Apparently, Colm Toibin's book New Ways to Kill Your Mother, published by Scribner this month, doesn’t provide any instruction on how to actually kill your mother. While this might be a grave disappointment to some, I’m inclined to smirk (with both glee and a bit of friendly mockery) at Toibin’s recommendation to put mom on ice—at least in fiction. Dwight Garner, reviewing the book for the NYTimes, explains: “His essential point, driven home in an essay about all the motherless heroes and heroines in the novels of Henry James and Jane Austen, is that ‘mothers get in the way of fiction; they take up the space that is better filled by indecision, by hope, by the slow growth of a personality.’”

Really, aren’t fiction mothers just a pain in the ass? If a novel has a mother in it, she’s usually too complicated and infuriating to develop in a half-assed way, and so the whole book ends up being about her. She’d just love that, wouldn’t she?

If you're a writer, you’re stuck having to acrobat around a reader’s wondering, “Where is the character’s mother? Does she know what her son’s doing?” every time you want a character to do something bad. Raskolnikov was gonna kill that landlady but then his mom came home. Groan. Guess he’ll never be friends with that prostitute.

Toibin points out that orphans are great characters in fiction, and really, how could they not be? Without all of that guidance, nourishment and guilt-mongering, orphans are free to find their own way in a world devoid of preconceived notions. Plus, devastation and an incurable longing are great ways to secure a far-reaching and easy sympathy from readers. Oh, the poor dear, that’s why this character’s acting up.

Still, I find this proposition of parentless fiction a little weird. Possibly indicative of a handful of bizarre psychological ramifications. Do we have a hard time imagining mothers without pillows clutched in their fists, coming to snuff us out? Do we really think that kids raised in two-parent households are so adjusted as to be boring? Are your parents making it hard for you to develop a personality or experience indecision and hope?

I love a little mom in my fiction. I say the more mothers, the better.

image: bbc.uk.co

A recent Telegraph post about the relationship between poets and their editors starts off with the nervous subhead, “If one poet edits another, whose work is it?” Tensions arise over the prospect of editors having too heavy an influence, the implications of an incestuous landscape. How can we rest assured that our most treasured poetry is "pure"?

Lucky for me, I am completely unperturbed by this notion of purity. I, in fact, adore quite a few exceptionally heavy-handed editors. I’m also still coming off the glory high I got reading Jonah Lehrer’s article in last week’sNew Yorker about brainstorming, in which Lehrer debunks the myth that brainstorming has to be free of criticism in order to be productive. Criticism and debate have been shown to actually improve creativity. Ha! Criticism wins! Editors are helpful!

So, seeing as how some people could use a little push toward criticism-acceptance, I’ve decided to draw up my top five reasons (with a little help from Lehrer, whom I quote liberally below) we shouldn't fear the red pen.

1. Science says that “exposure to unfamiliar perspectives can foster creativity.” Sure, everyone has something to say. If it's useful, steal it. If it's not useful, it can help define what it is you're not looking for.

2. Science also says that “dissent stimulates new ideas because it encourages us to engage more fully with the work of others and to reassess our viewpoints.” Dissent! Know thine enemy! How better can you position yourself to be the champion? Would you even know about being a "champion" if it weren't for the presence of critics?

3. For the most part, no one is paying any attention. If they are paying attention, they will forget everything you’ve done in less than thirty seconds. There is only so much time you have to engage and really have an effect on someone else, so you might as well try to make it count. Good criticism can help push you toward that effect.

4. For the most part, we are not paying attention. Do you know how many unconscious actions I’ve committed, for years, without knowing? I couldn’t be the first to end a telephone conversation until I was 24 years old—and I had no idea. Or with my writing: how many times in a paragraph do I have to mention a hand touching something before someone shoots me? We all need someone else to tell us what it is we are doing.

5. No one wants to hear you whine. What are you, a baby? Whether it’s the undergraduate with the rambling justification or the man-child distraught because not everybody likes him, whiners are usually too busy suckling on the self-absorption tit to get any work done. Don’t be one of them.

Good criticism can save you from the enormous embarrassment your actions alone will undoubtedly lead you to. So what's the difference between shitty criticism and good criticism? Honest, deep concern for the creative object at hand. As long as the critics you listen to are truly engaged with what it is you’re trying to accomplish—and not just smarmy ass-clowns with ulterior motives—they deserve a good listen. Even the act of turning away can lead to something better.

Image: curmudgeonloner.wordpress.com

Ben Marcus is so hot right now. With reviews and interviews in New York Magazine, The New York Times, NPR, Wired, The Millions, Salon,Bookforum, HTMLGiant, and Publisher’s Weekly, it’s hard not to describe the publication of The Flame Alphabet as a very big deal. While many of the reviews remark on how the book's linear narrative is a departure from Marcus’ other, “more difficult” books, the central conflict—that the speech of children is somehow killing off adults—is anything but conventional. And since our theme this month is "Relative Perversions," I’d like to offer up the top five perversions at play that, regardless of "linear" or "difficult," make the book so compelling.  

5. Perverse Fear. The lethal-language-of-kids notion is, somehow, very correct. How could the young not be the end of us? Like any good virus, the disease mutates, becomes a more efficient killing machine by transforming all language into a vector of fatal harm. The questions raised by such an attack are both entirely personal and too enormous to digest. What effects do our words have on other people? Is there a way of speaking without causing harm? How could the world function without language?

4. Perverse Perseverance. So. Any and all language is killing your wife and causing your own very rapid deterioration. What’s a father to do? Work. Feverish, futile work. The father’s determination to keep his family together is the force driving the whole novel. Here is the activity of Beckett (“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”) and the activity we all desperately cling to while our lives swarm uncontrollably on. Wait, what? I don’t think I know what I’m saying, but I like thinking about it.

3. The Perversion of Failure. The Flame Alphabet is rich with objects that are somehow both textually vivid and kind of impossible to imagine. As a reader, this is to experience the perverse failure of language first-hand. These objects are alive, resonant...but I somehow can’t manage to see them. This is delightful. This is an effect that causes me to lean further in.

2. The Perversion of Belief. The Flame Alphabet also explores what happens when a man has to reconcile certain fundamental beliefs with an impossible new reality. Our protagonist is assailed by different authorities (scientists, doctors, rabbis) who make him question whether understanding is desirable, if even possible. This is my favorite kind of game. What usefulness does knowledge have? If an idea can be understood, is it lifeless?

1. Perverse Sexy Time. There are some adorable moments of catastrophically awkward sex: "To prove her vigor, Claire cornered me, sexually, made a physical trespass. Seeking, it would seem, someone to leak on." I know not everyone’s into that kind of thing, but I find a certain charm in these descriptions of failed engagement: the private longing, the humiliation.

And hey, even if perversion isn't really your thing, you should probably read The Flame Alphabet in order to advance, sexually, with Columbia students, or to find out how this novel fits in with Marcus' obsession with men trapped in holes. One of the best things a book can do is provide the space and time and the tiny pushes your brain needs in order to proceed with curiosity. The Flame Alphabet does this astoundingly well.

Image: New York Magazine

Chekhov was a doctor. What other non-writing day jobs are great for writers?

Could being an infamous Cuban leader be one of them?

But if you happen to live in book-hating Turkey, that above option may not be feasible.

Or you could always go ahead and write that long-awaited sequel to Blade Runner.

Afterall, science fiction and other genre fiction tops many of the literary elite's favorites lists.

Though, you can never go wrong with copious amounts of Tolstoy and Nabokov.

Just take it from Henry Miller and "Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand."

Whatever you do, keep writing. You know how fast time flies.

Image source

Faulkner was a mailman. Charlotte Brontë was a governess. And you? Whether you're fresh out of school or staring down yet another career change, here are five jobs that can give you a steady paycheck and an unfettered mind for your scribblings!

Banking. T. S. Eliot repeatedly turned down editorial opportunities to keep working as a banker and wrote several of his best poems during that time. “I am absorbed during the daytime by the balance sheets of foreign banks. It is a peaceful, but very interesting pursuit,” he declared in a letter. And much of the force of The Waste Land comes from his depictions of the “Unreal City,” filled with equally bland businessmen. Banking just might be the perfect job for writers who think in iambic pentameter.

Actuarial. With clockwork habits and a monotonous wardrobe, Wallace Stevens stayed at the Hartford insurance company all his adult life. He composed his poems on his way to and from work, and pulled out his calculator as soon as he entered the office. Much like banking, the industry is dominated by numbers and statistics. Surprisingly, though, actuaries have a high level of satisfaction with their jobs. It’s not as exciting as test-driving roller coasters, but it’s much more reliable and stress-free. Detail-oriented writers encouraged to apply.

Law. Franz Kafka worked in Legal, and usually finished with his day’s work by about two in the afternoon. Reading and writing legal documents doesn’t allow much daydreaming, but the often juicy subject matter at hand has turned out such writers as John Grisham and Stephen L. Carter. A crime, a detective, a criminal, and a punishment—what setup could be simpler or more alluring? This is the ideal job for a mystery writer: all the facts are there, but the devil’s in the details.

Medicine. It was a trend even before Chekhov declared that “Medicine is my lawful wife and literature is my mistress,” and poets and novelists alike—from John Keats and William Carlos Williams to W. Somerset Maugham and Khaled Hosseini—have followed in that doctor’s footsteps. Maybe it’s the rigor of med school that forces these authors to attend to patients and words with equal discipline. Maybe it’s their immense fascination with the human body. Character-driven novelists should start studying for their MCATs.

Library Science. Okay, so nowadays the job requires a hefty graduate degree, but if the children’s book author Avi and bestselling novelist Jayne Ann Krentz have both spent time behind the checkout desk, so can you. Once you’re in the door, you’re almost working in a bookstore. The biggest advantage? Your coworkers might actually read your novel when it comes out.

Keep in mind that, for the first time in forever, unemployment rates are on the decline. And getting away from your laptop will do your brain good. Your novel will thank you, so make like Bubba and get Back to Work!

Image credit: fotolog.com

The New York Times 10 best books of 2011 includes everything from college baseball to alligator wrestlers.

While the New Yorker goes way back and chooses a new translation of the Iliad.

Which isn't as risky as Time's choice to list Kate Beaton's Hark! a Vagrant as fiction.

Meanwhile, the Daily Beast re-discovers the Great Gatsby and Murder on the Orient Express.

And GQ and the Atlantic take up a couple slots on Longform's list.

With all these lists circulating, it begs the question: what makes something the best?

If you ask a writer, they'll probably start gushing about their fellow peers.

Though many of them seem to be blinded by the crepuscular rays of their own success.

So be careful what gifts you give to your writer friends this year—

You never know what kind of heavy-handed symbolism they may unwittingly suggest.

Photo: buzzfeed.com