If you think it’s hard enough to be a weekend novelist, try being William Nicholson for almost thirty years. Nicholson, who considered screenwriters to be “wannabe artists,” watched his debut novel migrate to the remainder bin. Never mind that he found considerable success with Shadowlands (now available in at least three forms, rivaling the late Bill Naughton’s multiple adaptations for Alfie). Nicholson now has another novel out, The Society of Others, which involves “an apathetic young British man” stumbling into an unidentified country where violence has broke out. Unfortunately, reviews of the new novel have been half-hearted so far.

It’s been long established that Eddie Vedder and Dave Eggers are, in fact, the same person. But who knew that “the men of McSweeney’s” created so many relationship-oriented mishaps?

Never have I seen so many tiny penises erect over the “power of the blogosphere.” You’d think that they’d all just gotten lucky with Neal Kozody or something. Our President utters lies on a regular basis. Our government, whether guided by Democrats or Republicans, prevaricates more on a single day than any average Joe does in a week. Failing that, there’s the whole issue of human error. Which happens from time to time. Yes, even from journalists. So you’re going to tear a news executive a new one for fucking up? Well, fair is fair. Let the bastards have it.

But don’t come crying to me when you’re declared an inveterate amateur. Or your subjective bias is so out of control that it kills your credibility.

It must be easy for a blogger to delude himself into the idea that he’s an “investigative journalist” or a “pundit” when he’s never set foot in Iraq, or he hasn’t bothered to talk to an actual soldier. How comforting it is cling to half-hearted speculations when he could be going out into the field asking questions (much as the bloggers failed to do at the conventions last year), or comparing several perspectives of what went down at an event.

Eason Jordan screwed up. That goes without saying. But Jeff Jarvis is full of shit if he thinks that “everyone” has access to the policies and the confidential memos or that the power has somehow shifted to the people or that bloggers control all the cards. It was Eason Jordan who made the decision to resign, not the bloggers. For all we know, there could have been peripheral reasons. The burnout factor that comes with almost a quarter century of looking human horror straight in the eye. As a man who considers CNN to be a form of journalistic pornography, I still have to ask: Did any of these magnificent geniuses on the blogosphere consider actually getting Jordan’s take on the resignation?

Or perhaps it’s as simple as this: If you think you can run with the big dogs, then you probably haven’t stayed on the proch long enough with the pups.

John P. Marquand’s first novel, The Unspeakable Gentleman, is available in its entirety online. The novel was Marquand’s first attempt to break out of the slick romantic stories he had been writing. According to Millicent Bell’s Marquand: An American Life, Marquand’s agents had sent it along to Ladies’ Home Journal to be printed in four installments. By Marquand’s own admission, “I think it is pretty damned bad, but I wish you would undergo the strain of looking at it, if you can. Bad as it is, I’ve seen Scribner’s use worse.” Whether the tale of “duels, galloping horses, midnight escapades and lots of good red wine” was intended as a send-up or not remains a mystery. But as Bell notes, Marquand composed some preposterous ad copy for his own novel: “‘The hour is growing late. Put down the pistol, Henry.’ So spoke the Unespeakable Gentleman on that evening a hundred years ago, as he leaned across a table in the firelight, but his words were not obeyed.”

(Thanks, Stacy!)

The Old Hag brings some important news to our attention: The Book Thing of Baltimore, a fantastic place whereby books are given out gratis to everyone and anyone, is hoping to move to a new place. But they’re in need of $60,000. If you have a few bucks to spare, you can do it through the site or send monies by snailmail to:

The Book Thing
P.O. Box 2197
Baltimore, MD 21203