Piping Hotnby Thomas McGoniglenHot Typenedited by John Miller, Heidi Benson,nCynthia Koral, and Randall KoralnNew York: Collier Books;n235 pp., $7.95nConcocted by four editors of somethingncalled Equator magazine (Inam told it is a large glossy tabloid of oddnpeople doing odd things), Hot Type’snsubtitle is: “Our Most CelebratednWriters Introduce the Next Word innContemporary American Fiction.” Onnthe basis of the writing selected, I don’tnknow if I would let some of “our mostncelebrated writers” into the housenwithout locking up the silver and providingna chastity belt for the cat.nMaybe, at one time, such annanthology — though not assisted by sonmany cooks — might have been a goodnidea. It would be interesting to seenwhom, for instance, James Joyce ornMarcel Proust would have championed,nor whom Faulkner, Fitzgerald, ornHemingway would have seen fit tonhype and blurb. But not any more. Allnthat is nowadays required to become annoutstanding author is to come up withnone well-pushed, well-hyped book andnjump right into the pantheon with’nSusan Minot, Bob Shacochis, andnMona Simpson. It is fitting that thenwriters these three outstanding authorsnpick are as derivative and reeking of thentrendy masters as themselves.nThree other outstanding authors —nCynthia Ozick, Joy Williams, and WilliamnKennedy — do a slightly better jobnof picking but, to adapt Francis Stuart’snevaluation of Frank O’Connor, thesenare “the knitters at the soft center ofnAmerican writing.” I, you, they —nRebecca Stone, Stephen Cooper, andnDouglas Bauer—have all read thesenstories elsewhere and will keep readingnthem again and again.nThen there is Richard Ford, thatnoutstanding American author of ThenSportswriter who writes in the forewordnto the anthology: “When I startednto think of what to write here, Indecided a list would help, a short menunof desideratums: must-do’s withoutnwhich the whole, old machine of writingnwill never be truly new or well —nignoring entirely the Creat Books, thenfamous tricks of the trade, and ofncourse talent.”nI think it’s safe to imagine the sort ofnwriting Ford is interested in: “Art’snspirit is serious in nature if not inndemeanor, and at heart it is unselfish.nIf it could, it would always be a help.nAnd here in the stories that follow andnin the words said about them, its ownnneeds are met, its requirements fornsurvival generously, faithfully served.”nThe great American editor and outstandingnwriter Cordon Lish pickednLynn Crossman, of whom he has said:nI can tell you all about LynnnGrossman. I have never had andrink with her, or a coffee withnher or shared even as little (asnmuch?) as a subway ride withnher, but I am still willing tonkeep my shoulder to thenassertion that I know all aboutnLynn Grossman. But you mustnnot think that I think that it isnbecause she has been, and stillnis, a student of mine that I thinknI know all about LynnnGrossman. You see, I am notnthat kind of teacher and LynnnGrossman is not that kind ofnstudent—meaning that for eachnof us the object is the story andnnot the person. Yet I am stillnoffering you my claim toncomplete knowledge of LynnnCrossman. Indeed the reason Inam so insistent as to thennecessity of my claim isnthis—to wit, there is for me nonway to pay a higher complimentnto the force of a story. I meannthat when a story does its work,nthere issues from it the exactnmark of its maker. I mean thatnwhen Lynn Grossman maden”The Sleeves” the force of it is,nshe disclosed her heart for thenindelibility it is. I mean that Inam glad to receive thatnheart — and to have thenteacher’s honor of passing itnalong to you.nHer story begins, “This all startsnwhen my Wednesday cuts me backnhalf-day from full day.” It does not getnany better.nIt is sad to see Michael Stephens innthis sea of “prose.” Stephens is hardly ankid and wrote one of the best depictionsnof Irish-American life. Season at Coole.nnnNothing he has written since has beennup to the high standard he set fornhimself then, though his play, OurnFather, comes close. He has tried tontwist himself away from his own experience,nbut this doesn’t work, nor is henhelped any by being introduced bynRussell Banks, who is off frying othernfish when he should be attending tonwhat exactly it is that Michael Stephensnis all about.nThe best story in the book is bynPinckney Benedict and is introducednby Joyce Carol Oates, whose OntarionReview Press published his collectionnTown Smokes. Benedict is a writer ofnrisk and courage. Witness the openingnof his story: “Loftus and Bone headednover to the Bowl*0*Drome to take innthe women’s leagues and see if theyncould get Loftus’s mind off of Arnette.nArnette was the redheaded woman thatnhad run off with some college puke ancouple days before and had brokennLoftus’s heart and shattered his life.”nThe risk comes in laying out so muchnso clearly so early on, and then havingnthe courage to balance it on an impoverished,ndebased language without thenreader condescending; that is a remarkablenachievement. Aware of all thentraps that are awaiting Benedict, I hopenhe will fly them and trust his vision, sonevident in this story and his collection.nI am not optimistic, but I like thenstory’s concluding lines: “And he wasnhappy in the saying of it and proud tonlive in that fashion, even though henknew that for his suffering she wouldnnever leave him for another mannagain.”nDo yourself a favor: bypass HotnType and read Stephens’ Season atnCoole and Benedict’s Town Smokes.nThomas McGonigle is the author ofnThe Corpse Dream of N. Petkov,npublished by Dalkey Archive Press.nFor Immediate ServicenChroniclesnNEW SUBSCRIBERSnTOLL FREE NUMBERn1-800-435-0715nILLINOIS RESIDENTSn1-800-892-0753nFEBRUARY 1989/33n