Truth in Advertising: The Deception of Noir

One of the more interesting subdivisions of the writing world is the relationship between literary fiction and genre fiction (e.g., noir).  As a writer trying to straddle the two, if with a more sympathetic foot on the darker side of the street (or as Paul W. might say, with "one foot in the door, the other foot in the gutter...), I've discovered the presentation and promotion of both camps can be a bit deceptive. Kinda like Greenland vs. Iceland.

For those of you who are (like I) geographically challenged, that's Greenland on the left, the one covered with a fuckton of ice, looking about as hospitable as a summer's day on Hoth.  In one of the first examples of tourist duping, early settlers, attempting to lure workers to the snow-covered wasteland, came up with the idea of calling it"Greenland." (Ironically, Iceland [pictured on the right], is mostly green, but got saddled with the shittier island name.  Apparently only two names were left in the hat.)

I didn't start out intending to write one brand of fiction or the other.  In an early writing class I took after getting straight, the professor remarked that my voice betrayed a certain "hardboiled" edge.   Which I found remarkable.

"How weird!" I said.  "Because I read a lot of hardboiled authors."

Well, no shit, Joe.  That's how it works.  You are what you read (which is why, even though I haven't read the book in a few years, there is an undeniable Catcher in the Rye tone to my blog posts.  That's what you get when you read one goddamn book 6,432 times, ya phony bastards).

I soon learned that hardboiled/noir constitutes "genre," a five-letter dirty word in the writing world, and that if you wanted to be taken seriously, you needed to steer clear.  Fucking with genre is like fucking with venereal disease; you'll never shake its stigma.  I wanted to be taken seriously because I was still delusional enough to believe I'd have a legacy.  Seems crazy now, but I'd just gotten sober and my head was stuck pretty high in those pink clouds.  I was so much older than the other students, but with real world experience from which to mine; the (mostly self-imposed) standards were erected pretty goddamn high.

When I received an offer to study at Florida International University for my MFA, I found, by chance/luck/fate, that I'd ended up at a school deeply immersed in the mystery tradition, of which noir is a subset (or maybe it's the other way around). Department director Les Standiford's an accomplished mystery writer with several novels to his name, and Dennis Lehane (Mystic River) earned his Master's there. James W. Hall also taught in the program (not that he could pick me out of a line up of one), and my thesis advisor, Lynne Barrett, had spent a lot of time dissecting the inner-workings of mystery and suspense.  As a result, I started writing more noir and less literary fiction.  And I started having a lot more fun.  All the stodgy, overbearing themes and insufferable morality plays about sons who can't speak to their fathers over holiday dinner went out of the shattered bathroom window.  In its place were the wonderful criminals, the wounded and broken hearted, the morally bankrupt castoffs and fuck-ups who still try to do the right thing, even when all evidence points to the contrary.  Which made sense beyond just the fact that this is what I liked to read.  It's also the world I'd been living in for the past tent years.

This wouldn't even be worth remarking upon if there didn't exist such a chasm between the two schools.  I still write literary fiction, but I have to say, by and large, the purveyors of literary fiction tend to be pompous douches.  I know I am running the risk of over generalizing, and it's a big fucking field.  But I have been to one too many pretentious parties where "craft" is discussed as nauseum over plates of  over-rated cheeses.  I remember this one particular get-together at the AWP, a small gathering, where everyone (but me) had a fellowship, and they all wrote this brand of fiction, or poetry, all in the same uppity vein, and soon as you walked in the room, you felt drenched in the phoniness, the front of it all.  All one needs is a little validation to bring out their inner dick.  And, yeah, there was envy on my part, and I'm not saying they were bad people, and I'm certainly not saying they weren't good writers.  Still, little kindness or generosity emanated from that room.

Which is where I draw the biggest distinction between what separates the two camps, which ends up being fairly ironical.  Noir is a world populated by unsavory types doing unspeakable things, and its writers create hellish landscapes, where characters backstab, murder, and dismember (and not necessarily in that order), but in real life, the authors who write this stuff tend to be real sweethearts.

From David Corbett to Thuglit editor Todd "Big Daddy Thug" Robinson, to the good folks over at Shotgun Honey, the noir/hardboiled/mystery community has been nothing but generous and supportive.  Go to any one of the sites that house my noir shorts and look at the comment sections.  You won't find a remotely negative comment.  For any story.  Just all these hardasses taking the time out to religiously read one another's efforts and prop each other up.

It's funny.  When you think about literary fiction, the works upon which critical acclaim is heaped--let's take, say, Infinite Jest by lit fic darling David Foster Wallace--even if you actual read that and pretend to have enjoyed it, you can't exactly use words like "like."  It's an experience, a masterpiece, a whatthefuckever, but I tried reading that shit and it bored me senseless.  Maybe I'm not that bright. But I'll take Jim Thompson over Don DeLillo any day.

The truth is I like a lot of literary fiction, including DeLillo, whose White Noise mesmerized me.  For the first half.  Until I just sorta...lost...interest.  I didn't put it down, or rather not pick it back up, because it wasn't good.  I kinda forgot about it. Which never happens with Charles Willeford, or David Goodis, or Day Keene.  I think one of the reasons I didn't read much in high school was the books they assigned.  I know the guy has his fans, but I can't stand Dickens.  Every year, they tried to cram that whimsical crap down my throat.  And I wouldn't bite.  (When I was finally forced [in grad school] to read David Copperfield, I felt justified in my prejudice.  Fuck David Copperfield.  Guy finally gets to exact his revenge against his tormentor, and what's he do?  He slaps him.  Not punches.  Slaps.  What a fancy pants dandy.) High school English teachers don't assign Stephen King, who is a brilliant, funny, amazing writer.  I'm not going to say he's better or worse than whomever, but reading King is something you enjoy, whereas so much of literary fiction feels like work.

No point in apologizing, really.  In the end, it's a matter of taste, I suppose.  Given my druthers, I'd prefer not to use expression like "given my druthers"; I prefer the cheap and lurid.  I like the lowlife.  I want the visceral grittiness of pulp, to share in the bond among the lowest common denominator.  I feel like I am among my own kind there.  And if you can get past the tattoos and criminal record, you'll find that the people are really nice. Plus I like books that have a plot.

Bullet Award

"Hey, Jimmy," I said, "I won a Bullet Award."

(Pause on the line as Jimmy opens another beer and lights another cigarette)

"Well," Jimmy said, "I guess we'll read all about it on the blog."

Jimmy knows me pretty goddamn well.

*

I was informed (via Shotgun Honey editor Ron Earl Phillips and an FB post) that I'd won a Bullet Award (taking third) for the month of August and my noir flash fiction story "One Good Reason," appropriate links here:

http://thebulletawards.blogspot.com/2011/09/judges-file-tba-iii-august-2011-stories.html

http://www.shotgunhoney.net/2011/08/one-good-reason-by-joe-clifford.html

Very exciting.  Made all the better because I'd written the story specifically for Shotgun Honey and, to be  more precise, to win a Bullet Award.

As you can see Bullet Awards are given to the top crime flash stories on the web (1,000 words or less).  Don't really know who does the judging (the Bullet Award site only says "panel of top crime fiction experts").  You don't win money or anything (this is writing, silly!), but it's another way to get your name out there and noticed (you hope) by this latest wave of big noir players moving the current scene, the Stacia Deckers, Frank Bills, Seth Hardwoods, Phillipses, Keith Rawsons, Todd Robinsons, et al.  It's not that big a world, this crime/lowlife fiction, and since deciding to put my memoir writing on the back burner and focus more on what I went to school for, namely to write mysteries/thrillers, old (and new) school noir, whatever you want to call it, I've been inching my way up its broken-runged ladder. Awards like this one only help my cause.  On the one hand, it's just a list of a few writers who've written a few stories, posted on a blog.  But, for what I/we are trying to do as writers of this genre, it's much bigger that.  All these writers who get published by Shotgun Honey or Crimefactory (whose stories aren't eligible for BAs, because they are longer than 1,000 words) are already being judged by the best names in crime fiction; they get published by them, read by them, acknowledged by them.  And a lot of them have book deals or are on the brink.  When I first read "Fucking Cold" by Todd Robinson (on SH) , it was because of the Bullet Awards (and a congratulatory message from agent S. Decker up at Donald Mass).  I'm a big fan of Todd's, and quickly became an equally big fan of Shotgun Honey; I read a slew of stories on their site and the terrific authors they host.  And I wrote "One Good Reason" to be included among them.

If you've been following this topic (and let's face it, I have about four revolving topics on this blog: my kid, writing, mental illness, and fucking hating hippies), you know this idea of actually reading the magazines I'm trying to get into was treated like selling out (at least at first).  Strange, I know.  Not even sure why I viewed such an obvious strategy as somehow kowtowing.  Of course you should be reading them!  But there's this weird, unspoken edict among most writers not to tailor your pieces in this way.  Local writer (and friend) Sean Craven had this to say on the topic, or you can read the quote I am about to drop in its complete context at http://seancraven.blogspot.com/2011/08/passing-it-on-blogs-i-read.html:

Let's start out with Candy and Cigarettes by Joe Clifford. Yep, he's the guy who runs Lip Service West, where I've read twice and have another piece in the hopper. Nepotism rocks. His blog covers his experiences as a new father, his memories of the good/bad old days, and most importantly, his efforts to push forward as a writer. 

Honestly, the man has a direct, workmanlike approach to the situation that's provided me with a lot of good ideas already. He decided to target specific markets and write to them directly. This is the kind of thing that raises my artistic hackles, but you know what? 

His work improved dramatically, he placed all his stories... 

It's true.  It's worked.  I've placed everything I write by targeting a specific magazine.  By actually reading them.  But at what cost?  I raised a man's hackles.

Actually, the cost is nothing, and it's self-evident, and no artistic integrity has been spared.  I don't know where this aversion to compromise comes from, if that's even what it is.  Personally I'd call it common sense, even if I was guilty of violating its tenets before.  I think it's inbreed, a collective artistic unconscious, or maybe it's simply bad advice that gets passed down unchecked, part of the "live your dreams" and "you can be anything you want to be" and "never stop believing" crap shoved down our throats. These mandates are nice.  In theory.  But to keep trying to be a pitcher for the Yankees when you are pushing 40 and can barely crack 80 mph, is pretty stupid. Like we said yesterday:

Then again how do you explain Freddy Garcia?

This is the good.  The bad would be what Jimmy pointed out, my need to make sure everyone knows I won a Bullet Award.  The ugly would be when I run into old friends named Sam in the Whole Foods that I need to make sure she knows I now have a big house in the hills, because she knew me (God forgive me for using this expression) "back in the day" when I was a little worm.  But it's all the same.  I need everyone to know I rose from the swarth and squalor, that I'm not the same skinny kid eating pizza crusts from trash cans, ripping off dealers, begging for a cotton; I don't hang out with ex-cons and pushers and killers.  Now I just write about them.

And it's getting me noticed.  I think.  I hope.  I fucking need.

Diesel

I finally got around to starting my new short story, Nix Verrida.  (In case you missed it, you can read about the impetus here: http://tinyurl.com/, title slightly changed).  Should be a good one.  I am hoping to crack the upper tier with it.  


There isn't a whole lot of reward with short stories.  You don't get paid.  You rarely get a book deal out of it (although a couple ex-classmates of mine have). And in many ways they are actually harder than writing a novel.  So in short, you've got a lot of work, for next to no reward.  Kind of like the writing profession itself, only suckier.  But there is some payback.  Just comes in spurts and fits.  The biggest reward, you are told as you start out, must be the work itself.  And in a way that's true.  As an artist of any kind, you have to take great solace in a job well done. But on the other hand, it's sorta a load of shit. Because, yeah, you feel good turning a clever phrase, delivering that knock-out final line, but writers, for the most part, have big, black empty holes inside themselves that need to be filled with validation and acceptance, which creates an interesting juxtaposition: individuals in more dire need of a hug than any other faction of society in a field dominated by degrees of rejection.  But don't let me speak for you.  You might be one of those confident, self-assured writers who doesn't need the acceptance of strangers to make you feel worthwhile, and if that's the case, seriously, God bless you.  Keep at it, best of luck, and I hope to see your work in the bookstores someday.  But me, I'm a goddamn vacuous ball of need.  But validation does come and it will keep you going.  Think of it like fuel for the writing engine.  And yesterday, brother, I was running low, the gears sputtering (like when Justine ran out of gas a couple weeks ago, late at night, in East Oakland, a scary scene).  I was limping, didn't see a filling station in sight, and we'll stop there with this marginally entertaining conceit.  


Then I found this:  
http://www.spinetinglermag.com/2011/04/22/conversations-with-the-bookless-todd-robinson/


Todd Robinson is the editor of Thuglit, whose praises I've sung often.  The magazine is currently on hiatus, but I was published in it three times, in fact with three of my favorite stories I've ever written.  You can find everything Thuglit at http://www.thuglit.com/.  And I hope they come back soon. Because I fucking love that magazine.  But this isn't another post about my love of Thuglit.  Well, maybe it is, but in a different way.  


That above link is for an interview Todd gave with Spinetingler back in April. I'd been putting off starting Nix Verrida, because starting a first draft sucks balls, and was checking what my favorite writers are up to these days. There's a whole glut of new noir writers (guys like Todd, Matthew Funk, Mckay Williams, Frank Bill, Keith Rawson, and if I've omitted your name here, it's just an oversight, because there are at least half a dozen more of these guys who are writing kick-ass, cold-cocked crime/noir fiction, with work peppering the best noir ezines (Shotgun Honey, Dirty Noir, Needle, Crimefactory, etc.)  


Anyway, the interview.  So I'm reading it and you should do the same, because it's pretty fucking insightful, but if you're pressed for time, or just lazy, toward the bottom, they ask Todd this: 

Who is the best short story writer that people haven’t gotten hip to yet?

Another tough one. Again, with all the guys I got to read in Thuglit…

Here’s a short list: Frank Bill, Jordan Harper, Justin Porter, Matt Funk, Jedidiah Ayres, Joe Clifford (italics mine). All guys with whom I worked with on Thuglit, all bookless but for Frank Bill (although that might be changing soon for a couple of those names). Whenever I got a submission from any of them, I’d get excited. Even if it wasn’t a story that made the cut, it was always an interesting read.

You know how cool that was?  Seeing my name like that?  I've been getting my ass handed to me on this book, and yeah, my short stories have been getting taken at a dizzying clip--but that was, like, two weeks ago.  My car don't run on fuel that's two weeks old.  Gaps in validation is spread out like dog years.  And I joke a lot on this blog about what a needy mutherfucker I am, because that's what I'm supposed to do as a writer, mine my depths, shine unflattering lights and all, and I don't think people want to read about how well-adjusted and happy I am.  But it's not like I lie in a quivering ball in my bathroom.  I bitch, and I complain, but by and large, I am like (most of) the rest of you.  Sort of.  I get through my day, and I try to be a good dad, and I do my best to keep my demons at bay, even if it isn't always pretty.  Still, getting unexpected props from a writer and editor you respect?  Fuck, man, I started cranking out Nix Verrida on the fumes alone.  

So I'd like to return the plug, although I don't think we get quite the traffic Spinetingler does.  You can click on the ST link of his name and get some stories (although Pulp Pusher, sadly, is no more).  And here is Todd's latest in Shotgun Honey (http://www.shotgunhoney.net/author/todd-robinson-2), which earned him a much-deserved Bullet Award.  And as always, I strongly encourage you to check out Thuglit or one of its various awesome anthologies (http://tinyurl.com/3celz72).  I know Todd and his agent are currently pushing his novel, The Hard Bounce, and I'm banking that will be out soon.

And I'd like to thank Todd for doing a brother a solid.  The guy has been one of my biggest advocates, publishing my stories, blurbing my novel, and putting me on par with some truly amazing and talented writers.

See?  I can be fucking gracious and positive.

Shotgun Honey

Just went up this morning--please read it.  It won't take long.  It's 700 words. 


http://www.shotgunhoney.net/2011/08/one-good-reason-by-joe-clifford.html.  
Shotgun Honey has fast become my new favorite ezine (taking the place of my dearly beloved Thuglit, which is on indefinite hiatus).  SH is a little different, though, all flash noir, 700 words or less. Which is challenging to say the least. It's run by Kent Gowran, Ron Earl Phillips, and Sabrina Ogden.  This magazine was actually the first (after the "Dancing: A Love Story in Five Parts" experiment [http://monkeybicycle.net/dancing-a-love-story-in-five-parts/]--but Monkeybicycle would be the sweet, sensitive little brother to Shotgun's abusive uncle who drinks too much and likes to shoot squirrels and shit from his trailer window) where I implemented my new strategy of actually reading these magazines before submitting, which, as you know if you follow this blog, has worked like a fucking charm.  And the real winner here was me, because Shotgun Honey is terrific, fast, in-your-face, kick-ass crime noir fiction, like a bullet to the brain, in under a minute or two.  Scroll down the right hand side (after you read my story, of course), and you'll see a who's who in the current world of noir, from Allan Guthrie (http://criminal-e.blogspot.com/), to Keith Rawson (http://www.crimefactoryzine.com/main/Home.html), to Thuglit's editor Todd "Big Daddy Thug" Robinson (http://thuglit.com/), with a lot of great noir writers in between.  So today, instead of having you read my ranting and bitching about how the world has done me wrong (in between my tender musings on my son and blissful life of redemption), I urge you to check out Shotgun Honey (http://www.shotgunhoney.net/) and these writers.  I promise you won't be disappointed.   And if you don't like a particular story, stick around.  Like an Elvis Costello song, another will be along in a few minutes. (But you'll like the stories.  Unless you are a tender li'l guy [or gal] who is easily offended and put off by blood, guns, hot chicks, and people doing very bad things.  Bit if you were, you probably wouldn't be reading this blog. You'd be Nicholas Sparks.  And you don't have to do that. I've already done that for you (http://tinyurl.com/3m49wbw).