I looked around his office and began studying the books he had on his desk: Pale Fire, Picked Up Pieces, U and I, and a biography of Marcel Proust. Scattered over the desktop was a mess of loose notebook paper. A framed picture of Jasper Caldwell hung off to one side, and I gave it the finger. The Big Author hadn't even bothered to show up for breakfast like he said he would, and my brother sat waiting for him with all his notes and books. I hated my brother for his ability to worship people; all the stronger, the worse they treated him.
“I sent him a letter,” Tristan said from behind me. His hair was wet and still had soap in it. I grimaced, but didn't say anything. He wore an AC/DC t-shirt that looked clean, and jeans with holes in them. “I told him I was sorry I missed him at the conference, told him I'd read all the authors he quoted in his talk, and gave my opinion on each one's qualities.”
“How long was the letter?”
“Three pages.”
“Feel better?”
“I guess. He hasn't written back.”
“How long ago was that?” I asked.
“Three months or so. Kind of sucks. I might have scared him. I asked if he ever felt this bad, you know. If the way I feel is artistic angst or what. Maybe I am the only one. I don't remember Dad being like this, ever.”
“No, he just moped around the house and snapped at us for looking at him the wrong way,” I said.
“Still, I know if I got a chance to talk to Jasper it would all make more sense. He's my age, and he seems to be in about the same place Dad was at that age. He gets it, all the hard work, he gets respect, really does something with his work, you know?”
“So do you.”
“Not like Jasper, or Dad when he was young. Five years is a long time to be working on the same thing, and now it looks like I have to start over. Two thousand pages,” he flipped both hands in the air, “gone.”
“Dad spent five years on Ivy, at least. Can't you revise it or rearrange? You outlined, read all those books—”
He had taken up a spot on the floor. “Every time I look at it now, any part, it isn't right. What was I even trying to do? It's been so long, I don't know.”
I sat down to be closer to him. “You told me that there were six different types of people in the world. If you could draw the personalities convincingly enough,” here he interrupted me to give a soft laugh, “you could prove to the rest of us that we are all closer than we think. You told me that once everyone saw that, there would be no more wars and racism and all the rest of it.”
Another laugh, this one more harsh. “Hubris on steroids with a mixer of crack thrown in for momentum.”
I had no idea how to respond.
“Still,” he said, “it's like everybody is walking around so fucked up they can't see straight. At least when I write I can try to make sense of some of it, figure it out, but lately it seems like there is some bigger piece I am missing that would make it work. Maybe I'm too old. I don't have the right kind of energy anymore…” After a moment he waved this away and said, “Other days I can't see any sense in trying to get it down because no one will read it anyway. The only books people buy anymore are all commercial crap.” Here he looked at me, made an apologetic face and continued in a low voice, “I'm not going to reach anyone.”
“What about me?” I said, wondering if I even had it in me to read the monster. A sleek laptop sat next to four worn manuscript boxes on his desk, each of which I knew was full. One corner by his desk was overflowing with torn up pieces of paper and balls of other ones. Red, purple and green pens, as well as blue ballpoints and chewed pencils decorated the desktop further.
“Still, you work best that way. So now you're telling me you are no longer in love with the sound of your own voice?”
He gave me a tired look.
“What about getting your own place again? Maybe you and Mom are just getting sick of each other. You need somewhere with more light anyway. Five years is a long time to live in Mom's basement,” I said as lightly as I could.
“I need time away from everything. Here with Mom I don't have to deal with the phone, TV, my friends, all the other distractions. Mom leaves me alone most of the time anyway. She's too busy trying to get in good with the island's literary association.”
“Music? When was the last time you picked up a guitar?”
“I keep telling everyone. That part of my life is over. I failed as a songwriter. I was a special disappointment to Dad. He thought he was bringing me up to be the next John Denver or Phillip Glass. Instead all I wanted to do was play like Cliff Burton.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Fucking guy was a genius. And anyway, I am the queen of disappointment in this family.”
“Ten books to my nothing.”
“Those were all e-books. My readers don't care so much about the pretty package. The only time I am in print is when something gets anthologized.”
He stifled a laugh. “Using the venerable family name to publish gay porn…was not a good idea, Slug.”
“So. At least I am honest. I could have used a pseudonym.”
He gazed at me for a while, that sappy look he gave me sometimes. “Yes you are. Tough too. I wish I had half your balls.”
“You do. You just need to try something different so you can come back with a fresh perspective. Write a short story, or a blog post.” When he gave me an annoyed look I said, “Or an essay. Same thing.”
“No it's not. You have to give away your work for free, send it out to the internet all for the sake of attracting more people to your brand. To sell more books right? So other people can make money off of you.”
“That's the way it works. That's how it's done now. Plus it isn't all bad. At least once a week someone sends me an email telling me how great they think I am. I kind of know how Jasper feels.” Tristan's look was blank, too serious so I stopped trying to be light. “The days like Dad had are over.”
“I won't get caught in that trap. My work is the most important thing in front of me. I am so sick of chasing agents, and I am not going to waste precious time building web presence or whatever.”
I waited for him to finish.
“Sorry Viv, you know I am proud of you. And jealous. You do it all so well and make it look so easy. You write one book, finish it and start another one. Do you know what it's like to have to start over all the time?”
I imitated his tone of voice and said, “Do you know what it's like to know you will never get a review in the New York Times no matter how well written the gang bang?”
After a moment he laughed. “At least you don't spend half of every day staring at the wall, and the rest of the time chewing up pencils.”
I stood and extended my hand for him to take. “Nope, and I hope I never will. Come on, let's go get some fresh air.”
My apartment was near the Arboretum in Seattle, hidden back from the road beneath a canopy of dark green trees. When I got home, I slept for the rest of the day. A week with my brother had been draining. When I woke the next morning, I sat in my study staring at my laptop, flipping through my books, unable to call forth the buzz that usually came from three separate ideas fighting it out while I slept. This focus I normally had in abundance early in the morning. The books reminded me of how Tristan helped me move into my apartment downtown after Dad died two years ago. When I set up my office, he said there was too much light, but I loved it. I had a bedroom with tall windows down one wall, a study that was smaller but just as bright. There was a large living room with a kitchen bar attached. We arranged my bookcases both in the living room and study, going over all the books we had in common. He fingered the shiny, new, unread books he sent me after he got into this big literary phase.
“Jesus, this is some collection,” he said as he unpacked the boxes of erotic novels.
“Those are for the study,” I said, and he obediently dragged the boxes in there. When I followed him he said, “Don't you have a bunch of dishes to put away? I can handle this.”
I was suspicious, he seemed to want to be alone with my books, many of which he joked about destroying. “What are you up to? If you do anything to my erotic space operas…”
“Relax Max.” He used a term our father used to use on us both as children. It made me smile. “I can alphabetize quicker than you. And don't worry, I will put your Marquis with the S&M, the dick burners with the dick burners and so on.”
Skeptical, but unwilling to turn down his offer to help on what was in fact a large job, I moved toward the kitchen. After a few moments I heard the comforting and familiar knocking of the books against the wood of the bookcase. He was in there most of the afternoon, long after I moved on from the kitchen to my bedroom. I was just finishing up putting away towels and sundries in the bathroom when he finally announced he was done. I inspected his work while he sat in my swivel chair, checking out the contents of my drawers.
“You did a great job,” I told him. “Everything appears to be in the right place.” I fingered the shelf above my head where my father's books stood like a stand-in for his wrinkled disapproval.
He held up Chronicle, a short story I'd written that was more about family life than sex.
“This isn't bad, Slug,” he said, holding one page up. “I can feel the hatred coming off the page.”
“Yeah, so far the only non-romance stuff I write about is about Dad. There is still a dick in it though.”
He nodded and pushed his lips together, but didn't say anything.
“It's like I don't have enough middle fingers you know?”
“The only thing I can say is that you have to do whatever makes you happy.”
“Really, that's your advice?” I asked.
He nodded, staring at the slab of moonlight falling across the carpet. He placed his hands flat against his thighs, and said, “This stupid trilogy wasn't a trilogy when I started it. Mom told me it wouldn't sell at 1,000 pages. She said no editor in their right mind would even read it, especially since I haven't published in the New Yorker or some other stuck-up magazine.”
“Fuck them then,” I said. “Write porn with me.”
He twisted his head back, and said, “I have thought about it, believe me. Horror, fantasy even. I started a book…but everything morphs back into some version of this story, this way to make everyone see things differently and use all the things I've done in my life.”
“How fun for you,” I said.
“I know, right.”
I sat on the floor in front of him. “So you really can't give it up? How about self-publishing it? You have Dad's name. That should be good for something.”
“Not the same.”
I took both of his hands in mine, hardly able to wrap my fingers around his wrists and just looked at him. “Do you think it's wrong that I write romances with all this sex in them?”
“Fuck no,” he said with a new force in his voice. “If writing porn… romance…does it for you…” he twisted his wrist around in the air. “You'll never please Mom…and not Dad's memory.”
“Remember what Dad said about how women really weren't equipped to write important books.” I looked to the floor, embarrassed that I cared and not understanding why I needed to go over this again, maybe to show him I cared what Dad thought too even if I didn't want to.
“He could be an asshole like that.”
“Do you believe it?”
“Well…what do you think? Have you found any women who've written books that you think are as good as the stuff men are winning prizes for?”
I shrugged. “I haven't yet, but I haven't been trying really either.”
“Mom should be able to give you a pretty exhaustive list.”
“Probably. The thing is, I don't care that much. My own ignorance irks me, but I don't feel like spending the time trying to figure it out.”
“You're lucky. I feel like I have to figure everything out, even if I am too tired to think anymore. Everything makes me think how hopeless the world is, how stupid we all are about everything, how we're destroying the planet, our culture is a total wasteland, no one will be reading in twenty more years anyway. All my observations probably don't matter, but I can't stop thinking about it all either.”
I stared. “You really think it's that bad?”
“By the time Dad was my age he was starting his third book. Sometimes I wonder if I will even have enough years left to work out what I want to say, let alone sit and write it all out.”
He pushed himself up into a standing position and looked down to me. “None of this is anything you should be worried about though. You are happy, Vivi, don't let anything change that. Not some uptight writers thinking women can't write. Not Dad. Write what you want and stay the way you are.”
I stood and hugged him and we just stood there for a while; he rubbed my back and kissed the top of my head, then I pulled back. “What do you really think about my writing?”
I stepped back and chewed my thumbnail.
“You know,” he offered this as if it had just occurred to him, “it isn't an issue of the quality of your writing, Slug, it's more about the subject matter. Maybe the stories make me a little uncomfortable because they bring me right into something I would rather not be in the middle of.”
“Give me a break! You watch lesbian porn. I saw it in your room.”
“Still.” He tipped his head to one side to acknowledge my remarks. “Your interests will likely change, so don't expect to want to write or read the same things forever. There are no limits; success is just a matter of what you are aiming for.”
“Really?” I was afraid he was humoring me, but I was desperate to believe him.
The afternoon after I returned from the island, Eric came by as planned to drop off a manuscript. Since we often agreed on books, he was a perfect reader for me. He was the reason I wrote romances for gay men, and he was the reason I was successful at it. Several times in my last novel he had saved me from describing emotions and physical reactions incorrectly.
I flopped down on the couch when we got inside. “Man, am I glad to see your piercing blue eyes.”
He fluttered his eyelashes and lowered his voice. “Wuz up kitten?” He sat beside me, digging in the messenger bag he'd brought along and pulling out a much more worn copy of the manuscript I'd given him. He tossed it on to the coffee table.
“I swear, my mother and brother are the most depressing two people on the planet. He is starting over again.”
“This is like the fourth time right?”
I nodded. “I'm starting to think he won't ever finish.”
Eric went into the kitchen and fixed us each a drink. “Maybe that's the point.”
“I think so, only this time he seems more bummed out about it. Usually when he goes on about starting over, he has a great new plan. This time he just stopped talking about it.”
“Do you think he will give up writing?” Eric handed me the orange and vodka in one of my heavy glass tumblers.
I sipped my drink and shook my head. “No way. I do wish he would take a break though. I think he has been staring at that thing for five years now. He can't see out of it.”
Eric made a sound of assent while he sipped his drink, then we turned our attention to my manuscript. The third draft of my novel, Anglers, was about a group of fly fishermen who stumble upon a hidden collective of men in the woods, sort of a Western twist on the Amazon legend, replacing the big-boobed women with well-hung young men.
“So?” I asked after we sat staring at it.
“It's kind of creepy the way you have the guys in the forest converting the straight guys from the outside,” he began.
We discussed the different places he felt I was trying too hard to make a statement, or prove a point. “The story is supposed to be fun in the end right?”
“Uh. Huh.”
“Well, for a while it wasn't. It was like you were trying to convert me to being gay or something.”
We both laughed at that. Eric had told me he would rather
sleep with men during our junior year of high school. We managed to lose our virginity, but he also decided the female body was not for him. Lucky for me we stayed friends. He inspired me to write about male relationships and was a constant source of diversion and support. In addition to the dance competitions we entered together, several of which we won by the time we graduated high school, we also both loved books. I still had a lingering crush on him.
“What about the orgy scenes?”
“Those were great. I crossed out a couple words here and there. Mostly, you just have to speed things along. You spend too much time on people's eyes.”
We went on like that for a while. After we finished I wanted a diversion. “Let's have some people over. I just spent the last two days out on the island getting totally depressed. I want to have fun.”
We called a few people, then hit the market to buy Porterhouse steaks, mustard, salad greens and a few more bottles of wine. Vlad, a Russian who was also possibly the most gorgeous example of the male body I'd seen outside of a museum, came with a girl I didn't know. A couple from the investment banking office where Eric worked—unhappily, alongside his father—showed up as well. We ate, laughed, drank too much, then after that we all decided to hit Neighbours, a nightclub on Capitol Hill.
Barbara, a drag queen, was a staple there, and whenever she saw me, she made a big show of being one of my biggest fans. Sometimes when we showed up to one of her shows she would work my name into one of her performances. Vlad mentioned at dinner that she would be there and possibly bringing members of the Bolshoi Ballet, in town for the week. She liked to drag visiting celebrities into the club—once we had a movie actress from the 1980s watching us all dance from the second floor balcony. Another time, I got to meet a popular comedienne who was in town raising money for AIDS research. This night the prospect of lithe, straight men who knew how to shake their asses had me all aflutter, imagining the illicit possibilities.
Sex and Death in the American Novel Page 4
