I wonder what it’s like in your world? Your words take me to places I’ve never been, things I haven’t experienced and I wonder what is it like in your world? Sometimes I think my world is too safe too idealistic. Then I remember I only survive it by holding onto a semblance of my childlike wonder and naiveté. Another brilliant piece.
My world is just like your world, save the nuisance of ownership of title. It is the only one I have in this life; the only one I have been given, and I mean to make the best of it every day, as I am sure you do as well. No big reveal there. :D <5
A thought… He is indeed a writer. A true seeker of the in between of possibility and reality. Brutal honesty, and unfiltered truth. No amount of charm can take away the sting of his words. His smile as deadly as his disarming persona. He doesn’t subscribe to an individual niche, he creates his own—then nonchalantly gestures for you to follow him into his darkness.
…just popped into my head and I came back to share it with you
"The World According to Garp is John Irving's fourth novel, about a man who is born out of wedlock to a feminist leader, then grows up to be a writer."
Jesus Christ, it sounds like my life. *orders hardback*
I have three comments. One, I also hate come spelled c-u-m but sadly it’s inescapable. Two, nothing compares to a Norwegian night train for happiness and Romance 😍 Three, up Nader. Those were the days.
Well, this was fantastic. It's taken me a while longer than I'd have liked to get around to your work but this was well worth the wait: razor-sharp snapshots of passionate lives interspersed with ideas and observations from a world just as vivid and sharp. Words fail me. I'll confine myself to a staccato "fucking spectacular"!
Gimme some examples as to what moved you, my working-clsss friend. I can't pin down the compliment without an edu/e.g.'s. thank you for reading. There's a bunch more. +2
Ha, that’s fair enough. I think the mad beat-poetry vibes of the first few paragraphs hit me first: lines like “I liked how her skin tasted of close reading” and “All books are blankets of lies” suddenly undercut by the much less romantic and brutal observation “history is written by liars”. Moving into the meat of the story, I found the relationship between Charlie and Zazzie was oddly optimistic, despite (or maybe because of?) its intensity; the way it repeats across time and story-beats; less addictive and more, I dunno, inevitable. “They would be doing this again when she was thirty-seven… he could have told her if she’d asked” struck me as strangely tender. The fragmentary bits in the middle (“Are you cynic or romantic? Asset or threat?”/the racing story): it’s like a whole other world intruding onto these two characters’ lives; one story T-boning another, if that makes sense. I’m assuming, because these are excerpts from a larger work, that it all ties together in ways I’m not seeing (or maybe I just don’t see it because I’m operating on two hours sleep and don’t have the right cultural context, being very English for this archetypally American fiction).
I guess the point of making is that there’s something jagged about it; about these excerpts, like they’re welded together in a way that’s designed elicit a visceral reaction rather than just tell a story. There’s cohesion there, but it needs to be studied/sat with. And that’s a good thing: it’s rare to find a story that grabs and throttles you; that demands this kind of close attention - the close reading alluded to in the opening, in fact.
I have absolutely no idea if I’m making sense or not, but I’m going to stop before this turns into an essay.
It's all right there. Have at it, let me know. Your detailed commentary with examples and restacks w/blurbs is what keeps kicking me back up the ladder of Fiction Rising or whathaveyou. Really and truly indebted to you.
You’re very welcome. Right now, real life is knocking (literally - I’m keeping an ear out for the emergency callout pest control guy to show and deal with a rat infestation), but I’ll be coming back and reading more of your work over the next few days. But yes, definitely need to give you a restack before I call it a night!
The language kept building, cresting higher until it broke with that line: “ It was 1999. Everything, everywhere was about to change.” And the compelling story carried me along. Couldn’t take my eyes off it.
JFC, i sincerely considered this a throwaway. seriously. i was afraid to post it. now everyone is telling me it is the bee's knees and elbows besides.
it stands to reason that i am quite possibly the most terrible judge of quality when it comes to my own work. i should probably start submitting my finished novels to publishers again if this kind of reaction keeps up.
Your writing style is so evocative, taking in moments small and momentous in great sweeps. And it just pulls you in. That’s what I meant by the wave. And yes, you should most definitely submit!! Talent!
I want to drink whatever you're drinking… it must be that good. While reading, I spotted your note lines. Your "secret note code". Captivating. I really enjoyed it. You're good. Very good. Lucky for us.
Knowing me, it was probably coffee, which is pretty good in Bergen. That train was fucking bonkers. The door would open halfway to Oslo on the side of a mountain and there would be no station, no lights, and then the huge double doors would open in the dark and about a half ton of snow would rudely push a Norwegian man dressed like James Bond in Her Majesty's Secret Service [unbelievable novel, eff why eye] or perhaps the beginning of The Spy Who Loved Me or A View To A Kill, just goggles and skis and ice fusing his beard together. Casually, like he was just going to work. You're sitting there in the toasty train with your hand high up a pretty girl's dress just resting on her stocking-top and ALL OF A SUDDEN here's this guy out in the elements that would KILL a normal person like you just landed on fucking Dezoris or the ice planet Hoth, and he's smiling and showing his ticket to the conductor. I still have no idea how the train knew where to stop or how those people - it happened THREE TIMES, were not turned into popsicles. There had to be a hyyte with a fireplace around somewhere. There certainly weren't any a town, lights or even any electricity that wasn't going to the rails to power the train. I have never forgotten it - and have you to thank for the delightful memories. It was one of my favorite international visits ever. All good things to you and your[s] [cat]. :D
Every time I read your postings, I feel something of Jack Kerouac. Sorry, but am I wrong? Mornings come and go and I fill my mornings with the first sips of black coffee. Hope you do the same.
I never really went in for Kerouac [Burroughs was the member of his crew that I liked best, and largely his early linear works [these are few and far between, Junky comes to mind - also Queer, which I recently revisited due to the Daniel Craig flick just released only to realize that between the last time I read it and now I have been to all of the cities/places in Mexico and South America that the main character has {excepting the gay hookup spots, becos, well, heterosexuality} - but Kerouac, not so much....his end always haunted me [died early an uninspired, helpless mama's boy in his Canadian elderly mothers house drinking two quarts of cheap whiskey a day] but your generous words have truly moved me to give him another day in court [i have most of his books in my home library.] So very grateful to you for reading me and taking the time to comment on what sprung you in all the right places. +1111
This piece struck me, as it does in all your writings, in its emotional precision and technical daring. It balances raw sensual memory with an almost archival intellect, every line feels lived and catalogued. The rhythm of confession, regret, and irony mirrors how we process trauma through language rather than around it. The blend of computer syntax, American decay, and love story turns what could be nostalgic into something defiant and present. As always, it’s the kind of writing that doesn’t seek catharsis so much as reckoning. I admire its courage and the refusal to sand down its rough edges. As with you last piece, it warrants a more focused read than I can commit too today, but I was compelled to give you my initial feedback.
now i have to look up "subtext". mumble bumble grumble... :D
you're halfway through, but you read the fuck scene at the end FIRST? i really don't know what to say about that. now i have to go back and read to see what the hell i wrote.
work work work work...
and we keep spinning... is a theme i revisit constantly.
the parallel of time between two points, the index of refraction between two people [the former part of the sentence is actually the title of my fourth novel], like: when i was here, you were there; when you were doing this, i was doing that. i touch upon that sort of thing as well in much of my work.
the concept of dopplegangers, something David Lynch played with in every. damn. thing. he. ever. did. after eraserhead. even blue velvet has so much of that concept of light/dark "now its dark"/ sandy/dorothy vallens. jeffery beaumont/frank booth good/evil
twin peaks is nothing but a candylane of two sides of everything
this beautiful leave it to beaver community and then at night the homecoming queen/laura palmer is whoring herself out for cocaine and fucking easily three quarters of the entire township. my fifth novel, Tow Man - The Glorious Seams Of One Holy Year Spent In The City Of Roses details that, largely with scenes and knish and gnash that i just spent about twenty minutes typing in to Kolya's commentary on my poem, The Cartographer's Azimuth, which was largely framed in realtime.
read, watch, learn. you have your whole life ahead of you! now is the time to fortify your mind, to write those pages that you have to write so those other pages will be set free years later. it is a cumulative effort. i know you can do it.
I wonder what it’s like in your world? Your words take me to places I’ve never been, things I haven’t experienced and I wonder what is it like in your world? Sometimes I think my world is too safe too idealistic. Then I remember I only survive it by holding onto a semblance of my childlike wonder and naiveté. Another brilliant piece.
My world is just like your world, save the nuisance of ownership of title. It is the only one I have in this life; the only one I have been given, and I mean to make the best of it every day, as I am sure you do as well. No big reveal there. :D <5
A thought… He is indeed a writer. A true seeker of the in between of possibility and reality. Brutal honesty, and unfiltered truth. No amount of charm can take away the sting of his words. His smile as deadly as his disarming persona. He doesn’t subscribe to an individual niche, he creates his own—then nonchalantly gestures for you to follow him into his darkness.
…just popped into my head and I came back to share it with you
Poppycock. I've never killed anyone with my smile.
Touché ☺️
Your writing grabs hold of my imagination, and I never want it to end. It reminds me of John Irving's work. Raw and powerful.
**asks himself in the mirror as he prepares his morning, sotto voce: “Who’s John Irving?”**
i thank you. not the smartest apple in the bushel basket, i. <5
That's a little self-deprecating. Check him out, you will be pleasantly surprised.
Yes’m! Already on it. **salutes**
“The world according to Garp” will blow your mind!
"The World According to Garp is John Irving's fourth novel, about a man who is born out of wedlock to a feminist leader, then grows up to be a writer."
Jesus Christ, it sounds like my life. *orders hardback*
I knew it would attract you! Fuck, I'm good!
You make me smile, you crazy man.
I have three comments. One, I also hate come spelled c-u-m but sadly it’s inescapable. Two, nothing compares to a Norwegian night train for happiness and Romance 😍 Three, up Nader. Those were the days.
Well, this was fantastic. It's taken me a while longer than I'd have liked to get around to your work but this was well worth the wait: razor-sharp snapshots of passionate lives interspersed with ideas and observations from a world just as vivid and sharp. Words fail me. I'll confine myself to a staccato "fucking spectacular"!
Gimme some examples as to what moved you, my working-clsss friend. I can't pin down the compliment without an edu/e.g.'s. thank you for reading. There's a bunch more. +2
Ha, that’s fair enough. I think the mad beat-poetry vibes of the first few paragraphs hit me first: lines like “I liked how her skin tasted of close reading” and “All books are blankets of lies” suddenly undercut by the much less romantic and brutal observation “history is written by liars”. Moving into the meat of the story, I found the relationship between Charlie and Zazzie was oddly optimistic, despite (or maybe because of?) its intensity; the way it repeats across time and story-beats; less addictive and more, I dunno, inevitable. “They would be doing this again when she was thirty-seven… he could have told her if she’d asked” struck me as strangely tender. The fragmentary bits in the middle (“Are you cynic or romantic? Asset or threat?”/the racing story): it’s like a whole other world intruding onto these two characters’ lives; one story T-boning another, if that makes sense. I’m assuming, because these are excerpts from a larger work, that it all ties together in ways I’m not seeing (or maybe I just don’t see it because I’m operating on two hours sleep and don’t have the right cultural context, being very English for this archetypally American fiction).
I guess the point of making is that there’s something jagged about it; about these excerpts, like they’re welded together in a way that’s designed elicit a visceral reaction rather than just tell a story. There’s cohesion there, but it needs to be studied/sat with. And that’s a good thing: it’s rare to find a story that grabs and throttles you; that demands this kind of close attention - the close reading alluded to in the opening, in fact.
I have absolutely no idea if I’m making sense or not, but I’m going to stop before this turns into an essay.
You’re making complete and perfect sense; you have assured me that I am doing everything right.
Thank you kindly. One of the best comments/reviews of my work ever put to screen. Don’t be a stranger around these parts. What a fantastic summation.
Thank you. And I definitely won’t be a stranger. Your work’s incredible and I look forward to reading more of it!
It's all right there. Have at it, let me know. Your detailed commentary with examples and restacks w/blurbs is what keeps kicking me back up the ladder of Fiction Rising or whathaveyou. Really and truly indebted to you.
-LC.
You’re very welcome. Right now, real life is knocking (literally - I’m keeping an ear out for the emergency callout pest control guy to show and deal with a rat infestation), but I’ll be coming back and reading more of your work over the next few days. But yes, definitely need to give you a restack before I call it a night!
Reading this is like riding a great wave.
Which part? I need something a teeny bit more specific, if you please. Ever grateful for the nod. +1
The language kept building, cresting higher until it broke with that line: “ It was 1999. Everything, everywhere was about to change.” And the compelling story carried me along. Couldn’t take my eyes off it.
JFC, i sincerely considered this a throwaway. seriously. i was afraid to post it. now everyone is telling me it is the bee's knees and elbows besides.
it stands to reason that i am quite possibly the most terrible judge of quality when it comes to my own work. i should probably start submitting my finished novels to publishers again if this kind of reaction keeps up.
thank you, thank you, thank you. +1
Your writing style is so evocative, taking in moments small and momentous in great sweeps. And it just pulls you in. That’s what I meant by the wave. And yes, you should most definitely submit!! Talent!
So much of this is pure poetry. What a great way to tell a story.
I want to drink whatever you're drinking… it must be that good. While reading, I spotted your note lines. Your "secret note code". Captivating. I really enjoyed it. You're good. Very good. Lucky for us.
Knowing me, it was probably coffee, which is pretty good in Bergen. That train was fucking bonkers. The door would open halfway to Oslo on the side of a mountain and there would be no station, no lights, and then the huge double doors would open in the dark and about a half ton of snow would rudely push a Norwegian man dressed like James Bond in Her Majesty's Secret Service [unbelievable novel, eff why eye] or perhaps the beginning of The Spy Who Loved Me or A View To A Kill, just goggles and skis and ice fusing his beard together. Casually, like he was just going to work. You're sitting there in the toasty train with your hand high up a pretty girl's dress just resting on her stocking-top and ALL OF A SUDDEN here's this guy out in the elements that would KILL a normal person like you just landed on fucking Dezoris or the ice planet Hoth, and he's smiling and showing his ticket to the conductor. I still have no idea how the train knew where to stop or how those people - it happened THREE TIMES, were not turned into popsicles. There had to be a hyyte with a fireplace around somewhere. There certainly weren't any a town, lights or even any electricity that wasn't going to the rails to power the train. I have never forgotten it - and have you to thank for the delightful memories. It was one of my favorite international visits ever. All good things to you and your[s] [cat]. :D
*hytte*, not hyyte [sp] spellcheck being what it is and my general knowledge of linguistics being what it is.
Every time I read your postings, I feel something of Jack Kerouac. Sorry, but am I wrong? Mornings come and go and I fill my mornings with the first sips of black coffee. Hope you do the same.
I never really went in for Kerouac [Burroughs was the member of his crew that I liked best, and largely his early linear works [these are few and far between, Junky comes to mind - also Queer, which I recently revisited due to the Daniel Craig flick just released only to realize that between the last time I read it and now I have been to all of the cities/places in Mexico and South America that the main character has {excepting the gay hookup spots, becos, well, heterosexuality} - but Kerouac, not so much....his end always haunted me [died early an uninspired, helpless mama's boy in his Canadian elderly mothers house drinking two quarts of cheap whiskey a day] but your generous words have truly moved me to give him another day in court [i have most of his books in my home library.] So very grateful to you for reading me and taking the time to comment on what sprung you in all the right places. +1111
This piece struck me, as it does in all your writings, in its emotional precision and technical daring. It balances raw sensual memory with an almost archival intellect, every line feels lived and catalogued. The rhythm of confession, regret, and irony mirrors how we process trauma through language rather than around it. The blend of computer syntax, American decay, and love story turns what could be nostalgic into something defiant and present. As always, it’s the kind of writing that doesn’t seek catharsis so much as reckoning. I admire its courage and the refusal to sand down its rough edges. As with you last piece, it warrants a more focused read than I can commit too today, but I was compelled to give you my initial feedback.
Honestly...no words. Except to say you may have created the next Ulysses.
ALL RIGHT, THAT’S IT. I can't believe this. Thank you very much. I don't know what the hell I am doing. I'm sorry.
No apologies, my friend. Even if you think you have no idea what you're doing, the result is something remarkable!
It's a beautiful compliment.
oh hey! thank you much, it means a lot coming from you. glad you’re still reading. <5
now i have to look up "subtext". mumble bumble grumble... :D
you're halfway through, but you read the fuck scene at the end FIRST? i really don't know what to say about that. now i have to go back and read to see what the hell i wrote.
work work work work...
and we keep spinning... is a theme i revisit constantly.
the parallel of time between two points, the index of refraction between two people [the former part of the sentence is actually the title of my fourth novel], like: when i was here, you were there; when you were doing this, i was doing that. i touch upon that sort of thing as well in much of my work.
the concept of dopplegangers, something David Lynch played with in every. damn. thing. he. ever. did. after eraserhead. even blue velvet has so much of that concept of light/dark "now its dark"/ sandy/dorothy vallens. jeffery beaumont/frank booth good/evil
twin peaks is nothing but a candylane of two sides of everything
this beautiful leave it to beaver community and then at night the homecoming queen/laura palmer is whoring herself out for cocaine and fucking easily three quarters of the entire township. my fifth novel, Tow Man - The Glorious Seams Of One Holy Year Spent In The City Of Roses details that, largely with scenes and knish and gnash that i just spent about twenty minutes typing in to Kolya's commentary on my poem, The Cartographer's Azimuth, which was largely framed in realtime.
read, watch, learn. you have your whole life ahead of you! now is the time to fortify your mind, to write those pages that you have to write so those other pages will be set free years later. it is a cumulative effort. i know you can do it.
-LC
Amazing this. Ty.
👀