Again, with the James Frey-

I'm in white as white can be (on all fronts) Bennington Vermont. I just asked my first question in a lecture. The subject was about responsibility in non-fiction. Poetic license. Truthy-ness. How much has to be true before you can market and sell something as "biography"...this...is something I don't want, or have the GI tract to process again. It's an old conversation. YET

There is real disagreement. What qualifies you to speak for a larger group under the singular? Rigoberta Menchu...I believe her license was true, and the the use of the passive voice, and particular linguistic and oral traditions are far away enough from my own to qualify her for to speak for an idea, a history, some people. James Frey/ his editors co-opting the experience of a disease...doesn't speak for a larger group. I do not believe he has his union card. I think there are addicts out there to write it better, say it better. Give them the cash.

So...
be who you are ... what you are. If it didn't happen to you, but "wouldn't it be cool if it did, what would that look like?" exercise belongs in fiction...and have the brass ones to throw your hat in that arena.

When I give my time and money to someone's work..., there is an unspoken agreement. I take the responsibility of a reader and you take the responsibility of calling a spade a spade. A bio a bio, a novel a novel, an auto ethnography an auto ethnography. Don't cheat.

If a painting is sold as the product of a blind horse with a brush in its mouth, and I found out it was painted by a 43 year old man...I may feel violated.

Or

we can just agree that all writing is half truths...and get rid of those little signs above the books...

Hungry Eyes...Influence and Duende...Sorta

I chose this title just so while you are reading this....the song will be stuck in your head and contributing to any unintentional pathos found herein. Yesterday after work I swam home and turned on the AC and TLC....(the ladies' channel) I watched "Say Yes to the Dress" and ate some goldfish while reading poetry by Louise Gluck. I find no irony in this.

I then went on Facebook wherein I saw that my fella had taken the "I write like" test, and apparently...according to this kitschy little monstrosity....he writes like David Foster Wallace. I of course had to put in my "work" and low and behold...I too write like DFW. This got me thinking...doesn't everyone writing/ thinking in this postpostpost- modernity kinda write like DFW....in a reference rich simulacrum of conscilience? Then I found this AP article on the whole phenomena http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5j93L3sF-VA-F548doKe70er5uD0wD9H0DAU81
The little nugget about Herman Melville writing more like Steven King than himself is just delightful.

It brings up an interesting idea about influence. That is why when I write I like to have reality television on in the background. I like to know a lot about Angelina Jolie and Ochocinco. I think it keeps me present and keeps my brain from swimming too deeply in Lorca's duende. I think it is important that we treat all media...well....most media with care...and by care I mean...acknowledgment of its presence...because whether we like it or not it is here to stay...and I'd like to have a really clear idea as to what it is I am making fun of, or criticizing...and why.

The Most Coveted Galley in the Store...

...is probably not what you'd think. Last week Ann, our Penguin rep, sent me the galley we have all been waiting for: Red Carpet Suicide by Perez Hilton. Actually, she sent me two galleys which is a good thing because the first one she sent mysteriously disappeared the first day I got it. Furious office cleaning and passive-aggressive notes on our bulletin board have not coughed up its return. Very curious.

So far I've read Red Carpet Suicide and passed it on to Katie who will be passing it on to Bonnie who will be passing it on to Kate. We should probably be ashamed, but we're not. If you love Perez then you'll want this book. If you have no idea who or what I'm talking about then you probably shouldn't bother. If you hate Perez then sorry if you're now thinking less of me. (But know that I'm not judging you on what you bring up to the register)

I had a blast with the book, especially the first part where we are instructed on the eleven steps of celebrity (drink! don't eat! get paid just to show up places! hire your own paparazzi!) and the third part where Perez is unexpectedly open about the ways he gets his gossip. The book can be snarky and dirty and a bit immature at points (none of this is surprising if you are a Perez fan) but I was surprised by his genuineness at the very end in a letter to Andy Warhol.

Moving from the ridiculous to the sublime, in completely unrelated news the National Book Awards are being given practically as I type!