Robin Lippincott writes like a Creative Writing teacher. Although his new novel, In the Meantime
begins beautifully with a preface of three short childhood memories, wide-angled and crisp—quite the trick—the body of the story immediately falls over itself with self-satisfaction. Listen to this:
And so the three friends flourished and floundered, floundered and flourished, as the seconds and the minutes and the hours and the days, the weeks and the months and the years, piled up and eventually collapsed and got buried underneath the sheer accumulation of time. Those nine months at school—how cruel and preposterous that the academic year had seemingly been designed to equal, in time, the gestation period of a human being from conception to birth, as if the two were somehow on par, equal—those interminable nine months, out of a miserly twelve in the year—even the clock and the calendar were unjust!—semed to distort and flatten time to Katie, Luke and Star (especially since, for children, there is only the present), and it was for them usually more a matter of flounder than flourish as, irritated, anxious and bored, they tossed and turned, flipped and flopped in their weekday school dests and their nightly beds, like fish out of water. Ah, but during those now sepia-tinted and sun-kissed summers, the season of their first meeting, when they were not, day by day, confined to desks and duties and doctrines—prisons all! Yes, in the summertime their skin breathed, their minds roamed free, their bodies grew and developed and shone in the sun, and their sleep was largely peaceful, dream-filled, and undisturbed.
I've noticed that a lot of Creative Writing teachers write like this, excessively. I think the job is the problem. Mr Lippincott can write, but the nature of his profession insulates him from the words "Cut the bullshit."
Let's take the paragraph and cut the bullshit.
And so the three friends flourished and floundered, floundered and flourished, as the seconds and the minutes and the hours and the days, the weeks and the months and the years, piled up and eventually collapsed and got buried underneath the sheer accumulation of time.
He's listening to himself read this stuff outloud in class.
Those nine months at school—how cruel and preposterous that the academic year had seemingly been designed to equal, in time, the gestation period of a human being from conception to birth, as if the two were somehow on par, equal—those interminable nine months, out of a miserly twelve in the year—even the clock and the calendar were unjust!—
And here, with the aside, is he trying to tell us that he, the author, is even smarter than he, the author?
seemed to distort and flatten time to Katie, Luke and Star (especially since, for children, there is only the present), and it was for them usually more a matter of flounder than flourish as, irritated, anxious and bored, they tossed and turned, flipped and flopped in their weekday school desks and their nightly beds, like fish out of water.
We got the fish metaphor.
Ah, but during those now sepia-tinted and sun-kissed summers, the season of their first meeting, when they were not, day by day, confined to desks and duties and doctrines—prisons all! Yes, in the summertime
More editorializing. Useful tip: whenever you smile and say —Wow, that was really clever, what I just wrote there— cross it out.
their skin breathed, their minds roamed free, their bodies grew and developed and shone in the sun, and their sleep was largely peaceful, dream-filled, and undisturbed.
Again, there's no doubt that Mr Lippincott can write —but I have no idea if he can tell a story.
Not to end on a sour note, here's a guy who shines. The story's about a boy, and it's completely beside the point that the mom is Chinese, a nurse, and always quoting Confucius, and the dad is unemployed, a drunk, a virulent anti-American and owner/operator of numerous firearms, for the weirdness and awe is always about being a kid. Remember when knowledge was closely associated with taste—a screen door, the bud of an elm tree, white crayons? This writing is all about details, and they are fresh, sometimes brutal, always a revelation.
I sat for a portrait at school.
Soon afterward, I received a paper sheet of wallet-sized prints. When I studied the proofs, I saw that I looked a lot like my mother, and not at all like the rest of my classmates.
With scissors, I cut the pictures apart and stored them in a drawer.
One day, I asked a girl if she would trade pictures with me. She said yes and gave her photo in an envelope. Later, when I opened the package, I saw that the photo was not of her, but of another girl in school.
* * *
On the way home, my father stopped at a bar. He led me inside, and we sat at a Formica-topped table. I had a soft drink, while he had a bourbon and a beer.
When we got back into the car, he said, "I'm going to take this boat places."
He sat for a long time with his head againzt the steering wheel. Then he turned the key, raced the engine and shot out of his parking space.
* * *
A boy who lived nearby took me fishing. When we got to the creek, he pointed to trout where they lay, camouflaged against the sand.
He dropped in his bait and almost immediately hooked a fish. After he lifted it onto the bank, he said, "You have to whack it out."
He grabbed the fish by its middle and hammered its head against a stone. The fish quivered, then stopped moving.
"Let's go fishing again tomorrow," the boy said.
The next morning, I put on my hip boots, picked up my gear and walked to the boy's house. When I knocked on the door, his mother answered.
"We're supposed to go fishing," I said.
"He's not home," she told me.
Tetched: A Novel in Fractals
, a collection of short stories by Ryunosuke Akutagawa (Archipelago Books). Written at the turn of the century, they are little masterpieces of technical control and ranging emotion. 