December 27th, 2021 - A Lot of Things Have Happened
Dear TNY,
My count might be off, but “A Lot of Things Have Happened” looks like it’s the 50th story you have published this year (normally I only see 49). But who knows, I don’t get your magazine hard-copy. And this fact is neither here nor there, I guess.
This is a hard story to review. I like the pacing. It’s a fast read. Shit is interesting. There are a lot of quirky details (à la Carver) like the bird and its language, the rat in the toilet (single greatest line of this piece is the line “Look how they’ve massacred my boy”), the whole relationship with Hattie (top to bottom, this braid is the most interesting thing that happens in the whole story (also, props to the author for not showing us the letters he wrote to her, and for saying she never responded to his apology), etc. I like this kind of shit in a story.
Especially the Hattie stuff. Because it was so real. It’s not swoony. It’s not overwrought. It’s got just the right details (palmetto bugs, puking, gum, the Depression-era phrases, snorting then fucking) to sell me. I felt the gears turning for this relationship. I was in. I was internally beginning to get all cryface over these two. And then, nope.
We skip to his marriage, which is neither here nor there. Consider that his cockroach incident reminded him of his ex. That says a lot. And that the rest of this story is about the ex, too. His present seems to be a giant reminder of those almost-ten months from his past. Oh, then we get this long fucking section about an apology he received. Which was a complete waste of time. Unless the author was trying to get us to turn against him, which worked (I was already on the fence about turning against the author knowing that the author used his real name as the MC’s name, but was kicked over the edge (before the apology section, no less) by the fact that the author called bullshit on a student’s story for having a similar sounding name). Oh, TNY, another story about writers. Nice one, douches.
So what’s the point? Why does the author want us to not like him/his character in this “fiction”? I don’t know. And I don’t want to know. It’s meaningless if it didn’t come through in the writing.
What else? There was no transcendence. Not even the possibility of one. Like, maybe he’s the worst guy ever and had a chance to console the bird and fucked it up? Who cares about the melons (another stupid section)? All that speed, all that freshness to this story, and it’s all wasted on who the fuck cares? That is the most infuriating thing about a story like this. It could have been amazing. Because the craft (yuck) was amazing. Hattie was fucking amazing. Hattie’s fucking response was amazing (both, technically). The wackiness, amazing. But the MC was a douche, is a douche, and will not stop being a douche. And that’s not okay. Because he’s not likable enough to feel bad for. And since the story is from his POV, then the only people we feel bad for are people/animals he’s mishandled. But those people/animals are so distant we don’t cry for them either. Pssh. Dumb.
Bravo.
Nailed it.
Might as well hand over the prizes now.
Fuck. I just noticed the date of publication for this story. It’s the last story of the year (my Year End Extravaganza will happen next post; huzzah!). And so here we are, all those words from you. All of my words back. For what? FOR FUCKING WHAT!?
As I sit writing this, I’m in a “cabin” outside of Mt. Rainier National Park. It’s raining and in the mid 30s. I have my kids again for a bit. This bit, up until Saturday, I was dreading. Because anxiety. I don’t know how or why I ended up having so much anxiety about everything. Them flying out. What to do when they are here? Who to stay with, or not? Where to stay (as I am homeless in a disintegrating van)? Who I should be with as a partner or not? Alone? Not alone? Live near my kids and lose these adventures? Keep running from myself and love (even though I want both to be happy and better) and do these adventures with the kids? Job? No job? Stay alive? Not so alive?
Fucking everything (earlier this year I dropped a man’s old map case while mounting it to the wall; things broke, I was upset, and I wanted to die rather than fix it; I did fix it, which was fucking drywall repair & paint, and some goddamn wood glue and new brackets; simple; why am I out to get me?).
And then on the way out to this “cabin” with my kids, in the dark, the snow and ice start coming down, and the 4WD in the van does not work (a first time for everything). And I can’t get reception to find the “cabin”. And my big ol’ relationship heart hurt was already in effect. It was all stacking up. Pure yuck tummy. But I said, “fuck it,” and decided to worry about it later. Found the “cabin”. Made some dinner. Got up the next day. Hiked four miles at altitude in the snow in t-shirts and tennis shoes, faster than every other motherfucker we saw on the trail (all in way more appropriate gear). Dried our shoes out over the heater vents after coming back. Played a few board games. And then spent the evening with one son making D&D characters and the other one building card castles with me. Laughing, all of us. Oh, and first thing that morning I fixed the 4WD. Small tear in the 30+ year old tiny rubber vacuum line that provided pneumatics to the actuators. Took 20 minutes to diagnose and repair. Again, simple.
Why am I telling you all this? I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this life. I don’t know how to be alone. I don’t know how to be together. I don’t know how to fucking do anything even when I can do so much. I don’t know how to fix this story. I don’t know how to write. Read. I don’t know how to love or be loved. I don’t know shit. Just a bag of fucking shit. I used to be so sure of everything. Now, fuck knows. This story could be a fucking masterpiece. It’s better than most of your schlock. But still. I don’t know. I’m unsure about everything, every day. My brain is a liar and it’s trying to kill me. Please. Send help. Murder the lying part of the brain. Please. Take that last, longest feather and stick the motherfucker in my electric head fat and end it so that I can keep on, eating and shitting, like the rest of this doomed race.
So all these fucking words, for what? For what? For fucking naught. I hope that whatever lord and savior (non caps intended) is out there will strike me with some fucking clarity already. Some of that glory. Some of that enduring love. Give me that radiant halo from European stained glass windows from a thousand years ago. Or take that feather yourself. End this tearing asunder that I have inside my skull. Please. Fucking end it because I’m ripping the fuck in half.
Whoa. Kind of lost my mind there. Whoopsie.
I’ll, uh, I’ll see you next week.
Nick
