Subject: RE: father, dear father, come home with me now ....
From: Jennifer Besiada (jbesiada@nettel.com)
Date: Tue Sep 05 2000 - 10:10:06 GMT
I am stuck in a dismal world full of dissonance as I complete the first
couple chapters of *Dream Catcher*. I really want to hate it. And I am
damn close.
Although I appreciate Peggy's art of linking fiction with reality, I am
suffocating from the footnotes, and I find it almost saddening to learn that
there is some history behind the bananafish tale and that his hatred for
formal education in the ivies may be completely based on anti-Semitism. I
guess I want to believe that JD wrote fiction in the manner and for the
reasons I wanted him to: to give me, the reader, a gray outline to which I
could apply my own beliefs and experiences.
I sometimes feel embarrassed to re-read my own works -- blushing at how
personal and autobiographical they really are. I know the rule of thumb is
to "write about what you know", but there is a definite reason that JD chose
to write FICTION and not a series of autobiographies. He let us in...just
enough.
Cecilia wrote:
> Perhaps, when you publish, you've shown the world enough of
yourself. And
> perhaps the world should leave you the hell alone.
Amen.
Lastly, does Peggy really think she is alone when it comes to being raised
in a dysfunctional family? Doesn't everyone have their share of
abnormalities behind closed doors? If her intentions are personal healing,
keep a diary, or go see Scottie (in all due respect).
Jennifer
-----Original Message-----
From: Cecilia Baader [mailto:ceciliaann@hotmail.com]
Sent: Monday, September 04, 2000 12:40 AM
To: bananafish@roughdraft.org
Subject: Re: father, dear father, come home with me now ....
Scottie B. wrote:
> It goes without saying that I do NOT share Cecilia's
> protective instincts. It seems to me ludicrous for a man
> who has made many millions parading in public his own
> contrivances to complain when his daughter gets a little
> of her own back - a daughter whose father, by the looks
> of things, managed to screw up pretty comprehensively.
Okay, sure. Yes. Young Peggy has every right to "get a little of her own
back" from a father who has managed to screw her up pretty comprehensively.
If that is what it takes for her to come to terms with her early life, more
power to her.
I just don't want to know. Does that make me myopic? Perhaps. But I keep
thinking that the direction that the world is going is the wrong one. Sure,
Princess Diana's bodyguard had every right to tell his version of an already
over-told story. And Dennis Rodman can tell us all about how he was Bad as I
Wanna Be with Madonna. And Peggy Salinger has every right to reveal her
all.
But I'm wholly uninterested in what sort of bathrobe he wears and whether he
prefers his Cheerios with milk or with urine.
I suppose that it's just something in me that is reacting against the
general trend in society these days towards too much information. People
argue that when you publish, you give up your right to the same amount of
privacy as the rest of us.
Perhaps. But perhaps not.
Perhaps, when you publish, you've shown the world enough of yourself. And
perhaps the world should leave you the hell alone.
There's a huge number of people who write books every year. And there's
piles and piles of forgotten tomes littering library shelves everywhere.
Writing does not automatically preclude privacy; many writers don't see
much difference in their lives once the book lands on a shelf somewhere.
We've just happened upon a fellow who wrote a book that defined a
generation. Several generations. And he wants to be left alone.
So sure, let Peggy write her book. And will, you're certainly free to enjoy
the first forty, nay, the first four hundred pages of it. I just don't like
it. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And I've only been drinking coffee.
(Oh, and sometimes tea.)
Regards,
Cecilia.
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