I’m always reluctant to read screenplays or dramas because I become lazy at the mere thought of having to rake through stage directions and character poses and what not. It’s a stupid rationale, but there it is. Still, every now and then I’ll land on something that seems worth the trouble, which almost always is.
This morning I read Cormac McCarthy’s “Scenes of the Crime” via last year’s New Yorker Summer Fiction issue. The quick frames and short-stop descriptions morphed me into that girl on the bus whose head is bowed so deep into the page that her periphery becomes a melted haze, only bothering to look up at the end of the story, and well past the point that she missed her stop. I call it the McCarthy Effect.
Here’s a small bit:
"The two Mexican drivers are talking to two other men. They squat on the ground. One passes around a pack of cigarettes. Then he picks up a stick and draws a map in the dirt."
"the American literary scene has split into two cultures: New York publishing versus university MFA programs. This book brings together established writers, MFA professors and students, and New York editors and agents to talk about these overlapping worlds, and the ways writers make (or fail to make) a living within them."
Up for preorder grabs via n+1.