Oh, a novel: Kate Zambreno has been getting a lot of attention at htmlgiant, with all these interviews and stuff. Based on O Fallen Angel, it’s much deserved and more. The book is palpable, and provoked in me a practically physical revulsion — which is saying a lot, because in general I Don’t Care About Anything. But the characters and the way she writes them, with immediate syntax and more importantly probing judgments, become punching bags for Zambreno’s cruelty. If it weren’t so good I would hate it, and hate her. It is not a true book in its indictment of my very own mother, but it is a true book in its angst, and once you read it you’ll wonder about V and Klebold but you won’t accuse Zambreno of being into NIN, which is what I’m most impressed by.Ha! I think this is really funny. Thank you Adam. I really love this. It reminds me when I wrote a fictional fake-chick-lit column for Newcity, Fresh Hell, under the pseudonym Janey Smith, and got into trouble occasionally with people I had known because they saw themselves in my satirical portraits (luckily Newcity had as a friend one of the nation's best First Amendment lawyers who was a champion for writers) and a few women at a boutique I used to go into used to read it and treated me like a minor celebrity when they found out it was me. But I remember one of them said, "Janey's like really mean though. I don't think I'd ever want to be friends with her."
What can I say. That is, indeed, the story of my life.
But, actually, Adam! I used to love NIN in high school. I think Maggie would have loved NIN as well. My tortured high school boyfriend who later thought he was a vampire and later was diagnosed schizophrenic wrote me love letters in the form of Trent Reznor lyrics, one in particular being Hurt. Yes we were mall goths who romanced each other through lyrics like "What have I become. My dearest friend. Everyone I know. Goes away. In the end."
Lastly, because I'm sick of me, something from Kathy Acker's My Death My Life by Pier Pasolini:
Hamlet's maid: The last time you wrote a play, the printer stole all the money you gave him to print the play, the lawyer you hired turned around and sued you for three thousand dollar court fees though no one ever went to court, three famous people sued you for libel, and now all the women refuse to fuck with you cause you might write about them. You don't have any friends left. And your parents hate your guts.