6/7/03:
Jack Saunders' CV -
Jack Saunders has been writing for 26 1/2 years, without selling a word to New York or Hollywood, winning a grant, a writer-in-residence position, or a literary prize. He is working on a 40-year roman-feuilleton, or saga-novel, that is too large for small presses to publish and too outspoken, freewheeling, and vulgar for the mainstream commercial houses. A vernacular writer, he calls himself. In the sense self-taught. But also in the sense ambassador-in-bonds. He shoots his leaflets into the void and presses on to Boulogne, like Tristram Shandy. His stack now stands at 137 volumes, 138 roaring in my veins like a camphor injection. The stopped-up toilet of American letters, fixing to erupt, like the Wakulla Volcano, or an explosion in a charnel house. He calls his coterie of steadfast readers the Buzzard Cult, after the Southeastern Ceremonial Complex, a revitalization movement that swept the Lower Mississippi Valley just before and after European contact, and calls himself the salvage archeologist of the Mall Builder culture. America's greatest living unpublished, or underpublished writer, perhaps the greatest unpublished, or underpublished American writer ever.
But his writings that have been rejected for as long as I've been alive are really worth a good skim.
[via rebecca'sPocket.]
posted by jeremy @ 10:57 PM
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