I love the Elon/X situation, because it's the closest we'll ever come to living in an ancient civilization, having our king die suddenly, and standing by in helpless bewilderment while his half-mad heir is like, "Melt down the gods of our ancestors. We worship only the sun now."
I'm in absolute awe of the outpouring of kindness and support that we've seen in just a few short hours. I didn't know Misery Tourism meant so much to so many. You're all wonderful. Thank you so much.
I don't buy this. Nearly everyone I've talked about literature with, writers and non-writers alike, have been sincere and passionate. If you're only encountering people like this you need to move out of [redacted] and/or stop going to parties full of insecure social strivers.
Today we published Misery Tourism's final piece. I'm not sure how I feel, but I wanted to say *something* about it all, so I hopped into a zoom meeting with
@lynchpoet
and we had a frank, completely unscripted conversation. It's 3 hours long.
Can't decide if literary scenes are Alcoholics Anonymous for those unwilling to admit that they have a problem or multi-level marketing schemes for people with no interpersonal skills.
@jessesingal
It's remarkable to me how quickly so many of these moral calls for complete public ostracization reveal themselves to be professional jealousy masquerading as principle.
Oh no, a maniacal billionaire might accidentally smash the mirrored torture box where we constantly scream in vain at our own reflections and where our only hope of being dispensed dopamine pellets is to concoct more and more absurd mischaracterizations of our imagined enemies.
Told my dad that Misery Loves Company was even more unhinged than usual last night and he said, "Something's about to happen; crazy people always feel it first, like how animals know when a storm is coming."
Devastated to learn of the passing of one of our angels
@eris_rlt
. Her father called me to break the news and I’m still in shock. As I learn more, including possible memorial services, I’ll post here. I don’t have any words right now. My heart goes out to anyone who loved her.
I'd say, "I'm unemployed. I live with my parents. My only accomplishment is running an edgelord lit mag best known for its obscene MS Paint art." Then after I had scared her off, I would tuck a napkin into my collar like a cartoon character and eat her entire bowl of spaghetti.
Everyone is a hypocrite. The trick is to avoid being an obnoxious, self-righteous pedant, so that when your hypocrisy is inevitably exposed no one gives a shit.
On Monday morning, I launched a publication I've been toiling on for months to a stronger response than I could possibly have imagined.
On Friday evening, I was accidentally left behind in a Walmart parking lot by my own parents.
Turn, turn, turn.
I've been toiling in the social media salt mines for over a decade, debasing myself for tiny scraps of engagement. Meanwhile, my dad's second YouTube video got almost 150k views.
@asdkfjasdlfjd
Therapists can't understand the desire to live like the dissolute heir of a landed aristocratic family, pissing away your name and inheritance before your parents are even dead.
I've often accused the young adult/safe lit crowd of judging art like middle school students, but this thread made me reach an even more depressing conclusion: they judge art like middle school teachers.
I've said this before, but I think the "transgressive" label is valuable not as a badge of honor, but as a permission slip. It lets artists create the work they want to create without having to rationalize, justify, or ask forgiveness for it.
New video is up. It's about how the arts can offer us relief from life's relentless, disorienting noise. This one was hell to record and edit. Hope my suffering brings you a little joy.
Scrolling through my feed after largely ignoring twitter for a couple of weeks, and, damn, this shit is hallucinogenic. Just demonic spirits materializing out of nowhere, speaking in tongues about their insecurities, and soothsaying doom about problems that don't even exist.
Thoughts and prayers this weekend as I attempt to wrestle my profound self-loathing and social anxiety into submission long enough to find work before my savings run out.
I made an a rough little extemporaneous video essay about the ways that artistic works generate wonder, because I'm an old man now and wonder is getting harder and harder to come by. (Also, I'm pivoting to video a decade too late.)
Yes, the rare crab who escapes the bucket is free, but its real reward is that it can no longer see what the crabs still inside the bucket are doing to each other.
Made another video. This one is about Tarkosvky's Mirror, one of the most beautiful films of all time, and one of the most complex and confusing, full of memories, dreams, and visions that bleed together, detached from time and plot. I love it so much.
"Boiling an egg is easy" discourse is bullshit. Boiling an egg is like finding God: simple in the abstract, but fundamentally an act of pure faith and confidence, and there's no way to know with certainty how badly you've fucked up until it's too late.
Depression just broke. I get why some cultures would attribute despair to demonic spirits, given the suddenness and senselessness with which these fits come and go. Completely irrational and unmoored from any thought or event. Must be the fucking weather.
I had a long, frank conversation with
@notstuartbuck
about the (brutal, demoralizing) realities of small press publishing for my substack. This might be the beginning of a series, who knows.
Honest question: If you were me, and you were about to close the website that you dedicated the last few years of your life to, but didn't want to completely leave the lit world behind, what would you do next?
Cut my finger open on a broken root beer bottle and bled a lot and now I feel like tweeting again. The Founding Fathers were right about the benefits of bloodletting.
If we're going to let the insular madness of social media drive us deeper and deeper into groupthink and folie à deux, we should go all in on art instead of politics. Fringe political lunatics end up crushed, disillusioned and humiliated. Fringe artistic lunatics start movements.
If you want to understand just how completely my every waking moment is ruled by irrational anxiety: I don't think I have ever succeeded at popping open one of those Pillsbury biscuit tubes without screaming.
Wait, you're telling me that all this time I've been apologizing to authors for not reading the books they send me and making excuses for myself (busy editing multiple publications, depressed, haven't read for pleasure in two years), when I could have just fucking lied?
HELLO BEAR CREEK RESIDENTS
I have Nominated 3 pieces for pushcart prizes. They are the following
After the Spider Storm by
@kylerseibel
Review of Bonding by
@whduryea
The Re-Earthing of Mother by
@onebillionmikes
People who think like this should just give up on the arts. Their brains are made for playing resource management sims and putting together elaborate Lego sets and 3,000 piece jigsaw puzzles.
Fs in the chat for one of the greats. No publication did more to spread the gospel of truly independent literature than LitReactor. To say they will be missed is a crass understatement.
Too much self-promotion on my feed lately. I apologize. My mind is feverish, fixated, intoxicated. I'm reexperiencing an old high I thought had lost its potency. I'm thinking only in engagement data: likes, retweets, clicks. Drowning in dopamine, losing perspective.
There's plenty of talk about literature as exorcism, but not enough about criticism where the the critic wrestles with their demons, anxieties and uncertainties. Far too many critics look outward into culture for an evil to banish and too few look to the hell inside themselves.
If there's any value at all in the study of literature, it's that it helps dissuade people of the delusion that the universe began with their birth and ends with their death. So much of the silliest lit discourse is really just a defense of solipsism.
I wish I could find the Guardian article that claimed A Game of Thrones was a major work of fiction because it was the first time in literary history that beautiful people had been portrayed doing bad things.
An article I wrote just went live on a site some friends and I have been engaged in a five month slapstick battle with depression and technological incompetence to bring into being. I'm proud.
One of the most loathsome things about social media "networking" is the way that it reduces everything, no matter how good or beautiful, to a dropshipping scam.
Socializing is cool, but I'm not fond of the part where, as soon as I'm alone, Boschian demons emerge from my subconscious and tear at my flesh with hooks.
One of the great gifts that literature has given humanity is the ability to imagine the impossible. For example, this poem by
@lynchpoet
, published today in
@PatioBack
, makes a McDonald's hamburger seem edible.
My take is that beauty, truth, character, and plot are all seductive forms of self-delusion, and that literature is about unpacking the ways we use narrative to lie to ourselves.
I used to think storytelling was all about plot, then I realized plot is a subset of characterization. Then I realized characterization is a subset of truth. Then I finally reached the understanding that truth is a subset of beauty.
Beauty > truth > character > plot.
I haven't written (no, wait, finished) much over the last couple of months. Depression and writer's block have been hitting harder than a motherfucker, as they say. (As someone says, I'm sure.) But here's a new thing. No paywall.
This is like saying Alzheimer's might make you leave your house without your keys, but it would never cause you to be discovered in a Target parking lot, naked and disoriented, four miles from your nursing home.
Lying in bed sick for a week, playing video games, allowing all my projects and ambitions to undulate into oblivion, operating with complete disregard for my imagined responsibilities, letting my self-important lies erode, becoming no one, loving it.
I haphazardly grabbed a few books that I wanted to finish when I left for Virginia a couple weeks ago, before the invasion. Pulled them out of my backpack now to read one and... Oh.
The view count is the perfect, quintessential twitter feature, because it's pure, contextless noise, completely immune to meaningful interpretation, and yet it makes everyone measurably more neurotic.
This is the single worst exchange about the arts I've ever seen on twitter. All four of these dudes should have to spend eternity trapped in a No Exit scenario where they just have this stupid debate over and over again and none of us have to watch.
There's a sort of Allegory of the Cave situation on social media where some people have been chained in the darkness of narcissism for so long that any behavior stemming from selflessness or love is incomprehensible to them.
If you wait patiently, you will receive a marshmallow, though you know not the day nor the hour. If you cannot wait for your marshmallow, you will be cast outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Twitter should become a plain text platform. Remove the ability to post images and video and especially to link to outside sites. Just destroy all incentive to do anything but scream schizophrenically at each other with purest intent.
Thought I would look at twitter to give my mind a "break" from reading submissions, experienced almost immediate nausea, disgust, went back to the submissions.
@koumeposter
@TheSafestSpace
If you think a movement is ideologically, morally, or tactically bankrupt, it doesn't mean you agree with their most extreme opponents.
Thinking about this tweet has brought me to the disturbing realization that Nabokov would have loved Magic: The Gathering and that he would have been incredibly toxic about it.
I'm convinced that like half of all small lit mags in the "writing community"/pseudo-professional space are run by one dude under a dozen different aliases as an elaborate submission fee harvesting scheme. Dude probably brings in like $5k/month in passive income.
seems fine that no one reads small/online magazines except for people who think they deserve to be published in them or edit for them. no problems here. not getting any house of card or pyramid scheme vibes. im sure it will all work out fine
What do you call fiction that advances no ideology and has no interest in obeying the laws of material reality? Literature, Dick. You call it literature.
Kafka’s Metamorphosis is called a major work of literature. Why? If it’s SF it’s bad SF. If, like Animal Farm, it’s an allegory, an allegory of what? Scholarly answers range from pretentious Freudian to far-fetched feminist. I don’t get it. Where are the Emperor’s clothes?
Wrote a (long) substack post outlining the various slapstick schemes that Rudy and I have used to try to build an audience for Misery Tourism. No paywall on this one.