INTERVIEW: Melissa Febos

Melissa Febos is the author of the memoir Whip Smart, which came out in paperback on July 19th. I first became aware of Febos because we are both women writers in recovery for drug addiction. Her book intrigued me because it’s about her four-year stint as a dominatrix in a dungeon in Manhattan’s Midtown, as well as her drug use and recovery, and anything that combines sexuality – particularly the stranger aspects – with drugs sounds like a good read to me. And Whip Smart was – surprisingly so.

I expected it to be interesting, funny, and strange, and it was indeed all of these things. But I was pleased to discover that Febos’ book was more than an amusing chronicle of shocking events. Instead, she meticulously questioned and analyzed the motives and driving factors behind her own actions, as well as those of her clients and coworkers. And this unflinching eye was at once empathetic and unforgiving – which, of course, is a difficult line to walk – ultimately making Whip Smart a rewarding and touching first book that is, as Darin Strauss said, “a true story (in both senses of the word).” I recently interviewed Febos about the book, as well as the novel she’s currently working on.

Julia Jackson: What part of your book were you most frightened of having your mother reading?

Melissa Febos: The explicit drug-use passages, and the submissive sessions. My family knew I was in recovery, but I had spared them the gory details of how I got there, so I knew those would come as a shock, that it was impossible to spare them the inevitable “what could we have done?” questions. And who ever wants their parents to read anything about their sexual experiences? Not me.

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The Notebook: a remembrance of Peter Falk

The girl sat at a table head in hands, tears wetting palms. Glass windows surrounded her, yet somehow the California sun could not penetrate the murk of what had happened inside. A body lay on the floor: a man, a bad man. Blood pooled. It would have to go away. It would all have to go away. It was an accident. It wasn’t her fault. He’d touched her. He’d handled her, hard. A muffled voice was heard from another room, “Cut and Print!” The girl looked up and sniffed (careful to suppress the urge to wipe at her makeup), as Peter Falk’s afternoon cheese plate was “sent over” and offered to me. I had done well, it suggested.

Hollywood is a tough business and you take the “atta girls” where you can get them. It had also been tough on a young man from New York with one glass eye, who once failed a screen test at Columbia Pictures and was told by big boss Harry Cohn “for the same price I can get an actor with two eyes.” It wasn’t until Falk’s casting as killer Abe Reles in Murder, Inc. that the tables turned and he earned an Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor. New York Times film critic Bosley Crowther called Falk’s performance “amusingly vicious.”

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Riding with Jesus Part VIII: a badbadbad tour blog (and contest)

Editor’s Note: Jesús Ángel Garcia, author of Badbadbad, is blogging his book tour. This is his eighth installment.

Lit Love from the Lonesome Highway

Here’s a reading from a few books and literary journals I’ve been collecting on this road trip. Featured titles include Emergency Room Wrestling, Big Lucks, The National Virginity Pledge, Grixly Sixteen, and Two With Water.

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Maurice Sendak Is Back

The older I get, the more I discover that the figures and fiction that formed my childhood aren’t what I’d known them to be. Kermit was just a man with his hand in a sock, The Catcher in the Rye wasn’t actually written for me, Beck is a scientologist.

More often that not, childhood feels like a grand deception, and nostalgia seems like some form of Stockholm Syndrome. But occasionally, the truth behind the legends of my upbringing restores my faith in, well, my upbringing.

“As a kid, all I thought about was death. But you can’t tell your parents that,” revealed Maurice Sendak in a Vanity Fair profile written by another hero of my youth, Dave Eggers. Sendak, who wrote and illustrated the classic picture books In the Night Kitchen and Where the Wild Things Are (the latter adapted by Eggers into a novel and film), has apparently taken a break from composing operas to release Bumble-Ardy, the first picture book he’s both written and illustrated in three decades, according to The Wall Street Journal.

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That Was a BOMB Party, Brah.

1. Julianne, a painter, & Cassidy, a dancer. 2. Joe Lazauskas, the Director of Content and Community at The Faster Times, & Adam Wilson, the Editor. I asked Wilson what he’d been doing this summer, and he told me he’d kept busy by reading pornographic books.


 

The heat has finally broken here in New York City – sort of – and therefore it was finally acceptable for me to leave my apartment and the safety of my A/C unit for something other than work or the corner store for cigarettes. Last night was a good night to re-enter the world, since it was BOMB‘s Summer Issue release party over at powerHouse Books in DUMBO.

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Riding with Jesus Part VII: a badbadbad tour blog

Smooth operator.

Editor’s Note: Jesús Ángel Garcia, author of Badbadbad, is blogging his book tour. This is his seventh installment.

 

R-E-S-P-E-C-T in Baltimore & D.C.

“It’s about respect.” That’s the common refrain from writers I’ve met on this road trip. “I want to be respected by writers I respect.” An understandable position—no one wants to be disrespected (by anyone, I imagine)—but is this sound motivation for writing and publishing, i.e., living “The Literary Life”? To my mind, writing to publish to earn respect from other publishing writers feels like placing too much power in the hands of others, who all bring a host of personal issues to each of their reading/writing experiences. Do I need to measure the value of my work, and by association my self-worth(?), per the whims of other writers? No, I don’t. And yet of course I want mutual respect.

Thing is, it doesn’t have to come from fellow authors. If Mary Gaitskill doesn’t like my work, that’s OK. (I’m not saying she even knows my name. I’m just saying…) If Sally DeVinney does, that’s OK, too. People are people. There is no unfiltered hierarchy in the human family. We’re all beautiful. We all suck. Wanna read my book? You’re a beautiful person. You think it’s what? You suck. None and all of this is true. Que sera. Whatcha gonna do?

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Don’t Read This

You should be writing right now. But how could you, asks Tony Perrottet, when your computer offers instant access to a “cocktail party of chattering friends, a world-class library, an endless shopping mall, a game center, a music festival and even a multiplex?” In his piece for the Times, “Why Writers Belong Behind Bars,” Perrottet identifies writers who were most prolific and proficient when imprisoned, literally and metaphorically.

From the Marquis de Sade, who penned eight novels during 11 years of incarceration, to John Cheever, who holed himself up in his “dark and dismal” basement, even legendary writers needed to be removed from the real world in order to engage with their fictional ones. But the invasive internet creates new challenges, Perrottet says. “These days, Walden Pond would have Wi-Fi, and Thoreau might spend his days watching cute wildlife videos on YouTube. And God knows what X-rated Web sites the Marquis de Sade would have unearthed.”

Even literary retreats no longer provide escape from distraction. Perrottet describes writers at colonies frolicking in fields with smartphones strapped to their hands. I recently witnessed this from afar when a friend, Jessica Zlotnicki, Program Manager and ersatz warden at the Norman Mailer Writers Colony, digitally chastised one the residents to “get back to work” after they “liked” a post on her Facebook wall. (Case in point: here’s a post from one of the Mailer residents, writing about writing, written of course, when he should have been writing.)

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Simon Van Booy: Brief Interviews with Non-American Men

I was in my second year of the Brooklyn College MFA program, and I had recently reached the numbing moment. Nothing spoke. Everything I read had flaws and, even more so, it lacked aesthetic courage, the courage needed to make the reader dream, to make the reader forget those flaws. A classmate brought a published story into our short literature seminar. I vaguely remembered the writer. In the third paragraph of the story I read this; “There is a small tear in the couch I never noticed until now; a piece of leather hangs off like a tongue. It is a small rip but has ruined the entire couch and thrown the apartment into disarray.” All the sudden I felt that something extraordinary was taking place.

I felt like a kid with de Saint-Exupery in my hands, or a teenager in concert with Dostoevsky or García Márquez for the first time. For a moment my evolved cynic was put to dream. The story was “Snow Falls and Then Disappears” by Simon Van Booy, from his first collection, The Secret Lives of People in Love. That evening our class discussed the story. Some hated it while others fell in love, but there was little ambivalence — ambivalence is the enemy of experience, the worst reaction one can have to the creation of something. No, we reacted, we were awake again. We tried to discuss the elements but kept returning to more visceral responses — even the most educated of us — we were readers again.

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PANK – Invasion Brooklyn

1. Daniel Nester is bootylicious. 2. Deb Olin Unferth remembers becoming a temporary Christian. 3. PANK assistant editor Abby Koski and founding editor/reader M Bartley Seigel

After clamoring for a cold $2 beer at Pete’s Candy Store on Thursday, the lights went up in the back room and people filed into the railcar-shaped event space. The room gave off an aura of a burlesque house, which is probably fitting for what was about to go down thanks to the people at PANK. We had nine readers to get through in an hour and a half: Matthew Thorburn, Amber Sparks, Sean Doyle, Sarah Rose Etter, Jeffrey Morgan, Deb Olin Unferth, Daniel Nester, Melissa Broder, and M. Bartley Seigel. For brevity’s sake, I’ll focus on a few standouts.

Sean Doyle took the stage at about a quarter of the way through with a truncated version of “The Huffer,” which recently appeared in Vol.1 Brooklyn. Focusing on a ratty skateboarder with a paint habit, the piece evoked the most visceral reaction from the audience. At one point, the Huffer decides it’s probably an awesome idea to huff a can of engine coolant. “Freon, dude. Freon will get you fucked up!” I’ll just say the audience shrieked in a mix of horror and delight when the hose from the engine coolant can froze to the Huffer’s tongue. It got gross from there.

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Everything is Dead or Dying

Books might be dead, but sex still sells:

Borders has officially crossed over to the other side. Books-A-Million, however, will be keeping several dozen stores alive, saving the souls of at least 1,000 employees.

In an insightful post, MobyLives cites real estate decisions as the true cause of death. But like the death of any celebrity or prominent public figure, the “sexier” story is making headlines. In the post “Getting Over Borders…” Dennis Johnson says, “The tragedy is compounded by the depiction of Borders’ demise as being due essentially to the fact that people don’t want to buy print books in bookstores anymore.”

I wish you were dead:

Some of the greatest writers are haunted by their early (and arguably inferior) works. According to Elon Green, writing for The Awl, writers from Bellow to Burgess are quick to disassociate themselves from their firstborns. In the post, Green takes a look at Tobias Wolff’s first novel, Ugly Rumours, and tracks down the writer for thoughts on the book that (though obscure) just won’t go away.

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