So it's (the end of, actually, but whatevs) Gay and Lesbian History Month! Very exciting. In general, the Rejectionist feels pretty cranky about Disenfranchised Persons Months (much in line with this stellar post from the ever-brilliant Ari on Black History Month). Like, we would kind of rather have, say, unrestricted access to safe and legal abortion (and when we say UNRESTRICTED we mean FUCKING UNRESTRICTED, LOUISIANA, YOU FUCKERS) in every county of this fair land every day of the year than, say, a bunch of insipid platitudes about Susan B. Anthony for the entirety of March. But, that caveat aside, we really like telling people what to read. So! in honor of Gay and Lesbian History Month, we present the Rejectionist's super-random Big Gay Reading List, which is basically just a completely arbitrary sampling of books we like that have gay people in them.

1. The Book of Salt, Monique Truong

Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas's life as viewed by Binh, their Vietnamese cook. Beautiful and fascinating and will also make you want to get in a time machine and head straight for 1930s Paris.

2. Tipping the Velvet, Sarah Waters

Kind of like if Dickens was slightly more awesome and extremely more gay. Sarah Waters has an amazing knack for turning out steamy and brilliantly plotted Victorian potboilers. Total crack. Also steamy. Did we mention steamy? STEAMY.

3. The Passion, Jeanette Winterson

Genre- and gender-bending story of a doomed love affair from one of the most brilliant writers in the English language.

4. The Complete Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle

Don't even try and argue with us. You'll lose.

5. The Collected Poems of Frank O'Hara, Frank O'Hara

"Have you forgotten what we were like then/when we were still first rate/and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth/it's no use worrying about Time/but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves/and turned some sharp corners/the whole pasture looked like our meal/we didn't need speedometers/we could manage cocktails out of ice and water/I wouldn't want to be faster/or greener than now if you were with me O you/were the best of all my days"

6. Dhalgren, Samuel R. Delany

There's sci-fi and then there's Samuel R. Delany, who we're pretty sure is from an alternate universe of extreme genius. Probably one of the most influential science-fiction books ever written, and deservedly so.

7. Zami, A New Spelling of My Name, Audre Lorde

Amazing autobiography by an amazing, amazing woman.

8. Hotel de Dream, Edmund White

Creepy and sad story of an obsessive love affair in 1890s New York.

9. The Terrible Girls, Rebecca Brown

Out of all her books this is maybe our favorite. Impossibly sinister, gorgeous, and perfect.

10. In the City of Shy Hunters, Tom Spanbauer

You will never look at New York in the same way again.

11. Edward II, Christopher Marlowe

So wacktacular, disturbing, and brilliant. By the guy who wrote all of Shakespeare's plays HA HA HA HA HA THAT WAS AN ENGLISH MAJOR JOKE, DON'T BLAME US IF IT ISN'T FUNNY

12. Kissing the Witch, Emma Donoghue

Fairy tales! but creepy! and gay! and AWESOME! Not that fairy tales aren't creepy and gay to begin with. MORE creepy and gay.

13. Baby Be-Bop, Francesca Lia Block

California pop-punk fable from the high priestess of cool.

14. Edinburgh, Alexander Chee

Sublimely beautiful coming-of-age story.

15. Epistemology of the Closet, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick

You will never think the same way about anything, ever again. Guaranteed.

16. Winterlong, Elizabeth Hand

This book is out of print because there is absolutely no justice in the universe, but hunt it down. One of the most original and gorgeous science fiction novels ever written in the entire history of everything.

17. Cool For You, Eileen Myles

Eileen Myles is a lot fucking cooler than any of us. Hilarious and sharp coming-of-age novel.

18. Someday This Pain Will Be Useful To You, Peter Cameron

More funny and more poignant than anything you will read in this century.

19. Valencia, Michelle Tea

Sex, drugs, rockandroll, San Francisco.

20. Gender Trouble, Judith Butler

OMG JUDITH BUTLER OMG OMG.

NOW YOU TELL US PLEASE, your favorite gay books, in the waning hours of Gay and Lesbian History Month! AND ALSO WE ARE GOING TO READ THESE BOOKS ALL YEAR AND NOT JUST IN JUNE, AREN'T WE, OH YES WE ARE. OKAY? OKAY!

At the heart of Chérie lies a paradox. I am a profoundly social, extroverted person, and yet at any given moment I want nothing more than to be left the fuck alone so I can write. This contradiction worsens every spring, when the outdoor patios of Brooklyn’s fine drinking establishments begin beckoning me with their shady umbrellas and cold, cold beers. Come, Chérie, I hear them [and the Rejectionist. --ed] whisper. Let’s have ourselves a rumspringa. To ensure that the month of June would not be lost within the bosom of the Gowanus Yacht Club and the Brooklyn Ice House, I leave town for the annual writer's conference of a small liberal arts college a short train ride from New York. Conveniently, this is also my alma mater, and I am delighted by the prospect of spending five days working on my novel and attending various lectures and readings in this familiar and idyllic setting. I promise myself that except for issuing the occasional communiqué to Le R ("NO ONE TOLD CHERIE SHE WOULD HAVE SUITEMATES") I will refrain from contacting anyone at home. Mayhap Chérie has watched Wonder Boys a few too many times, but any expectations of raucous afterparties are snuffed out the first time I see the attendees assembled in full at breakfast--the vast majority are edging-past-middle-aged women ("NOT A SINGLE TASTY MORSEL FOR CHERIE") and I take this as a sign from the universe that I am indeed here to focus on my writing, not to socialize.

In typical Chérie fashion, of course, I immediately take this notion to its extreme, and by the end of my second day I realize I am actively hiding from the other conference-goers. Being familiar with the campus helps considerably in this regard, as I am easily able to ferret out the one event-free building that remains unlocked after 8pm and sequester myself alone on its top floor. Only when I find myself turning off the overhead lights to avoid drawing attention to my hideout do I realize that I am behaving strangely. I can’t help it. Everyone I meet is exceedingly friendly and interesting, but every question posed, to every panelist and author present, is basically a thinly-veiled manifestation of a writer’s deepest and most basic insecurity: Am I doing this right? This is something about which I actively avoid thinking, as in my experience dwelling on it more often leads to fear-induced paralysis than any sort of satisfactory answers, and therefore in the afternoons while other people are attending lectures about craft, I am holed up in the library, listening to the same Titus Andronicus album over and over and trying to decide if I should add Oxycontin to the list of my protagonist's obstacles.

I do attend some events, the most notable a panel featuring Richard Nash and four self-proclaimed Luddites. While the other speakers bemoan the loss of the printed word, waxing sentimental about pancake-batter-stained cookbooks and the memories evoked by such items, Richard speaks at length, articulately, with passion and patience, about—holy shit, are you guys ready for this?—-how to make the changes in publishing ACTUALLY WORK FOR THE AUTHORS. I am mesmerized (“OMFG INSANE VISIONARY GENIUS RICHARD NASH MELTS CHERIE’S FACE”) as he talks about what publishing might look like in the future and ways we might monetize the reader-writer connection beyond just the sale of words printed on paper. During his tenure at Soft Skull they were forced to use cheaper and cheaper paper until eventually they were printing on a 45-lb bond that turned yellow if left out in the sun too long—-does this do the author and the reader justice any more than an e-book? He goes on to say that if we want to make books that are also beautiful objects, e-books can free us to do that—-a publisher can publish an e-book, and, say, a gorgeous limited edition letterpress version for the same or less money as a regular print run, and everyone—Luddites included—can be happy. I leave the talk wanting to throw him a fucking parade, but settle for following his blog.

Strangely, the biggest lesson of my brief sojourn has nothing to do with the conference. I walk into town one morning to eat at a diner run by a man named Brian who is to breakfast food what Richard Nash is to publishing. There is an item on the menu called Brian’s Breakfast, and the description simply reads: You have to believe! (Available only when the time is right.) I sit at the counter, and the waiter informs me that this mystery meal is being served today, but he has no idea what it will actually be, as Brian never makes it the same way twice. I go all in, happy to be at the mercy of Brian’s imagination. When this plate of food is set in front of me, I almost start to cry—-it is so beautiful, it has been made just for me, and there will never be another exactly like it. While I am eating, Brian himself emerges from the kitchen to grab a Coke, and I tell him how phenomenal this meal is. No one asks him where he gets his ideas or how he knows what will make a great omelet or how many times he has revised the recipe for his Hollandaise sauce. He is sweaty and grumpy and has been, quite obviously, working his ass off on the line. Gesturing to the vast expanse of food, I say, “I’m going slow and steady,” and he says, in a warm, gruff voice, “Atta girl.” Something about his approbation makes me glow. Here, thank Christ, is one thing I know I’m doing right.

Image: Diana Davies Papers, Manuscripts and Archives Division, New York Public Library

"We all had a collective feeling like we'd had enough of this kind of shit. It wasn't anything tangible anybody said to anyone else, it was just kind of like everything over the years had come to a head on that one particular night in the one particular place, and it was not an organized demonstration.... Everyone in the crowd felt that we were never going to go back. It was like the last straw. It was time to reclaim something that had always been taken from us.... All kinds of people, all different reasons, but mostly it was total outrage, anger, sorrow, everything combined, and everything just kind of ran its course. It was the police who were doing most of the destruction. We were really trying to get back in and break free. And we felt that we had freedom at last, or freedom to at least show that we demanded freedom. We weren't going to be walking meekly in the night and letting them shove us around—it's like standing your ground for the first time and in a really strong way, and that's what caught the police by surprise. There was something in the air, freedom a long time overdue, and we're going to fight for it. It took different forms, but the bottom line was, we weren't going to go away. And we didn't."

Michael Fader, quoted in Stonewall: The Riots that Sparked the Gay Revolution

Outside the conference room, in the main office, we heard someone enter. The air in the office seemed thick and hazy. I could hear the click of the air conditioning turning on. There was suddenly a feeling of discomfort in the room. Something had changed, we could feel it. We raised our glasses again but there was a nervousness. We could have been anywhere, somewhere enchanted. We looked at each other like children who were about to be caught doing something wrong.

"I'll tell you what literature is," someone said, finally breaking the spell. It wasn't any of us who was talking. It was someone outside the conference room. Someone was coming in and talking. We turned. It was a tall person, very thin and pale. It was wearing a black cloak. It sparkled with a kind of luminescence. I knew it was We all knew it was a vampire.

"I'll tell you what literature is," the vampire said again. "It's books about people like me. I'm not a person, I'm a vampire. What do any of you really know about literature?" the vampire said. "You say you love literature and you do. The kind of love I'm talking about now, that drives you to a special book, you can call it sentimental or whatever you like. But it's a real feeling."

"Who is this fuck," Cretinous said. "Get him out of here. How did you get in? Who let you in? Where's the goddamn receptionist?"

"I think it's a vampire," Winston said.

"Of course I'm a fucking vampire," the vampire said. "What other kind of person would I be?"

"Well, I guess I don't know anything about literature," "Steve" said. "I'll be the first one to admit it. According to Cretinous's definition, I don't know the first thing about literature. But I know that's a vampire, and it might be a good time to end this meeting. Rejectionist, don't you think it's a good time to end this meeting?"

I couldn't stop looking at the vampire. The vampire sparkled softly. It looked back at me. "Cretinous, you know there isn't a receptionist," I said. "This isn't Writer's House. You mistake this for a different kind of office. This isn't a classy kind of operation."

"I don't mistake this for a goddamn thing," said Cretinous. "Get this vampire out of here."

"Cretinous, I think you may be a little tipsy," "Steve" said.

"I'm just talking, all right?" Cretinous said. "I'm not drunk. We're all just talking together. It's Summer Friday. No one expects work to get done. I don't need to do any work today. I'm not drunk. Why is that goddamn thing still looking at me?"

The vampire hadn't said anything during this time. The vampire was watching Cretinous.

"I think it's hungry," I said. "You are too drunk, Cretinous. Don't talk like this. Don't talk like you're drunk if you're not drunk."

"Just shut up for once in your life, will you?" Cretinous said. "You're always going on about things. I want someone to get this goddamn vampire out of here so I can keep talking. I can't have a goddamn conversation with this thing looking at me."

The vampire didn't say anything. The vampire was looking at Cretinous. The vampire was looking at Cretinous with what I would describe as an interested expression.

"I think you should keep talking about literature," the vampire said. "I'm intrigued by this conversation about literature. I'd like to hear more about what you think is literature. I guess I'd also have to describe myself as a little hungry."

"I told you it was hungry," I said.

Winston was excited now. Winston was happy. An eager expression crossed Winston's face. "I wonder if the vampire will eat Cretinous," Winston said. "Although now isn't a good time to look for a new job in publishing."

What We Talk About When We Talk About Rejection, Part One. What We Talk About When We Talk About Rejection, Part Two.

The other day we finally tidied our magical Writing Area and were so pleased with ourself we thought we might share photographs and perhaps a small essay on this wondrous corner of our apartment with our beloved Author-friends! And THEN we began to wonder about the Writing Areas of our Author-friends, and thought how nice it would be if our Author-friends had an opportunity to share THEIR photos and/or essays! SO HERE IS OUR BRILLIANT IDEA. On FRIDAY JULY 2, ONE WEEK FROM TODAY, the Rejectionist shall publish an Ode to Her Writing Area! And if you feel like it, dearest Author-friends, why don't YOU post an Ode to YOUR Writing Areas on your author-blogs sometime this week, and then LINK TO YOUR POST IN THE COMMENTS next Friday, and everyone can ooh and aah over everyone else's special place of genius, whether that is a corner of the reading room at the New York Public Library or a corner of your living room which has been barricaded from the interventions of your offspring.

So: post anytime this week! or if you already did a post of this nature long ago that's fine too! and link in comments on Friday! NOT TODAY! NEXT FRIDAY! It's not a contest or anything, just for fun and sharing. Okay? Okay!

Also: Today the Rejectionist pontificates on John Bellairs over at the Sharp Angle, blog of long-time Author-friend Lydia Sharp!

HAPPY PRIDE WEEKEND AUTHOR-FRIENDS!

June Jordan
His Own Where
112pp. The Feminist Press.
9781558616585

June Jordan was the very best kind of revolutionary: someone whose love and fearlessness were boundless both, someone who never told anything less than the absolute truth, someone who measured out joyfulness and rage in equal parts. A prolific essayist and poet, Jordan died of breast cancer in 2002, leaving behind her an extraordinary body of work as beautiful as it is impassioned.

His Own Where, first published in 1971 and recently reissued by The Feminist Press, is something of a departure for Jordan, who wrote very little fiction. One of her earliest books, the novel was a finalist for the National Book Award and offered considerable evidence that Jordan would go on to be, as the poet Sapphire notes in the book's new introduction, "a political essayist without peer." But His Own Where is even more remarkable for the purity of its language, its sheer exuberant beauty, the distinct and brilliantly original craftsmanship in every sentence. The story itself is deceptively simple: Buddy and Angela, two poor African-American teenagers in 1960s Brooklyn, meet, fall in love, and run away (from adults, from Angela's abusive parents, from Buddy's oppressive school) to the temporary sanctuary of each other. But there's not a single wasted word in this skinny book, not a sentence that's less than perfect; every phrase is marked by a poet's ear for the possibility of language. Buddy and Angela "become the heated habit of each other." You can feel each sentence in your mouth, rich and dense and begging to be read aloud. Jordan captures perfectly the intense, manic joyfulness of falling in love for the first time.

There's not a moment in the book that feels dated (with the possible exception of a scene where Buddy purchases multiple cups of coffee AND chocolate bars with $1.75), and even now, forty years after its original publication, His Own Where feels like something that's never been done before. His Own Where does more than just talk about love; Buddy and Angela deal with the often menacing and oppressive forces of the adult world, the constraints of prejudice and oppression, and the difficulty of surviving in a difficult and sometimes unsurvivable city. But there's nothing bleak or hopeless about this book. Love and hope abound on every page, and there's plenty of gleeful humor--most notably, a scene where Buddy organizes the boys at his school to campaign for comprehensive sex education (LUCKILY that sort of thing would NEVER have to happen TODAY, now that all young adults have TOTALLY UNRESTRICTED ACCESS to information about safe sex and contraceptives). Buddy "be worrying about old people when they think that love be dangerous."

Start here, if you've never read her, and then dive right in to her magnificent, searing, and gorgeous essays; and if you're not burning down the master's house when you've finished, you're dead to the world, Author-friend (we personally are very partial to the poem "I Must Become A Menace to My Enemies"). There's a June Jordan blog-party this week to celebrate the book's release; go and visit Neesha Meminger's post on June Jordan from yesterday, and go say hello to Ari at Reading in Color tomorrow; she'll also be writing about His Own Where. AND DON'T FORGET ABOUT THAT REVOLUTION PLEASE.

Animal collective nouns, courtesy of Wikipedia. Personal favorites: an unkindness of ravens, a party (hee) of lady dolphins, an ostentation of peafowl, an audience of squid, an intrusion of cockroaches, A MARMALADE OF PONIES. MARMALADE. OF. PONIES.*

If anyone finds us a website that details the etymology of these we will put that person on our fiancé/es list faster than you can say "eusuchian."

This more general list of collective nouns is pretty fantastic also (A FILE OF CIVIL SERVANTS!!!).

* TRICERATOPHAT: A MARMALADE OF PONIES. A FILE OF CIVIL SERVANTS. JUST SAYING.

"I'm Comic Sans, Asshole," from McSweeney's Internet Tendency. (This was sent to us separately by Shirin Dubbin, CKHB, Derek Gentry, Barbara Ann Wright, and like three other people--sorry if we forgot you! WHAT A DELIGHT IT IS TO BE KNOWN SO WELL BY OUR BELOVED AUTHOR-FRIENDS!)

Also, eagle-eyed Author-friend James alerted us that Tom Gabor, originator of beloved-by-Author-friends font joke "I shot the serif," is selling prints of this item here.

Here's a killer five-post series by YA author Malinda Lo on avoiding LGBTQ stereotypes in your fiction (via CKHB). Here's another bananas-fabulous open letter to the publishing industry from gay teen blogger Brent, via Neesha Meminger (remind you a little bit of another completely brilliant teenager you know?). Here is a heartbreaking and amazing post on guys who read romance, by another teenage superstar named John (SERIOUSLY, you young pups, knock it off with the awesome, or the Rejectionist is going to, like, start having hope for the future or something. Also, John: you let us know what books you need, kiddo, and we'll send em. And when you grow up, GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE AND MOVE TO NEW YORK).

Writers! They are some of the nicest people! They really are! Even the rejected ones! (For reals! For every DEAR MORON I HAVE WRITTEN THE NEXT STEPHANY MEIERS BESTSELLER FICTION NOVEL YOU WILL BE SORRY YOU SAID NO there are ten people who thank us effusively for the smallest of personalizations in their rejections!) We cannot tell you how many times authors whose work we love turned out to be the kindest, most gracious souls, who politely pretended not to notice our profound awkwardness as we stammered out something inane like, "OH UM YOUR UM FICTION NOVEL? IT MEANT A LOT TO ME". The Rejectionist LOVES WRITERS YES SHE DOES.

HOWEVER. Author-friends, we know this and you know this: sometimes the person who achieves great success is not the person who deserves it. Now we are not talking here about your boon companion who observes you accumulating thousands of form rejections whilst toiling diligently at your craft for decades, says to you "How hard can it be to write a book?", vomits up a "novel" overnight, pens the dumbest query letter in the history of the known universe, sends a mass email to fifty agents, and signs with your dream agent the next day. Because ultimately that person is your friend, and once you are done tearing out your own heart with a spoon you will be happy for him or her.

No, today we wish to discuss the cretin of all cretins, the foulest of asshats: the person who is not only talentless but LOATHSOME. Maybe it is that jerkwad from your critique group who says useless, mean things about everyone else's work while his own stories are thirty-page expository accounts of his erotic escapades! Maybe, for the agents among our readership, and this hypothetical situation is not what inspired this item or anything, maybe that person is THE MOST AWFUL OF ALL IMAGINABLE FORMER CLIENTS, that deranged wretch who blamed you for her miserable love life, sent crazed emails to every editor at the Big Six accusing you of sabotaging her career, made mean-spirited personal statements about your assistant, who is stylish AND clever, thank you very much, and also refuses to acknowledge the books she writes "[make] Mickey Spillane look like Dostoyevsky"*! Author-friends, when THAT person achieves success, it is verily a thousand flaming knives in the breast of every noble soul among us! When THAT person signs a seven-figure deal with film rights optioned by James Cameron, IT IS ONLY RIGHT TO BURN WITH A JUST AND MIGHTY RAGE. So here is a little friendly advice from someone who has suffered many slings and arrows of outrageous douchebaggery,** dear ones! In short: here, beloved Author-friends, is how to execute your retribution.

WHAT TO DO WHEN A FOUL PERSON ACHIEVES GREAT SUCCESS

1. Patience! A hasty vengeance may be satisfying in the short-term, but the masterful avenging angel knows to lie in wait for the most opportune moment. The universe rewards the faithful, dear ones! It may be tempting now to send an email to this person's editor, saying, "You DO realize X has NO FUCKING TALENT, DON'T YOU?" but that is not a long-term strategy, and only makes you look silly. Remember the spider, who lies quietly in her web until it is the right time to dart forth and imprison her prey! Observe the mantis, who achieves her goal before EATING THAT MOTHERFUCKER'S HEAD!

1a. One must also be crafty! One does no benefit to the universe if one damages one's own reputation in the pursuit of noble sabotage! A little malice goes a long way; one needn't shout to get one's point across. One strategy: amass a small arsenal of embarrassing facts about your target. If you don't know any, make some up. When someone mentions his/her success at, say, a cocktail party, agree enthusiastically how wonderful it is, and then say, "Such a shame he left that prestigious tenure-track professorship under such indelicate circumstances, isn't it? Oh, you didn't know? I thought everyone knew about that."

2. Learn from your betters. Want to watch the high priest/esses of ruthless subterfuge in action? Smuggle yourself into a publishing party a couple of hours after the drinks start circulating. Genuinely evil people have much to teach you, and always have the better weapons. ("Mordor is the place to be for that sort of thing," points out our Support Team, who assisted with this article.)

3. Whosoever saith to turn the other cheek has never tasted the sweet nectar of revenge. Anyway, we all know how that worked out for Jesus. Not so great.

4. Cultivate a reputation as something of a "loose cannon" before such painful situations even arise. You can get away with a lot more when people already think you're scary.

5. Remember, no matter what: YOU ARE MORE TALENTED. ALSO CUTER. The truth will out.

6. Be nice most of the time. That way, when you aren't nice, people will take you more seriously.

7. No matter how heinous this person may be, going after pets and family members is just plain tacky. Stick to the task at hand.

*Flannery O'Connor on Ayn Rand, if you were wondering. (Mickey Spillane on himself: "Those big-shot writers could never dig the fact that there are more salted peanuts consumed than caviar... If the public likes you, you're good.")

**We thought we knew the face of darkness. AND THEN WE STARTED WORKING AS AN ASSISTANT.

So Rejectionists, they are somewhat prone to melancholy, and tend to become very despondent over things like apocalyptic oil spills that are, you know, going to obliterate entire ecosystems, and gay people being given prison sentences in other countries, and terrifying hate crimes happening in this one, and other things of this nature that merely serve to remind us that we, as a species, are pretty definitively not going to make it, and we are going to do our damnedest to take out every other good thing on this earth when we go. You would think it'd be enough, for us people to fuck over every single human being in the global south, or whatever, but no; WE'RE GOING TO DROWN ALL THE GODDAMN POLAR BEARS AND BURN DOWN EVERY RAINFOREST, TOO. Sweet. Rejectionists: they get sad.

And what do Rejectionists do when they get sad? They go to bookstores. It's easier for us to believe that all is not yet lost when we are surrounded by books in some creaky old firetrap, the more mazelike and disorderly the better, whose front counter is so piled high with volumes the salesperson (who, in the very finest bookshops, is either nine hundred years old and eerily reminiscent of the ancient bookseller in The Neverending Story, or is a teenage punk peppered with piercings and sporting a scowl the size of Manhattan O BELOVED SURLY BOOKSELLERS, THE REJECTIONIST IS HONORED TO HAVE ONCE NUMBERED AMONG YOUR COMPANY) is entirely obscured. ANYWAY, all of this is to say, a couple of weekends ago we went on a field trip to the Montague Bookmill, which is one of those places that restores our oft-ailing hope that somehow, against all odds, humanity will get its shit together (i.e., that rich people will stop taking all the stuff).

The Montague Bookmill! It is magical. MAGICAL. It is like if someone went inside our head and made a bookstore out of what they found there. Room after room! in an old wooden watermill overlooking a river! and every room is filled with a lovely golden kind of light and shelves upon shelves of books, and the floorboards creak underfoot, and there are funny little staircases that don't go anywhere! and battered windows flung open to let in the hot almost-summer breeze! so that every room smells of green and blooming things and here and there a bumblebee will ramble across the sill humming quietly to itself! and all the corners have shabby old chairs in them, the most comfortable chairs you can imagine, that do not mind having feet put upon them, or being sat in crosswise, and have supported who knows how many generations of clever and thoughtful people ruminating about Shakespeare or gender performativity or the perfect spy novel or maybe just whether a piece of chocolate cake from the magnificently tasty bookstore café qualifies as a wholesome lunch as long as one also eats a salad! and if you feel like being in the out-of-doors, you can wander into a little wood, and put your toes in the merry babbling river, and pretend you are a hobbit and the worst thing on earth that could possibly happen is that someone will make you go fetch their treasure from a dragon. It is a kingdom we should like to live in forever and ever, and perhaps we will, when our work of the People's Revolution is done and we can watch the seasons change from an armchair by the window with a pile of books next to our feet.

Lisa Brackmann
Rock Paper Tiger
368pp. Soho Press.
9781569476406

Possibly it is not a total secret that the Rejectionist has, like, a soft spot for the tough-but-fucked-up lady-heroine! IT IS DEFINITELY NOT BECAUSE WE SEE ELEMENTS OF OURSELF IN THESE FICTIVE REPRESENTATIONS NO IT IS NOT THANK YOU VERY MUCH. Oh, SHUT UP. Anyway! Also very dear to us is the thriller-as-a-vehicle-for-insightful-social-commentary! So you can IMAGINE how much we like insightful thrillers starring tough but fucked-up lady characters! A LOT. That's how much we like them. And GUESS WHAT? They're kind of hard to find (the operative adjective being "insightful," folks)! All of which is to say, we tore through the fantabulous Rock Paper Tiger with RECKLESS ABANDON AND DELIGHT. Ellie Cooper, Rock Paper Tiger's down-and-out heroine, has followed her mildly shady soon-to-be-ex-husband to Beijing after a totally disastrous tour of duty in Iraq. A chance encounter with a mysterious gentleman in the home of her artist-friend Lao Zhang sets off all kinds of catastrophe, and Ellie spends the bulk of the novel's action trying to get away from a frightful assortment of Very Bad Guys, running from Beijing's underworld to the Chinese countryside and back again, with some detours in a complicated online-gaming universe. That right there is an awesome novel, but Lisa Brackmann will not rest with snappy dialogue and thrilling plot twists! No, she also insists on seamlessly interweaving intelligent, provocative, and beautifully handled commentary on capitalism, consumer culture, and the Gulf War, in a Beijing so vividly realized the Rejectionist could practically TASTE THE DUMPLINGS EVERY TIME ELLIE ATE THEM. In all seriousness, however, it is a great relief to read an expat-thriller novel where the setting is never exoticized; China is so real and alive here, as are Ellie's scrappy artist friends and Beijing's underground art world. Ellie herself is never less than entirely lovable; a complex, messed-up protagonist whose saving grace is her ruthless honesty. There is so much to love about this thoughtful and original debut, and we cannot wait to see what Lisa Brackmann comes up with next. Don't tell our mom how badly this book made us want to sell all of our possessions, buy a one-way plane ticket to China, and disappear for the next decade.

OMG feministhulk

OMG JUDITH BUTLER

OH MY GOD THIS ARTICLE IS BRILLIANT. Go read it. Also brilliant is the brilliant Neesha Meminger's brilliant response. Go read that too. THANK YOU LADIES IT IS NICE TO KNOW WE ARE NOT ALONE. BRILLIANT BRILLIANT BRILLIANT. We have a WHOLE LOT to say about editors calling mss by people of color "unpolished" but we are already like super late for work and haven't had our coffee and so we will say it maybe later on this weekend. Okay! Go read!

One goes through a PHASE (e.g. "Le R. Père had slowly come to realize his daughter's rabid communism was, tragically, not just a phase"); one is unFAZEd if one is unruffled by distressing circumstances (e.g. "Yo, dude, I was like so not fazed by that zombie just now"). FAZE. FAZE. IT'S A DIFFERENT WORD. That's all. Thank you.

Imagine, fair readers, that one was once housed in a charming abode, where there were many clear windows which overlooked a lush grounds, and one was able to enter and exit by means of these windows, and consort with one's own kind, and pursue one's supper [bring half-dead mice inside and leave them in the bathtub --ed] in a natural manner. And by some cruel force of circumstance, one was then taken from this glad environment and removed to a fulsome and minuscule apartment, with no method of egress and no manner of recreation other than marking the passing of each interminable day [also, hiding the Rejectionist's laundry quarters underneath the couch --ed]. One might find this progression of events quite unsettling, and perhaps suffer a marked decline in well-being. One might also have expectations that the author of this misfortune must needs take pity upon one, and thus provide some more stimulating method of whiling away the hours; but no, such is not the case when one is imprisoned by an entirely displeasing individual, this self-styled Rejectionist, whose paltry veneer of intellect is a thin disguise for the ribald and imbecilic monster lurking only just beneath the surface. Such an affront to one's dignity, this tedious existence! this loathsome prison! this cheap plastic bowl filled with noxious crunchies [THE MOST EXPENSIVE CAT FOOD IN THE GODDAMN HOLISTIC PET STORE --ed]!

O, rosy-cheek'd and noble readers, mayhap you shall offer the divine succor of your sympathy to this poor creature, shut away in her wretched bower with only the oleaginous Rejectionist for company! That meretricious sycophant, shouting endlessly about "werewolf books" and "racism" [ONLY SOMETIMES --ed] and yet unable to so much as refresh the catnip mouse! Even fair-spoken Support Team is no match for the Rejectionist's noisome personage, whose odiousness is without bound! And yet: a small ray of hope! one discovers a delightful manual of cookery, with full-color photographs of one's most beloved comestible! O sushi, cats of many stripes wish verily to devour you! But an insurmountable obstacle presents itself: one hasn't any thumbs, and cannot prepare this delicacy. O calumny! O indignity of evolution! And lo, nefarious Rejectionist cannot be bothered to come to one's aid, despite the many evenings one has spent submitting to the Rejectionist's vile caresses [trying to sleep on the Rejectionist's face --ed] and patiently enduring the inebriated Rejectionist crashing about, awakening one from peaceful slumber [ONLY BECAUSE YOU SLEEP 23 HOURS A DAY, LOLA PANTS, WHILE THE REJECTIONIST IS WORKING HER GODDAMN ASS OFF TO KEEP YOU IN $22/LB KIBBLE --ed]! So, fair readers, though this humble cat wished to present you with a fair assessment of the recipes contained within this book like so many treasures, she cannot; instead you might turn your prayers toward her liberation, that she may leave behind this drudgery [as if you would last three minutes on the streets of Brooklyn, Lola Pants --ed].

Life advice for functional freaks, from John Waters! Even more amazing than it sounds. Seriously. Some of it is about reading and some of it is about racism so it's like totally relevant to, you know, publishing and the Rejectionist and ANYWAY IT'S JOHN WATERS COME ON.

Here is a very interesting post over at Racialicious by the very brilliant Thea Lim, on how to read and respond to literature of color. She concludes with this (YES EXACTLY THANK YOU, says the Rejectionist, who is getting a little tired of (white) industry professionals exhorting would-be writers to refrain from having opinions that are 'political'):

The bottom line for me, is to just be conscious of the fact that you’re white. And that white writers are white. And that all writers that write about humans are writing ethnic concerns. And I think it’s very important for writers and teachers of writing to be able to fess up to that: all writing is racial, all writing is political. All choices on a reading list are political.

Also reproduced therein is this quote from Junot Díaz OMG CAN WE HAVE A DAY WHERE WE ALL JUST TALK ABOUT HOW AMAZING JUNOT DIAZ IS:

We’re in a country where white is considered normative; it’s a country where white writers are simply writers, and writers of Latino descent are Latino writers. This is an issue whose roots are deeper than just the publishing community or how an artist wants to self-designate. It’s about the way the U.S. wants to view itself and how it engineers otherness in people of color and, by doing so, props up white privilege. I try to battle the forces that seek to “other” people of color and promote white supremacy. But I also have no interest in being a “writer,” either, shorn from all my connections and communities. I’m a Dominican writer, a writer of African descent, and whether or not anyone else wants to admit it, I know also that Stephen King and Jonathan Franzen are white writers. The problem isn’t in labeling writers by their color or their ethnic group; the problem is that one group organizes things so that everyone else gets these labels but not it. No, not it. -- Interview with Slate, 2008

"Steve," my sweet, big, "Steve," said evenly, "I don't know about John Grisham, or anything about the situation. But who Who can judge what will sell? Cretinous, I think literary fiction can sell."

I passed "Steve" the bourbon. He gave me a quick smile, then turned his gaze back to Cretinous. I picked up the bottle of bourbon. It The bottle was cool to the touch, smooth, the label crisp. I encircled the bottle with my fingers, like a bracelet, and I held it.

"When I was an editor I rejected James Patterson," "Steve" said. "I never lived it down. But it's not something I regret." He clasped his arms with his hands. He waited a minute, then let go of his arms and picked up his glass.

"I think that's very admirable!" Winston said.

"He's out of the action now," Cretinous said. "His career is dead."

"It gets worse," "Steve" said. "I rejected Danielle Steele, too."

"Poor 'Steve'," Winston said.

"Poor 'Steve' nothing," Cretinous said. "He was dangerous. A man like that shouldn't be editing books. He shot his own career. He bungled it." Cretinous was tall and old with a greasy combover dense grey hair and horn-rimmed glasses . His face and arms were brown from his weekends in the Hamptons. When he was sober all his gestures, all his movements, were aggressive. When he was drunk they were violent.

"What do you mean, he bungled it?" I said. "Steve" leaned forward with his glass. He put his elbows on the table and held his glass in both hands. He looked from me to Cretinous like a man watching the iceberg approach the deck of the Titanic. "How'd he bungle it by having good taste? I've never seen Michiko Kakutani give one of your clients a good review, you pompous fuck."

"I'll tell you what happened," Cretinous snarled. "I'll tell you what happened to publishing, you little pipsqueak. The market wised up. Nobody wants to read your effete commie crap about honest emotions and men who can't shoot things. They want serial killers! They want vampires! They want babes in tiny swimsuits! You're a bunch of fucking dinosaurs, you and your goddamn carping about 'language' and 'craft.' Craft never paid for a goddamn Jaguar."

"It sounds like a nightmare, your vision of publishing," "Steve" said. We'd met in a professional capacity, when I interviewed with him. Before we knew it, it was a friendship.

"I sure as hell wouldn't call that crap literature," Cretinous said. "I mean, no one knows what you're talking about. No one wants to read that shit. I've seen a lot of your kind of literature, and I couldn't say anyone ever knew what that garbage was about. And when people claim it's beautiful, well I don't know." Cretinous He put his hands behind his neck and tilted his chair back leaned on the back legs of his chair. "I'm not interested in that kind of literature," he said. "If that's literature, you can have it."

Winston poured the last of the bourbon into his glass and waggled wagged the bottle. "Steve" got up from the table and went to the snacks cubby. He took down another bottle of bourbon.

"Well, Rejectionist and I know what literature is reject that bullshit," "Steve" said. "For us, I mean. Don't we, Rejectionist?" "Steve" said. He patted my shoulder with his hand. "You can talk about that great novel you just pulled out of the slush," "Steve" he said, and turned his a large smile on me. "We get along really well, I think. We like reading things together, and neither of us has hated a manuscript the other loved yet, thank God. Knock on wood. I'd say we're pretty happy. I guess we should count our blessings."

For an answer, I took the bourbon and raised it to my lips with a flourish. I made a big production out of kissing the bourbon. Everyone was amused. "We're lucky," I said.

"You guys," Winston said. "Stop that now. You're making me jealous. 'Steve' treats you like a person, Rejectionist, that's why you can act like this. Just wait. How long have you been his assistant now? How long has it been? A year? Longer than a year."

"Going on two years," "Steve" said, tipsy and smiling.

"Oh now, Rejectionist still doesn't have health insurance," Winston said. "Wait a while." He held his drink and gazed at Cretinous. "I'm only kidding," Winston said.

"Winston, Jesus, you get any more out of line I'll fucking send you out the door and take your wallet on your way out. You think this job is hard? You'll be mopping bathrooms at the Penguin corporate office if you don't watch your mouth. Give me that goddamn bottle."

"To literature," "Steve" said drily, raising his glass.

"To literature," we said.

GOOD TODAY FRIEND AUTHORLINGS! HERE IS KARL WITH A LIGHT-MESSAGE OF GREAT IMPORTNESS! THIS DAY IS A DAY OF EXCELLENT CELEBRATINGS THROUGHOUT ALL THE GALAXY! A DAY OF GLAD TIDINGS FOR THE LABORERS OF THOUGHT-WORDS! TODAY KARL BRINGS YOU THE BRIGHT-EMERGENT NEWS OF THIS DELIGHTFUL REJECTIONIST CREATION'S BIRTH-ANNIVERSARY! LET US ALL STAND TOGETHER O PETLETS AND CAKELINGS TO ISSUE FORTH WELL-WISHINGS! FOR KARL ALSO OFFERS SPECIAL ADDITIONAL POSSIBILITIES OF JOYFUL CLAMORING! LOOK TO KARL WHO SAYS TODAY WE SHALL REJECT THE DISPLEASING COWORKERS WHO TELL CREEPY JOKES! THE WRETCHED COUSIN WHO MAKES STATEMENTS OF NEFARIOUS RACISM! THE MOCKING NEIGHBOR WHO UTTERS SLANDERINGS UPON LADY-CREATURES! KARL SHOUTS WITH YOU TO UTTERANCE THE FOLLOWING: I REJECT YOU, FOUL GOBLIN-MINDS! I SEND YOUR UNLIGHT AWAY! LET US DO THIS IN GREAT HONOR OF OUR DELICIOUS REJECTIONIST-FRIEND WHO WISHES TO USHER ALL BEINGS FORTH INTO SELF-LOVE RADIANCE, BRAVE DEARLINGS! NOW JOIN WITH KARL IN A MIGHTY DESERT DANCE!

ALSO TODAY WE CELEBRATE THE BIRTH-ANNIVERSARY OF ALLEN GINSBERG! GO FUCK YOURSELF WITH YOUR ATOM BOMB, AMERICA!

"An artist can show things that other people are terrified of expressing."

Louise Bourgeois, December 25, 1911 – May 31, 2010

[ For those of you who do not yet know her, Chérie l'Ecrivain IS NOT US WE SWEAR, although Chérie and the Rejectionist do occasionally have the same thoughts at the same time, and by "occasionally" the Rejectionist means "all the time on gchat when we are technically supposed to be working but a person does get tired and need to check in with her friends who keep her sane and functioning smoothly, doesn't she." You may view more of Chérie's excellent contributions to our blog here. -ed ]

I have never been of the belief that melancholy bodes well for a novelist. In my experience, depression and malaise lend themselves nicely to lost weekends spent holed up in my apartment, watching my stories and drinking sweet tea vodka, eventually passing out on my living room floor next to my empty bottle and takeout containers, then waking up in the middle of the night with a devious hangover and profound sense of shame. Sometimes I skip all of that, and go straight to the part where I rock back and forth in my bed and wonder why I was ever naive enough to believe that adulthood (I use the term loosely, of course) would be anything more than this paltry existence of worrying about money and feeling incompetent. Some people may be surprised, but this is not a mindset I find conducive to working on my novel, which revolves around a couple of teenagers with very poor impulse control and might as well be called Bad Decisions: A Love Story.

Blind rage, on the other hand, I find positively inspiring. It comes upon me now and then, not entirely unpredictable--someone palming my roommate's ass at a show, conversations with my mother, and the demon whiskey are all things that can be counted upon to send me into a veritable frenzy, although just as often it takes nothing at all. Ever had that dream where you're trying to run and you can't? For years I've regularly dreamt its fucked-up variation, where I'm trying to fight off an imaginary enemy with ineffectual fists, and no matter how hard I try to punch him, the blows don't land right, and he laughs and laughs until I wake up in an impotent fury. There are times in reality, almost always when intoxicated, that I experience this emotion with such a pure, fevered intensity I actually step outside myself and think, "Yes, Chérie, you are like a crazy person right now, you must file this feeling away so the next time your characters are screaming at each other in a parking lot, you will know exactly how to capture them. Now, pick up that garbage can and throw it into the street while you shout about how you're going to kill all the motherfuckers." Later, of course, my recollections are hazy. What made me so angry? How did it feel, exactly? There's only one way to find out, and that's to get another bottle of Jameson and do it over again.

Fortunately, it also works the other way, in which I routinely dismiss prolonged bouts of contentment and instead seek out short bursts of wild, maniacal joy. It can manifest in so many different ways: giddily climbing fences and trespassing with my friends or walking out to my favorite Brooklyn pier in the middle of a foggy night or going to see a Guns n Roses tribute band, getting tossed around in the audience while a man dressed as Slash spits Jack Daniels at my person.For six months I experimented with being a full and willing participant in a Functioning Relationship with a nice young man who was, sadly, a bit of a homebody and eventually I asked myself this question: What good am I to the world sprawled on a couch with this nice young man and a bottle of wine, my belly filled with spaghetti carbonara, watching Slap Shot for the sixteenth time and patiently accepting a neckrub? What inspiration can I possibly derive from this experience, except to perhaps fall asleep by ten-thirty? I am not averse to the pleasures of domestic felicity, but I've found that the line between contentment and apathy can be dangerously thin. I realize when I say things like that, I sound a lot like an adolescent myself, and while I'd like to use as an excuse the fact that I've been working on a novel about teenagers for a couple of years now, the truth is I just never outgrew my precocious teenager phase, which is why I started writing a book about them in the first place.

There are parts of my novel that I want to be like throwing a garbage can and shouting profanities and there are parts of my novel that I want to be like pogoing in the pit at a rock show to a fist-pumping anthem you can feel inside your chest. The kids are seventeen--they don't do contentment and they don't do moderation, and if I spend too much time doing either myself, I start to feel disconnected from them. Maybe I've gotten a little too Method as I've been working on their story, but I can't help it. I hate when my imaginary friends seem like they're having more fun than me.