June 16th, 2025 - The Queen of Bad Influences

Dear TNY,

I know, I know.  I’m late.  And I do care.  I don’t know what’s happened to my motivation to keep this project up, though.  It appears to be gone.  But today I did get to “The Queen of Bad Influences” and it was a waste of time.

I was reading this article the other day, sent to me by none other than the Wizard of Kindness.  And it was some young writer who just recently found Carver and wanted to discuss the merits of his writing, particularly the “to the bone” editing, or marrow as some have stated it.  And how that was largely the work of Lish.  Like, can you imagine, dear reader, that this Carver/Lish story is falling upon new ears and this conversation is being had once more of who wrote the stories, Carver or Lish, and what sort of writer was Carver?  Yes, Beginners was mentioned but nothing new was untangled from this subject and the author was left stunned that writing this spare could be so good and that it wasn’t necessarily at the hand of the original author.  All that said so that I could say that the author’s early revelation in the piece was that stories could work with the reader knowing next to nothing about any of the characters, their stories, etc.  The word “backstory” was mentioned multiple times, how devoid Carver’s work (w/ Lish) was of it.

And that’s what I want, I guess.  I want stories that don’t spend the first six fucking pages (that’s about a third of this story) telling me this whole woman’s pretty useless life.  A life so absent of scene that I could not possibly connect to it.  A life so maddeningly bland that even the sinking of the goddamn Lusitania couldn’t keep my attention.  I don’t understand what the point of this literature is.  I guess, though, it isn’t literature.  It’s just trash.  It doesn’t even glance toward transcendence so it cannot move humanity in a direction that will involve more empathy.  Which, I can’t think of a time in my life when the world was more in need of empathy than right now.  I cannot fathom wasting fucking pages of a magazine that seemingly many, many people read for this dumbshit story when it doesn’t do a fucking thing.

But, like I said, I guess that’s just me.  Because you seem to be selling copies and the world seems to tell you it’s okay.  And that’s the proof, right?  The same world that is okay with its current condition, its current atrocities, its current lack of gratitude, its current us vs them mentality, its current two wrongs definitely make a right, its current I don’t care about anybody but me and my own.

Man, just fuck it I guess.  That’s cool.  I get that I’m just another voice, a bloviator unheard. Maybe that’s why the motivation is gone. Because none of this shit matters. The plebes will win again and again. Fuck, according to you I’m a plebe.

I’ve been out on adventures since we last talked.  The van broke down.  Ish.  But he has been repaired.  Ish.  Cheeseburgers were eaten.  Steak dinners were cooked in the lowest amber light with smoke that filled the van such that it looked like the air was fire itself, all while watching Captain Ron and drinking fine beverages and laughing and laughing.  I have been absolutely blessed.  What more is there to say?

Nick