Fucking nuts
That is what James Frey drives me. Don't get me wrong. I love to lie. I love to tell bullshit, embellished stories. But, I also know how to pull the fuck back and go "That didn't really happen, but how funny would that have been?"
This dipshit asshole is #1 on the NYT non-fiction list. That's like giving a chemist the Nobel Peace Prize; the idea is so-so, the classification is absurd.
And when did fiction become such a pariah? My grandmother always hated fiction; I assumed it was, because she was old. And as my friends get older, I see this much is true: Old people hate fiction. But those readers still want the mechanics of a good story that non-fiction will "traditionally" not possess. And, they want it to be true. Why? I don't have a clue. Maybe you do. I don't know that much about non-fiction, mainly because "This really happened!" rides so high in the mix, no one cares about the writing, even the author.
But, seriously, why do we have this obsession with veracity? And how and when did we aquire it? I think of American literature as the gleeful passing along of tall tales, those genius, stopless yarns Mark Twain made such fun of.
People frequently talk about not making babies, because the world is too fucked up. I don't share this approach to bringing life into the world.
I am beginning to find a corollary though in writing. I don't want to bring my thoughts into this world. It's not you. It's them.
Society should be charged with fraud.
This dipshit asshole is #1 on the NYT non-fiction list. That's like giving a chemist the Nobel Peace Prize; the idea is so-so, the classification is absurd.
And when did fiction become such a pariah? My grandmother always hated fiction; I assumed it was, because she was old. And as my friends get older, I see this much is true: Old people hate fiction. But those readers still want the mechanics of a good story that non-fiction will "traditionally" not possess. And, they want it to be true. Why? I don't have a clue. Maybe you do. I don't know that much about non-fiction, mainly because "This really happened!" rides so high in the mix, no one cares about the writing, even the author.
But, seriously, why do we have this obsession with veracity? And how and when did we aquire it? I think of American literature as the gleeful passing along of tall tales, those genius, stopless yarns Mark Twain made such fun of.
People frequently talk about not making babies, because the world is too fucked up. I don't share this approach to bringing life into the world.
I am beginning to find a corollary though in writing. I don't want to bring my thoughts into this world. It's not you. It's them.
Society should be charged with fraud.
posted by J Wilson at Tuesday, January 10, 2006
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