January 10, 2006

The New York Times review yesterday used words like “compelling” and “insightful,” which is critic code for “Don’t even bother reading the dust jacket.” The killer line was: “A less heavy-handed writer would have given this material a much brighter treatment.” Of course it was compared to the short story collections from twenty-five years ago. The Philosophy of Paradise was also mentioned. I have written five novels but I will forever be a “renowned writer of short stories one of which was adapted as a film, directed by Paul Schrader.” Read: “not a major talent; negligible; a clown.” Tell that to Kafka, to Nabokov!

The critic missed the gist of the book, of course. Completely ignored the themes of biography and anonymity and personal reinvention. Didn’t mention the assassination sequence, probably the most exciting chapter. Skirted the shopping mall subplot.

That’s how they get you, by synopsizing the plot incorrectly and then criticizing you for their mistaken sense of what the book is about. Or focus on the weakest chapters, in this case, the dreary relationship between Carin and her son, something I added at the last minute only as a background to Frank’s story. Roth and Ford can digress all day long and every syllable is fawned upon. Me? I’m a dartboard.

I complained to Leon but he insisted it’s a positive review and said the marketing department was delighted. They’re calling it a “thinking man’s thriller” (whatever the fuck that means). Leon claimed my agent, Blake, has already sent copies to Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp and George Clooney. He quoted the “compelling” line. I said, “Leon, no one ever bought a book because it was ‘compelling.’” He changed the subject and started blathering on about how Bush choked on a hot dog yesterday.

In a sinister mood, I insisted that Sarah go back to the city. Against her protestations, I drove her to the train station and kept the car. She doesn’t want me to drive, afraid I’m going to seize up while sailing the two-lanes, but I feel fine, physically. Emotionally is another story. As the Amtrak diesel chugged in I thought, “One step is all it takes.” (Then the book would sell like hotcakes! Nothing like suicide to get stacked at the front of the store.)

On the platform, Sarah and I kissed tenderly. All clichés, all the time! Even my self-destructive thoughts are clichés! As she trotted off toward the conductor I contemplated her backside and almost forgot why I wanted her in my life. Then I remembered: She’s a beauty, she’s mine. And my next thought was, so what?

January 11, 2006

If I got myself a dog I could adopt the dog’s priorities as my priorities. I could name him Zuckerman and he would stand patiently by the door, waiting and watching. He’d know when I needed to go out. He would become my boss. Then I would never have to think.