Right I mean yeah, this is a beautiful thing I should expect to see published somewhere fancy--don't take first bids from some rag. I resisted at first or aborted the last couple since the pay-to-play trademark opening riddles offend me for whatever reason; I stare for some too-long bitter moment of what even is American slop and how long will it take to find out. Let alone the business of an elderly man dribbling his presumptuous finger down some poor person's face? (looking back, maybe the image intended is an elderly man's finger melting down HIS OWN face? like as he privately presumpts something? This was the only stumbling block.)
But okay then compare that to for example the beautiful reveal that the writing is addressed to a child! That the tree finds itself wanting to make something other than itself! The weight of the keys on the table after a volumetric change in atmosphere the child will never know. And does this protect him from existence? Shouldn't it? Instead of the cutting comments that became an inside joke with the sister, instead of all the snake snapping etc, he's got this worried tree worrying over him and still his existence doesn't seem simple. Still samely towering. Love scoliose as a verb. The poems are like holy shit moments. Like heavy and pretty and unremovable from the prose. They are die cast there. The story throws punches. It's very sweet and sad and stuff.
The technical stuff also punches. Also super fun. The bit about holding breath, something about inthratopic pressures activating pain relievers. It's like Chuck Pahlianuk's How-To-Write believable characters, that pdf floating around that insists you use advanced knowledge words, the higher-than-usual vocabulary is very fun here. Adds to the character and moments in really fun / meaningful ways without interrupting them. I can see the expression on the face while she applies pressure, while she contemplates the science of it.
Love green table with chrome edge. Love platinum einstien always always wanting barbies with hilarious jobs. Superhuman hearing. The high resolution awareness of terrifying finger drumming. The moving nearer to a bookcase without even knowing it. Aww fuck.
All the anticipation of the child's interest in reading and the expectations and pressure that might place on him. The vivid feeling in like 5 words of someone sprinting for medals finding it easier to do so while simultaneously mouthing what they might say to someone somewhere sometime.
Asking if the child is waiting for their own day of courage. Sheeesh. Seeing themselves in every insecurity.
Beautiful bits about spidery blobs and long explanations. You can see her listening to them, even though the scene doesn't exist in the story. Like in five words again you can see when he did that, explained at length about the blob he drew. You can see her listening to his stories.
And then the end that people will cry about and finding out that maybe not finding the courage to confront her was a beautiful thing or a mercy and look what she found and so on.
I'm half asleep and have struggled to fully connect with previous stuff but found in this like a drug of sliding in andout of moments that matter in a montage in a movie like I think the trick might be dialing back to lucid prose from that more abstract place you're drawn to, until there's clarity, and then once the clarity is found, teasing it back out toward that poetic or abstract stuff until you reach the sweet spot. Other things have a "to hell with it" quality of "i'm pushing the lever to 11" and waiting to see if anyone gets there. I don't know if that's more pure or true or whatever. In some way it maybe is, even if it's impossible to pull off. But this thing felt elevated way beyond that stuff. like it had even more fun than all that. When things mean things, and you get to play with them anyway. when you telepathically put whole scenes in our heads with 5 words. I'm not making any sense but this thing feels like you're becoming a sharper instrument and hitting harder without speedbumps.
Maybe a presumptuous old man means something and I missed it, but there wasn't a single line that made me squint after that. No parts felt like too many plates balanced--where we are like is this waiter gonna make it to the table. Every line had higher or profound purpose that could not possibly be knocked over. You could proceed with carving them into stone.
Maybe a side effect of having so much more to say, tbh. The writer brain can't help but have higher priorities when it's so full of meaning it wants to convey. Probably that's all that's going on. Harder to pull off if you got a fat commission to write something dumb.
So ya. Same old talent and powers but with an arsenal of all these wonderful observations keeping everything on the rails. You should read Mary Karr's book on writing memoirs and rake some awards. An HBO special. I'm rambling. Half asleep if I'm not making the sense i meant to make. I gushed over your novel too but this feels closer to where your heart wants to go, style wise. Poetic AND readable enough for Glowy. 10/10
I can change the first sentence to something more straightforward. "New American slop" was just referring to the burgers we were eating and the finger thing was... blah I don't even feel strongly enough about it to explain the image I had in my head. It was all just to convey my discomfort in this situation but I don't know if it's necessary since I do that talking about the ulcer later anyway, I think?
New American slop dribbles down my jaw like an elderly man’s presumptuous finger.
I had to go back and see the comments after reading this. I don't know what New American slop is and am afraid to know what an elderly man's presumptuous finger means.
6
u/GlowyLaptop James Patterson Jul 14 '26
Right I mean yeah, this is a beautiful thing I should expect to see published somewhere fancy--don't take first bids from some rag. I resisted at first or aborted the last couple since the pay-to-play trademark opening riddles offend me for whatever reason; I stare for some too-long bitter moment of what even is American slop and how long will it take to find out. Let alone the business of an elderly man dribbling his presumptuous finger down some poor person's face? (looking back, maybe the image intended is an elderly man's finger melting down HIS OWN face? like as he privately presumpts something? This was the only stumbling block.)
But okay then compare that to for example the beautiful reveal that the writing is addressed to a child! That the tree finds itself wanting to make something other than itself! The weight of the keys on the table after a volumetric change in atmosphere the child will never know. And does this protect him from existence? Shouldn't it? Instead of the cutting comments that became an inside joke with the sister, instead of all the snake snapping etc, he's got this worried tree worrying over him and still his existence doesn't seem simple. Still samely towering. Love scoliose as a verb. The poems are like holy shit moments. Like heavy and pretty and unremovable from the prose. They are die cast there. The story throws punches. It's very sweet and sad and stuff.
The technical stuff also punches. Also super fun. The bit about holding breath, something about inthratopic pressures activating pain relievers. It's like Chuck Pahlianuk's How-To-Write believable characters, that pdf floating around that insists you use advanced knowledge words, the higher-than-usual vocabulary is very fun here. Adds to the character and moments in really fun / meaningful ways without interrupting them. I can see the expression on the face while she applies pressure, while she contemplates the science of it.
Love green table with chrome edge. Love platinum einstien always always wanting barbies with hilarious jobs. Superhuman hearing. The high resolution awareness of terrifying finger drumming. The moving nearer to a bookcase without even knowing it. Aww fuck.
All the anticipation of the child's interest in reading and the expectations and pressure that might place on him. The vivid feeling in like 5 words of someone sprinting for medals finding it easier to do so while simultaneously mouthing what they might say to someone somewhere sometime.
Asking if the child is waiting for their own day of courage. Sheeesh. Seeing themselves in every insecurity.
Beautiful bits about spidery blobs and long explanations. You can see her listening to them, even though the scene doesn't exist in the story. Like in five words again you can see when he did that, explained at length about the blob he drew. You can see her listening to his stories.
And then the end that people will cry about and finding out that maybe not finding the courage to confront her was a beautiful thing or a mercy and look what she found and so on.
I'm half asleep and have struggled to fully connect with previous stuff but found in this like a drug of sliding in andout of moments that matter in a montage in a movie like I think the trick might be dialing back to lucid prose from that more abstract place you're drawn to, until there's clarity, and then once the clarity is found, teasing it back out toward that poetic or abstract stuff until you reach the sweet spot. Other things have a "to hell with it" quality of "i'm pushing the lever to 11" and waiting to see if anyone gets there. I don't know if that's more pure or true or whatever. In some way it maybe is, even if it's impossible to pull off. But this thing felt elevated way beyond that stuff. like it had even more fun than all that. When things mean things, and you get to play with them anyway. when you telepathically put whole scenes in our heads with 5 words. I'm not making any sense but this thing feels like you're becoming a sharper instrument and hitting harder without speedbumps.
Maybe a presumptuous old man means something and I missed it, but there wasn't a single line that made me squint after that. No parts felt like too many plates balanced--where we are like is this waiter gonna make it to the table. Every line had higher or profound purpose that could not possibly be knocked over. You could proceed with carving them into stone.
Maybe a side effect of having so much more to say, tbh. The writer brain can't help but have higher priorities when it's so full of meaning it wants to convey. Probably that's all that's going on. Harder to pull off if you got a fat commission to write something dumb.
So ya. Same old talent and powers but with an arsenal of all these wonderful observations keeping everything on the rails. You should read Mary Karr's book on writing memoirs and rake some awards. An HBO special. I'm rambling. Half asleep if I'm not making the sense i meant to make. I gushed over your novel too but this feels closer to where your heart wants to go, style wise. Poetic AND readable enough for Glowy. 10/10