I went to Borders last night with the girlyfriend to browse the books and whatnot. Borders has the best philosophy section out of any of the book stores here in town and it’s fun to go in there and check it out. When I check out philosophy sections, it’s usually not to grab a “classical” piece from Kant or Hume–they’re much cheaper and usually available in used bookstores. I like to read the contemporary criticisms of the classics. It’s fun to see people getting worked up about Foucault’s subjectivity or what Nietzsche was really saying. For some reason, people getting huffy about seemingly minor things just cracks me up. Maybe it’s because I find myself doing it on occassion as well.
Anyway, I was wandering the aisles, trying to remember the titles and authors that had been suggested to me and attempting to compose a realistic, sensible, well-rounded reading list. I inevitably stumbled into the photography section for a short glimpse, only to find a collection entitled Naked Pictures of my Ex-Girlfriends. It was exactly what it sounded like: a collection of naked/quasi-naked photos of a guy’s girlfriends from the 70s, accompanied with little stories like “So-and-so and I had sex on LSD once and I was just blown away by the biology of it all.” or “She was the nurse that took care of me in the hospital and took me home, where we both took a bunch of codeine before having sex. She left me when I ran out of pills.” Maybe it’s the voyeur in me, but simple stuff like this just tickles my fancy when it’s done tastefully. And the guy was a great photographer to boot.
Then I inevitably came across the How-To section. The books had titles like How to Write Great Fiction and Commanding Your Language. At first I was compelled to pick them up, but I resisted and laughed. I’d never heard of the authors–who were they to make these kinds of suggestions? Granted, they might have some fabulous ideas, but if I’m doing to write a novel I want it to bleed from my fingers onto the page in a raw and savage way. Fuck these surgical instructions that come with a scalpel–I want it to be raw and wild and in the end all that will remain are bloody stumps that are starting to scab up. And, on the page, a masterpiece of epic proportions. The Next Great American Novel.
I was thinking about this. I could do this. Drawing from my experiences and the experiences of those around me, making up a few. And plopping myself down right in the middle of them. I could do this. And in the beginning, the automatic claim to fame. Right there, on page one–”This book was written with the intent of becoming the Next Great American Novel. Critics that don’t like it simply don’t understand it. Scoffing academics simply can’t relate to it. But you, the genuine reader with genuine eyes, will recognize the bloody fingerprints and appreciate it. And that’s all that really matters.”
No other novel has made that claim. Usually it’s in the foreword, written by a stuffy individual that fancies him/herself a scholar on the person’s work, heralding it as the Last Great American Novel because that’s what s/he wrote his/her thesis on. Never have authors made that claim themselves. Until now. I will do it and it will shock and delight and go against all the rules. Then people will finish it and look up and really agree with me. I was right. “My God,” they’ll say, “it really was the Next Great American Novel.” Then they’ll smile and read it again.
Now I just need a plot and I’ll be set.
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