Publishers Don’t Want Writers With Good Taste.
They want writing that tastes good.
“Bad taste creates more millionaires than good taste.” Charles Bukowski
This is going to sound weird, but some publishers — and some readers — can taste words. They’re what’s known as synesthetes, a condition that allows them to tell a good-tasting word from a bad tasting one. I’ve only learned of this condition recently, and I know I’m definitely not a synesthete.
My taste buds couldn’t tell a word from a waffle.
The actual term is synesthesia, a neurological condition where senses are joined that aren’t usually connected. Numbers have colours. Musical notes and words have flavour. You could call it a sixth sense, and pretty important if you hate trying to find the right turn of phrase.
A true synesthete just tastes the stupid thing.
I mean, most of us struggle and flop around, not realizing our words, brush strokes or piano chords could be just plain unappetizing.
That’s quite the gift, and not something that comes along every day—or to just anyone. I mean, most of us struggle and flop around, not realizing our words, brush strokes or piano chords could be just plain unappetizing.
Then imagine what it must be like, being a synesthete, adding all these flavours to your work, then presenting them to some synesthete publisher who thinks he or she is in the midst of a veritable smorgasbord.
So, who are these synesthetes driving publishers wild with their flavourful creations?
What about Charles Bukowski? Didn’t he make a career out of bad taste? And wasn’t he always drawing analogies with food, claiming that when he finished a good day’s work, he felt he’d eaten a full meal? He’d light a cigar, pour some wine, and pat his stomach.
Of course he was full. He’d been eating his words.
Unlike many artists of the time, Garcia knew he had synesthesia. He explained to Rolling Stone back in the late 90s how he could taste notes.
Another synesthete was Jerry Garcia, guitarist and songwriter for The Grateful Dead. Unlike many artists of the time, Garcia knew he had synesthesia. He explained to Rolling Stone back in the late 90s that he could literally taste notes.
Garcia had an addictive personality, indulging in psychedelics, heroin — any number of drugs — but his biggest craving was music. It consumed him, and his catalogue proved it. In addition to thirteen Dead studio albums, nine contemporary live albums and six solo albums, he can also be heard on 50 side projects, including Ornette Coleman’s Virgin Beauty.
Consuming notes, and tasting each one, kept Garcia busy. Some of his longer solos must have felt like gorging. A pretty healthy way to gorge, if you ask me.
Then there’s Charlie Parker’s excessive consumption. He couldn’t stop himself, whether it was food, music or heroin. Every note he played reminded him of eating, and every shot of heroin heightened his sense of taste.
It probably worked the same for many jazz artists. In every composition or recording, they reached that sense of fullness. It was profound and kept them addicts and possibly synesthetes.
When he wrote, he felt satisfied by something, possibly the aroma of his words.
Ray Bradbury once said he could look in the mirror and feel happy. “Why am I so happy?” he asked. Maybe he was a synesthete, too. When he wrote, he felt satisfied by something, possibly the aroma of his words. Writers often mention a heightened sense of smell when they work.
Thomas Wolfe was another word gorger. In “Look Homeward Angel,” he spent three pages describing one meal. It’s great that he could taste each consonant or vowel, but three pages on a steak dinner is a bit much.
This, of course, brings up the obvious question. What about the rest of us? We can’t tell a good-tasting word from a bad one. How do we avoid tasteless platitudes and colloquialisms?
How do we become literary gourmands?
The simple answer is, we can’t. We can’t fake synesthetism. We could stick to the same words as Bukowski and Bradbury. Would that be enough to get us excepted by some big publisher — possibly a synesthete?
I just write stuff like this hoping I don’t offend entire nations.
In the interest of testing this theory out, I’ve compiled some of Bukowski’s most famous lines. Don’t expect an expert analysis here. I’m flopping around like everybody else.
I’m not a synesthete.
I just write stuff like this hoping I don’t offend entire nations.
“That shackjob was the best wide-assed bitch I’ve ever laid.”
Bukowski obviously didn’t worry about offending anyone, least of all wide-assed bitches. That’s what his 10,000 tastebuds told him to write, so he did, and his first book, “Post Office,” sold millions of copies. It also created a lot of wide-assed bitches who lost all self-esteem reading Bukowski.
“White foam gushed out of the wound. It sizzled and bubbled.”
Synesthetes don’t hold back on their descriptives. They’d rather offend the hell out of you than have a “leisurely meal overlooking a sunset-drenched bay.” Nobody cares about sunset-drenched bays (or your meals). Those words taste like granola. Even I can figure that out — and I don’t know shit.
“She grabbed my cock and leaned against me. My first redhead.”
Short staccato sentences are like old telegrams. Notice Bukowski doesn’t add any flourishes? At the end of the sentences above he writes “I was lucky.” That surprised me. It probably surprised a lot of people. I was married to a redhead. It ain’t lucky. You’ll never feel lucky again.
“I had my own teeth but not many.”
We always worry about our descriptions — especially personal ones. Not Bukowksi. He didn’t mind talking about wearing his dead father’s overcoat or scissoring his own beard. Still, he basically kept it short. The quote above speaks volumes. He also mentioned that his socks didn’t match. So what? As he used to say, “Sometimes you have to pee in the sink.”
“She kissed me back like a lonely woman.”
As simple as this sentence sounds, the use of the word “lonely” makes it realistic and sad at the same time. It’s not quite “Jesus wept,” but it’s pretty darn close. The right words carry a lot of power, and no doubt those “wide-assed bitches” appreciated Bukowski writing about them.
“I saw him coming at me like a dart at a dartboard.”
I’m sure most metaphors and similes taste terrible to synesthetes, but Bukowski made this a good piece of action. Never dwell on action. Anything that happens fast should be described fast. That’s probably why his sex scenes were so short (he usually gave up and quit). Count the times he says “I hit him.” I think it’s around forty in “Barfly” (Factotum) alone.
“The riots ended, the baby calmed down, but the dizzy spells persisted.”
Bukowksi never seems to be looking for sympathy. Instead of pulling heartstrings, I’m sure he liked to say, “Tighten the collar, make them gasp.” You’re far better off developing a sense of shock. Even if you don’t know what shock tastes like, it’s fair to say it probably tastes like a bad burrito.
I’ve had bad burritos and, believe me, it’s shocking.
Needless to say, I’m only skimming the surface here. Synesthesia isn’t an easy topic. Neither is Bukowski or Bradbury (don’t get me started on Jerry Garcia). These synesthetes had an advantage. They knew a good-tasting word. All we can do is hope we’re not up against a bunch of synesthetes laughing right now at how terrible our words taste.
Maybe we’re all bad burritos.
Or maybe we just need to find publishers with no taste buds.
I’m sure a few of them are out there somewhere.
They can’t all be gourmands.
Robert Cormack is a satirist, blogger and author of “You Can Lead A Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive).” You can join him every day by subscribing to robertcormack@medium.com/subscription.
