story in rtf format
He tells me that he wrote a novel once, that he knows it's
no big deal, that everyone's done it, that it doesn't even require
talent, just the belief you have it, a belief so rampant it's best
described as an epidemic. Andy's is a classical Greek dialogue between
the state of nature and contemporary pop culture. Judith's is an existential
first-person narrative told from the perspective of processed food.
His mother's is a scathing imagining of the alternate life left unlived
by a middle-aged housewife whose children have left home, modeled
after herself, but more archetypal than autobiographical, so she claims.
He says that the words people use to describe their novels are generally
every bit as meaningless as the work itself, that they're divorced
from definitions, that people insist that they mean what they want
them to at the time regardless
of what ideas the words contained within this unpublished avalanche
actually represent. Black is white. Up is down. Orwell is Huxley.
That it all stems from the arrogant notion that we have something
to say, that our story is different, somehow unique from the constraints
of the human experience of being born, eating, drinking, sleeping,
breathing, working, dreaming, loving, fucking, fighting, eventually
writing a bad novel, and finally dying over the whole sorry experience.
he says that his is different.
course, he tells me, we all say that ours is different, but that his
really is, even though none of them really are. Still, his is. It's
tells me that everyone who's read it has never spoken to him again,
and he's not talking about publishing industry people avoiding his
phone calls. Friends, lovers, family; gone. All whose eyes have skimmed