September 7th, 2012
Inside the Inside: A Critique of Le Critique

When writer and critic William Giraldi published a negative review in the New York Times Book Review about writer Alix Ohlin’s latest novel, Inside, and set of short stories “Signs and Wonders,” Giraldi received a lot of tsk, tsk’s from fellow critics, journalists and of course, Twitterers. (Tweeters? Twits? Twats?) The one person who has yet to respond is of course, the writer herself. But after we at The Gabbler offered to let Ms. Ohlin write a response in whatever manner she chose, she sent in the following review of his review:

My name is Alix Ohlin, and I am the author of Inside and “Signs and Wonders.” Or, as Mr. Giraldi so astutely noted, I am the “cliche-strangled,” “absurdly obvious” writer whose work will ultimately “be shelved with the pop lit.”

Moving beyond the fact that his last paragraph likened my ouvre to the literary equivalent of a farty old cat lady (as if I don’t get enough pressure from my mom as it is), I have realized that I could do several things in response to his review. I could, of course, cry like a schoolgirl with ripped tights and wet, “fluttering” eyes. I could also spit out bitter speculations about the dimunity of his penis (which, strangely, never fails to make me feel better). I could even tear apart his book, Busy Monsters – we all know how much fun that can be! But instead, I’d like to take this opportunity to critique the critic for once. The shoe’s on the other foot, bitch, and I’m wearing spike heels.

Let’s begin with his title, “Here if You Need Me,” an unforgettable moniker that suggests necessity but reads only as vain frivolity. Thank God you’re here, Mr. Giraldi. We needed you, indeed.

Many Twitterers (Tweeters? Twits? Twats?) have already pointed out that Giraldi’s opening paragraph was trite, overwritten, and reductive. I’d like to add that it was a pretentious load of crap that would have made Hemingway shudder and Salinger laugh out loud. I’d also like to add that Giraldi enjoys dropping the names of important literary figures. A word on this habit: it didn’t succeed in helping that annoying kid in your Comp Lit course form any original thoughts then, and it doesn’t work for Giraldi now.

Giraldi then launches into a discussion about the name of the book, and I must say, he’s right. I need to stop letting my 100-level students pick my book titles. Damn it.

It also appears that he didn’t enjoy my characters. Fine, fair enough. But don’t you dare shit on Tug, Giraldi. Yes, his name is fucking Tug. You named one of your characters “Groot,” but Tug is problematic for you?

He does have an eye for language, though. Sure, he was a bit of a pompous ass about it, but then again, the use of “fluttering” twice in thirteen pages is an egregious error. My editors and I should have caught that echo red-handed and thrown it back into whatever grimy “Intro to Creative Writing” class it crawled up from. It’s distracting and jarring.

Besides, readers would much prefer to read something more like this excerpt from Giraldi’s first (and only…) novel, I’m sure:

“Warped beyond normal civilian standards and needing gentle reprieve from gals and dads and my migrant task of exploring hither and yon, tit for tat, I, Charles Homar, driving home from the cemetery in order to meet Groot and drink beer before noon, imagined said-and-done and doing thus: climbing into bed after so many months of obnoxious muddle and staying asleep for seven days, maybe more.”

(Or is that a little much?)

Here’s a fact, Billy my man: I skipped more than a few chapters of Moby Dick along the way. Scoff if you must, but if that makes my style “cat lady pop lit,” then so be it. I’d read Bridget Jones over Bartelby any day of the week.

But in all seriousness, Willy made some excellent points. I need to be more scrupulous about redundant language and tired cliches. I need to edit, and re-edit, and re-re-edit. I need to strive to make every character at once unique, relatable, and familiar, but never, ever stock. And so help me God, I will never use the word “flutter” again, as long as my gentle heart still beats and flutters. Fuck. Oops!