U: the Read-Along, Chapter Three

[nepenthe]

Welcome back to my stream-of-consciousness Read-Along to U, U is for Undertow by Sue Grafton. We rejoin the action in chapter 3 and I already know I’m not going to be a happy camper. Heidi, the layout editor of my high school literary magazine would’ve thrown a fit.

To recap, Chapter 1’s heading was:

1

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Wednesday afternoon, April 6, 1988

Chapter 2’s heading was:

2

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And now Chapter 3’s heading is:

3

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DEBORAH UNRUH

April 1963

Mayhap I am of the old-fashioned type, but I am of the strong opinion that titles matter, layout matters, the damn editing matters. WHO IS YOUR SHITTY EDITOR, BOOK? *Leaves to look*

WTF. Okay, I see two pages worth of quotes from all manner of publications saying Very Nice Things about the series/author/this book, then Other Titles by Sue Grafton, which all are these letter alphabet detective books, no mention of anything else, then Title Page (publisher Berkley Books) then the meat I was looking for: publication and copyright page—usually the part where you can find out who printed what, who published, who wrote and who EDITED. I see no editor. U GUYS, I SEE NO EDITOR. I see “published by arrangement with author” which I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean. Probably something I should already know. Very probably. We move on to the dedication page. This is followed by Acknowledgements, which I’ve scanned for something to the effect of, many thanks to So-And-So, my editor. I see nothing. I flip to the back of the book and all I see is the end of the novel and a three sentence paragraph, which serves as the author bio—four sentences, fine, but the last one I don’t count because all it does is tell you to go to the author’s web page.

Was there no editor? Really? *takes out a Naomi Novik* Okay, so yes, editors and agents and betas get acknowledgement. Am not going crazy.

Can I go on a rant? May I? I know I’m going off track, as I do. But. This whole notion of the author being THE creator of a work, the lone toiler, the sole person responsible for the final achievement has bloomed these past few centuries and now begun to putrefy. Yes, an author does most of the work. They deserve most of the credit. But the author draws from all manner of source material and a good editor makes a good author a Great Auteur. Copy editors make sure an author doesn’t look like a bonehead. Then there are agents and all number of authorial Little Helper Elves who contribute, not to mention the printing press and cover artists et all. There’s a lot of time and blood that goes into making a book and it doesn’t ALL, ONLY belong to the author.

So. I just went to AskJeeves.com to type in the question, “Who is Sue Grafton’s editor?” and I come up with an interview with this Gem. When asked, “What advice do you have for newer writers?” Sue responds thus:

“My big gripe about newer writers is they’re not willing to put the time in. Somebody’ll write one book and they’re asking me who my agent and my editor are, and I’m thinking, Don’t you worry, sweetheart, you’re not any good yet.”

A peach, ya’ll. A. PEACH. Sue, the nice interviewer wasn’t asking you what you hated about those damn upstarts with hopes and dreams and adoration of you; they asked you if you had any advice. That might be helpful. Never mind that Fahrenheit 451 was Ray Bradbury’s first attempt at noveling, written over two weeks in 1949-ish (took him over a year to get it published). Or perhaps Sue’s never heard of The Bridges of Madison County, written by a math professor at my Alma Mater, Robert James Waller (some of the creative writing professors were QUITE bitter about this). Some people take decades to write their first novel (JK Rowling) but it’s entirely possible to whip a good one up in a month, without any previous experience. Sue’s utter condescension, contempt, arrogance and ignorance of her compatriots (and quite frankly, many of whom are BETTER than her) makes me dislike her all the more. To be fair, she follows up that gem of a quote with a little message about how writing is “hard to master”.

*snorfle*

Enough of this extra-textual ranting! We’re supposed to be reading along with chapter 3!

GODDAMNIT. Sue’s gone and switched perspective and now we’re in 1968 hearing a tale told by Deborah Unruh. Who is a richie whose son, Greg is a deadbeat hippie who’s dropped out of Berkeley to live in a gutted school bus with his momma and her child. Clutch your pearls, and grab your fainting salts!

So. I just read through the entirety of this chapter. Sorry. Had to. I’ve no idea how it’s to fit with anything.

Greg’s come home with Shelly and her Spawn of Satan child, Shawn. Greg has come home to park their van on his parents’ lawn and eat their food. Shelly is the pinnacle of damn, dirty hippie. She isn’t the fun kinda hippie who lives on a commune, sings about peace and love, protests holding hands, eats their vegan foodstuffs, smokes a lot of weed and generally lives and lets live. I’ve known these hippies (Michael) and they’re cool. Then there are GODDAMN HIPPIES. The hippies who AREN’T content to live in peace and are GODDAMN HIPPICRITES. Shelly is their poster child. She’s living on handouts, on the generosity of Greg’s parents for a place to park their bus and the food to feed her family. She goes on self-righteous rants about vegetarianism sneering at Greg’s mom’s cooking, relying on the mother’s sense of politeness to guests make herself feel victorious against her materialism. Which is now the very thing which is feeding, clothing and housing her and her child. Greg totally fails to realize the irony as he insults his father for running a company and his mother for her ‘charities of the week’ while totes not recognizing he is the charity of the week and the running of said company is what’s purchasing their food. As much as his parents love him, he’s not a baby any more. Shelly’s pregnant and he ought to realize he’ll have to provide for his family, like an adult.

Shelly is also painted as one of those repugnant people who REFUSE to control their children and recriminate anyone who dares to tell their child off for being a little shit.

‘Greg’ is now sounding a lot like the Michael-Plot-Puppet, but if that’s the case he’s a WHOLE lot older than Kinsey pegged him back in chapter one. Am wondering if Michael is the second spawn of Greg an Shelly, raised by grandma and grandpa.

I get the feeling Sue hates richies and damn hippicrites and feels glee in inflicting them on one another.

Overall, I must admit this chapter is well crafted—I felt as though it was inspired by intense dislike of hippicrites, which I must confess I share. At work, I have a lady who sits behind me who, if everyone is talking about what they’re looking forward to doing when they get home (walking their dog, seeing their kids) and I announce that I’m looking forward to making some delicious pork chops and everyone clamors that that sound wonderful, she’ll start in on how she only eats all natural foods and how bad meat is for the body and her goddamn herbal bullshit. It’s the sort of thing I could tolerate better if any of it, ANY of it, were remotely true.

End chapter 3