Yellowface
Certain book titles kept getting thrown in my face, Yellowface being one. Amazon, Kindle, Apple, plus the two local libraries I prefer, everything pushed the title. In a weak moment, between potboiler thrillers, I checked a copy out of the library.
The novel’s premise is a writer, who grabs a dead author’s manuscript.
Every writer I know feels this way about someone else. Writing is such a solitary activity. You have no assurance that what you’re creating has any value, and any indication that you’re behind in the rat race sends you spiraling into the pits of despair. Page 12.
But it is writing about writing, and that scares me.
Dead author, live (back-listed) author with an edited version of the dead one’s manuscript, and see where it goes.
Me, with “southern” heritage, as it were, I’m acutely aware of racial bias, and then, living in South Texas, more so.
It’s only through a buddy that I’ve seen the micro-aggressions, and the tiniest bit of prejudice, purely based on skin and appearance. Again, to me, he’s just a November Sagittarius, with all our pitfalls, foibles, and gratuitous garrulous gregariousness. (It’s a Sag. thing).
“But that’s the fate of a storyteller. We become nodal points for the grotesque.” Page 91.
That is the fate of a storyteller. Pointed critic, too.
“Two wrongs don’t make a right, obviously, but the internet is very bad at recognizing this.” Page 146.
The inter-webs are, indeed, slow at picking up self-parody ire.
“Writing is the closest thing we have to real magic. Writing is creating something out of nothing, is opening doors to other lands. Writing gives you power to shape your own world when the real one hurts too much.” Page 186.
Really lightweight intense text about life, death, art, and craft. Great winter reading with a sly stab at the academic programs that produce art.
