So what's up with all the "life in the working world" stuff being published? I suppose that an exquisitely bored public, who love watching cats playing pianos and squirrels on skateboards, courtesy Youtube, might find Dana Vachon's life among the financiers in Mergers And Acquisitions a page turner.
Vachon's is a tale set in the high thin air of Wall Street society and while it's built on a business world framework, the construct that holds it up is pure soap opera via ersatz Earnest (The Sun Also Rises) Hemingway. (And I hope some money is going to the F. Scott Fitzgerald estate for the Nick Carraway style narration that Vachon has worked up into a fairly credible replication.)
Also currently starring in the "working" subgenre is the quotidian tale of cubicle farm stiffs, called Then We Came To The End by Joshua Ferris. This title, seemingly fresh from the McSweeney's Half Baked Bakery Of Titles Bespeaking Halting Thought and Deed -- and in the best of fictional worlds, Moral Quandry -- echoes in emptiness like Vendela Vida's And Now You Can Go or McSweeney's number whatever's We Now Know Who. Its cover, papered with Post-its, telegraphs where it's coming from. (The next cubicle. Jeeeez, who wants to hear anything from there?) Did you see the movie Office Space? Well, apparently so did Ferris, according to at least one review. But with wildly divergent opinion on the book, which often indicates that there is something interesting going on in the novel, I plan to read it. I plan to read it even though stories about the workplace make me tired, like TV hospital dramas make me sick.
And speaking of different (or not), it seems that Mr. Kevin Guilefoile and Mr. John Warner of The Morning News started what they said was parody of a battle of the books contest (and oh yes, one would assume very "ironic" parody, given that both Mr. G. and Mr. W. have pretty solid connections with irony central, McSweeney's). Well, it has become an earnest contest where litbloggers and other online lit-types have recently agreed with the queen of literary truth and sincerity, Oprah, who picked the Cormac McCarthy book The Road for her "bookclub". I wish I could deliver this information with wit and irony, of the type The Morning News tries to maintain, but I don't know how in this case. I just find it kind of sad to see so-called "alternative" is more and more seen accompanying "establishment" lit to clubs where outsiders couldn't even afford the parking charge.
Oh, here is something that might be an irony, although I fear it's only a coincidence: TVbuddy.com recently wrote of Oprah's forthcoming reality show, where she continues her habit of bestowing gifts and money on the needy (I'm over here Oprah!), and wondered if it might be a rip-off of Dave Eggers's You Shall Know Our Velocity, where the main characters travel the world giving money to those they determine are worthy. It's either a coincidence or evidence of a subtle clusterfuck. I'll give you a buck if you come up with the right conclusion. (But if you find that soon there's not a place setting for you at the New Algonquin Roundtable (tm), don't say I didn't warn you.)
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I’ve seen midlist and McSweeney’s writers sell their work out of car trunks or at “merch tables”. It’s clear that the days of the old elegant book tours of Updike, Bellow, etc. are largely business models of the past. And I am sympathetic to the new "author as salesman" paradigm. I know that once the book is written and between covers, the work is just starting.
The other day I received a "friend" request on MySpace from an author who just published a book of short stories through a major publisher. Hyping and selling through MySpace is certainly easier than carting your stuff around in the trunk of your car to endless readings across the country. And it's an option that wasn’t available only a few years ago.
Anyway, my point is that I didn’t friend the guy, because he didn’t really need me. He has a big publisher behind him and his MySpace page is run by an editorial assistant or similar type. The way I see it is, if I give him one of my friend spots, that is one that I don’t give to an outsider/underground writer that truly needs support and attention. In short, if you’ve got Mr. Simon and Mr. Shuster, what do you need Mr. Finch for? (Okay, I know that some writers with Big Publishing creds aren’t making corresponding Big Bucks. What I’m talking about is moral, not financial, support for writers. And don’t forget, we’re at Outsider Writers, where we’re all about helping each other get our stuff published and to our readers. And we sure as hell don’t have a staff of a hundred or whatever to do that.)
I need alternative literature. Oprah, I'm sure, is a wonderful person, but I don't want to be identified as a member of her posse, or feel a responsibility to read the books she feels are good for me. Yes, I'm aware that this is coming close to sounding like the sort of thing Franzen said after she tapped him to be her next dancing lit monkey, that made her send him packing. But it isn't, because I can't be kicked out of that elite club (Ex Recording Secretary = James Frey), or any other, because I'm already on the outside.
But if any of you folks – Oprah, I’m looking at you – or the guys at The Morning News, or the established litbloggers, who live-blog us litnews from BEA and New Yorker weekends and New England writer retreats... If any of you are worrying about me, please don't. I'm not really lonely. After all, outside is where most of us are.
J.D. Finch
Last update : 04-07-2007 22:05
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By: Pat King (Guest) on 04-07-2007 22:35