Deep Structure of Capitalism

When I learned that world-famous linguist and political commentator Noam Chomsky would teach a class at the University of Arizona, I signed up.  A lot of people from the northeast come to Tucson for the winter, but most of them don’t come directly from MIT to teach a university course.  Whatever his reasons, I was glad to take advantage.

The course was a series of 16 hour-long lectures making up a critique of capitalism. Chomsky, who is 88, read prepared lectures from a script. Though he was well-amplified and easy to hear in the large auditorium, his voice was frail and monotone. He never looked up from his notes. He used no visual aids.  He just stood at the podium and recited.

The lectures were the epitome of the dry-as-dust stereotype of a droning professor. Older students like me hung on every word, knowing that this is The Man and he knows whereof he speaks. It’s Noam Frigging Chomsky!  But I imagine the 18 to 21-year-old matriculated crowd were thinking, “Oh, God. How many minutes left to go?”

The 150-level course was entitled “What is Politics?” though that question was hardly addressed. According to the syllabus, “… politics is about who gets what, when and how, [and] where.” That defines politics exclusively as economics. I think most political scientists would prefer a more comprehensive definition, one, for example that also encompassed issues of group identity and values, pursuit of common goals, the structure of government, a forum for conversations, the exercise of power, and many other aspects.  Okay, I’d go with a narrow definition of politics just for the sake of the course. But then it turned out that the course wasn’t even about that.

Buried further in the text, the syllabus also said that “…the course will examine how industrial state capitalism has come to dominate our thinking as the only way to organize the political economy to satisfy human needs and wants.”  This was what the course was mainly about. It was a critique of late-stage capitalism and how we are “brainwashed” into accepting it without question.

On Tuesdays, the lecture was delivered by Marvin Waterstone, a U of A professor of Geography, and on Thursdays, lectures by Chomsky were followed by a question-and-answer session where a selected U of A faculty member would toss fluffball questions to Chomsky so he could expostulate off script for a few minutes. Those were actually the most interesting part of the course.

Waterstone, whose qualifications for co-leading the course were never revealed, filled his hour by summarizing the assigned readings for the week, often by reciting long passages from them verbatim and reducing others to PowerPoint bullet lists. Apparently, students these days don’t or can’t read the assignments.  I cannot imagine what benefit accrues from having someone read to you papers that you already read for yourself. It wasn’t as if he added context, historical perspective, contrasting ideas, examples, or linkages. None of that. He simply synopsized the readings.

How such a travesty passes for higher education was a mystery to me and my heart went out to the young students. It was a perfect example of what I have long suspected, that the purpose of education is to pound the creativity out of you so you will never again have an original thought. (As an ex-college professor, I flatter myself in believing that I worked against type).

At least Chomsky had things to say. I would rather he’d talked about linguistics, the field in which he made his name in the 1950’s by discovering (or inventing, depending on who you talk to) the generative grammar, the deep structure of language, the language acquisition device, and many other innovations. But he left all that behind long ago, and since the 1960’s has been a tireless critic of government, politics, and capitalism in the U.S. He was a prominent voice in the anti-Vietnam war movement and a scathing critic of the Bush wars on Iraq and Afghanistan.

So what is his grievance?  He believes, with good reason, that capitalism inevitably leads to exploitation of workers and ultimately to government plutocracy, rule by the rich, a situation we have arrived at in America. He has deep roots in Marxism, but he’s not “a Marxist,” if there are even any of those left. That set of ideas has its own internal contradictions, such as the labor theory of value, a foundational idea based entirely on a semantic ambiguity.  But we did read excerpts from Marx, Gramsci, and others. About half the assigned readings were quite valuable.

Chomsky’s preferred political alternative is “anarcho-syndicalism,” a mouthful, to be sure, which I had to look up. He mentioned the idea but did not press it in class. The goal of the course was to critique capitalist-based government in the U.S., without really articulating an alternative. He suggested that students should to “take to the streets” and “resist the lies” and “reject the common-sense assumptions,” and in general, return to the activist years of the 1960’s and 1970’s. Maybe this time wearing pussy hats? I don’t know, he wasn’t clear on what we should be protesting. He didn’t provide any clear agenda.

In the 1970’s we had the draft and that was personal and that was the basis for the street protests.  We said, “You politicians can lie, cheat, and steal as long as you do it quietly, but when you require me to stand up and take a bullet for you, I draw the line.”  We have not yet come to that breaking point again in today’s politics.

So despite Chomsky’s longstanding participation in government criticism, he did seem stuck in time.  He could, and did, talk in detail about a CIA-sponsored overthrow of a government in Guatemala a half-century ago, with names, dates, and incidents. But he said not one peep about Donald Trump and his administration, nor did he have anything to say about any American president or administration since Eisenhower.  My impression was that while Chomsky is extremely sincere, expert, and articulate about his displeasure with government power, he’s already a historical figure himself.

Another serious problem with the course was its tone, which was toxically cynical. For example, the so-called “War on Drugs” has been, contrary to popular opinion, completely successful. Did you know that?  Why? Because its purpose always was to sweep into prison non-economically productive members of society, get them off the streets and reduce the numbers of the poor that we have to care for with social programs. Under that goal, the “War” has succeeded.

Not only is that view unsupported by historical facts or population statistics, it is deeply cynical in attributing the darkest, vilest motives to the government. Other people’s motives cannot be ascertained, only inferred, so it is gratuitous at least, and mean-spirited at worst, to attribute such motives, especially in the absence of evidence. Not to mention that the cost of incarceration is far higher than any cost of social programs for the poor.  I agree that the “War on Drugs” was, and still is, a bad idea, but I don’t jump to the conclusion that it arose as a malevolent conspiracy.

This was a problem throughout the course. The darkest, most evil motives were asserted for anyone who disagreed with Chomsky’s agenda. In his lectures and throughout most of the readings, arguments were consistently one-sided, evidential quotations selective and secondarily sourced, propositions laden with innuendo and presumptive values, assertions with willfully conflated correlation and causation, and so on. All these transparently propagandistic rhetorical techniques were an affront to critical thinking and undermined the credibility of the course’s goals. After the first few lectures, I stopped taking any of Chomsky’s arguments seriously. At first I did some online research and discovered how extremely biased and one-sided his lectures were, then I lost interest. What a wasted opportunity.

But it was worse than merely a wasted opportunity. I was angry and disappointed that this sort of crass propaganda passes for higher education.  I felt very sorry, indeed for the youngsters in the class who, presumably, were not as able as I to see through the rhetorical fog the course was blowing.

My only consolation was that basically, I agree with the course’s premises: capitalism does lead to a deceptive and pernicious plutocracy. So maybe it isn’t so terrible if students come to believe that. But that point of view should come after information-gathering and critical thinking, not from having it forced down your throat by a couple of arrogant and disrespectful propagandists who hold academic power over you. These professors acted out the same abuses of power and truth that they accused the government of, but they were immune to the irony.

I’m glad I took the course. It sharpened my awareness of how greed trumps all, works  against even the very survival of the planet.  I guess it also made me feel more helpless than I did before. If I were much younger, maybe I’d do something about it. Take a law degree and go into politics perhaps, I don’t know. In the present reality, I can only wallow in despair. I don’t have much hope for the youth, if this is the quality of education they’re getting.

Psi-fi: New Literary Genre

Psi-fi Oakland libraryI have been wriggling against the sci-fi label since I accidentally wrote my first sci-fi novel a decade ago. I didn’t mean to write sci-fi, but the story had an AI android in it. I don’t even like sci-fi.

I’m a cognitive psychologist who left the academic life for the computer industry to find out if the mind is like a computer. I started writing fiction to dramatize what I discovered about human and AI mental capacities. To do that, in my stories I often use a robot or an alien as a contrast character, because “It takes an alien to understand humans.”

It’s extremely difficult to explain to people, and agents too, that my novels are not really sci-fi. They involve no alien invasions, space battles, plasma guns, warp drives, or rampaging robots. Instead, they are stories about consciousness and its vicissitudes. I stick pretty close to actual technology and AI concepts, with just a little exaggeration.

Where I stretch is in psychological descriptions and explanations, of perception, dreaming, memory, motivation, imagination, creativity, agency, socialization, empathy, and above all, the mind-body problem (how does the immaterial mind connect to the physical body?).

I use robots and aliens the way genetic scientists use “knockout mice,” with a few specific genes disabled or “knocked out” in order to see what those genes do. An android, for example, might be just like a human except lacking in intuition. How would that show up? It’s not about the robot. It’s about human psychology. Try explaining that to your dog.

I’ve strained to find comparable work in the literature. There are some classics, going back to Clarke, Heinlein, and Asimov, that put human psychology at the forefront, but not much in current work. Judging from what’s getting published (by surveying Publishers Marketplace), I would say that 95% of today’s sci-fi is actually in the category of fantasy, and indeed most bookstores shelve sci-fi and fantasy together.

The average reader doesn’t know much about science and cares less. Fantasy is what they want. I described one of my novels to an agent at a conference and his first question about my main character, a physician, was, “What’s his special power?”

There might be, should be, more interest in the mysteries of the mind than there is in science and engineering, because I know for sure that every reader has a mind and a body. All I have to do is make them realize that’s a highly problematic way to exist.

So I’m hereby declaring a new genre: “Psi-fi,” where “psi” stands for psychology (which is not a real science, regardless of what they tell you). The term is already in light use, but not in a literary sense, as far as I can tell.

A scientific interest group in Lahore is called psi-fi ( but they’re not involved in reading or writing fiction. There’s a “psychedelic music” group apparently obsessed with the I Ching ( but as far as I can make out, they neither read nor write literature. A professor of philosophy in Texas apparently wrote a study of “the intersections of science fiction, superhero comics, and the paranormal” that incidentally uses the term, “psi-fi.” ( But I don’t find anyone using the term in the way I intend, as a specific genre of psychological fiction against a technological background. So I’m taking it.

Psi-fi is hereby deemed a genre of contemporary literature. Now if only Barnes & Noble agreed with me.

Addendum: Psi2

I really should put forth a psi-fi “manifesto” at this point. Everybody has a manifesto. Alas, I don’t have one. I can however offer a list of just a few topics I consider appropriate to feature in a psi-fi novel:

Perception and reality: what’s the difference?

Chaos and pattern – in the eye of the beholder?

Intersubjectivity and its variants, its absence, its origins

Mortality – what is it?

Memory as fabrication

History as collective memory


Time and change (as experienced)

Self-awareness, metacognition and higher-order thought

Consciousness – kinds of, states of, absence of, conditions of…

Consciousness – natural vs artificial

Madness and  the social construction of reality

Personality – what is it?

Individuality – myth or reality?

Emotions and feelings. What good are they?

Intuition and conceptualization

Creativity (and counterfactual imagination)

Free will vs randomness vs determinism vs self-delusion

Knowledge, certainty and doubt

Knowledge vs belief

Language: Social construction, language games, Deep structure

Community (family, tribalism, Gemeinshaftsgefuhl)

Music (all the arts) – the proprius, Necker cube, Gestalt formation

The mind-body problem, intercorporeality, Merleau-Ponty

Spatiality and movement: alternatives to Kant? Einstein?

Entropy vs life, vs knowledge vs information

Rationality vs the Dionysian

Logic and reason – was Hume correct? Critical thinking.

Philosophy of science and constructed reality

The Dream that grips us all

The black hole and the folds of experience

Self-relating subjectivity per Hegel

Intentional inexistence per Brentano

Accommodation of the self to reality and vice-versa

Intrinsic motivation

The telos

Egocentricity vs self-transcendence

Radical subjectivity (Ramana Maharshi)

Gibson’s affordances

The ox-herding pictures

The delusion of self-efficacy

Greed – can it be stopped? Mitigated? Excised?

Love vs reason. Why don’t they mix?

Magic – how should it be defined

The Turing test (and its successors)

Convergence of biology and technology vs theory of evolution

The construction and practice of gender

Lies vs truth. Why do we care? – in practice, per Wittgenstein

Science as a special kind of conversation


The homunculus

Psi-no oilCould this be the genre slogan? “Use no oil!”  Has a nice ring to it, I think – almost as good as a manifesto.


Natural vs Artificial Intelligence

SuperintelligenceThis briefing by Nick Bostrom on the dangers of artificial intelligence takes up a serious and legitimate question: Should we be more cautious as we go about trying to improve artificial intelligence? What if an AI became so smart it decided to take over the world?  Silly? I think so. But it’s a question worth exploring, if only to dispel long-standing fear of the mythical “Frankenstein Syndrome.”

Unfortunately, the book is written by a philosopher with an engineering bent, without, apparently, much understanding of human psychology (real intelligence).  Consequently, the book is mostly a sterile exercise and often unintentionally humorous.

Perhaps the most fundamental problem is the failure to define intelligence of the natural kind. Bostrom unthinkingly uses the I.Q. index as a measure of it, but anyone who has studied the matter will agree that IQ equals intelligence only as a matter of convenient social discourse. People who take IQ tests produce scores distributed in a normal distribution and that’s a scientific fact, but there is no theory or explanation of why  or whether answers to the questions on an IQ test have anything to do with intellectual competence or “smarts,” whatever those might be. Here’s an example of the kind of question you might find on an adult IQ test:

Rearrange the following letters to make a word and choose the category in which it fits.


A. city
B. fruit
C. bird
D. vegetable

Correct answer: bird (parakeet)

If you can answer such a question, what does it mean?  Rapetek is not even a word so you can’t be expected to know it. Perhaps the correct answer shows you have experience with words, letters, and conventional  hierarchical categories of common objects. Does that make you “smart?”  Maybe. Another good answer is “Rape,” and none of the categories presented is appropriate to it.  Is that a less smart answer? (The question did not say I had to use all the letters presented).

The bottom line is that there is no generally accepted explanation for what natural intelligence is. An IQ score is merely a convention for use by educational and legal systems but it explains nothing. If you’re going to write a book about “superintelligence,” I would say you have to do better.

In a related vein, Bostrom seems to have never given two thoughts to the nature of intuition, creativity, agency, subjectivity, empathy, emotion, intrinsic motivation or aesthetics, just to name a few faculties of the intelligent mind that seem important. You would think a philosopher would be at least minimally familiar with current concepts in consciousness studies, such as the debate over qualia. He assumes memory is about storage and retrieval of data, which many people believe, though that is not supported by the scientific research (on humans).

The author proceeds blithely as if there were no question about what intelligence is, so what does he think “super” intelligence is?  It seems to mean symbolic problem solving at a rate much greater than humans can accomplish. Problem-solving slips in there as a new, undocumented re-definition of intelligence. Even if it were, why would “faster” = “smarter?”  What’s the hurry?

Such shortcomings, and many others, including rampant anthropomorphism, leave the discussion ungrounded, a mere exercise for its own sake, leading to nothing. As if that were not bad enough, the writing is execrable. Consider this description of how a “super” AI might solve a problem:

“…the programmer would simply specify a formal criterion of what counts as a success and leave it to the AI to find a solution. To guide its search, the AI would use a set of powerful heuristics and other methods to discover structure in the space of possible solutions. It would keep searching until if found a solution that satisfied the success criterion. (p. 186)”

In other words, the AI would use “methods” to search for a solution. I would do the same myself! Nothing is revealed by the author’s obfuscatory verbiage.

The book is “highly recommended” by Bill Gates, on the front cover. Maybe that should tell you something.  Better choices might be “Artificial Intelligence: A Modern Approach,” by Russell and Norvig, or “The Cambridge Handbook of Artificial Intelligence” by Frankesh and Ramsey.

Bostrom, Nick (2014). Superintelligence: Paths, Dangers, Strategies, Reprint Edition. New York: Oxford University Press, 2014. 415 pp.

Gratuitous Poetry

Blind assassin - Atwood_Margaret Atwood cut her writing teeth on poetry and it shows in her novel, The Blind Assassin, perhaps too much. Her phrases are carefully constructed, a virtue in any writer, but Atwood’s choices often stand out as slightly too clever, while not particularly insightful. As the book opens, the narrator’s sister, Laura, has died, and Iris, the sister, writes about her sister’s novel,

“Hard to fathom, in my opinion: as carnality goes it’s old hat, the foul language nothing you can’t hear any day on the street corners, the sex as decorous as fan dancers – whimsical almost, like garter belts.” (p 39)

I enjoyed “whimsical like garter belts” as a phrase, but what does it mean? Are garter belts whimsical? And even if they are, Laura’s sex scenes were “almost” that whimsical, meaning what?  This is one example of hundreds and hundreds throughout this long novel, of phrases that catch your eye but on closer inspection are close to nonsense.

“Such a thin book, so helpless. The uninvited guest at this odd feast, it fluttered at the edges of the stage like an ineffectual moth.” (p. 40)

Arresting image, until you ask yourself what an “ineffectual moth” is. What would an effectual one be?  And if you’re wondering why the narrator is still waxing on her sister’s novel, the answer is that Atwood waxes.  That’s why the book is too long.

In long, excruciating backstory, we follow the lives of the two sisters from when they were wealthy teenagers in a small town in Eastern Canada, to the death of Iris, seven decades later. What happens between are the two world wars and the depression, with the appearance of soldiers, businessmen, love affairs, marriages, babies, households and the stuff of life. As in much “literary” fiction, nothing really happens. It’s just ordinary everydayness piled high and deep. Getting through the novel is, as a colleague commented, an Iditerod of reading.

More than half of the eighty or ninety short chapters open with a weather report, followed by detailed description of the scenery, and continue into long, lush descriptions of walks in the town or country, food and drink, shopping, clothing, babies and children.  Such material may hold particular fascination for some readers, but it was suffocating for me.

Are there redeeming virtues?  Yes. The novel did not win the Booker Prize for nothing. One interesting aspect is the narrative structure. The whole novel is presented as a diary, or letter, addressed to someone, we are not told whom until the very end. The ending is contrived and clichéd, swooping into the final few pages like a Deus ex Machina.

Within this long diary, Iris, the ostensible writer and first-person narrator, tells the story of her difficult lifetime relationship with Laura, her wild sister who died in the first chapter in a car accident that always smelled of suicide.  Interspersed throughout the diary is a novel, called The Blind Assassin, supposedly the novel that Laura wrote. It is a cheesy sci-fi adventure, written in third person narration, and involves swordplay, monsters, space travel and foreign worlds.  It is stereotypical nonsense, badly written, clichéd, and pointless. However, the astute reader notes it would take considerable skill for someone like Atwood to deliberately write that badly on purpose, so it is interesting in that regard – only.

Finally, the embedded novel, The Blind Assassin is not simply inserted into The Blind Assassin, but rather told as a story, or a series of stories by an unnamed man who claims to be a writer,  to an unnamed woman, who we guess is Laura.  The point of view narrator for that part seems to be Laura, who asks the man repeatedly to continue with the story.  But what is Atwood’s point of view on that point of view?  That’s an interesting and tricky question that is not adequately dealt with, making the structure an interesting piece of experimental writing which in the end, breaks the implicit contract with the reader that says third-person narrators are always reliable. Still, I give points for the effort.

Another virtue of the novel is Atwood’s skill at finely detailed description of fixed scenes and especially of photographs. Atwood seems drawn to ekphrasis, a poetic term for written description of a picture or a work of art. The book opens with a vivid description of a photograph and that is a recurring theme. Ekphrastic writing tries to “tell a story” about a photo, film, or painting, a type of writing that is well-suited to Atwood’s narrative voice.

Finally, as mentioned, much of Atwood’s descriptive writing involves highly poetic language. Taking an arbitrarily selected 154-word paragraph …

“Today I had something different for breakfast. Some new kind of cereal flake, brought over by Myra to pep me up: she’s a sucker for the writing on the backs of packages. These flakes, it says in candid lettering the color of lollipops, of fleecy cotton jogging suits, are not made from corrupt, overly commercial corn and wheat, but from little-known grains with hard-to-pronounce names — archaic, mystical. The seeds of them have been rediscovered in pre-Columbian tombs and in Egyptian pyramids; an authenticating detail, though not, when you come to think of it, all that reassuring. Not only will these flakes whisk you out like a pot scrubber, they murmur of renewed vitality, of endless youth, of immortality. The back of the box is festooned with a limber pink intestine; on the front is an eyeless jade mosaic face, which those in charge of publicity have surely not realized is an Aztec burial mask.”

We notice it is pure description, a propos of nothing, as so much of the book is, and one is tempted to skim right on past with annoyance. But if a reader were to take the time to notice, some lovely constructions are buried in that pile of verbiage:

“candid lettering the color of lollipops” is a visual, vivid, creative, and original phrase well-worth savoring.

“Candid lettering, ” color of lollipops:” 2 syllables followed by three, 2x(trochee + dactyl), with alliteration! Not bad at all. The rhythmic nature of the phrasing is no accident and such constructions do not grow on trees. The astute reader must whisper, “Bravo!”

Is such a construction necessary, or even desirable in a book that’s supposed to be a novel, a  “dramatic” tale (though it contains no drama) where story is supposed to be king? That is a separate question.

“fleecy cotton jogging suits” is another fine phrase — I can almost hear the band playing that tune. Say it out loud and you’ll enjoy it. And it invokes both tactile and kinesthetic senses to boot.

“corrupt, overly commercial corn and wheat” — less good, but still nice.

“little-known grains with hard-to-pronounce names”

On this one, she should have said “difficult” instead of “hard-to-pronounce.” Try it out loud both ways. Is my version too obvious?

Some of Atwood’s phrases are visually arresting, even when not especially rhythmic:

“festooned with a limber pink intestine” — “festooned” is a lovely word, but followed by that particular noun phrase, well, it grabs you in the eyeballs (if not the guts).

So overall, I say that this 154-word paragraph does pay its rent, but that does not mean it should have been included in this novel. Rather, it could be construed as self-indulgent wordplay that shows contempt for a reader vainly searching for a story.

Atwood, Margaret. (2000), The Blind Assassin. New York: Doubleday/Anchor (518 pp.).

What is Consciousness?

What is Consciousness?

tsc2017posterIf I had unlimited time and money, I would waste it on the University of Arizona’s annual conference on consciousness, called, optimistically, “The Science of Consciousness.” Of course there is no such science. One can (I can) argue that consciousness, being immaterial, is not even susceptible to scientific methods of inquiry.

Undaunted, in even-numbered years this conference is held in Tucson; odd-numbered abroad. I used to be an active participant from 1994 through the early oughts, reading, attending, showing posters, presenting at paper sessions, and contributing articles to the journal (Journal of Consciousness Studies (  I presented papers in Tucson, Sweden, and Scotland. This year (2017) the conference is in Shanghai.

I have a fondness in my heart for this enterprise.

Several factors nudged me out of the fold. One was the price. Back in the day I could attend a conference for $200. Now it’s $500 to get in the door, too rich for me.

Another factor was that I started to feel like it was Groundhog Day. The same old ideas and arguments were trotted out year after year. Nothing was ever resolved and nothing that looked like progress was ever evident and I lost confidence that it ever would be.

And then I took up writing fiction, which is perhaps just another way to study consciousness, and it is all-absorbing and very, very time-consuming.

Having visited Shanghai some zodiac Rooster cycles ago, I was curious about the latest conference, in June, 2017  Here are some of the promised highlights and my random associations to them.

  • June 5-10, 2017
  • Shanghai New International Expo Centre
  • Shanghai CHINA

General Conference Registration:  $500. (Travel, food and lodging not included).

Conference Blurb:
Consciousness defines our existence, but its scientific nature remains unknown. How does the brain produce consciousness, and how does consciousness causally affect brain processes? Is consciousness equivalent to computation? What are the best empirical theories, and do we have free will? How and when did consciousness evolve, or has it been present in the universe all along? What are the origins of moral and aesthetic values, and how can mental and cognitive function be optimized? Can consciousness persist after bodily death, e.g. through ‘uploading’ to machines, or via mental processes tied to the structure of reality? These and other relevant questions are approached through many disciplines including brain science, philosophy, physics, cosmology, the arts and contemplative practices.

[The bias of this conference and of most people working in the field, is that the brain does somehow “produce” consciousness. The only remaining question is how?  For a material brain to produce immaterial consciousness  would violate several laws of physics and is scientifically implausible. Never mind.  Refer to the title of the conference.

Notice that in the interests of “fair and balanced” propositions, the introduction also asks how consciousness affects brain processes, allowing only marginal “effects.”  It does not ask how consciousness might “produce” the brain, for that is an inconceivable idea. More inconceivable than the converse?

The prevailing conceptualization seems to be. 1. There are two conceptual entities: a) the brain, and  b) consciousness. 2. Those two entities are clearly correlated in observation. 3. We have no causal story to explain that correlation.

Despite the impasse, there is a strong and palpable bias at these conferences, without reason, evidence, or plausible theory, that the arrow of causality runs from brain to consciousness.

In my (not so) humble opinion, after 35 years of study, the consensus view is a dead-end and even a non-starter.  Once I saw that clearly, I tried for a while to turn the ship around, realized shortly that one cannot swim against a zeitgeist, and dropped out. ]

[John Searle spoke at the first conference in 1994. I don’t think he’s said anything new since then. His answer: “No.” ]

[I was surprised to see that Thomas Bever is now at U of A. It was his book, The Psychology of Language: An Introduction to Psycholinguistics and Generative Grammar by J. A. Fodor, T. G. Bever, M. F. Garrett (1974) New York: McGraw Hill, that got me started in psycholinguistics and philosophy of mind. Too bad there’s no practical way for me to meet him and say “Thanks.”  Oddly, He’s probably sitting not far from me twice a week in the class Chomsky is currently teaching at U of A.]

[Dave Chalmers has been a producer of the TSC from the beginning. I’ve had many interesting conversations with him, online and in person, though he would not know me, since he is many-to-one, while I am among the many.  His 1996 book, The Conscious Mind, was a very welcome antidote to rampant and unexamined physical reductionism in the study of  consciousness. However, I don’t think he has ever settled on a definition of his own. It used to be, I thought, that he believed consciousness was information, in some way that I could not understand – “information” being a classic weasel word with multiple definitions. I don’t know if he’s gone over to the side of the panpsychists.  In any case, I am grateful to him for having invented, or at least promulgated 1. The philosophical zombie and 2. The Zombie Blues.

Galen Strawson, with whom I have also conversed and emailed, is the archetypal panpsychist, although in my (not so) humble opinion he is a closet materialist.]

[It would be interesting to attend this session and hear what the “latest” is on the correlation between consciousness and neurology.  At best, it would be, “still don’t know.” At worst, it will be the same old “just around the corner” misplaced optimism.]

[Likewise, it would be interesting to hear what the “latest” theories of consciousness are, but I would expect same-old, same-old. I’ve talked with Stuart Hameroff several times at conventions and I once took an online class from him. He’s an anesthesiologist and to his credit, admits  that “nobody knows” how anesthesiology works (although I am sure there are strongly-held hypotheses.). ]

[The multiple layers of questions and assumptions embedded in this problematic are indeed plenary.  “Evolution” is a biological term, so posing the question about the “evolution of consciousness” already presupposes that consciousness is a biological phenomenon, something that has not been scientifically established. It’s one of those infuriating topics that skims over so many definitions and assumptions that I am usually left speechless.]

[Still, if I had the thousands of dollars to attend and the time to do it, I would.]

Jack Reacher Outsmarted

Reacher Said NothingAndy Martin’s deconstruction of Lee Child’s twentieth, and hopefully last, Jack Reacher novel, Make Me, is at first glance an exercise in flamboyant grandstanding pretending to be hagiography.   At least 80% of the book is filled with tangents not even remotely germane and peppered with mystifyingly irrelevant anecdotes. It is extremely annoying for that. But on closer reading, I think that’s all obfuscation, part of a near-fantastical feat of mental conjuring worthy of Jack Reacher calculating the trajectory of an incoming bullet.

My hypothesis is that the structure and content of Martin’s book is a response to a heavy hand of censorship from Child’s publishers (also Martin’s own, Random/Vintage). That pressure is alluded to in the text. The publisher apparently had complete editorial control over Martin as he wrote and essentially enforced a content-free policy so he would not say anything even the slightest bit critical, protecting the Reacher brand from any expose, or even the slightest shade. Elephant bucks are involved. Child’s Reacher series is one of the most successful in modern publishing history. Forbes called it “the strongest brand in publishing.” Reacher books have sold more than 70 million copies, making it a billion-dollar brand.

Despite that, Martin manages to present a serious literary criticism of the Child novel, and to present meaningful biographical information about Child himself, all without invoking the Damoclean sword. Reading between the lines, here are some issues and questions  about Child and Reacher that Martin sneakily brought forth right under the noses of his wary censors:

  1. Martin attempts to write in Child’s Jack Reacher style, especially in the first couple of chapters. It’s painfully bad. Martin seems to humiliate himself with some horrible writing and very lame imitation. Yet it does, deftly and indirectly, call attention to Child’s bizarre writing style. Martin provides a scathing criticism without stating a word of criticism.  What is the Child style? In some ways it’s redolent of a Cormack McCarthy minimalism (without the poetry), short, direct, declarative sentences and sentence fragments, the grunts and whistles of a taciturn cave-man.  And the Reacher books are characterized by the catch-phrase, “Reacher said nothing” a phrase Martin glorifies in a brilliant feat of misdirection.

Martin displays these and other elements of the Child style critically, again without commenting directly on them. For example, he shows several instances of cringeworthy purple prose along with some extremely clunky sentence structures and almost uninterpretable quirks of narration, qualities Child’s writing shows in abundance.  It’s an  extremely subtle, even artistic form of criticism, showing, without saying.

Example: “… about the one thing he couldn’t do was write a novel about his own experience. Which was why Reacher still needed him. He’d written the first line on September 1, 2013. It had to be September 1. Every year. Without fail. Now it was over.” (p. 5)

I submit that is parody, even ridicule, of Child’s writing style, and Martin slipped it past the censors.  There are many other similar examples.

  1. On page 41, Martin says to Child, I like the way you use which,” I said. Which made sense anyway. Subordinate clause, but you give it a fresh start.”

It’s another beautifully disguised criticism on many levels, ridiculing Child’s excessive use of fragments and including the deliciously cryptic italicized phrase which renders the passage nonsensical but is supposed to be a thought-balloon (I think). Child, oblivious to irony, eats up the praise while Martin parodizes him.

  1.  On page 56, Martin inserts another dirk into Child’s cloak when he over-praises the title of the novel, Make Me. Masterful!  It is, of course, an uninformative title, having nothing to do with the story. It evokes the mood of a schoolyard bully for no apparent purpose except to reveal something about Child’s own mentality, perhaps, and that is reflected in the novel. Jack Reacher has the social development of a nine-year-old, and after reading Martin’s book, I began to believe that was true of Child as well. So the title is perhaps an inadvertently embarrassing self-disclosure by Child, highlighted and interpreted by Martin. Again Child unwittingly basks in Martin’s praise.
  1. Money, money, money!  Child is all about money (pp 65 ++, 85, 89, elsewhere), and he has done extremely well indeed with the Reacher series. Child portrays himself (per Martin) as being like Reacher – an unmotivated drifter with no agenda. Martin effectively exposes that self-description as either delusion or pure cynicism. Writing is all about the money for Child and that’s what drives him, not any artistic muse, as Child claims with abundant self-flattery. Martin skillfully demonstrates that contradiction without stating anything directly.

“So you’re a poet … and a ruthless bastard at the same time?”

“One does not impact on the other…” (p. 86).

  1. Martin reports Child’s appreciation of the “Flaubertian point of view” (more commonly in the U.S. called “Free Indirect Discourse,” or FID – a type of narration supposedly invented by Flaubert).  Child enthusiastically agrees, for he is a fine literary artist after all. Child does make extensive use of FID in his narration, but so does everybody else these days. It is required in modern writing. However Child corrupts the subtlety of the technique by inserting unbelievable, often incomprehensible, italicized thought-balloons into the text, essentially constituting a different narrator entirely, a first-person narrator that often competes with the close-third narrator exercising FID. Child, of course, is oblivious to this garbling of the technique. Martin is not. (See pp. 131 ++, 133, and 138).
  1. What is the plot of Make Me? You’d be hard pressed to outline it. The story throughline is very nearly lost in the endless meandering that makes up most of the book. Reacher is unmotivated and wants nothing. The “MacGuffin,” his friend’s missing partner, is known by the reader to be dead on page 1. The so-called plot seems to be merely episodic, a long, saggy series of almost unconnected scenes leading nowhere in particular. I admit I couldn’t even keep track of why the main characters were furiously scooting off to Los Angeles or Oklahoma – I had completely lost the thread of what was going on because the story was directionless and nothing mattered. The “grand denouement” of the ending could have been written as Chapter Two, so unrelated was it to the rest of the story.

But Martin skillfully reveals Child’s self-serving “theory of plot” (see pp. 138-139). Child’s incomprehensible “theory” of plot is that it is the job of the author to “kill the plot.” What? On the other hand, maybe he did that, though I’m skeptical that it was on purpose. More likely, Child can’t get a grip on a solid Reacher plot. The books are extremely episodic, not story-driven, and obviously written by the seat of the pants. But nor are they character-driven. Reacher is an unchanging rock. By the last page of the book he has barely mussed his hair.  My conclusion, prompted by Martin, is that Reacher books are neither character-driven nor plot-driven. They are author-driven.

  1. Who is the audience for Reacher books? Martin probes that question ever so gently, aware that he simply cannot insult any of Child’s readers, not even one. The publisher/censors would be all over that with a flame thrower.

So instead, Martin presents a long anecdote about how Child routinely beats speeding tickets. While that conversation is presented in a humorous tone, it is the sneering humor of a bully.  I think the point Martin is making with this extended diversion is that Reacher Creatures (as avid readers call themselves) are thrilled by simplistic and brutal vigilantism because they have an extremely undeveloped sense of social justice and no clue about the principles behind the judicial process (like the Constitution, for example). The readers have the moral and social development of nine-year-olds. Martin skillfully makes his point about Child’s readers without insulting anyone. (See p. 175 and also p. 196).  It’s brilliant.

  1. Ever clever, Martin reports some juicy trash talk from Child in the final few pages, as Child expresses (often indirectly) disparaging attitudes toward James Patterson, John D. MacDonald, the James Bond series, John Grisham, Dorothy Sayers, Thomas Harris, and many others. Of Harris’s Hannibal Lecter character, Child says, “…It could be parody – either that or Harris just fell in love with his own creation.” This is exactly what I’d been thinking about Child and Jack Reacher, and maybe Child wanted to confess as much about himself, but even if he did, Martin would never get something like that past the censors, so he makes the thought a speculation about Harris, by Child, not about Child himself.  Very sly.

Child muses, “Do you think it’s possible some smart cookie at Google is going to come along and read all this and turn it into a piece of software that can write virtual Lee Child novels from now till kingdom come?” (Page  313). Indeed.

Conclusion: Reacher Said Nothing is a difficult book because you have to sift through a lot of dross to find the jewels, but they’re in there. Once you understand that Martin had no choice but to write as a fanboy and not leave the slightest smudge on the Reacher franchise, you can see through the veneer to his subterranean agenda. Though it is a brilliant artistic achievement,  Martin’s frustration is palpable and summed up in a statement camouflaged by a seemingly very  irrelevant tangent on Wittgenstein: “There is a line right at the end of the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (Proposition 7) which anticipated “Reacher said nothing”: “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent”… (p 294).

Martin has managed to convey important literary criticism about Child/Reacher, cleverly disguised within an ostensibly brain-dead fluff piece. Martin has outsmarted Child, Random House, and even Jack Reacher.

Martin, Andy (2015). Reacher Said Nothing: Lee Child and The Making of Make Me. New York: Random/Vintage (345 pp.)


Jack Reacher, Serial Killer

Child Make Me“Make me,” a schoolyard taunt, is the title of Lee Child’s 20th and possibly final Jack Reacher novel. The first one, “Killing Floor” came out a decade ago (1997) and the series has been on the top of the sales charts ever since. I wanted to figure out what the magic is. There has to be a secret sauce. But I found “Make Me” so bad as to be unintentionally funny, as if it were a deliberate parody of the tough-guy crime novel. But I don’t think it’s supposed to be a parody. I think it’s straight up.

Protagonist Jack Reacher is an ex-mil Ramboesque drifter who annoys people with his arrogance, they sass him, so he kills them. I lost track of the body count in “Make Me,” but I think it’s over a dozen. In fairness, the victims do something to provoke Reacher, like insult him, look at him the wrong way, or threaten a fair damsel he feels obliged to protect. He’s a hair trigger and he kills without remorse.

Reacher is a fantasy figure, a Superman, though he eats only junk food and drinks only gallons of coffee. But he’s invincible. Bullets can’t find him and he knows everything there is to know about guns, ammunition, knives, and ropes. Not that he needs them. He can easily defeat four armed assailants sneaking up behind him in a dark alley. It’s just a matter of knowing the correct moves, and Child describes the fantastic calculations that Reacher does before or while fighting. Reacher knows everything there is to know about human anatomy and kinesiology so one strategic palm chop or poke of the elbow will cripple a bad guy. What a man!

Reacher is also worldly-wise and inexplicably erudite. He’s been everywhere, seen everything, seems to know many languages, has read the canonical literature and can quote Shakespeare or Bertrand Russell.  It hardly needs mentioning that he is a woman-magnet, though he never ever forms attachments. He’s a free-spirit, owns nothing, has no address, and wants no commitments. He’s also clairvoyant. He often deduces, from “evidence” thinner than a hunch, exactly who the bad guy is, where he is, what he’s up to, and what he’ll do next. And he’s never wrong. These omniscient feats of cognition are presented as reasonable deductions that any smart person might make, if only they had the vast experience and knowledge that Reacher had.

For example, in one scene, Reacher finds out where an unknown subject lives in a strange town, merely because a guy in the library said the subject was frail and unhealthy-looking. Reacher says:

“This is a man who looks terrible because he doesn’t take care of himself. Probably doesn’t eat right, maybe doesn’t sleep right…Pharmacies are not on his radar. Therefore he had no particular reason to buy his phone from this particular pharmacy. So why did he? Because he walks past it twice a day, to and from the library. How else would he even notice? They had one phone in the window, all covered in dust. So I think we can conclude he walks home in this direction. Out the library door, turn left, past the pharmacy and onward.”

So having ascertained the direction to the guy’s house, Reacher begins walking, and based on his vast knowledge of architecture and real-estate values, deduces which neighborhood the subject would choose to live in, and sure enough, walks directly up to the subject’s front door. What a man!

It’s sort of fun, if silly and utterly unbelievable, but that kind of riff gives the Reacher character a slightly tongue-in-cheek quality. He’s almost a comic character but not quite, because he is presented very seriously. He’s no Inspector Clouseau. The presentation is not quite a Chandler parody, but close. Since Reacher doesn’t care about anything, the character never has anything at stake. He’s just a nonchalant killing machine but the reader is supposed to take the nonsense in a serious way.

Reacher is not interested in money, fame, glory, power, women, recognition. He doesn’t drink (bar the odd beer) or smoke or do drugs. He stays in cheap motels and hitchhikes. He has no job, no career aspirations. He’s not working toward anything or going anywhere. He is unmotivated. Except when somebody does something he thinks is rude, unfair, or unjust – then watch out. He knows a bad guy when he sees one. He has instincts for it. He don’t need no stinkin’ judicial system. If somebody’s bad, he kills them. Simple as that. Amazingly, he never gets caught, never leaves any clues or DNA and plentiful witnesses never say anything. Cops have no interest in him and he’s never interrogated or arrested. What happens to the dead bodies he leaves in his wake is unknown.

I read this book hoping to gain insight into why the franchise is one of the top-selling series in the world. What makes it golden?  Should I try to write something like that? But I was mystified. Who reads this nonsense?

The book, the character, and the whole series apparently appeal to people frustrated with the subtleties and slow pace of the judicial system; people who are enraged when perceived criminals avoid immediate and certain punishment, according to their own primitive morality. Those readers would revel in Reacher’s vigilantism, oblivious of the law and of the Constitution. Reacher delivers the swift and brutal punishment of a schoolyard bully, the punishment readers wish they could visit upon the “bad guys” in their own ineffectual lives. It has to be that.

The “Reacher Creatures,” as dedicated readers of the series call themselves, would like to be that Superman who can visit such pain upon bad guys. These readers must be helpless, downtrodden people who fantasize in a childish way about being all-powerful. Maybe it’s an Oedipal thing – they seek revenge on their mean parents? Or mean boss? I can hardly imagine who would enjoy twenty of these Reacher novels let alone one. Whatever motivates Child’s avid readers, and there are millions of them, Reacher scratches the itch.

I struggled to finish the book but amused myself with marginal notations of “DXM” which noted numerous instances of “Deus Ex Machina” plot developments and “Phone” for instances of the author’s inexplicable obsession with telephones in this novel. I also underlined sentences that approached word salad, syntax with no clear meaning, like the famous line, “Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.” It’s a sentence, but you’d be challenged to make any sense of it.

Getting back to the main question though. What makes this series such a phenomenal success? I think it’s important that Reacher is not a “superhero,” just a regular hero. He would eschew anything “super.” He’s just a humble ordinary guy, but tougher than you and me.  Readers seem to accept the magical realism that makes Reacher faster than a speeding bullet and stronger than a locomotive, because he likes to eats ham and eggs in diners. And he doesn’t wear tights. He’s not ostensibly magical, just wonderful. He’s just magical enough to facilitate childish social fantasy for those who would love to say to a bully: “Make me!”

Child, Lee (2015). Make Me. New York: Dell. (491 pp.).

Pitching Vs Writing

nycI think I’m recovered from my New York Pitch Conference, a week in the city trying to learn how to pitch a novel manuscript. I came back with a mission: to re-write my manuscript, incorporating all that I’d learned. Trouble was, I couldn’t face it, couldn’t even open the file. Maybe the manuscript was really no good. Was I capable of turning it inside out? Wouldn’t that ruin it? Did I have the creative spark to completely reconceptualize my hard-earned and carefully assembled story?  Maybe I should forget the whole thing. And worse than that.

irish-pubBut after a week my emotions settled down and I went through my notes from the conference.  Some of the notes were impressions I had jotted after evening events in various “happy hour” settings, shouting over the din at people only two feet away. Every bar in the city was thronged with pre-holiday celebrators and in one Irish pub we were told we had to leave in thirty minutes because the whole bar was reserved for “a function.” The workshop instructor, who apparently knew his way around, marched us all like ducklings to another place on 38th street, smaller, louder, with no place to hang your coat.

It was bar-talk, or bar-shout, unproductive, the instructor telling anecdotes about stupid students he’s had and crazy pitches he’s heard. I had hoped for something else, I don’t know what, but it was useless so I withdrew to a table where another cluster of classmates jabbered on, coats in lap.

king-tutOne was a woman from Ontario with a degree in film studies who had given a great pitch on the first day about King Tut’s girlfriend (historically accurate, apparently).  She was small and cute, with a face that reminded me of a young Nicole Kidman.  She was drinking Prosecco like a fish and she commented on how imaginative my beachball alien was. She said, “I wrote a really imaginative story too, not long ago. It’s about this guy who has a huge asshole, and gradually the asshole acquires a personality and becomes a character, and it talks and everything. So the guy develops a relationship with it and of course he ends up having sex with it.”

I almost snorted beer through my nose, but she nonchalantly sipped her bubbly and glanced around the room distractedly.

“Anatomically difficult to imagine” I remarked.

“It was kind of a surrealist piece,” she said in all seriousness.

My 3P-close narrator in FID mode echoed inside my skull, “What the hell?”

spaghetti-westernAt a loss how to proceed in that conversation, I switched my attention to a tall, thin Mexican-American guy with a grey ponytail. He had pitched a western theme set in the civil war era, that nobody could understand. He said he was giving that up and now wanted to retell the story of the birth of Jesus as a spaghetti western in the style of Tarantino.

“I’m obsessed with Tarantino,” he confided.

We brainstormed, and I knew this was why I love hanging out with writers.

I left after an hour and met my wife for dinner. We went to a “moderate” Italian place I had read about. We were told we could only have the table for 60 minutes but we went for it and each noshed a small bowl of rigatoni and squash, with a dinner salad. A hundred and fifteen dollars! With no alcohol. New York prices! I admit the food was exquisite in every respect but still. An experience worth having once, we told each other.

chatbotThat night, I scrapped my beachball alien and wrote a new pitch involving chatbots circulating on the internet. Of course they go rogue. The instructor liked it. “Do that one,” he said. “Humor doesn’t sell.”

So I had heard.

I pitched rogue chatbots to three successive editors over the next two days. On the last day, results were tallied. The instructor told me I had received a request for a “full” from a New York publisher. That’s a score. Wa-hoo!

warrior-with-antlersKing Tut’s Girlfriend received two requests. Other stories, incomprehensibly to me, also got multiple requests from the editors. These invariably involved stock superheroes and what seemed to me cliché sword and sandals adventures but what do I know? One sword-wielding hero had deer antlers growing out of his skull, so I guess that was something. Nothing for “High Plains Jesus.”

I was elated. A request for a full manuscript is essentially a promise to read it. It’s a guaranteed detour around the slush pile. On the down side, I had to write the manuscript I had pitched. I’d said it was “completed” but everyone appreciates that is a relative term in the writing business. I do have a manuscript that involves rogue chatbots but I’ll have to swap the old main character with what was a secondary, move the substory up to first position, and drop much of the thematic material and dialog.

“It’s hard to imagine the life of a chatbot on the internet,” both the editor and the instructor had advised me. “What does a chase scene look like? No abstraction. People need to see things, especially when technical material is involved.”

Right. No abstraction. A chatbot on the internet. “No problem. I can do that,” I’d said. “Two months max.”

How the game is played, I learned, is that I do NOT send the rewrite to the editor who requested it. Instead I query some very carefully selected agents with the opening message that a New York publisher is already interested in this manuscript and is the agent interested in getting on board or what? What I have is leverage, not a sale.

Okay, I can do that. No problem.

So I’ve dropped everything else for the rewrite. I’ve got six thousand words done. I’m going to need a lot of new material. It’s easier than writing from scratch because I’ve already got characters, locations, and some scenes, but it’s not much, not enough. Two months. No problem.

Show Business for Writers

20161211_173843I spent a week in New York City attending a conference on how to pitch a novel to an agent or editor. Selling fiction is the least appealing part of the writing adventure. I write because I enjoy the thrill of creative work and artistic expression, and because I imagine I can delight others with a tale. Selling a manuscript is not on the list of attractions, but it’s necessary if one hopes to find an audience. It was time, past time, to try and find a serious publisher for my work. Thus the how-to conference.

The pre-conference “homework” was explicit about describing the novel being pitched and it wasn’t easy.  What exactly is my main character’s secondary conflict? How should I describe my antagonist’s endgame? It was a difficult exercise in seeing the manuscript from the other side of the table. I did the homework, prepared my pitch and went to the Big Apple to test it. The result was a revelatory roller-coaster.

20161208_090845The meetings were held in a nondescript office building in Manhattan. Two floors were dedicated to performing arts and were thronged with people auditioning for parts or using the many practice rooms. Up front, near the elevators, a bulletin board on an easel listed the auditions for that morning. The labyrinthine hallways were lined with wooden benches, folding chairs, park benches, and plastic patio chairs pressed against thickly-painted wooden wainscoting. All that seating was filled with people, mostly young, studying scripts and scores, reading, and talking nervously.

20161210_audition-2croppedAs I navigated the corridors, a changing spectrum of music and voices came from behind closed doors – people practicing scales, singing show tunes or operatic arias. Pianos plinked and choirs harmonized. Waves of cacophony drew me deeper.

I found myself blocked by young women in leotards lying on their backs, stretching their legs in the air. I knew it was not the correct zone. Writers don’t wear ballet slippers. An older woman with short gray hair, holding a clipboard, popped out of a doorway and barked, “Zellner?”  Somebody, presumably Zellner, got up from a bench and went in.

20161210_101548I found my way to a corridor lined with what looked like writers. Most were hunched over laptops balanced on their knees. I sat and verified it was the place. Before long the door to the practice/audition room opened and three dozen writers went inside. The room was large, cold, and bare, covered with well-scuffed pale hardwood, walled on one end with floor-to-ceiling mirror, and on two sides with wood-framed windows with dirty glass overlooking 8th Avenue and 37th Streets. A black upright piano guarded the other wall. We sat in folding chairs facing a folding table.

The conference conveners called out names and assigned us to groups presumably based on our homework submissions, and we dispersed to other, similar rooms for our first meeting. In my meeting the leader introduced herself then we went “around the room” with people giving names and  describing their project. That’s what we call a novel-in-progress, a “project,” because no novel is ever “completed.” You just revise it over and over until you give up in exhaustion and that counts as “done.” For the time being.

I was in the “literary fiction” group. People in my group, I learned, were MFAs, college writing instructors, and screenwriters. Their projects focused on family infighting, questions of ethnic identity, kinship relations, and family secrets uncovered. My heart sank. These projects sounded deadly. When it was my turn, I was abashed.

“Well, my story does feature a space-alien, so I guess that makes it sci-fi.”

The room went silent, as if I had just laid a turd on the floor. The instructor stared at me.

“You have an alien?”


“Oh, dear. Are you supposed to be in this group?”

“This is where I was assigned.”

“No, no no. Let me check.”

aliensThe instructor leapt to her feet and bolted from the room. She returned in a minute told me I was supposed to be in Studio “P” for genre.  Okay. So I gathered my things. As I left, one of the students said,

“I liked that alien. The one who looks like a green beach ball?  That sounds really interesting.” She had read it on the online site where we posted the homework.

I smiled and rushed over to Studio P, thinking, I can’t believe I’ve just been kicked out of literary fiction! What does that mean?

I found the new group in progress, grabbed and unfolded a chair at the end of the semicircle, and the leader suddenly finished his introductory spiel and turned to me and said, “Okay, let’s start on this end. Let’s hear your pitch.”

I don’t have my computer started, don’t even have my notebook out of my brief case. Everyone stares at me.  I start talking.  I do know my material, but I have nothing to read from. I’m winging it.

At the end of my pitch, the leader looks at me and says,

“Humor doesn’t sell. You got anything else?”

He was only half-kidding. He was a wiseguy, though well-meaning, I eventually learned. Flustered, I babbled for a moment, then let it go. Next victim.

Other pitches didn’t go as well as mine.  One, the leader interrupted mid-sentence.

“Did you say a school for wizards?”


“Get out.”  He pointed to the door.

The student flushed with color but hung his head and didn’t leave.

“And if anybody has vampires or zombies, go with him now,” the instructor added.

“Steam punk?” one student asked.


Brutal is hardly the word for it. The writers in the room were paralyzed so the instructor let up on his tough-guy persona and started to explain why the pitches so far were no good and what it would take for a successful pitch. Nobody actually had to leave.

The interviews then continued with everybody having an equal chance to be abused and ravaged by the workshop leader. He knew the NY publishing market and purported to know what sells and what doesn’t and the exact reasons why each pitch stank.  It was educational.

20161208_111925_001As I staggered out of the audition room for the lunch break, the hallways were still lined with hopefuls waiting to be called, the air still filled with do-me-so-do’s. I had to weave around clusters of tiny girls in pink tights and white tutus herded by anxious mothers. I saw at the front there was an audition for a production of “Annie.”

Thank God I’m not in show business, I thought. Then: Wait! I am in show business! What I’m doing here has nothing to do with writing and everything to do with performance. Oh, God.

20161208_065521 To be continued…

Searching for Chris Hayes

chris-hayesI like Chris Hayes.  I like his news/talk show on MSNBC, “All In.”  I’ve  enjoyed him since he started out in a 5 am TV time slot. He’s the smartest pundit on TV.

Lately though, I’ve been unable to watch his show. Like all the other political talk programs, it has devolved to reading New York Times and Washington Post headlines at you so there’s hardly any reason to watch, despite the ubiquitous “Breaking News” banner (Chris Hayes has a new tie!). Used to be, you could count on enlightening analysis from Chris. No more.

I want Chris (and the others there at Progressive News) to succeed, but from what I’ve read, viewing numbers at MSNBC have gone off a cliff since the election, and it’s easy to see why. Many progressives and liberals have retreated from the vapid, repetitive chatter involving little more than baseless speculation.

Chris and his colleagues, and his guests and producers, have not adapted to the new political world. They’re doing the same snarky reporting as before the apocalypse. Why, look at this glaring inconsistency! Good Lord, here’s a conflict of interest! Those are not the stories, Chris.

The pundit class is practicing denial by clinging to status quo reporting. Chris, et al. cannot or will not accept that the world has changed for them, as it has for all Americans. Politics in America has become entirely theater, a language that speaks to an under-educated, emotionally-driven voting class that feels ignored or disrespected by liberal politics. They don’t watch MSNBC, so they don’t feel the sting of smug criticism that amounts to little more than self-indulgence.

Pretending there are policies and matters of fact and then speculating on what they might imply for the future is idle. There are no policies. There are no facts [= propositions with consensus truth-value in a community].  Everything is opportunism, self-aggrandizement, spin, greed, and identity politics. None of that has anything to do with critical thinking.

So I thought I’d send a message to Chris Hayes, or at least his people. I wanted to say, “Hey Chris, snap out of it!  You’re losing your audience. The world has changed.” Chris seems to think he’s still in a Kabuki performance where all the moves are known. He doesn’t realize he’s now in an impromptu theater where each move depends only on instinct and feedback.

But his bubble is impenetrable. After considerable probing, I found that it is not actually possible to communicate with Chris Hayes, at least not for me, a member of the great unwashed.  I can “join,” “like,” “follow,” “subscribe,”  “retweet,” and “reshare,” but I cannot actually communicate.

Hey Chris! Pick up! I know you’re there.

There are practical issues with two-way communication in what is essentially a one-way medium. Except for voting day, political information flows downhill. Maybe that’s why so many pundits and politicians were caught flatfooted. And that’s why shows like Chris Hayes’s may be surprised when the bottom falls out of the viewership.

What would I want to see Chris and his people doing instead? All over the world, principles of liberal democracy are bending to a resurgence of ethnic and nationalistic tribalism. It’s identity politics in full flourish. What is the present and future of governance, especially in America, in that climate? We need to look at questions at the intersection of  sociology, political science, communications, and performance art. What should government look like?

What holds no interest are the speculations of the pundit class on what appointment X or pronouncement Y might or might not mean in the future. Such predictions have zero credibility and are based on no data. And for god’s sake, quit talking about stereotypical categories: “the blacks, the whites, the women, the Hispanics, the gays.”

I’d like you to question the validity of nationalism, the meaning of ethnic, regional, economic, and vocational identity. I’d like you to revisit fundamental principles: What is government by the people?  Is it working or not? How do you persuade without reason and evidence? Actors do it. Novelists do it. Maybe the era of persuasion is over.

Does capitalism inevitably lead to oligarchy? What’s wrong with a Chinese- or Russian-style, authoritarian quasi-democracy? Is America really “exceptional” or just hubristic?  What kind of politics balances the impulses of greed and communal interest? Who do we have in the pipeline who can speak to the future? Is Bernie all we’ve got?

I realize you can’t go all egghead on a basic cable news show. And you’re a so-called reporter, not an educator. But how about some thoughtful analysis instead of pretending that all we’ve seen is a personnel change?

Personally, as an over-educated, relatively affluent progressive, I’m worried, not about a replay of the Third Reich, but about a replay of the Cultural Revolution.

Wake up over there.