A Better Writer -- Part II

The literary critique

This story builds upon a piece titled A Better Writer that I published two weeks ago, and a response to it by

Terry Freedman

, one of my favorite writers (and thinkers, and humans) here on Substack. The words, ideas, behaviors, and beliefs of the character impersonating Terry in this story are solely the fruit of my imagination and are, therefore, unrelated to real facts and opinions.

Or maybe they are.

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Photo by Lennart Heim on Unsplash, rendered black & white by me

Jude spent the subsequent few days trying to understand how he felt after reading what that literary critic -- such Yerret Manfreed, a name he had never heard of in literary circles, although, in all fairness, he had never frequented any literary circles and knew close to nothing about them, or about what was supposed to happen in them, or about who were their main actors -- decided, unsolicitedly, to write about his novel, and what to make of it. Yes, unsolicitedly, but then again not that much, as what ignited this whole tourbillon was a declaration by a certain Larry Fieldman in a comment to a piece about Jude’s story published on some website. I enjoy reading lit crit, but came to the conclusion many decades ago that it's mostly a load of bullshit, he wrote.

The sequence of events that led to Larry’s comment seemed nothing short of mysterious to Jude. After that argument with the guy from the publishing house about the definition of a ‘better writer’ that was never really settled, and which he himself decided to drop due to a pronounced misalignment -- a gap, or crack, rather -- between two seemingly irreconcilable positions, an irreconcilability that betrayed a lack of interest (or understanding) on the part of the publisher more than anything else, he received a short letter in which the publishing house communicated their decision to reject his manuscript and wished him the best of luck in his future literary endeavors. The letter mentioned a piece that had leaked Jude’s interaction with the publisher, including some of his strongest convictions about writing (the reference was clearly to the diatribe about the definition of ‘better writer,’ in which, rather than expressing a strong conviction, Jude had shown genuine curiosity, a willingness to learn, about something he had seen mentioned all over the place without ever really grasping its intrinsic meaning), as well as a summary of his novel, which should have been kept confidential and which the publisher deemed a breach of what they referred to as ‘writer-publisher privilege’ -- or, as mere mortals might call it, ‘mutual trust.’

But Jude hadn’t written that piece. He hadn’t even talked about what was happening -- about the novel, the publishing house, the argument -- with anybody. He had always been a reserved person, shy, not accustomed to sharing, let alone boasting about, the details of his life. Behind a humble appearance, he had firm beliefs that he manifested in his writings, never directly but through the behavior of his fictional characters. He was cautious and kept many things to himself when speaking, a demeanor that was reflected in his writing as well -- he would intentionally depict a given situation as incompletely as possible while preserving its core essence, not only because he knew that things could change suddenly and dramatically. His was a way of capturing the truth, and conveying it, not through exhaustive detail but through a careful balance of omission and suggestion.

And yet, someone wrote it and delivered a link to him anonymously. When Jude clicked on it, he was directed to a piece titled A Better Writer, written by someone using the pseudonym Anonimo Pirandelliano, on a website called The Fountain of Salmacis, where anyone could publish articles and readers could eagerly comment below them. But who had published the piece? Could it have been someone at the publishing house, aiming to sabotage Jude’s once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? Unlikely -- besides his novel’s plot, which could be easily extracted from the manuscript, the piece contained intimate reflections that were Jude’s and no one else’s, introspective musings, like private blog entries, that couldn’t have been accessed even with a scan of his brain. As unsettling as this was, Jude decided to put it aside and focus on what that Yerret Manfreed had written about his work. After reading the review many times over, and losing a fair amount of sleep thinking and rethinking about it, Jude resolved to get in touch with Larry Fieldman and share his lucubrations.

They met for lunch at a pub overlooking the river in Hammersmith, on a cloudy and windy day. Larry, Jude was pleasantly surprised to learn, was extremely well-versed in all things writing and literature, regularly posted literary non-fiction pieces on that very website, had over thirty years of experience being published in magazines and books, and taught his own writing course. After clarifying that he had nothing to do with that piece titled A Better Writer, Jude asked what his thoughts were about the whole story. Wait, said Larry suddenly, interrupting his sip of water and holding the glass mid-air, you’re saying that you haven’t written that piece? Not only that, Jude responded, I don’t even know who has; it seems to have appeared out of nowhere. But, Larry asked, is it just a pile of horseshit or does it tell the truth? He was very direct, without filters, something Jude had come to appreciate more and more as he got to know him. No, Jude said, it’s all accurate, which is what makes it so absurd and mysterious, as if the author were, effectively, me.

Larry held his gaze fixed on a point beyond Jude’s face for a good thirty seconds, clearly lost in thought. Then, as if abruptly waking from a state of graceful sleepiness, he said “But enough of this persiflage! Let’s talk about the critique. How did you get to read it, and what do you think of it?” Somebody sent it to me via email from an unknown address, with just a single line in the body saying you might find this interesting, and no signature, Jude started. I don’t know anything about lit crit, as you called it in your comment, so I might be widely off-point here, but it seems to me that Mr. Manfreed wrote exclusively about the novel’s structural features, almost aiming at showing off his literary and technical knowledge more than expressing a clear-cut, candid opinion and, more importantly, without saying whether he liked it, he went on. I also have to say that we’re talking about a summary of just a few paragraphs from a five-hundred-page novel, he said, wouldn’t it be too small a specimen to base any type of judgment on? Oh, most definitely, said Larry. Although from those few paragraphs I myself was able to tell that it was a promising story -- I even mentioned in the comment that I was off to pre-ordering it already, if you remember. And he let out a light chuckle. I was joking, of course, he promptly specified, it was just my way of giving appreciation. No, I know, of course, I understand that, Jude said.

But please, go on, said Larry, without looking up from the steak he was battling with. The guy even gave it a title, Jude continued -- The Secret Miracle. Which isn’t bad, but I had something else in mind, to be honest. And he made all sorts of connections, likening my novel -- or what he could draw from that summary -- to literary works like The Time Machine and Heart of Darkness, and authors like García Márquez, Murakami, Wells, Conrad, Borges, and Calvino. As I said, however, while these connections are interesting and undeniably flattering, the discussion felt somewhat superficial, relying more on name-dropping than original analysis. The mention of Barthes’ proairetic and hermeneutic codes adds an academic touch, but that’s about it. A couple of minutes of silence followed as Larry remained focused on his steak, and Jude realized he hadn’t asked the most important question -- the one that should have come before his long, opinionated spiel: What was Larry’s relationship with Mr. Manfreed? Were they friends, acquaintances, or complete strangers? And, more importantly, what did Larry think of Mr. Manfreed and his work?

I have no idea who he is, said Larry, leaning back after finishing his meal. He sent me a private message on that website, out of the blue, saying that he had noticed my comment to the piece about your novel, which he called an “ill-considered diatribe against the noble profession of literary criticism”, and asking whether I would allow him to “pen a response for public consumption”, as my comment had served only to demonstrate my ignorance of the vital role of the critic -- his words. And I believe, he continued, that not only does his review fail to invalidate my point, but actually reinforces it. At that, Jude felt compelled to comment on one of Mr. Manfreed’s most critical, albeit vague, remarks -- his claim that the novel “may have been more enchanting in the hands of a better writer.” There we go again, Jude said, this idea of betterness in writing -- don’t you think it’s nonsense?

I do, Larry said without blinking. Then, after a pause of a few seconds, he continued: If we clear the field of the idea that, at least from a certain level upward, writing correctly -- that is, without grammar or syntax errors (though in some cases these might actually be pleasant to read, depending on the context, and there are concrete examples in literary history where this has been the case) -- represents the bare minimum for anyone who wants to submit their writing for others to read, then writers of a certain level, let's call it professional, can be compared only on two criteria. The first is objective: the number of copies sold, the cold game of revenue and profit, although we should be careful not to assess that a writer who has sold more copies is a better writer -- for instance, think of all those great authors whose work gets discovered late in their lives, or even posthumously, and after that turning point they become an overnight sensation and their books start selling like crazy, including those written early on, when they were still unknown. The second is subjective: personal preferences. Here, if I prefer Bolaño over King and you prefer King over Bolaño, neither of us can claim that one is objectively better than the other. And this second criterion applies to unknown writers as well.

Let me know if you need any help, I can introduce you to other publishers, Larry said as a final note, before saying goodbye outside the pub. The wind hadn’t stopped blowing and, in the most quintessential London weather, a freezing drizzle had started to fall. I’m sorry we had to cut this short, but I have an engagement I cannot cancel or postpone, he continued in closing. We’ll meet again soon, if you can, Jude said, watching the back of Larry’s figure getting smaller as he walked away, his hair ruffled and waving in the wind. He didn’t have the nerve -- or the time -- to tell Larry that his novel was still unfinished, or rather, that it was finished but he had decided to submit only part of it to the publishing house.

He sat in his car, listening to a Brad Mehldau rendition of I Fall in Love Too Easily, which came out of nowhere, almost magically, a few moments after he started the engine, and watching the raindrops accumulate on the windshield one by one, focusing on them, the world behind blurred like in one of those artistic photographs, until they became too many and the wipers erased them all with one intermittent strike, like one would if they had the superpower to wipe away a period where too many thoughts or preoccupations had gathered before their eyes.

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