Because You Never Asked

     (This essay was written around 2001. I recently had a conversation with a good friend which drifted into the subject of Frank McCort’s blockbuster best seller, “Angela’s Ashes”. Although my friend’s critique was more harsh than my own, neither of us liked it. It eventually became my opinion that these feel-good-American-Dream stories are easily marketed and generally favored by the omnipotent powers of “consecration”. This essay is an expression of that thought. I post it in 2006.)

     I recently realized that it has been almost a decade since I began writing this ever growing mass of dubious philosophical patter. The fact that its circulation has still not grown past a miniscule group of friends, family and acquaintance, has always been a source of minor but not crisis-like frustration for me. Having now lived this state of anonymity well into middle age, it’s a condition I am quite adjusted to.

     There are moments when this frustration does become a bit more palpable, when a perhaps too subjective feeling of injustice corrodes the affability of my daily routine and leads me into the generally negative terrain of spite, sarcasm and personal attack. This admittedly unhealthy feeling can get the better of me when I stumble upon a new author, one who is just beginning to reap the rewards of fame, adulation and monetary remuneration for what seems to be an inferior product. Put simply, why this garbage and not my enlightened brilliance? (This is no time for modesty.)

     As alluded to so long ago in my first essay with this lineage (see essay “On Sour Grapes”), trying to be a success in the written arts is an extremely haphazard endeavor which sails in uncharted waters lacking the proper buoys and navigational lights that can lead one safely to port. This is especially true if one lives outside any journalistic-academic environment. Unlike an athlete, who’s worth is so easily measured (keep hitting home runs, keep moving towards the Big Leagues), the written word does not lend itself to such simple evaluation. Who eventually runs aground or makes it safely to the port of literary “consecration” is deeply shrouded in the pea soup fogs of luck and who knows what roulette wheel destiny. Talent becomes just one of many factors.

     When it comes to “sour grapes”, the most obvious bitch is the many talented people who never make it. Undoubtedly, there are a not insignificant amount of people working away out there who are better than some of the “consecrated” writers we are able to browse at our local book stores. The less obvious flip side of this coin, that being the success of those who seem so mediocre, is a bit more difficult to explain. How did they get their big break? Why did someone who matters get behind them? Why is it that a passport size photo which probably makes the author look much better than she really is, now stare out at me from amidst the unmitigated praise for her work which occupies the back cover of her book, while I sit here writing this essay in extremely poor taste?

     Sour grapes, ladies and gentlemen, sour grapes.

     I recently discovered that one of the reasons my work has not escaped this mucky swamp of negligible diffusion, is that I am not a young, first generation, Hispanic woman. There seems to be some kind of stampede in the publishing industry to put these young women on the literary map. Over the course of the last year or so, I have been duped into reading (the fabulous reviews, etc.) at least 3 different volumes of short stories and non-fictional anecdotes by just such women. I suppose there is something quintessentially American in their lives: their childhoods in the “barrio”; their large, close knit families; their hard working, Spanish speaking parents sacrificing everything for the eventual triumph of their fully assimilated, English speaking child. These are “feel good” stories that pepper the bulls eye of the ”American Dream”. She studied, she worked, she persevered, she got scholarships and grants from egghead foundations and is now that intellectual artist peering out at me --- all covered in Aztec jewelry, faithful to her “roots” --- from that passport size photo on the back cover of her paper back success. (In truth, she ain’t too bad, if you know what I mean, which might explain her success better than anything else.)

     Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those anti-affirmative action types ranting and raving about how too many spics and niggers are beginning to wear wool sweaters and corduroy pants (see essay “Affirmative Action”). On the contrary, I’m pleased that the literary “players” are attracted to what these minority voices might have to say. What bothers me is that more often than not, they don’t seem to have much to say. I frequently find their stories and anecdotes insipid, trivial, hard to remember. I have trouble focusing on them. They are like light snow that doesn’t stick, gone and forgotten without a trace. “That’s it?” (The book which inspired this essay contains 26 short pieces, of which 3 or 4 seemed worthwhile. This is not a batting average that will keep you in the line up, unless you are the manager’s son, or something like that.)

     One day, while I was reading the collection of short stories in play here, I bumped into a good friend who happens to be a “consecrated” writer. He’s had a number of his works published and is encumbered with such things as an agent. His rakish, passport size photo has graced the back cover of books. I have had the opportunity to read a varying cross section of his work, published and unpublished, an experience that did not waste my time.

     That’s the good news.

     The bad news is that his published works, for reasons lost in the uncharted waters of the pea soup fog leading to literary success, have not rescued him from an anonymity similar to mine, with the logical inference of pecuniary failure. He is not the crass professional of “sour grapes” yours truly is, but he does, if prodded, show some symptoms.

     In any event, I began complaining to him about much of what has become the essence of this essay. When I had completed my diatribe (I had not mentioned names), the first word out of his mouth was the name of the author of the book I was reading. Such instantaneous corroboration of my feelings from a personally respected source, was somewhat cosmic in nature. It was like felling a huge tree with one ridiculously easy hatchet shot.

     When my friend, who is familiar with much of my work, suggested this essay, I had little trouble turning it into reality. Being that my lack of “consecration” gives me more leeway (I mean, really, who gives a shit about what I say?), I write this sour grapes essay for both of us.

     A routine aspect of almost all published books is the glowing reviews which festoon the book covers and perhaps an inside page or two. I have decided that the best way to transmit the purpose of this essay is to paraphrase these reviews with what would be my own book jacket remarks. I will not use the author’s real name for the following reason: in spite of my negative stance, I have far too much respect for her efforts to place her naked before the reader in such a compromised way. In the unlikely instance that someone might, in the course of their literary perusals, stumble upon both my work and hers, perhaps 2 and 2 can be put together. That is as far as I will go.

     I now paraphrase the reviews appearing on and in her latest book.

     “An amazingly forgettable collection --- fall asleep with it, discover TV sitcoms all over again with it.”

     “Now, for the first time in Spanish, in a gallant attempt to redeem the original English version, Carla Montoya barely and unnecessarily gives voice and life to a remarkably boring cast of characters, from an 11 year old girl who reveals secrets nobody could possibly want to waste their eyesight reading, to a witch who flies over a town and --- oh, who cares? These stories are full of useless discoveries, of moments of intimate and infinite lack of focus, that confirm Carla Montoya as a writer with a gift for knowing the right people at the right time.”

     “Carla Montoya celebrates life itself. Her prose is of a texture one can taste, savor and gag on.” Warning: any book containing the phrase “celebrates life itself” in its reviews, should be immediately incinerated.

     “These stories invite us to overlook characters as unique as cold weather in a Minnesota winter.”

     “These stories vibrate with all the passion of a hibernating bear. They breathe, laugh, cry, but say almost nothing.”

     “These are the wise works of a writer whose poetry of language plays a hand to hand with the fundamental virtuosity of her narrative.” Note: this last blurb is exactly as it appears on the book jacket. Could somebody please tell me what it means?

     Sour grapes, ladies and gentlemen, sour grapes. I apologize, but it feels so good.