Quick FAQ For Substack Authors
Dear Substackers,
Have you published a book and are looking for a review? Want to be reviewed by someone who takes you as seriously as the Harold Blooms of New York did in the golden days? Contact me by either inquiring in the comments section of this post or by subscribing and sending me an email. (This is for Substackers only; sorry, but I have to negate today’s oversaturation somehow)
Compensation for a review can come in one of two forms: 1) a paid subscription to Timeless, or 2) a review of one of my novels on your Substack. (Or on Amazon or Goodreads if your Substack isn’t geared toward fiction) But this only applies for the first time. If you’re a prolific author, this is a one-time “payment:” future book reviews will be FREE every time. The privilege of being part of ‘the club.’
If you have any questions, feel free to ask. I look forward to reading your work and helping make Substack a glorious place for the arts!
Click below to read Michael Mohr’s review of Calm Before an Earthquake.
“The Crew stayed at the front of the stage, watching, waiting. We remained undeterred, not allowing the anarchy of the pit to distract us from our pursuit of the ultimate climax. Being here equaled our great reward, being alive, in the present, right up at the front of the stage. Like Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty in Kerouac’s On The Road, talking about late 40s bebop jazz, we too searched for that elusive, musical, magical, existential “it.”
Part 1: The Real World and What Traditional Publishers Are Missing
The modern condition doesn’t agree with our humanity; that, or our humanity doesn’t agree with industrial and post-industrial modernity. We extend our lives, only to suffer miserably from diseases few in the pre-industrial age suffered from. We commit to getting rid of violence, only to lose touch with ideals of what it means to fight and stand for something as cheap and senseless violence fills that void. We seek to increase prosperity for the average human being, only to find ourselves surrounded by cheaper and cheaper junk that cannot by any metric signify prosperity as it used to mean. And what was once a father-to-son process of passing on trades, values and so on has now become an eternal fistfight of damaged generations churned out of prison systems we have the audacity to call schools even now, in 2024. Systems that make us hate education, authority, the world, our country, our civilization and our own family. (Indeed, psychological studies have found that teenage hatred can stem from bad choices made in the first five years of a child’s life, including separating children into daycare; kids, even as teenagers, never seem to forgive their parents for that first great separation)
As I explained in my prequel post yesterday - click here to read - punk rock was an artistic resistance movement to the modern condition in both the US and the UK. (And, on a smaller scale, in a few other countries) It came to the fore in 1976 and killed itself around 2004 as it became impossible to maintain its stance against “The Man” in the wake of the US Invasion of Iraq, choosing instead to resist “A Man” to its own detriment. But from the 1980s to the mid-2000s punk was a formative part of the Californian cultural experience. Michael Mohr’s debut novel, The Crew, captures the last years of that epoch and captures it well. The Crew is, without a doubt, ‘a punk rock novel’ as its subtitle proclaims. But it is also so much more. Come back up and click the button below to purchase once you’re done reading!
To most of my subscribers, I believe Mohr needs no introduction. For those not in the known, he is the author of an increasingly popular Substack called
. Feel free to take a moment and subscribe. You’ll find his posts very much worth your time.If we use Isaiah Berlin’s metric of the hedgehog and the fox, Mohr is a hedgehog: at least his current output indicates as much. Other hedgehogs include Milan Kundera, Annie Ernaux and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, to name a few contemporary examples. (To contrast that, Cormac McCarthy is a fox who could jump from genre to genre as if they were mere hedges) Possessing a centralized vision of the world and sharing it on Substack in the form of autofiction (or straight-up autobiographical content), Mohr’s great topics of interest include - alongside literature - the nature of the publishing industry, Alcoholics Anonymous, the rising threat of political tribalism in the US, his travels to other countries (most recently Morocco and Thailand) and the trials and tribulations of his past life as well as the joys of his present life. The Crew, though fiction, relates most strongly to the last category.
I personally appreciate what he’s written on the publishing industry. I have this post in mind in particular, which also pertains to The Crew. (it used to be titled The Cannonball Complex) It was Mohr’s post that confirmed my own instincts to self-publish my debut instead of wasting time accumulating rejections from eternally disinterested publishers had been correct and not just a symptom of Millennial passivity or an excuse. If my unwillingness to adhere to socialist realist PC language wouldn’t imprison my novel in the rejection labyrinth, then some other utterly retarded criterium would. (Like it being set in 1989)
So to Mohr, I say: thanks a lot! You really brought some solace in my literary life with your experiences.
I mention this because The Crew is a novel that should have received zero rejections. The fact that Mohr, who had more faith in the traditional industry than I did (he moved to NY after all) also now follows the self-publishing path illustrates the enormity of this fallen industry’s failure. The Crew should have been a by-the-numbers acceptance of an outstanding and promising debut by an author in touch with the real world, real hardship and all its complexities.
But I think most authors worth their salt also understand that self-publishing is the future. As NOFX said in their song about the corrupt music industry: “dinosaurs will die.”
Part 2: The Crew As A Work of Art and Debut Novel
The strongest impression one gets reading The Crew (apart from the story) is how successfully it functions as a debut novel. On his Substack, Mohr has written about how writing is in his blood; while I am no hematologist, writing aspirations have been a goal of his for a very long time. Much as I ended up publishing Calm twelve years after my first draft, Mohr’s debut has also been a long time coming. This shows with The Crew: it is the product of many years of hopes, dreams, experience, study and other cerebral activity.
To recap: the list of writers whose best novel is their debut is very small. Sometimes, like Dostoyevsky with Poor Folk, their debut is very successful even if it’s not what is remembered down the line. (Given Dostoyevsky’s own hardships, the success of Poor Folk was of enormous importance for him and his career) There are also a few authors who are exceptions to this rule, most notably Thomas Mann (Buddenbrooks) and Gunter Grass (The Tin Drum). Mann, having been one of the best, managed to find ways to reach other heights with The Magic Mountain and Death in Venice. But Grass was always defined by his first success, even as he authored many other excellent novels. It was both a blessing (career-wise) and a curse (legacy-wise).
One impression I got when learning about the industry in the 2010s was that the publishing industry expected a lot of greatness from debut novels. I think they, caught up in their Internet Age insecurity, expected too much and lost track of basic, pragmatic truths. The debut’s primary functions are as follows:
1) a stepping stone to further literary greatness, what some call ‘paying apprenticeship dues;’
2) resume building so that you can point to something (alongside journal publications);
3) a creativity test: some debuts are less about story and more about how creatively rich one can express themselves to unambiguously show that future potential is there (this being the case with Salman Rushdie’s debut, Grimus);
and 4) a declaration of artistic vision. All or some of these goals help realize a successful debut novel. (Number four is especially pertinent when it comes to understanding my debut)
As a stepping stone, The Crew is exceptionally polished. The editor did a first-class job, to be sure; but The Crew also understands its place in relation to its author. Coming-of-age stories are, after all, excellent candidates for debut novels, as are autobiographical novels. The Crew is both, but readers accustomed to Mohr’s Substack will recognize the art of fiction at work. While I think some writers act like crybabies when they complain that an obviously autobiographical novel is being “labeled” with that term - there is no shame in writing an autobiographical novel - Mohr is certainly within his rights to reject that term if he so felt the need.
The Crew is economical in language, if not in the protagonist’s thought processes. Jack Donnigan, or Dog, who attends an exceptionally preppy private school has recently been inducted into a troublesome punk rock clique called The Crew. (Dog is not only a Stooges reference but “God” backward, which adds an almost invisible yet enriching dimension of both spirituality and spiritual inversion to the novel) The character of Cannonball, in particular, fills Dog’s deep and even desperate need for friendship.
As a “creativity test,” Mohr has his style worked out to the point where such a test is unnecessary. Wisely, The Crew functions more as a structural test: is Mohr the best storyteller he can be? He passes this test with flying colors. Though a part of me wondered what Jack’s times with “the nerds” beforehand were like (perhaps it would have shed a little more light on Jack’s reactionary needs) Mohr is very firm about bookending his story without needing to be extra conscious about it like William Gibson and Neuromancer. It starts where he says it starts. It ends where he says it ends. This firmness serves Mohr well: if and when he wants to tell a story where a reader must comprehend a singular and specific message or vision, he’ll be able to do it with both hands tied behind his back.
The Crew is at its best as a declaration of artistic vision. Mohr announces to the world that the Michael Mohr style is not only fresh, new and alive but doing quite well. (thanks for asking) But it also goes beyond style. When Dog proceeds where he proceeds at the end (I keep it vague to avoid spoilers) it’s not just our protagonist moving on to Stage 2. It’s Mohr declaring to the world that Stage 2 awaits and he’s already on his way. It’s up to you if you want to come along, but don’t kid yourself: you know you want to! On his Substack, Mohr mentioned he had about 14 novel manuscripts in the can. It’s safe to say he’s just getting started.
To summarize: the plot is sound. The style is succinct. The characters are memorable. The local atmosphere of Ventura County is distinct, though I felt the sense of place could have been given a tad bit more flavor; it’s the El Camino Real, after all, and one of the only parts of SoCal left that isn’t part of the concrete jungle.1 As an authority, Mohr leaves the reader with no doubts whatsoever. And as a fictionalizer of autobiographical experiences, Mohr is outright uncanny: with the “Catholic fascist” headmaster (nobody in the story is explicitly religious) his diabolical side is exaggerated relative to what we’d expect in the real world, but organically and convincingly so. Which was hilarious! Mohr knows how to make the exceptional real, and that is a talent (or skill) no writers should ever let dust accumulate upon. I hope he does this very often in his future novels.
Part 3: The Crew As A Novel I Personally Liked
Mohr and I have a few key parallels in our lives - Californian by origin, fans of punk rock and engagers of “crazy times” in our youth. For this reason, I was naturally predisposed to like The Crew. It brought back memories of the good times, along with a few that were embarrassing back then but amusing to think about now. The Crew brought back the thrill of those times, which - stupid as they were - I now cherish because the more time I spent partying the less time I spent becoming ideologically lobotomized. California (or should I say the tumorous concrete construct we call California today) and all it represented tried to control my mind. But what was left of the state’s old authenticity freed my mind as it did with writers back when Carmel was a writer’s community long ago. While The Crew isn’t concerned with Old California, it is not far away: the beaches where a lot of strange episodes of Californian life take place; the only place where Dog can spend the night at one point; and so on.
Sadly, the literary world doesn’t seem to care for a good old adventurous party novel anymore. The Millennial generation - socialized to follow the ideological directives of Boomers - became super serious once it went through college, and not in a flattering way. Those novels by Millennials I did take chances on in the 2010s (usually written by automatons) took themselves way too seriously to the detriment of their craft; the only contemporary authors I liked from that reading spell were from GenX. Incidentally, the second novel I wrote - I have it in the can somewhere - was a Humboldt party novel that…let’s just say, didn’t take itself seriously at all but still ended with a good sincere “punchline” anyone with a heart can appreciate. The result: I lost someone dear to me for having dared to write such a novel. Someone who prided themselves literarily as I do, but who suddenly became close-minded when their malnourished understanding of what literary humanism meant was being challenged. With this backstory in mind, reading The Crew was a breath of much-needed fresh air.
Jack Donnigan’s relatability as a protagonist is most apparent as Jack the confused teenager. And he really is confused. He cannot keep his thoughts straight all that often, instilling a kind of psychosis effect not unlike the one Mohr attributed to my own novel. And while most of us know that teenagers are just like this, I couldn’t help but wonder what else was at play. Some of it is revealed to us: his parents lacking something in their upbringing, having no friends (or only nerdy friends, who matter so little we never encounter their names), lacking attention from the ladies, being unfulfilled in school. Jack is from the kind of empty shell environment that caused Thomas Bernhard to lambast Austria in The Loser; and if we bring Steppenwolf-style multitudes into play, Jack is seriously lacking fulfillment in most of them. And in the extreme. How could a kid who was read Hemingway and Steinbeck as a kid feel that way? I don’t think even the best authors of dysfunctional America - Raymond Carver comes to mind - really satisfied that question.
Even so, we do not know if we can call Jack a loser or a winner. Mohr very cleverly tosses a monkey wrench into the cerebral machinery that might otherwise make such a judgment easy. (Another plus!) On one hand, Jack has the character traits of a classic high school loser. On the other hand, this stage of life is the story of Jack as a winner - one who could make it onstage at a punk rock concert, one who could get with whatever woman he wanted, etc. Not only that: Jack’s greatest victory (even if it doesn’t translate into results just yet in his life) is the discovery that he has all the potential in the world. Something even private school couldn’t teach him; a lesson that brought to mind Danny Smiricky, Josef Skvorecky’s recurring character in Czech literature who, in The Cowards, learns more from the war, his friends (including one sent to a Concentration Camp) and his experience in a jazz band than anything from an educational institution. Mohr’s literary humanist credentials are at their strongest here.
Jack is both a deserved member of The Crew and better than them at the same time. This also explains one of the great paradoxes of punk rock; it is uplifting and liberating when one relates to punk on one’s own terms, as Jack does with its message of nonconformity and freedom. In fact, it is by relating on his own terms that he recognizes The Crew for who they are. The quiet, behind-the-scenes victory for Jack is not just the coming-of-age dimension of the story, however, but the unspoken rejection of the punk primitivism (“We are DEVO!”) that had turned The Crew into a micro version of the system they claimed to reject. And in many ways a more authoritarian one, though Mohr doesn’t let us reach that conclusion with ease. The story, after all, is set in and around the time when social authoritarianism began increasing among Americans overall, enhancing this novel’s historical cred. (A topic that, on the macro level, would, I think, be a great fit for Mohr and his pen if the topic interests him) The kind of social authoritarianism that would cause a cynic to suggest that Americans deserved the Patriot Act, rather than view them as unfortunate victims of a messed up piece of legislation. For as good old Ben Franklin said: “Those who desire security at the expense of liberty deserve neither.” (I think the MC5 would have agreed)
Mohr’s straightforward style - unburdened by big words and very experientially literary in a way that would have pleased Henry Miller - is deceptive in this respect. But make no mistake: like bones with marrow, it is riddled and intertwined with nuance. It might not speak to you in the first few pages. But it is there, and before you know it you’ll find yourself as riddled and intertwined with the nuance as the nuance itself. What’s great is that this makes the novel worthwhile to readers of all types. It is not a novel of ideas per se, but fans of novels of ideas will feel as if they’ve just read one. (What can I say? Another plus!) Another sign of greatness to come.
Conclusion
Michael Mohr has passed the debut test and passed it well. He has written a novel that is expressive of particular themes but not defined by them to the exclusion of most readers. While the best large audience for The Crew will be fans of coming-of-age stories, one does not have to be a punk rock fan to appreciate The Crew. It is enough to be a pursuer of self-knowledge as well as someone just looking for a great story to mean something to them.
And that’s one of the best things about The Crew: it’s a story that actually means something. An actual oasis after a trek through the desert of postmodernism. It is this characteristic especially that’ll make sure you’re familiar with the name Michael Mohr twenty years from now when all the big names today have been forgotten, and rightfully so.
Apart from wishing for a stronger sense of place, there are no loose ends or tepid shades. It is a fully constructed, ready-to-operate story. As Mohr plans to move on to greater projects - and with respect to The Crew, he absolutely should treat them as greater projects - I want to give one bit of advisory caution since I never hear authors talk about this kind of thing. This is NOT - let me stress - something that affects The Crew. But it is a vulnerability of both our era and the autofiction style in which Mohr excels.
A lot of authors, especially in our era of obedience, have a kind of ‘establishment audience’ they subconsciously write their story for as they would for their elementary school teacher. Or consciously, if you’re French: one thing one finds (especially in autofiction) with the French is that a lot of the time, they’re not writing for you or the average Frenchman or woman. They’re writing for a big wig in Paris who’ll approve of them and allow them to have a career because the author writes the way the big wig wants them to; this is embarrassingly obvious in the case of Annie Ernaux, for instance. Whatever Norman credentials she might wish to trot out, she is a Parisian writer and not a French one. (Those interested in this writer-hegemon relationship should check out the novels of Charles Ferdinand Ramuz, the greatest reject of Parisian hegemony)
American writers sometimes have that habit, but in the direction of New York. A tone meant to please the elites in that city so it helps one’s career. The risk of doing this increases especially when literature becomes confessional. This has a lot to do with the act of confession itself and what it means. As a Catholic, I go to confession from time to time and it’s a great thing to do; only I confess to a priest confidentially and hopefully one who’s willing to follow St. John of Nepomuk off the Charles Bridge. I don’t confess what I confess to a priest at a New York City cocktail party. Curiously, most great American classics always appear to be oriented toward a frontier of some kind: the West or the ocean, even space and the technological and psychological realms. Frontiers bring out the best in us, it seems. Miller, for his part, didn’t give a rats ass about New York if Tropic of Cancer is any indication.
To put it simply: it is the mandate of great writers to avoid this kind of thing as much as possible, no matter their career trajectory. Ordinary readers are great at intuiting whether a story was written for them or not: we writers can have our share of fun tricks with the reader, but we cannot fool them in this respect. The Crew - with its experiential realism, its political incorrectness, its organic nuances that reject theoretical sophistication from the academy, etc. - has already shown that it will struggle to please New York at best. But like our great Californian predecessor John Steinbeck - who also couldn’t please New York except with Grapes of Wrath - The Crew is a novel for the best readers of all: ordinary American readers looking for a great story. Mohr can absolutely write novels that appeal to the ordinary reader the way Steinbeck’s novels did and continue to do. And I believe he will. If he can avoid any confessional, subconscious secret wireless signals to Manhattan - and so far he does - then timelessness is within his grasp.
On the whole, Michael Mohr has worked out pretty much everything that needs to be worked out. All he has to do now is just keep writing and ascend the mountain slopes of quality without compromising: a task made easier for hedgehogs than for foxes. I, for one, very much look forward to reading his next novels. And when they come out, I invite you to come back over to Timeless and check out my future reviews. They’ll be here.
James M. Cain’s The Postman Always Rings Twice is a great example of a California story simultaneously gritty and noir yet localized in a country atmosphere.
Hi, Felix. I have several book titles available for reviews if you're interested. They're all listed at Amazon at my author page (https://www.amazon.com/stores/David-Perlmutter/author/B08QV8K31F).
What is your e-mail?