Diary of a Mad Editor

Archive for November, 2007

He’s a Poseur and He’ll Never Be Any Good

po*seur (poh-zur) n. A person who poses for affect or behaves affectedly.

You see them at every poetry reading, in every coffee house, bar and cafe. You see them on street corners and brooding in the pages of literary publications. You see them on MySpace, Facebook, Friendster, and every other social networking site. The poseur. A black beret or backward baseball cap. A cigarette or a toothpick sticking out of their mouth. That James Dean Too-Cool-for-School scowl on their face. So confident. They want you to believe they are artists and poets of the street. But many of them really grew up in a comfortable suburb. Some of them even went to a private school. Played soccer on the playground. Their perfect, white teeth tell you everything you need to know about them. They want you believe they are socially progressive. They talk about social justice, but ask them to name even one friend of theirs who’s black, brown, gay or grew up in the sticks with a family who shared two teeth between them. Ask them what they read and they will chant that no one writes anything “real” anymore, will quote Bukowski or one of the beats — will mention Micheline, although they’ve never actually read Micheline. What they consider real usually hovers in the vicinity of drinking, fighting and fucking. Drinking? At least when Bukowski wrote about being a drunk he didn’t take himself or the activity so seriously. Fighting? These assholes couldn’t kick their own ass and haven’t been in a real fight in their entire lives — would piss their pants if some a real-life badass got in their shit. Fucking? If they fuck like they write, guaranteed their significant other is balling the pizza boy, or the old dude next door, which generally reinforces their attitude that all women are “whores.”

For example, here’s a recent missive from our old nemesis, B.T. Manheim:

hey assbrain,

heard you got cancer. good news! fuck off and die already. and since you like my poetry so much (ha ha ha), thought i’d send you one to send you over the edge.

flushed away

another bitchwhore
left me

so i tripped thru
the room filled
w/ empty
beer
cans

and straight
to the john
where i took
a big horse
dump and
flushed

quite
satisfied

“send me over the edge”? B.T. your shit puts me to sleep. Seriously, get out of that rathole apartment you say you live in. Take a walk. Get some fresh air to that oxygen-deprived brain of yours. I’m sure even you must have a few brain cells left that can be spared with a little intervention.

Well, if you’ve read one poem by ole B.T., you’ve read them all. Personally, I’m over it. I’m tired of reading submissions from these guys. The Donnie Stricklands and B.T. Manheims, Marc Joyners, Jellyrolls, etc. These apes need to grow up and get a life. There is a whole big bad world of life and literature to discover beyond the narrow realm of the poseur. And as far as talent, they’d be doing all of us a favor retiring their poetic license since they happen not to have any.

And a special note to B.T. — I’m in remission, dickhead. I just can’t die and leave the literary world to jerk-offs like you.

If You’re Going to Drink the Kool-Aid, Make Sure You Like the Flavor

Creative Writing Programs — Christ, there are so many of them. No doubt they’ve become a cottage industry. Are they necessary? No. Not really. But they are not going anywhere. To the extent they bring money and prestige to the colleges that host such programs, they have a purpose. To the extent that some writers benefit from participating in such programs, they have a purpose. To the extent they provide a nice big target for their critics, they have a purpose.

Recently, on Outsider Writers, a discussion took place in the Naked Opinion section of the website about CWP. The jist of the argument was that such programs were unnecessary and that they were a rip-off. It was further suggested that the CWP were responsible for stifling creativity and generating all the bad writing out there. It seemed to me that there is a lot of uninformed opinion on both sides of the argument. That those against CWP are guilty of drinking their own Kool-Aid as much as those staunch advocates of such programs.

I was for most of my writing life a self-taught writer. I learned about the craft from many thousands of books by writers I admired (and some I most certainly didn’t care for). I learned by trial and error. I plugged away for years. I was a kid when I started. About 15 when I first got the courage to submit anything I’d written. 18 when my first piece was published. Plugging away in the small press for years, I never seemed to get very far. My stuff kept getting published, but I just never felt like a success. I had a chip on my shoulder. And I also hated writing programs and felt like they were ruining everything. Oh, I was a militant critic. Everyone in the small press who’d listen to my rants heard my opinions about writing programs. Then something changed. I started editing a literary zine of my own. And I began to realize a) that there was as much bad writing out there from the self-taught writers as there was from the writers with the formal degrees. And b) there were other reasons people attended graduate writing programs other than “learning how to write.” Some wanted the credentials to teach in either the public or private sector. Some wanted to make connections for career reasons so they could better themselves and put food on the table. Some wanted a safe, comfortable environment to complete a writing project that obsessed them. It wasn’t a black and white, right or wrong issue.

Maybe it was post-9/11 angst or a pre-mid-life crisis. Maybe it was a heavy dose of guilt heaped on me about the importance of a good education by my drop-out parents who didn’t want to see me continue to spin my wheels in one dead-end job after another. Maybe it was my own frustration over my status as a small time small press writer. Maybe I had something to prove to the academics who looked down their noses at me. Probably all these things were true and played a part in my decision, at the age of 35, to go back to school and get a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing.

So, in the Spring of 2001, after a disasterous reading I gave in which maybe 10 people showed-up, I started thinking about going back to school. All summer I looked into different schools. Several were interested in me, but I set my sights on three: Notre Dame, American University and Rowan University. Notre Dame, because of its reputation and because I had friends who lived in the region. American University because it seemed like I could get a fellowship and Rowan because it was a new program and because I’d gotten my undergraduate degree there. It was close and I knew the campus. Ultimately, I felt I’d be more comfortable at Rowan — it was a blue-collar school in a blue-collar town and I was a blue-collar kid from the time I was a zygote. So I requested an application and made arrangements to take my Graduate Record Examination. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to send the application in. All Summer it laid on my desk underneath a pile of papers. I felt like I was selling-out and I knew other writers I was friendly with would not be all that supportive. Then 9/11 happened and I started feeling a certain doom — that and the economic fall-out from the attacks started to cause some problems with my job. Lay-offs were coming and although I didn’t expect them for another year or two, I didn’t want to start over again with another company in that same industry. But, the company I worked for would pay my freight at grad school, so I thought I could work for a couple of more years and by the time they got around to getting rid of me I’d have a degree and maybe a bargaining chip for the future. So, I sent the application in with the necessary writing samples and references. Around Christmas time I got accepted into the program. I also got laid-off from my job sooner than I expected. I had a choice to make — go back to school with help from a loan or forget about it and go on with my life the way I’d being going on with my life. After a couple of weeks of indecision, I sent my letter of intent and decided to start in the Fall of 2002. I burned through my unemployment insurance over the Winter months and started a teaching job with the local school district that Spring.

My first semester in the program was hard because I was trying to take a full load of classes, work and maintain Asterius Press. It was too difficult and although my GPA didn’t suffer, I realized that going part-time might be better. As such, it took me 3 years instead of 2 to finish.
I had this attitude going in and in fact told a professor that “I’m here until you kick me out, I decide to leave or I graduate, whichever comes first.” Well, they didn’t kick me out and after awhile, I was so close to graduating it didn’t make much sense to leave.

The main thing was that the program wasn’t entirely what I expected it would be. I can’t speak for other programs, but none of my professors demanded that I drink the Kool-Aid as a pre-requisite for graduating. A few of them even openly admired certain of the same “self-taught” underground writers I admired. I’m sure my experience was made more positive because I wasn’t some fresh-faced kid who was just starting out. Indeed, I was treated more like a peer than a student. I had an easy time. I didn’t have to suck-up to anyone. I dominated every lecture and workshop and the profs let me. I was free to be me. I wrote what I wanted to write and no one tried to change that. Some of the classes bored me and were a waste of my time. I didn’t even bother signing-up for any poetry workshops even though it’d be an easy ‘A’ for me. Other classes I actually loved. This one class, Literary Journalism, I loved so much, I signed-up for twice. Students were allowed to take the workshop classes more than once.

Was it completely free of bullshit? No. Of course not. The workshops weren’t always very useful. There were one or two students I didn’t get along with. I did think there were students who weren’t very talented and couldn’t see how they were let into the program. And even though there were one or two profs who tried their damndest to educate the students about the harsh reality of being a writer — that their degree wasn’t necessarily going to be the keys to the kingdom, there were many others who were offering the Kool-Aid to anyone dumb enough to drink it. And some did drink it. Some developed the most precious attitudes about their mediocre writing because they drank it.

Two years after graduating, I’m divided as to whether I think it was worth it. Money-wise, I think I’d probably be better off had I not gone. On the other hand, as a writer, I’m more well-rounded than I was before I went. I was exposed to some wonderful literature that even I hadn’t heard of before and probably wouldn’t have discovered on my own. It was nice to be in a place that I could actually have an intelligent conversation about writing and literature. You can’t always do that with self-educated writers because not all of them are that well-read or have the range and vocabulary to hold up their end of the conversation. Hell, it was nice, for a time, to simply feel understood and appreciated for my writing skill rather than dealing with people who either liked or disliked my writing for all the wrong reasons. It wasn’t a place to learn to write. It was a place to learn about myself as a writer. it was a fucking vacation from the underground small press I’d been swimming in for 2 decades and from the Kool-Aid they were always forcing me to drink. Because let’s face it, everybody’s drinking one flavor of Kool-Aid or another. The advocates of Creative Writing Programs are selling Strawberry and their critics are selling lemonade. Me, I think I prefer grape.

Authorship is Gone . . .Gone with the Wind!

Yes, I know I recently ranted about the death of genuine authorship in a recent blog. But a story I read in the paper this morning just brought the subject back to mind and I just HAD to say something about it.

It seems that St. Martin’s Press and the estate lawyers of late Gone with the Wind author Margaret Mitchell, have seen fit to commission yet another quasi-sequel to the classic, award-winning original. The first, Scarlett, was penned by Romance author, Alexandria Ripley. It was generally panned but sold quite well — which was the point. This time, however, they’ve hired an author of historical novels, Daniel McCraig, to pen a book centering on Rhett Butler called Rhett Butler’s People.

I understand why St. Martin’s Press and the Mitchell estate would do this — money. But other than making money, why would another author participate? Why would an author capable of original material want to sip from the well of another writer’s legacy. It does nothing good for that writer’s reputation and (other than making money) doesn’t do anything positive for Mitchell’s legacy. These sequels are not needed. This isn’t writing — it’s marketing.

This book will probably be a bestseller. I hope I’m wrong. I’m hoping readers are smarter than this. I hope they ignore this book and let it be remaindered off. Because as long as publishers can make money pulling this crap, they will continue to do it.