David Thayer

No, not that horn. Not the Cape of Good Hope, not the Straights of Magellan. The literary horn. We got Rita in the Gulf. Cleveland in contention. Late September crackles with tension. Right now your reporter is face down in the mud, working on a new manuscript. Eventually he believes this will pay off and everyone will be sorry when he’s dead. Well, not everyone. The novel I’m working on just broke through to where it can continue. No more doubling back, false starts, doors closing. It’s beginning to work.

I blog to burn off excess prose. Like a thermal cracking unit at a refinery blows fire. That’s why the results are sometimes sketchy, sometimes strange, often paced in such a way to indicate wanton excess. No offense is intended, no harm, no foul. Free verse. That’s why we insist on free range chicken, this is the land of the free, and, when the moment comes, I want to stand tall like Regis Philbin’s hair. I want to able to tell Kelly Ripa what the book is about free range chicken, the Late Sixties, your father’s mustache, the Knapp Commission, Joey and Kid Blast, all your favorite New York Post cartoon characters. Coffee at The Peacock, stuff like that. How it was, how it could be, where we’re going from here. Yes, Kelly, it is thematically right up your alley, despite a now deleted scene featuring rebar.

Where we’re going is around the horn. The Lit Blog Co-op. Wendi Kaufman has an article about Mutual Life and Casualty a novel in stories. Alarm bells sound. No central story. I’ll pass. Elizabeth Crane has spoiled me for stories, interlinked, interwoven. All This Heavenly Glory is a much better choice. So far, I haven’t read anything the LBC has recommended. That’s good for you, bad for me. I like the way they’ve decided to discuss their nominees, much better than last time when it was all on the QT, very hush-hush. Wendi makes her case for choice very well, but it just isn’t for me.

How many times has this happened to you? A staff meeting is addressed by a new hire, a total stranger, a man of vision? There is no topic, no agenda, no preannouncement, no bill of lading, placard, notizia to anchor said staff meeting, to ground it somewhere in nanoturf’s sacred bifurcation? Wisdom flows from the milk and honeyed tongue of the newcomer, full attention to the front of the room, disquiet, unsettling spasms of low impulse magnetic waves threatening stagnant careers? Then you know what I’m talking about.

Better read The Diviners. See it happen as Minivan calls impromptu late afternoon session. Poor Madison, whose promising lunch with the Mormon has left her behind the curve, at least in her estimation, although, lacking perspective, like everyone in staff meetings, is left to contemplate the mystery of her nails? Not the complexity of her wardrobe choice nor the linear flow of Ranjeer’s enchantment can stabilize Madison in the bitter flux of the here and now, where fortunes turn on the whim and drift of corporate focus.

Yeah, Madison, we’re talking miniseries. Sneer if you like, sneer at your peril, climb out of the Yellow Cab you think you’re riding in long enough to dial in to a Punjabi vision of how it oughta be in show business. Miniseries. Naked as a Thornbird, center field, Old Timers Day, worst nightmare, cell phone registering no bars. Here and now becomes now and then, the focus blurs, knowledge of Mormon custom and practice sadly lacking in your hour of need.

Madison is on the ropes.

A few years ago Jonathan Franzen bemoaned the demise of the social novel, citing the novel’s inability to spread the news, to compete with events unprecedented in scale and speed. On the face of it, the odds against fiction as harbingers of developments are long indeed. Within the past month the NYT has written that we live in a non-fiction moment, craving facts, memoirs, reality over works of imagination. The trend away from fiction is not a trend at all, but the unintended consequences of factors more economic than intellectual. There is an inverse relationship between the good news of productivity increases and a sense of well being among the populace. Financial writers thrill to the metric expressed by productivity and its kissing cousin, labor unit costs. Productivity rises, unit costs fall, creating a low interest rate environment, low inflation, fat bonuses on Wall Street.

For the average person, though, things feel differently. Productivity means working ten or twelve hours for the same pay that used to require eight hours. Households incomes are up, but that fact conceals the reality that it takes two people earning paychecks instead of one. Core inflation discounts the cost of fuel, the household budget does not. Filling the gas tank is one thing, heating your home is going to take investment grade compromises as winter sets in.

Where does fiction fit in the daily lives of people with less time for leisure? Escapism? I’m not sure about that. Remember the first rule of body surfing? Let the wave carry you…don’t thrash, don’t kick. Maybe fiction should turn into the wave, fight the current, kick a little more. Maybe that’s what Franzen worried about in his pre-Oprah days. It seems counterintuitve, but there is more to be learned from a good novel than any textbook or how to. Facts and figures are cold comfort. A great novel is messy, imprecise, slow, preachy, funny, exasperating, exhilirating, blunt, vague, bitter, and twisted. That’s no day at the beach.

So much to cover that the blog has been divided into two man teams. The Forty Third Earl has his copy of Fan-Tan hidden in a garden shed. He reports from the roof of the shed by satellite phone: “Out here in the fields, I fight for my meals, I get my back into living…”

Okay, who’s next? Arch Duke? Listen up, people. Barnes, you’re walking point, Noble, you’re walking slack. I don’t want any bickering out there today. The target is a middle aged bald guy who hasn’t read a book since high school. He’s snoozing on his Barcalounger where the patio meets the grass. His wife thinks he’s mowing the lawn. His kids understand his computer in a way he never will, but he’s okay with that. It’s just a tool. Okay, Powell and Elliot establish a perimeter. Yeah, he’s reading Sports Illustrated. Wait, I’ve got it on the scope: it’s the Swimsuit Edition.

Adjust mission parameters: no harm must come to the Swimsuit Edition. Barnes, suck it up. Extract SI and replace with Little Women. Who brought the book? Powell? What do you mean you sold it? On that trip to Seattle…Elliot, I told you to keep an eye on Powell.

This is Joe Queenan’s review copy of Fan Tan. Yeah, Marlon Brando is the co-author. Don’t read it now, Barnes. Be careful. After we insert you, be advised the subject has an automatic sprinkler system. Do not engage the teenagers…everyone ready? Boo-yah.

A couple of news flashes for you before we get to the next chapter of Rick Moody’s novel, The Diviners. Lit bloggers are astir at the latest LBC Read This! selection. The winner is Steve Stern for The Angel of Forgetfulness. The LBC also announced a series of runnerup discussions. I like the sound of that. Tingle Alley and Rake’s Progress have been kicking around People of Paper for the past week or so. Speaking of the Rake, Trevor wrote an excellent review of The Diviners, giving me cover to write a far less conventional or even appropriate review wherein chapters of the novel are discussed.

Let’s take the Minivan chapter. Minivan is a person, Vanessa Meandro, head of Means of Production, a film company based in Manhattan. Vanessa suffers from an eating disorder, attends classes to address her inner child, then launches herself on a mad tour of Krispy Kreme outlets from the concourse beneath the Twin Towers all the way uptown to 125 th Street. She’s pursued by a car service driver, a Sikh, who sees Vanessa as the embodiment of immigrant aspirations, dazzled by her presence, inflamed by her proximity to the world of movies, a world that governs all other worlds, a celluloid vision of perfection. Vanessa, frightened by his attentions, enlists the aid of a Hispanic cab driver who racks up over fifty bucks on the meter, including wait time. He isn’t very impressed with the ministrations of the Sikh, but fifty bucks is fifty bucks.

This is Minivan’s morning: Mom, Rosa, trapped in the crapper in a rising tide of excrement, refuses to come out, unlock her door, obey Minivan’s terse instructions. Car service from Brooklyn, detailed instructions to the Sikh, exit FDR at 42nd only to double back to 14th for class. Pays off Sikh, listens to former super model on the subject of obesity, flees class, hops a cab for the Twin Towers to begin the frantic search for the perfect glazed donut.

Here’s what I love about this chapter: I’ve never had a morning like this. I’ve never eaten fourteen donuts in preparation for lunch, never abandoned a Sikh on University Avenue and was struck by Moody’s observation that the Twin Towers huddled together like lonely people at the tip of the island. So far, three chapters in, this book is a blast. Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention The Marquis de Sade. He’s the inspiration for a screenplay, penned in secret by Minivan’s svelte assistant. She gets involved with an actor, the rise of Attila, the collapse of Western Civilization and children who gather at the gates of CBGB.

Got my copy of Rick Moody’s The Diviners. Read prologue and first chapter in order of appearance. The prologue is fourteen pages long and this is what happens: the sun comes up. It comes up beautifully from the LA basin to the Japanese archipelago, across the Himalayas, through Pakistan eventually reaching New York City. A barrage of imagery, historical footnotes, geographical highlights, reflections, observations, spanning the globe with time lapse precision. I was a little strung out as Chapter One arrived. My inner critic was restless, asking where are the Doritos?

Chapter One is promising. There’s a person in the chapter. She’s a compendium of ailments, attitudes, age related afflictions. She torments yuppies who park in her parking space even though she doesn’t own a car. She’s guarded her stretch of curb for thirty five years and you gotta love that.

I’m hooked. If the last chapter isn’t a fourteen page sunset, this could be all right. Rick Moody comes to satire like a fire chief with his battalion. He runs the hoses in, sets up his perimeter. Good pressure from the hydrant. Okay, set the building on fire.

I’m tempted to compare literature as we know it with Monday Night Football. Maybe it would be more accurate to compare the promotion of literature to MFN, an event that rarely surpasses itself after the reflexive are you ready for some football anthem. Hell, yes. I’m ready for anything.

So the promtional question of the day is this: was Zadie Smith misquoted? Did she express surprise at being shortlisted for the Mann-Booker? Is she fed up with reality television, glamour, the pursuit of celebrity or is she the victim of misrepresentation? These are some of the thoughts I had during the breast free halftime extravanganza, and for one horrible moment, a Howard Cosell flashback wherein Howard manually strangles Frank Gifford while Kathy Lee does somersaults. I said I was ready for anything.

I read White Teeth last year, got it from the library, defying Mean Librarian who had her game face about fines. Fine me, seize my card, force me to watch I Love Lucy. Attitude, Zadie, that’s what book promotion is all about. I can’t help but think you could handle Regis Philbin without breaking a sweat, without resorting to an articulate cascade of insults. You may sense, Zadie, that Kelly Ripa’s enthusiasm for your book is precisely the same as her joy in discovering a firm but not overripe eggplant. Don’t be discouraged. Somewhere, high on the hill, Oprah awaits, your Beatrice, manning the gates of heaven. Take Virgil by the hand, Zadie, and follow his lead to the Barnes & Noble parking lot in Eau Claire, Wisconsin for the nation’s first book signing, tail-gate party. Now you’re ready for some football.

Charles Ardai, the publisher at Hard Case Crime, dropped a line to remind me that Max Phillips wrote Fade to Blonde, not Max Allen Collins. Hard Case has quite a schedule ahead including work from Ken Bruen and Jason Starr. I’ve read two of Ken’s books but haven’t had the pleasure of reading Jason. Kudos to Charles, a publisher who looks out for his writers.

Booksquare reports that order has been restored in the City of Angels and that restaurants are processing major credit cards. She didn’t comment about films in production interrupted by studio chiefs trapped in elevators or whether FEMA intervened. Some of the best writers in the world live in LA and everyone of them has learned to back up their work. No word on how Pamela Anderson is faring on her next novel. One can only hope her ghost writer wasn’t shaken too badly. Judith Regan overflew the stricken city in midafternoon to make sure book to movie opportunities weren’t lost while the power was out. My own screenplay, Blackout, adapted from the random thought of the same name, deals with the gritty business of film accounting when the lights go out. Edgar, the slacker protag, falls in love with a mysterious FASB enforcement agent, a woman with a chequered past. A giant lizard swallows Burbank without affecting flight schedules. The lizard just wants to locate the old Brown Derby and have a drink. He’s a tourist. Edgar understands that. I’m thinking Sandra Bullock in all the major roles.

If you haven’t read Ben Kunkel’s essay in the Sunday NYT, grab a chair and get busy. It is a substantial essay wherein a young man takes the long view of what he calls ‘terrorist novels’ and offers a brief history of the genre, whose demise he traces to the Trade Center attack four years ago. This anniversary, as grim as Pearl Harbor, more vivid in memory for televised images, serves as a nexus for collective rage and despair. But that is not what Kunkel is talking about.

After one reading these are some impressions, fast and dirty, to be sure, but constant rereading sometimes softens and diffuses the instincts. Kunkel has a student’s eye for the pretenses of art. He nails the decade of the Nineties and the literature of the second Pax Americana from the fall of the Berlin Wall to September 11, 2001. He calls those dozen years an ‘era’ a word that now resides in the discount bin.

His most riveting reference is to Hannah Arendt. Right, we’re back in time, circa 1970. Kunkel chooses Arendt’s plea to the radicals of the Weatherman SDS to eschew violence, the Old Left speaking to the New Left. In case you missed it, Kunkel quotes Mark Rudd, arguably the most idiotic man who ever lived, saying blow it up, burn it down, let’s start over. Trust fund babies blew a townhouse in Greenwich Village, not a revolution, more of a curiosity as time goes by. The disconnect here is in the nature of the enemy; Arendt looked over her shoulder at the Nazis, the Holocaust. The SDS was preoccupied with the war in Vietnam, the draft, things that affluent young men of the time saw as personally threatening. Fail Algebra? Die, motherfucker.

My hunch is that Kunkel is most fascinated with what he understands the least, that block of time occupied by the intellectuals who escaped totalitarianism, the Sixties and Seventies. The terrorism era, in its current form, started with Black September, the Munich Olympics, the deaths of Israeli athletes on German soil. I think Dom DeLillo’s work predates Kunkel’s thesis, not by pub date, but by DeLillo’s birth date. He was ten years older than the other denizens of the East Village, set apart by maturity and his fascination by what others were doing. DeLillo captures Kunkel’s imagination and that is not a bad thing. In fact, it’s a good thing, for Kunkel and for the work he will produce down the road. As Jay McInerny pointed out a few weeks ago, Kunkel can write. Whether that makes Kunkel a dangerous character remains to be seen.

After an email exchange with Agent 007 a few weeks ago, I’ve been thinking about the reality blogs maintained by publishing insiders. Mad Max of Bookangst 101 was the grandfather of these blogs, despite the fact Bookangst was less than a year old when Max closed up shop citing mental cruelty, exhaustion, and the regrets of a man wearing a gorilla suit on a hot day in Manhattan. Perhaps BEA was the tipping point for Max. I’ve never ridden the IRT in a gorilla suit. The opportunity to do so, should it ever present itself, will be one of those turning points, a fulcrum, a fork in the road. Where was I?

Hello Gorgeous: I know I’m gorgeous, how about you? Be gorgeous. Think gorgeous. 007 describes her low stress encounter with a query she couldn’t refuse, a writer who can write, and is gorgeous. She got a lot of comments about the good looking people out there who put pen to ink. In a subsequent post Editor 007 describes a publicity manager’s obvious neglect of an author’s appearance during a meeting of his publishing committee. Whew, good thing I make guys like Dennis Quaid look like chopped liver. Or is it Randy Quaid? One of those Quaid boys.

I hope the new head of FEMA is just as gorgeous as possible.