December 31st, 2020 - FTNY, Year Three in Review
Dear TNY,
Tig ol’ biddies and a slobbery dong! It’s time to celebrate three motherfucking years of FTNY! Bang bang!
Wow. I never thought we’d make it this far, you and I. It’s certainly been a tough road. I’m sure patience was required on both ends (a lesser human would follow that up with, “your mom takes it on both ends,” but I’m not going to do that because I’m classy, goddamn it). But here we sit, 148 letters in the bag. I’m over 100k words into this three year project. I wrote 50 letters this year (51 if you include this one). Fifty doodles were drawn. And…I don’t know man. You make me a better person. Let’s start there.
As we both know, you wait with bated breath every Monday for my letters to arrive to see how you well you did with your story selection and editing (HA!). And this year was a weird year out in the world. Parts of it were kind of great. Parts of it were fucking abysmal. It was not a particularly good year for me (outside of the six months of access I had to my boys). Exceptionally wonderful things definitely happened, but you may have noticed that my fucking brain was and is trying to tear itself apart. But no matter what was happening, you showed up with a story nearly every week (excluding the weeks you normally take off and the weird reprint of “The Lottery” which I still don’t know what that shit was about). And goddamn it, if you are going to throw down the gauntlet every week, I’m going to drag my ass out of whatever bed I’m sleeping in and step up to some sort of writing surface in whatever part of the world I’m in, and I’m going to meet you where you live: In words. So, thank you. Thanks for being a constant. Thanks for being a positive force of creativity for me. And by positive, I mean you make me want to work. Obviously you don’t always create positivity in me. But either way, thank you.
And while we are on the subject of thank yous, I’ve got another one. Earlier this year, I reached out to George Saunders himself, turbo legend of short story greatness. This was specifically regarding his politically charged epistolary. That communication was important to me. I was able to have a real discourse with a real superhero about his work, his writing process, why he broke his own rules. And I felt like, for a minute, that I mattered as a peer. A fucking peer to Saunders. And that, that’s worth everything these days. Not only does it feel like this industry is falling apart, it feels like the quality is going right down the drain with it. So for a man of his esteem to participate in discourse with me about our shared love at a quality level that blows my skirt up…fuck my face, guys. Just heaven.
And one last thank you. Thank you for giving me a place to…exist. Not that you read them, but the letters this year were, well, somewhat insane. And that’s because maybe I’m insane. This year, along with the isolation that everyone else was going through, I also dealt with kid & coparenting frustrations and heartbreak and homelessness (my kids would use that word; I’m here to tell you I’m a fucking hobo, goddamn it; a funded one and it was my choice) and despair and injuries and the kind of automotive woes that only a Vanagon Syncro can provide, especially when that Syncro is your home and it has to fucking work. I basically (and intentionally) blew my fucking life up this year. And I have yet to put it back together. So, what does all that have to do with you, TNY? Often, I don’t have anyone else to talk to, not completely anyway. I don’t go to therapy. You are my therapy. I write whatever I want here. I cry. I fucking rage. I dance. I sing. I give hugs. I wallow. I shit the bed. And I shine too. I can do anything I want here because for some twisted reason in my fucked up nugget, I got the idea to write to you about the quality of your stories, and then used it as a platform to air my life. To feel my feels. And maybe other people have friends or lovers or partners or shrinks or confidants or mates or coworkers or any/all of those or something else. But I’ve got you. A weekly story generator and a faceless inbox that never responds. For some fucked up reason, that works for me. You don’t interrupt me. You don’t second guess me. You don’t lay your problems on me when I am laying my own down on you. You don’t make it about you. I mean, we have a fucked up relationship, you and I. But, what’s new on this end. Maybe that’s the only way I know how to love. It feels like that based on the reaction I get in the real world as well. But oh well. Everyone is doing their best. Maybe? Maybe. Probably not, but still.
Speaking of our relationship, if this year has shown me anything with regard to relationships…it’s that I’m the problem. I’ve got this friend. She’s fucking great, you know? Like, so great. Because we can talk about women but it’s not a thing; I think maybe it’s like straight women with gay friends. Anyway, she said to me about the women that pass on me, “They just don’t know.” Like if they knew, they wouldn’t. I figure that’s why you pass on me too; you just don’t know. Maybe I don’t even know. Maybe there is nothing to know. Who knows?
Ah, sweet digression.
Anyway, thank you.
Let’s talk stories. This year, as stated, you dropped 50 stories. And I read 80% of them all the way through . That’s a big change from last year, in which I only finished 63%. Now, am I about to say that the quality increased? I’m not sure, actually. I felt way more committed this year to reading them. But also, I feel like maybe the quality was better? When rating them, I found myself fighting between what stories were 1s vs 2s more often than before. Both in 2018 and 2019, the vast majority were rated 1s, but this year it was almost split between 1s and 2s. Conversely, this year I didn’t really have hard conviction that any stories were 4s. But I marked four stories with that rating, which is confusing I know. And the best story of the year, I would say, is a toss up between “Metal Gear Solid…” and “Hansa and Gretyl and Piece of Shit”. And I’m not even convinced that’s accurate either. But, it was nice to see some semi real okay shit. I wouldn’t put either of those against “Stay Down and Take It,” though, which is hands down the best story you have printed since I stared this project in 2018 (and I read it again this year and it fucking dropped me).
I don’t know what I’m trying to say. This year felt, while I was reading the stories, like the stories were mostly shit, but when I went back to read all my reviews, I was surprised that I was passionate about so many. Maybe you have been hearing me? Just kidding. I don’t believe that for a second. I think maybe what happened was that I had a lot more to say about my life this year instead of the stories and they were a catalyst for my own frustration. But hey, I’m no therapist.
Other things worth noting:
There was a drastic reduction in stories about New York writers or writing in general. Good call there. Keep it up.
My data shows you did less agenda stories this year, but my anecdotal feeling is you did more. No clue which is right.
I was really political. You were really political. On that note, I will try to refrain from that. As I was rereading all my letters, I felt cringy about the political stuff I wrote some of the time. I feel like I was taking my frustration out on you using something else I was frustrated with (that being the state of ALL politics in the US, not just one side) and I don’t think that’s very productive. Or interesting. I’ll try to be better.
Stories about children have a higher probability of making me cry. And I don’t think that’s a big surprise. You published some pretty decent stories this year about kids. Now, just hit me with those fucking love stories and maybe we can finally be friends. Or at least friendly. No? Okay.
One small theme throughout the year is that almost every story you published that had some level of (or could have had) sexual tension, you dropped the ball on. And that sucks. Those kinds of stories are always my favorite. But this year, the tension was usually rendered impotent (see what I did there), which left me feeling pretty deflated (hey-o) about those stories. So, maybe key in on that next year? When that potential is present, dial it up more, even if the sex never happens. It’s powerful and it’s everywhere and it’s relatable and it’s got an ocean of content left to give up.
Will I do this again for big ol’ 2021? I think so. For the aforementioned reasons, this project works for me in the format it’s in now. It keeps me engaged, gives me a place to speak, and keeps me reading and writing. But this year, more than any other year, I became increasingly conflicted about what I was doing. By that I mean I began to ask myself this question: Am I a cyberbully? And I think the answer is yes and no. I have no intention of insulting the author. I’m insulting the work as published by you, TNY. I am insulting, if that’s what we’d call it (I think it’s reviewing or critiquing but often it just sounds negative), the editorial choices. But I get that it is hard to tease that apart, especially if you are the author. I know it would get to me if I was the author. But, I don’t know, it’s not about the author at all. It’s about the artform we are all partaking in (the author, TNY, and myself). And I think we are all allowed to have strong opinions on that artform. It cannot speak for itself. And in my case, I feel like defending the future of that artform from someone like yourself. I just know that my civil discourse is not civil and can be abrasive. But I’m going to continue this project and try to be a little clearer about where my rage-bashing is pointed. And that, my friend, is squarely at you TNY.
I hope all is well on that end. Truly. If you can’t go on anymore and I can’t go on anymore, we can’t keep doing this. And I definitely need this. I hope you do too.
Oh yeah. The final metric. 2018, 2019, and 2020 were absolutely consistent in the amount of communication I received from you: 0.
Feel free to reach out whenever. I’d love to hear from you.
Cheers.
Nick
