I sat at the bar last night talking to this lady that lives in my neighborhood for like an hour. She's middle aged, writes about the telecom industry for the telecom industry, has a 19 yo son and she finished her novel last September. She tells me this everytime I talk to her. It's not bad, she assures me, cause she reads a lot of books and she knows, but she's frustrated with the system for publication. I generally hate fiction aside from Denis Johnson, Roberto Bolaño, or Cormac McCarthy, so I usually just blank the fuck out when I see/talk to her. She talks about her novel everytime I see her. She finished it in September. Until today I had no desire to ever even peak a look at her book on amazon, which she self-published for kindle. Next time I see her, I will get her writer name and find her book. I will read her book that she finished in September. It will not be written by David Foster Wallace's selfish money-hungry publisher. It will not (I hope) be titled The Pale King. I'm going to read her book.
Why today? What changed my mind? A post on Blake Butler's blog was re-blogged a million billion times and I saw it aggregated as I was looking at this blog/journal about asemic writing, because I was in this journal with the person who does the asemic writing. Blake's post was written about 2.2 weeks before I started my MFA here at NMSU. I wish I would have read it as a prerequisite to starting classes here. Not because I was all "I'm going to publish like a fucking madmanpimp and fuck you all!" but because I am just now figuring out that what Blake said then is truth. Here I was staring at the most weird/fucked up/awesome example of what I could ever call 'writing'. I wanted to tell this guy Michael Jacobson that these were awesome things, that I wouldn't know how to make unless I took a class at the community college for a couple of semesters. So, Michael Jacobson, those are awesome things.