My Bad, Part I: An Unfortunate Incident
It's bad enough to be called a "stodgy hermit" and a "cantankerous eccentric," esp. by people I've never met, as I was last week, although people who know me use even nastier terms.
It's worse to be drenched by a beer thrown by a writer of no literary merit.
It happened last week and was reported by the Chronicle's gossip columnist, to whom I have often said harsh things (in the privacy of e-mails); for example, that she is woefully miscast in her job, has an ungainly prose style and a knack for messing up perfectly delightful items I feed her, and so on. In other words, she was not a disinterested party in seeing me attacked. And she did her best to make it seem that the writer of no literary merit was justified in his assault upon my august personage.
It happened in a dive-bar, at a "competitive reading," provocatively called a Literary Death Match, organized by Opium, a fledgling litmag.
I had agreed to be one of three judges, although I routinely decline to judge "contests" because 1) I don't think art is a competition in which there are winners and losers, and 2) I get a chance to express my judgment at ZYZZYVA, let others take a shot. However, in June, the Opium people had asked me to interview Katherine Taylor at Cody's and, what the hell, I'm always eager to help out a fledgling litmag.
I was the judge assigned to assess "literary merit."
The first reader, Stephen Elliott, thought I said in my judge's comment that he was a "writer of no literary merit." Although this is true, I thought I said, in a single sentence, channeling Simon Callow, that the story he read made me laugh a couple of times, but had no literary merit. It was, I thought, a witty one-liner, starting toward praise, then reversing suddenly to absolute dismissal. The audience gasped. (Elliott did not leap up to denounce me.)
The other writer was declared the winner, and Elliott was declared the loser, which he is certainly is.
"Literary merit" is not a term I use on my own, and it is certainly not among the criteria I use to judge a man as a man. A man, I feel, should be able to hold his beer. Should be able to take his lumps. Should exhibit courage in the face of adversity. And so on.
Whether a man has literary merit or not doesn't matter.
Whether a writer has literary merit may not matter, either. In Elliott's case, it doesn't seem to matter much, since he has none, although he has published six books, most recently My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats Me Up, which his website describes as "an almost all true sexual memoir." On his website, he poses wearing a "wifebeater," ha ha, get the joke (he's not a wifebeater, his girlfriend comes to The City and beats him up). The website also describes Elliott as "a former stripper."
Now 35, an aging Bad Boy, Elliott had a troubled early life: his mother died of MS when he was 13; his father was abusive (and in 2005, posted "bad reviews " of Elliott's books on Amazon... Elliott became a street kid...made six suicide attempts...became a ward of the court......and then, miraculously, got through college...got a master's...got a Stegner...covered the 2004 Democratic presidential nomination process...
Over the years, I have had the chance to reject a number of manuscripts he submitted to ZYZZYVA. And I have had the misfortune to hear him read on a couple of occasions.
He really has no literary merit. He has the merit of having lived, and we value him for the experience he is able to transcribe, but not for the beautiful way he uses language.
As a man, someone who thinks it's cool to throw a beer on a judge, he is also lacking in merit.
When I was walking out of the bar during intermission to catch a breath of fresh air, Elliott felt compelled to toss his beer at me. He did not confront me and say, "Junker, let's you and me settle this out in the alley." He ambushed me. In fact, his feckless aim also drenched one of the new owners of The Booksmith, as well as two (other) innocent bystanders, Marisa and Kaya.
If Elliott had been man enough to throw a punch, I would have been forced to beat him up. I'm glad he didn't, of course.
I was able to restrain myself at the moment, because I was completely taken by surprise. At first, I didn't know why my shirt had become drenched; I wondered if the heavens had opened up. I kept on walking for a couple of steps and then turned around and saw Elliott, transfigured, with a shit-eating grin on his face, his beer-glass hand at his side.
I had already decided that I had to leave, what with a drenched shirt, but that first I ought to tell the organizers—so I walked right past him, told the organizers, and left.
I haven't knocked anyone out since senior year in college, which was 46 years ago, and if I had pummeled Elliott, I might well have hurt my hands on his abs of steel. Apparently, he enjoys getting beaten up, which may have been the fundamental point of his assault on me, and for that reason alone I'm glad I ignored him.
Or maybe he conflated me with his father, who posted abusive reviews of his books on Amazon.
continued tomorrow
It's worse to be drenched by a beer thrown by a writer of no literary merit.
It happened last week and was reported by the Chronicle's gossip columnist, to whom I have often said harsh things (in the privacy of e-mails); for example, that she is woefully miscast in her job, has an ungainly prose style and a knack for messing up perfectly delightful items I feed her, and so on. In other words, she was not a disinterested party in seeing me attacked. And she did her best to make it seem that the writer of no literary merit was justified in his assault upon my august personage.
It happened in a dive-bar, at a "competitive reading," provocatively called a Literary Death Match, organized by Opium, a fledgling litmag.
I had agreed to be one of three judges, although I routinely decline to judge "contests" because 1) I don't think art is a competition in which there are winners and losers, and 2) I get a chance to express my judgment at ZYZZYVA, let others take a shot. However, in June, the Opium people had asked me to interview Katherine Taylor at Cody's and, what the hell, I'm always eager to help out a fledgling litmag.
I was the judge assigned to assess "literary merit."
The first reader, Stephen Elliott, thought I said in my judge's comment that he was a "writer of no literary merit." Although this is true, I thought I said, in a single sentence, channeling Simon Callow, that the story he read made me laugh a couple of times, but had no literary merit. It was, I thought, a witty one-liner, starting toward praise, then reversing suddenly to absolute dismissal. The audience gasped. (Elliott did not leap up to denounce me.)
The other writer was declared the winner, and Elliott was declared the loser, which he is certainly is.
"Literary merit" is not a term I use on my own, and it is certainly not among the criteria I use to judge a man as a man. A man, I feel, should be able to hold his beer. Should be able to take his lumps. Should exhibit courage in the face of adversity. And so on.
Whether a man has literary merit or not doesn't matter.
Whether a writer has literary merit may not matter, either. In Elliott's case, it doesn't seem to matter much, since he has none, although he has published six books, most recently My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats Me Up, which his website describes as "an almost all true sexual memoir." On his website, he poses wearing a "wifebeater," ha ha, get the joke (he's not a wifebeater, his girlfriend comes to The City and beats him up). The website also describes Elliott as "a former stripper."
Now 35, an aging Bad Boy, Elliott had a troubled early life: his mother died of MS when he was 13; his father was abusive (and in 2005, posted "bad reviews " of Elliott's books on Amazon... Elliott became a street kid...made six suicide attempts...became a ward of the court......and then, miraculously, got through college...got a master's...got a Stegner...covered the 2004 Democratic presidential nomination process...
Over the years, I have had the chance to reject a number of manuscripts he submitted to ZYZZYVA. And I have had the misfortune to hear him read on a couple of occasions.
He really has no literary merit. He has the merit of having lived, and we value him for the experience he is able to transcribe, but not for the beautiful way he uses language.
As a man, someone who thinks it's cool to throw a beer on a judge, he is also lacking in merit.
When I was walking out of the bar during intermission to catch a breath of fresh air, Elliott felt compelled to toss his beer at me. He did not confront me and say, "Junker, let's you and me settle this out in the alley." He ambushed me. In fact, his feckless aim also drenched one of the new owners of The Booksmith, as well as two (other) innocent bystanders, Marisa and Kaya.
If Elliott had been man enough to throw a punch, I would have been forced to beat him up. I'm glad he didn't, of course.
I was able to restrain myself at the moment, because I was completely taken by surprise. At first, I didn't know why my shirt had become drenched; I wondered if the heavens had opened up. I kept on walking for a couple of steps and then turned around and saw Elliott, transfigured, with a shit-eating grin on his face, his beer-glass hand at his side.
I had already decided that I had to leave, what with a drenched shirt, but that first I ought to tell the organizers—so I walked right past him, told the organizers, and left.
I haven't knocked anyone out since senior year in college, which was 46 years ago, and if I had pummeled Elliott, I might well have hurt my hands on his abs of steel. Apparently, he enjoys getting beaten up, which may have been the fundamental point of his assault on me, and for that reason alone I'm glad I ignored him.
Or maybe he conflated me with his father, who posted abusive reviews of his books on Amazon.
continued tomorrow
posted by ZYZZYVA at 7:59 AM
10 Comments:
Hah! That is priceless. No litterary merit.
So that's how you prove you're a good writer, you throw beer on a person. Wow.
I believe that giving and receiving good, constructive criticism is an evolved art form. So let us all strive to our highest artistic achievements.
~C
Dear Howard,
Thanks for sending me this link.
What most struck me on Tuesday, what I felt worst about, was that it seemed you were very afraid. First you looked at me in disbelief. Then you raised your hands and said, "I'm just getting my things." Your fear seemed palpable. You looked terrified. After reading this it's good to know that I was mistaken. I hope I was mistaken. I remember telling Elizabeth, or someone, that I felt awful, I had scared a sixty-six year old man. That was the worst part of the whole incident for me.
Fear is an awful thing. You might never have experienced it. I've felt it many times, speaking of my father. That feeling of helplessness soon fades to worthlessness. And of course we're socialized, men in particular, not to feel fear, and especially never to acknowledge it. To feel fear in this society is to be less than a man. Which I think sucks.
I got a call recently from a friend of mine. He was crying; he had just been mugged. It was four in the morning and he was in the hospital waiting for a doctor. He needed five stitches and had a concussion. He was jumped by two men on Sheridan Avenue while trying to get a cab and they beat the hell out of him. Later he called to apologize. What he regretted most, he said, was that he was drunk. If he wasn't drunk he would have fought back. This is my oldest friend, someone I've known since I was seven or eight years old. I didn't quite understand why he wanted me to know that if he wasn't drunk he would have fought back. But clearly the fact that he had not fought back was more important to him than the lost wallet, the stitches, the concussion. What I wanted to explain, which is the absolute truth, is that I didn't think any less of him for not fighting the two men mugging him late at night. He's my friend, and I love him very much.
Anyway, this is your blog and since it's Zyzzyva you're entitled to the last word. I already spend too much time on the internet.
I wish you the best Howard, with your fine literary journal which I've often enjoyed reading and your other pursuits and look forward to seeing you around.
stephen
There are two important words missing from Stephen Elliott's response that I hope he will use when he blows up again.
They are "I'm sorry."
I always considered "cantankerous eccentric" to be a term of endearment. This is not a law firm, but a literary forum; no one knows that I didn't shave this morning. Even if it were a firm, or were the world comprised of law firms, or were the firmament composed of fixed physical laws with a dour-faced watchmaker god scowling at us occasionally from beyond the Miltonian smog, He would inevitably judge us less by who we are, and more by the beauty of the lies we produced.
A good teacher once told me that real writers never pay attention to what critics say about their work. The worst workshops are the ones where a mediocre artist, fearing that his work has been "misinterpreted," halts discussion and explains exactly what he means before allowing discussion to continue.
An author's expression ends on the page, right? I mean, you spend days listening and listening to an author express himself, and when he's done, isn't it someone else's turn? And is the author with you in the bookstore when you're weighing options? Who gets published? The people who will convince others, independently, of their own merits, right?
Okay, fine, that distancing and isolating of critic and writer and reader is similar to the world of legal contracts, rather than campfire chats. And nobody likes shaving in the morning, or talking books in a law office, or listening to fireside chats by politically-driven writing workshop instructors. But isn't a book, even in an era of desktop publishing and the blogosphere, supposed to be the foremost intellectual expression of the agriculture, its inevitable anonymity? Isn't the idea of a campfire a little hokey by comparison? Should it really matter if someone pisses on it?
The watchmaker god says: "Mr. Elliot, you are billing yourself out as a good writer. You are working in an adversarial system, where you are stacked against every other worthy schmuck who might have gotten a book published. You have published 6 books. Antithetical as this campfire may be to the grand design of the firmament, you are damn right that it matters whether or not you elected to piss all over it."
I enjoy Stephen Elliott's journalism a lot.
I have never read his fiction.
But if this is how he reacts to someone's reaction to his fiction, he doesn't sound like a very good fiction writer to me.
I guess that's his way of saying your opinions really do matter.
A compliment in weird disguise.
Mr. Elliott's ramble here on fear and manliness reveals only his own projection of Mr. Junker's reaction to the antisocial act without addressing the anger and apparent lack of impulse control behind the act. That would have been a much more interesting blog entry.
You guys in San Francisco sure do have a vigorous literary scene.
there's no good or bad in art, only likes and dislikes. you wrote this thing as if there is good or bad, as if there is literary merit or no literary merit
literary merit is an abstraction and therefore defined only personally, which means if go around saying which thing does and does not have literary merit you are saying you are the only person who exists
you said art is not a contest
so maybe you were being sarcastic with 'literary merit'
michael s. bell asked me to post this poem he sent me in an e-mail:
Maybe not the way YOU want... but, times have changed;
as Mr. Dylan long ago sang:
"Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone.
If your time to you
Is worth savin'
Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin'.
Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won't come again
And don't speak too soon
For the wheel's still in spin
And there's no tellin' who
That it's namin'.
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin'.
Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don't stand in the doorway
Don't block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There's a battle outside
And it is ragin'.
It'll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin'.
Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.
The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin'.
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin'. "
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home