It's been a long time since I've
added a writer of fiction to my list of authors whose work I search for
every time I discover a new bookstore. TC Boyle is The Man. Those of
you who know my passion for the writing of Frederick Barthelme know I
like my fiction modern, wry, and quirky, and TC fits the bill. Here's a
brief excerpt from his latest short story Chicxulub [the meteorite that hit Earth 65 million years ago]:
The
thing that disturbs me about Chicxulub, aside from the fact that it
erased the dinosaurs and wrought catastrophic and irreversible change,
is the deeper implication that we, and all our works and worries and
attachments, are so utterly inconsequential. Death cancels our
individuality, we know that, yes, but ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny,
and the kind goes on, human life and culture succeed us. That, in the
absence of God, is what allows us to accept the death of the
individual. But when you throw Chicxulub into the mix—or the next
Chicxulub, the Chicxulub that could come howling down to obliterate all
and everything even as your eyes skim the lines of this page—where does
that leave us?
This guy is prolific, and I have no idea why I've never
discovered him before. My fellow Sloggers Rich Pure & Simple and
Amy Worms of Endearment Stewart are both TC fans.
And he has something to say about writing, too. Here's a passage from his wonderful 1999 autobiographical essay This Monkey, My Back:
I can see how my
books and stories are tied inextricably, how the themes and
obsessions—the search for the father, racism, class and community,
predetermination versus free will, cultural imperialism, sexual war and
sexual truce—keep repeating. I can see this, but only in
retrospect. That’s the beauty of this addiction—you have to move
on, no retirement here, look out ahead, though you can’t see where
you’re going. First you have nothing, and then, astonishingly,
after ripping out your brain and your heart and betraying your friends
and ex-lovers and dreaming like a zombie over the page till you can’t
see or hear or smell or taste, you have something. Something
new. Something of value. Something to hold up and
admire. And then? Well, you’ve got a jones, haven’t
you? And you start all over again, with nothing.
PS: Here are three wonderful explanations of why we write, starting with TC's:
Writing
is a habit, an addiction, as powerful and overmastering an urge as
putting a bottle to your lips or a spike in your arm, the impulse to
make something out of nothing, -- TC Boyle
We write to give order and structure to a chaotic world. -- James Baldwin
I write because I wish to know what I think. -- Steve Raker
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MADE IN CANADA
trust your
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