About mid-way through the Famous Writers School, I realized that I had been duped. Conned. Not that I didn’t enjoy this book. In fact, I could hardly put it down once I started. I had assumed that this novel was about learning how to write, and it is, but not in the way that the first hundred pages, or the clever opening advertisements, seem to indicate. When Wendell tells Dan that his fiction belongs in a gentlemen’s magazine, it dawned on me that Dan and his two cohorts weren’t learning anything from Wendell at all. They weren’t supposed to. A few pages later, when the suck-up Wendell suddenly wants to represent Dan because he has seen the light of his beautiful prose (and terrible threat of reprisal), I finally understood. This novel is about two things: metafiction and melodrama. In spite of all of the sophisticated literary advice that Wendell gives to his students, their writing is successful and readable because they reject his teaching and go with what sells, and what sells is melodrama. And Carter makes this point in his labyrinth of metafiction.
It is difficult, at least for me, to sort through the structure of this novel and identify exactly who is speaking to the reader. Of course, every word can be traced back to Steven Carter, but he has set so many foils between himself and the reader it makes me dizzy. It is a good thing that I once took a class and studied a famous novel that used similar techniques. Wendell starts out as a guy looking to make a few bucks by helping other writers, but as the drama unfolds, Carter makes him needier of his students than they are of him. So, are the stories that the students submit really instructional—did Carter have his characters write them purposefully so that Wendell could identify their flaws—or are the stories just a clever way for Carter to write his own short stories, all of which are tremendously interesting, just to show off his own prodigious skills? When Dan beds every woman in his story, is it because he is too impatient as a writer to make his characters real and then contrives a hackneyed plot, or is it because Carter has a latent frustration ( “and had a lifetime of encounters with courtesans,” page 176) that comes to light only when he writes? Yes to all of these questions, it appears to me. While reading the Famous Writers School, it’s hard to separate fiction from reality. Maybe reality is all fiction. But maybe all fiction is reality. Blurring the distinction between the two is what metafiction is all about.
Perhaps the most lasting impression (or maybe it’s a lesson, the real lesson) that Famous Writers School leaves on me is this: nothing, and I mean nothing, makes a story more interesting than a heavy dose of melodrama. Forget Wendell’s third point about making your characters real and letting them have their own lives. Forget subtlety, too. That’s just plain bad advice. In all four stories, every marriage is lousy except for the old man and his wife, Em, but she’s dead. Every woman is white trash, or close to it. The old man at the country store in need of a ride is a drug dealer. The young boy with a rifle is a simpleton with a dark past. The rich implement dealer got there by murdering his brother. A deus ex machina lawyer saves the day. Kill the prize roses by poisoning the roots. And that old cabin in the woods—watch out for those mean, killer dogs. The food is all bad: eggs fried in bacon grease, potatoes fried in grease, chicken plate-lunches drowned in gravy, even “gravy poured over coleslaw.” Does Carter (a.k.a. Dan) have an eating problem that comes from not having a woman around? Some of the characters are intelligent, yet no one can finish a dissertation. And don’t forget that America is the best country in the world! How about, “I take the drugs, but they don’t work,” or, “Years of therapy, and I’m still screwed up.” All page turners for sure.
As for the writers themselves, remember that Wendell is a poor, frustrated loner who hates his parents, has no money, and can’t go to Prague because he can’t get a credit card. He is great at dispensing phony literary advice, but is he the kind of man who would ever accept any? Maybe if he did, he might have enough cash to buy a bed frame for his old mattress. Rio is a chain-smoking, Diet-Coke drinking torch singer suffering from a severe case of depression. Dan, of whom we know the least, is petrified that his wife may discover that he spent a few hundred dollars on a Wendell’s class. As for Linda/Lana, it would be impossible to list the many demons that haunt her tortured soul. Psycho? Stalker? Child-abandoner? Hater of bird-baths? Wendell, who is usually wrong, makes a great point when he says, “Welcome to the great delusion that is American culture.” If your life sucks, just put it in writing. Someone is bound to read it.
One last observation: Dan says he doesn’t like Proust, and he really doesn’t care for his wife, the French teacher. Funny that the punctuation style he uses to identify dialogue, the leading ---, is the French method of doing so. I guess some well-known British writers use it, too. They are all on to something; I get so tired of using all of the quotations marks and commas required in English. Vive la ponctuation française!