Change

Poor people have a different relationship to change than the middle class and rich. For those of you still chest deep in the last election, I’m talking about the shiny kind of change that jingles in your pocket and collects in a jar on your dresser top.

In the last few days I have been rolling my quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies for gas. How many times I have done this I couldn’t begin to guess. I’ve been poor for so long . . . actually, I guess I’ve always been poor. I have been digging change out of couches, glove boxes and car ash trays, pants pockets in the laundry basket, off dresser tops and out of Ball jars for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, it was for fudgesicles, then for parts to repair my bicycle. When I got a car, it was to put in gas and oil, usually more of the latter. I’ve counted out change for food, dates and a lot of cheap beer.

For my educated and well employed friends, change is an annoyance. It piles up on the dresser, overloads pockets, spills over SUV cup holders and falls out of their hands at toll booths. For folks like me, it is money. Just like the folding kind. That jar on the dresser is a savings account. The car ashtray full of silver is an emergency fund. The pants pockets in the dirty laundry provide the gallon of gas necessary to get to work. Enough may be harvested from couch cushions to get a quart of milk for the kid’s cereal. Change is the bridge fund that gets you to payday from broke.

And speaking of broke, that word also means something different to the poor than it does to higher socioeconomic classes. A lawyer friend wanted me to go out for a beer with him one night. I told him I couldn’t, I was broke. He said, “Write a check.” I told him my account is empty. He said, “Take some out of savings.” I told him I have no savings. To a lawyer, broke means no new car this year. To an owner of a construction company, broke means no ski trip. To a CPA, broke means the kids don’t get braces right away. To me, broke means I have no money. None. Nada. Not even change. Broke means I don’t have enough for a bad cup of coffee.

I know almost broke when I’m behind her in line at the convenient store. She spreads quarters out on the counter and starts counting them out for gas, because she only had 38 quarters, not even enough for one complete roll. She does this with her head down, a whispered apology on her lips for the clerk, and for me and the others waiting behind her. I don’t mind the wait. I stand patiently and fight the nervous need to jingle the quarters in my own pocket.

Writers' Quid Pro Quo?

Us low level and/or self-published novelists have a conundrum when it comes to others of our ilk. We often swap novels, and I have swapped with a few authors now. I have been fortunate that all the novels I have received in exchange have been good books I could gush over with sincerity. We’d all like to get reviewed and we’d like those reviews to be positive, but what if I don’t like the book? Those happy days of getting good novels, days that could not last, have not. They ended yesterday, when I finished the novel of an acquaintance with whom I traded inscribed copies.

One of my intentions when I started this blog was to review new novels that get ignored, get too much—and usually undeserved—praise from the usual New York suspects, or don’t get the kind of review that is of any use to the common reader of fiction. I didn’t anticipate that I could end up reviewing books by people I might have to look in the face one day, or that those people would be in a position to publish a retributive review of my novel. Guess I should have thought of that.

I don’t have to write a review at all, of course. It wasn’t an expectation when we swapped novels. What I’d like to do is write several pages of editorial suggestions directly to the author, instead. But I fear I may be perceived as presumptuous and condescending instead of helpful. What author who has finally produced a novel—an effort and accomplishment unknown even to most who love books—wants to be told there is much work yet to be done, much left to learn about writing?

It is a first book by the author in question, and he makes many of the classic rookie mistakes: a weak protagonist who is more observer than instigator of the action; dialog used for info dumps, making it affected and unnatural; an intriguing opening with conflict and action, but little development or follow up; a protagonist that virtually disappears in the middle of the book, only to reappear late; dramatic situations that should have an emotional impact on the reader, but don’t for lack of proper set-up; scenes and characters who don’t advance the story; little or no discernible plot.

So what do I do with that? I can’t even e-mail him and say, “Loved it.” I guess I just duck him online and, if possible, in person. Worse yet, what if he liked my book? It would be easier if he hated it. Yes, I’ll root for that outcome. Although most people who have read and commented on the book have liked it, some very much so, I can hope he’ll be an exception, a deeply perceptive reader who ferrets out its many flaws. I won’t feel so bad about hating his book if he hates mine.

Trouble is, he has written wildly successful non-fiction books and has a wide readership to whom he can comment. And if he hates my novel, he may just do that. Especially if I write an honest review of his.

So this is it, my official non-review of his anonymous novel, to be shelved next to my other inscribed copies, a place of dust and honor, never to be mentioned again, with the hope that he will do the same.

It's the Writing, Stupid

A good friend of mine had an interesting e-mail exchange with a successful author and writing teacher at a well known MFA program. In the back and forth, the teacher lamented the loss of students that may befall many creative writing MFA programs. The traditional publishing model of large advances for many authors is ending. Ending as well is the large publishers desire to publish a certain number of “good books,” that is, those considered to have great literary merit but little commercial potential. My friend asked me to comment on the exchange. What follows is more rant than direct response to that teacher, but perhaps edifying, nonetheless.

We may lose many MFA programs? Fucking hooray! There are several factors that have led to the decline of publishing, but among them must be counted the proliferation of Purple Patch Factories, everywhere giving succor to impatient or untalented writers willing to fork over tens of thousands of dollars to feel like they are progressing in their dream, and encouraging and propagating a terrible style of writing These ubiquitous MFA programs allow naïfs to rub shoulders with “real writers,” defined as such by four figure hardcover sales of their only published novels.

I don’t think writers should be teaching writing at all. MFA programs have sent thousands of mediocre or untalented writers into the world to teach writing at other MFA programs, the unsellable teaching others to be unsellable. Editors should be teaching writing. They were the defacto writing teachers back when editors were more than underpaid talent scouts. In the old days it was the editors who shaped talented writers into the accomplished authors we know. They did not try to push the writer toward a certain style, but reined in creative excess, taught the writer how to better tell their story, and made sure there was a story there to begin with. . . .

To paraphrase Bill Clinton, it’s the writing, stupid. Storytelling has always been a meritocracy. While the vehicle for delivering the story has changed again and again, from oral storytelling around campfires to epic poems to novels to films, the best storytellers rise to the top. If there is a message or moral or a deeper understanding of the human condition to be had, it had better be wrapped in a good story that people want to read or hear. Even traditional mythology wraps its moral or societal lessons in great adventure.

Some of the authors we most admire—and still want to read—wrote to make a living. To do that, they had to be mindful of their audience. Dickens wanted to be read and make money. Melville and Maugham and Conrad, too. They are thought of as literary greats now, but they sold, they were popular writers, because their styles served great stories. They didn’t expect to sell on style or demand that their audience change and accommodate them. They had to find a way to do great work and sell at the same time.

While there is definitely a place for experimental writing, one of the worst things to happen to the novel was the deification of experimental writers by literary critics. Virginia Wolfe, James Joyce, et al, tried to follow in Flaubert’s footsteps, expand on the internal focus of Madame Bovary, but left the story behind. Cheever and Updike followed suit, stripping the last vestiges of adventure and action from their novels, forcing us to slog through the mundane stories of suburban life already too well known to their audience. Then Roth and Barthelme dragged us further down the path to abstraction and irrelevance.

And now it has all filtered down to MFA programs as the unquestioned aim of those writers who wish to write “good books.” When these books don’t sell, their writers and enablers look everywhere to lay blame but at their own feet. They bemoan the degradation of the culture at large when their masterpiece doesn’t sell but Harry Potter sells 100 million copies. The public who reads Twilight are unsophisticated consumers of the inane, boors with no taste. Writers on the outside of this phenomenon don’t stop to examine what it is in their own writing that is lacking. They don’t consider that they can write great books that have adventure, action, a strong story, but can go deeper than Harry Potter and Twilight.

The business model of publishing is changing. The way stories are bought and sold and disseminated will change despite all the kicking and screaming. In what other artistic endeavor does an artist get paid before his or her work sells? Yes, the days of huge advances may be over, but great stories will always be at the heart of the business and will always sell. There was always a market for pulp writing, just as there is today. I don’t think that has changed. Citing the popularity of pulp writing as evidence for the decline of civilization and culture is self-defeating. Guys like Dickens and Maugham and Conrad and Hemingway had what audiences loved in pulp writing—action, adventure, danger, romance—but gave them so much more besides. Perhaps all the whining from “literary” writers has more to do with their inability to do great work than the deterioration of culture.

And since when is producing a great book and having it sell supposed to be a smooth and well known path? No one has a right to produce great work. No one has a right to huge sales. No one has a right to have fewer obstacles to publication or fame or riches than the generations before them. Writing a great book is incredibly hard. Getting enough people to read it and recommend it to others is even harder. That there was a short time when someone else—the great publishing houses—shouldered many of the burdens for writers was nice, but not sustainable. There will always be a market for great writing, no matter how it is delivered to the audience. The delusion sold in MFA factories is that there are far more potentially great writers than we previously believed. It’s a fucking lie. Publishing lowered its standards for a long time because a booming economy allowed them to do it. Well, now the economy can’t sustain the literary dreams of every high school English teacher who thought they had a novel or two in them. If they can’t abide the time, practice, poverty, disappointment and risk of utter failure that is inherent to the process of becoming a great writer, then they can get a regular job. There’s a good goddamn reason so many writers develop into alcoholics.

Invulnerable

I never pick up a novel or walk into a movie wanting to hate the protagonist. The central character may be an anti-hero, they may have significant personality flaws, but a deft writer or director gains our sympathy for that character anyway. I have rooted for hit men, conmen, hookers, drug addicts, corrupt cops, Mafiosi, adulterers, thieves, liars, gun runners, and Nazis. Conversely, I’ve had kids, moms, priests, quarterbacks, teachers, grandmothers and doctors lose the default sympathy I bring to the protagonist at the outset. I want to cheer for the hero, but some writers won’t let me.

I have been trying to rent the lone copy of The Foot Fist Way at the local movie rental place for months. The premise seemed ripe for belly laughs, but the movie was always out. (Turns out a long haul trucker lost it in his cab, finally found it) The Foot Fist Way was produced, in part, by Will Ferrell—which is part of what drew me in—and was written by Ben Best, Jody Hill and Danny McBride. McBride plays Fred Simmons, an inept Tae Kwon Do instructor with no sales ability, limited social skills and an trampy wife. Right away I want this character to turn his life around, to learn and grow and change. I want to stay with him through his trials, self-generated or not. I couldn’t. I only made it half an hour into the movie before I turned it off.

Fred Simmons is an unrelenting asshole. He verbally and physically abuses his students, mostly kids, sexually harasses his female students, inflates his few minor accomplishments, insults and belittles his wife, and generally blusters and swaggers his way through the first thirty minutes, seemingly unaware of what a dick he is. Perhaps the character softens a bit later, but I’ll never know. The writers and director lost me, hard as I tried to stay with them.

In his book How to Grow a Novel, Sol Stein identifies candor and vulnerability as essential elements for a character to gain readers’ sympathy. Fred Simmons exhibits no vulnerability whatever, nor any level of self awareness or candor about his character flaws, at least not early enough in the movie to make me care. His sad situation might have drawn me in had the character shown, even once, some openness, some hint that he was aware of his shortcomings, some regret or helplessness in the face of his liabilities. But he didn’t. The funny bits were there, the comic situations set up right, except that from scene to scene, Fred was always an asshole. No matter how heartbreaking the situation, Fred was an aggressive, clueless dick unable to garner pity or empathy.

It wouldn’t have taken much. I know right where I would have made a change that could have hooked me, at least. Fred’s wife comes home with a folder from work, in which Fred finds photocopies of his wife’s tits and ass taken at an office party. It leads to his wife’s confession that she gave her boss a hand-job. Fred’s shock is clear, his anger and disgust made obvious, but not his pain, his sadness at his wife’s infidelity. A single tear might have done the trick. But no, we are denied even this paltry evidence of a crack in Fred’s armor or a more guileless emotional life. Fred rants at and insults his wife, then goes on to try to quickly replace what he’s lost in a sexual sense, with no hint that he has suffered any emotional damage. And my thumb went right to the off button on the remote.