The Literary Caste System

I blogged at PEN today about my sordid childhood reading list. You can read it here. It got me thinking about the literary caste system, which I didn’t even know existed until I started writing. It’s kind of fucking me up.

When I was a kid, I read what I could get my hands on. Sometimes it was relatively highbrow (Look Homeward, Angel, for example, when I was wayyy too young to be reading it), sometimes not (book I can no longer remember the name of that featured a girl giving a blowjob in every single chapter, ditto). Honestly? They were pretty much indistinguishable to me at the time. My only requirement was a deep well of elsewhere to fall into.

I picked books in the library by wandering the stacks of fiction and pulling titles that appealed to me. I’d crouch down right there in the musty aisles and read until my legs got sore or I got bored, whichever came first. If I read long enough to need to stand up and stretch, I’d check the book out. I was only allowed ten at a time, so I chose carefully.

When I started writing in 2006, I had a lot of makeup reading to do. The recommendations poured in like rainwater. Stacks of partially read books accumulated on my bedside table and spilled over into piles on the floor. I started to feel guilty about not being able to get through some literary darlings. I bought and gave away Housekeeping several times. Ditto The Corrections and Infinite Jest. For the first time in my life, reading started to feel like a chore.

Concurrently, I was fortunate enough to attend a couple of prestigious residencies.

“Oh, you write memoir,” the PhD poet said one night at dinner. “That’s…[glacial pause]…interesting.”

A similar story is better told here. It’s endemic.  

And another writer acquaintance told me the story of a lout at a fancy colony we’ve both attended who cocked a eyebrow and said, in that voice, when he heard she writes YA, “oh, are there vampires in it?” Bitch, please. I can’t out her here, it’s not my story to tell, but believe me, her book is stone fucking brilliant and his is…well, thus far his is unpublished. And I’m not unhappy about that.

I’m all over the place today, but my point is that there are all kinds of great books in the world. I read everything. Don’t you?

The silver lining in meeting people who openly display their disdain for genre writing is that it makes it easy to choose a different seat when I next find myself in a room with them. Life’s too fucking short. Also, the conversation at the Untouchables table is SO much more interesting.

Don’t get me wrong, I know some amazing highbrow writers who are earthy and funny and kind and real. My litmus test occurs when I say I haven’t read [insert any of the numerous classics from the pantheon here]. If there’s a slight nostril flare or a raised eyebrow, they’re dead to me. The real literary gods light up like I just gave them a present.

“You haven’t?” they say, eyes gleaming. “Oh, you’ve got such a treat in store.”

Those are my people.

A Better Version Of Me

I was going to post a video of Fiona Apple singing “Better Version Of Me,” but I found a live version of “Extraordinary Machine” that was so spectacular I wanted to share it instead. They’re both about dealing with adversity, so I felt like I was covered. And she’s so fucking brilliant. (I, on the other hand, am not, because I couldn’t even fucking figure out how to embed a video, and I finally gave up. It’s here.)

Over here on the PEN blog, I’m talking about Google self-diagnosis, perfectionism, and my ongoing quest to drag my fucking book across the finish line. And there’s a great Bukowski video, because they’re pros over there. They also get really excited about comments, and I’d love to hear how you transcend your sabotage-y impulses. If you have any. Hahahahaha, I can’t even say that with a straight face.

There Is No There There

 

 

I went to a fancy writer’s salon last week. I brought a shitload of wine and cheese and I spent an hour helping set up beforehand and I still felt like a fucking imposter.

Someone got shitfaced and sang Joe Walsh into a microphone. A woman asked me if writing my blog was fun. I was supposed to have dinner with a writer I deeply admire, but the night slipped away and it didn’t happen. There was a long conversation where several writer women professed to have big, thick writing cocks. I’m guessing at least one of them didn’t remember it the next day.

In quasi-related news, I had an email exchange with a young writer about fellowships and writer’s block and what can really fuck us up and I wrote about it here. It wasn’t fun.

Jump

 

I’m talking about the difference between getting pushed off a cliff and choosing to jump over on the PEN Center USA blog.

Unlike my misanthropic and control-freaky need to keep comments locked up tighter than a [insert inappropriate religious/virginal/vaginal slur here], they love the discourse over there, so pop on over and share your thoughts on getting to the finish line on a project or whatever.

Today In Writer Self-Sabotage

I’m talking about applying to writer’s colonies over on the PEN Center USA blog today. I’d love it if my writer peeps would pop over and tell their own application/residency stories in the comments section. Go here and tell me a story. Good or bad. Because misery loves company, and, alternatively, I could also use a shot of good news.

I Want To Be Sedated

 

I’m talking about my ugly defense mechanisms and my ongoing struggle with writing over at the PEN USA Mark blog. There’s also a great interview with the Writer Whisperer here.

I’m Not Sick, But I’m Not Well

I’ve been having a bunch of stupid, stress-related health stuff lately, including a headache that I’ve literally had for three weeks. Life goes on, but I haven’t had the energy to muster up a blog post for a while, plus all I really want to do is complain about my aches, pains, and resentments. If you’re going to sit through that, you should probably just call [insert your most annoying relative here] and keep it in the family.

I’ve had a couple of PEN blog posts since I last posted here; if you’re interested, you can read them here, and here.

And I was interviewed by Meredith Resnick over at The Writer’s Inner Journey. You can read it here.

I’ll be back as soon as I have something more interesting to talk about than my doctor’s appointments or the fact that I still lie awake in bed at night plotting revenge fantasies on someone who–I can 100% guarantee you–hasn’t thought about me in years. (Yes, one of the aforementioned doctors is a therapist.)

Good times.