The Book of Joe Read Online Free PDF Page A

bullshit.”
    â€œWhy don't you tell me what you really think?”
    â€œI think you're too good a writer to waste your time with experimental postmodernism.”
    I test the waters of his remark for patronizing levels and decide that he's being sincere. “Well, other than that, how are you finding the narrative?”
Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the show?
    â€œHonestly, Joe, I think the subject matter is beneath you.”
    It's shocking, really, how with one sentence he is able put into words what I've spent six months trying to pin down to no avail. The novel—working title:
It Starts Here—
is about a kid who drops out of college to follow a Grateful Dead–like band around the country for a few months with a woman he's only just met. He's running away from his privileged upbringing, and she's fleeing an abusive husband and the law. Romance and chaos ensue amid the tie-dyed backdrop of the rock-and-roll bedouin culture. Not the most original premise in the world, but I really did start the novel with the best of literary intentions, meaning to tell a contemporary love story while examining the way in which people struggle against America's invisible class system. The spare combination of two main characters and their unique spin on a universal theme should have kept me focused on the story without being overly ambitious. But they made the movie of
Bush Falls
while I was writing
It Starts Here,
and there is no denying that the film perverted my writing. I was blocking shots instead of describing scenes, an entirely transparent and unacceptable practice when writing outside the milieu of courtrooms and serial killers.
    â€œListen,” Owen says. “I'm barely into it, so this conversation is premature. Talk to me after the weekend.”
    â€œBut we've ruled out loving it.”
    â€œDoes it get better?”
    â€œI'm not sure.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œDon't ‘ah' me.”
    â€œHmm,” Owen says.
    â€œSo,” I say after a bit. “What now?”
    He coughs lightly. “Listen, Joe, you're a good writer. Blah, blah, blah. You don't have to prove anything to me. But I really don't want to talk about this until I've read it all. Then we can sit down and decide what it needs.”
    What it needs, I suspect, is to be taken out back and given the Old Yeller treatment. “And if it needs to be scrapped?”
    â€œThen we'll scrap it,” he says easily. “And you'll write me something else. Happens all the time.”
    â€œIs that supposed to make me feel better?”
    â€œIt's not my job to jerk you off. You want to feel better, go back to therapy. My job is to make you write better, and it's been my considerable experience that the worse you feel, the better you write.”
    â€œWonderful,” I say dejectedly. I don't bother to point out that I've been fairly miserable for the last six months and haven't managed to write a single sentence worth shit and that it positively terrifies me to think that I might be one of those poor slobs who have only one book in them.
    Owen changes the subject. “So, you're going back to the Falls. Let me once again say wow. This could be interesting.”
    â€œI'm just hoping for quick.”
    â€œWell, keep me posted. I want to hear every last detail.”
    â€œOwen,” I say. “Sometime in the future, you really should consider getting a life of your own.”
    He chuckles. “I had one once and discovered that they're overrated. Besides, I don't need one anymore. I have yours.”
    â€œ'Bye.”
    I hit the END button, turn the stereo back on, and step a little harder on the accelerator. The engine responds instantly with a deep, low growl. Within minutes I'm on the Merritt Parkway, luxuriating in the way the Mercedes chews up the dipping curves of the two-lane blacktop. I'm still in the formative stages of a love-hate relationship with the car. There's no