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The Monday Morning Memo

In a Box in the Closet…

September 6, 2004

In a Box in the Closet…

Thelma Toole believed in the talent of her son, though no one else could see it. And as mothers are wont to do, she pestered important people to take a look at 'the marvelous thing' her darling baby boy had written. She was systematically ignored, brushed off, and swept aside for 11 long and pitiable years. But Thelma Toole never quit.

When she heard that Walker Percy was teaching a writing class at a university not far away, Thelma marched into his office, thrust the weary manuscript into his hands and proclaimed, “It's a masterpiece.” Politely, Percy looked at the first page. Strangely, he didn't hate it. Minutes later he was surprised to notice that he was already several pages into the story.

In 1980, Louisiana State University Press published the colorfully comic, raging satire Thelma's boy had written 20 years earlier. The following year it won the Pulitzer Prize. Millions of people have since found laughter among its pages.

But recognition came too late for Thelma's child. Weary of waiting for a publisher to bring his book to life, young John Kennedy Toole decided to take his own. His car was found outside Biloxi, Mississippi on March 26, 1969; a length of garden hose stretched from the exhaust pipe to where he sat inside.

As John Toole drove out of town for the last time, his typescript lay quietly in the top of a dark closet. The New York Times would later write of it, “A masterwork of comedy. The novel astonishes with its inventiveness, it lives in the play of its voices. A Confederacy of Dunces is nothing less than a grand comic fugue.” The Chicago Sun Times would echo, “What a delight, what a roaring, rollicking, footstomping wonder this book is. I laughed until my sides ached, and then I laughed on.” Then The Washington Post threw gas on the fire, “A corker, an epic comedy, a rumbling, roaring avalanche of a book.” But the ultimate praise came when Rolling Stone wrote, “A Confederacy of Dunces has been reviewed almost everywhere, and every reviewer has loved it. For once, everyone is right.” But John Kennedy Toole never read those words.

He hid his book where we might find it. But he hid his life where we cannot.

I tell you this story not to bewail the tragedy of young John Kennedy Toole and his long-delayed Confederacy of Dunces but to herald one simple question: How many other Pulitzer-worthy efforts lie buried in drawers because there is no Thelma Toole to be their champion? What if Louisiana State University Press had said “no” like all the other publishers? These are the thoughts that haunt me, and the reasons why Wizard Academy Press exists.

Most people have a book in them. And like John Kennedy Toole they believe, “It could never really happen. I'm just a hopeful amateur.” But in the words of Richard Bach, “A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit.”

You haven't quit, have you?

Roy H. Williams

PS – Take the world's most boring subject, (mortgage lending,) add one sparkling writer, (Blaine Parker,) season heavily with insight, wit and candor,and you've got the fascinating new audiobook from Wizard Academy Press, Million Dollar Mortgage Radio. The only other thing a mortgage company might need to make a mountain of cash is the expert advice ofWizard of Ads partner Glenn Ribble. (Glenn was an extremely successful mortgage banker before he joined the Wizards of Ads team.)
 

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Random Quote:

“

She says, ‘There’s universality in the specific.’

and then she recites a deeply unpleasant poem by Eva H.D. called Bonedog. David Fear in Rolling Stone magazine said the poem is about ‘the way regrets have a way of eclipsing the bright spots of a life.’

It’s an eviscerating poem. If you’re not unhappy, it will make you unhappy. I suggest you do not keep reading. – Indy Beagle

BONEDOG

Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife
or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything’s worse once you’re home.

You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful.

And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn.

You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth’s gravitational pull an effort now redoubled,
dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of…

Anyway . . .

You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time . . .

Well . . .
Anyway . . .
You’re back.

The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness.

You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone.”

- Young Woman, in the movie "I'm Thinking About Ending Things."

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