Look, friends, I was going to tell you to read the book Lush Life by Richard Price. This blog entry was supposed to be dedicated to my own personal love letter to Price's work, how ever since I first read Samaritan I've been captivated by Price's mastery of dialogue, his ability to capture slang, his understanding of the gritty underbelly of city life. I was going to point you in the direction of a fantastic New Yorker article about his use of dialogue, and then make some comments about the NYC hipster culture he skews in his new book, and how I can relate to that because I know, understand and sometimes feel like I get caught up in the terrible toolness that comes with said culture, and then I was going to sign off with a song from 88 and we were all going to go about our day and do some bikram yoga. But then I read the NYTimes, and I realized that James Frey has a new book and I decided I would rather talk about that. So I deleted my Price post. That doesn't change the fact that I think you should still read Price and that New Yorker article about dialogue and anything else I might have mentioned, it just means that we are shifting topics, and I  have an issue focusing.

Anyway, I never read A Million Little Pieces. I knew lots of people who did and who loved the book with an unimaginable type of enthusiasm, people like my sister, who felt compelled to write him a note, post-reading. And maybe that partially explained why I wasn't that upset about finding out he'd fabricated and expanded on sections of the book. I fell under the camp of people who remained confused as to why he didn't just offer up some sort of disclaimer at the front, much like Dave Eggers did in A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. People, I thought, don't care about whether or not something is completely true--the imagination and the senses care more about whether something is moving, well-written, and powerful-- they just don't want to be lied to. In other words, Frey's post-story lie was much more powerful and ultimately fatal than his fictions within the book. And yeah, Oprah did her holier-than-thou Chi-town stomp on him in real time, and yeah he became a walking billboard for the death of the memoir (speaking of which, fantastic article about Augusten Burroughs and his memory in last weeks New York magazine), and yes, there were and are many reasons to never read anything else by Frey, but, still, I couldn't help but find myself enthused by the positive review in the Times.

You see, I have this theory about writing and writers. My theory goes like this: no matter who you are and where you are from and what your parents do for a living, if you can write and you know you can and you work at it every day and you know deep below the surface in that place where only the truth exists that you're not just being daft and irrational, you will get discovered. This may take weeks or it may take years or it may take decades, but my feeling is that good, solid writing rises to the top. Editors can spot  it. Agents can spot it. Other writers can spot it. And this is the beauty of the writing world. You always have to fall back on your own talent. Yes, you may get put in a prime spot by things like connections or nepotism or the lottery, but if the writing doesn't hold up, you will fall and ultimately you will fail. That--more than anything else-- is the powerful self-correcting agent in the writing world. And--despite all of my cynicism and my love of irony and all of the other knee-jerk reactive habits infused in me by my age, social standing and penchant for limited edition sneakers-- I believe in that. If I had a mantra, that would be it. Good writing rises to the top. It's not catchy, it doesn't sound good in a Nike commercial or on a lower back tattoo, but that is what I believe.

ANYWAY, the reason James Frey's positive review sparked this stream-of-conscious impromptu speech is because, ultimately, maybe his writing holds up. Maybe his writing is good enough to supersede all of the stupid personal egotastic mistakes the rest of him made. I say maybe, because I don't know. And I'm sure there will be people coming down hard on both sides; people hurt by his fabrications or people who just think he's a crappy writer or don't read this sort of stuff or people mad because he already got his time in the light and they want it too. And yes, these are all valid reasons not to read his work, but those don't matter to me as much. I don't think people should be forever buried on one mistake.

To illustrate my point, I leave you with a quote from the first scene of the pilot of my favorite creative vice of all time, The Wire. Detective McNulty is sitting on a Baltimore stoop talking to a witness who was playing dice with the victim of the homicide, a kid whose name is--awesomely--Snot Boogie. The wit is talking about how every time Snot Boogie played he would inevitably steal the money from the dice game and so McNulty asks him a question:

McNulty: I got to ask you, if every time Snot Boogie would grab the money and run away, why did you even let him in the game?
Snot Boogies Pal: What?
McNulty: If Snot Boogie always stole the money why did you let him play?
Snot Boogies Pal: Got to. This America, man.

His point being that, in America, everyone gets a second chance. And if the person doing that good writing just happens to be James Frey--sinner of sins, liar of lies, anger-er of Oprah--well..I say good for him. After all, this America, man.

Apologies for the book-length work. I hope you find pleasure in the knowledge that we are giving the music of 1988 a second chance as well.

One More,
Try

George Michael

Defending a thesis is a lot like trying out for your high school's  
theater company's production of Rent. You spend a lot of time  
worrying and practicing beforehand, but in the end, you realize your  
uncredited role as the second waitress at the Cat Scratch Club mostly  
involves just being there.

My thesis defense played out like so: I met with my advisor and  
reader in my advisor's office. They sat across from me with my thesis  
stacked up in front of them. They made eye contact several times, got  
water, grabbed pens they forgot to bring in, went back out to look  
for the reader's copy of my manuscript, realized she'd forgotten it  
at home, came back in, shifted in their seats and began talking.

My reader--who I didn't know before and has the reputation of being  
very blunt--offered me congratulations for finishing my novel. This,  
she said, was a big deal as many students turn in manuscripts that  
aren't complete. Thus ending the compliments portion of her show. She  
then told me that now it was time to re-write. And re-write again.  
And again. Saul Bellow, she pointed out, revised Herzog twenty times.
"Wow," I said, trying to break the tension I felt pouring over me. "I  
draw the line at thirteen." (deciding at the last minute to omit adding, "Zing!!!")

She paused for a second as if weighing the pro's and con's of  
eliciting a fake laugh, decided against it and then proceeded to  
skewer my novel for the next forty five minutes. My narrator--she  
points out-- isn't engaged, doesn't enter into conflict, seems  
unconcerned about whatever is going on around him, never actively  
does anything, merely observes, forgets to recycle, doesn't get up  
for older folk on the subway, eats food with the bad kind of  
cholesterol, kicks (small) dogs, doesn't know how to whistle and--
given the choice to vote or die--probably wouldn't vote.

When she finished talking, you could feel the air of enthusiasm slide  
out of me. All I could think about was the amount of work that I'd  
put into the book, and then I thought about having to do that twenty  
more times, and then I thought about applying for a job at Espresso  
Royale, and then I thought about actively working with the hippies  
and always smelling like patchouli and exotic blends of coffee, and  
then I thought about whether or not they would care if I curled up  
into a ball and assumed the fetal position for the rest of the  
defense. I was giving up. They'd sunk my (Electronic) Battleship.

But then my advisor saved the day.

Given, she did offer critiques and say that i needed to work more on  
the book, but she also gently put me back into the right state,  
unpacking the harsh mental baggage that my reader made me carry and  
putting it away in the proper drawers.

She found a character she loved, asked that the story focus more on  
the narrator's relationship with her, and figured out real ways to  
improve my book without making me think that someone should bury my  
novel in a time capsule. I was so relieved by my advisor's words that  
I almost jumped across the desk and hugged her when it was all  
finished, something her aversion to physical contact would not have  
been cool with.

So, friends, this leaves me with about a months worth of hard work  
before I do the show and tell agent style, but at the very least,  I  
am done. I survived my defense.  No more MFA. After five years of  
post grad education, two masters degrees of debatable merit, and  
several changes in my wardrobe, I can safely say I don't want to  
think about a syllabus again for at least 3-5 years.

Then I'll probably get my PhD (JK, dad!).

And now that I have fully recovered, expect mo' blogs and mo' money
interaction via the Commenting portion of the show. You complete me.

Need You,
Tonight

INXS