Inter Alia #6: DeWitt Goes Digital

Inter Alia
January 8, 2008 | 1 book mentioned 9 2 min read

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From anecdotal evidence, Radiohead’s In Rainbows experiment – distributing the album via website, on a “suggested donation” basis – seems to have been a success. As it begins to market In Rainbows through more orthodox channels – CD pressings, iTunes – the band remains mum about the total number of downloads and the average donation amount, but most of my friends who downloaded the album seemed to have settled on 5 quid – 10 bucks. Certainly, as a marketing concept, In Rainbows has burnished Radiohead’s reputation as The World’s Most Interesting Big Band. Now, it seems, the equally interesting novelist Helen DeWitt is trying something similar: releasing short stories subsidized via PayPal donations.

“Every once in a while,” DeWitt writes on her website,

The New Yorker’s, Harper’s asks me to submit some short fiction. I then have an inner debate. I never read the fiction in the New Yorker’s or Harper’s, and I tend not to submit stories to magazines whose stories I tend not to read. So the question is, what should I do? …It seems dishonest to write a story I would not want to read, so I send in a story or stories I’ve written and the New Yorker or Harper’s says it’s not quite what they’re looking for. I thought I’d publish a few stories on my website for the kind of reader who tends not to read the stories in the New Yorker or Harper’s.

Two stories – “In Which Nick Buys a Harley for 16K Having Once Been Young” and “The French Style of Mlle Matsumoto” – are then excerpted; with a $5 PayPal donation, a reader can download them in their entirety as Word documents. “If you’d like to customise the stories with images or your preferred formatting, you can,” DeWitt notes puckishly.

DeWitt’s iconoclastic first novel, The Last Samurai, made my “Year in Reading” list in 2007 – seven years late. Her second book, Your Name Here (written with Ilya Gridneff) has yet to find a publisher. I had mixed feelings about the excerpt in the Winter issue of N+1, but I admire DeWitt’s aesthetic gumption, as I admire Radiohead’s. And, as DeWitt points out, PayPal’s “30 cents + 3% on each transaction” fees compare favorably to the numbers game of traditional publishing.

I’m confident some Millions readers out there have some thoughts on the future of DiY distribution (which, it should be noted, dates back to Gutenberg). What, if anything, does DeWitt’s PayPal project portend for authors? For readers? As always, your thoughts are welcome below.

is the author of City on Fire and A Field Guide to the North American Family. In 2017, he was named one of Granta's Best Young American Novelists.

Inter Alia

Inter Alia #9: The Aquarian Age is All the Rage

Inter Alia
February 28, 2008 | 1 book mentioned 2 2 min read
A few weeks back, in a review of Christopher Sorrentino's Trance, I remarked upon the recent proliferation of novels about the counterculture of the 1960s and about its turn toward violence. The book reviews in this week's New Yorker would seem to confirm the trend. The lead item in the "Briefly Noted" column concerns Susan Choi's A Person of Interest, which takes as its point of departure a fictional version of the Unabomber case. Meanwhile, in an essay generous in both length and tone, James Wood reviews Peter Carey's His Illegal Self (about the child of SDS radicals) and Hari Kunzru's My Revolutions (about "swinging London's" revolutionary underground.)Wood suggests, with characteristic perspicuity, that the Age of Aquarius offers novelists room to explore "ideological radicalism" without having to address September 11 and political Islam. To which I say: Right on! As we at The Millions have noted before, the world-historical developments of the last decade seem to demand novelistic attention; at the same time, they've become so freighted with symbolic and ideological meaning as to seem inhospitable to levity, or irony. DeLillo's Falling Man, to name one September 11 title, was hobbled by its temporal and emotional proximity to the events it considered. The farther it drifted from these events, the more alive its characters seemed.It's worth noting, however, that the historical attraction of the Age of Aquarius predates the explosion of "ideological radicalism" into the public consciousness, circa 2001. Sorrentino, Choi, and (I'm guessing) Dana Spiotta began writing about the radical underground way back in the Clinton era, which marked, we were told, "the end of history." Which points to another, related reason why contemporary novelists may find the '60s so fertile. That was a time, it seems, when a classless society actually seemed like an achievable goal... when it was possible to argue, with a straight face, that "All you need is love." For a writer concerned to dramatize ideas, this sort of political ardor is hard to resist. (Think, e.g., of Dostoevsky.) Nowadays, as Hari Kunzru's narrator remarks, "Ideology's dead.... Everyone pretty much agrees on how to run things."
Inter Alia
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Inter Alia

Inter Alia #1: Notes Toward a Sporadic Column

Inter Alia
June 15, 2007 | 1 book mentioned 5 3 min read
I'm still working out my relationship with the blog as a critical organ... I guess, in a way, we all are. My thoughts, as visitors to this site may have noticed, tend equally toward the associative and the forensic. And yet, as a gift to you, the reader, I'd like to carve out a space in which I can share some of my less strenuously worked-out thoughts about the state of the art of fiction, and about culture more generally. (Lucky me, you're probably thinking.)These "ideas," if I can call them that, may turn out on closer inspection to be completely bogus. And yet I'm feeling the need sporadically to turn the power of the blog as an instrument of feedback away from such epiphenomenal questions as, "Doesn't John Colapinto seem weirdly peevish and thin-skinned this week" and toward less sexy developments that may still have some bearing on American culture a year from now... or a decade from now. That is, I propose to engineer a column on literature here at The Millions that advances beyond "link-bait," even as it stays brief, casual, and interactive. I want to invite other writers working online, or stuck in the cubicle farm, to pick up on and respond to my less topical provocations, here or elsewhere, just as they might respond to a public gaffe by a former child star, or a book review in The New Republic.I'd like to call this column "Inter Alia," which is Latin for "among other things." It will appear irregularly, like a meteor shower (or perhaps more likely, an unwanted guest). It will be about the length of what follows.Inter Alia 1: Genre MadnessI'm going to raise a few questions, by way of experiment, about the continued relevance (or irrelevance) of notions of genre. It seems to me that the canonization of Philip K. Dick by the Library of America is a healthy development, and not just because it encourages snobs like me to consider speculative fiction alongside the main body of "realism" in our reading lives. It is also (I think) a manifestation of a long trend, with younger American writers gleefully sinking their teeth into the pop tropes of what was previously dismissed as "genre fiction," and "genre" writers like Dick being hailed for their literary merit. (Let's set aside for the sake of argument the high-low brinksmanship of Modernists like Joyce and Borges, similar in degree but different in kind). Kelly Link's Small Beer Press, e.g., has done a lot to remind us that the postmodern leveling of "high" and "low" culture distinctions is not just political - it can be fun. Simultaneously, "Literary Fiction," as Gerald Howard and others have argued, is moving from being a descriptor to being a genre in and of itself, with its own generic conventions. Call it lit-fic: a label no more a guarantor (or compromiser) of literary value than is "Western," or "Sci Fi."Michael Chabon, it seems to me, is one of several 40-ish writers working toward a unified-field theory that harmonizes the best of lit-fic and its discontents. And yet, notwithstanding the wisdom of John Leonard, who suggested at a panel recently that getting too hung up on a book's genre is a form of stupidity, I find myself struggling with The Yiddish Policemen's Union. On one hand, it's a staggering feat of imagination, and often a great read. On the other, the stylized cliffhanger chapter endings (cribbed from gumshoe novels and children's books and Saturday matinees), the sometimes cartoony dogpile of figurative language, the comic book characterization, and the almost parodically rococo plot seem to me to obscure the promise of a brilliant premise: an alternative postwar history that turns Alaska into a Jewish homeland.This may be nigglingly small-minded, and would be a mere footnote to a longer review. Chabon clearly invested years in The Yiddish Policemen's Union, and has taken significant risks, and I think he deserves a wide readership. But I want to be honest about my reading experience. If this were a children's book, like Summerland, or a melancholy lieder, like The Final Solution, I might swallow my resistance. But Chabon wants me to take to heart the adult sufferings of his hero, Meyer Landsman, and this particular book's generic patrimony interferes with my ability to do so. I keep feeling dismissed from the suspension of disbelief, like Adam and Eve booted from the garden. I keep feeling reminded of the book qua book. Am I just hung up in an old-fashioned need to classify, as I once accused Michiko Kakutani of being? Or are there certain compositional principles underlying the successful genre mash-up, the way a mash-up mp3 requires that two songs have affinities of key and tempo? And if so, how do writers put them into practice? How do readers evaluate a genre-straddling book by the standards of one genre without using the other as an alibi? Discuss.
Inter Alia
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9 comments:

  1. The Last Samurai brought me so much pleasure–and thought–as a reader that I'm willing to follow DeWitt wherever she goes for the foreseeable future. I keep giving the book as a gift to friends, and I have yet to disappoint one.

    But perhaps I don't mind Word files as much as most folks because my wife is a designer and can with very little effort turn a Word file into something that's pleasant to read?

  2. I admire DeWitt's work, and I certainly don't put myself in her class, but you've just noticed that writers are publishing independently online? Or is it only writers who have already published conventionally who merit your attention?

    As you can imagine, I'm very saddened – and frustrated – that even lit bloggers, who mostly use the internet as their vehicle of choice, seem to stigmatise indie writers, writers who in fact ought to be considered their 'colleagues in arms'!

  3. Lee – didn't mean to frustrate or sadden you. Though I had anticipated some reactions of this sort, I chose to excise a final paragraph of this piece that would have said, in effect, "But really, bunches of fiction writers are publishing independently online, so this isn't a big deal." I think the kind of quick-and-dirty PayPal mechanism DeWitt chose is interesting – and that her stature as an artist makes this a big deal. Are there particular online-indie writers you admire who you'd like to bring to our attention, or who deserve a similar stature? Writers who have already taken a whirl in coporate publishing? Writers who wouldn't, if they had a chance? This was exactly what I was hoping someone would do: point us to the good stuff.

  4. From the corporate/establishment publishing side, you could start with Elfriede Jelinek (in German):

    http://www.a-e-m-gmbh.com/wessely/fneid1.htm

    There's of course lots of SF or fantasy stuff around, and certainly good short stories (try Nicholas Hogg, Kelly Link, Peter Wild for a start). Online novels are often disappointing, but this one looks promising:

    http://mmgl100.wordpress.com/

    And here are two by children's author Penelope Farmer:

    http://liftingtheworldtvtgctg.blogspot.com/2007/01/chapters-one-and-two.html

    http://grannyp.blogspot.com/2007/06/going-mental.html

    As to stature, and just how we decide who deserves it, well, I'm not about to start on that one!

  5. Garth, I forgot to add that I for one have no interest in corporate publishing – or at least would only be interested in publishing conventionally if I were permitted to serialise or issue my fiction simultaneously online. After having spent eighteen years in Zimbabwe, I take great pleasure in seeing my first (and very flawed!) YA novel Mortal Ghost being downloaded to faraway places, places a book wouldn't – or couldn't – reach. But I will freely admit that most writers are still, in their heart of hearts, dreaming of conventional recognition (and a living wage).

  6. The last comment, I promise!

    Litlove, who blogs at Tales from the Reading Room, has just started a new blog called The Best of New Writing on the Web, which some of your readers might like to keep an eye on:

    http://tbrbooks.wordpress.com/

    She will soon be compiling an issue with excerpts from online novels.

  7. This post cost me $17. $5 for the stories (and a graceful email from the author) and $12 for the N+1 with the excerpt of Ms. Dewitt's new novel.

    I might have totally missed this if not for you, so thanks.

  8. These anti-capitalists always make me scratch my head. Like the Hollywood elites made rich and famous by virtue of capitalism, they believe it to be the worst system on earth, not to mention their country that endorses it.

  9. Pingback: Publications « Garth Risk Hallberg

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Inter Alia

Promoting the Book (Inter Alia #5)

Inter Alia
August 31, 2007 | 1 book mentioned 2 3 min read
Last week, for the first time, I held in my hands a copy of my first book of fiction, A Field Guide to the North American Family. The experience is often likened to that of holding one's firstborn child, and if the comparison seems hyperbolic in terms of intensity - this was more of a low-boiling excitement than a world-altering epiphany - it seems to capture the peculiarly unmixed nature of the emotion. In the words of Edith Piaf, Non, je ne regrette rien.And now it's time (as you've probably inferred), to promote this puppy, which should be hitting shelves in the early days of October. And what to do? The media industries are so saturated in advertising strategies that not to advertise has itself become an advertising strategy. It's no longer possible to be Thomas Pynchon or Don DeLillo - at least, unselfconsciously. Jonathan Franzen learned this the hard way. At the other extreme, self-promotion stunts designed to land oneself on the gossip sites seem to rob authors of one of the few things that still separates them from Hollywood - their inherent dignity.A complicating factor in my case is the unusual degree of collaboration involved in making the Field Guide. The book's design is remarkable, and I had very little to do with it. I thus have a warm feeling not only toward the design team (Christopher D Salyers assisted by Eliane Lazzaris), and the press (Mark Batty Publisher) but to independent publishing as a whole. Richard Nash makes some good points about "the sausage factory" in his recent LBC post, but as his publication of Wayne Koestenbaum's Hotel Theory shows, there are certain books that only the existence of the independents makes possible. Books that must be seen to be believed. And though I feel weird saying it, this is one of them.And then there's the photography. Over 100 established and emerging photographers submitted a total of 700 images for consideration to the Field Guide website, of which 63 were chosen to appear in the first edition, alongside the text of the novella. Tema Stauffer, Gus Powell, Brian Ulrich, Grant Willing (who shot the image above)... These photographers gave generously of themselves, free of charge, and they're doing fascinating work independently of this book, in a field whose dynamics resemble those of publishing. I feel a bit like Duke Ellington, or Lyle Lovett with his large band. Or maybe like Ian MacKaye of Fugazi, at whose feet I learned that it's best not to shove, and that reaching an audience on your own terms doesn't have to mean selling out.That is, I want not only to have you read my words, but also to call attention to the community that made it possible. So I think, in the coming weeks, I'll try to use this space to direct your attention to the work of my collaborators, rather than to write too much about my own end of things. I'd like to start with Timothy Briner, a Chicago-based photographer who contributed the image for the chapter "Secret" in the Field Guide, and whose "Boonville, USA" project documents the death and life of America's small towns, to moving effect. Take a gander at www.boonvilleusa.com. And thanks, in advance, for being part of the journey.(image courtesy of Timothy Briner).
Inter Alia
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Inter Alia

Inter Alia #12: Tell No One I’m A Literary Snob

Inter Alia
August 28, 2008 | 1 book mentioned 2 3 min read
Film critics have lauded the French thriller Ne le dis à personne (Tell No One) with adjectives fit for a personal ad: "taut," "sexy," "smart..." Having recently caught a matinee, I'm willing to attest to its tautness. However, the climax reminded me that dramatic smarts entail more than a pensive hero and a Gallic pedigree. By way of elaboration, I will now spoil the ending: A bad guy, training a gun on the hero, maps out one of the most convoluted conspiracies this side of Behold, A Pale Horse. Then he orders the hero to keep listening: "But wait, there's more. I also killed your father."The "Let me explain my master plan" speech is a staple of crime novels, and has enlivened any number of TV shows. We accept the convention without balking because generic narratives like The ABC Murders, Scooby Doo, and Murder, She Wrote aren't claiming to be "smart"; they're meant to entertain. But when characters who've been granted all the appurtenances of serious drama - histories, mannerisms, tastes - are suddenly reduced to conduits for information, as they are in Tell No One, the reader experiences cognitive dissonance. Who writes this stuff? he wonders.The answer, in this case, is the quintessentially American Harlan Coben, from whose novel the film was adapted. In a memorable Atlantic Monthly profile last year, Eric Konigsberg portrayed Coben as a nice guy, albeit slightly insecure about his reputation vis-a-vis that of his Amherst dorm-mate, David Foster Wallace. But this being the Atlantic, the profile also attempted to pose questions (or stoke resentments) about the nature of literary distinction:In Las Vegas, I asked Coben how he felt about being invisible to the world represented by The New York Times Book Review, and about the parallel-universe status that so much crime fiction, including his books, has. At first he was au fait about it, but then he got worked up. 'If I asked you to name five great books that survived 100 years ago that don't have a crime in them, you couldn't,' he said.Not having read the work, I was willing to give Coben the benefit of the doubt. Now, after seeing the movie, I'm more inclined to agree with his later admission, "It's not like I'm an artist."Konigsberg and Coben are right to suggest (and I've argued before) that the distinction between art and genre fiction rests on false premises. Cormac McCarthy alone should demonstrate that a novel can contain a murder, or an apocalypse, or a dead mule, and still be literature. Yet to imply that a writer of westerns, thrillers, or romances automatically deserves to be considered alongside Dostoevsky is to err in the other direction. If anything, the NYTBR's problem is not that it accords too little serious consideration to genre writers, but that it accords too much to novelists toiling in the vineyards of literary fiction.That is, there is a distinction between art and entertainment; it's just not the one we've been thinking of. FSG's Jonathan Galassi and Grove/Atlantic's Morgan Entrekin came close to pinning it down at a publishing panel last year, when they suggested that "genre fiction" aims to repeat an excitement, by meeting established conventions, whereas literature inaugurates new conventions, and thus new excitements. (Of course, innovations of character and of language require more column-inches to explain to potential readers.) By this definition, plenty of the short stories in The New Yorker constitute genre fiction, while some "crime novels" - those of Richard Price, for example - are literature. And even great artists - the Dickens of Little Dorrit, comes to mind - can lean too heavily on crutches like the expository filibuster.Without knocking the pure entertainment value of watching Harlan Coben's characters fulfill their generic destinies, Tell No One is no Crime and Punishment. It's not even The Fugitive. Yet it seems frivolous to bemoan the literary establishment's "parallel universe" when your own universe comprises a vast audience and sums of money Dostoevsky only dreamed of. If literary discrimination is, by definition, elitism, it is, in America, an elitism without teeth. And even when elitists like me campaign to preserve the meaning of the words "smart" and "literary," we know that a taut, sexy, and ultimately silly thriller is still nothing to sniff at.
Inter Alia
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Inter Alia

Inter Alia #3: Master Blaster

Inter Alia
August 15, 2007 | 1 book mentioned 1
Piqued by Leon Wieseltier's huffy take on James Wood's exodus to The New Yorker, many commentators seemed to overlook the paper of record's tacit endorsement of the proposition that Wood is "brutal," blasting away at our frail eminences. Isn't he that vicious British critic? an English professor recently asked me. In fact, Wood is anything but.In September, The Quarterly Conversation will be publishing a long essay in which I try to illuminate Wood's shortcomings as a critic of contemporary American fiction, but it feels important to me now to note that these shortcomings arise from Wood's fundamental virtues as a critic, namely his passion for, and faith in, literature... just as Faulkner's excesses are inseparable from his gifts. Wood himself may not assent to E.L. Doctorow's axiom that "excess in literature is its own justification," but he is its exemplar.Wood incites passionate disagreement - making him a rare nut in the tepid oatmeal of our media culture - and is hard on writers who leave him wanting. Quite often, he is wrong about them. But Wood does not hate books, or even novelty. He presents a pretty persuasive platform for his criticism in his 2005 essay "A Reply to the Editors," directed at N+1. It is, along with his conflicted review of DeLillo's Falling Man, one of the best things he's published recently. For as long as he's at The New Yorker, I'll enjoy reading James Wood, and rising (I hope) to his provocations.Isn't this what citizenship in the republic of letters is supposed to mean? [Click to read Inter Alia #1 and #2.]
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