XRAY SPECS: Chafed Elbows (1966)
Isn’t that what every artist wants? To do the thing in the way they want to do it and have everyone they care about want that for them, too?
Isn’t that what every artist wants? To do the thing in the way they want to do it and have everyone they care about want that for them, too?
A shocked reaction to this work really just makes my point about why I wrote this novel. It’s all so obvious, and I’m bored to death.
I find that autofiction writers tend to have great senses of humor, because without one they’d be too horrified to tell the truth.
You wouldn’t go back in time, but you would stay forever in the present moment. At least that’s how the dream went.
Christina was the John Swartzwelder and Kurt Vonnegut of this book – all of the funniest scenes and lines with the best comedic timing are hers.
At its essence, this story is about existential amnesia. What do we need to remember? What do we want to remember? And what’s the difference between them?
In retrospect, it’s obvious to me that I’m writing about my desire to feel a part of something greater than myself. I know that’s an impossibility, however.
Everyone believes there’s something more out there. And if we were just braver, had more time/money/whatever, we’d Don Quixote it up.
Where neighbors handed warm zucchini bread over fences, a 10-year-old drove me around a farm in a rusty truck, and I most likely met a serial killer.
I’m still thinking through and discovering all Seinfeld has, and will, teach me about creative writing, particularly poetic movement, and/or MacGuffins as a narrative technique.