brianrayfiction.com Blog

Wrapping up another major revision of my new top secret novel. Book touring. Watching weird movies (Eraserhead, anyone?) What a summer. The latest cult film, Terry Gilliam’s Brazil, has got me thinking a lot about constraints, audience expectations, and creativity. No easy answers here, but I was stunned to find out how badly that film flopped in the US despite considerable success abroad. And, about fifteen years later, not even JK Rowling could convince Warner Bros to give the cult auteur a chance at the Harry Potter franchise. Of course, having swum the depths of Tim Burton’s career, the fact that big movie companies give creative directors a hard time doesn’t come as a surprise.

I’m of the mind Brazil’s US flop had nothing to do with Gilliam and everything to do with terrible decisions aimed at mainstreaming the film. They cut out the best parts, glued on a cheesy happy ending, trashed the original symphonic score, and then to top things off they tossed in a bunch or “rock music” to “attract teenagers.” It so happens that Warner Bros. tried to do the same thing with Burton’s Batman back in ‘89, foisting the hipster god Prince onto Burton who miraculously managed to ditch most of the corny 80s music for Elfman’s now-unforgettable motion picture score. (Ever wonder why there were two soundtracks to that film? Now you know.) Really, people. Imagine watching this film with “Purple Rain” playing in the back ground. It’s like eating a peanut butter and shrimp sandwich. Both good but the idea of them combined triggers your gag reflex.

What’s this got to do with writing? Way ahead of you. I’ve given a lot of thought to the love-hate relationship between creativity and marketability. When and where they meet, how they fall in love, and what do their kids look like? On one side of the spectrum we have terrible works like LA Candy. On the other we have DeLillo’s The Names (my favorite novel but not a big seller). And then we have miracle writers like Pynchon, Marquez, Rowling, Gaiman, and others who do more than straddle two worlds. Writers like these folks take the biggest risks. They break the most rules, in some ways. And they wind up legends in their own time. And now for me to reference my own novel and compare myself to the pantheon. (What’s that, you say? Stick my foot in my mouth? No problem.) My own first novel, Through the Pale Door, takes significant risks that seem to be paying off when it comes to sales.

What has this got to do with Southern Lit and reality? Way ahead of you. Over the past few months I’ve heard many writers, editors, readers, and agents say the word “reality,” speaking to me or about me or about Southern Lit. I’ve heard the old adage that asserts the “it really happened that way” argument holds no water for creative writers. I beg to disagree. Yes. Credulity can be strained. Stories need a degree of verisimilitude. But the “it really happened that way” case means, to me, that writers, et al need to open their minds to what constitutes reality. For example: a friend recently told me the story of how a distant relative was obliged to attend a friend’s funeral with a knife in his back pocket and a bodyguard in tow because he feared some attendees would try to settle an old score. I recently heard a somewhat famous (and true) story of a town in Tennessee that spent an entire day trying to inflict capital punishment on an elephant for killing its owner – they finally had to hang the thing with a construction crane. Many writers, et al would tell me that none of these events could make a decent story. But they certainly could. If you can tell it over a table, you can write it down. It’s a matter of how confident your voice is. (Marquez has said the same thing, but I guess nobody remembers.)

All right. Taste is subjective, but mine’s less so. I promise. The End. Been writing for 12 hours a day the past two or three days. Now it’s time to rejoin the world.

This show with Jimmy Fallon has somehow caught some attention by pitting Edward Cullen against Harry Potter. Watch it here. Who’d win in a fight? Now, here’s five minutes of my life I’ll never get back. Someone needs to cast a stupify spell on Fallon. Or perhaps someone already has.

Where do I stand on the Potter vs. Cullen debate? There’s too many factors that people aren’t considering. The fight could go to either one of them. Cullen could dodge Potter’s spells. One good whack and stomp and Potter’s glasses would be nevermore. Hard to fight blind. Isn’t it? Potter, I suggest you get contacts. On the other hand, couldn’t Potter turn into a dragon or something and eat Cullen? And could they bring a friend to the fight?

In any case, I have a better question to pose. Who would win in a humor contest between Fallon and a chimpanzee? Well, we need to know: is the chimp wearing a tuxedo or a policeman’s uniform? The first would be funnier than Jimmy Fallon. The second would be much funnier.

Speaking of sucking, Margaret Atwood has a new book coming out soon. If it’s anything like Oryx and Crake, this will go at the bottom of my Amazon wish-list. Apologies to a barista friend who is currently reading Oryx and Crake. So sad, really. I consider myself an Atwood fan.

Lots of little things to blog about this weekend. First, the new Harry Potter flick. The first one I’ve truly enjoyed. I’d like to get to know that Bellatrix a little better. She seems like a trip, so long as she doesn’t turn you into a newt and then eat you. Bellatrix Lestrange, can I compare thee to a summer day? Then how about a frigid tundra night? Thou art more lovely and more tempestuous. Less predictable but pretty good lookin’, in a Tim Burton, screwed up kind of way. As it turns out, the actor who plays Bellatrix (H.B. Carter) also happens to have a bit in common with Sarah from my book. Turns out her mom suffered a severe mental breakdown when she was only five and spent three years recovering. Sometime in her late teens/early 20s, her dad became largely paralyzed after brain surgery that went awry. Poor kid. No wonder she’s such a match for Burton.

Janet Evanovich recently told NY Times she prefers linear mysteries without flashbacks. Apox on you, Evanovich! Now I’ll never sell my sequel to Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five – “Seventy Years Later: Comin’ Through the Slaughterhouse.” Just as well. His agents probably would’ve sued me anyway.

My air mattress, recently mentioned in the News-Record, expired this morning after a brief life of three months. Cheap piece of crap. Can’t take a rough roll in the sheets, I guess. Might be sleeping on the floor a few evenings, unless anyone cares to buy a copy of my novel. I’m like the stock market. Good news facilitates commerce. Shameless guilt trip, I know. But let’s see if it works.