Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 208: David Foster Wallace

You guys,

After nine months of reading memoirs and reviewing them on my podcast there is one thing I’ve learned for certain: celebrity memoirs are trash.

Maybe there are exceptions if you have J.R. Moehringer as your ghostwriter, but for the most part, when I have read a celebrity memoir, like Viola Davis’ Finding Me, I found myself angrily underlining passages, then throwing the book down and stomping around my living room.

I did not, for example, understand how often Ms. Davis could inform her reader that “words could not describe” something, as in the following lines:

Page 177: “No words can describe that one-two combo of luck meeting talent.”

Page 197: “There are no words to describe ‘the stage door.’”

Page 258: “No words describe these moments of winning the audition lottery. I was so excited. I was jumping up and down.”

So when I heard David Foster Wallace had written a scathing review of a celebrity sports memoir back in 1992 I was giddy to read someone’s opinion—besides mine—of bad writing in the memoir genre.

A quick note about David Foster Wallace: I’m not his biggest fan. I read an article in The Atlantic that claimed he stalked and abused Mary Karr: kicked her, climbed up the side of her house at night, tried to push her out of a moving car, followed her 5-year-old son home from school, showed up at a family pool party with a fresh tattoo of her name with a heart; he also referred to female fans who attended his book tours as “audience pussy.” 

But three paragraphs into “How Tracy Austin Broke My Heart” I imagined him, twenty-two years ago, angrily underling passages and stomping around his own living room, and suddenly felt deeply connected to the man.

I had to pause reading the essay and text Michael Dean because we had spoken recently about David Foster Wallace.  

Me: OMG DFW reviews a memoir. I’m DYING.

Michael Dean: Are you going to review his review?

Me: Yes. 

Michael Dean: Awesome! Then I’ll review your review of his review.

So here we are. First, check out my podcast (around 25 minutes) where I break down why this essay works so well as an example of “show, don’t tell.” 

Then watch what Michael Dean does¹ in this 17-minute video as he visually breaks down the essay and takes you deep into deconstructing how David Foster Wallace builds his structure around telling, but then ultimately grips and convinces the reader through different types of showing. (When he sent me his Miro breakdown all I could respond with was, “WOAH.”)

Finally, check out Michael Dean’s post on this collaboration.

—

Until next week, 

Charlie

1. Here’s how I imagine it:

Michael Dean’s alarm goes off at 5am and he turns himself on, like a robot. He does drink coffee but only for appearances. He sits at his computer with three screens and reads, and writes, and transcribes, and pours over every sentence of the essay. There’s a large white board in the room. He stands and draws on the white board with a black marker. There are words and circles and arrows and lines and everything is connected. He runs back and forth from the computer to the whiteboard; his hands can’t keep up with his thoughts. At this point he’s wearing a white lab coat and goggles. He works like this until midnight, stopping only briefly for food, bathroom breaks, and short conversations with his wife. This goes on for three days. The result is a Michael Dean masterpiece, as per usual.