Transgressive

Here’s what I’m jealous of: Writers who don’t give a flying F**k.

One of my women friends (not pictured above, but if you have this woman’s telephone number, don’t be stingy with it) is considered a “transgressive” writer. She chronicles the adventures of the demimonde. Her characters are addicts, thieves, ex-cons, drug dealers, down-and-outers, trailer park denizens.

I think her stuff is brilliant. Funny. Outrageous. And eminently readable.

The genre “transgressive” is a broad category that includes punk rock, lesbian and gay, drug chronicles, street anthems, gang odes, and anything else that is considered beneath the notice of the normal Target-shopping public.

My friend has written thousands of wonderful poems about this life. She’s struggling to write a definitive novel, mostly because her material keeps crowding her with its overwhelming pathos and anger.

Me? I write mysteries. Fun and interesting little stories about a Sacramento attorney in 1962 who fights the DA and sexism, often at the same time. But Minerva will never be considered Transgressive, even though she has an enlightened attitude toward LGBTQ folks, understands the ways and thinking of the street, is not afraid to tangle it up with an angry Catholic nun from time to time.

But I am jealous of my transgressive friend. I feel like what she’s writing is much more important, relevant, timely and timeless than anything I’m putting down.

So why don’t I try writing this kind of literature? Because I’m not stupid.

I know almost nothing of the lifestyle of those depicted in Transgressive literature. Not even after my many years as a public defender. If I was to try to write a novel of the gutter, it would be stupid. I mean, the novel would be stupid. Because I don’t think like that. I haven’t lived and moved with the kind of folks in this literature.

But I love reading about it. And I think my friend will someday finally write that amazing novel which will make her name in the literary community, which will elevate her literature to the point that recalcitrant college students are required to read her books and write agonizingly tedious papers on what she meant about vomiting in the street. Is it a metaphor? A philosophical observation? A challenge to you in your comfortable little life?

Or maybe she just vomited in the street after one too many whiskeys.