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Cheever and Cheever

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from: Benjamin Cheever

Surprise Package

Posted Thursday, Nov. 12, 1998, at 10:44 AM ET

Yes, I remember the mail order shit. I think Warren put it in a Saks box. You wanted to inflame the famous writer's cupidity. Sadlly, I never sent anyone a box of shit. I did once have a girlfriend who baked my a birthday cake, left it out in the common room to cool, and when we came back, half of it had been eaten. So we got cookie mix, chocolate chipped it with Ex Lax, baked the cookies, and left them out on the same counter with a sign said "These are for my birthday. Please don't touch." The next morning they were all gone.

I know exactly what you mean about the trouble with sending the second letter. "I once sent you a box of dogshit," is no way to ignite a friendship. I try and write one positive letter for every negative letter, and so I'm always looking for books I genuinely admire. Sometimes somebody I know and despise will write quite a good book. Then I think, "Ah, a chance to do good. I'll tell him how much I admired his book." But then the letter I compose in my head always starts off, "I'm astonished that such a flaming asshole could do such good work." Which is a lot like writing to say "I once sent you a box of dogshit."

Which brings me to the crisis of my middle years. I'd always wanted to be a writer. John Cheever was a glorious creature, so were many of his friends. Also, I read all these terrific books and stories. I wanted to be like George Orwell, or Henry David Thoreau. I would have been happy to fetch water for Orwell, or Thoreau.

So now I've gotten out on the field. I'm not exactly the quarterback, but in the event of a second large-scale outbreak of the Spanish Influenza, they just might need me at guard. Then it turns out we're not a team at all. Nobody hikes the ball. Everybody's leaping up and down saying "Pass to me, pass to me. I'm in the clear." Even when they're not in the clear.

There are brilliant exceptions, of course. But commerce seems to have overcome our higher instincts. A bad book that sells well is considered a good book. Magazine copy has more and more to do with advertising.

I was in a Barnes & Noble recently with a friend who was a judge for this year's National Book Awards. I said, "Give me the titles of two of the books you liked, I'll buy and read them." Neither of the books he'd liked were in the store anymore, even though both books had been nominated for the award.

One of the big sections is called "Self Help." Ever stop to think what that means? First, that helping yourself is the pretty high calling, if not the highest. Second, that books not in that section won't be helpful to yourself. Whereas most of the books I've read and been helped by, they wouldn't be in "Self Help."

Maybe your box of shit didn't go to the famous writer you'd intended. Maybe it went to some young marketing man, just starting out in publishing. First there must have been a moment of disgust. Then revelation. Like Saul on the road to Damascus. "Heah!" he thought, "this is a good idea. Shit in fine boxes. We'll make a fortune." And they have.

the breakfast table
entries
123456789101112131415161718192021
from: Benjamin Cheever

Surprise Package

Posted Thursday, Nov. 12, 1998, at 10:44 AM ET
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Benjamin Cheever is a novelist and author of the forthcoming Famous After Death. Susan Cheever is a teacher, columnist, and writer. Her memoir, Note Found in a Bottle: My Life as a Drinker, is forthcoming. They are siblings.
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