Mickey J. Corrigan's Blog
January 29, 2022
He had a nightmare that Jeffrey Epstein was his high school English teacher...
...making him read The Great Gatsby!
A terrific and hilarious review of my new novel by writer Tim Bryant:
When it snows at Pineapple Hill, my beach house in a cow pasture in rural South Carolina, nothing seems the way it should be: the palm trees and bamboo, the hot tub, the Tongan sailing skiff, the old Jeep without a top. It’s like Aspen faceplanted in Ft. Lauderdale. I close the blinds and crawl beneath a thick wool blanket from Mexico—bringing a book and a tumbler of Buffalo Trace bourbon with me, and I don’t come out until this certain weather girl from channel four says it’s gonna be alright again. Bears do the same thing. So do the hitchhikers taking refuge in refrigerator boxes along I-65 near Bowling Green, Kentucky (been there, done that).
It would have been four days of time I’d have nothing to show for had the book not been Mickey J. Corrigan’s All That Glitters.
The story begins with a line from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, a nightmare reading assignment if you’re a high school punk dating the homecoming queen. For me it was better to wait a few decades and see the movie—Ferris Bueller and Leonardo di Caprio were in it. I got a bucket of popcorn and a giant Coke when I saw the movie. I got a D when I read the book. But I digress. The quote goes like this: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
So true. Story of my life. Tattooed on my forehead. So, yeah Mickey, you had me at “hello.”
And then her story opens with a right on and perfectly flush description of the Palm Beach elite as the coconut oil slathered twin to Gatsby’s newly rich and fashionable West Egg (NY) people. The parallels are a lot of fun, way more fun than high school English class. In this case, the tale is spun through the situation of a female observer living in a guest house offered by her über-wealthy best friend. Descriptions of what she sees range from “those liquid gold eyes, the tawny skin, the blazing white smile” to “I sat in windowless bars when the afternoon light had yet to dim, commiserating with the wrinkled ladies who thought life was a swift kick in the head.” And that’s just up to page five.
So, yes, in a way it’s a remake of that Gatsby yarn. But then Corrigan adds an interesting side spin with the inclusion of a jet setting pedophile named Jeffrey Getzstein, the resident known to all of Palm Beach as a zillionaire pimping teenyboppers to other zillionaires: royals, past presidents, captains of industry, Hollywood hot shots, and others not outed by the mainstream media. So there’s that.
Corrigan fleshes out her characters as if it’s a wine tasting event that includes seven courses of food. She constructs the various alliances and deceptions as if staging a French Colonial waltz masquerade ball—making those marionette puppets circle and retreat, daggers hidden behind their backs as Beethoven plays. And, too, because this author's pretty freaking brainy and into changing the world’s wrongs—indifferent economic disparities and saving sea life and coral reefs and such—these things are threaded into the plot as well. She sets all this on the table for you like a poolside lunch of mimosas and arugula and pine nut salad.
You accept the invitation, hoping your table manners are good enough. You get into it. You read it all the way through, stopping only to readjust the Mexican blanket and sweeten that tumbler back up. At the end you go back with a marker and highlight bits you want to save for when the Apocalypse comes. For instance, “Overcast days were best, reflecting my interior mood as the darkened ocean beside me gnashed, groaned, or held the quiet, brooding in and out with consistent, deeply mysterious sighs.” You read that and the other lines again and again and go, “Shit, why isn’t this chick famous?” It makes you drink more than you should. You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake there’s a note saying to have a nice day and try not to burn the house down.
That’s when it hits you that you dreamed Jeffry Epstein was your high school English teacher and you were living back in Florida again. What a nightmare!
A terrific and hilarious review of my new novel by writer Tim Bryant:
When it snows at Pineapple Hill, my beach house in a cow pasture in rural South Carolina, nothing seems the way it should be: the palm trees and bamboo, the hot tub, the Tongan sailing skiff, the old Jeep without a top. It’s like Aspen faceplanted in Ft. Lauderdale. I close the blinds and crawl beneath a thick wool blanket from Mexico—bringing a book and a tumbler of Buffalo Trace bourbon with me, and I don’t come out until this certain weather girl from channel four says it’s gonna be alright again. Bears do the same thing. So do the hitchhikers taking refuge in refrigerator boxes along I-65 near Bowling Green, Kentucky (been there, done that).
It would have been four days of time I’d have nothing to show for had the book not been Mickey J. Corrigan’s All That Glitters.
The story begins with a line from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, a nightmare reading assignment if you’re a high school punk dating the homecoming queen. For me it was better to wait a few decades and see the movie—Ferris Bueller and Leonardo di Caprio were in it. I got a bucket of popcorn and a giant Coke when I saw the movie. I got a D when I read the book. But I digress. The quote goes like this: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
So true. Story of my life. Tattooed on my forehead. So, yeah Mickey, you had me at “hello.”
And then her story opens with a right on and perfectly flush description of the Palm Beach elite as the coconut oil slathered twin to Gatsby’s newly rich and fashionable West Egg (NY) people. The parallels are a lot of fun, way more fun than high school English class. In this case, the tale is spun through the situation of a female observer living in a guest house offered by her über-wealthy best friend. Descriptions of what she sees range from “those liquid gold eyes, the tawny skin, the blazing white smile” to “I sat in windowless bars when the afternoon light had yet to dim, commiserating with the wrinkled ladies who thought life was a swift kick in the head.” And that’s just up to page five.
So, yes, in a way it’s a remake of that Gatsby yarn. But then Corrigan adds an interesting side spin with the inclusion of a jet setting pedophile named Jeffrey Getzstein, the resident known to all of Palm Beach as a zillionaire pimping teenyboppers to other zillionaires: royals, past presidents, captains of industry, Hollywood hot shots, and others not outed by the mainstream media. So there’s that.
Corrigan fleshes out her characters as if it’s a wine tasting event that includes seven courses of food. She constructs the various alliances and deceptions as if staging a French Colonial waltz masquerade ball—making those marionette puppets circle and retreat, daggers hidden behind their backs as Beethoven plays. And, too, because this author's pretty freaking brainy and into changing the world’s wrongs—indifferent economic disparities and saving sea life and coral reefs and such—these things are threaded into the plot as well. She sets all this on the table for you like a poolside lunch of mimosas and arugula and pine nut salad.
You accept the invitation, hoping your table manners are good enough. You get into it. You read it all the way through, stopping only to readjust the Mexican blanket and sweeten that tumbler back up. At the end you go back with a marker and highlight bits you want to save for when the Apocalypse comes. For instance, “Overcast days were best, reflecting my interior mood as the darkened ocean beside me gnashed, groaned, or held the quiet, brooding in and out with consistent, deeply mysterious sighs.” You read that and the other lines again and again and go, “Shit, why isn’t this chick famous?” It makes you drink more than you should. You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake there’s a note saying to have a nice day and try not to burn the house down.
That’s when it hits you that you dreamed Jeffry Epstein was your high school English teacher and you were living back in Florida again. What a nightmare!
June 21, 2021
This reader sure didn't like Florida
But apparently he liked the little poetry book "Florida Man. "
Book Review in Jokes Review by Lane Chasek
I recently read Mickey J. Corrigan’s chapbook Florida Man. As the title suggests, these poems are about Florida Man, a meme that blew up in the early 2010s which has since mutated into a symbol of American exceptionalism (if you consider dangerous, antisocial behavior exceptionalism). While reading this book, I also happened to be staying in Florida for a week, giving me a perfect chance write about the book, the state, and the meme.
The Florida Man meme was born from bizarre news headlines which involve a Florida Man (or Florida Woman) getting arrested, killed, humiliated, or saving the day in bizarre ways. Such headlines include “Florida Man killed by alligators while hiding from cops,” “Florida Man chews off another man’s face,” “Florida Man claims wife was kidnapped by holograms,” and my favorite, “Florida Man catches huge tarpon while fishing from rainbow unicorn floaty.” A good Florida Man headline acts as a one-sentence tall tale, a narrative that satisfies our need for both the mundane and the absurd. We live in a time where Paul Bunyan’s exploits are tired relics of an older generation, the story of John Henry working himself to death reads more like a Marxist fable than a tall tale, and most people under the age of 25 don’t know who Dolemite is. So in place of these classics we’ve created Floridian Gilgamesh. And luckily for us, Mickey J. Corrigan has translated these headlines into poetry.
The standout feature of Florida Man is Corrigan’s mimicry of the flat, objective tone of a news article. This lack of affect in Corrigan’s language recreates the clear-cut Associated Press style and contrasts with the surreal subject matter of each poem—which is part of the appeal of the Florida Man meme.
Speaking of subject matter, many of these poems are based on actual Florida Man headlines. “Frozen Food Lands on Roof of Florida Man’s Home,” “Drinking and Driving Florida Man Style,” and “Florida Man Goes on Honeymoon on Stolen Yacht” are all based on real events, and Corrigan succeeds at recreating the funny human-interest stories you’d expect from these headlines.
Of especial interest is “Florida Man Burns Down House Trying to Bake Cookies on George Foreman Grill,” which follows an inebriated, naked Florida Man who almost burns his house down while trying to bake cookies on his puny George Foreman Grill. Despite the absurdity of the situation, this poem’s Florida Man is more than a clown and becomes a mock hero. His efforts to save his home are ineffective as he tries to “dampen the fire/with dry towels” but I can’t help but love the guy’s determination. Florida Man at his best is a “superhero/of bad decisions” who demonstrates the heroism of the absurd, and even if he doesn’t win, he still makes us smile.
Corrigan is originally from Boston but currently resides in southern Florida, so chances are Corrigan may have been nearby while I was reading Florida Man. My reading of Florida Man was inextricably bound to my time in Florida, and I’d like to say that I enjoyed Florida the state as much as Florida Man the book and Florida Man the meme, but I have to admit, I didn’t like Florida.
During my stay in Florida I was surprised that I didn’t see a single alligator. Where were they? So many Florida Man stories feature alligators, you’d think I’d find at least one.
I also bought some tomatoes from a fruit stand, and when I cut into them, all the seeds had germinated. They tasted like gravel. I got some oranges from that same fruit stand and they tasted like rice vinegar. I left my fruit for the anoles to eat, but the anoles didn’t seem interested.
Of course, there’s more to Florida than alligators, oranges, Disney World, and drunks burning down their houses. There’s a dark side to the Sunshine State, too.
As you read Florida Man you’ll notice that, while the concepts remain ridiculous, the tone becomes much darker. “Florida Man ‘Inspired’ by Wal-Mart Shootings” confronts mental illness and gun violence. “Florida Man Nearly Deported Even Though Born in US” tells a story about racial profiling and corrupt immigration policies. “Florida Mayor Fired, Acting Mayor Fired Too,” while hilarious, is a microcosm for how nepotism and buck-passing functions in American politics on both the local and federal levels. And “Florida Man Executes Zombie Attack” is about the infamous Miami Cannibal Attack of 2012. More on that soon.
For Corrigan, Florida Man morphs from absurd hero to villain, a symbol of the societal and political ills of America. In Corrigan’s own words:
Florida man:
indestructible
and coming
to a nightmare
near you.
O, Florida—what an unreal state you are!
Every non-Floridian in Florida is there for Disney World or one of the thousands of other tourist destinations/mantraps that orbit Orlando, but I was there on family business, and when you’re not in Florida for fun, you start to realize how not-fun Florida is.
The humidity’s unbearable, for starters. The interstate traffic is bumper-to-bumper most of the time, and the local news stations are filled with stories about motorists falling into randomly-occurring sinkholes. The tap water smells like hard-boiled eggs, and every time I stepped out of the shower during my “vacation” I reeked of hot egg salad. And I know that some Floridians will want to stone me for saying this, but I don’t get the hype about Publix. It’s like Safeway, only more humid, and the subs are mediocre at best.
And this is where Florida Man was born—Florida Man in all his glory, goofiness, corruption, and wrath. My time in Florida reminded me that geography is integral to literature and the human experience. Just as Huckleberry Finn wouldn’t be Huckleberry Finn without the Missouri River, and Crime & Punishment wouldn’t be Crime & Punishment without St. Petersburg, the Florida Man meme is inextricably tied to Florida—its backwaters, bayous, amusement parks, WalMarts, interstates, and decaying truck stops. Florida Man the book and Florida Man the meme made more sense to me while in the heart of the American Absurd.
So if you read Florida Man, try to read it in Florida. Don’t worry, the alligators don’t bite. In fact, you probably won’t see any.
https://www.jokesliteraryreview.com/b...
Book Review in Jokes Review by Lane Chasek
I recently read Mickey J. Corrigan’s chapbook Florida Man. As the title suggests, these poems are about Florida Man, a meme that blew up in the early 2010s which has since mutated into a symbol of American exceptionalism (if you consider dangerous, antisocial behavior exceptionalism). While reading this book, I also happened to be staying in Florida for a week, giving me a perfect chance write about the book, the state, and the meme.
The Florida Man meme was born from bizarre news headlines which involve a Florida Man (or Florida Woman) getting arrested, killed, humiliated, or saving the day in bizarre ways. Such headlines include “Florida Man killed by alligators while hiding from cops,” “Florida Man chews off another man’s face,” “Florida Man claims wife was kidnapped by holograms,” and my favorite, “Florida Man catches huge tarpon while fishing from rainbow unicorn floaty.” A good Florida Man headline acts as a one-sentence tall tale, a narrative that satisfies our need for both the mundane and the absurd. We live in a time where Paul Bunyan’s exploits are tired relics of an older generation, the story of John Henry working himself to death reads more like a Marxist fable than a tall tale, and most people under the age of 25 don’t know who Dolemite is. So in place of these classics we’ve created Floridian Gilgamesh. And luckily for us, Mickey J. Corrigan has translated these headlines into poetry.
The standout feature of Florida Man is Corrigan’s mimicry of the flat, objective tone of a news article. This lack of affect in Corrigan’s language recreates the clear-cut Associated Press style and contrasts with the surreal subject matter of each poem—which is part of the appeal of the Florida Man meme.
Speaking of subject matter, many of these poems are based on actual Florida Man headlines. “Frozen Food Lands on Roof of Florida Man’s Home,” “Drinking and Driving Florida Man Style,” and “Florida Man Goes on Honeymoon on Stolen Yacht” are all based on real events, and Corrigan succeeds at recreating the funny human-interest stories you’d expect from these headlines.
Of especial interest is “Florida Man Burns Down House Trying to Bake Cookies on George Foreman Grill,” which follows an inebriated, naked Florida Man who almost burns his house down while trying to bake cookies on his puny George Foreman Grill. Despite the absurdity of the situation, this poem’s Florida Man is more than a clown and becomes a mock hero. His efforts to save his home are ineffective as he tries to “dampen the fire/with dry towels” but I can’t help but love the guy’s determination. Florida Man at his best is a “superhero/of bad decisions” who demonstrates the heroism of the absurd, and even if he doesn’t win, he still makes us smile.
Corrigan is originally from Boston but currently resides in southern Florida, so chances are Corrigan may have been nearby while I was reading Florida Man. My reading of Florida Man was inextricably bound to my time in Florida, and I’d like to say that I enjoyed Florida the state as much as Florida Man the book and Florida Man the meme, but I have to admit, I didn’t like Florida.
During my stay in Florida I was surprised that I didn’t see a single alligator. Where were they? So many Florida Man stories feature alligators, you’d think I’d find at least one.
I also bought some tomatoes from a fruit stand, and when I cut into them, all the seeds had germinated. They tasted like gravel. I got some oranges from that same fruit stand and they tasted like rice vinegar. I left my fruit for the anoles to eat, but the anoles didn’t seem interested.
Of course, there’s more to Florida than alligators, oranges, Disney World, and drunks burning down their houses. There’s a dark side to the Sunshine State, too.
As you read Florida Man you’ll notice that, while the concepts remain ridiculous, the tone becomes much darker. “Florida Man ‘Inspired’ by Wal-Mart Shootings” confronts mental illness and gun violence. “Florida Man Nearly Deported Even Though Born in US” tells a story about racial profiling and corrupt immigration policies. “Florida Mayor Fired, Acting Mayor Fired Too,” while hilarious, is a microcosm for how nepotism and buck-passing functions in American politics on both the local and federal levels. And “Florida Man Executes Zombie Attack” is about the infamous Miami Cannibal Attack of 2012. More on that soon.
For Corrigan, Florida Man morphs from absurd hero to villain, a symbol of the societal and political ills of America. In Corrigan’s own words:
Florida man:
indestructible
and coming
to a nightmare
near you.
O, Florida—what an unreal state you are!
Every non-Floridian in Florida is there for Disney World or one of the thousands of other tourist destinations/mantraps that orbit Orlando, but I was there on family business, and when you’re not in Florida for fun, you start to realize how not-fun Florida is.
The humidity’s unbearable, for starters. The interstate traffic is bumper-to-bumper most of the time, and the local news stations are filled with stories about motorists falling into randomly-occurring sinkholes. The tap water smells like hard-boiled eggs, and every time I stepped out of the shower during my “vacation” I reeked of hot egg salad. And I know that some Floridians will want to stone me for saying this, but I don’t get the hype about Publix. It’s like Safeway, only more humid, and the subs are mediocre at best.
And this is where Florida Man was born—Florida Man in all his glory, goofiness, corruption, and wrath. My time in Florida reminded me that geography is integral to literature and the human experience. Just as Huckleberry Finn wouldn’t be Huckleberry Finn without the Missouri River, and Crime & Punishment wouldn’t be Crime & Punishment without St. Petersburg, the Florida Man meme is inextricably tied to Florida—its backwaters, bayous, amusement parks, WalMarts, interstates, and decaying truck stops. Florida Man the book and Florida Man the meme made more sense to me while in the heart of the American Absurd.
So if you read Florida Man, try to read it in Florida. Don’t worry, the alligators don’t bite. In fact, you probably won’t see any.
https://www.jokesliteraryreview.com/b...
June 2, 2021
Use discount code now
The publisher has announced that copies of my new novel The Physics of Grief will be available until June 22nd at a discount price. You can get 10% off by ordering now from the publisher:
www.quoscript.co.uk/shop
To get the discount, use the following CODE: POG
www.quoscript.co.uk/shop
To get the discount, use the following CODE: POG
May 4, 2021
Girlfriends on Demand
Champagne Books has provided a reboot of the contemporary thriller Sugar Babies, including an update on online arrangements for sexual relationships. In light of all the attention one Florida politician is getting, the insights into the sugar life may be of interest to curious readers.
Is agreeing to sex for pay (in the form of rent money, tuition payments, or travel and gifts) the same as prostitution? Or is it just what we do in economically unequal partnerships?
Is agreeing to sex for pay (in the form of rent money, tuition payments, or travel and gifts) the same as prostitution? Or is it just what we do in economically unequal partnerships?
March 6, 2021
More Florida Man
Florida Man Dates Young Women, Then Sues Them
Successful real estate developer
in his 70s
accused of filing
frivolous lawsuits
against ex-girlfriends
in their 30s.
"Stalking through the courts,"
their attorney says.
"I'm not a romanticist.
I'm a businessman,"
explains the spurned
Florida Man.
The ritzy development
he built
up from ruins
into world-class
home to celebrities
top equestrians
royals
the elite
feels the wrath
of Florida Man
when he busts
a security gate
with his convertible Bentley
when asked to stop
and show ID.
"I'm not a romanticist.
I'm a businessman."
He evicts his women
demands repayment
for expensive clothes
gifts
salaries, loans, repairs
he kicks them
off his yacht.
When asked
to leave
the home he rents
to a young woman
Florida Man
warns the police
about close ties
with the mayor,
what he's done to
other cops,
and his active membership
at the seaside club
of the country's most powerful
Florida Man.
https://grandmamosespress.com/2020/11...
Successful real estate developer
in his 70s
accused of filing
frivolous lawsuits
against ex-girlfriends
in their 30s.
"Stalking through the courts,"
their attorney says.
"I'm not a romanticist.
I'm a businessman,"
explains the spurned
Florida Man.
The ritzy development
he built
up from ruins
into world-class
home to celebrities
top equestrians
royals
the elite
feels the wrath
of Florida Man
when he busts
a security gate
with his convertible Bentley
when asked to stop
and show ID.
"I'm not a romanticist.
I'm a businessman."
He evicts his women
demands repayment
for expensive clothes
gifts
salaries, loans, repairs
he kicks them
off his yacht.
When asked
to leave
the home he rents
to a young woman
Florida Man
warns the police
about close ties
with the mayor,
what he's done to
other cops,
and his active membership
at the seaside club
of the country's most powerful
Florida Man.
https://grandmamosespress.com/2020/11...
February 27, 2021
Florida Man in the News
Florida Man Arrested After Drugging Date In Bar
Florida Man goes into a bar
a fancy bar
to have drinks
fancy drinks
with his ex
after getting engaged
to an even younger
even fancier
woman.
Florida Man is a fancy man,
middle-aged doctor
a busy practice
money and women
coming and going,
a baggie of drugs
in the back pocket
of his four hundred dollar jeans.
Florida Man waits for his ex
to leave her second drink
for the ladies room,
adds Xanax
adds Ambien
to her double martini.
Florida Man drops the baggie
in the trash can
in the men's room,
returns to his seat.
Uh oh,
the police
called by a patron
watching like security
cameras above the bar.
Florida Man denies all charges.
Florida Man takes a hundred
Xanax
goes to sleep.
Florida Man wakes up.
Florida Man rents a fancy boat
sails off
to a distant city
and has a drink
at Tiger Woods'
fancy bar.
Women, he thinks,
can't break up with them
can't kill them.
From: Florida Man, Grandma Moses Press
Florida Man goes into a bar
a fancy bar
to have drinks
fancy drinks
with his ex
after getting engaged
to an even younger
even fancier
woman.
Florida Man is a fancy man,
middle-aged doctor
a busy practice
money and women
coming and going,
a baggie of drugs
in the back pocket
of his four hundred dollar jeans.
Florida Man waits for his ex
to leave her second drink
for the ladies room,
adds Xanax
adds Ambien
to her double martini.
Florida Man drops the baggie
in the trash can
in the men's room,
returns to his seat.
Uh oh,
the police
called by a patron
watching like security
cameras above the bar.
Florida Man denies all charges.
Florida Man takes a hundred
Xanax
goes to sleep.
Florida Man wakes up.
Florida Man rents a fancy boat
sails off
to a distant city
and has a drink
at Tiger Woods'
fancy bar.
Women, he thinks,
can't break up with them
can't kill them.
From: Florida Man, Grandma Moses Press
February 1, 2020
Novellas Get Short Shrift
Hey, authors: you'll need to super-size that manuscript. Because word count really counts if you want to get traditionally published. It's important to literary agents because it's important to the major publishing houses. Many will only accept for review manuscripts that meet their length requirements. American publishers want your submission to be at least 60,000 words. Or 70,000, even 80,000-plus. So start padding.
But why? What does the word count matter if the story is complete and the manuscript is polished?
The bigger the better, it seems—it's the American way. So this means an awful lot of authors are shaping their stories to fulfill the current size guidelines.
I think this is a shame. Your story is your story and should take up the space it needs and deserves. A novel is good if it tells a complete story, has depth of character, and sweeps the reader along for a full ride. That ride may only take a reader a single afternoon, or it can last for months. There are great stories that fill thick volumes, others that fill only a hundred pages—or less.
Some of my favorite novels are actually novellas. The Great Gatsby. The Postman Only Rings Twice. The Old Man and the Sea. Animal Farm. The Outsiders. The Giver. Would these books be published today by the big American publishing houses? Maybe not. Would we have missed out on some of the best literature ever written? I think so.
But why? What does the word count matter if the story is complete and the manuscript is polished?
The bigger the better, it seems—it's the American way. So this means an awful lot of authors are shaping their stories to fulfill the current size guidelines.
I think this is a shame. Your story is your story and should take up the space it needs and deserves. A novel is good if it tells a complete story, has depth of character, and sweeps the reader along for a full ride. That ride may only take a reader a single afternoon, or it can last for months. There are great stories that fill thick volumes, others that fill only a hundred pages—or less.
Some of my favorite novels are actually novellas. The Great Gatsby. The Postman Only Rings Twice. The Old Man and the Sea. Animal Farm. The Outsiders. The Giver. Would these books be published today by the big American publishing houses? Maybe not. Would we have missed out on some of the best literature ever written? I think so.
October 22, 2019
What I Did for What I Did for Love
What I Did for Love was released yesterday by Bloodhound Books. And yes, the story is essentially about a pedophile. At least that's what we would label her in today's culture. A woman in her middle age who prefers younger men? Okay, to be more factual about it, she likes boys. Under a certain age. The age of consent. Amazon won't run the book trailer for that very reason.
Taboos, anyone?
So whatever got into me, the author, to write about such a terrible person? I'll tell you: Lolita. That's what filled me with the kind of twisted passion one needs to write a novel about a despicable person indulging a despicable obsession.
On the other hand, it wasn't hard to write this story. No more difficult than writing about a good woman with bills to pay, a difficult husband or child, a job that demands too much. A woman with a purpose, too often victimized by her environment, her own big heart. I have to admit, I don't write stories about those woman, God love 'em. Many writers do and that's a good thing.
I'm more interested in Lolita. The classic novel by Vladimir Nabokov is one of my favorites. Not just because the writing is incredible with some of the best descriptions of mid-twentieth century America, but also because Humbert Humbert is such a brilliant deviant. I enjoyed learning what made him tick. And tick he does, right up until the bloody end.
So I wondered what might happen if a woman were to pull a Humbert Humbert and prey upon/seduce an underage student. What then? I mean, in real life American schools, it happens. Female teachers get fired, some are arrested, for "partying" with their students.
As T.S. Eliot said, "After such knowledge, what forgiveness?"
Now I'm wondering what you'll think of Cathriona O'Hale…right up to the bloody end. Let me know!
Taboos, anyone?
So whatever got into me, the author, to write about such a terrible person? I'll tell you: Lolita. That's what filled me with the kind of twisted passion one needs to write a novel about a despicable person indulging a despicable obsession.
On the other hand, it wasn't hard to write this story. No more difficult than writing about a good woman with bills to pay, a difficult husband or child, a job that demands too much. A woman with a purpose, too often victimized by her environment, her own big heart. I have to admit, I don't write stories about those woman, God love 'em. Many writers do and that's a good thing.
I'm more interested in Lolita. The classic novel by Vladimir Nabokov is one of my favorites. Not just because the writing is incredible with some of the best descriptions of mid-twentieth century America, but also because Humbert Humbert is such a brilliant deviant. I enjoyed learning what made him tick. And tick he does, right up until the bloody end.
So I wondered what might happen if a woman were to pull a Humbert Humbert and prey upon/seduce an underage student. What then? I mean, in real life American schools, it happens. Female teachers get fired, some are arrested, for "partying" with their students.
As T.S. Eliot said, "After such knowledge, what forgiveness?"
Now I'm wondering what you'll think of Cathriona O'Hale…right up to the bloody end. Let me know!
December 13, 2018
Poems about School Shootings
Five poems from a new collection depicting the history of mass shootings in our schools.
https://fourthandsycamore.com/2018/12...
https://fourthandsycamore.com/2018/12...
December 6, 2015
What Happens When Goodreads Invites You to Lunch with Your Favorite Author
The cofounder of Goodreads sent me a message. I was one of 5 Goodreads writer/readers invited to an intimate lunch with Bret Easton Ellis in Miami Beach. I live only a few cities north of Trendy Town, so I jumped at the chance to meet one of my Top Ten influences. I even considered buying a new shirt to wear…Nah.
The luncheon coincided with Art Basel, an international art event that has become Miami's shining star in a galaxy of glimmery celebrity galas. Sitting in endless traffic snaking into the city, I wondered how intimate this little luncheon would be. Surely others would know BEE was in town and surely they would join us for hors d'oeuvres and G&Ts?
Two hours later, I pulled up in front of the Soho Beach House, a hip little hotel chain with a handful of international locations. The hotel caters to creatives and the rich who support the arts. I valeted because otherwise I would've had to abandon my car in the choking snarl of traffic.
The lobby was teeming with hipsters. As I stared bug-eyed at the willowy fashion models and black-clad rap artists, I was glad I hadn't spent my recent royalty check at the mall. I still wouldn't have been hip enough. In fact, I would never be hip enough.
Oh well. I was about to dine with Bret Easton Ellis.
Two elevators and two invitation checklists later, I was admitted to a private suite. An intimate room stuffed with food and books. There was juice, coffee, a spread of hors d'oeuvres, a busy bartender behind a tiny bar, and a balcony overlooking the aqua ocean. The small room filled up quickly.
When the double doors to an adjoining room were opened, we all filed in. There must have been 75 of us. Plus photographers. The lecture hall was filled to capacity.
So it wasn't an intimate luncheon after all. I could have worn any old thing. In fact, I had.
But Bret was fantastic. He sat up front and answered all our questions. He told us what he thought about the important issues on our minds. What did he think of Art Basel? A parody, but he wasn't sure of what. What about those annoying Millennials? Well, he lived with one himself, and was becoming increasingly angry at what he calls Generation Wuss. They need to buck up, and deal with the harsh realities of adulthood. Was he involved in the filming of American Psycho? No, but he did have dinner with Christian Bale, who remained in character throughout. So Bret had spent an unnerving evening in the company of Patrick Bateman. What about a new book? Would there be a next book? Bret's very busy now with his streaming TV show, a play, his podcast. He's already published 7 novels. You know, there just might not be another. If there is, it might be a memoir type book. Something from his past.
Suddenly, the room exploded in a godlike profusion of light. Two impossibly thin supermodels slinked to the front of the room while chanting, "Amazon is good." They wore these fluorescent bulky vests and both were armed with the latest in Russian weaponry. So outré.
Everyone in the audience held up their phones. Camera lights continued to flash until the models and Bret disappeared in an eardrum shattering cloud of smoke.
I'm recovering from my injuries now and soon will face a year or two of physical therapy. Plenty of time for all that reading I've wanted to do.
In the meantime, I must thank Goodreads for the intimate lunch with Bret. It was trés cool.
***
Mickey J. Corrigan's new novel is about girls with guns: Project XX from Salt Publications, UK.
The luncheon coincided with Art Basel, an international art event that has become Miami's shining star in a galaxy of glimmery celebrity galas. Sitting in endless traffic snaking into the city, I wondered how intimate this little luncheon would be. Surely others would know BEE was in town and surely they would join us for hors d'oeuvres and G&Ts?
Two hours later, I pulled up in front of the Soho Beach House, a hip little hotel chain with a handful of international locations. The hotel caters to creatives and the rich who support the arts. I valeted because otherwise I would've had to abandon my car in the choking snarl of traffic.
The lobby was teeming with hipsters. As I stared bug-eyed at the willowy fashion models and black-clad rap artists, I was glad I hadn't spent my recent royalty check at the mall. I still wouldn't have been hip enough. In fact, I would never be hip enough.
Oh well. I was about to dine with Bret Easton Ellis.
Two elevators and two invitation checklists later, I was admitted to a private suite. An intimate room stuffed with food and books. There was juice, coffee, a spread of hors d'oeuvres, a busy bartender behind a tiny bar, and a balcony overlooking the aqua ocean. The small room filled up quickly.
When the double doors to an adjoining room were opened, we all filed in. There must have been 75 of us. Plus photographers. The lecture hall was filled to capacity.
So it wasn't an intimate luncheon after all. I could have worn any old thing. In fact, I had.
But Bret was fantastic. He sat up front and answered all our questions. He told us what he thought about the important issues on our minds. What did he think of Art Basel? A parody, but he wasn't sure of what. What about those annoying Millennials? Well, he lived with one himself, and was becoming increasingly angry at what he calls Generation Wuss. They need to buck up, and deal with the harsh realities of adulthood. Was he involved in the filming of American Psycho? No, but he did have dinner with Christian Bale, who remained in character throughout. So Bret had spent an unnerving evening in the company of Patrick Bateman. What about a new book? Would there be a next book? Bret's very busy now with his streaming TV show, a play, his podcast. He's already published 7 novels. You know, there just might not be another. If there is, it might be a memoir type book. Something from his past.
Suddenly, the room exploded in a godlike profusion of light. Two impossibly thin supermodels slinked to the front of the room while chanting, "Amazon is good." They wore these fluorescent bulky vests and both were armed with the latest in Russian weaponry. So outré.
Everyone in the audience held up their phones. Camera lights continued to flash until the models and Bret disappeared in an eardrum shattering cloud of smoke.
I'm recovering from my injuries now and soon will face a year or two of physical therapy. Plenty of time for all that reading I've wanted to do.
In the meantime, I must thank Goodreads for the intimate lunch with Bret. It was trés cool.
***
Mickey J. Corrigan's new novel is about girls with guns: Project XX from Salt Publications, UK.
