I read in a bookstore in a mall in Sarasota.
Nobody came. There was John Pyros, who organized
the reading, and his fiancée, and Brenda. In the bookstore proper
were two pyramids of books: Jane Fonda's exercise book and the first book
Jackie O acquired as an editor, after Onassis died: a coffeetable book
on Michael Jackson. Celebrities selling spin-off merchandise.
I had seen the future and it sucked. White ladies
and little colored boys who were confused about
their sexual identity. Things didn't look good
for Hick Lit. I called Chick Lit Chick Lite.
I was a throwback. An anachronism.
Someone who taught himself to write books
like Grove Press used to publish. The 10%
that didn't get the word. A loose can on the deck.
A troublemaker. Kevin Phillips says he can say things
in his books an academic wouldn't. A professional historian.
Why wouldn't they? What are they afraid of? Their shadow?
Haints and dragons? The Never-Ending War on Terror?
The Mother's March for Birth Defects?
Lies, damned lies, and statistics.