YOU CAN’T MAKE THIS STUFF UP: A POLITICALLY INCORRECT SATIRE OF THE DEMISE OF A WRITERS’ GROUP

BY: SARANYA MURTHY ? 2020

Dedicated with affection and great love to Martha Abdel and Barbara Weigel. 

“Don’t stop me now … because I’m having a good time, having a good time!”

-- “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen. Lyrics composed and performed by the immortal Freddie Mercury

It’s December, a week before the Christmas Holidays. I’m meeting with my group, “The Write Stuff,” for our Christmas party. It’s been a heck of a year. I feel honored and privileged to have been permitted to cavort among literary giants of their magnitude and standing.

The party begins. In the first five minutes, Ernest Hemingway proves that he is good at breaking all the rules … and not just those of writing.

“If you had read the first part, you would understand,” he pompously lectures each reviewer. It appears that the craft of writing is less about stringing words together in a meaningful way and more about learning to read the esteemed Mr. Hemingway’s mind and perceive the world through his own narrow, limited, rigid lens.

The party treads on. Sue Grafton presents a lovely offering – a warm, cozy fireside mystery, the kind the Hallmark Channel would snap up in a heartbeat. Not so the men in our group. Most of them are quick to snub, rebuke, criticize, finger-wag and find fault. 

“I didn’t like Lines 59-73 that Sheila liked so much,” Hemingway pouts. I wonder whether I am the main target of his rather pointed dislike, Lines 59-73 being mere literary roadkill, suffering by association with one so clearly lacking in taste and discernment. I pity the innocent lines and attempts to convey wordless sympathy as Hemingway harps on.

“It contributed nothing to the story! What was the point?” he gripes.

Rowling and I exchange glances that say if a person cannot see the ‘point’ of an artistic attempt for himself, it would be the act of a lunatic who does not value life to attempt to explain it to him. I bite back a smile as I reflect that Hemingway appears to be taking the story’s alleged ‘flaws’ a little too personally. I speculate on the sort of early life experiences that could have engendered so much self-hatred.

Salman Rushdie takes a gander at the story next. Quill in hand and supremely conscious of the weight of his opinion, he dabs at the print, dispensing praise and criticism, this way and that.

“I couldn’t see any difference between the two female leads,” he gripes. Rowling and I raise our eyebrows at each other. There are some individuals whose only qualifiers for distinguishing members of the female sex are ‘those who are willing to wait on me hand and foot’ and ‘those who are not … yet.’ Shades of “The Handmaid’s Tale” … brr. In distant Canada, Margaret Atwood shudders.

It is my turn next. I present my story.

“I’m really sick of the main character,” Rushdie grumbles. I reflect that this may be a fair criticism if you have been subjected to a piece more than once, as I have. However, it’s a natural side effect of belonging to multiple Writers’ Groups with member overlap. And I still think you could find something civil to say, as I have done.

Rushdie expounds on his theme of being unable to distinguish between two female characters. Nothing will shake his unassailable conviction that the fault must necessarily lie with the writer. I am reminded of a parable where two American tourists visit the Louvre and see the Mona Lisa. The husband turns to his wife and says, “I don’t see what the big deal is about this painting.” Another gentleman overhears and smiles. He turns to his companion and says, “It isn’t the Mona Lisa that’s being judged.”

“Cherry, Marcia; Marcia, Cherry. They’re all the same,” Rushdie intones. I beseech sisters everywhere – real and imagined – to grant me patience. Ever present, they instantly arrive in a body. I am surrounded by Bennetts, Brontes, Ingalls and Marches. How altogether jolly! Kitty Bennett tugs at my elbow and when she has my attention, pulls my head close to hers and whispers confidingly in my ear,

“Don’t worry. People thought I was superfluous too!”

“You’re kidding!” I exclaim. “Didn’t they see what an excellent foil you were for the others?”

Kitty shakes her head as if to say, “Nobody understands me,” and cuddles closer, demanding with urgent intensity to be loved. I place an arm around her and in my haste to console, forget all about Salman Rushdie.

Needless to say, Salman is put out at being forgotten. He wags his finger at me to command my attention.

“You need to figure out who you’re writing this novel for and why,” he intones.

I find myself bewildered as to why on earth some guy off the street would inveigle himself with this kind of authority, simply because I chose to join a writing club which he founded. I both envy and resent the ease with which some men assume authority, especially when there is none to assume. It baffles me. Speaking for myself, I have no desire to exert power over anybody. I consider it far better to wield influence. My goal is to tap into intrinsic motivation.

Having said his piece, Salman sits back, conscious that the brevity of his usually thoughtful commentary also serves as a cutting insult.

Jenny Han, a newcomer to our group (who will probably never return after tonight’s fiasco) is eager to pour oil on troubled waters. Not unlike the protagonist of her own YA novel. I am grateful for her sympathy.

“I don’t dislike Ponyboy,” she says soothingly. Her face wears the expression of, “I can’t believe that guy, Rushdie, was so rude!” and also, “Why did I think coming here was a good idea?”

After Han delivers her critique (an appropriate questioning of a technical point, which only serves to showcase her interest, engagement and delight in the story, as well as her own exquisite attention to detail), it is P.G. Wodehouse’s turn. Thankfully, he is that rare breed of homo sapiens – the enlightened man.

“I don’t dislike Ponyboy either,” he assures me. He’s very self-aware. “I like that he was able to connect with his guidance counselor. I used to be a guidance counselor.” His warmth and comfort are soothing and kind. He understands youth and unlike some men, he understands that he used to be one. He remembers what it was like to be young.

Rowling wonders aloud whether she is alone in liking Ponyboy. She has a sense of humor.

Hemingway has never been a huge fan of my protagonist (understatement of the century!) When his turn arrives, he becomes positively vitriolic. 

“I’m glad Salman said all that!” he explodes. “Because before I didn’t like this kid and now I really don’t like him!” He proceeds to yell and rant while Salman looks sulky at the volcano he is now somehow responsible for having allowed to erupt. 

I confess myself a bit perplexed as to why an individual’s acrid dislike of a character is somehow perceived as a valid critique of the overall work. The fact that one does not ‘like’ the protagonist in no way negates the work’s right to exist. The thought crosses my mind that Hemingway would not ‘like’ Holden Caulfield, either. However, I don’t see him breaking into Barnes and Noble to systematically destroy all copies of “Catcher in the Rye.” On second thought, I’d better not give him any ideas.

Hemingway accuses me of inserting myself into my protagonist. I somehow get the impression that I’m on trial and hastily look around for a lawyer. Unnecessary, because in Hemingway’s mind, there are no Miranda rights for what he considers literary crimes. Little flecks of spittle escape the sides of his mouth as he continues his monologue. I begin to fear for his sanity. I also fear for the sanitation of the printed copy I unwittingly handed him.

The unofficial administrator, Norman Mailer, ordinarily a stickler for rules such as critiques proceeding from the reader’s left, allows this monstrosity to continue unfettered. This is one of the blatant examples of partiality that I have never really been able to forgive.

Hemingway says something that gives me pause for thought. “He used to be a dummy and now he’s supposed to be this smart kid! It’s inconsistent!” he bellows and glares at me, as if daring me to reply. When it becomes evident that I am not going to take the bait, instead meeting his many vindictive pronouncements with a calm silence, interested expression and pleasant demeanor, he FINALLY stops shouting. Or perhaps he just ran out of steam. Regardless of the cause, I’m sure the library patrons welcomed the sudden reduction in decibel level. “Hemingway has vented his spleen,” an announcement blares. “All is calm.” He really did seem to vomit out his words. He sits there, attempting to catch his breath.

The accusation of inconsistency is interesting, I find myself thinking, because it was a flaw I had identified in his story (which he hastily defended, irritated that members of “The Write Stuff” could have the temerity to bring perspectives born out of life experiences that did not perfectly mirror his own). It seems that Hemingway doesn’t so much listen to what you say about his story as he stores away negative comments to fling at you later, when it’s your turn.

Also, I don’t remember writing anything that said or implied that the protagonist was quote, ‘a dummy.’ Just because a person does not get good grades at school or professes not to care about grades is no measure of his or her intelligence. Wodehouse, the guidance counselor, would probably have something to say about that. But, I digress. “Brevity!” as Hemingway and Rushdie demanded of Grafton’s story. We must press on.

Harper Lee has been watching the proceedings with a quirked eyebrow and an amused expression that clearly says, “Whatever, losers.” Now that it’s her turn to comment, a turn she probably felt was far too long in coming, she makes her observations in a firm, no-nonsense tone.

“I absolutely loved it. So don’t listen to any of that nonsense,” she counsels me. Sage words of wisdom for us all. As a wise therapist once said, “If you have an opinion and another person has a different opinion, it doesn’t mean that person is right and you are wrong. It just means that person has that opinion and that’s all it means.

Lee concludes her review with some pithy observations about plot, character and relationships. I thank the group and retrieve my copies.

Diana Gabaldon timorously offers her short story. She asks me to read. I begin but am rudely interrupted by Norman Mailer who barks out that not everyone has a copy. I found his manner repellent. It’s a shame he can’t be equally attentive to and controlling of problematic group dynamics. And there’s a more civil way of pointing this out instead of barking at people. 

I read Gabaldon’s story. When it’s Rushdie’s turn to comment, he sniffily observes, “There’s more to be said about the mind that came up with this story than the story itself.” Gabaldon gapes at him, as if to ask, “Did you really just say that?” I long to observe that this is an “insult-iment” (portmanteau of ‘insult’ and ‘compliment’). However, Rushdie is already in a peculiar mood and even the most innocuous comment from yours truly would provoke him unnecessarily.

At last, long last, the meeting ends. The men, save Wodehouse who had to leave early, rush out, completely oblivious to the trays of food still sitting there, waiting to be cleaned up. Apparently, the mere bringing of food sufficiently over-taxed their sense of responsibility. The women stare at each other in dismay. Sue Grafton’s face clearly asks, “Is the library supposed to clean this up?” We look at each other, as if seeking reassurance that the year is, in fact, 2018 and we are not stuck in some absurd Donna Reed parody. The Bennetts and Brontes have given up and gone home, shaking their heads and wringing their hands over this sorry state of affairs. “I’ll have something to say to Elizabeth Cady Stanton about this,” Jo March vows as she departs. 

The year is 2018. Donald Trump has been President of the United States for two years, defeating Hillary Clinton after she made history by becoming the first female nominee of a major American political party. 

The literary ladies were quite right. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

BY: SARANYA MURTHY, alias S.E. HINTON, author of the beloved and enduring YA novel, “The Outsiders”

Any resemblance to real people is not coincidental. #ExorcisingADemon