I’ve been paying more attention to literary news in recent weeks.

When it comes to what qualifies as “literary news,” it is important to know that results may differ.  For the most part and like most news, a lot of literary news is actually politics.

Prior to the last few weeks, my exposure to literary news has been limited to whatever filtered through to my facebook feed and to discussions here on TNB.

I am a writer, to be sure, but I’m not a writer.  I’m not hooked up, tuned in, or latched on to the scene.  I barely know who writes for this site or other sites and which books they wrote.  I don’t read much contemporary fiction.  I don’t know what’s going on half the time.  Most of the time, I don’t care.

Of the controversy, news, drama, and shit-talking that has passed before me in recent weeks, one thing and one thing only has fascinated me:

James Franco.

The guy from the Spiderman movies.  The Green Goblin, Jr.–or Hobgoblin, technically, he should be, as my husband reminds me regularly.

The man playing Allen Ginsberg in a brand new fictionalized documentary about the obscenity trial over Ginsberg’s poem, “Howl.”

The movie is called…Howl.

For those who are unaware, Franco is a young actor & Hollywood heartthrob with a sincere desire to be taken seriously.  As a writer.

He was accepted to the MFA program at Columbia amid much huffing and snorting from the respectable literary community.  He is currently a PhD candidate at Yale.  The man is said to be blessed with superhuman ambition & stamina.  He’s going to school so many places, it’s tough to keep track.

No matter where he’s going, however, everyone is convinced: Surely, he only got there because he’s James Franco.

But even James Franco knows he probably got there because he’s James Franco.

I discovered that he is well aware of who he is when I stumbled across this (expansive) article in a recent issue of the Advocate.

How many people will apply to 15 MFA programs and get accepted to 14?  Virtually none.  Even the most talented, most hyped, edgiest, flashiest among us will not go 14 for 15.  Contrary to what James would probably like to think, his high rate of acceptance is probably more proof that his name rather than his talent landed him where he is.

So there he is.

He’s James Franco, and he loves literature and writing, and he’s pretty famous, and he wants to be a writer, so he applied to MFA programs and got accepted (a bunch) and went to school.

And people loathe him for it.

That fucking James Franco.

I’m not sure what he did wrong.  I can’t imagine people honestly expected him to self-police the situation.  “I don’t deserve this.  Never mind.”  No aspiring writer would do that.

“He can’t be that bad,” I thought to myself.  “He seems like a reasonably intelligent person.  The lit-set is constantly sucking lemons about something.  This is just more kvetching.”

And it’s true.  In recent weeks, the people taking the most heat in the little corner of the literary community I’ve been exposed to all have one thing and one thing only in common:  They are all more famous than the people who are complaining about them.

Of course, this should be expected to a degree.  There will always be more to talk about with regard to well-known individuals, but this doesn’t explain the undercurrent of contempt.

There’s a Mayan tinge to the whole thing:  Resources are scarce, and the more of us there are–the harsher the climate turns, the more competition there is for basic things–the more aggressive and hostile our cultural rituals become.

So, in an effort to bolster my sense that envy was the culprit, I set out looking for Franco’s work.  He has published a short story in Esquire and at least one essay (that I could find) in a UCLA publication.

They are both…not great.

Particularly the nonfiction.  It’s rambling and conversational.  It is drowning in a wash of its own flotsam.  Something about watching gay sex while researching a role and how he’s James Franco and he may or may not be fucking with you, but he’s not; yeah he is.  No he’s not.  Oh, and here is a character sketch of himself.

It looks like a first draft.  It looks like copy & paste broke.  It looks like the delete button broke.  I have no idea what the uniting theme in the essay could possibly be.

The fiction is better, but it’s a worn path:  A couple of drug addicts in a car, riding around, doing drugs, being crazy, smoking cigarettes, thinking and talking about suicide so on and so forth.  It’s self-explicating and the dialogue is flat.  There are bright spots.  Whole paragraphs that are quite good.  But at the end of the day, it’s a piece of Beat mimicry.  All the elements of Beatdom (TM) and none of the soul.

I’m not a proponent of runaway relativity in literature.  There is such a thing as unfinished, unpolished or even just straight-up bad writing, and what I’ve seen qualifies as at least one of the above.

Still.

The more I thought about it–the more I plodded through these pieces–the more I felt sorry for the guy.  Most of us, in our relative (or total) obscurity, would not be able to get something that unfinished to print.

But because he’s James Franco, every single one of these initial forays into serious writing–every ill-conceived plot point or questionable metaphor or clunky, burdened sentence…every overwrought piece of poetry and all the other creative abominations that plague green writers–will have a buyer.  A publisher.

He will always have someone willing to trot out, in front of God and everybody, the most inept creative moments and unsightly growing pains of his nascent literary career.

There will be the flatterers and, of course, the peanut gallery.  The literati politicos. The bitter, toiling masses who do a pretty good job of making themselves look more like they’re choking on a maw of sour grapes than offering honest critique:  Those who take to their social networking accounts to snark and, in doing so, inadvertently lay bare their own frustrated neuroticisms about being writers in a world where writing is no longer considered particularly valuable.

Then again, this may be all that any of us have.  Writers are, traditionally (though certainly not universally), supportive, communal creatures at their cores and when left to their own devices, but when faced with a competitive business-and-marketing environment, sometimes no one stands in a writer’s way more effectively than other writers, united in their conviction that someone–anyone–deserves the attention more.  Either that, or the flattery of “support” becomes synonymous with networking.  The whole thing develops a slimy solipsistic sheen as people move around “supporting” each other to support themselves, and when all is said and done, even a vote of confidence or encouragement can no longer be trusted.

So who will convince James Franco to get better?  To grow as a writer?  Is there any hope for the guy at all?

The obvious answer is, “Who gives a fuck?  I’m sure he’ll be crying all the way to the bank.”

But I have a whole tote bag full of embarrassments of my own.  I’d suspect most of us do.  If not a tote bag, something like it.  Mercifully, at some point, most of us have had those pieces rejected by someone–some editor or publisher–who knew better than to expose it to the public or vice versa.

And we look back at those pieces later and scrunch our noses and are embarrassed for ourselves in front of ourselves and vow to never look at them again.  We self-flagellate and self-deprecate.  We titter nervously and kick the tote bag back under the bed.

But not James Franco.  He can’t.

That fucking James Franco. That poor James Franco.

In his interview with the Advocate, he said something that struck me–unexpectedly–as fairly poignant.

He said something to the effect of, “Short of using an alias, I’m taking my writing as seriously as I can.”

As he can.

He doesn’t even know if he can take himself seriously.  He’s doing the right things, as far as he knows.  He’s idolizing his canonical literary heroes.  He’s in an MFA & PhD program.  He’s doing his day job and writing and getting stuff published here and there.  Now he has a book deal.  He has a book deal that he doesn’t sound totally sure he deserves but that he is nevertheless excited about, as any of us would be.

By most writerly standards, he’s any young writer.  He’s doing what he’s supposed to be doing.

He even wrote a middling Beat knock-off story, which I’m pretty sure is an official rite of passage for any serious writer nowadays.

He’s trying.

But try as he may, he’s still James fucking Franco, both to his readers and in his own head.  And, maybe most importantly, to the community and industry made up of people just like him, for people like him (at least at some level), and upon whom he will be, ultimately, dependent for the kind of validation he seems to want. There is a good chance that those politics, whether eager to promote or stifle him, will never allow him a fair showing or even a solid foothold from which to begin.

Maybe he should use an alias.

Count me among those who hope he pulls it off, in the long run.  He’s not capitalizing on his fame in an opportunistic way, as far as I can tell.  At the end of the day, he didn’t have to go through MFA and PhD programs to get published, but he’s doing it anyway.  He seems serious in the dire, awe-struck way most of us are or have been serious about our writing, and even for all his breaks, at the end of the day, the guy doesn’t seem quite able to catch a break.

So I raise my fist in solidarity with the me who hates my tote bag, with every writer who is making awful literature in an attempt to write something worth reading, and indeed, with James fucking Franco.  With all of us, really, as we negotiate the balance between good literature and marketability in a climate that encourages us to form tribes, make and break alliances, and, even under mundane circumstances, eat each other alive.


____________

Update:  Since the time of writing, Franco has picked up the movie rights to TNB contributor & past featured author Stephen Elliott’s novel The Adderall Diaries, so we may at least say that Franco’s taste is well worthy of approval.  Also since time of writing, this review of Franco’s short story collection (it is curiously dated two days from now, which I assume corresponds to the release date of the book) appeared in the L.A. Times online.




In my previous post, I revealed one of the most embarrassing things that has ever happened to me. Here is another embarrassment (the list is endless, as the only thing I am sure of in my life is the fact that I will repeatedly humiliate myself!):

My husband and I had moved from California to Toronto, one of my favorite cities in the world. After a few weeks in a basement apartment, we bought a creaky old row house in the Greek neighborhood not far from the center of city. Everything was new and exciting to me—I loved buying my cheese at the World of Cheese near the Pape subway stop; I gawked at the slayed lambs hanging from the butchers’ windows during Easter week; I had my cardboard passport stamped by almost every country during the multicultural Caravan festival; and I rode the subway and streetcar whenever I could. The Canadian mosaic was great by me; I had no problem waving goodbye to the American melting pot.

And even my mistakes were fun. It took me about seven months to realize that mail is not picked up from your house, only dropped off (I repeatedly told my husband that I thought our mailman hated us as he refused to pick up my out-going letters!), I frequently forgot that speed limits were posted in kilometers and once went careening around a winding onramp thinking, Damn, these Canadians take their turns fast!, and I did not understand how spectacular hockey is until someone gave us tickets to a Maple Leaf game where we were seated just behind the plexi-glass barrier. (If you haven’t been to a hockey game, you must go! The skaters are like beautiful, graceful seals in an aquarium as they speed-skim around the rink. When they fight, fisting each other against the flimsy walls, you are startled into feeling alive.)

Eventually, I figured out most stuff, although it seemed that little unfamiliar encounters would pop up every now and then, as one did shortly after the birth of my first daughter.

I had just returned home with my baby from Womens’ College Hospital after a week of recuperating from a c-section while my baby was in Intensive Care. I’d had infrequent sleep and was teetering on the razor of extreme emotion. Additionally, there was a banana-shaped oozing gash at my pubic bone, my breasts were bigger than Dolly Parton’s (in fact, when I hobbled to the bathroom from my hospital bed one day, a tiny Philippina nurse looked at me and said, “Dolly Parton look out!”) and I was wearing my husband’s giant blue jeans with one of his over-sized triathalon tee-shirts. I looked, and was, a complete wreck.

There was a knock at the door, so I carried the tiny baby on my shoulder (one hand on her bottom, one hand free) and went to answer. A uniformed man stood on my porch. He had a clipboard in his hand.

“I’m here to read the meter,” he said.

I looked at him a bit stunned. In California, the meter reader went to the backyard and read the meter; he never knocked on your door. I had no idea what this moment would entail—him going into the basement perhaps?

“Okay,” I said.

“Here’s my I.D.” He handed me a laminated, drivers’ license-sized I.D. card.

I took the I.D. from him and didn’t even look at it. And then, in almost hypnotic slow motion, I put the I.D. in my mouth.

Yes. I PUT IT IN MY MOUTH. And I held it there, as if I were a human ATM just waiting for the cash to come out of some orifice.

I have no idea why I did this. I was delirious. I had been sniffing the baby’s hands and feet while she nursed. I think I put them in my mouth at times, too.

I didn’t realize what I had done until the man reached out and gently removed the I.D. from my mouth.

“I’ll take that now,” he said, and it was like I had suddenly awoken. My heart started beating, which in turn ramped on the pumping machine in my breasts. Milk pulsated out into wet bulls-eyes on my tee-shirt. I wanted to cry but I knew that to have stuck his I.D. in my mouth and then to burst out crying would only make the matter worse.


“Can I come in and read your meter?” he asked.

I sucked back the tears, stepped aside and let him pass. I figured he’d know exactly where to go.

When he left, he didn’t say goodbye.