letters, too though. I've gotten some good ones over the years (i.e. some real awful ones), should be fun.

I had a fortune cookie today that said, "You will receive what you always wanted." Now I realize that fortune cookies are not exactly known for their accuracy, but a little hope does swell up in you when you read something like that. The thing, of course, that I've always wanted (besides Natalie Portman) is to be published. Not published by my school. Not published by a friend. Not published by my mom, but real honest to god they-pay-me-money-or-at-least-an-issue publication.

As close as I've gotten, as friendly as the rejections have been, I've never been terribly close to getting really published. Again... that doesn't count school, I was a god in school, which shows how much college is worth. I was very eager when I was a young baby faced lad, but that eagerness has waned somewhat as I've become a bitter baby-faced man. I haven't really sent out too much in the last couple of years but I recently got back into the swing of it, and for some reason I'm hopeful.

Since I've been out of it so long, my publication records are little out of date. I like to keep an accurate spreadsheet publications, what they're looking for, and what they pay. Fortunately, I ran across a website that does all the work for me. Duotrope Digest has a full database of writing resources, you just type in what you're looking for and spits out a bunch of options. Check it out if you're looking for a place to publish.

I do feel good about the stories I've sent out, but it really doesn't mean much. Of course, if I don't get published Natalie Portman better watch out.

Marvel Comics recently did a special inauguration team-up of Spider-Man and Barack Obama. To say Marvel is cashing in on the presidency would be a gross understatement. But then again everyone is cashing in on Barack Obama... buses, t-shits, Starbucks. Anyone and everyone is making money off the 44th president. Since, President Obama himself is a devoted Spidey fan, the special Marvel issue only seems natural. I just don't know if a comic book is the place to make a political statement. Actually, that's untrue, comics are great places to make political statements, V for Vendetta for example. I just don't think comic books are the best place to make money off of this particular political statement.

It definitely just seems that Joe Quesada has dollar signs in his eyes. They rush out and they reprint and reprint a special Spider-Man issue, but what message are they really sending out? At one point in the comic, Barack is all like, "You the dog, Spidey... pound it." I have to say it seems a little racist to me. The issue was written by Zeb Wells, a writer I have no animosity towards, but is generally known for his whiteness. Fans at comic-cons often walk away muttering, "That is the whitest human being I have ever seen." Zeb is a shade away from transparent! I'm not saying he's a klan member, but bumping fists with Spider-Man, Zeb? Really?

I'm actually a little surprised they didn't have a double-duo attack of Sarah Palin and Doc Ock. Although, I do have to admit that the one politics in comix that I did enjoy was that Lex Luthor was President of the DC universe during George W. Bush's stint in the White House. Other than that, comics should just stick to telling good, fun stories. That's something that I'm always latching onto the fact that comic books have lost any degree of having fun.

Although, I'm looking forward to the super-sized issue of the Incredible Hulk vs. William H. Taft.

I was reading through an old story, and it was brutal. Just terrible. Sometimes I read a story and it finds a way to surprise me. I'll say, "I am really like so clever." "I might very well be the most brilliant man alive." "I'm like Jesus in writing form." This last story all I heard was, "I'm a total hack!" Maybe, "Tom Cruise in writing form." Bland and self absorbed.

So, I decided to just cut as much from the story as I could. I managed to cut about 500 words, and since there wasn't much story to begin with 500 words was a good amount. I can't see how the story could have gotten much better though. It moves along a little faster, which is only a relief because I can get to the end sooner. I wish I could cut more, but then I start to lose too much of the plot (what little plot these is).

Maybe, I'll just bury it for future generations. They'll appreciate my Tom Cruisiness.

I've been exchanging flash fiction with a friend (500 words or less), this was my first offering. Enjoy.

What to Say

They say Frank Palmaro married a dog. A chocolate lab with a sad drooping mouth. They say the chocolate Labrador's name was Jezebel, and a wanton pup to say the least. Pictures were taken, wedding photos. I never saw them myself, but I heard about them and most stories were pretty much the same. Frank beamed in a gray tuxedo, complete with top hat and tales, and Jezebel with her almost blackish wagging tongue and a pristine white bonnet.

"I heard Mr. Palmaro married a real bitch," I said one night at a bar named The Black & Blue. An easy joke followed by an easy laugh. Afterwards, I noticed Frank Jr. two tables over, he grumbled or sneered in my direction, and I expected a sock in the month most the night. It never came.

They say Frank Palmaro was in it deep. With both the mob and the FBI. They say Frank Palmaro killed a no talent bookie with pinking shears and the blood spurted in almost heavenly raindrops. They say Frank planted the bomb in Victor Kerensky's jacuzzi. Victor entertained two underwear models at the time, who had previously posed in the Asbury Park Press. He flip the switch for maximum bubbles and blamola, bras flickered in the wind. They say Vic blew up through his roof and ran around a man on fire.

I saw Frank once at my doctor's waiting room. He was thin looking and sullen. He read Highlights Magazine and tittered to himself two or three time. Jezebel wasn't with him and he was waiting for a ride. He probably had a mental examination where he "woofed" softly when asked how many days of the week. Maybe, he had rabies or ticks. A rectal exam or kidney stones. Frank Jr. arrived and nodded my way, neither friendly or angry, an acknowledgment of existence.

I saw Frank on TV. I was in my kitchen drinking a glass of water and not paying too much attention. I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Frank was with his lawyer and smiling, laughing. His lawyer had been on television a lot lately, always stroking his black dyed goatee. They say his lawyer was a 1-800 kind of sleaze, but he was good and clever and rarely went to trial. They were talking in front of mics sporting various local network logos. Frank's lawyer clasped his shoulder. Maybe, Frank and Jezebel will live happily ever after. Frank Jr. was behind them talking on his cell with only a hint of a smile.

I had seen Frank Jr. again at The Black & Blue. He stepped hard on my foot and looked at me like I was supposed to do something. I didn't. My buddies say I'm a pussy. "Next time," Frank Jr. said and I shrugged.

I stubbed out my cigarette and dropped it in my glass. The phone rang and startled. I switch off the TV and picked it up. It was my doctor results.

I sent out a story today, I haven't really sent out much in the past couple of years. It's easy to get bogged down in the defeats, but I don't think that was really the case. I used to send stuff out all the time in undergrad, it was kind of a weird formula of the worse I was as a writer the more I sent out work. As I got better, the less and less I sent out. While, the magazines never beat down my door, the rejections were generally getting better and better. You're not so terrible. Could be worse. Hang in there, sport (with a little characicature of a cat).

I sent out to the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. I usually don't send out to sci-fi mags because a) I'm not a science fiction writer and b) I don't like science fiction writers. To me, most sci-fi writers are talentless hacks who like to pat themselves on the back. "Don't you see... the robots have three laws. Three, I say, I say." Pat, pat, pat. More concerned with the concept than the content. But this was a weird little story that just didn't have much of a shot elsewhere.

What was it?

Oh, just your average grave robber who dug up prom queens to build a 4 dimensional lover. Yeah, probably not for The New Yorker.

Besides a novel that has never come together, other projects I've been working on include an old timey radio play and a comic book. As of this moment, both are about as unfinished as the novel. These projects though interests me so much because they're both things I can do myself. I can go to Kinkos and print out my own comic, and I can record my own radio play. Will anyone else care or ever see these things, well, that's yet to be determined. I would imagine no.

My problem with the comic is that I can't really draw. However, my bad drawings do have a certain style. While, not skillful or particularly chocked full of talent, they have a nice eccentric quality. A little bit like Sunday comics being forced into a graphic novel format. I have a few panels drawn but it's going slower than I'd like.

Oh and there's one last project. The thing I always joke about is a script for Chunky Butts. Chunky Butts is a fat camp movie, your average fat is fun kind of flick. So, for there's a bunch of lovable fatties at Camp Chunka-Butta-Wanna (an old Indian name). And that's about it. I'm sure there's some sort of race or fart off. I imagine a fat mascot cat named Burritostein that does a lot of fat cat dancing. Of course, I've never written a single word of Chunky Butts. It has just become my automated answer.

"So, How's the book going?" They ask.

I answer, "Oh, I'm working on a screen play now... Chunky Butts. It's my life's work."

And then they say, "Oh." And give me that look like how could I have squandered away so much promise. I shrug and smile... because that's what I'm good at, wasting my gifts. Of course, at Camp Chunka-Butta-Wanna, we learn that it's not about how other people feel about you, but how you feel about yourself.

And this fatty feels like dancing... heeeey.

Currently reading: Million Little Pieces