Words! Words! A Plague of Words!

Took two books with me on a recent trip to Florida: Louise Erdrich's, A Plague of Doves, and Charles Bukowski's, Pleasures of the Damned so I'd have something to read sitting at poolside instead of having to stare at the walking dead, which Florida has a lot of, me included, it felt like.

I came to determine having read a bit of both books that what's really wrong with much if not most of today's writing and writers is WORDINESS! There, I've said it. The godawful truth is that most contemporary novels are simply as bloated as a dead water buffalo floating in the Ganges. They stink of bloat! You can smell them the minute you open a page and see the density of print, the lack of dialogue, the long, long chapters that meander like a drunk looking for the next bar. No matter how well they're written, nor the notoriety of the author, today's books simply take up too much valuable space and the reader's time, leave too little to the imagination and should be murdered in their infancy.

Needless to say, I ended up reading more of Bukowski than I did of Erdrich - and not for the mere fact that Bukowski is in your face, holds little back - reading him is like talking to a madman - and not because his is poetry and can be read in a much shorter span of time, but because he practically dares you to step outside and go to blows, whereas Erdrich, like so many others takes the easier route, the story-telling route. Reading her is like having tea with your grandmother - sedate, subtle; too subtle for me. Yes, I can smell the wet wool of the story teller's coat who has just come in from the rain, and the woodsmoke and all that, but it's bloodless, much of the words. Tepid as, well, as a cup of tea that's been sitting around too long.

I blame editors and publishers as much for this stinking mess of words as I do writers. Fat books are mere justification for the price's charged for them and to pay a handful of celeb writers good dough to keep churning out more fat books.

That's why I'll take Bukowski or any of the really good poets over a hundred novelists. Sherwood Anderson's, Winesburg Ohio over anything by most of today's best-selling author's. Because Anderson could write a complete story with every chapter, tie them all loosely together and so when you read his most famous work, it was like reading many good novels for the price of one. He let you in the door, let you sit down and observe and come to your own conclusions about whether or not the school teacher was a homosexual and that's why he had to leave his last job and other mysteries that surround his characters.

This plague of words leaves me dead in my tracks, reaching for another jigger of gin, leaves me wishing I was doing anything but trying to wade through the morass. So many words descending on us, stealing our imaginations, even our souls if we're not careful. So many words qualifies us only for joining a book club, but little more. No wonder readership has shrunk. We don't need more words, we need good stories like those told in the posthumous musings of the town's characters in Spoon River Anthology. You want a story to blow your socks off, read Flannery O'Connor's, A Good Man Is Hard To Find. Read any of Hemingway's Short Stories, or the slender beauty, The Great Gatsby, by Fitzgerald and you'll know truly what a novel should be and what it shouldn't be.

Oh yeah, avoid Volusia County Florida at all costs if you can - the speed traps down there are not to be believed and 10 miles over will run you what a good hotel room and a steak dinner would.

Some Stuff that happened this day in History:

Babe Ruth laid down his bat for the final time in 1935.

This is the day that Raymond Carver swore of drinking. I don't know if it helped or hurt his writing but the guy could write!

Thomas Hardy was born on this day (1840)

Allen Ginsburg wrote his first poem - Lysergic Acid (1950)

After an all night love session with Big Sal, I was able to sneak into the vault for this:

The Woman Who Walks Like A Lioness

Have you ever thought
About the possibility
Of us? Oh, not a permanent us,
Of course, there are too many
Years difference in our ages.
But a temporary us, a few hours
Of intimacy that wouldn’t cost
You anything and would be price
Less to me – an hour
Or two is all it would take.

You are beautiful and wise
Beyond your years and the
Hope of all things is still in your eyes as
It used to be in mine.

And while you are planting your seed
In this world, I am weeding my garden
Of thoughts that kill and choke the hope.

You have a way of walking that
Reminds me of a lioness stalking prey.
You take lovers to your bed and
Feed your cat lovely blue bowls of milk.

You read every book twice, and sometimes
Three times, for your appetites are
Voracious, your ribs yet lean
Your sorrows not all counted
Your pleasures not all received.

Well, I shall go and take a nap
Now and wait for death like the
Smartly dressed young businessman
Waiting for his train while idly thinking
Of a woman who walks like a lioness stalking prey.

be of good cheer, stay out of dark places, and be glad you're not the guy standing at the freeway exit with a sign: BROKE NEED HELP!

http://www.authorbillbrooks.com/