Prolific writer Joyce Carol Oates will write no further stories or books. Not so much a smidgen of prose. “I’ve had a good run,” said Oates. “It’s time to let the scholars sift through my work.” Oates has had some difficulties adjusting to this new state of being, but she figures that Bill Vollmann and T.C. Boyle can take up the slack.
“American literature has always had its share of prolific writers,” said Oates. “I felt that it was time to hang up the boots and give my wrists a rest.”
King Wenclas, founder of the Underground Literary Alliance, has finally realized that alienating nearly every member of the literary community hasn’t exactly worked in his favor. Wenclas attended a recent Rick Moody reading with the idea of pantsing Moody as he was signing books. Moody, however, offered Wenclas a a hug instead, causing Wenclas to break down in tears. “A good portion of my life is now gone. I haven’t written anything in years. And nobody loves me anymore.” Fortunately, after enrolling in an affordable evening knitting class, Wenclas has found a new lease on life. “I didn’t realize that one could court controversy while cross-stitching,” said the kinder and gentler Wenclas. Wenclas promptly disbanded the ULA, causing his fellow members to call him a sellout.
Richard Nash, publisher of Soft Skull, stated that he would not sleep for the duration of the year. “Sleeping gets in the way of the way we do business at Soft Skull,” said Nash. “If I’ve learned anything from talking with the litbloggers, it’s the Dan Wickett philosophy: There’s always an emergency energy reserve.” Nash decided to carry out the plan after meeting with several sleep specialists, who assured him that, aside from a few power naps, he could very well continue working without sleep for many months.
“I realize that I’m just one guy and that this probably isn’t very good for me. But then I’ve always lived by the credo: nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
In a stunning revelation, Ayelet Waldman has revealed that she loves herself more than she loves her husband Michael Chabon. “Forget the kids,” wrote Waldman in a recent Salon piece. “Forget Michael, manly though he may be. I now know that I’m the center of my universe and that anything getting in the way of loving me is a problem.” Waldman came to these conclusions after rereading Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged and pampering herself with a few soothing mud baths. “I should have seen the writing on the wall. As these underpaid masseuses kept asking me if everything was okay, I began to realize that I’m okay. And you’re okay if you love me too.”
Stanley Crouch, who slapped Dale Peck in a restaurant in July 2004, has been spending the past year and a half determining which authors that he should slap next. “I’ve whittled it down to twelve names,” said Crouch. “But I’m hoping to hone it down to ten. Nobody disses Stanley Crouch.” When asked to reveal these names, Crouch remarked that there would “be a few surprises” and that he was not at liberty to say who they were.
“The problem is that plotting the slaps has kept me from writing more books,” said Crouch. “But once I get the violence out of my system, I plan to write more lackluster novels.”