Yeah, it’s basically how I feel about the world every day.
Maybe I should shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die.
Anyway, I’m still contemplating/interpreting a weird dream from last night.
I dreamed that Andrew Sarris had co-authored a piece in The New Yorker all about how my books absolutely sucked and illustrated some sort of general downfall of civilization. I can’t remember who the co-author was, but they both quoted from my books at great length to discuss how awful the writing & language was, never mind the plotting, and how I was clearly the worst writer in existence.
I read through the article, which was long and detailed (my dreams can do this, yes), but when I looked at the date of publication, the issue was from May of 2011.
I thought, wait, my first book Cut To Wagstaff didn’t appear until June of 2012.
I double checked the date and thought for a moment, and realized that I must be dreaming.
And then it occurred to me that Sarris didn’t write this nasty article intricately and voluminously describing how me & my books suck…. but that I did.
Me. MY subconscious.
And here I was thinking I was only a self-hating schmuck while I’m awake. Seems there’s no escape.
Sarris died in 2012. I’d like to think my book killed him, and now I’m inspired to include a rant against auteur theory in my next Wagstaff book, book 3 in the series, the writing of which is proceeding nicely these days.
So expect another literary abortion, New Yorker. You snobs. Maybe my next book will kill you all.
Only in my dreams.
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