July 8th, 2024 - The Hadal Zone
Dear TNY,
I should have “read” “The Hadal Zone” first, out of all the fiction issues stories, because it’s fucking unreadable and I couldn’t even skim it. Just fucking stopped. Could have saved some time.
I want to say the author loves the sound of her, yes her, voice. But if I say that, a former girlfriend creeps in my head and says, “Why don’t you point the finger at yourself.” And that’s fair. Here we go, folks.
So this story is shit because it doesn’t respect the reader. It’s obviously written by someone that is in love with their own fucking bullshit, their own views and details and wonderment at all this horsecockery. And you published it because she’s got a name. Oh boy! A name! But the reality is that this isn’t gripping. It doesn’t present anything at risk. It’s not compelling. No shirt collars were grabbed up. It’s just a series of words that don’t engage. And the words, as they are arranged, aren’t even beautiful for beauty’s sake. It’s a vacuum manual, the section on emptying the canister (or changing the bag out for you old folks!). It’s a contract you get from a website that you just click “accept” on. It’s a waste of a human’s life, one fucking second at a time, as you read through this bullshit. If you can stomach reading it.
Finger pointing now: I often criticize your fiction because of the exposition. The interiority. The backstory. The non-scene musings. But that’s what I write these days, just nonfic. I write these long-ass, nonfic sentences that are narcissistic horsecock. I hate it when you publish that. But I go back and read my own shit; I go back for the sound of my own voice. I go back because I thought something I did was clever or beautiful. So I also am a piece of shit. Undeserving of publication. Undeserving of a platform to dissect one’s art because my art is also shit. Undeserving of readers. Undeserving of love. Life. Food. Air. Someone who absolutely obsesses about me the way I obsess about you. It’s how I obsess about all my passions. But that’s also a waste of time. An unheard song. A voice so quiet that an errant fart can disrupt it.
So, I too love the sound of my voice, as stated. I too think I’m important and my words are important. I too think that I should have a platform to spread my thoughts, like some kind of Zyklon B. So, do I have a right to criticize? I sure do. Because you can’t stop opinions. They are like the fall of civilization due to climate change. But should I criticize? Interesting question. I don’t know.
But to be honest, I don’t care right now. All I want to do is finish this letter and lay down. My knee is blown out. I have so much work to do on my son’s new car. My heart is perpetually broken. Like, day after day after day after day. It never stops. A million opportunities for anyone, literally anyone to show up at the doorstep and say, “I’m excited to spend time with you.” But, poopoo fucking peepee. Also, to be clear, the right person showed up. It’s also how one shows up. How matters too, guys. You know this.
I got asked the other day, “What makes a good blowjob?” And my response, immediately, was, “Be excited about it.” And she was like, “No, what are tips and tricks?” I said the same thing again, be excited. And she said, “No really, I want to know.” And I repeated myself. But that’s really, when we get down to it, what we are talking about, isn’t it? Be fucking excited the other person exists and tell them about it. Often. I watched a friend get married a few weeks back and the woman he is married to now, when she was giving her vows, was catastrophically excited to tie herself to this man forever. Even though she’s 20 years younger. Knowing she’ll probably watch him die. Hell, they have cried about that fact together. Yesterday, someone told me dudes are looking for a unicorn. And that conversation went away, so very far away from the point. But here, I’ll tell you what dudes are looking for: someone to be excited about them, someone to be nice to them, someone who doesn’t make them feel like suicide is the only option.
Yeah man, some of us feel that bad. I got asked the other day why I still think about suicide. Literally, she said, “Aren’t you supposed to be getting happier?” How do you explain to someone who does not possess the skills to hear you that, in fact, they are the one who is making you feel so shitty all the time and that you’d like them to stop. Not go away. Not tell you that it’s your problem to fix. Not make you believe that you are asking too much or that you aren’t enough. But to sit and listen quietly. Exercise their empathy, and then turn that fucking train around so you don’t have to lose them because you love them and they don’t have to lose you. Because that’s what’s going to happen. When all that a fella wants is 40 years writing one of the most beautiful narratives that’s ever been written. Selfless, singing, supportive, caring, funny, dark, lovely, and wonderful. To give my life to someone. And to accept theirs in return.
There I go again, rambling incessantly. Loving the sound of my own shit. Wasting your time. My time. No one is going to read this anyway. I often think of that and this project and other writers that I know. Or have read about. David Foster Wallace all the way down to Ben. I wonder if people ever stop to ask themselves why do these people choose paper? Why do they talk to no one? Why bleed and dig their deepest emotional trenches to try to understand themselves, others, and humanity at large if no one is going to listen? And even if you get to DFW stage, and lots of people read it, why keep going?
Who doesn’t want to be heard? Fuck, I sure would. Paper doesn’t interrupt. Paper doesn’t gaslight. Paper doesn’t take sides. Paper fucking listens. Paper’s blank stare asks for more. A total exploration of a point to be dropped at its empty, white doorstep. Maybe all the readers, if any, are just a side effect. A bonus. Maybe motherfuckers just want to be heard. Are fucking desperate to be heard. Seen. Witnessed. I was here! I existed! You existed! We all existed together!
Still rambling. Fuck me, someone stop me.
Okay, back to the self-criticality on writing.
It turns out that contrary to my own beliefs, I’m not important. I’m another mouth to feed. I’m air being wasted. Don’t we all want to be important? Worthy of this life? That’s crazy because the odds are that most of us aren’t at all. Which is fine, I guess. Turns out I’m with the odds and that’s fine. I am told that I need to learn to be happy and keep living. For everyone else. Which is fucking hilarious. FUCKING HILARIOUS. Because the amount of attention that I give to others vs them me is comical. One day someone will figure this math out, that a person’s heart can only dole out so much before a lack of input will smoosh it, and that person will chart it and quantify it…and still no one will care. But that’s being human, baby! Tragedy of the commons, except in this case the commons won’t be resources, the commons will be love, completely raped and ravaged, from those with the giant, wonderful hearts, but humanity will go on forever eating itself. Ouroboros, baby!
Anyway, I didn’t even remotely read this whole story. It was so self absorbed (like me!), so overwrought, so much disrespect in the face of the reading audience, so much of a fucking waste of time. I didn’t even skim it. I just quit.
Well, that’s the fiction issue. Out of order and only you’ll care about that, if you do at all. If anyone fucking cares about what I have to say. Spoiler alert! They don’t! I’m text on a screen! I’m not real! I want to be a real boy! A real fucking boy! Come find me and prove I’m real! Just kidding because that ain’t happening. I’ll be replaced by AI and you’ll never know I died. From a broken heart.
Here’s to shutting up and going along with the rest of you folks, saying everything is cool knowing that you are all just as lost as me, knowing that everything is most certainly not cool but there’s no way to address that so I’ll pretend, knowing that you just don’t see it yet because illusions and stationary living are two great drugs. And let’s all do a line of “self-importance” while we are at it. Get hopped up on our own music. Let’s dance by ourselves in front of the mirror, take a vid of it, post it on Tiktok, and see how many likes we get. Hell, let’s blog every week about the quality of the short fiction in The New Yorker! Let’s throw it all away! No one is watching or going to rescue you anyway. Why? How many people have you rescued? Zero? Then that’s what you can expect from your fellow man (or woman, or whatever). So, I guess we deserve it. Let’s party like we are already living in the ashes, baby!
Yuck. What a fucking loser I’ve become. Just a fucking wet bag of motherfucking need. So fun. So. Much. Fun.
Nick
