This elaborate!}^ produced Cliffs Notesrnof Much Ado is supposed to be high art.rnWhat it reminds me of is Tom Stoppard’srnFifteen Minute Hamlet, which wasrnmeant as an irreverent joke.rnThere are other, smaller problems,rntoo. Keanu Reexe’s Don John is a cartoonrnvillain, which he does less well thanrnMandy Patinkin did hiigo Montoya inrnThe Princess Bride. Denzel Washingtonrn—as Reeve’s half-brother!—is handsomernenough but a disaster wheneverrnhe opens his mouth. His vowels andrnrhythms are all pitiably off. MichaelrnKeaton’s energetic-enough performancernas Dogberry is that of a lunatic out ofrnMonty Python and the Holy Grail, but itrnis likely that the fault is more Branagh’srnthan his own.rnWhere was I going with all this? Irnhad some abstract notions about meddling,rnthe perils of the human condition,rnand the risks of pride and vanitvrn. . . but let it go. It’s obvious and notrnworth doing.rnDavid R. Slavitt is a poet and novelistrnliving in Philadelphia.rnExclusivernby Stephen ProvizerrnWriter’s Mags ExposedrnWho’s responsible for all thosern”Writer’s magazines”—Writer,rnWriter’s Digest, Writer’s Notebook, etc.—rnclogging the newsstands of HarvardrnSquare? The unsuspecting peruser whorncomes to these periodicals seeking professionalrnadvice will be disappointed tornfind that they read like a cross betweenrnNorman Vincent Peale and RoboticsrnMonthly. The truth is, writing is a roughrnand lonely trade and, as far as I’m concerned,rnthe ilk of steely stoicism andrntreacly “inspiration” dished out by thesernrags just doesn’t cut the mustard.rnAs a freelancer with a propensity towardrnself-destruction, I feel it is my dutyrnto expose these journals and have thereforerndistilled a number of their typicalrnstories down to a glistening pearl I call:rn”Clarence, Its Now or Never! (An InspirationalrnYarn).”rn”Growing up sixth in a Scotch Presbyterianrnfamily of 12 outside HomernFries, Pennsvlvania, I didn’t have muchrnchance to think about what it meant tornbe an Artist; I was too busy fighting forrnhaggis at the supper table. Like everyonernin my family, it was expected that Irnwould spend my life working in the localrnpotato chip factory, raising an enormousrnand respectable family and serving as arnlower-level functionary in the localrnchurch. But there was something differentrnabout me, e-en from the very beginning.rn”As a toddler, I used to huddle underrnmy nappy with a flashlight, reading E.B.rnWhite on style. In grammar school, Irnforged notes so erudite that not oncerndid I have to bounce frozen soccer ballsrnoff mv head in winter gym class. Mostrntellingly, while the other kids loitered inrnthe penny candy section of the five andrndime, I was in the stationery department,rnogling the little spiral notebooksrnand Mont Blanc fountain pens.rn”As the years went by, howex’cr, I allowedrnmyself to be caught up in thernnumbing inertia that is Home Fries. Irnended up in the chip factory, marriedrnwith six kids, and while I continued to fillrntiny notebooks and got so frustrated Irnsometimes thought I would kill to getrnthe chance, I never seriously consideredrnpursuing writing as a profession.rn”Then, fate twisted the plot: one torridrnsummer’s day, my wife Blossom’srnbagpipes unexpectedly exploded duringrnthe Founder’s Day Parade and I was leftrna widower. Paradoxicall), it was at thisrnvulnerable junction in my life that I decidedrnI had to make the great leap intornthe unknown. I was already 20 years oldrnand time was slipping by—so manyrnnovellas unwritten; so many writing seminarsrnunattended.rn”My friends and neighbors were lessrnthan enthusiastic, pummeling me aboutrnthe responsibilities of church, nuclearrnfamily, and communitv and trying tornconvince me I had the talent of a cockroach.rnIt wasn’t an easy decision tornmake, but I figured that, between therndouble indemnity insurance settlementrnand the government cheese giveaways,rnwe’d get by. I knew I had to give it arnshot. It was now or never.rn”Once the decision was made andrnwriting success targeted, it simply becamerna question of ‘buckling down.’ Inrnmy case, this meant shipping the kids offrnto in-laws, buying a set of E-Z Writer’srnGuides to Publication (available throughrnthis magazine), canceling my cable TV,rnlocking myself in the den, and changingrna few names to avoid litigation.rn”Anyone who’s been following thernbest-seller charts and the celebrity pagesrnknows I haven’t missed yet. Startingrnwith A Child’s Book of Chips (the veryrnfirst book to be packaged in a cellophanernbag, with completely edible pages), allrnthe way up to my latest—A Nacho Chiprnon My Shoulder (off-beat humor withrnmelted cheese and a medium-hotrnsauce)—I’ve had nothing but devotedrnreaders and (thank goodness) great reviews.rnIt should also be noted that I metrnand married a beautiful, intelligentrnmodel—a former Miss Clam Dip fromrnEncino—and have had a vasectomy. So,rnmy message to all you aspiring writersrnout there is—You can make it like me!rnGet yourself some of the little notebooks,rninsure your spouse, and don’t forgetrnto change the names!”rnWell, friends, if this is what the cannyrneditors of these magazines are passingrnoff as inspiration, then I say give mernblackhearted cynicism any day. Whenrnthese people find someone whosernbiggest investment is filing cabinets tornhouse rejection slips, who flies into arnjealous rage just hearing the namesrn”Bret,” “Tama,” and “Jay,” whose moodrnswings Tarzan would get vertigo trying tornswing on, then they will have my deeprnand abiding attention.rnUntil then, I admit I will continue tornbuy the magazines, but only for the classifieds;rnI’ve found a guy can actuallyrnmake a pretty good living writing sensitivernpornography and humorous gagrnlines for New Age greeting card companiesrnin Maine.rnStephen Provizer writes fromrnCambridge, Massachusetts.rn50/CHRONICLESrnrnrn