Q: “Oxditch Prize” is too literary.
Most readers aren’t going to know the poem “Round,” by Weldon Kees.
Or care.
A: That’s what a search engine is for.
Type in Weldon Kees, Round, and read the poem.
In Panic, William H. Macy says to Neve Campbell, “Nice feet.”
Rent Panic from Netflix.
Q: Did you watch When Will I Be Loved again?
A: Yes. It
was too scatterbrained for me, too disjointed.
Too James Toback on the fly.
We watched Bugsy the other night.
Fingers.
Q: Quentin Tarrantino taught himself to write movies in a video store. Working in a video store was his film school.
A: Yes.
Going to movies.
Listening to records after work and getting drunk.
I got my two hours a day of writing in.
Q: Do you still read as much?
A: I read a lot. I don’t drink anymore. And I don’t work.
That gives me
more time to write. To think about the
writing.
For a writer—or a reader—life is literary. It’s how we process information. How we see the world. Apprehend what we see. We are all absent-minded professors. Approaching senility.
When reality is surreal, surrealism is realism.
How can anything be too literary?
How can anyone be overqualified?