November 7th, 2022 - Princess
Dear TNY,
As I was brushing my teeth in the shower this morning, I threw up a bit of donut (Boston Cream; not in my mouth, either; all over the shower floor) and I thought to myself, “I don’t really want to read anymore of your stories, TNY,” but I rinsed that puke out and pushed the nugs down the drain and I just finished up with “Princess”.
And I didn’t hate it.
It’s funny to me that in last week’s letter I spent time talking about how I try to approach each story with a sense of wonder. And then you bring me a story that, I don’t think, is intended to move me, like, emotionally, but it is a story that is all about wondering what the fuck is going to happen next. And I liked that aspect of this story above all its other ones.
I’ll say again, I don’t think this story is moving. I don’t think it’s meant to move. Although there is some sad shit is in this story (the ol’ “dead little girl in a trash bag stashed under a bush”; classic tale), I don’t think it’s treated with a sentimentality that will allow most people to transcend the plane. So, that aspect of the story is only a failure if our boy, TC, wanted to move us. If he didn’t, and he just wanted to lay out the facts like some journalist, then he succeeded. One can’t know without asking him. And I won’t, like I do with Saunders, because…
BIG TC BOYLE DIGRESSION ARRIVING IN 3, 2, 1…
So, I typically don’t look at the author’s name before I read the story (because I believe in blind reading for the project, as you know). I did happen to see his name on this one. And I have read a good number of his shorts. I can’t say that I’ve read them all because, Christ, who could? TC himself may not have even read them all as there are so goddamn many. But I’ve read enough. And the dude is a mechanic. He knows how to put a story together. It’s not all this wishy washy interiority bullshit we get in your normal TNY pieces. Some shit happens in his work. And I appreciate that. But, there’s just this sense of smugness about him, to me. Like, we get it dude. You know where the keys on the keyboard are and you have a compulsion to bang on them. You’re accomplished. Okay, bro. Calm down. But, that smugness only extends to the amount he’s written. Because from what I have read of his work, none of it ever made me feel the way I did when I read “Tenth of December” or “Fireworks” or “The Prophet From Jupiter” or “Bullet to the Brain”. So there might be a lot of his work out there, and some of it is quite clever and I respect the nature of his craft, but I’m not getting my soul blown out over here. And the question then becomes, does his work matter?
Does literature matter if it doesn’t transcend?
Does literature even matter?
Fuck.
I’m having a really hard time concentrating on this letter. I feel nauseated. I shudder to think what my blood pressure is right now (a couple weeks ago I went to the doctor for a rash and my BP was 167/89; I’m surprised they allowed me to leave). I can feel my heart beating. It’s not good. I feel like I might be dying. It’s not a good feeling at all. Frankly, I’m becoming more frightened of death. I think I’ve wasted a lot of my life, and am very much continuing to do so, and I don’t know what to do about it but I’m pretty goddamn sure that this is the only one I’m going to get so why can’t I stop fucking wasting it, Jesus Fuck, but that begs the question then, what is the purpose to this life as it must have a purpose for comparison to determine “waste”, and if you have religion backing you it’s pretty easy to figure that out but if you don’t have religion backing you (or you see the ~3000 religions and realize it’s impossible to pick the right one, if there is a right one) then what is the fucking purpose of this existence (reproduction? checked that box), and if the answer is that there is no purpose then no matter what I’m doing I’m wasting this life (as it is special in that this is the only one I get) while simultaneously not wasting it because it doesn’t fucking matter either way.
This line of reasoning isn’t helping my heart.
On one hand, I want to feel better. Feel good. I think beer is doing that for half the day, and the other half the day it’s making me sick. But if no one cares (God, gods, or otherwise), then why don’t I just drink myself to an early grave? It does feel good some of the time, like the rest of life. But it ultimately feels like waste. Why does that feel like wasting my life more than, say, running ultramarathons? Like, when we meet the being at the end of all of this (if there is a being, because if not, I should stop giving a shit), what will they say? What did you do with your life? Ran around like an idiot? Played videogames? Made pornography? Lived in a cardboard box under a bridge? Acted in motion pictures and made millions of dollars? Invented nougat? Seriously, what is the fucking purpose of all this bullshit? To leave the world in a better state than I found it? For whom? I won’t be around to see it. I’m just supposed to fix everything and then die? Enjoy my fruits, fuckers. So, it’s becoming apparent that “why” to live and “why” to keep living is very personal and I don’t fucking know the “why” for myself, I don’t know how to take care of myself, and I don’t know shit about shit (speaking of not knowing shit about shit, the van is done, right, but I stay up late at night and watch YouTube videos on how to repair engines and other aspects of vehicles because like some kind of sick, demented, self-imploding device I guess I miss working on the van, even though it filled me with anxiety every fucking day I did it and just thinking about it now, that it might blow up at any time, is causing the nausea to rise up like one of Sam Raimi’s ghouls and I know that I need to drink water today, a lot of it, to counteract the beer intake from last night, but I might throw it all right back up like that mouthful of donut).
Anyway, fuck my face. I’m insane.
And I still have been unable to fix the plumbing at my sister’s house because…I want to give you the excuses, that the previous plumber fucked the stubout up and I’m forced to use a valve that doesn’t come in the size that the vanity fucking faucet and risers are in, so then I have to make a fitting train, all chrome because fuck my life, and one or two parts in the fitting train are made by dumpster fire manufacturers and they won’t fucking seal so now I’m waiting on some serious Loctite shit to cure (72 hours, you motherfuckers!) and if that doesn’t work I’m going to JB Weld the shit together…so I want to give you those fucking excuses, but the truth is I can’t fix it because I’m a piece of shit.
Ugh. Just kill me. Put me in a plastic bag. Leave me under the bushes.
But don’t. I don’t want to die. I don’t want this to be over.
FUCK.
Whatever, I guess. Fuck it.
I thought the curiosity of what was going to happen next in this piece was outstanding. And even though it seemed very fucking coincidental that all of this shit was intertwined, I didn’t care that I could see most of it coming because I wanted to see how it was going to come.
And I liked some of the phrasing. I’m going to steal “big, dumb dump truck of a face”. That shit is priceless.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do when I stop writing this letter. Like, everything outside this page is hard. Maybe I’ll go for a walk. Breathe some air. Continue to ponder what the fuck is supposed to happen for me and why I think there is some “supposed to” out there, because there just isn’t. There just fucking isn’t.
Jesus Christ. I can’t believe you just let me go on and on like this. Oh, that is because you don’t care. Yeah, I remember now.
Anyway, I’m not totally cool with TC, but I liked this story. Very refreshing from you guys. But I always want to cry and shit, feel less alone and shit, and this didn’t do that. Not even close. I mean look at this letter. It’s just a man who is so desperately alone that he’s half-having a panic attack on the page, writing to a magazine, weekly, for almost five years and has never once received a reply. That’s nearly 250 letters. Huzzah! Who’s dumb now!
Me.
Fuck. My heart might actually go.
See you next week.
Maybe.
Nick
