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Category: Writing and Poetry
Dear Brian Tierney,
I never thought I’d be writing you this kind of letter. But last night, I was reading the Wall Street Journal
(online – sorry!), and I was shocked to learn that, under your
leadership, the regions’ two newspapers, the Inquirer and the Daily
News, are seeking a $10 million bailout from the state government.
As
anyone who’s ever worked for, subscribed to, or glanced at a newspaper
can affirm, this is not how journalism is supposed to work.
Newspapers
are not publicly-funded institutions, nor are they charities. They are
watchdogs, not lapdogs; afflicting the comfortable and comforting the
afflicted. They should not take money from the people and institutions
they are supposed to be reporting on, lest those people and
institutions expect favorable coverage in return for their cash.
Then I thought, hmm: favorable coverage in return for cash…
Favorable coverage in return for cash…
Then I got distracted by my wedding ring. Shiny.
Then it hit me!
What
if a consortium of Philadelphia writers and ex-Philadelphia Inquirer
staffers turned novelists and non-fiction writers banded together to
sponsor the paper’s book coverage?
I can’t speak for John
Grogan, Steve Lopez, Buzz Bissinger et al. But personally, I’m always
looking for a pretty quote to decorate my paperbacks. Maybe they, are,
too! (“GROGAN’S DEAD DAD: JUST AS MOVING AS GROGAN’S DEAD DOG.” Or
“FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS: THE BEST TV SHOW YOU AREN’T WATCHING IS BASED ON
THE BEST BOOK YOU MAY NOT HAVE READ.” Or “CERTAIN GIRLS: PINKEST BOOK
IMAGINABLE – AND WE MEAN THAT IN A GOOD WAY!”)
Authors need coverage.
The Inquirer needs money.
As you management types like to say, I see an opportunity for some synergy.
And
so, Mr. Tierney, I would like to make you an offer of cash in exchange
for my mostly-silent sponsorship the Inquirer’s book coverage.
Obviously, I will want some changes made.
First, give Frank Wilson his job back. He’s smarter than you are. He’s smarter than everyone!
Let
him hire who he wants to hire...and if Frank doesn’t want to run
roundups, Frank doesn’t have to run roundups. That’s what we’ve got
Entertainment Weekly for.
As matron of the arts, here are some
things I don’t want to read about: new books by Philip Roth (I prefer
the old ones, which were funny). New books by Cormac McCarthy. New
books by any male writer prone to complaining about the indignities of
old age, either general or prostate-specific, or or having his male
protagonists do the same.
New short-story collection by Alice
Munro. Instead of wasting eight hundred words, just say it’s every bit
as wrenching and finely wrought as the last short-story collection by
Alice Munro, and be done with it. Chances are, I’ve already read most
of the stories in The New Yorker, and I know that they are wrenching
and finely-wrought (unless, of course, the new collection gets a ridiculously tarty cover, in which case, you can make fun of that for eight hundred words).
In
fact, no more reviews of books by any of the dour, humorless, literary
lady-writers. Let them peddle their arid tales of marital angst,
suburban anomie, dead or drug-addicted children and their husbands’
enlarged prostates to Oprah magazine.
No more considerations of
gross-out memoirs by middle-aged male journalists detailing their
debauchery, drug buys, masturbatory predilections or intestinal
outrages. This is not because I’m not interested, but because these
books are guaranteed lots of attention elsewhere, and I probably know
about them already.
If a book has been reviewed twice by the
Times, I’ve probably already decided whether I want to read it or not,
so we can feel free to ignore.
Likewise, if a book has been
reviewed twice and its young male author was the subject of a
flattering profile in the Times Sunday magazine or the Style section,
not only do I not want that book reviewed, I don’t even want its author
mentioned in the unlikely event the book makes the best-seller list.
Just leave a blank. I’ll figure it out.
Oh, and no more hiring
some prize-winning big-name author to write a review for the publicity
it’ll generate. Readers can smell a stunt a mile away, and they’ll know
the review was intended to generate publicty, not to help them make up
their minds. And no, I don’t care if the big-name author needs the
money. We’re running a newspaper, not the WPA.
Here are some
things I do want to read about: new books by Stephen King and Susan
Isaacs, Nicholas Christopher and Peter Straub, Margaret Atwood and
Marge Piercey. Pretty much anything in the horror/fantasy genre, like
Kelly Link, Elizabeth Hand and Margo Lanagan. Thrillers and mysteries
and romance.
Contemporary women’s fiction (duh!) reviewed by
people who do not think that contemporary women’s fiction and/or
contemporary women themselves represent a pox upon the land. Reviews of
books people are actually reading, instead of the ones the critics
think we should be reading.
Women’s memoirs, especially funny
ones about birthing and raising babies. Anything by Jennifer Belle,
Jennifer Crusie and Jen Lancaster; Carrie Fisher, Nora Ephron and Fran
Lebowitz (how about a regular feature on Authors Who Haven’t Written
Anything Lately, and Should: Katherine Dunn, anyone?)
Graphic
novels (did you read “The Alcoholic” or “Fun Home?” So good!) Books in
translation. Poetry. Young adult fiction (“The Hunger Games” was one of
the best things I read last year). Literary trend pieces – for
instance, now that the Kindle is changing the way we read, how long
until it changes the way we write? Are any of those much-discussed
Japanese cell-phone novels any good? Anyone in publishing willing to
defend the Sarah Silverman/Tina Fey book deals as fiscally sound?
Also,
I have this great idea for a column called Authors: They’re Just Like
Us, where the Inquirer can challenge the myth that writers are
superhuman glamazons who live on top of some literary Mount Olympus
(aka, New York City/Brooklyn/Iowa), emerging only for well-attended,
star-studded readings and long boozy lunches with our agents.
So
I think we should run pictures of local authors doing ordinary things,
like feeding parking meters, or singing karaoke, or screaming at some
hapless blogger on HBO. I want Duane Swierczynski scooping poop, and Christine Weiser picking up her dry cleaning, and Elizabeth Gilbert, eating, praying and loving over in Frenchtown.
I
know that the notion of taking cash from the people you’re covering
objectively is abhorrent and strange and goes against every
journalistic principle you can name…but, Mr. Tierney, if you’ve already
abandoned your principles, gotten over your abhorrence and decided to
pass the hat, why not pass it my way?
Drop me a line at jen@jenniferweiner.com. Better yet, friend me on Facebook, and we’ll talk.
6:03 PM
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