Written by Jacques Franco, Staff Writer.
Chicago, IL–Ed Hardy, an up-and-coming novelist and a self-proclaimed “beatnik born in the wrong decade,” was reportedly dropped by his literary agent after “habitually missing deadlines.” “Ed’s a cool guy and all, shows promise, but he doesn’t play the game,” said Bobby Gleason, associate editor for an independent publishing house based in Chicago, specializing in the publication of writers of small-medium prominence. “He thinks he’s this big name like Kerouac or Burroughs, but at the end of the day, let’s be honest, he’s a nobody, a bum with modest talent I took a chance on, and I don’t make the same mistake twice!” Hardy, amidst “suspiciously working on his first novel”–which was due for publication this June–was dropped abruptly by his Gleason, who had had the last straw when Hardy’s “writing process” became what Gleason criticized as “inefficient at best, laughably derivative, and professionally detrimental at worst.” Hardy, who frequently visits coffee shops to “chat up the local bohemians,” as well as “be seen writing, however superficial and content-less each visit is,” also refuses to use a computer or even make copies of his writing. Instead, opting to use a typewriter to “capture pure spontaneity and authenticity in prose,” Hardy’s latest and most productive writing session, according to him, took place in a lone beach house Hardy reportedly found and broke into “in an effort to escape commercialism completely and reach higher truth.” The novel, which Hardy insists is the “truest writing penned,” was nonetheless lost when the young writer relocated outside with his manuscript to continue writing, upon which the collection of pages, without the thoughtfulness of a paperweight, flew away by a sudden gust of wind. Though Hardy insists the truthfulness of his story (despite its timing coming conveniently the day of his final deadline), Gleason dropped Hardy as a client, “thankful at last to be free of him, while I will rue the day for some time I took him under my wing in the first place.”
Jacques Franco is a pretentious French filmmaker and self-proclaimed “poet,” though neither his filmmaking nor his poetry are particularly good.