SOMETIMES I THINK THAT I’M NOT SO MUCH A WRITER, AS A THING WRITING HAPPENS THROUGH:   The Stars in the Sky – Free, complete Short Story.

I mean one minute I’m writing along and the next minute a Spatine appears. What the heck is a Spatine? Eight hours later I have a short story and just as much writing in notes on what Spatines are as a branch of the Space Force of Britannia. Also my head hurts. I’d just very much like to know why me.

OPEN THREAD: Monday, Monday.

YES, NEXT QUESTION? Were the late ’80s and early 1990s “the best time in recent years to be alive?”

ANDREW FERGUSON: Getting Intimate With Updike.

When he was a young writer—[John] Updike was astonishingly precocious, becoming a regular contributor to the New Yorker when he was barely out of Harvard—the protagonists of his fiction tended to be sex-obsessed young men. As he grew into middle age, the protagonists evolved into middle-aged men obsessed with sex. Entering his dotage, full of honors and years, he somehow conjured up older, materially successful protagonists who were obsessed with sex. One of the great American stylists, he nevertheless managed to write sex scenes that were unbearably cringe-making. The meticulous, magical gift for poetic physical description that led him (for instance) to describe a snowfall at night as “an immense whispering” was misapplied to the mysteries of sex. A year before his death in 2009, the British magazine Literary Review, famous for its annual Bad Sex in Fiction competition, simply threw up its hands and gave him a Lifetime Achievement Award.

And yet it would be a mistake to call him the horniest writer of his time. It was quite a time. And he had lots of competition—an entire class of phallocrats, as they were sometimes called. These were male novelists who were too old to have enjoyed the vanguard of the sexual revolution, led by youthful baby boomers, and who were making up for lost time. In the 1990s, the novelist David Foster Wallace lumped several of them together—Updike, Norman Mailer, Philip Roth, Frederick Exley, Charles Bukowski—under the heading GMNs, the Great Male Narcissists. As Wallace pointed out, however, Updike was the one who evoked an especially intense mockery, at least among Wallace’s own contemporaries (Wallace was under 40 at the time, Updike in his 60s). One of Wallace’s feminist friends called Updike “a penis with a thesaurus,” a deathless tag that followed him to the grave.

Heh, indeed. It’s Andrew Ferguson, so definitely read the whole thing.

OUT TOMORROW: Kurt Schlichter’s latest Kelly Turnbull novel, Panama Red.

THE CRITICAL DRINKER: The Beginning of the End.

UPDATE: Hollywood has only themselves to blame:

TO BE FAIR, WHICH GRANNIES WERE WE SUPPOSED TO PULL OUT OF THEIR HOMES?

Snark aside, the Right does need to punch back — but I’m not sure what role Congress has to play here.

DISPATCHES FROM THE BLUE ZONES: DC squatter takes over woman’s property after refusing to check out of Airbnb—police let them stay. “A homeowner in Washington, DC is now fighting to have her home back after a squatter took over the property she had rented as an Airbnb for 32 days, but has yet to leave after months. The alleged squatter, Shadija Romero, has been living in the home since February and police have said there is nothing they can do. The squatter allegedly tried to push the homeowner off a ladder.”