When Considering the Novel of my Life

Would I read a novel where I was the protagonist?

Of course. I would certainly learn a few things about myself. I might see the irony in my life, the outwardly-apparent contradictions in thought, word, and action. And it would be entertaining. I like to think I lead an interesting life filled with quirky characters, bizarre situations, and incorrect responses to these things on my part.

So let's talk a bit about this Mike Gioia-centric novel. Obviously I'd need to recruit a good writer to tackle the task of turning my life into words. It would be written in English, although I am slightly tempted to make it a Russian novel. Russian words and a russian writer would perhaps capture the coldness and great desperation of my life. But I really don't drink much vodka. And I would want my friends and family to read this novel and they (the damned fools) don't speak Russian.

For the purpose of this little blog post I'm going to imagine I could have any writer, living or dead, write my life. This being the case I'd pick Ernest Hemingway. Assumedly the writer would follow me to gain an intimate familiarity of my life and its daily happenings. After a few weeks of Hemingway's ever-present camaraderie I would be hospitalized with severe alcohol poisoning. I would dismiss Hemingway as my writer as he would cripple my lifestyle. Next I would pick Charles Bukowski. After a few weeks his scrutiny of my life I would find myself sour, cynical and depressed. And probably hospitalized with alcohol poisoning again. I would dismiss him. Then I would begin a period of reflection, realizing I needed a writer who doesn't drink so much. But those are ever so hard to find. I would settle for Stephen King.

Stephen King and I would get along fine. True, he would scare some of my friends. And myself, as he would watch me while I slept, scribbling scribbling scribbling. I would grow scare of Mr. King and seek to escape. Perhaps one afternoon he would follow me, but get hit and killed by a car as I jay-walk across a street to buy cigarettes at a gas station. (cigarettes do kill it would turn out). This would be the beginning of the Gioia Curse. This would be a curse that haunted the position of my biographer. Every writer thereafter that attempted to write my life would meet an untimely death. Each one would complete a chapter and then die. So eventually, after many many dead writers (we have too many anyways) we would have the novel of my life. So now let's talk about this novel.

First there's the matter of the dust jacket or cover. I would certainly get some impressive sounding fellows and magazines and publications to write blurbs for me. Not just blurbs, but colorful blurbs, the best kind and really the only kind to have on a dust jacket. These blurbs would have all kinds of adjectives modified by all kinds adverbs which would be occasionally be modified by other kinds of adverbs all working to make the novel of my life sound wonderful. One blurb would mention how the novel was 'a tour de force' of something, probably 'my life'. The cover art would be a picture of a swimming pool with something, something unexpected, floating in it. The title would be 'In the Back of the Refrigerator: A Cool & Forgotten Life'.


I realize I've surpassed my 500 word limit. A damn shame, as I felt I was really getting somewhere. Oh well, if you're interested in the next 80,000 or so words to come, you will have to the read the novel of my life.


~Mike Gioia