Well boys and girls it's been a long lay off but perhaps I'm back. Or, maybe I ain't. Hard to tell lately if I'm alive or dead. Maybe both. Certainly each condition has it's own population of well-wishers.
I'd like to spend today's blog on talking about James Frey's novel, A Bright Shining Morning. For those of you who might not know who James Frey is, he's the guy who wrote A Million Tiny Pieces, supposedly a biographical book that turned out not to be so biographical and as much fiction as fact. For this he got reamed out by our darling, Oprah, because she was among Frey's ardent supporters and had picked the book for whatever it is she's calling it - Book of the Month or Oprah's books or whatever. She wasn't too happy knowing she'd been duped. I'm not too happy with the NY Times rave review of Frey's novel. I feel like I was also duped!
This is a complete waste of any one's reading time. The prose itself is akin to something a high school freshman might write believing himself to be the ghost of Norman Mailer. Oh, only if Morning were even that good.
The novel is rife with repetition for repetition's sake and not as a literary device. Every time Frey repeats himself, generally at the end of each chapter, it's as though he can't think of anything else to write, so he just writes the same word repeatedly.
Then too, his characters are vacuous: a Mexican girl with overly large thighs, a homeless man living in a public bathroom, a handsome married, but gay, actor - can we say, Rock Hudson anyone? A pair of on-the-run teens living in a cheap motel - perhaps the only characters in the book who summon even an ounce of interest from the reader. Each chapter follows one of the characters and their plight while living in Los Angeles.
Obviously Frey wants to impress us with his knowledge, both present and historical, about the City of Angels. He inserts between chapters small historical tidbits about L.A., such as the first guy to buy an automobile and subsequently is killed in L.A.'s first auto crash; this, followed by a similar death of the guy's son. My question to all this is, "Who gives a rat's butt?" If I wanted history lessons I'd have bought a Fodor Travel Guide.
But being keen on history myself, I could have tolerated Frey's attempt to woo us with the unusual inserts if only he could write interesting fiction. I ground my teeth through a couple of hundred pages, hoping, hoping, hoping, (to paraphrase our boy) it would grow into something - and, maybe it does eventually, but I've only been given so many hours, days, weeks, months and years to live and I did not want to die with this book in my hands. Hemingway maybe, or James Salter, but not A Bright Shining Morning. Ye gads, all my ex-lovers, wives and sworn enemies would have a field day with that information. I'd be cast out of the Literary Guild even though I'm not a member and drummed out of Dante's Inferno, even though I probably should be there trying to win Francesca's poor heart.
Save your dough. If you want bad writing, may I recommend something by, oh, let's see ... Me!
I'm almost too distraught to tell you about some things that happened on this day in History, but, I'll give it my best:
Mary Surratt became the first woman executed by the United State Government for her role in the Lincoln conspiracy.
Today is listed as the birthday of Sherlock Holmes' right hand man, Dr. Watson (1852)
Elvis made his radio debut in Memphis, singing "That's All Right."
It's the birthday of Sci-fi writer Robert A Heinlein
And because I've been such a good boy lately, Big Sal allowed me to post the following:
Writing Assignment
Teacher tell me to write.
I say, write what?
She say, Whatever you want.
I say I can’t think of nothing.
She say write about anything.
In my mind, I say, Hell, but
Start to write. Silly shit
At first – something about a
Cat being hit and run over
By a car and a tree and a
Flower. Nothing connected to
Nothing else. I look at the
Clock, everybody’s still
Writing except me. I
Write about a man going
Over a hill by himself.
He comes to this old house
And stops and knocks on
The door and a dog comes out
And bites him on the
Goddamn leg and he yelps and
Kicks at the dog.
Then the man who lives
In the house and obviously
Owns the goddamn dog
Comes out with a gun and says
Don’t kick my dog.
Then this beautiful woman comes
Out dressed all in red with her
Titties half hanging out and
It turns out she’s the daughter of the
Man with the gun.
Next thing he knows he’s out in
Barn with her and they fucking
Even though the man with the gun
Said he could spend the night but not
To fool around with his daughter.
He’s this farmer, see, this man who
Has the gun and the goddamn dog.
But they fuck anyway because she’s
More beautiful than any woman
He’s ever seen and can’t resist the
Temptation and suddenly the
Man comes into the barn with his gun
And he’s mad as hell and the goddamn
Dog is there too, barking his ass
Off and then the teacher says,
Pencils down and that’s all I got
To write but it was turning out
To be a pretty good story.
And I’m wondering what’s
Going to happen next and
Maybe this writing shit ain’t so hard after all.
do well, keep the peace, don't curse and send money whenever you have extra
http://www.authorbillbrooks.com/
I'd like to spend today's blog on talking about James Frey's novel, A Bright Shining Morning. For those of you who might not know who James Frey is, he's the guy who wrote A Million Tiny Pieces, supposedly a biographical book that turned out not to be so biographical and as much fiction as fact. For this he got reamed out by our darling, Oprah, because she was among Frey's ardent supporters and had picked the book for whatever it is she's calling it - Book of the Month or Oprah's books or whatever. She wasn't too happy knowing she'd been duped. I'm not too happy with the NY Times rave review of Frey's novel. I feel like I was also duped!
This is a complete waste of any one's reading time. The prose itself is akin to something a high school freshman might write believing himself to be the ghost of Norman Mailer. Oh, only if Morning were even that good.
The novel is rife with repetition for repetition's sake and not as a literary device. Every time Frey repeats himself, generally at the end of each chapter, it's as though he can't think of anything else to write, so he just writes the same word repeatedly.
Then too, his characters are vacuous: a Mexican girl with overly large thighs, a homeless man living in a public bathroom, a handsome married, but gay, actor - can we say, Rock Hudson anyone? A pair of on-the-run teens living in a cheap motel - perhaps the only characters in the book who summon even an ounce of interest from the reader. Each chapter follows one of the characters and their plight while living in Los Angeles.
Obviously Frey wants to impress us with his knowledge, both present and historical, about the City of Angels. He inserts between chapters small historical tidbits about L.A., such as the first guy to buy an automobile and subsequently is killed in L.A.'s first auto crash; this, followed by a similar death of the guy's son. My question to all this is, "Who gives a rat's butt?" If I wanted history lessons I'd have bought a Fodor Travel Guide.
But being keen on history myself, I could have tolerated Frey's attempt to woo us with the unusual inserts if only he could write interesting fiction. I ground my teeth through a couple of hundred pages, hoping, hoping, hoping, (to paraphrase our boy) it would grow into something - and, maybe it does eventually, but I've only been given so many hours, days, weeks, months and years to live and I did not want to die with this book in my hands. Hemingway maybe, or James Salter, but not A Bright Shining Morning. Ye gads, all my ex-lovers, wives and sworn enemies would have a field day with that information. I'd be cast out of the Literary Guild even though I'm not a member and drummed out of Dante's Inferno, even though I probably should be there trying to win Francesca's poor heart.
Save your dough. If you want bad writing, may I recommend something by, oh, let's see ... Me!
I'm almost too distraught to tell you about some things that happened on this day in History, but, I'll give it my best:
Mary Surratt became the first woman executed by the United State Government for her role in the Lincoln conspiracy.
Today is listed as the birthday of Sherlock Holmes' right hand man, Dr. Watson (1852)
Elvis made his radio debut in Memphis, singing "That's All Right."
It's the birthday of Sci-fi writer Robert A Heinlein
And because I've been such a good boy lately, Big Sal allowed me to post the following:
Writing Assignment
Teacher tell me to write.
I say, write what?
She say, Whatever you want.
I say I can’t think of nothing.
She say write about anything.
In my mind, I say, Hell, but
Start to write. Silly shit
At first – something about a
Cat being hit and run over
By a car and a tree and a
Flower. Nothing connected to
Nothing else. I look at the
Clock, everybody’s still
Writing except me. I
Write about a man going
Over a hill by himself.
He comes to this old house
And stops and knocks on
The door and a dog comes out
And bites him on the
Goddamn leg and he yelps and
Kicks at the dog.
Then the man who lives
In the house and obviously
Owns the goddamn dog
Comes out with a gun and says
Don’t kick my dog.
Then this beautiful woman comes
Out dressed all in red with her
Titties half hanging out and
It turns out she’s the daughter of the
Man with the gun.
Next thing he knows he’s out in
Barn with her and they fucking
Even though the man with the gun
Said he could spend the night but not
To fool around with his daughter.
He’s this farmer, see, this man who
Has the gun and the goddamn dog.
But they fuck anyway because she’s
More beautiful than any woman
He’s ever seen and can’t resist the
Temptation and suddenly the
Man comes into the barn with his gun
And he’s mad as hell and the goddamn
Dog is there too, barking his ass
Off and then the teacher says,
Pencils down and that’s all I got
To write but it was turning out
To be a pretty good story.
And I’m wondering what’s
Going to happen next and
Maybe this writing shit ain’t so hard after all.
do well, keep the peace, don't curse and send money whenever you have extra
http://www.authorbillbrooks.com/
1 comment:
What do you suppose there is about the publishing biz that draws the big houses to people like Frey? Certainly they're not doing it to further the literary arts. hmmm. Must be that the bean counters are in charge, ponying up paper for any scam artist that might catch the public's eye.
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