It is hard work to be a writer, especially if fame, recognition, glory, money, or a date is what you’re aiming for. It is more difficult just to sit down to it everyday, be disciplined to the degree you eventually get something scribbled down onto the page, and severe enough in your tyrannical self-editing to throw it all away. And harder yet there are others of us who write and care little about publishing. They save the stamps and envelopes and paper for more important correspondence than sending manuscripts out to be rejected or even published in less-than-desirable literary rags in print and those hovering out there on the web.
None of the stories collected in True/False
by Miles Klee would have been previously read by me in any litmag for the simple reason I no longer subscribe to even one of them. The few mags I still might publish poetry in would not find me reading any of the short stories. I hate feeling disappointed. I am nothing short of an idealist when it comes to reading fiction. I want to know on very good intelligence that I will like the work before I ever sit down to read it.
But, here I went and broke my rule and agreed to read this book because it was free and it was the least I could do. You know, give it a try. And Miles Klee I suppose is a capable writer for no other reason than Gary Lutz said so. But I should have known better. Lutz enjoys and respects too much the clever turn of phrase. Especially more than I do. I actually hate that clever shit. Call me old fashioned. If you want your literature saying stuff like, I tripped into awareness of carpet
, or The months melted by
, or perhaps The pool was bleeding
then this book is for you.