November 22nd, 2021 - Detective Dog
Dear TNY,
I am in a new place, geographically, and just finished “Detective Dog”.
And I don’t give a shit.
It’s the same old shit for me. Too many fucking characters. 7400 words about them that don’t matter. Race/family/diversity/cultural/oppression/etc issues. Which I am not knocking and are totally relevant to being alive on this dumpster fire of a planet. It’s just that this story is like most of your drivel: none of this shit is developed, interesting, fresh, creative, novel, or good and the agenda is smeared in your face, almost accusingly, such that if you ain’t in the choir, you’re leaving the fucking church. That’s why the cultural shit doesn’t matter. But it’s not just that shit that doesn’t matter. Pick anything. The story is as tasty as a piece of posterboard. That’s why whatever you pick doesn’t matter. Because the story is trying to make a point, and Art took a back seat to that point. But fuck Art, right? Fuck Beauty. Fuck trying to transcend the plane, you know? Fuck trying to create empathy through a meticulous narrative. Fuck originality. Fuck a spirit of wonder. Fuck doing anything but presenting your own myopic view of what’s important in the world (and especially fuck Art in favor of that, because doing what the story wants is nothing compared to doing what you want, right? (also, it’s not lost on me that FTNY is my own myopic view of what’s important)).
And this gets me to something that has been occurring lately when I talk about FTNY. The gist of which is: I’m an asshole. And it’s not the only FTNY. It’s across the motherfucking board.
So, I’m getting picked up by a literary magazine I highly respect, and they want me to write a bio for the issue. A “traditional” bio, which I’m not keen on. Because my biography isn’t what my fucking hobbies are and it isn’t where I have been published. That, to me, seems devoid of who I actually am. My goal with this batshit endeavor, writing, is to recreate the feeling in a stranger of suddenly realizing they are not alone, in the same way that I felt not alone when I stumbled upon literature. I don’t write because I have a fucking social agenda, or my next book matters, or my fucking corgis are so goddamn cute. I write to save someone, hopefully, from themselves, in the way that I was saved. I write to put some fucking water back in the well. And, contrary to what it seems like in these letters, I do not think I’m important. I do not think what I say is important. In fact, outside these letters, I really don’t exist. So, I let my bio reflect as much, speaking to my biology more than anything. And that was rejected. I was told it needed to be more traditional, as stated. Which I am grumbling about. Because what gatekeeper gets to decide when some words are important and others aren’t? The publication? Just because they own it and it’s their business (<—this is, in fact, true and I agree with it; I’m just contrarian and shitty…wait, I’m an asshole, as stated; in reality, I also think that I own my own bio, you know…it’s me; and I also think that if all the fucking readers out there want to buy into the “known” bio v the “insane” one, then it’s a good business decision for the magazine to lean on me about this, but also that the readers are fucking dumb for not seeing the industrial complex for what it is). But I wrote my bio (and I am so fucking thankful that they picked my story up, because it could be a major catalyst to change my writing life; and even more important, it means that my father, who the story is about, will live forever; and as a further benefit, if one person reads it and their own dead father, or alive father, becomes more vibrant because of the writing…oooooh boy, then maybe I should keep living), but they said I was wrong. I was wrong about who I was and what I wanted to represent me. Now, could it be said that they were saying I was wrong because I didn’t write what the magazine wanted? Yep. Hence data for being an asshole.
So fast forward that shit to a conversation last night about this very project…FTNY. And I was told that I was being an asshole (which this person thought was weird because I’m not an asshole in real life, according to this person) and challenging everything just to challenge it. Some questions I heard were:
What’s so wrong with trying to represent different cultures?
What’s wrong with having an agenda?
What’s wrong with running your magazine like a business, because after all isn’t it just a business?
What’s wrong with using the magazine’s platform to promote noteworthy artists’ upcoming publications (in the “you scratch my back, I scratch your back sense”)?
What’s wrong with using noteworthy authors to sell copy (e.g. posthumous Kafka this year)?
And my answer is nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
But my argument is: What’s so wrong with demanding blind stories, by every author, that will only get published if they have the power to blow fucking minds? Or restated: What’s so wrong with Art?
And the reason why I am wrong is the world doesn’t give a fuck about Art or Beauty or Love. It gives a fuck about monetizing whatever the fuck it can and/or just getting along, plodding forward, and hopefully looking back on a life that was “good”. So my opinion that the literature on your pages should be so fucking spectacular that if a page of it, unnamed, blew into a stranger on the street, and when they went to brush the trash away, that stranger paused a moment to see what this paper was and what was on it, that that stranger would not be able to put that fucking paper down because of how goddamn glorious the writing was…that opinion held by me is incorrect. Because the world doesn’t fucking care. I tried to explain that with each shitty story that gets published, educators around the world use it as an example in their class. And students with no knowledge of truly heartbreaking literature will pattern the standard of literature off your dickturd works, thus dumbing down the artform and humanity while simultaneously building your false confidence. And that was roundly rejected as an argument, because if everyone thinks it’s fine, what’s the fucking problem?
And I agree with this person to a degree. Barely. Yes, humans define Art. But, in a country where 40% of children believe hot dogs and bacon are plants, do you want to let the fucking plebes define Art? And you might be saying, “Hey bub, we at TNY aren’t plebes.” Go back and reeducate yourself in Art. TL/DR: If you have to explain to someone what it is, why it works, and why it’s important…it ain’t Art.
Another writer friend of mine (actually successful, unlike me) recently told me that he always starts his next book with the idea of “what does the world want from me?” Boy howdy. But I get what he was saying. He’s a professional writer. He’s got to make a living. And to do so, he needs to sell books. He’s certainly not going to do that with, “What doesn’t the world want from me?”
You know what core I write from? I try to break my own heart. Every fucking time. But I have that luxury. Because I don’t have to conform to the literary industrial complex. Especially when I don’t fucking believe in the direction it’s traveling. I only have to adhere to my rigorous insanity. Which, I’m pretty sure isn’t traveling in a positive direction either.
So you see, TNY, the world wants a traditional bio. The world wants literature that only matters because of who wrote it, what they were talking about, what awards they have, and what shit they have coming out next. The world wants product from creators, whether it means anything or not. And the product they want, in the sense of the false quote attributed to Henry Ford, is faster fucking horses (but in this case, the horses are dead and rotting and your organization has convinced the world they are beautiful, alive, and kicking). I’m trying to talk about interstellar time travel through wormholes compared to that shit. But the world would rather muck about in its own feces and call it pretty.
So, I’m the fucking problem. Again and again and again. My motherfucking kids don’t want me to live near them because, “it would no longer be fun to see me.” I speak to one person in my family because the others are upset when I call them out on their bullshit. My ex wife thinks I’m insane for wanting to parent to the 30 year old versions of my kids, in the future, instead of constantly catering their current ages (alliteration!). For the most part, literature doesn’t want me, as I have submitted over 600 times and have a pub rate of 4% (of which I’m very thankful for; by the by, I choose submitting through the slushpile because that’s how much I believe the work matters over every other attribute). And a number of my relationships and friendships have crashed and burned because I’m “too intense” or “itinerant” or “homeless” or who fucking knows.
Me. I am the self-centered, narcissistic, egomaniacal, warm & gooey center of my own fuckass problems. And none of my fucking words matter, no matter how right I believe them to be.
And I’m sure I’m just one really bad day away from no longer being the problem. I’ll keep you posted on that front. Then, and this would make me very happy, I don’t have to watch these mountainous literary failures shitfuck humanity into a shallow grave, day after day, nor do I have to witness my own failings, of which I am made aware of with most interactions, but mostly from myself (e.g. tonight whilst taking a shower I forgot to bring my towel closer to the tub so I ended up having to drip my way across the bathroom when I needed to dry off, the whole time calling myself a fucking idiot for forgetting). We will all go forward, you, loving stories like this one, living in your own ignorant delusions, and me, arrogant and dead.
Not sure who’s going to claim that as a win.
Maybe both.
Well, that’s enough fucking self pity for one day. Might as well go drink some more.
Fucking kill me, please. Send me an email asking for directions and I’ll tell you where I am. Please send a samurai. I hope to go with honor.
Nick
P.S. Had another long conversation about how I fight everything tonight. And I agree. I’m arrogant. I’m sure you, TNY, are terrified of me. Not everything I think or do is correct. I should think more about what I say before I say it. And there was more that I agreed with, but I can’t remember now.
But, and this isn’t me talking, this is someone else now: I’m not as asshole-ish, gruff, or mean as I talk. I’m nice.
But who fucking knows. Send the samurai.
