There have been a few instances lately where writers have behaved so badly as to become more interesting than any works they might ever produce. Last year, the Romance Writers of America melted down in a conspiracy of shadow plots and accusations of “terror tactics,” and the ruthlessness with which an ethics committee was silently dissolved and replaced without the knowledge of any of its members reads almost like bad fanfic of a Jacqueline Carey novel. And earlier this year, author Kate Clanchy lied about the contents of her own book (or perhaps her image of herself made it impossible for her to accept the words she had written as her own). I couldn’t not write about this — it was too ridiculous.
At this point I thought the drama for the year was over. It’s fall, and the leaves are turning mellow colors and it’s getting harder and harder to get anything done.
Then came Bad Art Friend. Not since Woman in the Window author A J Finn lied about having brain cancer and a PhD from Oxford had I seen anything quite so absurd, and yet so believable. The short version: one writer donates a kidney and demands recognition for her generosity, while another writes a story about the first, eviscerating her (ha!) through fiction. Or, one writer climbs up on the cross to be seen from a greater distance, as Camus once described the strange competitiveness that occurs around charity. The other writer crucifies her. Who is the bad art friend? Both, of course.
The details of this story are as ridiculous as they are banal. It’s one thing to donate a kidney and then create a Facebook group to talk about it, and quite another to inquire why someone isn’t liking the posts. Similarly, it’s one thing to be inspired by the people around us (positively or negatively) into basing characters on them, and another to use words from that person’s letter, verbatim, in fiction.
Ultimately, it’s made me accept that writers are, in fact, not the best people. Somerset Maugham used to say that writing was not considered an honorable profession, at least in England. And yes, there’s something sociopathic, parasitical, about someone who observes others acutely, with empathy, yes, but always with an eye to incorporating them into stories. To be fair, I do this to myself too. Even at truly terrible moments, a part of me is collecting the experience as ore to mine later for my art. Like Taylor Swift, I’ve written about exes as catharsis and comeuppance, and what is The Divine Comedy of the Tech Sisterhood but one big Bad Art Friend?
So here we are. I didn’t donate a kidney, but I did write a book. And I created this list to talk to people about it, and my writing journey.
Let me know if I turn into a complete whackjob. I hear it’s good for book sales.