- More than you need to know about lightsaber combat. (via Quiddity
- Michelle Richmond observes that examining Cho’s plays is no way to predict his behavior.
- I’ve hit the 25K mark in my novel, but there’s no way in hell that I’m feeling smug about it. No, ma’am. I’m fully aware that the manuscript could sabotage me at an unexpected moment, or the unruly words could stage a revolt upon my consciousness, or the characters might decide that the thoughts and feelings they’ve been nice enough to reveal to me are now off limits. No, humility and a work ethic is the only way to keep going on this. And for all I know, the novel may suck ass.
- There’s a chapbook competition going down at Caketrain.
- *. (via Jeff)
- On Keeping an Open Mind.
- Melanie McFarland has choice words for Larry King.
- 3 AM Magazine posts an excerpt of Tao Lin’s Eeeee Eee Eeee. Having read the Melville House galley, I agree with Tod Goldberg. Tao Lin has a good deal of promise.
- sprezzatura on Eggers: “Dave Eggers the person is all right with me. Dave Eggers the writer is another story. The very distinction, you feel, would exasperate Eggers, since he has staked his creative life on an identification of decent living with good writing. The conviction that good-intentioned people necessarily make good art is what lies behind the hectic innovative blurring of fact and fiction in Eggers’s work, and in the work of the writers he publishes.”
- Steve Hall hits Book Notes.
- A decidedly grumpy portrait of Jane Austen is being auctioned in New York.
- Remember, kids, trenchcoat-clad dogs can often be found scuttling about in disreputable shops. (via Miss Snark)
- More Lethem slash fic at Galleycat.
- Leave it to Derik to find a connection between Lynch’s meditation book and comics.
- Literary Gas discovers Robert Sullivan’s Rats.
- The Guardian‘s Blake Morrison offers thoughts on the blame for violent behavior now being attributed to literary influences.
- Sacco it to me, Jessica!
- Kingsley Amis and Larry David? Huh? (via James Tata)
- Julian Montague’s book about stray shopping carts was named the oddest book by The Bookseller. But I’m kind of curious about the subject myself.
- The return of the LATBR thumbnail, with some legitimate gripes. (Yeah, Ulin, where’s the RSS feed? And what about the pony you promised us?)
- Hillary Clinton’s favorable rating has plummeted to 45% — her lowest since 1993.
- You can hide your connections all you want, Colleen! But once a Cessna pawn, always a Cessna pawn.
- I have given up on Doctor Who and Torchwood. Please advise when they become intelligent.
- Look, every so often, I play Spice Girls songs and dance like a lithe schoolgirl in the book-saturated comfort of my apartment. But even I can tell you that no Spice Girl is worth a six-book deal. (via Bookshelves of Doom)
- Hanif Kureishi’s short story was censored by the BBC. (via Bill Peschel)
- RIP Kitty Carlisle Hart. More from Terry.
Author / Edward Champion
Sadly, I’ve Clocked in Several Hours of Discussion Over the “All Apologies” Lyrics
Thanks for Spoiling the Movie, Gray Lady
New York Times Corrections: “A film review in Weekend on Friday about ‘Lonely Hearts’ referred incorrectly to the suicide of the wife of the central character, the detective Elmer Robinson. She shoots herself; she does not slash her wrists.”
Be Careful What You Wish For, Mr. Lethem
Table of Malcontents: “I met up with Jonathan Lethem last week to talk about the joys of living outside copyright laws, and the award-winning nerd novelist revealed that he’d love to be in a slash fiction story. Whom would he want to be paired with? ‘I want to be surprised! I want to see ones I wouldn’t think of!” he enthused, eyes wide with anticipation — or possibly fear. Lethem believes he’s been ‘slashed’ only once, paired with fellow geek novelist Michael Chabon in a ‘sublimated homoerotic comic by Patricia Storms that was just an inch away from being Kirk and Spock.'”
By a curious coincidence, I recently received an email from Virginia Thorup, a diffident fan fiction writer from Des Moines who kindly offered to share a piece with the readers here at Return of the Reluctant:
Michael stepped into the room, his long locks dangling against his bare chest. Ayelet was far, far away and he had only one thing on his mind: the whiny neurotic in the guest room. Jonathan was at the computer, wondering what kind of novel he could possibly write.
“Dammit, they really loved Fortress!” exclaimed Jonathan. “And they hated You Don’t Love Me Yet!”
“There there, Jonathan,” said Michael, his sweat dripping between his toned pecs because he was SO nervous! Would Jonathan say YES? “I think I know a way to cure your angst, to settle you down.”
“Leave me alone, Yiddish boy.”
“I wish I could have been there when they circumcised you.”
Jonathan thought of the kind rabbis who sliced him so many years ago, instilling him with a reason for being, beginning his long ascent to delayed manhood. And now where was he? Spiritually cut off from God, spiritually cut off from pleasure, spiritually cut off from his natural talents. He grew hard thinking about the blade, wondered what Michael would have done had he been there decades ago and had Michael been a grown man and a qualified man of the blade. Michael would have used the knife gently. Michael would have cupped his balls and excited him, reassuring him, reigniting him.
Michael observed that Jonathan’s buttocks bounced as he sat in the chair. Jonathan couldn’t sit still. He couldn’t relax and write. He seemed to grow giddy thinking about comic books.
“I’m a MacArthur fellow now!” exclaimed Jonathan. “I’m too old for this shit. I have to be mainstream and acceptable.”
“You’re never too old for love,” said Michael.
Michael caressed Jonathan’s cheek, feeling Jonathan’s tears streak onto the top of his fingers. He had known tears himself because he had known Ayelet. And he knew that, with Jonathan, he could reclaim what little was left of their respective manhoods.
“Get out of the chair and bend over!” commanded Michael.
“What?”
“Come on! You need this!”
Jonathan was afraid, but Michael told him it was okay. He could bring a knife if he wanted to. And when Michael’s hard six-inch cock penetrated Jonathan’s ass, he sighed and moaned. And he knew then and there that everything would be okay. Michael pumped softly because he knew Jonathan was sensitive. And Michael was sensitive too. But someone had to take charge. Jonathan was more sensitive because the critics had reviewed his books. And he knew that Jonathan’s ass, with its concave buttocks flattened from too many hours in the chair, was the only relief.
“Auggggggggggggghhhhh!” said Jonathan, the pleasure coruscating through his body. “Harder, Michael! Harder!”
Michael adjusted his thrust, roughing Jonathan up a bit and tousling his hair. Jonathan hadn’t gone bald like the others. He liked that. He liked a virile man over forty. He wanted to see Jonathan sweat. He wanted to see Jonathan go the distance. Michael cupped Jonathan’s balls, feeling his cock harden in his hands and jerked him off.
He thrust harder and harder. He began to see God. Then he came and pulled out, his load dripping down Jonathan’s crack. He felt Jonathan jism in his fingers. Jonathan’s tears had been replaced by pure pleasure. He wiped his fingers upon his face, the semen, sweat and tears forming a veritable Lethem milkshake. It was a pity he was lactose intolerant.
“Now write your next novel,” barked Michael.
“Can you come by after Chapter Five?” begged Jonathan, looking up at Michael while on all fours. “I may need your help, master!”
“Okay. But you’re my bitch. Never forget.”
Shriver on Virginia Tech
The ever-thoughtful author of We Need to Talk About Kevin weighs in:
I would far prefer that this new killer remained anonymous. Were all such culprits to remain utterly and eternally unknown, the chips on their shoulders interred with their bones, their grudges for ever private, surely the frequency of these grotesquely gratuitous sprees would plummet. One of the driving forces for most of these killers is not just to be noticed, but, however perversely, to be understood.
(via Sarah)