We have to wait a few more months for the most highly anticipated work of American letters in recent memory, a certain instant classic--remember, David Foster Wallace ain't got nothing on this woman's writing--but four pages of Dirty Blonde: The Diaries of Courtney Love have been released so that we can all bask in her literary glory:
Notes are written next to and over the memorabilia, such as this thought: "There is no such thing as girl love, because all cool girls are competitive c---s, which is worth loving in itself, so it's okay. Just don't pretend it's otherwise! Celebrate the reality!"
Other notes are less-than-celebratory, such as her realization that she is "a public figure unhappy with my share of the American dream. There can only be one reason for this. I am on drugs, and have the morals and mentality of a cartoon character. What did I want after all??" This is written next to a 1976 rejection letter from the New Mickey Mouse Club for "Coco Rodriguez" — a name she may have adopted while living with stepdad Frank Rodriguez. Since the show was looking for "youngsters who have exceptional singing, dancing, or musical ability, with a marked degree of performance experience," they told her she did not qualify, and as a consolation prize, gave her a picture of Mickey Mouse.
Sorry about the above. To get the taste of whatever you call that off your literary palette, you should head over to the Litblog Co-op for this week's discussion of our Read This! selection, Television by Jean-Philippe Toussaint.
Dawn Goldsmith's kids have all grown, but there's one thing that she can't let go of:
Now that I'm without wee ones, I pretend to go into the local bookstores to peruse the CDs, DVDs, and mystery novels. But in truth, I'm waiting for a chance to head for the children's books. There I stand and read as fast as I can until some child catches me and suggests that I buy the book or read at home. Yes, it actually happened when I was reading my favorite children's book of all time: "Click, Clack, Moo," by Doreen Cronin.
This is a nice sentiment, but I'm not sure I trust the corporate publishers enough to be arbiters of what is truly good much less care enough to do the work of pushing the best writers even when they don't see the $$$ in the end:
If books matter, if they are to remain different from packets of detergent, the ball is in the publishers’ court. Publishers, after all, still like to think of themselves as midwives to ideas and patrons of beauty. They do not want to be just another consumer trade. They still trail clouds of glory (albeit apologetically, tucked discreetly under the jacket during sales conferences). So publishers have got to find new ways to inform and fascinate the public. Perhaps they need to bring out fewer books, more carefully; certainly they need to expand publicity departments and work out ever craftier ways to use the internet and other media. Maybe they should club together for a national speech or TV network and do readings all day, every house having an hour to showcase the books it really rates. Maybe Amazon and downloadable e-books will finally give the high street a bloody nose.
And because I'm going to be a little lonely this week, my wife having boarded a southbound plane this morning to attend a shower being thrown for her (and Marlena), I plan on listening to nothing but bluegrass. Like the song "Nowhere to Sleep" from fellow Triangleinians Chatham County Line.
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