Do you remember that scene in High Fidelity when Rob comes into Championship, limping? Dick and Barry are standing at the counter listening to the tape by Vince and Justin?
“Who is this,” Rob says.
“vince and Justin,” Dick says
“Who?” Rob asks.
“Those little skate fuckers,” Barry says.
“No way,” Rob says.
“Yes way. It’s really . . . It’s really fucking good,” Barry says.
And Barry hates admitting that it’s really fucking good.
That’s kind of how I feel right now. Last night, before bed I read The Hottie’s short story. As much as I hate to admit it, I was kind of hoping The Hottie’s story would be a little bad. Not Dead on Page 12 bad or UN Navy bad. But just a little bad.
But it’s not bad at all. In fact it is really fucking good. It’s Kelly’s “Advanced Woods” good. It’s Hipster Mom’s “Sixty-five Roses”good. It’s Judy’s “Imposition of Ashes” good.
The Hottie’s story is different, not a traditionally structured story at all. It’s got an unusual point of view and is told almost like a letter. It’s that thing that I strive for and fail at every time — Fresh.
When you take workshop classes it’s not often that you run across things that are really fucking good. You get a lot of good stuff, stuff that has really fucking good potential with a little bit of polish. But the really fucking good is rare.
I haven’t written anything that’s really fucking good yet, and I’m so jealous I could eat my own spleen.