The Bad Ones Are More Fun: The Book List

IP is right. The bad ones are more fun to write.

And here’s another bad one for you: How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely. It’s not that he doesn’t get the ridiculous fiction masquerading as literature—he does. And it’s not that he doesn’t get that so many genres have so many ridiculous conversations—he absolutely does and he skewers them with a nice touch.

No, my problem is more with the motivation that drives Hely’s hapless hero, Pete Tarslaw, to become said famous novelist. Are you ready for this? It’s because his ex-girlfriend is getting married. In one scene, Hely describes Tarslaw’s agony at having lost the wonderful Polly Pawson (who is actually presented to us as slightly devious and unkind when first introduced):

I hadn’t cried since the days after Polly left, when I rolled around on a mattress like a helpless seal pup.

We’re never really told why Polly’s still so important to Tarslaw, just that she was a brilliant slacker, like he was, in college. However, she wised up and studied for the LSAT; Tarslaw goes on to write admission essays for lazy, terrible or incomprehensible students to be. Tarslaw strongly reminded me of a sort of ex who would extol the virtues of his actual ex from high school and go on and on about how much he loved and missed her. “I love you, but I’m not in love with you,” he would say. I can imagine him rolling around in agony just like Tarslaw and you know what? Ugh. And that’s the reaction I have with Tarslaw throughout: Ugh. Why would Polly want someone who can’t handle a fundamental truth of life: something you love will sometimes not return to you, no matter how much you will it to happen while rolling around on your bed? Why wouldn’t Polly want something more than afternoon naps and drunken nights? (Not that afternoon naps and drunken nights are bad, but that’s all there is to Tarslaw. Again. Ugh.)

Tarslaw, though, spends the entire book fantasizing about how his novel, the sort of bestselling The Tornado Ashes Club (written in the overly florid style of so many tear-jerking bestsellers today), will make Polly realize that she’s chosen wrong in her selection of a life mate, regretting on the very day she’s married that it’s not Tarslaw standing next to her. And to this, I roll my eyes. Tarslaw fits many descriptions of the reviled Nice Guy in feminist language: he clings, he thinks he’ll never find another like Polly, Polly is at first presented as a cold bitch, he worships Polly, and he imagines that her fiancé is a huge jerk, who could never be as sensitive, kind or refined as he is. Insert eyeroll here. I know this isn’t the larger theme of the novel (the skewering, as I have mentioned, is pretty apt), but the ridiculous amount of vitriol aimed at Polly really wants to make me veer toward the intentional fallacy, and I don’t want to do that. But I have my suspicions.

And as many of you know, it’s time to turn away if you don’t want spoilers. Spoilers are the norm in Casa WordNerdia IPia.

Predictably, Tarslaw makes a fool out of himself at Polly’s wedding. To Hely’s credit, he’s able to convey the genuine love that Polly and her husband have for one another in their vows. To Tarslaw’s credit, he realizes that this is a time when Polly is not faking anything, but he can’t make the link to himself: she wasn’t invested, buddy. Because it’s just not complete until the ex-boyfriend and famous novelist gets drunk and makes a ridiculous speech, insults random guests, and crashes the hotel’s shuttle bus, right? Let’s just say that if that had happened at our recent nuptials—wait, that’d never happen, because IP and I are of the same flavor and pretty mercenary when it comes to past relationships: we’re never friends with exes. Too awkward. Anyway, you would think that book ends here. Nah. Not at all. And the postscript on this lovely event infuriates me as we go to the true climax in which Tarslaw thinks things are looking up (but he’s oh so wrong):

The whole “my life has collapsed on me” thing disappeared. It was hard, in fact, to imagine I’d ever thought that. My performance at Polly’s wedding seemed like boyish hijinks from the distant past.

What? Excuse me? Like boyish hijinks. This is no time for simile, Misters Tarslaw and Hely. Those weren’t just boyish hijinks: they were asshole hijinks. Even worse, the entire lazy motivation that launches the book is tossed aside and discarded in order to search for a more meaningful ending. The book is built on a faulty driver, and to have it discarded 266 pages in (of a 322 page book) is maddening. If the book is supposed to be a send up, Tarslaw is not supposed to learn a lesson. But he gets to learn one about literature. However, his treatment of women? Nah. No need for a lesson there, right? Because he’s really a Nice Guy, and if Polly just would figure that out, all would be well.

This ruins the whole book for me. If his motivation had been stronger, if the book had ended when it was supposed to, if there wasn’t so much hatred of Polly (and wishing her nothing but regrets and agony is hatred), I could deal. It would be a funny book. There are some good gems in here—the New York Times Book Review bestseller list is a hoot and the passages from The Tornado Ashes Club are brilliant in their badness. But if the premise of the book isn’t strong to begin with, I can’t play. It’s weak, it’s lazy, and it’s stupid. Like Tarslaw, I understand, but the focus of that weakness, laziness, and stupidity is a fundamental mistrust and anger towards a woman (and women in general: no woman is treated kindly here; they’re all caricatures or stereotypes).

And Tarslaw’s lesson? I can’t even tell if Hely is being sincere through Preston Brooks’ voice or is just doing another send up of authors. At that point, I didn’t really care. Tarslaw finally begins to care. Brooks was Tarslaw’s model in writing The Tornado Ashes Club, and it’s somewhat fitting that he bitch-slaps the young whelp. However, I have no way of knowing if the book is being real at any point.

But that’s not even the ending. I’ll just say two words: house arrest. That leads to the memoir in your hands. Meta enough for you? Jesus H. Christ.

Listen, I love send ups of contemporary literature. Hell, I love send ups of classic literature. But not at the expense of a good plot, and definitely not at the expense of women. Onto the book list:

Finished:

1) On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King
2) Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them by Francine Prose
3) The Complete Stories by Flannery O’Connor
4) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
5) Fool by Christopher Moore
6) People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
7) The World of Normal Boys by K.M. Soehnlein
8) Every Man Dies Alone by Hans Fallada
9) The Audacity of Hope by Barack Obama
10) Little Man, What Now? by Hans Fallada
11) The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón (Translated by Lucia Graves)
12) South of Broad by Pat Conroy
13) The Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri
14) Dancing to “Almendra” by Mayra Montero
15) The Beautiful Things that Heaven Bears by Dinaw Mengestu
16) The Aeneid by Virgil (Translation by Robert Fagles)
17) The Implacable Order of Things by Jose Luis Peixoto
18) Intuition by Allegra Goodman
19) The Drinker by Hans Fallada
20) How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely

Re-read:

1) Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling

Currently Reading:

1) Kate: The Woman Who Was Hepburn by William J. Mann

Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books):

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