On reading Jackie Collins

A couple of weeks ago, my wife came home from the used bookstore around the corner from our house with a present for me. The present was a worn copy of Jackie Collins' Lovers and Gamblers. "Read it," she said. "Jackie Collins is pretty much porn for middle-aged women."

With summer vacation beginning and a list of "literary" books I wanted to plough before school starts again in August, I agreed to read the first 50 pages, figuring I can pick up a few tricks from a best-selling author. The next thing I knew I was on Page 490 and there was no way anyone was going to stop me from finishing the fucker.

Listen, I'm not going to try to make a case for Jackie Collins to be immortalized in the literary canon, but at the same time, I can't stand half of the books in the so-called literary canon. I hold the canon and every obdurate high school Engliish teacher cramming Ethan Frome down the throats of their students partially responsible for this country's epidemic apathy when it comes to reading. And for anyone who is looking to become a writer, I would agree that the classics must be part of your essential diet, however, that diet should also include a healthy dose of genre writers and commercial fiction. The most frustrating thing about reading literary fiction, in my opinion, is the pacing. Too many times, the authors---who are clearly skilled and talented in their craft---fall in love with their own sentences, which results in a 25-page single-paragraph description of a pubic hair on a toilet seat.

But back to Jackie Collins and Lovers and Gamblers. First of all, sadly, this is the type of prose that would be lambasted in a graduate workshop. The characters in Jackie Collins' world exist according to a hierarchy of physical attributes. Men with big cocks rank supreme, as do women with big tits. And it took about 5 pages until I figured that the character with the big cock would end up with the female character with the big tits by the end of the novel. But I was all right with it, mostly because they'd have to screw approximately 500 partners each until they arrived at this realization. Basically, the book's narrative tension is a long build up to one climatic titty-fuck.

And the characters all have names thieved from a list of porn star monikers: Al King (guy with big cock), Dallas (girl with big tits whose last name was mentioned once then mysteriously disappeared), Bernie Suntan, Linda Cosmos, Cody Hills, Manny Shorto, Karmen Rush...you get the picture. For the first 400 pages or so, these characters lived to get laid. It's the equivalent of having a world populated by people who all possess a 16-year-old boy's libido.

Then, in the final 100 pages or so, a plane carrying most of the main characters is hijacked and crashes in the Amazon, and the rest of the book becomes a pornographic version of Conrad's Heart of Darkness, where the characters look straight into the barrel of their own existential hollowness and doom and decide to fuck to forget about it. If they don't fuck, they're eaten by alligators. There's a moral there.

That's 600 pages of Lovers and Gamblers in a nutshell. And I couldn't get enough of it.

Collins delivers exactly the product her readers are looking to buy, and when you consider that writing and publishing IS an industry, you can't go wrong with that formula. There are also aspects of her writing that anyone looking to write a novel can learn from. For example, she does an excellent job with narrative hooks and chapter breaks. Like most successful commercial novelists, she knows how to keep the plot moving. She does seamless work with the third-person omniscient voice as well. In fact, I think it would behoove graduate programs to spend more time developing these skills, especially seeing that most of the MFA students are aspiring to be successful in the commercial market. Instead of spending all of their time stroking Cormac McCarthy and David Foster Wallace, why not concentrate on making the writing commercially viable?

So am I going to run out and buy another Jackie Collins novel? No. I think I've had enough for now. But I believe there's something to be said for reading for only the entertainment value. Teachers spend way too much time talking about symbolism and theme (whatever that is), and in the process, we're sucking the fun out of reading. And while a lot of writers whine about the fact that no one reads anymore, it's occurred to me that, maybe, we're also somehow complicit in this.

Thanks for the read, Ms. Collins, and thanks for reminding me that reading can be largely self-indulgent.

Who reads this shit?

This morning, while I was shampooing my hair and belting out Carley Simon songs in the shower (as I've been known to do from time to time), a question popped into my head: Who really reads print literary journals anymore, other than writers?

I imagine some people are already rolling their eyes, poo-pooing me. I suppose literary agents read them in search of the next big thing, and I guess the family and friends of the editors and contributors browse them and rightfully laud the hard work that goes into publishing a journal, but it seems to me if you really want to get your work out to larger and broader pool of readers then it makes sense to have it on-line and use resources like Facebook and blogs to direct traffic toward it.

Yet still, writers love to hang their hats on "pub-creds" that they can use in a CV or a query letter. Like braggart parents, they love talking about the places they've published. Therefore, it's not necessarily the fact that they're being read, it's that they got one past the editors, and THAT seems bogus to me.

Don't get me wrong, I'm guilty of it, too. Most writers need to feed the ego. Like anyone else in any profession, they need the validation that the work they're doing is good and appreciated by others. I get that. But publication in the slick prestigious literary journals seems more like winning a contest than it does sharing with others our thoughts and questions about the human condition. And maybe there are some purists out there who don't write for an audience and simply create for the sake of creation. This, however, is not me. I'm so vain (I bet I think this blog about me).

I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this, or what it is about Carley Simon songs that made me think of it. But I'd love to hear your thoughts, assuming, that is, you're actually reading this shit.

Be back soon...in the meantime

I haven't forgotten this blog. I've just been busy dealing with those characters from BP, plugging shit, thinking deeply about baseball and new ways of executing the "pull my finger" gag. I'm a busy man.

In the meantime, here's my friend Dan Cray, the guy whose lyrics I lift for just about every epigraph in just about every book of poetry I've written. Dan rocks.

You're welcome

This SNL skit is a classic, one of the best. Now stop what you're doing and watch this one. Even if you've seen this a hundred times, I challenge you to try not laughing. Go ahead. Try it.

Sunday Afternoon Musings

There's a half an hour to the Sox game and a stack of student papers I need to read. While I've never been one to gush about the weather, it's a picturesque spring day in New England. I think I'll stay inside. Here's today musing on baseball, writing, life.

• It seems to me that in order to write well you don't have to be a genius (for my sake, I hope this is true). It seems to me that you just need some knowledge of language and how it works, a library card, and the ability to laugh while suffering.
• Following the Red Sox is like being in a bad marriage, I wrote about this for Slurve Magazine this week. After blowing a five-run lead with Lester pitching last night, I really want to end things between us, but I can't. Boston, I wish I knew how to quit you.
• I've heard some "literary" writers pooh-pooh the YA genre, as if it's somehow less sophisticated to write to an adolescent audience. To these pretentious asses, I suggest reading John Green's Looking for Alaska, which a couple of my creative writing students suggested I read. It's the best book I've read this year. For real.
• Someone on Facebook posted this quote from Robert Bly's book Iron John: A Book About Men: "Hermes is the god of the interior nervous system. His presence amounts to heavenly wit. When we are in Hermes' field, messages pass with fantastic speed between the brain and the fingertips, between the heart and the tear ducts, between the genitals and the eyes, between the part of us that suffers and the part of us that laughs." Nice. Very nice.
• Red Sox Fact (from my Red Sox desk calendar): No player has ever it a home run over the right field roof at Fenway Park.
• When I retire from teaching, I want to become a Jedi knight. Does anyone know how I can make this happen?
• Does anyone really read this blog? If you do, if you are reading this, identify yourself in the comments section. I want to know you, chat. And, Liz, you're my wife and I make you read this. I don't think that counts.

Letter of Apology to David Ortiz

Dear Mr. Ortiz,

As you may recall, I had to write a similar letter to Nick Green last year after penning a post, which at least half of my 40 followers read (maybe less), where I referred to him as "Nick Green the Dick Machine" and accused him of "working for the Yankees" after a throwing error cost the Red Sox a game against the Mariners. Admittedly, I'm a man of dubious honor, yet I apologized to Nick Green for my insolent and puerile remarks.

As you may also recall, earlier this season, I assigned you the moniker of "Big Poopy," a pathetic and sophomoric play off your real nickname "Big Papi," a title that commands respect. I then wrote in a blog post on April 17:

"Oh Big Poopy, Big Poopy Big Poopy. How does one go from a folk-hero to someone who is so painful to watch that you almost have to turn away. Wait, I know. He stops taking steroids."

While I was not able to watch those majestic moonshots you hit at Comerica Park last night---I was at a father-daughter dance listening to Justin Beiber at ear-bleed level as hordes of elementary school girls screeched---I saw those homeruns on replay, and, Mr. Ortiz, it was reminiscent of the bombs you hit back in the day, when it was Boston on the winning end of a historic collapse (Did you see that Bruins game last night? What the fuck?). This prompted me to look up your statistics for the month of May, so far.

Kudos, Mr. Ortiz. weel-done. May I call you Papi? Okay. Mr. Ortiz is fine with me. Anyway, this was your second two-homer game this month, and your batting average, while still on the paltry side at .231, is slowly climbing, like I knew it would.

Essentially, Mr. Ortiz, when I wrote that you "looked like an old man waiting for his Viagra to kick in" every time you stepped in the batter's box, I was simply trying to impress people with my analogy, which I considered to possess a modicum of wit. I was wrong. Truth be told, I've always had insecurity issues stemming from a nagging inferiority complex that I can trace back to being force-fed Catholicism as a child. While I know your faith is very important to you, and in no means wish to disparage it, growing up feeling like a lowly sinner with a terminable case of perversion has forced me to over-compensate as an adult and write some of the ridiculous things I've written---articles, poems, stories, you name it. Honestly, Mr. Ortiz, I just want to be loved.

Again, I apologize for my behavior and wish you continued success this season. If you can harness our inner-Jesus and find it in your big jolly Papi-heart to forgive me, I will be forever grateful. I promise this will not happen again, unless, of course, these last few weeks prove to be an aberration and you go back to sucking ass. Then I will go back to calling you "Poopy," blaming your abysmal statistics on steroid withdrawal, and advocating for your immediate release.

Thank you, Mr. Ortiz. And good luck tonight.

Yours truly,

Nate Graziano

New Soxcast 4-28

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Here's this week's Soxcast. It's a little late, I apologize.

I do, however, want to address and excuse my accent. I'm originally from Rhode Island, and when I read something aloud (my students and anyone who has heard me at a book reading will attest to this) the accent, for some reason, becomes pronounced. While it might seem like I'm trying to add histrionic color to these Podcasts, I assure you, I'm not that much of a douche.

AND it is NOT a Boston or Massachusetts accent; it's a Rhode Island accent, thank you very much. No self-respecting Rhode Islander wants to be lumped with Mass-holes.

Enjoy, and Go Sox!