Famous Fiction

Oh James Franco – you’re so very pretty. You’ve made awesome role choices that have run the gamut from SpiderMan to General Hospital. I’ll admit that I’m skeptical about Howl and your playing of Ginsberg but I admire the moxy and the willingness to put poetry on a popculture agenda.

And I admit I was a bit torn – hopeful and disparaging – when I heard about your MA in creative writing. I mean, I’m taking one too, so I’d like to hope creative, talented people do, and I was willing to believe that you were taking it seriously and wanted to get better.

But then this happened.

And really, James, it’s bad. And maybe it’s hard being a gorgeous, smart movie star. Maybe your classmates and professors don’t edit you properly. Maybe they’re distracted by the pretty. And it can’t help that Esquire published this thing, which, let’s be honest, if it didn’t have your name attached to it, wouldn’t have been published at all.

It’s purple. It’s as purple as a Smurf is blue. I wish the Smurfs were purple ‘cause then I could just use the adjective Smurfy to describe it. My first groan came at this: My window is cracked, just a bit, and the air plays on my forehead like a cold whisper. Ugh, James, just ugh. Cut that.

James, alienated white boys have been writing this same story for forever and a lot of them have written it a lot better than this. It doesn’t mean, James, that I don’t believe you can improve, but get yourself an editor who’ll tell you the truth and who wouldn’t let this stuff past the first draft.

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