American Pop Lit

Instinctive or Analytical?

2012-02-22T13:32:00.001-08:00

In politics one can see the difference in leadership style between Sarah Palin and President Obama, one who embodies the instinctive, the other the analytical.

How does that apply to literature?

Writing talent, real talent, is instinctive, then needs to be harnessed. The danger is that the writer become too careful, too constipated, and the spark of talent originally there be squelched. You'll never convince me that this doesn't happen in writing programs. If not, why do most MFA writers think and write in such an orthodox, constipated style?

The system with its levels of instructors, editors, and reviewers enforces literary constipation. The writer is compelled to become hyper-analytical. To become a chess player examining his position from every possible angle before making a move.

I find myself doing that with my novel-in-progress. I tear it apart in my head worse than any reviewer could. I well see what orthodox literati won't like about it. Those trained to read in a predictable manner. When I compare the novel with orthodox work-- the latest novel by Jeffrey Eugenides, say-- I see a gulf of difference. Is the problem mine; do I not approach the proper standards? Are they legitimate standards? Should I pull back from my own standards, slow down my pace, become more self-absorbed, less objective-- do all the things the system teaches and which I as a reader personally detest? That's the question.

This new e-book will be vastly more analyzed by me than, say, my last one, Crime City USA, which is instinct and emotion poured out of me. But with that analysis of the new book, I still pursue my aesthetic principles-- only I seek to make those principles as effective as they can possibly be. It will still be "pop."

If a novel doesn't look new, what's the point?

Elements of the Novel

2012-02-11T11:25:00.001-08:00

What are the chief elements of the novel? Is it possible to master all of them? (If any novelists or critics read this blog, let me know.)

I won’t be satisfied just writing a novel. Or, writing just a novel. My goal is to write a superlative novel.

Elements:

A.) Plot/form.

B.) Character.

C.) Ideas/meaning/symbolism.

D.) Style/pace.

The objective is to combine these elements in a way that achieves a sense of artistic excitement.

Take The Great Gatsby, for instance, as a model. I’d grade it thus:

A.) 9.8 (scale of 1 to 10). B.) 8.5. C.) 9.5. D.) 9.9.

Fitzgerald ably finesses the characterizations. Given the book’s short length, he has to. I knock him down slightly in Ideas, because the book lacks the scope of the best larger works. The pace and style are remarkable; the quality of the writing unsurpassed. I make Gatsby a top 5 American novel, though not #1. (The greatest American novel is The Octopus by Frank Norris.)

For my own novel, I’m aiming high. I’ll nail category A. I had the plot in my mind from the get-go, beginning with the ending. The plot threads and characters tie into the final image. I’m not a natural writer, but I have a logical mind, and as a former chess enthusiast I know how to construct a design and I know how to close.

Character is the element I’m working hardest on. It’s the crux of the book. Whether I’ll succeed or fail is an open question.

Ideas come easy to me. The trick is how to put ideas into a novel without being didactic or one-sided, and without slowing the narrative.

Finally, I’m not a “lyrical” writer. But then, I’m not writing a poem, though I can write poetry. My goal with my novel is to be readable, to give the writing a sense of clarity, to enable the reader to understand what I’m saying. Dense prose is a hindrance if you have ideas to communicate. I want the book to rush along. I’m not writing it for the leisure class, but for everyone.

Controlling Your Material

2012-02-04T10:06:00.000-08:00

My biggest objection to the writing of David Foster Wallace is that he never seemed to be in control of his material. His material was in control of him. The other extreme is minimalism, which takes few risks, and with which the achievements are always minor. I like novelists who create sweeping narratives and handle meaningful ideas and, like Beethoven composing a symphony, are in control of every note, every word.

On Writing a Novel

2012-02-03T11:54:00.001-08:00

Because of its length, unlike writing a story or novella, writing a novel becomes an obsession. You can’t sleep at night because you’re going over the plot threads and characters in your head. You fall deeply into the minds of your characters. If they’re mad, you become mad. The question becomes how much to reveal of them. If you have ideas, how much to reveal of your ideas. I’m not a Franzen or DFW type. I don’t believe in showing or telling everything. Instead: aspects. Sides. Glimpses.

I was at a coffeeshop—not Starbucks—that was filled with a more cosmopolitan crowd than at Starbucks. Two young writers behind me were talking about writing a novel. One said his had gotten away from him. He didn’t see this as a bad thing. One chapter was at 11,000 words and counting. It sounded to me like endless verbiage. This is the opposite of what he should be doing. The idea is not to sprawl, but compress. Condense, so the narrative becomes as potent as possible. But watch—next week the guy’ll sign a big contract with one of the book giants!

Short Novel Excerpt

2012-02-03T11:52:00.001-08:00

UNDERTONE

Lara Vox had a reserve of hundreds of hours of pre-recorded tape. This allowed her to slip away from the Tower on occasion, into the city, among people, as she’d done this evening. To join the madness below. A return to the human race. Her excursions were few and brief.

She kept the broadcast going 24 hours a day, every day. Taped rants and jazz. This night, as the incandescent city fell asleep, it did so to jazz of the city, the noise of nightclubs and taxis, rumbling drug lovemaking climaxed by staccato bursts of gunshot violence and piercing sirens, a simple but endless composition performed by a bass, an intermittent and unexpected trumpet, and an introspective piano which occasionally dallied, occasionally dithered, occasionally flashed like a whiskey cocktail, but never ceased.

Two Kinds of Writers

2012-02-02T10:43:00.000-08:00

As I was scanning a new novel by Ben Marcus, and noted the dense prose, I realized there are two kinds of writers.

A.) Those who strive for clarity, who want the reader to know what they're saying. Who make it as easy as possible for the reader to understand the ideas expressed and to follow the plot threads.

B.) Those who are showing off, who wish every sentence to be as showy as possible, with the unknown reader a secondary consideration, if considered at all.

Three Levels of Conversation

2012-01-24T10:30:00.000-08:00

It's been said there are three levels of conversation, from low to high. How do they affect literature?

1.) THINGS. Simple people talk about things. (Usually what they own or want to own.) In writing, describing the furniture. Literary writers love to write about furniture.

2.) PEOPLE. Gossip is part of human nature. Even some very good novels contain what is in effect gossip. Our interest in character-- think Jay Gatsby-- is gossip.

3.) IDEAS. The most ambitious writers address ideas. Few have done it well, but when it's done well it's a high literary achievement.

Bridging the Divide

2012-01-12T11:30:00.000-08:00

Studying the types of novels out there, it seems obvious to me that the writer who creates a true new synthesis between literary fiction, on one hand, and popular or genre fiction on the other, will reinvent the form. There have been attempts coming from the literary end of the spectrum to do this very thing.

Some like Michael Chabon have paid homage to "pop" fiction without budging from their stale academy style. Some by writing in a more straightforward, more popular style have traveled a few baby steps down the road toward a new synthesis-- Jonathan Franzen, notably. Others like Joyce Carol Oates, by creating bad plots and caricatured characters, have jumped entirely over the gulf between literary and pop, ending up on the other side, in so doing giving us the worst of both types.

I'd like to see more writers from the genre side of things take a crack at bridging the vast divide.

Form

2012-01-09T15:10:00.000-08:00

The biggest failing of most novelists is that their work lacks form.. Aristotle, I'm told, believed literature had three sections. I'm more familiar with chess than with Aristotle. Chess games have three parts also-- the opening, the middle game, and the end game. If you don't have a solid opening you'll lose the game. In the middle game you develop your themes, your narrative lines. In the end game the lines need to come together in a dynamic conclusion.

Note the three sections to my story, "Bluebird," in my 99-cent ebook, Mood Detroit, available via Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

The novel I'm writing will have a striking conclusion. I hope it checkmates the reader. (Surprise and drama.)

ABOUT LITERARY FORM
As a writer, reader, and book reviewer, I'm impressed by form, by the idea, the realization, that an author knows exactly what he or she is doing. I like the high that comes with the experience of form.

One reason I value the long-forgotten American novelist James Gould Cozzens is that his best novels have near-perfect form. Check out The Just and the Unjust and Guard of Honor some time for their balance, their architecture. Balance-- artistic form--is an imitation of the balance of the universe. Of the artistic intelligence of God.

Ideally, a novel achieves the right balance of elements; plot, characters, setting, in which every element expresses the work's themes, its overarching vision. The expression of meaning is enabled by form.

What novels would YOU give as examples of balance and form?

The First Step

2012-01-07T11:15:00.000-08:00

The first requirement for creating great new pop fiction is readability.

Quick pace is one way to make a novel readable. How far to travel away from quick pace is the difficulty-- how much meaning, how many ideas, how much background or description to add, in subtle ways, without destroying the pace.

Ever novel is a mix of elements. How one mixes the elements, in what proportions, determines how great the novel will be.

Note that The Great Gatsby contains fantastic pop elements, a sense of mystery, has a tight narrative and is readable. Fitzgerald expertly finessed some of the elements, like characterization, to be able to achieve this.

Gatsby and Pop Fiction

2012-01-04T11:03:00.000-08:00

When you look up and read early reviews of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, you see that the aspects of the novel which were criticized then were its "pop" motifs-- that it resembled a detective novel, was gaudy, violent, grotesque, and often melodramatic. It's these very pop aspects which give the novel its lasting allure, as does the condensed tightness of the plot, the novel's readability, the intense level of the writing and the intelligence of the narrative; that the work was intentionally created to be a work of art.

Simplicity in Art

2011-12-29T09:52:00.000-08:00

The early Beatles showed how to convey emotion and pop excitement through very simple music. The new movie "The Artist" does this. Everything has been stripped down and simplified. Simple plot, simple shots, simple emotions. Yet it works. The movie is fun and has great heart.

Fiction can easily do something similar. It's what I've been striving toward with my ebooks Ten Pop Stories and Crime City USA. I'm not talking about 1980's minimalism, which minimalized not just the style, but every other part of the work, so that it withdrew into itself. Instead, simplify the style, have a simplified structure, then you can be over-the-top, corny, and melodramatic-- like "The Artist"-- and still create powerful emotion and great art.

The New Foundation

2011-12-26T13:09:00.000-08:00

The idea with pop fiction is to set a better foundation for great literature than is possible based on the current "literary" style so esteemed by writing teachers and establishment reviewers. Start with a simple infrastructure-- clear writing; good pace-- then you can always add to the superstructure. A dash of paint here, or there. A few added lines of dialogue adding meaning to the story. Unless you begin with a solid foundation, the house to be built will be a messy disaster.

Artistic Ugliness

2011-12-19T17:05:00.000-08:00

Look carefully at the photo. It's allegedly a work of art. The collection of junk is placed in front of Philadelphia's prestigious University of the Arts. No, it's not "shocking." Thousands pass by it every day, and think nothing. They're certainly not elevated or enlightened by it. The student who produced it is likely from a middle-class background, and knows only the stupidity he or she has been taught. "Art" has become a con game, justification for overpaid positions in academic bureaucracies.

In a similar way, too many of today's literary works are ugly. I've reviewed a couple of them at my review blog, http://www.blitzreview.blogspot.com/. They're not simply ugly on the surface. The writer's task, after all, is to encompass within his view that ugliness. But too many of today's stories and novels are also ugly from within. They're spiritually dead. Dead matter, so when you read them you feel that deadness.

How to Be an American Writer

2011-12-15T11:22:00.000-08:00

Being an authentic American writer is an attitude, a state-of-mind tied up with ambition, scope, the land, the genuine, the world and nature. What are the chief requirements?

1.) Write Simply.
Ernest Hemingway and Raymond Carver are classic examples of the natural American voice. They aren't by any means the only examples. Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, Jack London, Frank Norris, Willa Cather, Gertrude Stein, Sherwood Anderson, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, Ralph Ellison, and Jack Kerouac are among many representations of the American personality.

2.) Get Into the World.
The classic American writer, such as Herman Melville or Ernest Hemingway, doesn't escape into the mind, but instead plunges outward into the world. Huck Finn escaping from conformity by traveling on a raft down the Mississippi. Often this means projecting the mind onto the world; interior conflicts worked out among the environments of cities or nature.

3.) Write Big.
Think big. Dream big. BE big. Larger-than-life. Like America itself. "The Great American Novel." In poetry, "Howl." Break the mold. Push the art, crudely, madly, exuberantly.

About the Blitz Rating

2011-12-12T16:23:00.000-08:00

For me, the Blitz Book Review at http://www.blitzreview.blogspot.com/ will have credibility only if it's honest. There's no grade inflation in the Blitz world. Not every writer gets lauded. Not every one receives five stars.

My scale is 1 to 10, and as you can see at the blog, I use all of it. If a book receives a "5," then it's average, which in today's world of literature means, not very good. But likely readable, so whether you read the book or not is up to you.

For me there are no 10's. The perfect novel has yet to be written. There are a handful of novels I'd put in the high 9's-- a few of the best classics-- which gives today's scribblers something to shoot for. There's room at the top. At the bottom also.

Destroy the Rules!

2011-12-10T09:05:00.000-08:00

UPDIKE'S OBSOLETE RULES

John Updike once wrote six rules for book reviewing, which have been followed faithfully by Loyalist members of the literary status quo:

1.) Understand what the author tried to do.
2.) Use enough direct quotations.
3.) Confirm your description of the book with quotations.
4.) Go easy on plot summary.
5.) Cite a successful example of a book (author's or other). "Try to understand the failure. Sure it's his and not yours?"
6.) "Do not accept for review a book you are predisposed to dislike, or committed by friendship to like. Do not imagine yourself a caretaker of any tradition; an enforcer of any party standards, a warrior in an ideological battle . . . Review the book, not the reputation."
***********************
John Updike was of course himself a caretaker of a tradition, what might be called acceptable "literary" writing, best represented by the refined tastes of The New Yorker magazine. Literary fiction is a narrow form which has been stagnant for decades and best should have been buried with Updike.

The much touted objectivity of writers of the literary establishment is a pose. Look carefully and you find tons of bias. Worse, it's bias in favor of a stale type of literary art.

With new ways of bringing books to market, and expanded ways of announcing them, should come also a more exciting style of writing. That's what this blog was set up to announce.
************************
Updike's rules, especially #5 and #6, put handcuffs on the reviewer, whose chief task is to get the casual onlooker reading the review. Book review sections have been dropped from newspapers across the country for one major reason. Because they were boring!

There is one rule for book reviewing: BE ENTERTAINING.
************************
I've begun putting my ideas into practice at Blitz Book Review, which can be accessed at
http://www.blitzreview.blogspot.com/

Uses of Shakespeare

2011-12-08T09:39:00.000-08:00

There's been an interesting discussion, here
http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/showthread.php?t=231320
about whether it's worthwhile to read/hear/experience the plays of William Shakespeare. The answer: Of course it is!

The first thing to understand about the Bard and his plays is that he was a "pop" writer. His works are graphic novels with better language. They're melodramatic, over-the-top. They push the bounds of emotion in ways no "literary" writer today does.

There are two ways of writing fiction.

1.) Subjective. The "literary." Stream-of-consciousness, meaning, most of the work takes place in the writer's or a character's head. It's self-conscious and solipsistic to the max. A slog to read and not much fun when you do read it.

2.) Objective. This is what a playwright like Shakespeare does. You see characters from the outside. Character is revealed through action, words, and plot.

I've been trying to pull my fiction in the #2 direction. Graphic novels without the graphics. I visualize my tales as scenes, dramas, comic books. My goal is to thrust my characters into dramatic situations, and then make room for them to speak.

I do this a little in several stories in my ebook Ten Pop Stories. Do you know which ones? I do it some in "Bluebird" in Mood Detroit. I do it more in Crime City USA.

I'm doing it way more in the novel I'm currently writing, the subject of which is revolution. I give the plutocrat, on one hand, and the most radical radical, on the other hand, room to explain themselves. They're given what are in effect short speeches. I want the written picture combined with speech.

What's the goal? To create strong emotion. Like pop singers do. Like "Sadness Is a Blessing" by Lykke Li. Emotion is all.

I remember, about fifteen years ago, in Detroit, reading a text about classic comic strips of the past. The book showed a few panels from "Terry and the Pirates," in which the Dragon Lady has captured one of the square-jawed heroes, who's handcuffed. As the hero sleeps, the Dragon Lady leans over him-- clearly in love with him-- and recites verse that could only come from Shakespeare. From "Romeo and Juliet" I later found out. "Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!" I could only think, "Wow!" It's romantic. It's melodramatic. It's ridiculous. It's art.

Ever since that time, I've wanted to create that same kind of aesthetic effect. Simple, very simple, yet very powerful.

At his best, Shakespeare creates such effects. In a masterpiece like "King Lear"-- a masterpiece not just of literature but of all art-- he creates those effects in spades.

Eight Reasons People Write

2011-12-02T07:19:00.000-08:00

1.) Identity. To be somebody. A "writer." A badge. A certificate of existence. Now: what to write?

2.) Hobby. Using time. Filling up space in one's life. Doing something. Macrame.

3.) Money. Write a best-seller and retire from life.

4.) Therapy. Personal dilemmas laid out on a page. Journals for an unseen shrink.

5.) Message. An announcement. Having something to say and compelled to say it. A discovery.

6.) Change. Writing to change society, or the culture, or the neighborhood. Or the world.

7.) Immortality. Creating the masterpiece that will live forever, honored by all subsequent generations. A place in future generations.

8.) God. To understand or commune with the universe.

Obviously, there's overlap. Many individuals write for more than one reason.

What's your reason?

The Pop Story or the Literary Story?

2011-12-01T10:11:00.000-08:00

The pop story is fast-paced, fun, flesh-and-blood hit-you-over-the-head, in and of the real world.

The literary story is inward, subtle, slow, sensitive, domestic and domesticated, whose every preciously crafted sentence says, "It's been done."

600,000 workshop grads write finely-mannered literary stories. Few people write pop stories.

I don't like to follow the crowd.

Start Making Sense

2011-11-30T12:17:00.000-08:00

CURRENT AMERICAN LITERATURE exists in a Bizarro universe where sense is absent. At one pole, the Postmodernists, who disdain the world in order to escape into the empty solipsism of their own heads. At the other pole are the Nonsense Commericalists who write solely to make money and who seem to live in a world inhabited by wizards, zombies, vampires, and hobbits.

The way is open for other writers to grab the real universe-- the world of reality, humanity, authentic emotion: the Here and Now.

Blitz Review Is Better!

2011-11-25T09:59:00.000-08:00

A GREAT NEW BOOK REVIEW BLOG

Stay in touch with the freshest opinion anywhere in the literary game.

If you're brave, take the Blitz Challenge and submit your masterpiece for a Blitz Rating.

More info at
http://www.blitzreview.blogspot.com/

Ultra-Realism

2011-11-23T10:23:00.000-08:00

The Impressionists reinvigorated art in the late 19th century from outside, by creating works which seemed to vibrate, to come alive. The paintings weren't realistic. They were hyper-realistic.

This is what I'm trying to accomplish with my version of pop literature, especially with the ebook Mood Detroit, and a new one, Crime City USA. I've made both hyper-affordable to encourage feedback.

Art is an expression of life but also of ideas.

The Pop Formula

2011-11-17T00:06:00.000-08:00

A POSTMODERN WRITER has accused me of pushing formula writing with my new pop story ideas. (See my ebook, Ten Pop Stories.) There's truth in what he says.

Of course, the sonnet is a formula. Berry Gordy's Motown was a formula. Generic literary stories have their own formula. The trick is what can be done within a formula. Once put into place, a formula becomes a jumping off point for new creativity.

My theories of pop fiction are based on a few key points.
1.) The Opening.
2.) The Close.
3.) Readability.
4.) Pace.
5.) The Kick.
("Kick" meaning that the tale have a kick to it; a moral or idea or revelation or punch or point.)

A simple formula, right? Yet most short stories being written today fail it.

New Fiction, New Literature, New Art

2011-11-11T17:09:00.000-08:00

With American Pop Lit ebooks I'm offering a positive model of a new direction for this nation's literature.

Faster Fiction

2011-11-09T18:44:00.000-08:00

DO YOU HAVE TIME?

Do you really have time to wade through Chad Harbach's enormous 500-page 25-dollar novel only to discover it's not very good? Harbach presents standard overwrought baby-mentality literary puffery.

Try instead fiction with a punch.

(The ebook Crime City USA is now on sale.)

The Collapsing Publishing Model

2011-11-04T09:38:00.000-07:00

CHANGE IN PUBLISHING

Writer/cartoonist Brady Russell strongly urged me last year and this to start producing ebooks. The final motivator for me was the realization of where publishing is headed. The Borders store closings; new inexpensive ereaders; new ebook stars like Amanda Hocking and John Locke: the trend is unmistakeable.

One thing I learned, and learned well, during my life in Detroit is that change is constant. When I sought to hang on to the past—melancholy bartender in a Detroit riverfront dive full of nostalgia for Detroit's golden era—I was told by a business-type customer, "Change. Change! Change or die."

Change is nature's only constant.

In 2000 I reinvented myself as King Wenclas, crazy radical literary promoter. I formed the Underground Literary Alliance and shook up the clubby halls of literature. We were the most exciting writers group on the planet.

I've learned through the course of my life to adapt, on a moment's notice. Physically and mentally I live out of a duffle bag.

THE INESCAPABLE FACT

The inescapable fact is that the $25.99 Harbach/Franzen novel, lit's standard, is an economic and artistic dinosaur. Unexciting; lethargically paced; solipsistically self-focused to the max same-old same-old. Overpriced and supported by a top-heavy structure of writing programs, agents, editors, chain stores, and high-lease Manhattan skyscrapers.

What's my infrastructure? An el cheapo netbook and a two-dollar coffeeshop purchase.

I don't need a bureaucracy. I can outwrite, outedit, and maybe outmarket the publishing dinosaurs. The pop prose in my newest ebook Crime City USA is sleek and explosive. Tighter than any MFA editor, or phlegmatic Harvard-educated intellectual, could make it. Against the industry's slow-moving 4,000 pound Buicks I offer fast and fun race cars at 1/25 the price.

Stop by the King Wenclas showrooms at Kindle or Nook and pick one up.

Against the Literary Slows

2011-10-28T14:33:00.000-07:00

THE STATUS QUO SLOG

The prevailing characteristic of literary fiction today is how slow it is. Establishment writers from Jonathan Franzen and Jonathan Lethem to Ann Beattie and Alice Munro to Mark Gaitskill and Madison Smartt Bell to Francine Prose and Lorrie Moore think and write in slow motion. Not society's greyhounds or pit bulls. Poodles. They pile on irrelevant meaningless detail throughout their narratives, which slows things down until the pace is that of a turtle's. For them, slowness is of high value. So their stories and novels go ever slower, s-l-o-w-e-r.

The reader is asleep in his armchair, snoring loudly, head back, mouth open, book of well-crafted literary fiction dropped to the floor.

S-L-O-W-E-R. SSS-LLL-OOOO-WWWW-EEEEEE-RRRRRRRRR.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. . . .

The literary slows are caused by two factors.

One is the removal of these esteemed Approved writers from the hectic high-speed madness of the contemporary world. Through awards, advances, or university teaching assignments they've willfully isolated from the knockabout struggle of life which gives edge to an art. (Think early punk. Early rock n' roll. Think Van Gogh.) These well-lauded comfortable bowed-and-ribboned poodles-on-leashes have no edge. None. Not once does a one of them anymore lose control. Most of them never have.

The other factor is the way fiction writing today is taught. Painstaking craft, dawdling over the proliferation and precision of words, is the focus. They're conditioned to write not for readers, but their peers. They compete with one another to impress experts with word-clotted dead-thought go-nowhere slowness, reaching an audience of tepidly comfortable aficionados, or at least, themselves.

WANT TO READ NEW WRITING? Read the new e-book novella, Crime City USA, available at Kindle or Nook.

Jonathan Lethem's Fraudulent Essay

2011-10-28T14:23:00.000-07:00

What! How can I say such a thing about the great Jonathan Lethem?

Read http://kingwenclas.blogspot.com/p/jonathan-lethem-and-postmodernism.html and tell me what you think.

One Out of Five

2011-10-25T09:09:00.000-07:00

An unscientific survey finds that four out of five literary hipsters hate the new pop e-book, Crime City USA.

I'm looking for the one.

Who Is Fake Face?

2011-10-15T11:35:00.000-07:00

Can evil gangleader Fake Face, chief villain of the new e-book novella Crime City USA, be equated with any high-profile personality in literature today? Who are your candidates?

Have you read yet Crime City USA?

Next Wave Literary Revolution

2011-10-09T07:31:00.000-07:00

Publishing revolution is happening-- a sea change in how literary product is delivered. What's needed is a commensurate revolution in the literary art. A more exciting, more accessible model which can bring more of the potential audience into the fold. Fiction for everybody.

It's what I offer with e-books like Ten Pop Stories, but especially with Crime City USA.

About Crime City USA

2011-10-07T11:57:00.000-07:00

FICTION THAT ROCKS

Hard, fast-paced, exciting pulp fiction is what I'm offering with Crime City USA, my new e-book release.

Is my short pop novel over-the-top? YES it's over-the-top. Balls-to-the-wall is how I've run my literary life. I'm not about to stop.

Readability

2011-10-06T19:05:00.000-07:00

With the new style of fiction I'm offering, readability is the highest value. If the work doesn't have clarity and momentum, nothing else matters.

Read Crime City USA, a short pop novel.

Dollar Store Fiction

2011-10-05T21:14:00.000-07:00

Step up for stronger fiction, lower prices, better value. I now have three e-books of entertaining pop fiction for sale:

-Ten Pop Stories.

-Mood Detroit.

-Crime City USA.

Can you afford 99 cents?

Pop fiction is new art.

I Want Art!

2011-10-04T20:03:00.000-07:00

What makes my prose different from that of any other writer is that I'm attempting to create word paintings. In truth, I think and see differently from other writers-- especially from those in the literary establishment. I stress the visual, while making economic use of my brushstrokes. I want the painted images to explode off the page. Albeit I do this in uneven ways.

Among my more visual, cartoony stories are "The Strange Case of Mr. Box" in Ten Pop Stories, and "Kevin and Koreena" in Mood Detroit. It's not that they're not realistic. Like impressionism, they're a different take on reality.

My most Lit-as-Art e-book to date will be my next. Officially released any day. A colorful painting come to life. Watch for it!

Pop fiction is new art.

POP Is the Word

2011-09-30T10:06:00.000-07:00

For literature it's the only answer.

The Soul of Rock N' Roll

2011-09-28T09:24:00.000-07:00

The theme of "Bluebird": What makes a rock n' roll star? Is there something more to the art than the mechanics of success?
These same questions apply as well to literature. Is literature more-- shouldn't it be more-- than a series of finely crafted sentences?

The meaning, relevance, and passion which go into the words is what most counts.

Read "Bluebird" as part of Mood Detroit, an e-book available at Kindle or Nook.

New POPulism

2011-09-23T09:05:00.000-07:00

There are three connotations to the word Pop.

1.) Pop Music.
2.) Pop Art.
3.) Populism.

With Pop Fiction I seek to key into all three tangents.

Pop Fiction is populist in that it's open to everybody, carrying echoes of America, the nation, land, people.

Buy the Pop Lit E-Books!

2011-09-15T08:47:00.000-07:00

The only way to know what Pop Lit is about is to read it.

The only way to know Melissa Bluebird is to experience the story in which she appears, "Bluebird," part of Mood Detroit.

To purchase Pop Lit at a bargain price, clink on the links to the side.

Pop Fiction Is--

2011-09-09T09:53:00.000-07:00

Pop fiction is
A.) Fun
B.) Readable
C.) Affordable
D.) For Everybody!

Detroit Is . . .

2011-09-06T07:56:00.000-07:00

"Detroit Is the Rotting Corpse Victim of a Serial Killer"-- another phrase to be found in the new e-book, Mood Detroit, now affordably available at the Kindle Store or Nook Books.

Pop Fiction Is New Art

2011-09-06T07:54:00.000-07:00

Pop fiction is a different way of viewing the short story. The premise is that writing can be quick, readable, exciting-- yet relevant and topical at the same time. We live in a hectic, fast-paced society. A new model is needed for short fiction to reach the mass public once again.

Pop is the answer.

Who Is "Melissa Bluebird"?

2011-09-02T08:51:00.000-07:00

WHO IS SHE?

"Bluebird," the most ambitious tale in Mood Detroit, asks the question, "Who is Melissa Bluebird?"

The question has two aspects.

The task of a narrative about a person is to set up the puzzle of identity. What makes a personality? What explains a celebrity?

The second aspect of the question is this: Does Melissa Bluebird have any real-world models?

What do you think?

Buy the e-book Mood Detroit for an el cheapo price at Nook or Kindle. All questions are answered.

An Alternate Model

2011-09-01T10:01:00.000-07:00

With Chad Harbach's The Art of Fielding we see the continuation of a trend that began fifty years ago with Thomas Pynchon-- the production of the big brainy novel.

Which is fine. American literature needs these flagships. By all reports, "Fielding" is very much about America. (What's more American than baseball?) All to the good.

These big, high-priced novels are akin to giant battleships pre-World War II. Extremely impressive to look at; wonderful to have at the head of a fleet. Yet, at the same time, irrevocably obsolete. The shame was having to send such monsters into battle.

With my American Pop Lit e-books I offer an alternate model. The objective of Ten Pop Stories is to be readable and fun. New fiction as quick and affordable as possible-- yet still relevant and topical. Small, efficient vehicles built for the times we live in now.

No, this isn't the Apple Store. Call it the APL store-- American Pop Literature. Get in on the ground floor. The fun has only started.

Detroit Is--

2011-08-19T09:03:00.000-07:00

"DETROIT IS THE CULMINATION OF ALL POSSIBLE ANGST."

This line is from one of the tales in the new e-book, Mood Detroit.

Ridiculously affordable at Kindle or Nook.

Buy Mood Detroit!

2011-08-12T08:24:00.000-07:00

Due to circumstance, I may not be on-line much right now-- but I do have a fantastic new e-book on sale under my "King Wenclas" moniker. Namely, Mood Detroit, three mini-novels which are a hybrid of literary and pop. The overall theme is Detroit: rust, hardship, love, emotion. Now affordably available on Kindle or Nook. (Or all devices on which those two services are offered.)

Recession priced! Buy it now.

Death of a Pop Star

2011-07-24T06:53:00.001-07:00

POP SINGER AMY WINEHOUSE DEAD AT 27.

Amy Winehouse should be remembered for kicking off one of the few interesting pop music trends of the last ten years, the British-based Motown-influenced Girl Soul revival. Talents like Duffy and Adele owe Winehouse a large debt.

Styles of Pop Lit

2011-07-23T12:58:00.000-07:00

SEVERAL POSSIBLE VARIETIES--

FUN POP: Upbeat and entertaining.

PULP POP: Lurid, melodramatic, and violent.

EMO POP: Sensitive pop.

ART POP: Pop like a painting.

BEAT POP: Pop with Beat language.

Commonalities? Simplicity and a stress on plot.

Dynamic Literature

2011-07-21T08:23:00.000-07:00

AMERICAN POP LIT NOW ON SALE
I heard someone on the radio last night say that China is the most dynamic society on the planet. I take dynamic to mean fluid, innovative, changing, new-- with all the excitement that comes with such.

For a very long time America was that kind of place, including in the literary world.

American literature could become what American pop music was in the late 50's-- a fun, populist happening which caught the imagination of the world.

Why not?

(Buy the ebook Ten Pop Stories NOW at Amazon's Kindle Store,
http://www.amazon.com/
or as a Nook Book at
http://www.bn.com/.)

Help Save Eric Broomfield the Writer

2011-07-19T07:14:00.000-07:00

Do you want new American writing in the Kerouac tradition which depicts and is part of carny-Barnum-ballyhoo Americana?

At my personal blog-- which I've been intending to shut down but never get around to--
http://www.kingwenclas.blogspot.com/
--I've been covering the tough circumstances of Eric Broomfield, aka Jellyboy the Clown. Eric was a key player in many historic events of the Underground Literary Alliance, including the 2006 Miller Hall/Columbia University "Howl" reading crash.

Now Eric fights for his life, on a respirator in a New York City hospital after being caught in a Queens fire.

His writing is now available via an ebook, at
http://www.outyourbackdoor.com/article.php?id=971

Publisher Jeff Potter has generously agreed to give all proceeds of sales of this ebook toward Eric's hospital bills-- even if it means sending Eric or Eric's brother cash. Needless to say, Eric has no health insurance.

As important, you'll find Eric to be quite an entertaining writer. An undergrounder worth keeping around.

Buy your copy now!

The Choice Is Yours

2011-07-18T11:53:00.000-07:00

FRANZEN, KISSINGER, OR-- KING WENCLAS?

Jonathan Franzen's stuffy novel Freedom is selling for $28. Henry Kissinger's stuffier On China is selling for $36. The not-at-all stuffy ebook Ten Pop Stories is available at Barnes & Noble and Amazon for a mere 99 cents. An easy decision.

All About Ten Pop Stories

2011-07-16T12:28:00.000-07:00

THE STORIES OF OUR TIME

Hyperbole? Sure. But the short and simple tales collected in Ten Pop Stories are set among the here and now, amid a diverse collection of folks from high to low. My objective was to create fiction as simple and clear as a hit pop song, hopefully with each work having a "kick" to it. Whether I succeeded with all of them or any of them is for you to judge. The price makes the collection strictly a low-risk gamble. The upside is discovering the new-- an alternative path for what has become over the past several decades a dead art form.

How do we revive the short story form?

We do it first with tales that are simple and fun. With that foundation, and holding to that foundation, we can build in meaning and complexity while retaining a superstructure of pop clarity.

Here then are short descriptions of the Ten:

The H Group
A terrorist's bomb explodes on an airliner over the Atlantic.

Strange Mummer Creatures of Philadelphia
What or who are the Mummers? Why do they celebrate? Will Maggie the Mummer find her lost Mummer love?

Saturday Night in Detroit
A hectic car chase through the violent streets of Detroit.

The Machine
A young writer takes a job in a mysterious office building.

Elvis Meets Frankenstein
A legendary happening in the life of America's greatest folk hero.

The Red Door
Fast-paced adventure as an American Marine is trapped in a deadly maze.

The Strange Case of Mr. Box
A masked vigilante arrives in a troubled east coast city.

Fake Face Meets Senator Crupt
The cynical gangster Fake Face encounters a man even more evil than himself.

Jezebel
The search for a missing heiress leads to mayhem along the Detroit River.

Bohemian Wedding
A mismatched couple prepares to jump into matrimony.

Quite a lot going on! You get your money's worth.

Purchase the ebook now as a Nook Book at Barnes & Noble, or at the Kindle Store at Amazon. The future of the American short story is here.

Tournament Break

2011-07-14T07:01:00.000-07:00

UPDATE ON THE ALL-TIME AMERICAN WRITER TOURNAMENT

With the dog days of summer upon us, the American Writer Tournament is on hiatus. After all, some of the writers involved-- Melville, Hawthorne, Whitman, and Company-- are by now quite aged! ("A mere pup," Ernest Hemingway has been saying about himself. "Compared to them I'm a mere pup!") We don't want these giants melting in the heat.

The break will allow me to focus on my ebooks, as well as on promoting the pop literary idea-- defining and refining the idea against the pop lit fakirs. My next ebook, Mood Detroit, will be out shortly, followed by a non-fiction book which may or may not critically examine the literary hipster scene.

When the Tournament returns, I'll announce the remaining participants, as well as a format for the actual "games." I'll then focus my time on the Tournament exclusively.

Don't stop reading! A lot will be happening.

POP Lit at Amazon!

2011-07-12T07:20:00.001-07:00

The new ebook, Ten Pop Stories, is now available at Amazon’s Kindle Store. See
http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Pop-Stories-ebook/dp/B005BGBYVW/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1310479950&sr=1-1
Keep in mind this is merely my first pop lit ebook. The emphasis is on keeping things simple. I’ll take things another step in my next release, due shortly, which will focus on the tragic city of Detroit.

Pseudo-Pop, Pseudo-Intellectual

2011-07-07T08:30:00.000-07:00

I note that the slimy literary character Tao Lin has adopted the "pop" appellation for a new site of his, Pop Serial or other. Tao Lin is the ultimate trend-spotter bandwagon jumper. That this lit hustler sees value in the pop name and the pop idea-- no matter how inaptly he matches the name himself-- is a sign, I guess?, that I'm on the right track.

But please, skip the pseudo-pop and go for the genuine article.

What Makes a Great Writer?

2011-07-06T09:54:00.000-07:00

I find it interesting that two of the most intelligent and imaginative of American writers, Ayn Rand and Isaac Asimov, had similar backgrounds. Both were of Jewish heritage, were born in the Soviet Union, and immigrated with their parents to the United States. I wonder if the experience of two large but very different civilizations, the culture clash, in some way expanded their brains.

What makes a great writer? Is it experience of the world? Herman Melville on his sea voyages? Or something else?

Genius Writers

2011-06-28T10:19:00.000-07:00

One reason why I got heavily into reading was the experience of encountering minds much more intelligent than my own. Like the Brain Booster in the movie "Forbidden Planet," reading one of the great novels, "War and Peace" or "Brothers" or "Vicomte De Braggelone," increases your I.Q. by a level of points.

I was thinking about that while reading one of Asimov's great "Foundation" books. As I consider doing a few more ebooks, the prospect of writing a sci-fi novel is in front of me, given the genre's popularity. I decided to read more from one of the very best creators of that genre. Asimov is that.

The layers of mental tricks and battles being displayed by his characters is impressive.

Who are other genius American writers from now or the past? David Foster Wallace has been portrayed as one. Was he really? What is there to learn from him? Wasn't his obsession with consciousness and self a waste of brain power?

On any list of brainiest American novelists I'd put Scott Fitzgerald, Ayn Rand, Cozzens, Melville, Asimov, a very few others. Those whose understanding of the complexities of society, people, and the world is something to learn from.

Ten Pop Stories Have Arrived!

2011-06-26T07:57:00.000-07:00

While the American Writer Tournament has been on lazy summer break, I've put together an ebook of short pop fiction named Ten Pop Stories. While a few of the stories have previously appeared here, the collection also contains exciting new ones like "The Red Door," which I intended to be the fastest-paced story ever. Did I achieve that goal? Possibly not, but it's well worth a look. Few other writers are experimenting with a new short story form designed to rescue the art.

The stories are available exclsuively as a Nook Book at

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/ten-pop-stories-king-wenclas/1103909160?ean=2940012896605&itm=1&usri=ten%2bpop%2bstories

Watch for its appearance soon at other outlets!

A Radical Idea

2011-06-22T08:42:00.000-07:00

An All-American tournament? It's occurred to me that in this day, an all-American anything is a throwback, politically incorrect and unhip, not very cool. Especially in a refined, internationally-focused but at the same time homogenized literary world. Yet I believe we need to recapture the idea of a unique American literature, unique to America's land, people, culture. To present this thought is one of the objectives behind the "All-Time American Writer Tournament." In what way do the bracketed writers represent the authentic American voice? In their entirety, how well do they represent America's size and scope, its large appealing sound so much unlike any before heard? The tournament starts with the premise that, despite its flaws, this is a truly great country-- great in every aspect of the word.

Won't Make the Cut

2011-06-16T08:16:00.000-07:00

ALL-TIME AMERICAN WRITER TOURNAMENT

As final decisons are being made for the remaining slots, I can at least reveal the names of several writers who definitely won't make it.

I tried to read and accept Stephen King's writing, I really did, but cannot bring myself to include him. My first and overarching thought is, "This is typical commercial fiction junk." As manipulative, empty, and derivative as a Stephen Spielberg shock movie.

Dorothy Parker? A few good jokes but a minor writer.

I'm sorry to say that Truman Capote won't be in the tournament. Most of his fiction is overly precious and literary. He wrote one great nonfiction book. But there's only so much room in one tournament for Mailer-style publicity hounds. Truman was squeezed out. Blame Norman Mailer for it.

Let him take as consolation the fact that at least two Nobel Prize winners, Sinclair Lewis and Pearl Buck, won't make the cut. Today their writing looks moldy and stiff.

Harper Lee won't be in the tournament. She's known for one nice but slight novel. High school teachers love her, but. . . . Not enough.

A giant of the 1930's, Thoman Wolfe, whose status once nearly overshadowed Hemingway and Fitzgerald, is unable to squeeze in to the brackets.

Philip Roth proves that continued mediocrity, despite plaudits, is still mediocrity.

Longfellow was a great poet in his day, but he long ago lost much of his relevance.

John Updike? As with Stephen King, I can't bring myself to include John Updike. He might be considered the other pole of everything wrong with American writing now.

No Joseph Wambaugh. Blame him for the endless parade of TV police dramas. No John or Washington Irving. No Mario Puzo, alas. He came close.

Finally, I can reveal that Gertrude Stein won't be in the tournament. Blame her absence on the Kathy Bates-playing-Kathy Bates non-impersonation of her in "Midnight in Paris."

The #13 and #14 Seeds

2011-06-10T08:32:00.000-07:00

We're nearing the end of the seeding, where the choices become excruciatingly hard to make. I still want to throw in a few surprises, which narrows the available spots more. Yet I believe the surprises are fully justified.

#13
A.) Mary McCarthy.
B.) Norman Mailer.
C.) Katherine Anne Porter.
D.) Edith Wharton.

#14
A.) Edgar Rice Burroughs.
B.) Herman Wouk.
C.) Ralph Ellison.
D.) Isaac Asimov.

I've tried to construct each seed with its own small theme. With #13 I continue to tweak Norman Mailer's ego. In many ways his ego was the best part of him, from a larger American Lit perspective, overshadowing the actual writing. He was the last American author who sought to be as big and ambitious as the land and the culture, as big as the American Dream. (The title of one of his ambitious if failed novels.)

I've surrounded Norman Mailer with three American ladies, who represent an evolution of the American woman in this society. Wharton the epitome of refinement and society still represents too much the box within which our literature has allowed itself to become confined. (The next seed, #14, is a full reaction against such domestication.) Porter shows an increased cynicism and knowingness about this country and about life, if not fully into grotesque Flannery O'Connor territory. Katherine Anne Porter wrote small short story and novella jewels, masterpieces the equal of anyone's. Her novel, Ship of Fools, is underrated.

As for Mary McCarthy, she takes Porter's cynicism almost over the edge in her barracuda essays and novels, which remain highly readable and relevant. For awhile she cranked them out like a John O'Hara, but with her interest in politics kept them intelligent. (One I read about a German terrorist group-- I'll add the name at a later date!-- of course remains topical in this day.)

In the next seed I highlight four diverse popular novelists.

Ralph Ellison a popular novelist? Yes. One of the best of them, though he published only one book in his lifetime, Invisible Man, which is an over-the-top kaleidoscope of impressions, characters, and plot, capturing as well as any author has the noise of America. Was this book the last great melding of "literary" and "pop"? Cynical, knowing, yet throughout, highly entertaining. A full reading experience.

Herman Wouk wrote a ton of novels. War and Remembrance includes the best attempt to understand the mystery of Franklin Roosevelt as a leader-- with two opposite viewpoints on him, either of which might be right. Wouk didn't have the persona of Norman Mailer, nor his joy of using language, but he was a more intelligent writer.

Wouk will be remembered for The Caine Mutiny. If you work jobs you'll encounter a "Queeg" and his situation at some point in your life. The knowledge of personalities caught within a structure of command and hierarchy, as well as the drama of both the mutiny itself, and the later trial, remain compelling. The trial part of the novel became a classic stage play.

Isaac Asimov brought surpassing intelligence to his superb "Foundation" series, the forerunner of Star Trek, Star Wars, Battlestar Whatever, and so much else, much of it admittedly crap.

Edgar Rice Burroughs, for all his obvious flaws, is the greatest pop writer of all time in his sheer imagination and excitement. He took what existed in American legend and culture, with a large dash of Rider Haggard, and created the myth of the Anglo-Saxon Superman which still exists in American culture. See Batman, Iron Man, Green Lantern, et.al. A cultural subtext of history, politics, exploration and Imperialism, and, yes, racism. Tarzan has become an uncomfortable stereotype, with much baggage. The John Carter series on the other hand continues to be pure pop reading.

Scott in Paris

2011-06-04T06:05:00.000-07:00

The new Woody Allen movie, "Midnight in Paris," is creating tremendous buzz, particularly for its characterizations of Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, and Scott Fitzgerald. Has anyone seen it?

The film is an example of how Fitzgerald and Hemingway have become mythic figures in American culture. In their day, they were akin to rock stars. They're remembered for their striking depictions of their time, but also for having lived in their time. They moved through history and created history.

The irony is that they weren't the most interesting figures during that time in Paris. (The 1920's.) Even if we set aside other literary giants like James Joyce and Ezra Pound. The distinction instead best belongs to Kay Boyle and Robert McAlmon, the main characters in John Glassco's immortal recollection of the period, Memoirs of Montparnasse. Glassco depicts Boyle with a pseudonym. She stands out nevertheless.

Kay Boyle wrote her own memories into her compilation of McAlmon's Being Geniuses Together. She was also strikingly portrayed in a Humphrey Carpenter history of the period.

One may also wish to rent a Keith Carradine movie from the 1980's, "The Moderns."

I don't know how good the Woody Allen film is. The ultimate movie of the period has yet to be made.

Would that writers were as interesting and glamorous now!

The #12 Seeds

2011-05-31T08:42:00.000-07:00

ALL-TIME AMERICAN WRITER TOURNAMENT

A.) O. Henry.

B.) Ralph Waldo Emerson.

C.) Tom Wolfe.

D.) Saul Bellow.

O. Henry is hugely underrated as a writer. There was much more going on in his tales than meets the eye. (I have a short ebook planned on him.)

Emerson was at some point obligatory, given the huge influence he had on early American thought. He was a poet and an essayist.

Tom Wolfe was the best of the "New Journalists" of the 1960's. Wrote some classic essays and a couple good nonfiction books like The Right Stuff. In the 1980's he turned himself into a novelist. Not as good as he thinks he is, but like Emerson, too important a figure to leave out.

Carrying on that theme, we close this seed with Saul Bellow, who's been hugely overrated. Bellow wrote one great novella. His novels are failures. His characters, like Henderson the Rain King, are always loudly expressing emotion, but the narratives seldom create emotion in the reader. In the same way, Bellow is always trying to express ideas, to be intellectual, the attempts almost laughably failing in a big way. He ended up being the crankiest American author ever, far surpassing even the likes of Clemens and Cozzens. Still, for one brief moment he put everything together.

The #11 Seeds

2011-05-26T08:07:00.000-07:00

ALL-TIME AMERICAN WRITER TOURNAMENT CONTINUES

A.) Bret Easton Ellis.

B.) Jennifer Egan.

C.) David Foster Wallace.

D.) Michael Chabon.

For this seed I aimed for younger-- if not exactly young (and in one case no longer alive)-- contemporary writers. I can't say there was a lot to choose from.

Bret Ellis is the most lasting of the 1980's Brat Pack that for all its focus on the rich and the glamorous, also focused some attention on the glamor of being writers. Jennifer Egan was an early suggestion from a reader of this blog. Her work is as substantial (or insubstantial) as anyone's. David Foster Wallace was included for his essays, his myth and influence, and his mad artistic ambition as exemplified by his huge and nearly unreadable novel Infinite Jest. As for Michael Chabon, his inclusion was an afterthought-- I originally had Pahalniuk, then hip-hop poet Saul Williams, penciled into that spot. Chabon seems interested in the idea of pop literature-- the synthesis of the literary and the truly popular-- if he hasn't yet fully shown he can create that elusive animal.

Public Intellectuals

2011-05-25T10:53:00.000-07:00

There used to be a term for independent writers like Susan Sontag. They were known as "public intellectuals." The term, I suppose, could be used to refer to writers of ideas as diverse as Ralph Waldo Emerson and Gore Vidal.

Does any writer today qualify? The thoughts of most well-hyped establishment writers like Jonathan Franzen are so banal and trivial they're embarrassing.

The Problem of Now

2011-05-23T06:54:00.000-07:00

The difficulty in choosing contemporary writers for the All-Time American Writer Tournament is the way writing has become the academic "literary" art, on one hand, and the crassly commercial on the other. Nowhere is this divide better seen than in the realm of poetry.

Who, for instance, is a major, younger American poet? Peter Gizzi? He might be, but his work is so language-poetry influenced that it's the kind of thing which sits lifeless on a page, and when read, puts listeners to sleep.

Saul Williams? He's helped bring poetry back into the mainstream, is marketing the art in new ways, and gives dynamic readings. Yet his work fails to explore the creative possibilities opened up by the masters of American poetic history, including individuals already part of the tournament seedings.

One kind of poet is completely the captive of the academy. The other, of commerce.

As with the American novel, and the short story, the poetic art over the past fifty years has regressed.

The few poets who bridge the divide, creating a synthesis between both streams, practice their work in obscurity.

The Brackets

2011-05-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

The list of the seedings to date can be found on the right of this page, under "The Seedings."

How do they look so far? Is any period overrepresented? Do we need more contemporary writers?

The next groups of names will be difficult.

The #10 Seeds

2011-05-19T12:38:00.000-07:00

Are there giants left out there who aren't yet in the tournament?

Yes, a few-- including two or three of the most controversial American writers who ever lived. Check out this un-p.c. crowd:

A.) Amiri Baraka.

B.) James Gould Cozzens.

C.) Ezra Pound.

D.) Raymond Chandler.

Amiri Baraka-- once the Beat poet Leroi Jones (this guy's been around)-- is included in few anthologies or lists of the best living American poets, but for all his anger and skewed point of view you won't find a stronger poet anyplace. His words burn through the page.

James Gould Cozzens today is all but forgotten, but no American author better mastered the form of the novel, nor better understood and depicted the stoic mindset of those who founded and ran this nation. A few of Cozzens' opinions are outdated. For all his flaws, there remains an ethical underpinning-- often hypocritical-- to his work. This is a writer who's trying to understand the universe and his place within it. Cozzens knew as well as anyone has what makes this particular civilization work. His best novels are like well-built houses. Nothing within them is ever, ever overdone. They leave impact with the intelligent reader regardless.

The Last Adam, Men and Brethren, The Just and the Unjust, Guard of Honor-- his best novels are an impressive body of work perhaps not equaled in their entirety by any American. Cozzens also wrote a handful or so of excellent short stories. No one today reads them.

His most famous and controversial novel, By Love Possessed, which gained Cozzens a Time magazine cover in the 1950s, is not one of his best. It contains great strengths, but also more weaknesses than the rest of his novels put together, as if his ideas and prejudices so long held under tight rein at last overwhelmed him. James Gould Cozzens is the most adult American writer, in the sense that other American writers seem unserious, not in control of their material, even trivial by comparison to a work like the massive and complex Guard of Honor, an apex in the American novel which won the Pulitzer though its competition for the year was the much lauded The Naked and Dead by Norman Mailer. One time the judges got it correct.

Ezra Pound was the most influential American poet of all time, in his innovative work and also in the many journals and literary movements he initiated, and in the steady support, teaching, and encouragement he gave to other writers-- to giants like Eliot, Hemingway, and James Joyce. Few suffered more for his ideas than Pound-- misguided though he may have been. I have the image of him left in a small cage in the sweltering heat on an airport tarmac in Italy at the end of World War II, treated like an animal, and not like one of the greatest American writers who ever lived.

Raymond Chandler was the best writer among all mystery writers ever, anywhere.

NEXT UP: A seed of more contemporary figures-- which creates a new set of problems, as I'll soon explain.

Play-In Matches

2011-05-16T12:28:00.000-07:00

Some proposed matches between similar writers as a way to winnow down the pack:

-Katherine Anne Porter versus Flannery O'Connor.

-Thomas Wolfe versus Erskine Caldwell.

-Mickey Spillane versus James Ellroy.

Should any of these people make the cut? Which more stand out?

David Foster Wallace or Chuck Palahniuk?

2011-05-14T06:26:00.000-07:00

ALL-TIME AMERICAN WRITER TOURNAMENT

One of the hardest things to do when setting up brackets like these is to remain impartial. Or: bias is a given, but we need to work to balance that bias.

For instance, if the last slot comes down to David Foster Wallace or Chuck Palahniuk, which writer goes in?

Both have cult followings. In his fiction, Foster Wallace stands for everything I abhor in postmodern lit. The work of both writers is rather dark. Which writer is more important, influential, and representative of our era?

David Foster Wallace put his mind out there as perhaps no author ever has, pushing the envelope of hyper-stimulated intelligence. What his fans react to more than the works themselves is the sensitivity of the person behind the words. His was a dead-end path, in my estimation, yet Wallace took the path all the way to the end, which ended in his own destruction. A cautionary tale, but in its way, an admirable one.

Palahniuk is a more transparent writer. Does this necessarily mean a shallower one? His warmed-over Nietzscheanism has appeal to young men today. Is there anything remarkable or lasting in it? That's the question.

ORIGINALITY
What happens when we throw Michigan writer Jim Harrison into the mix, who's been shown on these threads to have his share of followers?

One thing Harrison isn't, is a trailblazer. He seems to have burst full-born from Hemingway's head. His best-known work, Legends of the Fall, includes a segment about World War I, and is obviously-- obviously-- a nod to Hem and the Hemingway ethos.

That said, Harrison's work feels more American than either Wallace's or Pahluniak's-- there's more affection for the country, the people, the land. With a mere 64 slots to play with, do we include a local colorist? What, then, about Erskine Caldwell? Bret Harte?

Decisions, decisions. . . .

The #9 Seeds

2011-05-11T12:36:00.000-07:00

ALL-TIME AMERICAN WRITER TOURNAMENT

A.) Frank Norris.

B.) John Berryman.

C.) Ray Bradbury.

D.) Margaret Mitchell.

*****************************************

Norris was a great essayist about literature. He also wrote perhaps the greatest American novel, The Octopus.

Bradbury was a master writer at novel or story, wrote the best sci fi ever-- always a metaphor for our own era-- helped popularize the genre and more than anyone made it respectable.

Mitchell wrote possibly the most famous American novel and in it, two characters everyone knows in Rhett and Scarlett.

As for John Berryman, I'm including him because he was probably the best American poet at a time when American poetry was at its apex.

Each of these four, in very different ways, are giants of American literature. I'd have a hard time finding others at this point I could say that about-- though the rest of the crowd isn't lacking for wannabes, or those who came close.

Reinventing the Canon

2011-05-03T08:18:00.001-07:00

To what extent does the approved canon of American literature no longer work?

This question has run through my head several times while putting together brackets for the All-Time American Writer Tournament. How far does one go in respecting the past—or not even the past, but writers of the past approved by literary mandarins now?

John Updike is an example of what I’m talking about. Updike is considered a major literary figure of the last fifty years of our literature—considered so by those who control literature. But these refined persons represent in fact a sliver of the American public. Updike’s world was a narrow world. He never connected with the true mainstream of American culture.

Who in fact are the American writers of past and present that we should be honoring?

Memo

2011-04-25T12:18:00.000-07:00

I'll be taking a break from the Tournament for the rest of the week-- but please stay tuned.

Choices

2011-04-21T07:55:00.001-07:00

32 SLOTS ARE LEFT

ALL-TIME AMERICAN WRITER TOURNAMENT

Choices, choices. Does Truman Capote have a large enough body of work with one great nonfiction book and a handful of decent stories? If so, who does he displace? Joseph “Catch 22” Heller? Herman Wouk? Caine Mutiny’s strawberries are part of the culture. Prolific icon Philip Roth? Richard Yates? Yates wrote a few great stories and at least one pretty good novel. As did J.F. Powers. Richard Wright? Can Wright be left out? Or Thomas Wolfe of a few giant novels? Or observant journalist and novelist Tom Wolfe? “The Right Stuff” and “Bonfire of the Vanities” are terms known by those who haven’t read the books.

We’ll see that 32 places isn’t a lot.

Playwrights? August Wilson? Langston Hughes? Neil Simon??? Will Neil Simon’s plays last? Will David Mamet’s plays last? In any sales job one meets individuals who quote from Mamet: the Glengarry leads; coffee is for closers, and such. Should any past but now largely forgotten playwrights like Clifford Odets get in?

32 slots isn’t a lot.

Why isn’t Ralph Waldo Emerson listed yet? Henry David Thoreau? Theodore Dreiser? Robert Lowell? Erskine Caldwell? Remember Tobacco Road. David Foster Wallace of our own time. Bret Ellis. Henry Miller. Joan Didion. Thomas Pynchon. James Dickey. Updike will likely have to take a space, like it or not. Hart Crane Wallace Stevens John Ashbery (ugh!) William Carlos Williams Maya Angelou Alice Walker James Cain Philip K. Dick IsaacAsimovNormanMailerEdithWhartonBernieMalamudSaulBellowSinclairLewisJamesJonesPearlBuckWilliam(EdgarRice?)Burroughs help!

32 spots isn’t a lot.

More Tournament Seeding

2011-04-19T09:42:00.000-07:00

At this stage, the order in which I put these writers is arbitrary. Nearly all need to be in the tournament someplace. The hard choices have yet to be made.

#5 Seeds:

A.) T.S. Eliot.
B.) Gore Vidal.
C.) Susan Sontag.
D.) Allen Ginsberg.

#6 Seeds:

A.) Harriet Beecher Stowe.
B.) Nathaniel Hawthorne.
C.) William Faulkner.
D.) Robert Frost.

#7 Seeds:

A.) Stephen Crane.
B.) Carl Sandburg.
C.) J.D. Salinger.
D.) Arthur Miller.

#8 Seeds:

A.) Joyce Carol Oates.
B.) James Baldwin.
C.) Charles Bukowski.
D.) Kurt Vonnegut.

This fills out the top half of the bracket. Many spots are left. So far, I've listed very few living writers-- in part because few have a large footprint in society, and because literature itself no longer has a large footprint in society. There are no major figures, with the possible exception of Stephen King, who's a terrible writer. is too limited to have the artistic and intellectual ambition of a Rand or Sontag, has no personality, and breaks no new artistic ground.

Some writers like Chuck Paluhniak, mentioned in a comment on a previous post, have some footprint in the culture. Enough to include them in the brackets, but not ahead of these other figures.

It's not a great time for the art. Eliot gave readings in the 1950's in stadiums. Great poetic talent then, whether from vistors like Dylan Thomas or home grown poets like John Berryman, or fledgling geniuses like Sylvia Plath, was everywhere. Novelists like Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal through the 60's were celebrities. Some, like Susan Sontag, had personality and style. Creative writers were considered major thinkers.

Which creative writer is considered a major thinker now? If I'm missing a couple, please let me know!

#3 and #4 Seeds

2011-04-15T07:39:00.000-07:00

ALL-TIME AMERICAN WRITER TOURNAMENT

#3 Seeds:

A.) Tennessee Williams.

B.) Jack London.

C.) Henry James.

D.) Emily Dickinson.

#4 Seeds:

A.) Kenneth Rexroth.

B.) Sylvia Plath.

C.) Edgar Allan Poe.

D.) John Steinbeck.

Not many surprises, I hope. Rexroth was not only a great poet and essayist, he mentored and influenced the Beats in San Francisco. I don't believe Ginsberg's "Howl" would've been possible without the example of Rexroth's "Thou Shalt Not Kill" before it.

With the rise of the feminist movement in the 1970's, and the publication of Plath's autobiographical novel The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath became something of a pop figure. But, the talent lives up to it. Not only did she master the elements of real poetry, rhythmns, euphony, symbols, but she added an intense insight and energy-- her personality-- to the words. As with Emily D's work, the best poetry is eternal.

Jack London? Possibly the best-known and loved American writer in the rest of the world. Few short story writers equalled his mastery of the form. None were better. Ya gotta also love his dog tales.

Tennessee Williams' plays remain potent and remembered. "Stella!"

Though he took American letters in the wrong direction, IMHO, the stuffy, overwritten, and the self-absorbed, Henry James had too much strong output overall for him to be ignored. Even some semi-pop stuff like "Daisy Miller" and "Turn of the Screw." My favorite James work is "Altar of the Dead." Perfect reading for the depressed!

Poe more-or-less invented the detective story and the horror genre, which we've been stuck with, for good and ill, since.

With such a tournament, the question is still who's been left out.

Tournament Update

2011-04-13T09:24:00.000-07:00

ALL-TIME AMERICAN WRITER TOURNAMENT CONTINUED

The tournament site became a wild place last Saturday after the #2 seed announcements.

The Big Four dropped back into town so Hemingway could join Scott in the celebration. They held court at the new bistro. Mailer joined the two for a time but couldn't keep up with their drinking. Mailer was last seen staggering out the back door after losing an arm-wrestling contest to a grinning Hemingway. Mailer hasn't been seen since. Scratch one of my commentators.

At the same time, Emily D joined the two friends. She wore a sleek white dress, and spoke to Scott while Hem was engaged in his arm-wrestling.

"I am small like the wren, and my hair is bold," she told Scott, "as is my pen. If you would have the leisure to speak to me, I should feel quick gratitude."

She fell instantly in love with him, but was also intensely intimidated by Scott and by the situation. While Hemingway bellowed nearby.

Fitzgerald's green eyes were indeed entranced by the poet. He gazed at her wistfully-- but two glasses of wine were too much for Emily and she fled back to her room, vowing to ever remain. Scratch my other commentator.

Fitzgerald was later carried off unconscious himself, but has promised not to take another drink while in training. An observer, Raymond Carver, remarked that this "was a good thing. A small thing, but a good thing."

The rest of the night is blurry. Hemingway stood in the middle of the street challenging any writer to a fight. Melville and Twain wondered whether or not to intervene. Just then a dogsled pulled up. Jack London stepped out from behind the pack.

"What's doing?" he asked.

Herman M pointed to swaggering Hem, as if to ask for a favor.

Jack London, an authentic tough guy, knocked the bear out with one punch. Melville thereupon picked up the sprawling writer, threw him over his shoulder, not without difficulty, and the Big Four went back to their camp to resume fishing in the morning.

The night culminated at the coffeeshop across the street, which was packed to the rafters when Jack Kerouac stepped to the podium.

"This reading this coffeeshop this small all-American town incredible big porch big bridge in the mist this Emily Dickinson evening of beatitude writers everywhere without beginning or ending, heavenly, man. O Whitman! O Salinger! O Twain! It's Saturday night all over America.

"I think of Hemingway bears, Scott purple pink ties, Mailer Oates Plath noisemakers hepcat Walt Whitman writers sucking on beers and pipes scratching into paper nutty wild jazzy sweet words people are yelling or whispering blown boom trombone insights and attitudes to the beat of their inner peace,

"I think of soft smart Wharton Eliot Updike Redcoats sky-high with their reps happy to be part of this sacred gathering prayerful celebration,

"I think of all writers everyplace carrying on the tradition, man, karmic drinking of this art this experience, this too-musical too-cool tournament give me the vibe the beat the bebop syncopation keeping me going man while I sneak out the back door back stairs back on the road back into the starry Van Gogh heavenly night."

Next: The #3 and #4 seeds.

The Ayn Rand Problem

2011-04-12T07:30:00.001-07:00

The complete dismissal of Ayn Rand’s novels by contemporary literary critics like Thomas Mallon says more about the narrow intellectual world in which these critics live, than it does about Rand’s work.

Thomas Mallon, in a 11/9/09 essay in The New Yorker, called Rand a “crackpot,” and assured his readers that Atlas Shrugged is “badly executed on every level of language, plot, and characterization.”

Really, Mr. Mallon? Every level? Yet that same novel has connected with, stirred, and shaped the minds of huge numbers of readers since the novel was first introduced. An impartial observer would suspect the book, as literature, must be doing something right.

Part of what the critics react to is Rand’s take-no-prisoners politics, her in-your-face defense of Capitalism. But they also react to the way she presents her ideas, which is with boldness, outlining her thesis on a very large scale. These critics are trained by the academy to be genteel and cautious—Mallon is a product of Harvard, Brown, and Radcliffe—and are made uncomfortable by those who break their stiff codes of behavior and style.

In other words, it’s about more than politics. Ayn Rand after all wrote in the 19th century tradition of popular novelists like Dickens, Hugo, and Dumas. These novelists painted with bold colors, embraced large themes, sought to encompass entire societies in their view, and didn’t flinch from melodrama. The American novelist who best carried on this tradition was Frank Norris— anything but an apologist for Big Business.

**************************************

Ayn Rand’s novels are filled with giant failings. They contain swaths of bad writing. Her characters aren’t realistic. The speeches her heroes engage in go on very long. Rand breaks tons of writing rules. Yet she gets away with it through the power of her voice, and the momentum of the narratives which carry readers along with her, crackpot or not. It’s the essence of literature.

Rand knows how to construct a narrative. Plot threads? There have been few plot threads more effective than “Who is John Galt?”

Ayn Rand had a giant ego but she also had a giant imagination: Galt’s Gulch; the mysteriously efficient motor found in an abandoned factory; the rail line—Rand creates enough myth and mystery to ensure the reader is captured by the book. Throughout is the story—the driving onward movement of plot, best expressed by the thrilling train ride that dominates a large part of the book. But, always, there’s the plot hook: “Who is John Galt?” What’s going on? Rand hangs her wealth of ideas upon this simple plot hook.

Rand isn’t writing anything which looks like an acceptable novel, but she does create an entire aesthetic, an expression of a unique viewpoint. We visualize the happenings of the story. She’s painting as much as writing. Atlas Shrugged evokes post-World War II American modernism, capturing the feeling of hyper-power, hyper-success-- monumental buildings, machines, and ideas representative of the most powerful and successful civilization that ever was. Most writers flinch from the very notion. Yet we live in that civilization. Maybe Ayn Rand is a more realistic writer than we thought.

Her characters, in their way, are equally as monumental. They’re stylized drawings. They’re meant to be ideals. Rand scorned religion but created her own, with its own gods—and asked the readers to be gods. Galt’s Gulch has echoes to H.G. Wells’ giant new humans in “Food of the Gods” escaping to a valley to create their own world. The novel is an obvious metaphor for technological progress.

Beyond this, Ayn Rand celebrates the artist. Curious that she didn’t believe in God. No author more celebrated creation. One of her heroes is a symphonic composer. One can almost hear the notes of his work. The book is filled with such evocative suggestions. The world Rand creates is created inside our heads.
Atlas Shrugged is a monumental, social realism-style painting, but it’s also theater, which is what the long speeches are about. Rand didn’t flinch from using every possible tool in the writer’s toolbox. Yes, she hit you over the head with them—but you stay to the end regardless.

By the end the plot gets a little ridiculous. The representation of ideas is taken too far. But while it lasts, the story is an exciting ride. The philosophy is part of the presentation: the all-encompassing aesthetic contained within the book. It’s all painting. It’s all theater. The book is gestures and clothes and looks and postures. It’s all style—which means nothing more than that Ayn Rand was an artist.

Fitzgerald’s Writing

2011-04-11T07:20:00.001-07:00

What made F. Scott Fitzgerald’s writing unique?

Two factors. One is that, unlike today’s literary writers, he didn’t craft every sentence to be sparkling, a la John Updike. Much of his work consists of simple declarative sentences intended to advance the narrative, hook the reader, and set up the beautiful passages which stand out in our memories afterward. To use a baseball analogy, Scott Fitzgerald didn’t throw a fastball on every pitch.

Second, because as a youth he read a great deal of literary “pop,” pure unpretentious genre stuff, Fitzgerald was able to meld a pop sensibility with literary craft. This is notable about The Great Gatsby, which contains elements of romance and mystery which could’ve come out of a low-brow detective story. Fitzgerald understood the magic of pop lit, of how to create atmosphere and plot. Gatsby is one of the best-plotted works of fiction ever created.

Instead of writers today trying to duplicate Fitzgerald’s ability, we see instead a polarization of styles of writing. On one hand, purely commercial fiction with no depth of thought, and scant intelligence—no sense of intentionally creating significant fiction or crafting art. On the other extreme are workshopped literary writers who scorn narrative ability, whose focus is not on the reader, but who drop instead into egoistic lands of overwrought sentences about worlds existing inside their heads. What the two poles have in common is a retreat from the world.

Blend the pop and the literary like Fitzgerald did and you’ll resurrect the literary art.

To understand Scott Fitzgerald’s genius, read one of his Basil and Josephine popular stories, “The Captured Shadow.” Because he wasn’t intentionally creating “Literature,” he was freer with this kind of story to entertain himself. His natural ability flows freely. He ends up saying more about art, the mystery and magic of the creation of art—art’s ineffable qualities—than do other writers’ entire novels. Scott Fitzgerald had a pure naive wonder about the world and was able to convey this in his work.

The Novelists

2011-04-11T07:14:00.000-07:00

When creating a tournament like this, one has to deal with a critical consensus that has decided which are the great works and great authors. Look at their selections, and you'll see that while a few undeniable masterpieces are included, the overall judgement is purely arbitrary. The resulting lists are badly skewed, and have more to do with academic and media trends and biases in place when the works were written. Once on the "list," the work never gets off.

Lolita, for instance, may have been daring in its time. Today it reads like an embarrassment. Catch-22 takes one joke and runs it into the ground. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter is an interesting but minor work. Compare these to the best of the French and Russians-- Hugo, Dumas, Gogol, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky-- and they're not even in the same ballpark.

John O'Hara remains highly placed on the lists. I'm actually something of a fan of his-- but does anyone today read or cherish John O'Hara? His many novels and stories never rise above the competent.

What do we do with three American Nobel Prize winners: Sinclair Lewis, Saul Bellow, and Pearl Buck?

Main Street and Lewis's other novels are stodgy and dated. Model T vintage literature, pseudo-intellectual, smirky and sarcastic with no depth, as narrow and provincial as his subjects, nothing about the characters and language which any longer lives. Bellow's reputation and relevance dates and declines by the year. "Seize the Day" is a great short work. The rest of his oeuvre is a lot of noise. Pearl Buck?

The question isn't just whether or not the authors are still read, but how good they are. I was going to leave one of my faves, James Gould Cozzens, out of the brackets because he's largely forgotten. Yet his novels are way better, as novels, than the bulk of American works on a "Modern Library" list. The Last Adam, The Just and the Unjust, Guard of Honor-- adult, intelligent novels written by an observer who understood America and its workings, and used the architecture of the novel to depict this complex country.

There are a lot of good American novelists to consider. Over a hundred who could potentially be chosen. My attitude with the rest of the seeding is this: A few good novels isn't good enough. The novelist should've written at least one great, striking, or dynamic novel. I aim to punish mediocrity and reward ambition.

The #2 Seeds

2011-04-08T07:47:00.000-07:00

A.) F. Scott Fitzgerald. With Fitzgerald the case to be made is why he isn't a #1 seed. For two reasons. First, he didn't influence and express the American voice to the same extent as the four. Nobody talks like Fitzgerald or writes like him. Being the best means being unique-- and I think he's the best American writer, if not the most important. Second, Fitzgerald has never been as big on a world scale as the others. Other cultures have never quite "gotten" him-- a sign of how truly American he is. Still, he's never been more appreciated than now-- another Gatsby movie upcoming-- and his work can become more influential, if writers understand exactly what he did and how he did it. I'll address his writing in another post.

B.) Ayn Rand. The literary world for sixty years has refused to acknowledge this person, but it's like trying to ignore the sun or the moon. Her influence on America is bigger than what has become quite a tiny literary world. Her ideas and analysis are the world we live in now. America, with its oversized strengths and flaws, its egoism and materialism, is a Randian world. If we as advocates of literature ask literature to be a living part of the civilization, a necessary part of the argument, then Ayn Rand, more than any American writer, past or present, fulfills that role. The Reagan era took its ideas from her. The Tea Party today is part Jefferson, part Jesus, and part Ayn Rand. Atlas Shrugged alone sold a million copies last year. With a movie version due out, that number will only go up. Added note for the p.c. crowd: Ayn Rand was a feminist before there was feminism.

But, the writing? What about the writing? Despite the ostensible logic she claimed to express, Ayn Rand's novels-- even their ideas-- are illusion. Her books are very much works of art. I'll address this next week in a separate post.

C.) Toni Morrison. Morrison allows us to bring American literature to its varied present while at the same time strengthening its tie to the past. Morrison has a unique voice-- a big, loud, American voice-- which at the same time is tied inextricably to founding American authors like Herman Melville and Harriet Beecher Stowe. If Ayn Rand's viewpoint is part of the contemporary American argument, then so is Morrison's. Besides, Toni Morrison isn't just a renowned novelist. She's also a dominating essayist, and has even written the libretto for an opera-- "Margaret Garner"-- which I saw presented in Detroit in 2008. I was blown away by it.

D.) Jack Kerouac. As dynamic a persona, as mythic a person, and as American a voice as anyone. On the Road, his most influential book, is quintessentially American. As much as any work of literature, it captures and defines this country, which has always, always, been about the open road-- the impulse toward freedom, the need to travel ever farther. Where, we're not always sure. Fitzgerald called it a green light. Kerouac expressed the driving and striving on a more visceral level.

Latest Tournament News

2011-04-07T07:44:00.000-07:00

ONGOING ALL-TIME AMERICAN WRITER TOURNAMENT

A REPORT FROM THE VENUE

There's a palpable buzz in town today. People suspect something big may occur. I figure they've heard the loud voices coming from the Selection Committee room. But there've been other happenings. Among them:

-Several mysterious writer figures have booked into the Grand Hotel.

-The Poetry community, practitioners of the art who've taken up residence in the area, have undergone a change in mood. Initially euphoric that one of their number was the second name chosen, they've now dropped, as is their nature, to the other extreme. Speculation exists that it'll be many seeds before another poet makes the brackets. I've heard grumbling. "Where's Eliot?" they've asked. "At least Eliot! Or Poe? How can you leave out Poe?" I don't tell them that Poe's entry, when it occurs, will have more to do with his fabulous stories than his poetry.

-At the same time, a coffeeshop is poised to open at the end of the main street. Poetry advocates have been seen inside, directing workmen. There've been arguments about where to place the tables. Poets, as is their nature, seldom agree about anything. The poets must see the coffeeshop as a way to lobby for their kind. Poets have been known to host impromptu readings at such places.

-The Big Four have been conveniently sent out of town to scout for pine trees. Good American pine will be needed to construct the outdoor arena in which the matches will take place. Before they left, Herman Melville was seen to duck quickly back into the Grand Hotel, possibly to see one of the new visitors. All is speculation! Then the four left. Hemingway was grinning, impossibly happy to be with his new compatriots. They're supposed to locate tracts of pine, but word in town is that instead they've gone hunting and fishing.

-Some of the writers-- Joyce Carol Oates among them-- have located an exercise room in the basement of the old hotel. I dropped in to take a look. It's not at all like a modern gym, but instead has equipment last used in the 19th century-- dumbbells and boxing gloves. When I glanced around I saw Mary McCarthy, or someone who looked like Mary McCarthy, using the heavy gloves to punch out a silhouette of Lillian Hellman. Oates watched, egging the burgundy-haired woman on. "Bunny" Wilson the lit critic-- an extreme longshot to make the event-- stood by as well.

-Emily D, overwhelmed by the excitement of past days, has taken to her room. She's assured me through her new friend, Sylvia Plath, that she'll be back as guest commentator as soon as she's able.

-In the meantime I've been forced to take on as Emily's temporary replacement, Norman Mailer. He must sense that he'll not be chosen in the next few brackets, and so has time on his hands, is eager for any way to gain the spotlight. Or, as he explained to me,

"I reluctantly concluded that with the inevitable reaction against maleness, of which I'm of course the embodiment, as well as being the essentially pre-eminent literary figure of his time, I, Mailer, caught in this really predictable and shitty existential crisis of identity, this primordial mentality truly American, American-ness sense of existential angst-- dread, dread!-- the mountains of critical response to this figure Mailer who's always stood independently for this instinctively pure essence of writer, I say essence because it's so anally basic, this maw of warm shit excreting itself from the corpus of the art, the community, expressing itself against this symbol of male willness, I, Mailer. . . ."

This isn't what he said exactly. I'm giving a shortened facsimile. If I were to post his full explanation for why he's signed on as a substitute commentator, I wouldn't have enough space.

Even Mailer senses the electricity in the streets. That something, as early as tonight, is about to break. I hope to be able to give a report, as well as an announcement of the #2 seeds, within the next couple days.

First Press Conference

2011-04-06T06:31:00.000-07:00

ALL-TIME AMERICAN WRITER TOURNAMENT CONTINUED

The other two #1 seeds:

3.) Herman Melville. What does one do with Moby Dick? One of the other top competitors, Toni Morrison, explained once in a long essay the novel's symbolism and significance. Talk about writing about America! The Pequod with its hierarchy, mad captain, and multi-cultural crew remains a striking metaphor about the country and concept "America." What do they chase? That which Melville, writing ten years before the Civil War, saw as America's founding flaw-- the "white whale." I doubt if any novel ever written by anyone anywhere has been more ambitious-- ambitious in terms of discussing the world, nature, society-- and ambitious in looking inward toward man's sins and soul. It's also a great yarn. Lest we think this was all Melville wrote, he began as a popular novelist, wrote some classic short stories, including one, "Bartleby," which in our cubicle work world is more relevant today than ever. Herman finished his career with a great novella, "Billy Budd," just to show he still had it. But Moby Dick-- a novel which can stand with any novel written by the world's best, even the Russians.

4.) Mark Twain. I happily bow to the voice of the crowd on this selection. As a persona he's up there with anyone. He has his undeniable masterpiece, other classic works, fantastic essays and a few good stories. If we're talking about which writers defined the culture and the American voice, then figures like Twain have an undeniable edge. We also can't deny there was a time when American lit was much bigger in cultural importance than it is now. But be aware-- there are many brackets to fill. A wide variety of voices will be heard from.

***************************************
THE PRESS CONFERENCE
As I prepare to introduce the four bigs-- #1 seeds-- to the expectant crowd, I look around for my newly booked commentator, Emily Dickinson ("Emily D"). I notice she's been cornered by Mailer, who while clenching and unclenching his fists and talking nonstop is explaining to Emily why he should've been a top seed and up on that stage. I think, Emily! Emily D is very talented and very cute, but she's not very worldly.

The Four are invited to step to the microphone to make a few remarks.

Hemingway: "It was an honor. It was a surprise but it was also an honor. It was not a surprise at all but he said it was because he didn't want people thinking he wasn't humble. It was easier to be humble. He didn't want to think about not being humble."

Whitman: "You who celebrate bygones! I, habitan of a cemetary in Camden, treating of himself as he is in his cups, Chanter of verse, I project the history of this contest, the great pride of this man in himself, Cheerful-- knowing this man Walt Whitman will win."

Melville: (Melville declines the opportunity to speak, but instead remains in his chair on stage, puffing on a pipe and observing the proceedings like a bemused sea captain surprised to be on land.)

Twain: "I had a lurking suspicion that Ernie Hemingway was a myth, that there never was such a fantastic personage. I asked old Wheeler about him, and he said it reminded him of the infamous Jim Hemingway last seen flexing his neck muscles around the barroom stove in Algonac due south and over a bridge from here. Big-bearded big-headed Jim backed Wheeler into a corner then sat him down and reeled off a monotonous narrative about flyfishing in a river not ten miles from this very spot. A fishing story, we used to call it. The one that got away. But no fishing story like the one Herm Melville on this stage has been known to tell." (Twain takes a puff from his own pipe.) "Fishing stories! You propose to defeat this old riverboat captain with fishing stories. Good luck."

***********************************

In this town's local barroom afterward, three of the Big Four stand around a stove telling yarns. Across from me, Emily D sips from sherry in a glass, the sherry the color of her eyes. "I taste a liquor never brewed," she confides.

I've known many poets and they're a strange bunch.

"What do you think of this event so far?" I ask, gesturing toward where Mark Twain holds court, where even Melville stands listening, four giant men in the small wood room-- Mailer trying to butt into the conversation rises barely to the others' shoulders. Emily gazes around the little tavern.

"Such a delirious whirl!" she says.

The #1 Seeds

2011-04-05T07:40:00.000-07:00

ALL-TIME AMERICAN WRITER TOURNAMENT

Two American writers were so gigantic in standing and influence, even on the world stage, that they're automatic #1 seeds. Both of them, in ways good and bad, helped define what it is to be American.

1.) Ernest Hemingway. Possibly the biggest writer persona ever. In his day he was a bigger figure than movie stars and pop singers. Instantly recognizable. Larger than life. A giant part of the culture. He destroyed the effete image of literature. He had popular best-sellers but was also a critical darling. He defined, at least for a while, the American voice-- and in many ways transformed the English language. Even the Brits weren't the same after Hemingway. In America, the hard-boiled detective genre sprang from a single Hemingway short story. ("The Killers.") Hemingway began as an underground writer, the artistic creation of Sherwood Anderson, Gertrude Stein, and Ezra Pound. He took from his mentors, synthesized their ideas and made them accessible to the world. It's impossible for us today to understand how revolutionary was the early Hemingway sound. Though much of his work today is dated, his best stuff holds up-- his "Macomber" story one of the most exciting tales ever written; his top novels, "Sun" and "Farewell" striking reads also.

2.) Walt Whitman. More than any other single writer, Walt Whitman created the American voice and justified a distinctive American literature very different from its Old World models. Beyond that, he transformed the art of poetry on a world scale. Many consider him the father of free verse. Not just his art, but his persona was distinctively American. "Leaves of Grass" was every bit as revolutionary an artistic happening as anything Hemingway wrote. Or, for that matter, Allen Ginsberg and the Beats, who would've been impossible without Whitman blazing the trail before them. Whitman was the first hippie. He lived during a time when poetry was popular, and he was the most popular poet. The American character is a mix of several influences. Whitman is surely one of them.
**************************
Those are the two automatics. This leaves us with two more slots to fill. Who else is on their lofty level? There are several candidates. The literary establishment surely wants Henry James up there-- but he has a couple strikes against him. Other names seem to fit more comfortably as #2 or #3 seeds. Then there are the Nobel Prize winners, but some of the winners have been quite mediocre. I have a rough idea of who else belongs at the top of the seeding, but am willing first to hear remarks. (After all four top seeds are determined, there will be a news conference, at our venue site, at which I hope to get a few remarks from the big four.)

Good Guys and Bad Guys

2011-04-04T07:53:00.001-07:00

Yes, I’m supposed to start discussing the #1 seeds for the All-Time American Writer Tournament. But as I was thinking about Ernest Hemingway—a likely #1 seed—I pondered whether he would be a good guy or a bad guy, if, say, the tournament were similar to Wrestlemania. I believe Hem would relish being a villain.

Who are other “bad guys”? Everyone hates Joyce Carol Oates, so I have her penciled in to the bad guy role also. Then there are some obvious “Boo! Hiss!” characters such as Ezra Pound and his tag-team partner, T.S. “The Fop” Eliot. As Ayn Rand seems to be heavily disliked, and carries the egomania of an effective bad guy, we’ll have her play that part as well. She used to stampede around in real life wearing a cape and using a cigarette holder, so she’d gladly play the part in the tournament.

“Good guys” by definition are a bland lot. In literature we have Emily D, John Steinbeck, Pearl Buck, Harriet Beecher Stowe of course, and possibly social conscience guys like Arthur Miller and Carl Sandburg. Miller, anyway, will have a female manager who was a bit of a celebrity herself. That will add some melodrama.

Anti-heroes? Jack Kerouac for sure, and likely Stephen Crane and Walt Whitman.

Then we have the Divas, which is where I put Allen Ginsberg, “Glamor Boy” Scott Fitzgerald, Sylvia Plath, and J.D. Salinger. The hard part will be getting Salinger into the ring. One can see a sneering Hemingway waiting for him, accusing him of cowardice and such—though if Salinger avoids disqualification and enters the ring he might do fairly well.

Other ideas?
(Please check previous posts for more on what the tournament’s about.)

Who's Good Enough?

2011-04-01T07:06:00.000-07:00

Who's good enough to make the tournament? Certain writers are gimmes-- but 64 spots, when you start listing writers, isn't a lot. The American Pop Lit Competition Committee hasn't decided if there will be a play-in game. Who should we start thinking about?

Sinclair Lewis? Anne Sexton? Pearl Buck? David Mamet? Zora Neale Hurston? Fanny Hurst? Maya Angelou? John "The Mummy" Updike? Charlie Bukowski? Ezra Pound? Carl Sandburg? Gertrude Stein? Sherwood Anderson? Truman Capote? Zane Grey? Herman Wouk? James Jones? Ray Bradbury? James Cain? James Fenimore Cooper? Harriet Beecher Stowe? Isaac Asimov? Ayn Rand? Mario Puzo? John Berryman? Bernard Malamud? Richard Wright? Ray Carver? Raymond Chandler? Lillian Hellman? Mary McCarthy? Katherine Anne Porter? Any contemporary poets? Any fantasy writers? Let's have some names!

In the meantime, we'll start on the easy part-- the #1 seeds. Coming next.

All-Time American Writer Tournament

2011-03-29T08:22:00.001-07:00

To celebrate the “Final Four” in college basketball, I’ve decided to put together my own tournament—this one to decide the all-time top American writer. It’s a big project. I’ll need help.

How it will work: There will be sixteen seeds, sixty-four writers altogether. A writer will have to be good simply to make the tournament. Brackets will be set up, starting with four #1 seeds, then the #2 seeds, and so on. Then, the writers begin squaring off mano a mano. I’ll hope to enlist volunteers to choose between, say, Henry James or Allen Ginsberg. The winner moves on. This continues until we have an overall winner.

SEEDING

I haven’t decided if the brackets will be arbitrary, or split up between, say, regions, or using other classifications, such as a Poetry bracket, Playwright bracket, and so on. Probably not the latter, simply because the history of American literature has been dominated by the novel. It would be unfair to leave out novelists who’ve had a huge impact on the civilization and culture in favor of poets or playwrights who’ve had no great impact at all.

CRITERIA

Which brings us to the question of what places a writer above another. I’ve sketched out what I believe are the main points, but welcome more.

A.) Influence/Importance/Relevance. Meaning, impact on America and the world. Not simply on the literary art, but on culture itself. Has the writer’s work become part of the culture?

B.) Popularity. Not the main point, but a major point.

C.) Persona. The writer’s persona is part and parcel of the writer’s impact. I refuse to take the narrow view of writers that, say, New York editors take, where the work is assessed in a vacuum. Literature has thrived in this crazy country when the main writers have been larger than life. Their very presence has promoted the vibrancy of the literary art.

D.) Critical Standing. This means, the quality of the work itself. Has the body of work stood the test of time? Is it considered world class? Are significant ideas expressed in the work? Great themes relevant to people anywhere?

E.) American. Is the writer and the work authentically, recognizably, quintessentially American? Is he or she representative of the land, this nation, and the nation’s voice? To some extent, writers should be of their place and time.

The writer’s mastery of form, and of various forms, can be considered as well. The forms include Novels, Poetry, Plays, Short Stories, Essays, and Criticism.

In this discussion, what am I leaving out?

Next: Will be a discussion of what makes a “1” seed, and whether there are any automatic #1’s, as, say, Tolstoy would presumably be an automatic #1 in an all-time Russian writer tournament.

Contest Results

2011-03-28T08:20:00.001-07:00

Okay, here we go. After much deliberation, these are the Prize Winners of the First Pop Lit Story Opening Contest:

FIRST PRIZE: Anthony Jones for “The Diadem.”

First Prize is the Elvis 3-dvd set.

SECOND PRIZE: XXXXXXXX for “Glas.”

Second Prize is the cd reading of J.D. Salinger’s “Teddy” from http://frankmarcopolos.com

THIRD PRIZE: Tom Hendricks for “3.”

Third Prize is a copy of the very rare "Pop Literary Gazette,” which came out in 1998.

*************************************

All three winning entries fit the contest requirement of being a good opening to a story—the hook, the lead-in, is all.

The typo in “3” was enough to bump it to third, in my estimation.

That left the tiebreaker between the other two. For me, “The Diadem” was just a tad tighter in execution. But I could’ve flipped a coin and not done wrong.

(I have a rough idea who “XXXXXXXX” is. If he’s not tracked down, then awards will be adjusted accordingly—Len Kuntz will move up to Third.)

I’d like the thank the three judges for doing a fine job—and all the entrants as well. There was much very good from which to choose.

***********************************

JUDGES SELECTIONS AND REMARKS

Lynn Alexander:

Hello, Everyone. Glad to participate with you guys in this fun contest. I am glad to see some familiar faces in the entries!
I am not sure if I am supposed to send my top three to all, but here we go:
1. Tom Hendricks (my favorite)
2. David Biddle
3. Wred Fright

Now I asked if we should include comments or explanations, and I am willing to discuss/debate my reasons if anyone is interested.
In summary:
-I think that these three entries had a minimal amount of spelling/grammar mistakes, they were pretty clean.
-I could actually see these three entries as "openers", as a launching point, a foundation on which to build a longer work.
-In general, the openers were diverse, and interesting. Some just did not suck me in at all. But for the most part, good effort.

-Tom Hendricks' entry was simple, but had an element of poetry, it was broad and gave me the sense of a panoramic about to close in soon on characters and settings about to unfold. I think he got it, and delivered.
He did not feel the need to rush into details, the way some others did. His opening was easing, coaxing, prodding.
Some of the others felt like a rush to throw shit, like an eviction... not welcoming, not establishing a zone at all.

David Biddle's entry had an element of quirkiness that gave me the sense that a longer work could expand on the setting he established, and the suggestion of sex to come was a good hook.
It was a bit of a yawn yuppie read, with some of the trademarks of the chick-lit so many are going for.. but that IS an important market right now. And this is "pop lit" so I let go of my distaste for the style and on the merit of an opener, I ranked it second.

Wred Fright is obviously a friend of the crowd, and I did not want to give him more sway- but his entry was funny. The reason that I ranked it third is because I don't think the tone and gimmick is sustainable.

I could see Wred Fright doing a collection of similar stories, in which this would be one. But I don't see a long work coming from it without some re-thinks.

www.lynnalexander.blogspot.com

*************************************

Allie Dresser:

Glas by XXXXXX -- this was so well done that I found myself writing multiple continuation storylines in my head to this opener. I could see it as a TV show script, a movie, or a good book.
Storm Lake by Len Kuntz -- Smoothly and professionally written as though he plucked a book off his shelf and typed out the first paragraph. Tons of depth, background, emotion, and struggle. This is the kind of book that would be in Oprah's Book Club.

Bob's Escape by msandidge -- A true starter: it sucks the reader right into the scene, it creates tension, sets up a plot, and makes the reader wonder what the escape is and what the hell the place is. Nicely done for under 200 words.
There were others that I enjoyed, but were more self-contained shorts than starters as required by contest rules. A couple of the scifi oriented ones had promise, but were not as well written.

Thanks so much for the inclusion. I had fun reading these. I always love Lynn's perspective and her comments made me go back and take a second look at several of them. If for any reason the above picks don't qualify due to anonymity, let me know and I'll nominate another.

***********************************

Frank Marcopolos:

1.) The Diadem by Anthony Jones

2.) Untitled by John Bobst

3.) Storm Lake by Len Kuntz

My only criterion was: does this opening make me care about the story and want to read more? My 3 picks did that the best, in my opinion, obviously.

I know that the criterion is somewhat vague, but I believe that in this deconstructionist culture, the creation of literature should still have some sense of the mysterious to it.

************************************

Winners, please contact me via this blog’s email! I need mailing addresses to mail out your prizes. (I have Tom Hendricks email—not the other two.)

Thanks! And thanks again to all who participated.

We Have a Tie!

2011-03-25T07:24:00.000-07:00

This is what I was afraid of when putting the Story Opening Contest together. Each of the three judges has a different First choice. According to the Wenclas Scoring System used for this contest, each first place vote receives 5 points. This squeezes out Len Kuntz, the only writer named on more than one ballot. Who'd have figured that? Len receives 3 points for a second place vote from one judge, and 1 point for being chosen third by another judge.

Those tied, in alphabetical order, are

-Tom Hendricks
-Anthony Jones
-xxxxxx

(I may not have gotten the right number of x's! If Mr. x isn't tracked down after the tiebreaker, his prize will go to Mr. Kuntz.)

It's a sign of the variety and quality of the entries that the selections were diverse. We didn't get a huge number of entries. Those received were very very good.

TIEBREAKER!
I'll announce the tie on a couple blogs, in a few forums, then ask for input from the audience, and from the other contestants themselves.

The contest is thus held open until next Monday or Tuesday, at which time I'll weigh in and decide who gets what prize. Judges selections and remarks will also be posted at that time.

I make no promise as to final result between the three. If it were up to me, I would've chosen Emerson Dameron's entry! It was attention getting, and he has the best author name of any entrant-- no small consideration, in a world where gaining notice-- if you're a writer in a crowded field-- is so important. :) (Lady Gaga didn't enter the contest.)

Stay tuned.

(Post your suggestions et.al. on this thread.)

Contest Is Closed!

2011-03-22T07:05:00.000-07:00

A Big THANKS to all who participated. From Wred through Dennis, the entries, in my opinion, are of high quality. I'm glad I'm not judging this thing!

I expect to be in contact with our three esteemed judges. Will be collecting the ballots, have them calculated by the King Wenclas accounting firm (visualize me scribbling away with pencil and paper), and hope to announce the winners by the end of the week. I'll then collect mailing addresses from the three winners-- po boxes, bail bondsmen, penitentiary mail points, literary agents, mother-in-laws, etc.-- anything acceptable as long as I can mail off the things. You can't imagine the temptation of wanting to open up that shrink-wrapped collection of Elvis dvd's. Or listen to Marcopolos reading "Teddy."

Unfortunately, there remains no funding in the contest budget, after postage, to hold an actual awards ceremony like the Oscars or the Grammys. (Unless anyone wants to pick up their award at Dirty Frank's in Philly.) Besides, Lady Gaga is unavailable.

Story Opening Contest Begins Now!

2011-02-28T06:04:00.000-08:00

PRIZES TO THE WINNERS

The First Pop Lit Story Opening Contest has started.
-200 words maximum length.
-One entry per person.
-Contest ends Monday March 21 @ 11:59 pm.

HOW TO ENTER:
Simply post your story under "Comments" via the link at the bottom of this post.

---Please use a title and give your name as well---

Judges:

-Allie Dresser has been fiction editor for sixteen months for Gloom Cupboard-- http://gloomcupboard.com/. She writes on various sites like Fictionaut, among others.

-Frank Marcopolos is the former editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, The Whirligig. A trained voice-over artist, he is currently producing audios of public-domain short stories on his website, http://frankmarcopolos.com/.

-Lynn Alexander is the founder and managing editor of Full of Crow Press and Distribution, producing print and web based content such as Crow Poetry, Fiction, Prate, Chapbook Series, Blink Ink, Fashion for Collapse, and more. She is also fiction editor at Red Fez and producer of MUST zine.
www.fullofcrowpress.org

IMPORTANT: See the previous post on this blog for prize details. I'll be doing commentary about the contest on that thread, including discussion of any glitches or problems. Post all suggestions about the contest, or reaction to the story openings, complaints, and so on, there.

Thanks! Good luck.

Contest Starts Monday!

2011-02-25T07:33:00.001-08:00

(NOTE: Post remarks, suggestions, and complaints about the above contest here under Comments.)

The arrival of the next post on this blog will mark the beginning of the First Official Pop Lit Story Opening Contest. You can then immediately post your entry.

-200 words maximum

-I request writers use a real identity, just in case you win. I’ll mail out prizes for the top three winning story openings. (If you’re an established writer and want to give your agent’s or publishers address, that’s fine. If you’re not an established writer and you want to give your mother’s or brother’s or chief creditor’s address, that’s fine also.)

-What are those prizes? Collector’s Items all. THIRD PLACE winner receives a rare copy of the 90’s lit-zine Pop Literary Gazette, of which by now there must be very few copies extant. SECOND PLACE receives a cd of noted storyteller Frank Marcopolos (see www.frankmarcopolos.com) reading the classic J.D. Salinger story “Teddy.” FIRST PLACE receives a shrink-wrapped dvd set of every one of Elvis Presley’s appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show.

-Scoring System? Each judge picks the three best story openings in their opinion. Points are awarded for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd choice: 5 points, or 3, or 1. I then total points to find the winners. Any ties will be broken by myself, following the voice of the public.

-I have tentative commitments from two of the necessary three judges. They’ll shortly be announced.

-The idea of story openings is that they be fun or striking in and of themselves, but also make the reader hungry for more.

-Final arbiter of all disputes or questions will be the editor of this blog.

-Any other info or rules will be given here as I think of them!

About Story Openings

2011-02-17T06:43:00.001-08:00

THERE WILL be a story opening contest on this blog. Details forthcoming.

Two questions: Why a Story Opening Contest? What defines a good story opening?

Music composers from Beethoven to the Beatles understood the value of a dynamic opening. In this oversaturated cultural age, it might be the single most important key to literature’s survival, its ability to compete.

A story opening needs to be dynamic and attractive in itself—the best written part of the work. (See Fitzgerald’s “Great Gatsby.”) More, it needs to lay the groundwork for the rest of the tale—to present at least one thread or idea to be developed later—and to keep the reader reading!

The best story openings are striking from the first sentence. Remember Stephen Crane? "None of them knew the color of the sky." ("The Open Boat.") Or Stevenson: "Did you ever remark that door?" ("The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.")

POP21: “The Prisoner”

2011-02-11T08:52:00.001-08:00

BIG BOY SAGA CHAPTER TEN

Life is a messy business.

The city was overrun by grubby life. Termites, cockroaches, pigeons, mice, rats, stray dogs and cats, inhabiting walls, floors, rooms, streets, alleyways, and backyards. They brought with them their cries, smells, gas, shit, disease, blood; their refuse and garbage. Among the various messy creatures in the city moved the messiest, grubbiest, most violent organism of them all.

A couple hundred of the most prosperous and ruthless of these harsh creations crowded into a lavish ballroom, a food-and-drink engulfed soiree at the poshly clean center of the violent city. For these individuals, the violence happened outside, away from them, on the streets. Here in the warm room of soothing white and violet colors circled the safe conflict of expressions and opinions, whose reverberations led to the more visceral flesh-ripping, life-ending kind.

Despite his throbbing shoulder, Fake Face shook hands with urgency. His battle with Big Boy hadn’t been one solely of bullets and fists. There remained the more intense battle against the District Attorney, Big Boy’s aunt, for justification and allies. Fake Face’s great aid in this struggle against the frowning and corrupt woman was his face. How could anyone not trust its generosity and benevolence? He was simply misunderstood by his critics. The stories people heard about him weren’t true. No! Couldn’t be. The kindly face must be the reality.

As media reports of gang warfare sped through Killtown, the District Attorney sat frozen within the flimsy security of her office, wondering if she should respond, and if so: how? She obsessed over political calculations, while people died. While Fake Face drew powerful figures to his side.

Word of Maxwell’s imprisonment reached her. Big Boy had lost the fight which she, the D.A., had initiated. Ever-generous Fake Face offered her a deal, one incumbent upon his victory.

As negotiations took place, Maxwell—aka Big Boy—remained securely hid. He’d been taken to a spot near the river, to the bottom of a railtower whose above ground structure had been obliterated. This sat within the remains of the end of a railyard in a broken-down neighborhood whose chief residents were river rats. The captive had been stashed inside the concrete-walled basement beneath ground. Within the basement, he’d been chained inside a small room, which in its decay, dirt, and dampness became a medieval dungeon.

The prisoner was strongly chained. His captors knew his strength. The guards who brought him food and water did so reluctantly. The large man-beast in the room had great reason to hate every one of them. They feared the injustice of his situation; sensed, in their animalistic way, the retribution which would surely fall upon them.

Therefore, the thickness of Big Boy’s chains.

The disheveled, shaggy-haired prisoner pushed the delivered food away with red eyes. Eyes as wary and piercing as those of any rat’s.

Max stopped eating. His huge form wasted away. He lost all appetite. He renounced his appetite, along with his physical body, which provided him now with nothing but heartache and unrelieved physical pain. The chains upon him were very tight. Max gave up the world, because the world had destroyed him.

At the highest corner of his cell: a dirty window with iron bars over it. Through the window could be seen amid the crumbling gray neighborhood a soot-gray church with a single red stained glass window left in it. The red spot appeared like a distant beacon within the town’s grayness. Maxwell smelled the closeness of the river. The red window stayed in the church tower, too high to reach.

Max tried to comprehend his situation. His cell was entirely gray. Senselessly with his hand he brushed dust from the gray wall. Until he saw that the wall behind the dust wasn’t gray, but green.

Green liqueur drinks moved upon silver trays at the important gala through which Fake Face happily circulated. Allies of the District Attorney treated him with abject deference, signal of his win. Around the room stood the city’s most esteemed and charitable residents, who’d stolen so much they had much to be charitable with. Several said out loud, “Aren’t we wonderful?” What was the purpose—or rather, the excuse—for the benefit? The Face didn’t know or care. Likely another cultural institution, a larger museum or redesigned library; a swankier palace.

Fake Face expected word about his ransom negotiations. He’d made only one request. Not money. He’d soon have enough of that! He’d asked instead for the D.A. to resign from her post. “A statement,” he’d insisted. “I want a statement!”

He checked his phone. No updated messages. Then: a new text. “D.A. press conference in ninety minutes.”

Bored with the impossibly stupid, affluent, phony crowd, Fake Face hustled outside to his yellow limo parked at curbside. He grabbed keys from the waiting driver, climbed inside and to the stolid thug’s worried stare, Fake Face drove off into the night.

The prisoner waited. Time was short. Max struggled to remember a phrase that someone had said to him once. Or he’d said it. His forehead scrunched. Tears welled behind his eyelids.

In the corner of the bleak scene, through the high window, stood the soot-gray church with a single red-stained glass glowing out from it, the red spot more intense than before. The stark image reminded Maxwell of an existence outside himself.

Max knew he was going to die. Maybe that was why he didn’t mind the suffering. He minded the pain—very much minded the pain!—but knew he could take it, knew it would soon go away.

What was the point of his life?

As he asked the question, he felt strangely deepened. Existence expanded. For his entire life he’d been a child. He’d played roles to please other people. Football player. Deputy. Gangster. To please himself according to what he’d seen in movies or on TV. Only Merrily had seen the real Big Boy, seen through his size, his poses, his imaginings. Merrily!

After an hour of sadness and contemplation Maxwell remembered the missing phrase. His face brightened.

Echoing footsteps sounded suddenly upon the metal stairway that led down to the basement. A muscular guard thrust open the thick steel door to the cell. A moment later Fake Face stood within the damp enclosure.

Through the mask, the Face’s eyes studied the captive. Big Boy looked peaceful. His eyes were bloodshot. Likely he’d been sleeping. The stupid beast!

“You haven’t yet talked,” Fake Face said to the large chained animal. “It’s not too late for you to talk!”

Fake Face grabbed a loose chain and struck the kneeling man several times across the head with it. Crimson blood flowed from Max’s scalp, cheek, and mouth. His cut lips moved within his pale white face, as if ready now to talk.

“I’m someplace where you can never go,” the Big Boy whispered.

Fake Face grunted at the man’s imbecility.

“Keep your secrets,” he told him. “It doesn’t matter.”

Fake Face checked his phone.

At this moment, television screens across the city switched to the District Attorney’s news conference. Dark blue curtains served as backdrop. The gray-haired woman with black eyebrows, representative of power and authority, stepped to the podium.

“It’s almost done!” Fake Face exulted. “How triumphant. You know, I always win.”

Maxwell made no acknowledgement. His blue eyes gazed elsewhere.

“Your Auntie has agreed to my terms,” Face continued. “She’s on television now. You’ll be returned to Dear Auntie. I didn’t specify how!”

With a slim pistol Fake Face shot Max through the forehead. Then the Face grinned. The Face always grinned. Blood everywhere.

The District Attorney finished announcing her resignation. She took no questions. Bright lights turned off in the room. Bars of color shimmered across television screens before the stations resumed regular programming.

END OF THE BIG BOY SAGA

POP20: “Killtown USA”

2011-01-05T09:08:00.001-08:00

BIG BOY SAGA CHAPTER NINE

The jail cell Merrily was chained to smelled of decay. Her hand touched something on the floor behind her, cold and dust covered. A loose iron bar.

The world enclosed her in darkness. In some distant place, the sun rose. A corner of her swollen eye glimpsed, through an opening in a wall, the reddening, expanding city.

Rays of light fell then on her pink bangs. She saw the revelation of blue painted walls. Sunlight! Everywhere around her. Pleasing, healing sunlight. The beaten girl basked in it.

She’d thought about much during the endless night. The only way she could save Max was by killing or dying. Her small, sinewy hands slipped with tearing skin out of the handcuffs. Her right hand gripped the iron bar beside her. She lifted the bar and swung it, testing its weight.

What was death? You died and became dust, became life for new organisms. The cycle continued. Somehow, somewhere, in some distant time, you lived again. She wanted to believe that.

Merrily had missed a chance at Fake Face with the gun Sal had given her. But she’d give herself another chance to stop the madman. She heard his footsteps now, ascending the stairway.

Merrily knew she’d meet Max again. She visualized Max’s face. A phrase popped into her head. It made her feel good to repeat it: “It’s only life!”

The steps grew louder. The rising sick smile came into sight. Merrily crouched, the iron bar hidden behind her legs. The Face approached, closer, close—Merrily sprung and aimed the bar directly at his head to destroy it to destroy him!—but the Face moved at the last instant the bar jumped against his shoulder, a bullet from his golden pistol smashed into her torso in an explosion of yellow flame and black smoke, through her spine.

Merrily fell forward would have plummeted but Fake Face grabbed her hair. There was yet a spark of life in her eyes, glaring at him with undaunted fury—he took her neck and choked her with his fancy gloved hands until the spark left. Then he tossed her below.

**************************************

With the bait dead there was no hope of getting the Big Boy away from his nightclub. They’d have to go to him. Fake Face gathered his gang into a line of cars, his yellow limousine at the front. He climbed awkwardly into the backseat, hiding his stiff shoulder. Eager Jake Pol sat next to him clutching a sawed-off shotgun.

“Let’s go hunting,” Fake Face said.

Within ten minutes the gang surrounded the Green Club. Jake Pol helped the stiffening Fake Face from the large yellow car. Fake Face caught Jake’s sweaty expression. What was Jake’s look? Fear? Disgust? It wasn’t friendliness. It wasn’t benevolence. In the Fake Face gang all were required to be benevolent.

The Face pointed with a smudged yellow glove. Behind a battering ram his men invaded the Green Club.

Most of Big Boy’s crew had fled as soon as local websites and radio stations screamed, “Gang War!” They wanted no part of that. Their only loyalty to Max was through a pay envelope.

Big Boy had waited though, along with his three best football player friends. Four giant men. They believed they could take on the world.

They retreated into the club, backs against the long bar, which was wrecked. They held weapons. The other side held more of them.

“No shooting,” Fake Face suggested as he stepped into the room. “Otherwise we’ll all be dead.”

“Just you and me,” Big Boy agreed, tossing aside his machine gun and adopting a fighter’s stance.

“Why not?” Fake Face laughed in a sing-song happy voice. “You’re a slow, heavy punching bag—an easy target. If I can reach you I can beat you.”

He put away his gold pistol—and produced instead from his pocket a chunk of pink-colored human hair. Pink, with dried red blood through it.

In shock and grief, Big Boy put his hands to his head. For a moment his strength left him—enough pause for Jake Pol to knock him over with a chair. Within minutes Max and his friends were tied up. Max himself was curiously subdued. He filled now with other thoughts. His fight and his cheap role-playing were over.

“The Big Boy is no more!” Fake Face proclaimed.

(NEXT: The Saga concludes with “The Prisoner.”)

Short Story Rerelease

2010-12-30T08:34:00.001-08:00

"STRANGE MUMMER CREATURES OF PHILADELPHIA"

(Originally posted in January of this year as POP02. Reposted because of its timeliness.)

Every year New Year's Day Philadelphia is invaded by strange-looking Mummers, creatures who've been making costumes and practicing all year to be "on stage" in the Broad Street parade their one special day, the parade beginning appropriately in the huge crazy neighborhood of South Philly. It ends there as well that same evening after the City Hall awards competitions when many various Mummer clans return to their Two Street home base for a gigantic block party stretching from Washington Ave in a mad carnival pointing endlessly south to the end of the world, or at least the end of town. Many participants by then have exceeded 24 hours straight of drinking, marching, and partying.

On this particular New Year's Day Maggie aka Mags was working deep into her South Philly dialect while sipping beer from a plastic cup having become separated from her own club of Mummer creatures. Her costume was a mad sparkling mix of violet, silver, and green, of feathers and sequins, with a violet star spread over her silver face. She drank now among rival Mummer gangs. A silver cap obscured her red hair.

Stumbling, she backed into a tallish young man or young-something in a harlequin get-up of black-and-white.

"You clown," she drawled. "Whyn't youse watch what youse doin?"

The clown grinned stupidly at what he'd found before him.

"Didn't I see you strutting at City Hall earlier?" he asked. "You're quite the dancer. How'd you finish?"

"Foist place, of coise," she bragged. "We took the prize. T'anks for the compliment-- but youse forget the middle of my routine I slipped and landed on my fanny!"

He said, "All along I thought that was planned!"

They leaned together for support. Mags liked this guy, but realized she was smashed and the colors of the world were spinning on all sides. She needed to get back to her friends before she did something messy.

"So, tell me, young lady, how you became such an amazing dancer?" the boyish clown asked with intense seriousness.

Mags snapped her fingers, which caused him to start.

"I just am," she said, looking into his blue eyes. "Comes easy." (Pronounced "oisy.")

Completely entranced, the clown took the gorgeous colorful creature in his arms and kissed her very sloppily full face. The kiss lasted a full minute, long enough for Maggie to feel a fire begin inside her costume, which she was surprised didn't burst immediately into flame.

Then the striped clown had vanished away.

For a week afterward Mags was crazy in love and tramped all through the riotous huge area of South Philly thinking she could somehow run into the clown creature and recapture the magic. She had no idea what he looked like beneath his costume and makeup, though she recalled he had dark hair and of course she remembered his blue eyes. Maggie walked up and down Passyunk east and west; up and down 13th Street, which contained many young people; of course Two Street, the Italian Market on 9th including Gleaners coffeeshop and 12 Steps Down bar; Pat's Steaks and their rivals Geno's; and all over and around South Street; futilely.

It occurred to her the young man wouldn't recognize her either; that maybe she'd looked more dazzling in Mummer costume than in reality.

Mags sat in her place, contemplating. She snapped her fingers.

"Oh well," she said, resigning herself to the loss, of that which for only a moment had been found. "That's life." She put the encounter out of her brain.

Two months later Maggie was drinking at a tough but trendy saloon up on 7th Street with a gal pal named Connie. Dark-haired Connie and Mags had met after work for a quick beer, but both were dressed as if on the make, and there were now many a green beer bottle on the polished dark table before them. Maggie's black top and blue eye shadow contrasted starkly with her red hair and white face in the subtly-lit room.

Maggie was thinking how many new people were in the neighborhood who weren't real born-there South Philly people. It was a great neighborhood and they wanted to get in on it, but it'd always been a great neighborhood.

A table of the new type sat near the two women; college-grad people who'd come to Philly to attend school and stayed. They worked Center City jobs and had easy money.

Mags sneered their way. "What do you know about the Phillies?" she asked. "Where were you when they had losing seasons? What marks the true Philadelphia fan is their loyalty."

Part of Maggie's attitude was territorial, but part may have been an age thing. She was already 27 and the kids now in bars appeared to her to be babies.

One of the table looked at her with amusement.; a lanky pretty boy in a tie and white shirt, already drunk, bangs of hair on his forehead disarrayed.

"You can't be serious?" he said seriously. "Throwing snowballs at Santa? That's your history. Booing your own players? Scott Rolen. Even Mike Schmidt! Is that loyalty?"

"But we were there!" Maggie insisted. "Thick and thin. We booed affectionately."

Mags took a swig of her beer. Lager: Yuengling. Philly's beer. No designer beer drinking for her!

"Yuppies," she muttered. The young man's friends glanced her way, snootily. "How gauche!" one said.

"Oh really," Maggie replied. "What do you know about Philly, anyway? How long you been here? A year? Six months?"

The young man stared mystified and curious at the outspoken South Philly creature.

"I'm learning that in Philadelphia," he said, "rudeness is a way of life. I've been here myself five years, by the way. I love the place as much as you do, you know. I am now fully a Philly native! You could say I've been baptized. But tell me, miss, how did you get to be so rude? Is it a learned trait? Or were you born that way?"

Maggie snapped her fingers.

"I just am," she said. "Comes easy."

Maggie braced herself, because the young man rose from his chair and stepped, carefully and quite drunk, toward her table. His friends and Connie watched in anticipation of a fight.

Mags clenched her fist was ready to knock the boy out-- almost did, but fortunately waited. He leaned over and kissed her sloppily on the face. She recognized his blue eyes.

He stood up in triumph, with a pronounced smirk, was about to return to his seat.

"Nothin' doin'," Maggie said as she grabbed his hand and pulled him down next to her onto an open chair. "You're not getting away from me twice!"

Their friends were confused, shaking their heads in disbelief, saying, "They're drunk," but the two people furiously kissing remained oblivious.

POP19: “The Lovers”

2010-12-24T09:08:00.001-08:00

THE BIG BOY SAGA CHAPTER EIGHT

A phone call came in to Big Boy at the Green Club.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“I have her!” the voice of Fake Face exulted. “Listen listen pretty pretty please.”

Merrily’s voice, which Big Boy hadn’t heard in four years:

“No Max! Don’t come. He’ll kill you. He’s pure evil. Leave me be. I’m dead. He’ll kill me anyway. Save yourself. I’m nobody. Don’t come. Don’t come!”

As Big Boy swelled with comprehending anger, Fake Face’s voice came back on the line.

“I have her at the Armory. We’ll see you see you there!”

Fake Face touched off his phone. His malevolent eyes stared down at the girl. She was held prisoner within the lock-up ruins. Decayed green bars stood open around them. Fake Face had secured her with a fresh chain.

“Thank you very much for your outspoken approval of me, you sad little girl,” the eerie voice said from behind the static smile.

Darkening blood from her scalp mixed with her pink-dyed bangs. Both her eyes had been blackened. Her lips were split, several teeth knocked out. Bruises mixed with purple-green tattoos on her arms. What had been young artist Merrily would be unrecognizable to friends and family, except perhaps for the strands of pink. As her bloodshot eyes stared up at her tormentor, Fake Face grabbed those bangs and yanked her head forward. Enough strength remained in her to resist.

“I’m happy you’ve decided not to oppose me,” he sneered ironically.

“You can’t intimidate me,” she replied. “I’ll never be intimidated. Beneath your mask, your power, and your gang you’re cowardly.”

His evil eyes met hers in some surprise. Her hatred didn’t flinch. The small girl showed intelligence and will like few of his enemies. The Big Boy, for all his stupidity, had found an impressive mate. Too bad, Fake Face thought with some glee—they were fated to remain forever separated!

After the eyes within the mask turned away, the girl tried reason on him.

“Carny won’t like you in his territory,” she said.

“I’ll kill him after I finish with the Big Boy,” spoke the inhuman voice.

Fake Face checked the metal bracelets on her wrists. They were tied to the chain. His steps casually descended the stairway. After a minute she heard the cocky footsteps exit the building. His gang had smashed open the doorway. Likely Fake Face was checking on the men who’d been placed strategically around the tower to await Big Boy’s arrival.

Merrily exhaled. She was so tired. . . . Existentially tired. Her eyes gazed around this place. What time was it, she wondered? Morning? Not yet. Shadows of stairs and bars shifted inside the tower, a frame around the garish red-and-black expressionist painting which had become Merrily.

She prayed Max wouldn’t come. He was a bull in strength, but hadn’t the nature to go against Fake Face. Whatever Max had done, whatever part he’d played as a gangster, Max, after all, remained a human being.

Merrily realized then she cared more for him than she’d believed.

*************************************************

At the Green Club Max—also known as Big Boy—bounded from behind his desk at the conclusion of the phone call with uncontrolled rage. The men present in the office saw what was happening and moved to restrain him.

“Don’t!” they said. “Big Boy, don’t! You heard her. It’s a trap.”

“AAARRRRGGHHH!” Big Boy yelled as he threw the several large men away from him.

He propelled himself into the main body of the Green Club, his men fighting him every step of the way.

“Quick,” one of them said. “Get more men. Bolt the doorway. We have to stop him. If he goes after her it’s suicide.”

For thirty minutes the battle raged within the Club—Big Boy against his own gang. The struggle wrecked the place—chairs, tables, rows of glasses crashing to the floor as the wrestling moved behind the long mahogany bar and outside it, across the vast room, shaggy-haired Big Boy carrying several men on top of him. At one point his voice was heard to cry out with love and desperation, “Merrily! MERRILY!”

“Get more men!” came a tiring refrain. Then: “Max. Max! You can’t go there. You can’t go there!”

At last five huge men halted his progress. They held him down with their weight against the green carpeting, yet felt his welling strength as Big Boy readied for another attempt.

(NEXT: “Killtown USA”)

POP18: “The Armory”

2010-12-21T07:27:00.001-08:00

THE BIG BOY SAGA CHAPTER SEVEN

Sal the Hood escaped the police. But now he faced a greater danger.

He stood in a second floor room at Fake Face headquarters. The right side of his face was red-bruised from the Boss’s pistol-whipping.

Sal backed toward a large window as Fake Face and the gang interrogated him, surrounding him in a semi-circle like a hungry wolf pack. The silver-blue room was designed in trapezoids. The floor and ceiling spread in unusual angles. The room made no sense. The effect was unsettling.

“Kill him now,” Jake Pol suggested.

“Where’s the girl?” Fake Face asked Sal.

He wanted answers before he killed anybody.

Sal the Hood needed answers. He’d been utterly surprised by Big Boy’s trap, but could see why he’d be blamed for it.

Sal wondered how Fake Face had survived the onslaught of machine gun fire. The Boss moved very quickly—but could anyone move that quickly?

“The girl is innocent, Boss,” Sal said.

“No one is innocent!” Fake Face exclaimed.

His burst of emotion was enough opportunity for Sal to bring out his two pistols, with right hand and left hand, which he pointed at the gang.

“Dummies!” Fake Face said. “We didn’t search him.”

Fake Face held his own pistol, gold-plated, casually on Sal. The pistol glimmered in the room’s light. Involuntarily, all admired its polished beauty. The Face’s confidence was overbearing. Sal wished to disrupt that confidence.

“Stalemate,” Fake Face said. “I don’t care about you, Sal. I want the girl. The girl!”

At that moment Sal left his feet and crashed through the sleek window behind him in an explosion of cascading glass, dropping with it to the street.

****************************

Sal found Merrily at the coffeeshop where she worked. She’d not been home when the war of gunshots took place—had missed the action. But she’d heard about it.

Now she saw Sal walk into the coffeeshop bruised and bloody. Beads of blue glass and blood drops fell from his hair and clothes.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’ve f’d up everything. You’ve got to get out of here. Bad people are after you.”

They left his car parked hidden behind the shop, then ran on foot. Merrily was too stunned by Sal’s appearance and the city’s gang war to say anything. The world had been tossed into chaos.

“I know a place,” he said.

Half-a-mile away in the midst of No Man’s Land stood a yellow-brown stone tower which looked like a castle. Sal pointed to it. The tower loomed amid the squat neighborhood in front of them.

“The Armory!” he said.

They hustled to reach it.

The Armory had been built during the nation’s Civil War. Later it became a police station used for gang squads, and to house in its lockups dangerous criminals. Gangs of various sorts had traversed the city for more than a century.

Three decades ago the Armory was used as a performance space. Now the entrance and windows were boarded. Local artists had painted a mix of swaths and lines of bright colors on the lower boards, to create vibrant artworks against the drab urban backdrop.

“Will we be safe there?” Merrily asked.

Sal replied, “It’s our only chance.”

He told her Fake Face was Max’s enemy—that Fake Face surely controlled a wing of the police. The cops wouldn’t involve themselves in a gang war.

At least, the Armory offered the illusion of safety. The kind of place to which kids growing up in Killtown wished they could escape. A castle! Protection against a hostile world. Now it’d become that for real.

“I know a way in,” Merrily remembered. “When I was younger we’d sneak inside to smoke dope.”

The tower looked impregnable, but a certain board could be shifted to create a sliver of an opening. Merrily was tiny enough to squeeze through. Sal was compact enough that she pulled him within. They shifted the board back into place.

Once their eyes adjusted, Sal found a hammer and nails among the debris: tools left by years-ago workmen. Quickly he hammered a two-by-four against their way in.

“Further security,” he said.

They climbed a metal stairway that rose into the higher reaches, past the level which held the lockups. As they passed they glanced at the rusted, inoperable doors.

Above this, they found a comfortable spot on a walkway. They crouched down in shadows against a wall. Merrily had stuffed her pockets with pastries from the coffeeshop. They shared these. Around them could be heard sounds of movement. Rodents.

Merrily shivered. Sal looked at her from his swollen right eye.

“I, Sal the Hood, promise I’ll do everything possible to get you out of this mess. I swear to God.”

“This Fake Face,” Merrily asked him. “Why doesn’t somebody do something about him?”

“Fear,” Sal said. “Or because they’re as corrupt as he is.”

Sal took out his two pistols, flipped off the safeties, and made sure bullets were in the chambers. They were ready to fire. He handed one to Merrily.

“If anything happens to me, wait until he’s right in front of you before you pull the trigger. Don’t miss.”

“How do we know it’ll be him?”

“It’ll be him,” Sal said.

As they spoke, a host of cars surrounded the Arsenal. Ever-happy Fake Face stepped out of his bright yellow limo, Jake Pol next to him. They wore their dress suits. The gangster’s keen eyes within the mask scanned the old structure in front of them.

Minutes later a figure could be seen climbing the tower, outlined against the purple sky. The figure found an opening on one of the upper floors and vanished inside.

“What’s the matter?” Merrily asked in a suddenly hushed voice.

“I don’t know,” Sal whispered. “I thought I heard a noise. Probably a rat.”

He stood up. A face smiled in front of him.

“Hello hello!”

BOOM! BOOM!

Their pistols went off simultaneously—two flashes with accompanying roars. Merrily saw amid light and smoke a plastic smile.

“No!” she screamed as Sal the Hood tumbled through space to the ground far below.

With both hands Merrily frantically pointed the other pistol—too late. Fake Face grabbed it.

**********************************

Cold rain pounded down hard upon the city. Particularly hard along the riverfront. Police in long raincoats stepped from patrol cars in response to a call. Beneath the bluish dark sky they searched the scene with flashlights. They’d been told a criminal would be found here. What criminal? Who’d be out on a night like this? An amber beam landed on a round red object. Cops ran toward it. One of them vomited. The gruesome object was a human head. Sal the Hood.

(NEXT: “The Lovers.”)

POP17: “The Trap”

2010-12-16T11:32:00.001-08:00

The Big Boy Saga Continues

CHAPTER SIX

Sal the Hood was a young guy with attitude, his confidence bolstered by two pistols kept on his person. He outlined to Fake Face his plan of how to use Merrily the coffeeshop girl. She’d innocently arrange a meeting someplace with Big Boy, then when Big Boy arrived, she wouldn’t be there. They would be.

“Sound good?” Sal asked.

Fake Face’s head moved in an agitated way, though of course the mask that was his face to the world smiled as always. You never knew where you stood with him, Sal realized. He couldn’t be fathomed.

“A nice plan,” Fake Face said. “But in my outfit I make the plans.”

He pointed to himself. His gloved finger jabbed himself several times.

“ME! Me me me me me. This is what we do. We don’t wait. We move right away. Right now. This minute. Speed is everything. You think I want to wait wait while maneuvers are created against me and flanking takes place on all sides in this game of mouse and cat? We go grab the girl now and once we have her Big Boy is ours!”

Sal the Hood shook his head.

“No, I’m against it. This girl. . . . No can do. It’d be kidnapping, Boss. You heard it on the cd. Big Boy’s aunt is the friggin’ District Attorney! That’s the trap. They’ll fry you for sure if we do that.”

“And I say we go NOW,” Fake Face insisted, holding a gold plated pistol against Sal’s head. “We go, just the two of us.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Fake Face (he was nothing if not ironic) that he was kidnapping Sal. But Sal was a thug, while he himself was a much beloved celebrity in Killtown. Rules were made for those with power.

Sal drove the two of them to the girl’s place, in the chaotic neighborhood of Anarchia. Fake Face couldn’t wait for other gang members. His greed and his hunger were his strengths. He was hungry to grab the girl. She lived with another woman in a tiny basement room which could be reached only from an alley. It was early afternoon. She slept late. She was undoubtedly there now.

Another cloudy day, so dark Sal had the car’s headlights on. The sky moved; purple: ominous. The car pulled into the alley and stopped in a side space against a fence so to not block the way of possible delivery trucks. Sal had described the small door leading to the basement. The door waited fifteen yards ahead. The two men looked at each other.

“Boss, I . . . ,” Sal began.

Fake Face hit Sal across the side of the head with the gold pistol, then again.

“What?” Fake Face asked the dazed figure. “WHAT?! You don’t want to go with me? Is that what you want to say? Or maybe you do want to go. A bad idea! Ha ha. Don’t you think I noticed when you played the recording? Methinks you fell for the girl yourself! No, no, a bad bad idea. You wait here. When I come out with her I only hope you’ve recovered.”

Fake Face left the car and stepped into the alley.

Here is where his plan had gone wrong. A trap had been set, yes. For him. He was the intended victim.

As Fake Face moved confidently forward, three large men in green appeared at the other end of the alley. Big Boy was one of them. They held, in order, an AR-14, an Uzi, and an AK47. They saw the hatted figure pause. In a moment orange flame and gray bullets jumped from their muzzles and tore through the alley to kill and destroy any living thing. For three minutes the weapons fired—the shocking noise of a war.

“Enough,” Big Boy finally ordered.

They ran forward to verify their victim and discovered—nothing. Nothing except the shreds of an expensive burgundy derby, which Fake Face had looked to be wearing when he approached. But where was the man himself? Where was the blood?

“Here’s a few red drops of something,” one of Big Boy’s men said.

The drops went right up to a wall. Fake Face couldn’t have gone through bricks!

For all they knew it was a rodent’s blood.

The three former college football players wondered if, as in a game, they’d been too slow—if they’d hesitated just a moment; full of too much eagerness—before pressing the triggers of their weapons. Had they fired too high? They didn’t know.

To the side sat a car with the gangster Sal half-passed out in the driver’s seat. A few stray bullets had dusted the car’s fenders. It was otherwise untouched. Big Boy and his men looked underneath the vehicle and behind it. Sirens sounded in the distance, growing louder. The three men were puzzled. The sirens grew louder.

“What do we do?”

The sirens grew louder.

“We beat it,” Big Boy said.

That evening Big Boy had a drink with his aunt in the District Attorney’s private office. He filled a plush red armchair as if it were a toy. The man was visibly shaken. A collection of nerves which no amount of whiskey could cure.

“Get ahold of yourself, Maxwell,” she scolded him. “It’ll do no good to fall apart.”

“But—,” Big Boy said.

“But—yes,” she countered, looking away from him toward the vulnerable window. “If Fake Face is alive we’re in trouble. He’s the kind you have to finish. Otherwise, he’ll be after us.”

The beetle-browed woman shuddered at the thought.

(NEXT: "The Armory")