Folks who read this blog last year know that I shamelessly participated in National Drunken Writing Night (aka “NaDruWriNi”), along with Gwenda Bond. The results here weren’t very lucid, and I became obsessed with bolding words. (In fact, Gwenda was far more compelling than I was.) But it was certainly the mark of bloggers who had had too much to drink. (In my case, I had recently broken up with a girlfriend and the results were, as the old song goes, sad and lonely. Read them if you dare.)

Well, this year, the hardest work man in blog business ain’t steering this baby, but Brittanie is. And on Saturday, November 5, 2005, I plan to write a good deal more incoherence while drinking. Tune into these pages that evening for more. I should note that my inhibitions lower rather quickly.

Funny stuff, which could easily be transposed to the freelance writing world.

• Who was Henrik Ibsen? (via Book Ninja)
• At the Frankfurt Book Fair, Korean publishing has been a dominant presence.
• Are zines still viable?
• Another year, another theory about who might have been the “real Shakespeare.” This year, Shakespeare may have been Sir Henry Neville.
• A profile of E.L. Doctorow.
• Every year, the kids get younger.
• Apparently, the young ‘uns aren’t fans of Ba Jin.
• And this doesn’t relate to literature at all, but holy shit! Rush-R30! A two-disc DVD set of Rush’s career! Aw yeah, mofos!

M.J. Rose may have received a strange letter with two unwanted galleys, but I believe that I can top her. For I received an equally baffling letter accompanying a package of books last week. The letter in question made me so uncomfortable that I took three cold showers in a row, turned into a serial caller for four hours, talking with sympathetic friends and using up what few favors remained, and basted my brain in a bit of Gaddis shortly after eating a jar of Gerber’s Apple Sauce for lunch that I had obtained from a thirtysomething mother who saw my sad face as I was walking in the park and promptly gave me the sustenance out of the kindness of her own heart and ran away when a ruffian tried to mug her (who then promptly mugged me instead, although he wasn’t interested in the apple sauce).

Anyway, I hope that I won’t have to experience a day like that again. But for informative purposes, I have reproduced the letter below:

Dear Friend of a Friend of a Litblogger:

I want to have your children. I want to tie you up and make you my slave. Your new name will be “Piñata” and you shall stare at my menacing wooden stick. And I’m sure that after you’ve read the six 2,000 word novels that I’ve enclosed, you’ll understand why we were meant to be together, reproduce, and move to a small shack, sans DSL connection or running water, in the Kansas prairies.

Do not think for a minute that I am not aware of your situation with regard to the opposite sex. I’ve paid a lot of money to a private investigative agency to install video cameras in your apartment, violating your privacy in every way possible. I’ve tracked the number of times you’ve masturbated in the past month. (Please see the attached bar graph if you have somehow lost count. Each “incident” is meticulously logged by time and duration.)

The good news, Mt. Champion (can I climb you?), is that I can give you lots of sex and I can give you lots of books. If you don’t believe me, please consult the attached 400-page analytical essay for the accompanying tomes. It will demonstrate my impeccable taste. I had tried to submit this as a Ph.D. dissertation, but, alas, I didn’t realize that one had to be enrolled in school to earn the appropriate degree.

In any event, I hope that all this will lead to a fruitful relationship which you can then, in turn, publicize on your blog site thingy. If you like, I will install the third nipple before I meet you in person.

Very truly yours,

Juanita M. Underside, FELLATIO PRESS

• Soft Skull now has a blog, demonstrating to the world that Dan Wickett may have some competition from Richard Nash in the We Never Sleep Department.
• If there was any doubt that Lev Grossman was a chickenhead, his status as Chickenhead of the Decade may be confirmed. Judy Blume? Jonathan Franzen? Tolkein [sic]? C.S. Lewis? All authors in their own right, but hardly the names one would expect to see on any serious list concerned with singling out literature. Then again, given Time‘s roots as a magazine devoted to lackluster summaries of news and culture for mass consumption, the list makes sense. Bawk bawk indeed.
• A seven year old has won a book contract. This kid better have life experience or we’ll have someone steal his lunch money.
• Chinese author Ba Jin has died. He was 100.
• Creative Artists Agency has pledged that it will go after “100 percent market share.” A CAA spokesman also contended that it had settled on an operations method predicated on “100 percent hubris.”
• Chekhov: Not a prude and possibly a womanizer.
• Is a major production of Dickens’ Bleak House the reason for the BBC license fee increase?
• Boston Globe on Sara Faith Alterman: “Getting ”15 Minutes’ published was surprisingly simple. She sent her text to multiple literary agents. One quickly picked her up, and ”My 15 Minutes’ was sold to Avon Trade, a division of Harper Collins.” Simple maybe if you’re a flouncy 25 year old whose author photo will sell the book alone. But try telling that “surprisingly simple” story to some talented yet eczema-ridden 55 year old novelist with bad teeth.
• A spirited defense of Pinter’s politics.
• “Phil, I don’t know what to write about this week.” “Well, Bob, what author do you like?” “Philip Roth’s really doing it for me right now.” “Well, then why not take a road trip and write about it. No penetrating insights. Just rambling text.” “You mean it? I mean, you’ll actually buy a column from me without a point?” “Bob, you wouldn’t be on staff if you weren’t pointless. Now let’s go knock back some shots. Drinks are on me.”
• Vikram Seth hates being late.
• Apparently, Jonathan Safran Foer bridges the gap between the hipsters and the philanthropists. There must be some mistake.

[UPDATE: Litkicks has some interesting memories of Lev Grossman: “He was a nice guy, undoubtedly smart, literary and perceptive….But I also found Lev Grossman bland in conversation, and decidedly uncontroversial….Nothing about Lev Grossman shouted out ‘I will be Time’s book critic in five years’.”]