by Edward Champion

Jeff VanderMeer is a Toxic and Entitled Bully: The Receipts

Jeff VanderMeer is the Donald Trump of speculative fiction. He is a toxic and narcissistic bully who will harass you if he doesn’t get his way. And he will lie through his opportunistic teeth to get what he feels is entitled to him. This essay, which includes a toxic exchange that Jeff perpetuated near the end of 2010, documents the awful relationship I had with Jeff VanderMeeer. And I urge everyone to not have anything to do with this monomaniacal narcissist.

Jeff VanderMeer has had an incredibly toxic and unhealthy obsession with me for nearly twenty years. He has delighted in leading smear campaigns against me — without a shred of evidence — on his blog and on social media. The source of this monomaniacal animus goes back to the fall of 2009. You are about to learn exactly what kind of an abusive and insanely retaliatory maniac Jeff VanderMeer truly is. You are going to learn that, if you cross Jeff, he will declare you an enemy for life and that he will devote any and all resources to impugning you — until either you or him drop dead. And, call me crazy, that ain’t exactly the healthiest relationship you should have with an audience, to say the least. Jeff VanderMeer clearly doesn’t understand that no artist can ever please everyone. But if he shows you exactly how he deals with people who don’t genuflect every ounce of their free will to him, he will be more than happy to weaponize the Internet against them. This is what’s commonly referred to as megalomania. And I think it’s safe to say that Jeff VanderMeer is the Donald Trump of speculative fiction.

Four people have informed me that they have also been recipients of Jeff’s deranged zeal and his private backchannel gaslighting, but, as Jeff has had increased success as a writer (particularly after the Alex Garland film adaptation of Annihilation, which dramatically improved the clunky and poorly written novel), his toxic qualities have only grown worse. His hubris has burgeoned to staggering levels and his talent has atrophied. These four people have feared going on the public record and “crossing” him. And I will protect their privacy. Because I don’t want so see anyone harassed by a pathetic 56-year-old bully.

But I have no such qualms revealing my own dealings with the disordered basket case known as Jeff VanderMeer. (And, believe me, there are far more emails — worse emails — than what I’ve published below.)

I am sick and tired of Jeff VanderMeer constantly manufacturing artificial drama about me. Particularly when I have the receipts about what he did to damage our relationship. I have resisted publishing these emails until now. But I feel that I now have to. Because Jeff VanderMeer is a wanton thug and I don’t want other people to be hit with the same ridiculous abuse. And also because Jeff simply will not stop. And because he will not stop, he has forced my hand. You are going to read the messages of a man who lashed out at me when I was being kind, sensitive, and honest. You are going to see the only writer in 553 episodes who ever felt entitled to another interview on my old literary podcast, The Bat Segundo Show, and who falsely accused me of not being truthful, even though he did not arrange for his books to be sent to me with enough reading time and refused to respect my benevolent honesty.

(I did arrange for another interviewer to interview him. Because that’s the kind of guy I am. I also agreed to hang out with him in a diner when he rolled through New York. And we did — at the Westway Diner on November 21, 2009, according to my records — only for Jeff to spend a lot of his time huffing and puffing in his seat, his arms permanently crossed as if he were stopping himself from punching some perceived enemy, occasionally sneering at me, and interrogating me about my podcast.)

When I gently told him that I was overbooked and that I didn’t have the time to read his books (as I did with every author) and conduct a proper interview, particularly since I had not even been sent copies in time, he threw a stupendous temper tantrum by email and called me a liar. (I forwarded this exchange to a mutual contact, who informed me that Jeff was prone to this sort of volatile communication style. If only I had known earlier, I would never have booked him.) Jeff made a series of increasingly insane accusations against me. Throughout this entire volley, I did my best to play it cool. But Jeff was emailing me four emails for every one I sent, with some new emails contradicting the previous ones.

In January 2022, when I was unemployed and had only about fifty dollars to my name, I received a colossal tax bill that I had no way of paying and went on a binge drinking tear. I’m not proud of my slip. I completely lost my cool, to say the least. Jeff VanderMeer seized the moment and intercepted a draft blog post that I had accidentally published and swiftly deleted in my stupid inebriation to whip up a social media campaign against me. I ignored all the vitriol he had spawned and spent my time cleaning up my act. I spent 150 days sober (not so much as a drop of beer or wine), composed a Western soundtrack for a friend’s audio drama, managed to land a job (and some financial help from friends; everyone was paid back within months, including the tax man), and now only drink modestly on the weekends. My only slip from this quasi-sober regimen was shortly after the devastating election results back in November, in which I fell off the wagon and downed a great deal of Black Label. Again, I’m not proud of that. Fortunately, I swiftly course-corrected and was soon sober and writing again and rallying the troops against fascism. (Nobody’s perfect, although Jeff, who will never admit a mistake, will probably tell you that he’s the exception. This is, after all, the way that toxic narcissists roll.)

And these circumstances represented the “bullshit” that Jeff was to “call me out” on. Because he really wants everyone — including the barista who undertoasted his bagel; how dare she! — to worship his “genius.” An elitist sociopathic pig like Jeff couldn’t give two shits about anyone who makes under $50,000/year. He is, in short, one of the bad ones.

A few weeks ago, a friend asked me what happened between Jeff VanderMeer and me. And I told him over the phone. The memories reminded me what an abusive asshole Jeff had been to me. And I read Absolution, Jeff’s latest book, on Friday out of morbid curiosity. I was completely stunned and taken aback by how poorly written it was — particularly the third part, in which every sentence contained a “fuck” or two — and it was completely unconvincing. So I wrote a satirical review in the same preposterous and badly written form. (Yes, I was egged on by a few people who thought the results were hilarious.)

Jeff, who doesn’t possess a sense of humor and who is used to people kissing his ass, obviously wasn’t pleased. On December 28, 2024, at 11:33 AM — a mere eight hours after the review had been published (do I live in his head rent-free or is he more interested in practicing a literary form of the autocratic gaslighting dominance described by Ruth Ben-Ghiat in her excellent book Strongmen?) — VanderMeer claimed — falsely, as it turns out — that he would not read what I had written. His aim, of course, was to whip up hatred and present himself as the aggrieved “victim.” Any normal author — hell, any well-adjusted human being — would have laughed it off. But, you see, Jeff has always lived for the attention. He loves being the leader in his own cult of acolytes who will never question his “genius.” Seeing that everybody had piled onto his BlueSky post, while I was out and about having a fun time, Jeff spent late Saturday night doubling down on this. Typical behavior. For a guy who doesn’t care about anything I have to say, he certainly seems to have a lot of spare time on his hands doing precisely that!

* * *

I was initially fond of Jeff. In the summer of 2006, he had sent me a package containing his Ambergris stories. His writing voice back then was quirky, endearing, and filled with a sense of humanism. This was obviously a wacky original who wasn’t getting mainstream press coverage. So, of course, I happily set up a Bat Segundo interview, which aired on August 28, 2006.

We proceeded to correspond every so often with each other. I’d often receive a tortured message from him over some bad review. I have literally never known any author who cared so much about his press more than Jeff VanderMeer. And I replied, as I would (and have) to any writer, gently telling him to ignore the bastards. Then, on October 10, 2009, Jeff told me that he was going to be in town and that he wanted to either get together with a small group or do a “no holds barred” Bat Segundo interview. It was an extremely weird email that made me feel uncomfortable. At the time, I had already booked too many author interviews and was considering ending the show because I was burned out. And I politely informed him that I couldn’t do the second option, but that I was amenable to the first. I never wanted any guest to feel cheated. I gave my A game to everyone.

This meetup was the Westway Diner meeting I have already mentioned.

But sometime in December 2009 — in a post that Jeff has conveniently deleted and that cannot be found through the Wayback Machine — Jeff posted an unsettling post on “leverage” dripping with unbridled resentment for anyone who had spurned him. I had reason to be concerned. For Jeff had written about me in Booklife, viewing me in crassly mercantile terms that made me feel deeply uncomfortable. Thus began a correspondence in which Jeff lost his mind, which can be read in full below. Pay attention to the unhinged accusations that come out of nowhere and Jeff constantly monitoring my Twitter feed for any perceived sleight. (There was none.) Pay further attention to the extremely demented way in which Jeff demands fealty and puts forth conditional terms and the way he sees “threats” when none are there. This man was not well then, by any means. And I don’t think he’s improved in the intervening years. And also observe how understanding I was as Jeff was losing his shit and going well out of his way to find any new means of insulting me. Then again, for all I know, he was feigning an act of madness to manipulate me. That would certainly be on brand. Nobody, after all, ever questions the mad “genius.”

Date: December 29, 2009 5:49 PM
To: Jeff VanderMeer
From: Edward Champion

Jeff:

While I can certainly see where you are coming from, there are significant problems with your approach to leverage, displayed in your post and (to some degree) in Booklife. While I didn’t find your stance as creepy as Jessa Crispin did, what I read is this: You are essentially viewing readers, advocates, and fellow people in the community as Bernaysian tools, completely ignoring the fact that they have inner souls. Yes, people can be advocates for your work. But they are often MORE than advocates. Discounting the rabid fanboys who wish to take up every spare whit of your time, well-adjusted people have thoughts and feelings and may not always be in the position to give you what you hope for. Their perceived failure may not necessarily be miserly and, as you point out in the comments, it may not simply be part of their personalities. But connections among people shouldn’t involve some permanent ledger in which you are constantly keeping a tally, which is how it’s coming across to me in your post. That’s just not a healthy way to carry on with people, either personally or professionally. I’m sure you know that, but I bring this up because it simply isn’t reflected in your blog post. If someone decides not to give you the press or the attention that you feel you deserve, there may be other extenuating circumstances existing outside the ones you’re speculating upon. Most of the time, simply ASKING the other person what’s up will clarify things. Direct communication, as we all know, is far healthier than idle speculation about a person’s motives. That way lies paranoia and crazy one million word diaries.

To present my own circumstances during your last tour: After doing anywhere from five to eight shows a month almost nonstop for four years, I was understandably burned out. There were many other contributing factors (being in a very shaky financial position, having a particularly humiliating stint with _______, and overcoming these considerable difficulties to continue work on the novel-in-progress, which has proven to be more fun and more challenging than I could have anticipated: thankfully, all this has been rectified in recent months). All this was going on in October (which was when you emailed me about it) and November. This is why I did not interview you for Segundo. I don’t wish to subject any author to a stale interlocutory approach or give any author a subpar experience because of any personal distractions. It isn’t fair to them. It isn’t fair to the listeners. (Segundo is now a weekly affair starting in 2010, which is one of my community services. I had to figure out a way to keep it going, because I know that it’s needed. Particularly since Silverblatt, despite remaining optimistic, has informed me that Bookworm is on thin ice.) The interview I told you about in person had actually been set up a few days before we met. Additionally, I would have gladly attended your New York appearance with Jeffrey Ford (for I dig both of you guys), had not __________, an individual who has gone out of his way to spread false and inaccurate information about me, been at the helm. Removing myself from the situation was a way for me to avoid any unpleasantness that might have infringed upon the undoubtedly pleasant proceedings, which were certainly not about me. I was also never sent copies of FINCH or BOOKLIFE, although I did manage to intercept the copy of FINCH that you sent Sarah. (KOSHER actually arrived a few days ago, and I look forward to reading this.) Given these multiple circumstances, there were understandable hiccups that had little to do with you. Best I could do was a friendly meetup. And, in fact, I canvassed Eric on interviewing you before he was in touch with Matt.

I drum all this up in the unlikely event that you may be obliquely corralling me within your category of miserly people, but also to inform you of the practicalities, limitations, and efforts of one person to deliver coverage to numerous people under dire conditions. When you make unspecified accusations (without citing a single example) about people being miserly with their leverage, I find this to be an inconsiderate position — possibly one that you didn’t intend. The fact that it is buttressed by the call for more people to take honest and controversial stands actually reinforces the very position that you are railing against. I’m sure I’m not the only person who feels this way.

I’m a no bullshit guy, Jeff, and, as you know, for any skirmishes, I’m happy to clarify or listen or atone. I’m not a big fan of passive aggression, although if someone doesn’t want to resolve something, I respect the time needed to come back to something. But you just can’t call everybody miserly like that. It may come across to some as selfish and ungrateful. I have to ask: In railing against the presumed misers, to what degree are you keeping quiet? To what degree are you truly to clear things up with the misers? These issues are nowhere in your post and that’s just as vital an aspect of relations as anything else.

Again, all this is a way of helping to flesh out an important issue to being a writing professional. If you don’t fully take into account these aspects, then you’re going to get more Jessa Crispins on your ass. And they’re not going to necessarily be direct about it.

In any event (and this may come across as an awkward segue), I sincerely hope that you and Ann had a grand holiday. Best wishes on all fronts and happy new year. And look forward to reading more of your material.

Thanks and all best,

Ed

* * *

Date: December 29, 2009 6:14 PM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

Dude, you are totally misreading the post.

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 29, 2009 6:16 PM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

Ed:

No it is not about you. It is not even about the subject you think it is about.

I tried to make it clear that I didn’t give a fuck whether you interviewed me or not.

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 29, 2009 6:23 PM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

And I don’t give a flying fuck about you and _____________. He was perfect for the gig, I wanted to meet him. I wasn’t going to sit there and go “how will this affect Ed Champion.”

What I objected to at our meal was an apparent *lack of directness.* I didn’t care about the interview–i cared about you apparently *lying* to me. In other words, you idiot, I don’t need friends who lie to me. Geez.

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 29, 2009 6:27 PM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

And as for booklife, you and Jessa form a small minority who’ve read the book that way. The vast majority have taken it as intended.

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 29, 2009 9:57 PM
To: Jeff VanderMeer
From: Edward Champion

So I come back and I get four apoplectic emails from you sent from the worst possible medium — the iPhone.

What in the hell are you talking about? How did I lie to you?

* * *

Date: December 29, 2009 10:27 PM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

You said you weren’t doing interviews then went on about all the interviews you’d done. You looked distinctly caught out when I mentioned it. I could care less about the interview. But I do care bout truthfulness and I don’t care for people who make it all about them. That’s all. I thought your email to me was pompous and full of yourself and deliberately misunderstanding points in the book. You’re very high maintainance I am not in the mood today.

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 29, 2009 11:14 PM
To: Jeff VanderMeer
From: Edward Champion

Jeff:

For what it’s worth, I apologize for any verbal or non-verbal miscommunication. Clearly, some small unknowing gesture on my part upset you. But here’s where I’m coming from.

This is what I wrote to you on October 11th:

“I’m actually on hiatus from Segundo right now, and I’m doing my best to keep it this way. I got burned big time by an author who threw a temper tantrum after I had spent two weeks reading his books. And there have been numerous vocational setbacks that I won’t trouble you with. However, I would be happy to hang with you when you’re in town and just shoot the shit. I certainly look forward to reading FINCH.”

The interviews that I was talking about, as I recall, were a handful of people over a few weeks, which I had only scheduled a few days prior to meeting with you. I did not lie to you when I said (frazzled and burned out) that I was taking a hiatus from Segundo. This was true. At the time, I truly did not know if the show would continue. It took me weeks to figure out what I wanted to do, the circumstances of which I have already explained (not because I believed your post to be about me, but to give you an example of the internal complexities that you accuse so-called “miserly” types of). I then scheduled a small group of interviews (less than a handful) around that time. Largely to test the waters. I didn’t even have a fucking copy of FINCH until days before you came through New York, nor did I have a copy of BOOKLIFE until you handed me an extra one at the diner. So even if I wanted to, there was really no way I could schedule enough time to read your books and prepare for the interview. Unless it’s a film person, I need at least two weeks prep time for an author.

So, no, Jeff, I did not lie to you. There was no way I could have conducted the interview given the timetable.

At the time you brought up the Segundo thing, as I recall, you laughed the whole thing off. You never indicated that you were pissed off. And for all of your talk about truthfulness (or “truthiness,” which seems more applicable in this case), you never once leveled with me. So I’m baffled by your accusations of pomposity and deliberate misunderstanding of points in the book (in fact, I was more addressing your blog post rather than BOOKLIFE proper).

I’m going to chalk up your accusations here to being tired, exhausted, or some outside contributing factor beyond my ken. But I will say that calling people who have your fucking back “pompous,” “high maintenance,” and “apparently lying” is NOT cool, Jeff, and unacceptable. Particularly when none of these modifiers are applicable. For a guy who professes to value leverage, you’re doing a heck of a job chasing away your allies.

Sincerely,

Ed

* * *

Date: December 29, 2009 11:48 PM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

Whatever. I am happy to put it to miscommunication rather than a lie. But I did put it to you pointedly, whether with a laugh or not. You never said you didn’t have either book. I have never felt one way or the other that you had my back.

But I am telling you now that to misinterpret my post and my book, especially knowing me and my record, is pretty piss poor. And while I don’t think of you as miserly, you’re not on my top fifty most generous people out there, either.

I was delighted to have a chance to talk. I could care less about being interviewed. Is this clear? I almost feel like you’re upset you didn’t get review copies. I was fairly sure you had, but there must’ve been a glitch with the publisher.

I am not tired or particularly upset. I am mostly not interested in being called a soulless PR hack. Have you read my books, dude? They’re fucking strange. I have to work twice as hard as most people to find my audience. So I don’t appreciate it. I suppose by your measure of things I should sink back into the mire and be happy with an audience of 1k instead of 20k.

I wish you could walk in the shoes of a published novelist for a fucking year. You’d understand then just how complex all of these dynamics are.

But mostly…man, I say writers should use their political capital to do good works…and you twist that simple, decent message into something shitty. C’mon.

I am not interested in having you as an ally. You aren’t getting anything from me for review. I am never doing your show. Do you get it? You can be relieved you’re off the chessboard. Since that’s how you think I see things.

Jesus.

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 29, 2009 11:58 PM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

I am happy to be your friend, but as I said I am taking ally off the table.

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 12:04 AM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

And what was that stupid sophomoric twitter message conflating me and Lethem a little while back?

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 12:10 AM
To: Jeff VanderMeer
From: Edward Champion

Don’t email me again. You’re way out of line. And unless you atone big time, you’re neither a friend nor an ally. I’m done with you. You fucked up big time.

I truly thought better of you.

Saddened and disappointed,

Ed

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 12:18 AM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

Whatever. I am still your friend.

I have your back as your friend, but I am not interesting in dealing with you on a professional level. It’s too much work.

*You* don’t even have to apologize, although you should.

As for the fucked up big time–i am your friend, but if that’s a threat, it’d be best if you withdrew it immediately.

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 12:28 AM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

And I am happy to apologize regardless, but only in the context of it being understood that I am not sending you review copies and I am not interested in ever being on your show. Otherwise, an apology seems like a way to gain an advantage.

Your email set me off because I do consider us friends and I expect you to give me the benefit of the doubt. I certainly have done the same for you re several of your blog posts in the past.

So, apologies. And thanks for calming me down when the Crispin thing happened.

And I know you have had some reversals of late, and I know it hasn’t been easy for you until recently.

PS clearly if I saw people as merely contacts none of this exchange would’ve occurred. I would’ve doffed my hat, said “yer right, guv’nor” and gone on with my life.

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 12:35 AM
To: Jeff VanderMeer
From: Edward Champion

You’re drunk. Get some sleep and contact me when you have a clear head.

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 12:37 AM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

I am not drunk. I am apologizing.

jeffrog the tarded

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 9:14 AM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

Right. It is morning. I am sorry for the vitriol. I am firm on the friends and taking you off the reviewer list. I just don’t see any other way to proceed. I just think it simplifies things.

I see now that I think you were trying to extend an olive branch. But I hope you see my point, too.

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 9:43 AM
To: Jeff VanderMeer
From: Edward Champion

Jeff:

I don’t do conditional friendship. Your actions were way out of line. Get some help. I do wish you the best.

Sincerely,

Ed

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 9:49 AM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

Wow. You really do see people as binaries. Amazing. So I take out the element that would *get in the way of friendship*, the part that would leave a suspicion of manipulation, and you can’t hack it. Amazing. After starting this with your amazingly self-absorbed email. Amazing.

Maybe you need a wake-up call. There is not one person I met in NYC who, when I mentioned your name, had anything good to say about you. I had to spend a good deal of time defending you. No more.

Well, have a nice life. If you ever come to your senses, email me.

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 9:50 AM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

Way out of line. You’re just too used to authors sucking up to you. You’re a total hypocrite on this issue of leverage.

Jeff, replying from his phone…

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 10:37 AM
To: Jeff VanderMeer
From: Edward Champion

Jeff:

This exchange has clearly moved into the Twilight Zone.

So here’s the deal. If you want to resolve this, then we need to do this by phone. Call me at 718-XXX-XXXX. Because clearly there is something here you are not communicating to me or you are deliberately misreading my emails (or vice versa). The conversation must be relatively calm, honest, civil, and we must listen to each other.

Sincerely,

Ed

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 11:12 AM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

Ed:

You need to actually read my emails. I hold no ill-will toward you, but you
are not following my train of thought here. I don’t think a phone call
solves anything. I think you and I should take a break from communicating
for a month or two and then talk. But I’m firm on this–I am not having
anything to do with your show or you as a reviewer. That is off the table,
and it’s not pejorative–I often, without saying it, don’t send stuff to a
reviewer or a podcaster if I become friends with them because I feel it
becomes a conflict of interest. It’s just overt here.

More importantly, I’m too busy to take a phone call. I’ve got 1,000,000
words of anthos to deliver by May 1st.

All apologies,

Jeff

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 11:12 AM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer
Subject: in any event, peace

Have a good New Year’s, man, and don’t let any of this worry you. Here’s to a good 2010.

Jeff

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 11:57 AM
To: Jeff VanderMeer
From: Edward Champion

You too. Let’s cool off and return to this in less frazzled and considerably calmer circumstances.

Thanks and all best,

Ed

* * *

Date: December 30, 2009 12:10 PM
To: Edward Champion
From: Jeff VanderMeer

Sure, no problem. And apologies for the vitriol. It is true I’m under tremendous pressure right now.

Have a good one.

jeff

by Edward Champion

Kate Tuttle: The Talentless Corporate Husk Who Bangs Out Hollow Platitudes About Books

Kate Tuttle has called me a “noted asshole.” That may or may not be true. But her reliance on generic corporate language for her “reviews” makes her a pathetic bore who is more than a little dead inside.

Kate Tuttle is an unremarkable corporate windup doll who writes about books much in the same way that moribund losers sign up for macramé classes to make friends: namely, deadening the room with dull and desiccated sentences, life-sucking generalizations, and all the lack of adventure that you see in some uptight and hopelessly white suburbanite who upturns her nose at any dinner entree with a touch of paprika. I’ve stayed silent about this toothless husk for many years. There was really no reason to care. Because I tend to ignore those who couldn’t write an original thought to salvage their sad and spent lives. Indeed, my only contact with this miserable batbrain over the great epoch of my Molotov-throwing existence was to ask her to pass along my thanks to her far more accomplished husband for mentioning me in his truly excellent book, Bunk. But that was only because I didn’t have the dude’s email. I don’t think that is the sign of an “asshole” — I’m sorry, “noted asshole,” to evoke Tuttle’s panache for unoriginal vitriol. Then again, the literary world is so dull and gutless, so casually resentful towards any talent who sticks out, that they feel an overwhelming and deranged need to summon me every so often — despite all the long debunked canards about me — into the role of the dependable heavy.

Well, now that Tuttle has called me a “noted asshole”– this when I tend to be kind and congenial if you meet me in the streets — I feel that I have a responsibility to live up to the ridiculous moniker by finally exposing this hideous charlatan, who is better suited to banging out press releases in between suicidal ideations. Largely because I very much subscribe to what Sean Connery once identified as “the Chicago Way” when it comes to settling scores with insignificant and unsmiling fuckwits who write with the absent gusto of someone who is permanently dead inside. If she had simply said nothing, the fireworks you are about to see would not have been written. Consider this a caveat to any other corporate media dullard who wants to start shit with me.

To get a sense for how this desperate gasbag pads out her “pieces,” one can look no further than her review of Abigail Thomas’s Still Life at Eighty:

She does worry about the state of her memory, as perhaps everyone her age does. “My memory is full of holes,” she notes, and later asks, “Does losing memories presage losing my mind?”

Yes, Tuttle really does thinks this little of her readership. Despite the cited quote already establishing that Thomas worries about her memory, Tuttle feels the need to spoon-feed this in the most insultingly condescending terms, even though anyone with a sixth grade level of education could decipher this obvious point on his own. And Tuttle is so artless a writer that the word “worry” appears seven times in an 800 word review.

Tuttle’s proclivity to repeat herself like someone suffering from palilalia is also prominently featured in this Mina Javaherbin profile:

Children’s book author Mina Javaherbin is an architect as well as a writer, and her latest book was largely inspired by the architecture of her father’s hometown, Isfahan, Iran.

Kate Tuttle is a critic who criticizes books in works of criticism! (Uses of “architect” or “architecture” appear five times here. And this senseless snippet is under 400 words.) Was there some internal memo within the Globe ordering its staffers to repeat words like this to court the departing eyeballs?

In fact, Tuttle is such a careless hack that she can’t even match proper tense in a lede: “but everywhere she turns there’s another obstacle — including some that might be deadly.” Boston Globe, this is the “editor” you’ve kept on board to run your books section? Indeed, Tuttle is such an incurious bean counter that a thoughtful dude like Alex Segura is reduced to spouting generalizations hammered in by media training: “It felt like an interesting challenge.” And in interviewing Jodi Picoult on the vital topic of book bans, Tuttle never once brokers anything other than general questions, which is a significant insult and a trivialization toward an author needlessly censored by fascist (and often sexist) zealots. In rightly commending Rebecca L. Davis’s fearless work, Tuttle describes her “well-turned and crystal clear explanations.” (Tuttle can’t seem to pick a lane when only one modifier offering the same meaning will do.)

And if you think that Kate Tuttle is a champion for women writers, consider the crass way in which she belittles Jami Attenberg for writing “a longer timespan than she’d used in previous novels.” Now I’m obviously no fan of Jami Attenberg. But I would never denigrate a writer like this. A writer who flexes her wings and attempts ambition shouldn’t be singled out like this. Would Tuttle have made the same pronouncement if Attenberg were a man? Perhaps this was an aloof attempt at gender parity. But three women who I read this passage to on the phone this afternoon (I did not tell them that a woman wrote this until after they answered) all told me that this came across as patronizing.

I may or may not be an asshole, “noted” or otherwise. But I can tell you this much. I actually write in a voice that you’ll fucking remember. Kate Tuttle will continue banging out these hopeless platitudes and lackadaisical gaffes, but she has failed to grasp that well-behaved women never make history.

by Edward Champion

The Worst Book of 2024: Jeff VanderMeer’s ABSOLUTION

A motherfucking review

Hey, you fucking motherfuckers! I am Jeff Fucking VanderMeer, a certifiable fucking genius and fucking wildly arrogant fuckface who shits on anyone who doesn’t suck my fucking cock! Oh fucking yeah, you fucking bitches! In fucking fact, I’m such a fucking tough guy (or at least I fucking think I am in my fucking head; I’m a gym rat, you fucks!) that I fucking compensate for my fucking lack of fucking talent by fucking using the fucking word fuck a fucking lot in the third fucking part of my latest fucking book. Oh fucking yeah!

Fuck you if you fucking can’t fucking handle it!

I am Jeff Fucking Motherfucking Fuckerfucking VanderMeer, you fucking bitches! Lick my fucking asshole. I fucking know you fucking will. Because I’ve fucking gotten a fucking fuckadoodle fuck my giddy fucking aunt fair fucking pass for so fucking long. But fucking now, you’re finally starting to fucking grasp that I am the greatest fucking pain in the motherfucking ass to my motherfucking editors, who won’t fucking talk because I gamed social fucking media and created a fucking army of MAGA-like lemmings to fucking hang on to my every fucking word. And they fucking like it! Because I am fucking Jeff Fucking VanderMeer, Fucking Genius. Oh fucking shit! Am I a fucking failure because even the fucking Goodreads crowd constantly fucking rates my motherfucking books very fucking low? (3.38 for fucking Annihilation, which is supposed to be my fucking classic? 3.25 for Hummingbird Salamander, which nobody fucking read? 3.22 for A Peculiar Peril?) Oh my fucking god! My fucking non-Southern Fucking Reach novels ain’t fucking selling. Ain’t fucking rating! So I better fucking write a fucking new one and bamboozle the ever living fuck out of all these stupid fucks who I have fucking conned. Oh fucking yeah!

I was so fucking happy when Abigail Fucking Nussbaum rimmed my motherfucking ass in The Guardian. Oh fucking yeah! I mean, she fucking used the fucking word Nabokovian! When all I fucking did was randomly insert the fucking word “fuck” into the third fucking part. And well, you fucking know, it’s so fucking difficult for a Fucking Literary Genius like fucking me to fucking write in any vaguely fucking coherent way. But, hey, Fucking Abigail, I fucking appreciate the fawning ass munch!

I hope you won’t fucking mind if I fucking quote from my motherfucking novel, because I fucking am, at the end of the motherfucking day, a Fucking Literary Genius!

Shit. It smelled so good and nary a fucking small woodland creature he’d manage to bag, even since free of the Southern Reach’s fucked-up policy on the matter. A good broth on a winter’s day. The way the broth would bubble with those golden bubbles, each one on the surface breaking open to add to a salivating scent.

Did you fucking see what I fucking did there? You fucking see? I dropped a “nary” to make my fucking hackery sound a little fucking literary. And you all fucking bought it! And if I drop an “ever since free,” you’ll fucking believe that all of these fucking gratuitous fucks I fucking drop are actually fucking intentional. When, you fucking know, I’m just pulling all this out of my stinky nearing-IBS fucking asshole! And if I fucking repeat myself with the fucking “bubbles,” the greater solipsism and complete lack of fucking craft in my shit-flavored fucking prose won’t be fucking exposed, amirite?

But even fucking before all this “fuck” business, I was fucking conning you motherfuckers the entire fucking time!

It irked the locals who liked birding to be in pursuit of a rare vermillion flycatcher, only to gaze through binoculars … at what turned out to be a biologist wearing a red bandana, staring back through her own binoculars.

You see, I’ve edited so many fucking anthologies that I fucking know that if you drop a ten fucking cent word like “vermillion” (Gene Fucking Wolfe move, motherfuckers! but without the fucking craft!) and I fucking mindlessly repeat the fucking phrasing like fucking “binoculars” — well, fucking then, motherfucker, I’m certainly fucking going to continuing fucking conning you motherfuckers while fucking laughing my fucking way to the fucking midlist fucking bank!

In fucking fact, I am so fucking secure in my Motherfucking Literary Genius that I can fucking boast like a fucking teenybopper signing on for a fucking record label that my fucking willful catastrophe has gone into a third fucking printing.

In fucking short, I fucking cheated you. You probably didn’t fucking read my horseshit. But that’s fucking okay. Because I’m a Fucking Literary Genius who has gone into a third fucking printing, simply because I had the fucking wisdom to pad out the fucking word count of my fucking shitty novel with the word “fuck.”

Fuck me! You fucking books people are so fucking easy to fucking fool!

[12/28/24 UPDATE: A few readers who thought this little satirical piece was hilarious have pointed out that Jeff VanderMeer has won awards. And they are completely right. He did win the Nebula for Annihilation, proving that even a middling scumbag can win the rodeo if he angles his Stetson the right way. Thus, I have revised this slightly in the interest of accuracy.]

by Edward Champion

A Proud Member of the Intolerant Left

Every belief structure contains a line in which you do not cross. The MAGA Cult has now crossed a line and have become more vocal as they have been disinvited from holiday gatherings. As they learn that their actions have consequences, don’t listen to their desperate cries of “another member of the tolerant left.” The “tolerant left” is a conservative invention. Resist by holding these uncomprehending jackanapes accountable for their hate.

We’ll probably never have a completely accurate tally of how many MAGA Cultists have been cut off and left in the cold this Thanksgiving, but we do know that a vast throng of fascists — including the hubris-fueled, dumb-as-rocks propagandist Jesse Watters — has been disinvited and told in no uncertain terms not to come home this week. And now these hateful morons are starting to lose what little of their minds they still possess. Speaking for myself, I refused to attend the Thanksgiving dinner for which I had planned to cook many tasty and hearty side dishes (homemade sourdough stuffing, my four cheese mac and cheese, corn bread casserole, and numerous other delicacies that have made many guests ranging in age from six to sixty-six squeal with delight), once I had learned that a Trump voter had been invited. I was specifically trying to honor one of the sensitive guests — an extremely kind, endearing, and very shy seventeen-year-old (son of a friend) who asked me very politely to refrain from talking politics. Had the entire guest list been comprised of people who stand for democracy, this would have been effortless. It’s the MAGA fuckwads, after all, who want to keep dragging up politics and who hope to “own the libs” with their deranged fantasy football stylings. (Less easy for me is refraining from saying “fuck” for long periods of time. The longest I made it was three hours at a Xmas gathering before I slipped. And after my loose lips betrayed the blunt truth of my ship, my friend hugged me and said that she was very proud of me for managing to make it that long. What can I say? I’m a profane yet erudite motherfucker who tries to atone for his inveterate NC-17 vernacular by dropping as many arcane ten cent words into a colloquy as I can through blind instinct. But I digress.)

The upshot is that I am not going to walk on eggshells anymore. There has always been a line in the sand. I’ll never break bread with a fascist. I am simply not going to tolerate anyone who stands against women’s rights, for mass deportation, for unmitigated restrictions on marginalized groups, for the erosion of education funding, for tariffs and economic devastation that will hurt the most vulnerable members of our nation and line the coffers of the plutocrats, and for restrictions on free speech and the intimidation of alternative voices. No. Fuck off. I’ve urged people to cut the bastards off and I mean it. If you are a fascist, I will denounce you with the most devastating vitriol I can summon and ostracize you loudly.

I can name four friends who are in a similar boat. And we’re all regrouping, gathering for some quiet moments of camaraderie. A time of peace and good eating should not be sullied by these evil goons. If you stand for an ideology that wishes the people I love and me dead, then why on earth would you ever think I could be civil with you in any way? You stand against humanism. You are my sworn enemy.

One would think that the MAGA fuckwits would be happy about this state of affairs. But it’s clear by their vociferous pipsqueaking on my social media feeds and, closer to home, by their desperate attempts to get back into my good graces that they’re not. Now that they realize that the only company they will have for the holidays will entail hateful, humorless, miserable, and uneducated jackanapes, they’re starting to understand just what they’ve lost. Well, tough titty. Don’t look at me. I voted for the centrist democracy-friendly candidate, despite the fact that it involved a lot of compromise of my leftist principles. You voted for the authoritarian strongman and you won everything. Why aren’t you happy about that? Go and consort with your fellow white supremacists and fuck off until the end of time. I mean, come on, aren’t you living the dream?

Well, their “dream” involves us, whether we like it or not. They are so obdurately wretched that they are trying to follow us like rats fleeing a sinking ship. And they are surprised when their feeble minds and flaccid bodies collide into a glue trap. You see, it’s not enough for them to win. What they want is to make us their subservient little bitches. What they are interested in is establishing a new pecking order in which they are on top. They try to taunt us and “expose our hypocrisy” with such hacky zingers as “Another member of the tolerant left.” But as Andy Khori wisely pointed out, the “tolerant left” idea is an invented term of art by the right. It’s designed to inoculate these uncomprehending lemurs from criticism. They’ll never answer to their own complicity in supporting a deranged ideology in which more women die, more families are torn apart because some of them weren’t born on the mainland, and in which LGBTQIA people live in great fear for their future. But they will try to use “tolerant left” as a gotcha point when the truth of the matter is that every political ideology and every form of morality does possess a hard limit on what is considered acceptable.

And now that these dimwitted and entitled little dipshits are starting to learn that we do have boundaries, they’re stunned to learn that they can’t get away with their platitudes and their FOX News mimesis anymore. They’re learning very swiftly that we’ve always been intolerant of any baleful force or figure standing in the way of education, democratic possibility, and human rights. And they’re also learning that we can fight just as dirty as they can, starting with the punishment of social isolation and, if they get more hot and heavy, a peremptory declaration that they are no longer a part of our universe.

“Can’t we just agree to disagree?”

Nope. Talk to the hand. You were eager to usher in a world in which boys are now threatening girls with the phrase “Your body, my choice.” And, as far as I’m concerned, we now no longer have anything in common. For what is the point of a belief structure if we don’t turn our backs when those wildly arrogant Icaruses insist on flying too close to the sun?

But, oh, how they need us! Oh, how these idiots chirrup with half-baked incoherence and small dick energy in the replies! And they can’t own who they are and the disgusting values they represent. They know that they’re now going to have to consort among themselves, without our wit, bonhomie, and all-around decency (and, in my case, my kickass cooking). They know that the only company they will keep will be braindead red baseball cap-wearing zombies who are equally unpleasant.

So call me a proud member of the intolerant Left. If you’re a fascist, you won’t get an invite to my happy life. If you’re drowning in debt after the tariffs kick in, I’ll watch you suffer from afar and not lift a single finger to help you. Because you crossed the point of no return. These fools are now squirming within a nadir of cruelty and insensitivity for which there can be no Venn diagram. They are a hostile threat to all of the human values I hold dear. They have nothing but hate, intimidation, and threats. They have no original thoughts or real ideas. They are completely incapable of understanding historical patterns. And they know deep down that they lack resilience and resourcefulness, two vital qualities for surviving the upcoming dark age that we have and they don’t.

You can also call me an elitist. I don’t care. Although I should point out that the bar for entry into my world is astonishingly low and easy: if you don’t know something, ask a question. That’s it. I’m never going to call your question stupid, even if everyone else in the room knows the answer. You asked. And that counts for something in a world increasingly hostile to facts and checkered by anti-intellectualism. But the fascists cannot even summon the basic grace to do even that. They are incapable of respect, curiosity, humility, or broadening their minds or their empathy. They really believe that they can go about living in this nation, under this wildly dangerous and narcissistic authoritarian, without ever comprehending the impact of vital institutions, once untouchable, permanently dismantled by nihilistic fascists who hope to obliterate decades of progress.

I’m a member of the intolerant Left because I love what used to pass for my country. If we become two Americas because half the hateful rubes wanted to blow up the bridge, then so be it. My side is smarter, pluckier, and more inclined to survive, especially if we keep resisting hard. I have no qualms about transforming the stupidest and most callous members of our nation into braying pariahs. Much in the way that I show no remorse in cutting off a toxic “friend” from my life. The MAGA Cult are abusive addicts who have demonstrated that they fall below the baseline for decency. And now they’re going to learn about what the criminologist John Braithwaite called reintegrative shaming. In his studies, Braithwaite found that ostracized criminals showed a higher probability to fall into recidivism. And that’s what we’re seeing from these red state hayseeds: recidivism. Through death threats and calling me “soyboy” and attempting to belittle everything about life that is fun and joyful. It would be one thing if some members of the MAGA Cult were to prostrate themselves at our feet and beg for forgiveness and ask us for help so that they can better understand the impact of their uninformed vote, perhaps even joining us in the fight against despotism. But they have demonstrated no such inclinations. They would rather double down on their xenophobia and their belittling of anyone who isn’t white, male, hetero, and cis. That’s a line that I refuse to cross. And if it makes me “intolerant,” well calling me a member of the “tolerant Left” isn’t the flex you think it is.

by Edward Champion

Chuck Woolery, the Worst Game Show Host of All Time, Has Finally Dropped Dead

Chuck Woolery was a worthless infestation who plagued American television in the 1980s and the 1990s. His death is long overdue.

Chuck Woolery is finally dead and I feel that I can walk into the wintry air with a modicum of relief and a new step in my stride. For Chuck Woolery was an unwanted infestation in American life who kept resurfacing on our television sets in the 1980s and the 1990s like a reptilian huckster kidnapping you, tying you up in his car, and then driving you out into the middle of nowhere to try and sell you on a timeshare. He was a worthless and hateful husk of a man, a slimy and fatuous fascist wind-up doll who couldn’t seem to wipe the solipsistic drool that dribbled down the corners of his Botoxed mouth at all times. He was incapable of curbing the pat aphorisms of intolerance that forever spewed from his asshole-scented mouth on social media. There was never a day in which this gauche gasbag failed to flatulate through his lips. He hated LGBTQIA people. He was unapologetically anti-Semitic. He demeaned liberal women because of the way they looked. And he was an early adopter of the bigotry and xenophobia that now passes for mainstream Republican talking points, announcing in 2012 that Blacks and gays did not require civil rights. Because that was literally all he had to hold onto when the producers eventually came to their senses and said, “Why the fuck did we hire that arrogant prick Woolery? Whose fucking idea was that?” (Sadly, the man who first hired Woolery could not be reached for comment. He has gone into hiding for his own safety and is believed to be living under the Witness Protection Program somewhere in Utah.) This made Woolery a little bit like Hitler — that is, if Hitler’s mediocre postcard painting skills were recognized by the likes of Merv Griffin and Mark Goodson after a high school guidance counselor had informed Adolf Woolery early in his life, “You know, game show host. That tracks.” That he said all these terrible things while resembling nothing less than a barely motile wax museum figure was the rare aesthetic touch proving to be accidentally apposite.

Some of the most honorable Americans I have ever known had always secretly hoped that Chuck Woolery would be beaten to death by a rare coalition of Quakers and Girl Scouts. They hoped that Chuck Woolery could run for his life in a jungle, pursued by hungry tigers who would instantly spot an unrepentant racist and devour him on a pay-per-view stream that all of us would happily pay for. But he was taken out for the good of America when the universe recognized, far later than everybody else had, that Chuck Woolery — who has been risibly described by some media figures as the king of smooth talk — did not have a heart. And so what passed for his heart — and the onyx malice that powered it was potent enough to keep this dubious fascist icon alive for eighty-three years — caved in on itself.

Chuck Woolery will leave no legacy other than “We’ll be back in two and two,” which he thundered at the cameras just before a commercial break in a matter that made William Shatner’s overacting look like light Method touches. And while many slow-minded reactionaries glommed onto this false temporal precision presaging a commercial break as some evidence that Woolery possessed wit and intellect, what they failed to understand was that these words represented a coded cry for help. With “two and two,” Woolery was announcing his IQ and his dick size.

This execrable slab of white male entitlement had one, and only one, skill. It was a completely unremarkable skill seen today in nearly all mediocre men and in nearly every finance bro: to boom and bristle with unfettered 20th century toxic masculinity. This was literally the only job requirement if you wanted to host a game show in the 1980s. There was never a moment on television in which Woolery believed in the great lie of his own importance. Woolery deployed this basic bitch quality to preside over some of the most manipulative game shows ever produced in America (specifically, Love Connection, which caused my mother to drink gallons of White Zinfandel every night when she was single). How much pain Woolery created for the American clime is difficult to calculate, but he almost certainly spawned suicidal ideations with his shotgun-to-mouth appeal in at least 62% of his audience. And it’s especially telling that many of these easily manipulated morons grew up and look back at the trauma of Woolery being on television every goddamned night of the week on some UHF station punching above its weight through the rose-tinted lens of childhood nostalgia.

It goes without saying that the world is better off without Chuck Woolery. Television has been drastically improved now that Chuck Woolery can no longer be tapped to tender us with his narcissistic belief that he was the center of the universe. And, perhaps most importantly, Woolery’s death ensures that he will not be appointed to a new Cabinet position for this monstrous incoming President. Then again, given the belief in conspiracy theories shared among the vast plurality of these nominated goons, I would not be surprised if Woolery’s stiff and desiccated body were to be exhumed only days after the funeral, deposited and propped up into a chair, Weekend at Bernie’s style, somewhere in the West Wing, and installed as the Secretary of Game Shows through a recess appointment. Woolery may be dead, but America may not be done with Woolery.

Rest in piss, Chuck Woolery. You were clearly one of the evil ones. You were such a hideous monster that the equally reactionary Pat Sajak somehow looks classy by comparison.