Journal sielwolf's Journal: The sielwolf Post-Modern Reader 3
I'm currently in the process of writing a novel. Like all great novels it started as a short story that was never going to be published. But then there were a few other parts that conceived under a different darkness still found themselves lined up on the same long beam. So it became a novel (or will, when I get around to finishing it). But in the lifespan of all great books there is that dead period between when the novel cracks the very face of civilization and that point when scholars sweep up the pieces in the attempt to make literary critical sense of it. For a lesser work it might be a good six months before a reader of even mediocre quality is published (let alone one to capture the novel's essence adequately). For this, Your Boy's audience may have to wait even longer as academics struggle with the very complex and mammoth task. Like all great things everyone recognizes it but can barely begin an utterance that doesn't tarnish its central truth... or will when the thing is finally finished and published anyway.
So I started to think, why should I wait? I could apply my fantastic intellect and produce the Critical Reader pre-script and save a lot of souls in the process. Sure, the book right now is an unedited Chapter 2, Chapter 3, raw paragraphs that may or may not be somewhere in the back (when all the nuance reaches its elegant apex), and some random notes on how the whole thing (maybe) starts and (quite possibly) ends... still, if I was struck down by a bolt of lightning or run o'er by a pack of wild Bison loose in Maryland what would the World do but weep and throw itself into the crevasse after me? No, better to fancy it up now and put a few hearts in the right place.
The Post-Modern Critical Reader for sielwolf's As Yet Untitled Novel (Possibly Forty Five Caliber Grammar or The Beautiful Boys and Young Fascists Brigade):
[Cover] A friend you really aren't that close to hands you this book after chewing off your ear for the last hour at this other guy's house. The party is sort of lame and there's only one girl there in there who fits in your bracket but you take this book and spend the rest of the night shifting it between your hands subconsciously. You drop it on your nightstand as soon as you get home; grumble, a bit groggy, you jerk off trying to remember that girl's face and forget the title before you even fall asleep.
[Cover, again] You stop by Barnes and Noble and pick up this book, muttering under your breath that you had to spring for the hardcover 'cause the paperback isn't coming out for another week. But that girl at the party (a different one. Both party and girl) just couldn't stop raving about this book. She said it totally redefined her life and was one of the reasons why her last relationship fell through (her old boy couldn't figure it and just thought it was another book). She is a friend of Tammy's and she said she was going to be up in Boston all summer and, hey, you're going to be up there for all of June to see your cousin right? You went racing to the bookstore the first thing in the morning. You see that the two people ahead and behind you have the same book. They fluctuate between talking about the cover, the raves of their friend and the picture of the author as a young boy on the back. You look at the cover and don't really see anything. You drop this book on your nightstand (on top of the other copy, separated by about a month's worth of Sunday New York Times). That night you jerk off to this girl (the new one), not really concerned about remembering her face but vividly focused on the memory of those big round titties she had bursting out the top of her halter. The harder she laughed, the more they jiggled, the harder her nipples tried to pierce through that shirt. Jesus, she just about She-Hulked out of that top.
[Preface] Second edition already? "I'm currently in the process of writing a novel. Like all great novels it started as a short story that was never going to be published. But then
Fuck.
[Page 1, Paragraph 1] Old woman. Yawn.
[Page 3, Paragraph 2] Damn bitch is going to make *me* go crazy. Somebody should get out of the house more.
[Page 3, Paragraph 3] Oh.
[Page 18, Paragraph 3] Uh... ok. The guy who wrote this is a fucking Nazi.
[Page 20, Paragraph 4] Maybe not.
[Page 25, Paragraph 2] Ok... no. Definitely a Nazi. You double check the dustcover for signs of infant moustache. None to be found. He *is* wearing a Playskool utility belt on his head however.
[Page 28, Paragraph 1] Now you have no idea what is going on. There was that first chapter. Now it's a three guys in a car being a bunch of little fascists and sentence after sentence describing what they see. Why are you reading this again?
[Page 235, Paragraph 7] At least its only 235 pages long. Reading the last three sentences a few times doesn't give you any idea. Shit. You're really going to have to read this.
[Page 30, Paragraph 5] You don't remember any frontage roads in Washington DC.
[Page 31, Paragraph 3] You set this book down to get something out of the fridge. Dale calls you up. You jump in your shoes and jet to your car. After taking a week to get through 30 some pages the book sits unread for a month next to the remotes to your TV, cable box, your DVD player and your stereo.
[Page 32, Paragraph 3] Where was I again?
[Page 28, Paragraph 2] No. You definitely read this part.
[Page 30, Paragraph 4] This seems about right. Damn. You saw that girl again and you almost wrote the whole thing off until she brought up the book and when you said you had started it but put it down she pressed herself against you, squeezed your arm and begged for you to finish it. When you talked about the fabulously written Post-Modern Reader at the beginning she laughed and rubbed those fantastic sweater cows against you. Goddamn! You had to fight to keep your eyes from staring down the crack between those tits, imagining burying your face in them.
[Page 40] What is this? Is this now some chick movie?
[Page 41] Ugh... more boring talking about stuff. Why is there only dialogue? Is this the same book? Are they making this into a movie and you just happened to buy the screenplay by mistake?
[Page 49, Paragraph 7] All this talk of the proletariat must make the frozen zombie cadaver of Lenin very happy.
[Page 53, Paragraph 1] A well-written suck and fuck scene. Not bad.
[Page 54, Paragraph 4] -and it led right into a gunfight. Hot shit! Maybe this is some Tom Clancy alternative-universe type shit.
[Page 70, Paragraph 1] Uh. No. Wrong again *snore*.
[Page 80, Paragraph 9] Here we go again... Heil Hitler!
[Page 90, Paragraph 3] You overhear at a bar that Miramax just bought the rights and that the controversy's already started with Orrin Hatch and Ted Kennedy putting together a bipartisan statement denouncing the author and Hollywood for filming such alliterate bullshit. This very hot chick with a guy who is way too ugly for her (but probably had a lot of money or she was a hooker) was saying that this book was just an exoneration of Reagan-style Latin American imperialism. She mentioned some country down there (not Mexico) that you didn't quite catch. She starts to go on but Brian arrives and you grab a booth.
[Page 90, Paragraph 3] You try that line on "absolution of Ronald Reagan and Latin America" on this co-ed looking bored at the airport bookstore. Didn't seem to work. Just as you thought you might be getting a handjob out of this she goes absolutely cold on you. Proposition... DENIED!!! *makes motion with both hands*
[Page 120, Paragraph 4] God this thing is getting even stranger. Something about aliens from beyond time, intergalactic plasma and the color out of space.
[Page 121, Paragraph 1] Brian tells you the Color Out of Space is a reference to H.P. Lovecraft and he has a copy he can let you borrow. You say no thanks and go back to this book.
[Page 123, Paragraph 8] This big-tittied friend of Tammy's better be hot fuck action and not turn out to be some dyke.
[Page 133, Paragraph 4] You are scanning the words but nothing registers. You thought about going back and trying to figure out who all these characters are. But some of them are just hallucinations, others are out of his past, some are online nicknames of people the author knows. You hear all the music references go back to something with his blog. You google it up and check it out. For a moment you think about posting into some of his earlier entries (who listens to any of this shit anyway?). You could then just drop the fact you knew the author for years, way before he was anything, just some grad student posting on a website and then you could get out of having to read this book. That dies when you find out the old posts have been "Archived". You don't even go to the trouble of making up an account and posting to his more recent ones. There's only one open (he seems to have disabled comments after his nom de Internet was found out) and there's already 800 posts by a bunch of losers with the same idea.
[Page 180, Paragraph 2] You skipped ahead when you read on your music forum that this chapter was some way out intense stuff. It had actually been repeated in the New Yorker and annotated heavily by Philip Roth, David Byrne and Wayne Brady from that bad Drew Carrey show.
[Page 201, Paragraph 5] What the fuck was that bullshit? Denunciation of the liberal modern thought, my ass! You thought people were suckers when they went gay for that Da Vinci Code shit.
[Page 133, Paragraph 4] Your cousin is down from Boston to say he's going on a hostel tour of the Mediterranean this summer so you won't be able to come out after all. In the bar your at you start talking to this girl who has a lighter with a devil girl on the side. She says it's by some artist name Cooper. She has this olive skin and the deepest eyes you've ever seen. Her body's pretty banging too. She's not that big but she's wearing a shirt she probably last wore when she was five. She cut out the neck so it scoops down to where nothing is really left to your imagination. At about ten o'clock, when you are trying to get the bartender's attention for another round, she takes your hand and puts it right on the full cheek of her ass. The denim feels good in your hand. She continues talking to your cousin, no outward cue as if anything's changed. You worm your fingers into the pocket. That'll be eighteen bucks. Pay the man. Your thumb tucks in over the lip of her jeans; playing with the textured elastic edge of her panties. She puts her hand on your shoulder, fiddling with the collar of your shirt. She's got this book on Cooper. Its about him and other rock artists too and you totally have to read it...
Pot-shots (Score:1)
or run o'er by a pack of wild Bison loose in Maryland
You'd be in an even higher risk braket if you played tennis. Do you?
a month's worth of Sunday New York Times). That night you jerk off to
Ohmigod! KING MISSLE reference! Was that intended? Subconscious? DO you even k
Re:Pot-shots (Score:2)
In this JE we're always fielding pitches from leftfield. There's really no cohesion to any of this stuff. And, no, I haven't posted any of this work referred to above.
Lemme cut to the chase. So what you're basically saying is, if I read your to-be-written book, I'll get la
Re:Pot-shots (Score:1)
I hear this is how John Grisham got his start.
Nope. Blow jobs in the Doubleday executive bathrooms. Oh how the fallen have mightily made the NYT best sellers list. "Street Lawyer" my ass.
Hey, work as much as you can about Numbers Stations as you can into your story.