At least I do. So it's always a relief when I hear about writers who are really crazy. Bless their hearts, they make me look normal.
I'm feeling downright ordinary today, thanks to an eye-roller I just read on the op-ed page of The New York Times. If you want to click through, you'll have to register, but I've said before that the Times is one of the online papers you should sign up for, because you don't want to miss gems like this one, which was titled, "Writing Inside the Box":
Over at the Flux Factory, an artists' collective in Long Island City, three fiction writers have agreed to isolate themselves in small writing cells for a project called "Novel: A Living Installation." Each has promised to finish a novel by June 4. That is 25 days away. Odds are that these will either be teeny-tiny novels or very bad ones.
No, I'm guessing they'll be teeny-tiny and bad.
But one has to hope that in a week or two, these writers will burst from their cubicles, repudiate their deadlines and return to the world in which literature is really made.
Yes. One devoutly hopes that. Because even for a trio of writers, that's pretty weird stuff.
This story was just too deliciously awful to let go, so after reading the Times article twice I cruised over to the Flux Factory's website to learn more. There's a schedule of viewing hours for gawkers who long to watch a real, live author sweat out a deadline, and I found lots of information about the project, including--
According to the author bios on the site, one of the nut-case authors is a woman. And as anyone who has been reading this blog and paying attention has learned, women aren't capable of Serious Writing. So while the two men might very well bang out short and bad but still artistic novels, the author who does not possess a Y chromosome is bound to screw up the entire project.
You just watch; she'll probably write something about feeding cats. And then Otto Penzler will nod sagely and say, "I told you so."