An Advanced Warning
It's a B.Y.O.R Event
Writers, start your engines…
It’s a different world. In 1990 we could bring our shit to Tom’s workshop, safe in the knowledge that it wouldn’t stray far. If one of our fellows cribbed our idea, we’d know. Nowadays, it’s not realistic to expect writers to present their solid-gold, sure-fire concept here or in a public reading, yet expect their intellectual property to stay theirs. That’s a reality I resist — that, and I expect Kurt Cobain is out there still alive and yukking it up — but even Chuck has to face the music.
Our December 13th “Letters to Santa” event was a success because everyone started with the same premise: A two-page letter to Santa Claus.” And each person shined for their skill in executing their own warped vision. Among them was Joe’s dazzling depiction of sexing up a department store Santa in the Mens Room. Jolly-fucking-hilarious. This predetermined format showcased skill without asking writers to risk exposing their best, sure-fire ideas. So moving forward, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll start with a shared premise, limit the outcome to two pages — aboutish 600 words — and see where people take the same, shared set-up.
To use what little I recall of my education in Journalism, a news story consists of the “Peg” and the “Angle.” At least in 1983 it did. The Peg was the core idea; for instance, let’s write a story about a pristine New England village. The Angle is the approach we’ll take in telling the story; for example, let’s tell the story from the POV of a nice housewife who gets stoned to death by her family and neighbors. As you can see, the Angle is at least as important as the Peg, arguably more important.
As people used to say, “It’s not the meat, it’s the motion.” Or, “It’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean.”
Put another way, a big reason I quit Alcoholics Anonymous is because other alcoholics would occasionally suss me out. They’d ask me to coffee, and instead of a nice chat, they’d pitch me some version of, “I have this great idea that the story of me beating my wife/alienating my kids/driving the wrong way on the freeway/becoming redeemed… that it would make a great book/movie, and you should write it.” And then as added incentive, says, “And we’ll split the profits.” And then as added-added incentive, “And it will bring your career out of the doldrums.” And pity the writer who politely says some version of, “Why the holy hell would I devote all that time and effort to your spec project? And Writing is Actually Hard Work?” Yeah, no, Once the cheery alcoholic grasps that this is a Hard Pass, they explode. Declining their idea equates to negating their entire hard-won life and sobriety, and that means getting yelled at by a near-total stranger known only to you my his first name — Hi, I’m Eric, and I’m an alcoholic — at a Starbucks. Trust me, Eric, it’s not your meat. It’s the fact that I’ll have to move the entire fucking ocean to make this banal idea happen. No, thanks.
It’s seldom so much the idea as it is the execution of the idea.
When my book Choke was floating around Hollywood looking for a movie deal, it came with a special caveat. Everyone warned everyone, “It’s very ‘execution dependent’.” Meaning, the material is risky, but a film will work if someone finds the right way to present it.
Thus, it is with a shared, neutral basis that we’ll each have a chance to strut our ability. How will you treat the topic?
Which brings us to the next set-up…
In 1948 Shirley Jackson published her infamous short story, The Lottery, in The New Yorker. Chaos ensued, and said chaos put Jackson on the map of American letters. In fact, letters poured into the magazine, the most letters The New Yorker had ever gotten in response to a work of fiction. Much of this correspondence was enraged subscribers unsubscribing. Jackson, it seems, was delighted by the shit storm. As recently as 2020, the biopic Shirley shows Jackson holed up in North Bennington, VT, a little hounded by starry-eyed readers of the story. However, by my own childhood in the 70s the story was printed in our grade school text book. And several film versions exist. That’s how far Jackson’s outrageous story had infiltrated the culture.
For a wonderful audio version, click here.
Can you name another short story first published in 1948? Without searching the web? I thought not. That said, we’re not writing to be liked — we’re writing to be remembered. Jackson died in 1965 at the age of 48.
Stories such as The Lottery are, to my mind, a gauntlet thrown down. Years ago, I wrote the short story Guts as an experiment to see what the culture might currently reject. When The Guardian published my story in their Sunday literary supplement, and subscribers dropped like flies, I was tickled pink. In fact Playboy had rejected Guts until their fiction editor saw me read it at the Union Square Barnes and Noble in Manhattan. As people in the crowd fainted, the magazine’s fiction editor invited my agent to drinks at the W Hotel next door and offered a contract. As further proof of the small world we live it, a decade later I found myself pitching something to HBO where the head of programming told me she’d been present that same night and been stunned to see her boyfriend faint beside her. Most-most recently Neil McRobert of Talking Scared told me that I was now known mainly as the author of Guts instead of Fight Club.
As further-further proof of the smallness of this world, a friend of mine in the Cacophony Society was friends with one of Jackson’s daughters. Long story short, Shirley Jackson’s cremains arrived at my house via the U.S. Mail1. Mike intuitively knew what the box contained, and fixed me with a divorce stare, and said, “Do not open that at the kitchen table.” I opened it. The cardboard box AND the clear-plastic bag within, and there were Shirley Jackson’s crunchy, grey ashes in my kitchen!!!!
Dreams do come true.
And, no, I did not cut Shirley into fat rails and snort her brilliant goodness, but that’s only because of Mike being present, saying unhelpful things like, “Do you always have to be such a fucking jerk?” See, it’s fun to live with a writer.
Which brings us to the new writing assignment…
Jason at The Cavern, and I, have been planning a B.Y.O.R2. event to celebrate Jackson’s great story. The writing prompt is: “Letters to Shirley Jackson.”
As with the December event, the limit is 600-ish words. That’s about two pages. And it must be in the form of a letter written to Shirley Jackson in response to the publication of The Lottery. As always, it’s not the meat, it’s the motion!
The writing prompt is: “Letters to Shirley Jackson.”
That’s the Peg. What will be your Angle? Consider any of the following, or invent your own:
A rage letter, cancelling your subscription and letting Jackson know that she’s No Dorothy Parker. And that America is a decent place, her twisted story not withstanding.
A patronizing letter expressing concern for Miss Jackson’s mental health and relating a heart-warming saga of your own beloved auntie who had similar scary ideas but finally found peace in the form of the miraculous new cure-all, the prefrontal lobotomy.
Take deep, personal offense to The Lottery. Tell Miss Jackson that the Republic of South Africa3 has banned this story because stoning is a real thing, and people still get stoned to death. And THIS IS NO LAUGHING MATTER, because, you, well, your own cousin almost got stoned this one time…
Keep in mind: “People only ask about your weekend so they can talk about theirs.” So kiss up to Jackson with faint praise, then pitch her with your own Great Idea which she should write, and then offer to split the profits, then offer to take her to the Academy Awards if she can’t get a date. Writers adore overt, patronizing manipulation.
Profess how reading her work has given you deep insight into Miss Jackson’s soul. You and she are kindred spirits, and you two belong together. And if you can’t have her, no one can. And right this very minute you’re outside her kitchen window with a knife, ready to make your love eternal in a shared-grave, Emily Dickinson way.
Now you’ve all got the same Peg. Invent your own Angle. Knock yourself out. But TWO PAGES. And if you ditch the premise, God help you. Everyone present will be holding rocks… duh.
IMPORTANT: There will, of course, be a stunt at the halfway point of the evening. Our World’s Largest Pop-Up Holiday Village was such a success that we’ll stage a similar tasteless spectacle. Remember to bring your rocks!! How the evening will go: Stories, then the stunt around 8:30, then more stories.
Keep your solid-gold ideas hidden. Bring your super-well-executed 600-word shit.
Jason and I will keep you posted about a date. Mostly likely it will be a Wednesday in the second half of March (right now, probably March 13th). That gives you a solid month to write your letter-slash-story.
To repeat: “Dear Shirley Jackson,”
Yes, in those days the mail service could ship precious cremains to me. These days they can’t even deliver a book to a nice person in Slovakia. The book has finally been returned to me, marked “Undeliverable.” Teeth gritting ensues.
Bring Your Own Rocks. Read the Jackson story. It will make sense.
True story.
You’re a better man than me because I’d be sniffing up lines of Shirley Jackson in quick succession in the vain hope that some of her talent rubs off on me.
Missed you!