April 25th & May 2nd, 2022 - The Repugnant Conclusion
Dear TNY,
“The Repugnant Conclusion” is fucking rubbish.
It’s over 7500 words long and most of them meander, never really grasping the reader (and there’s a “sex” scene for chrissakes; how does that not grasp?). There are about half as many characters as words, too. None of which are memorable in any way. And by that I mean 95% of them show up as cardboard people for the narrator to explore a dumbass inner monologue that is devoid of any real meat. And the monologue seems intentionally over-naïve. Yes, I understand she doesn’t know how to adult. I get that. We’ve all been there. But man, she really doesn’t know stuff. And the remaining characters in this story, while they get more detail and backstory, none of it supports the kind of individualization that’s required to bring any one of them to life. Hell, even the protagonist doesn’t come to life. Either that, or the life that she comes to is so boring who wants to read it? How the fuck did this get selected? Is the point of this story supposed to be a musing on some other literary content? Should we be considering the concept of the repugnant conclusion by the end of this? Should we consider anything? We can’t. Do you know why we can’t? Because we can’t connect. None of this is real. It’s egocentric writing. The author says, “I have a concept, something important to say, something meaningful and I’m going to run with it.” And that’s killed the piece. Because the piece is a living breathing thing. And this author’s intention has suffocated the work, preventing any of these characters, places, and/or scenes from coming to life. And you, TNY, failed to fucking do anything about it. Lemme guess, the names sounded Eastern Bloc-ish, so more war coattails? The author has some work coming out that’s backed by a major publisher? You went to grad school with the author? No, none of these matter. Because the one that it should have been, that the piece was fucking spectacular, was never considered.
I was asked to join a reading group last week because of something I wrote. I consider it an honor and privilege. And they asked me what inspired the piece. How did I get the idea. And I said I was drunk and watching a movie and got in an argument with a friend about which character in the movie was a better kaiju. The next morning I sat down to write a piece about that kaiju and my father and a Jason Isbell song. That’s intention, folks. And then I explained that what came out didn’t want to go my way. It wanted to go its own way. So I cleared all the other shit out of the way, no matter how precious it was to me, and let the story find its way. And I edited it over and over to make sure I was doing service to the story, not that the story was doing service to me. I say that to say this: The people in the reading group were amazed that could be done. And no, I’m not bragging or putting them down. I think the concept was foreign to them because publications like yourself (and social media, advertising, movies, television, and music) have manipulated the people of the western world into believing they are special and unique and what they have to say matters. It doesn’t. If anyone listens, it’s luck. I explained to them that trying to take yourself out of the story is one of the best ways to urge your art to the place where it can change lives. It’s not about you, TNY, or your authors, or selling books, you dumb fucks. Anyway, this reading group was very kind and I enjoyed the experience. I learned something.
I’m going to say something positive about this story. Here’s a sentence:
“Ah, Jesus.” His voice had some kind of regret in it, as if something was going to get him in trouble.
That, “Ah, Jesus,” that’s a man falling into a drug. Spot fucking on.
And now, as I rub my hands together with a big smile on my face, let’s talk about how this is another story about writers. Jesus Fuckwit Christ are you guys easy to read. How fucking stupid do you think we are? Do you even know you are doing this shit? Or are you that thick (not to be mistaken with thicc, which, if you are, send me an email and we can exchange some photos, you saucy sonsabitches; just kidding, Ronan Farrow, these are the jokes and if you don’t like them, I hear from some untrue urban legends about Marilyn Manson that you can remove a couple of ribs to suck your own wang, but maybe you have the beef to do that on your own, in which case, huzzah!)? I can’t believe it still surprises me that you do this shit. It’s so fucking amateurish. But here you are, pimping elitist content that’s not even good.
But I did want to call attention to a paragraph from this story, though. It’s this one:
For the application to work on the literary magazine, you had to read a short story, describe its strengths and weaknesses, and say what revisions you would ask for if you were going to publish it. The story they gave you was about a plumber who had sex with a housewife whose toilet he was fixing. I wrote down some ways that I thought the story could be less dumb. I got onto the fiction board.
If this is correct, then I’d like to immediately be adopted to the “fiction board” at TNY because this project, FTNY, must be the longest running application in your magazine’s history.
So, with boisterous arrogance, you’re welcome (takes bow).
Later, shitbirds.
Nick
P.S. You can see I’m still alive, if you care.
