A contest of sorts, although I haven’t decided on the prize. But what should we say to people who say things such as:
“Is that the Great American Novel?” (Said by leering man on the make on Amtrak. Same guy thought the details of his just-settled divorce would be absolute catnip.)
“When are you going to make a run at the Great American Novel?” (One of the ROMEOs — Retired Old Men Eating Out — at my local hang-out.)
To the first I said: “It may very well be.” To the second: “I already have.” But I’m not satisifed with either response to a question that has more than a whiff of snark to it. Do we ask lawyers when they’re going to make a run at the Supreme Court? Do we ask local journalists when they’re going to go the New York Times or win a Pulitzer? (Actually, one friend’s parent once did ask: “Have you ever thought about winning a Pulitzer?”) Do we ask . . . but you get my drift.
Anyway, riposte away.
Why not just say “Why, yes, as a matter of fact it is! It’s a novel, it’s American and it’s great! You should buy a copy right now! Here’s the ISBN number and the address of the nearest bookstore! Why are you stadning there gawking at me? Go! Go! Fly like the wind!”
And a bonus riposte: When some jerk starts with some sleazy pickup attempt, try “Hey, does this approach usually work for you? ‘Cause it’s giving me the creeps.”
I was thinking about this on my bike commute today, and I wondered how to juxtapose it with “We must love one another or die.”
I wonder whether the truth would reframe the whole thing in the minds of both sides.
“You writing the Great American Novel?”
“I’m trying.”
Leave it to Keith to call me on my own favorite Auden line. (Well, one of many. I also like “For poetry makes nothing happen” and “All I have is a voice/To undo the folded lie.”)
But now, if you’ll permit me, I’d like to go on a tangent and discuss what I’ve dubbed the Bumper Car Phenomenon. My family loves bumper cars and we chase each other merrily around the floor, trying to hit each other. But it has been noted — by others, not just me — that strange men really, really like to hit me. Those closest to me have interpreted this as a compliment, a kind of collisional flirtation. But I don’t feel particularly flattered by it. I find it . . . jarring.
Lately, I’ve been getting some e-mail that feels like bumper car hits from strangers. (Okay, two in the past three weeks.) The one that killed me was from a fan who asked a question, asked another question and then, upon getting two fairly prompt replies said: “Now get back to work.” What the — I’m online, answering your e-mails and you think I’m doing it to avoid work? Dude, that IS work in a lot of cases, which is why I often do it in one fell swoop. You happen to catch me when I was catching up.
Another ended: “I am disappointed in you,” a line that I feel should be restricted to people who actually know me.
Are women patronized more than men? Probably not. But to be female and involved in creative work does seem to lend itself to a lot of smackdowns. So while I know Keith is right, it’s hard to let go of the feelings that these encounters engender.
And, for the record, I did tell the truth on both occasions.
It may even things up a little to know I realized I’m not following my own advice when I get “Double trouble!” while out with my boys.
I think people often just have stock lines, and they haul them out when they don’t think they have anything in common with you.
What is with people and the questions they ask? I read something once that when asked a particularly personal (or stupid) question one should reply with the question, “Why do you ask?” It could lead somewhere….maybe.
I have an easy answer, but most of you can’t use this, I suppose:
“I’m Canadian. And Robertson Davies already wrote it.”
To give the first dude the benefit of the doubt, perhaps they worried that they were keeping you from your work. Granted they could have phrased it a bit better. As for the second weirdo, I’m with you.
I could try: “Sarah’s Canadian and Robertson Davies already wrote it.”
But I think Vickie is definitely onto something with “Why do you ask?” It would probably work with most of Keith’s twin encounters. As for “Double Trouble,” perhaps Keith could say: “Actually, more like quadruple. Would you take one off my hands?”
Oh,hell,my answer would be – ‘There’s no money in it, so why bother? Besides, Oprah might not get it.’
I like Vickie’s and Elaine’s answers. Can I borrow them as needed? I’ve answered I’m writing my ticket outta here. Not clever, but honest answer.
And I’ve about given up on civility. Manners. I am often appalled at questions/comments anyone, strangers, feel they can ask or say. Why are you single? Why don’t you have children? Do you hate children? and on and on.
Jeanne
A response to the original question: “Are you going to write the Great American Novel?”
“Define Great American Novel.”
I guess that would be a variation of Keith’s suggestion, though…
This ‘n’ That:
Sarah, I nominate an early Davies, “Fifth Business.” (And I love your response.)
Laura, I wonder if the “Now get back to work line” is an expression of guilt–”My favorite writer would be writing a book I’d love if I wasn’t pestering her with questions.”
For some reason, this thread reminds me of a conversation I recently had at a bat mitzvah celebration, with someone whom (I think) was a distant relative of my wife’s. She asked me what sort of things I write, so I gave her a precis of what I’ve been doing lo, these past twenty-five years. Then I mentioned a story I wrote that will be in an anthology next spring. Her eyes lit up and she said, basically, “At last, something of yours I’ll read.”
I had no idea what to say. “Thank you” didn’t seem quite fitting.
A puzzled look and a sincerely intrigued “What do you mean?”
Then a long silence.
Are you the Great American Reader?
I get that often enough too; I’m a writer, albeit for theatre (for the moment). Just yesterday, someone asked about the Great American Play. I said I’d settle for the Decent Pangean Play. That stopped him cold…
Love the Pangea comment David. Only problem is how many people know what Pangea is (or should that be was)? Or is the geologist geek in me reading something different into this comment?
One of the writers where I work won the Pulitzer years ago. Now all he does is make long distance phone calls, and mooch free brownies from the copy clerks. The mere mention of his name causes eyes to roll all over the building.
I think next time you are asked about the great American Novel, you should sit down, and tell them about it — creat the most insane story ever, it should involve cross dressing Eastern European migrant workers, a stuttering hitman, a postman with a wooden arm, and a French Prostitute with a giant black mole – the animal not the facial feature. I am sure they won’t ask again.
Now if you can offer something witty to say to old bitty aunts concerned about my marital status…
To the first: “Well, it _is_ printed in English . . .”
To the second: “Nah, I thought I’d take a shot at the Great Greek Novel to start and work my way up from there. Baklava?”
And to the old bitty aunts: “I’ll get married just as soon as more than two of you can agree on a man for me to marry. Or agree on anything, for that matter. Could you turn down the television please?”
You could look at the man’s email comment in that he wants you to get back to work and write another book for him to read. That is, of course, giving him the benefit of the doubt, but could keep you from driving yourself mad by trying to figure out just what the hell he was insinuating.
Perhaps no one I know thinks I can write the Great American Novel because the question I’m sick of hearing constantly is “So when are you going to be on Oprah?” I wonder what they’d say if I told them that my character is not depressed or victimized or pathetic so Oprah wouldn’t want me.
Couldn’t the “I am an aspiring writer” comment, when followed by a question on how to get published would be of the “a way to distinguish between the self and listener” variety comment, emphasizing a difference; aspiring writer as opposed to accomplished one and thus asking for advice?
And I really think that the “now* get back to work” line could fairly (and I’d bet accurately) be read as having been intended to convey “that’s my last question as I want you to get back to work on your glorious novels.” The distortion being caused by the double prism of overfamiliarity (brought on by the ‘hey a writer I really like answered my email’ feeling) and general unease with words (us non-writers really do have difficulty working with them), not to mention that sometimes email just doesn’t get the inflection right.
*The “now” reinforces the argument: “Now” that you have graciously spent time answering my questions, I will attempt humor and tell you to do the important thing, write another glorious novel for me to read.
Everyone is so much nicer than I am!
As I said, I just like to “worry” words. I worry other writers’ words. For example, I think Zadie Smith’s phonetic renderings of Southern speech — “pah point” for “Power Point” — are off, which sends me reeling out of the text. But then, almost all phonetic renderings do. Patrick Dennis (the pseudonym for Edward Tanner) did it well, but even his slowed the text down.
What’s a yout?
Ummm, I think I may have ended an email with you one time along the lines of ‘get back to work’. But, but…you KNOW it was meant with humor and affection, right? Crap. How could I have been so crass?
If the gentleman had written: “Please get back to work” or, “That’s my last question as I want you to get back to work on your glorious novels,” I would have inferred some charm/guilt. He wrote: “Now get back to work.” And here’s my test: Would a man write that to Michael Connelly (or any other male crime writer)? I think not. Not in those words. A much-older woman might write that to a younger man; I can imagine Jeff Abbott getting scolding e-mails from readers who want him to return to his first series. My mother might say that to me, but, well, she’s my mom.
“Now get back to work” is an imperative, an order. If it was meant to be funny . . . I think most e-mail correspondents know how hard it is to be funny with strangers.
My readers are my bosses, of course. But they don’t set my hours.
Then again, perhaps I’m just scarred for life from working for a condescending, patriarchal asshole.
“A much-older woman might write that to a younger man”
Ouch, you’re right.
I hear the tone of voice now, and see how it comes across so condescendingly. Then again, I just watched the wonderful BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice, so the voice I REALLY hear saying “Now get back to work” is Lady Catherine De Bourgh’s. No question about nuance or meaning there!
“Is that the Great American Novel?”
“Yes. I hope some day someone will read it to you.”
Sorry but that’s my “I’m so tired of ‘clever’ comments persona” coming out again. The ones who say that are the ones who do “speeding ticket jokes” about my motorized scooter. Har-de-har.
I still see room for the benefit of the doubt. If I received the same email, I’d assume the person was trying to effect a peer relationship with someone he perceived as a celebrity. Kind of a black-slapping “Now, get back to work, ya chucklehead” kind of approach.
Which is still an annoyance, but possibly not patriarchal. Possibly just socially awkward.
Not that we writers know anything about that.
Or it’s possible he’s a sexist pig. But the line could as easily be buddy-buddy just-throwin-ya-some-shit as Lady-Catherine-de-Burgh. Without knowing the person’s gender attitudes, I don’t know how it’s possible to discern which in email.
His telling you to “get back to work” carries an implication of familiarity. I know a few writers I might say that to — male and female — but in all cases there is a rapport in place.
My guess is that the man who said this to you didn’t say it because you’re a woman, but perhaps because he felt a sense of familiarity with you because he loves your books and/or because he was happy that you responded to his Email. I would hazard a guess that if Michael Connelly responded to his Emails, he might say the same thing.
Another suggestion for the “When are you going to write he Great American Novel?” –
How about: “When are YOU going to write the Great American Novel?”
Maybe that’s too harsh…
I see the argument for mistaken rapport . . . I was just listening to Robert Bausch on Diane Rehm and a caller from North Carolina began: “I’m an aspiring writer myself . . .” Now, to me, the construction “I am [a blank] myself” implies that the listener is in the same group as the speaker, although it could be just a superfluous word hanging out at the end of the sentence. (It also can be seen as a way to distinguish between the self and the listener, but then it would emphasize a difference. “I’m a simple man, myself.”)
So what I heard, in my overly critical way — because the opening led to a fairly uninformed question about how to get published, which I just found a colossal waste of time, not because I know the answer but because both Bausches are fascinating speakers and there are so many more things to ask — was “I’m like you.” But Robert Bausch isn’t an aspiring writer, himself. He’s an accomplished one.
This sounds harsh, far harsher than I really am. The thing is, I noodle words and construction all day long, think about the landmines in all our verbal encounters, the way words hurt and sting without intent. Here’s a story on myself, from yesterday at the soup kitchen. A newish volunteer was chatting me up as we served and we started talking about transient traffic in our respective neighborhoods. (Down in his, clearly up in mine, along with a slight rise in larceny and burglary. To me, this is mainly a concern because it signals the fraying economies of the nearby neighborhoods, an increase in desperate people. And, yeah, I don’t want my house to be broken into.)
Guy: So where do you live?
Me: South Baltimore.
Guy: Where?
Me: They call it South Federal Hill.
Guy: Where? Close to Fort Avenue? What street? What block?
Me: (sotto voce) I’d rather not announce my address just now.
The guy never got it. But several of the guests at my table did. A sad, ugly moment.
John – MAX 5 miles an hour. MAX and I don’t do that unless I’m clear, usually outside and on a straightaway, so it’s not really that fast. But not the real point, the real point is that, it’s like basketball comments to tall people. It was a tolerable line the first 100 times I heard it. Over eight years? Not so amusing any more. Nor are the ones about “gee, I wish I had one of those” but thoseN EVER were funny.
i read a mystery – no, I TRIED reading a mystery – some years back when ONE person spoke in “dialect” and the rest didn’t. A total loss, made it completely impossible to focus on the book and I had no idea why the writer thought it necessary. Haven’t tried that writer since.
Yout = youth.
Jeanne
saw Cousin Vinnie
I like Karen’s response to the “Oprah” question.
I dunno, Andi, you do move quickly on that scooter.
)
***
Phonetic renderings bother me, too. Rather than have a character say “pah point,” why not this:
“Power point,” said Margie, in her sweet southern drawl.
This way the reader hears their impression of a Southerner in their own head, and it sounds more real to them. “Pah point” is me telling the reader what I think a Southerner sounds like.
The worst example is in “Bonfire of the Vanities” where Wolfe spends at least two or three pages telling us how Maria pronounces “Sherman,” and later on, in court, there is a black man trying to pronounce “Sherman” the way Maria does.
Really bad. Not to mention it was a bad way to try and make the black man appear stupid.
Q: When are you going to make a run at the Great American Novel?
A: When the mood strikes me.
(IMHO, I believe the mood struck you when you wrote your most recent book, To The Power of Three.)
“THE” great American Novel was already written… in 1947.
I don’t run.