March 24th, 2025 - The Frenzy

Dear TNY,

I’m sitting in a very familiar spot in a very well-known (to me) coffee shop in Fruita, Colorado, having just finished “The Frenzy”.

In fact, I’ve written a number of stories from this chair.  “Kong” and “The Tree” and “Fruita, Colorado” and dozens of FTNY posts.  It’s been some time since I have sat here, though.  I think maybe in January of 2023?  A lot has changed since then.  I was talking to a woman at a restaurant last night and we were trying to figure out the last time we had seen each other.  And it was before Christmas in 2022.  I explained that I moved to Hawaii, fell in love, lost Ben, fell out of love, fell in love again, then that imploded as well, I blew out my knee, built a car with my sons, and then fell into a depression so deep I didn’t think I’d find my way out.  And to be honest, I’m not sure I have.  According to the experts, I’ve been depressed for a very long time.  So I don’t know what “not depressed” feels like (at least, not what daily normalcy feels like; I am aware of glee, joy, excitement, etc).  Right now I don’t feel like I’m dying nor do I want to die (I do want to close to the door to this coffeeshop because I’m unclear how these fucking people open it, walk in, and then fail to close it, like their fucking parents never taught them a goddamn thing; speaking of, selfishness has been on my mind a lot lately and I see it in so many places that I look).

I guess it’s good not to want to die.  And not to feel like death is stalking you.  But the road in front of me looks a little foggy.  A haze is reducing visibility.  I hope what’s out there is okay.  And that I can write more stories from this chair.  That would be nice.

Back to our scheduled programming, obviously this story is crafted with a deft hand.  The pacing.  Imagery.  Word choice.  Momentum.  Tension.  It’s all there.  And yes, I did note the author.  Obviously a legend in the industry.  I get it.  But the story stands on its own, without her name attached.  I was engaged.  And it moved with purpose.  And I appreciated those aspects.

But, there was no transcendence.  No beauty.  Actually, to me it felt baity.  I felt like, as the reader, I was being baited with the girl, the potential for sex, the guy and his seemingly unapologetic infidelity.  Really, with all of it.  I thought I was getting another “Cat Person” for a minute as well.  But what really happened was nothing.  I was unable to have any empathy for the guy, even before he was a dick at the end.  Because his reasons for courting this girl and blowing his life up, while relatable, were hackneyed, rendering him a pathetic character.  And as far as the teenage mistress goes, I didn’t feel empathy for her either.  She clearly wanted attention and was using this man for his means and said attention (I’m sure he was one of many being used), yet failing to provide anything to him that was meant just for him, instead, doling out crumbs of attention that happened to fall out during his necessary manipulation to continue getting the attention she was after.  So we have two douchebags who are lost in life.  And by the end of the story, neither become better.  He was rough with her.  And then she stole all of his shit and left him naked.  Cool story, guys.  Neither one will make it out in the world.  Both are fucking selfish.  Both are self-centered.  Both painfully lack self-awareness.  Cool fucking story.

So, I question what the point of the story was?  Is the author trying to manipulate us into a desired opinion?  Is this a test of misogyny?  Misandry?  Or is this the place the story wanted to go and the author got out of the way?  Or is this something different?  And does the story work if I can’t attach my feelings to the characters nor am I able to ascertain why it exists (other than to sell more copies of your rag because you know the author’s name brings readers)?

And that’s what I’m left with.  Yes, the craft in this is well-done.  And it reads better than 90% of your short fiction.  But, does it do anything other than look pretty?  No.  So, is the question then:  Is it okay for art just to look pretty and not do much else?  I’m sure the answer is yes.  Yes it is.  But, is that going to help usher humanity to a place of greater compassion and understanding?  Likely not.  Because it doesn’t feel like I was given the opportunity to grow with this.  In fact, as a fit reader (I hope), it feels like most of your pieces are designed for regression.  Which is…disappointing.  But what isn’t disappointing these days?

Boy, one thing comes to mind.  The nicest person on planet earth.  Not for a second, not one time ever. Never disappointing.

Well, on to different things today.  I’m going to meet my youngest’s special lady.  Play some disc golf where she will get frustrated with my son and myself for being better (her request to play, not my idea; she knows we have years and years more experience and she’s never played).  And then we will eat sushi.  I hope it goes well.

I hope a lot of things go well.  Maybe most things.  But not all.  I’m reminded of a story Mr. Chiappone told me once, in which his book of shorts came out and many people in his life read it and said he had an amazing sense of justice.  Yet he had not written any of those stories to represent justice.  It was just his hand acting for its own sake, for justice.  That’s how I feel about things going well.  Sometimes they shouldn’t.  Even for me.  Because justice.

On that dark note, I’ll see you next time.

Nick

P.S. This fucking shit rang so true, so goddamn true:

He wasn’t angry with her then, isn’t angry with her now. That’s the surprise of it, every time: how you forgive them.

Oh, the middle third got too fucking slow with backstory and I spaced out. Thanks.