This conversation between Nick Hornby and David Simon is almost 5 years old, but new to me (I think?).
My standard for verisimilitude is simple and I came to it when I started to write prose narrative: fuck the average reader. I was always told to write for the average reader in my newspaper life. The average reader, as they meant it, was some suburban white subscriber with two-point-whatever kids and three-point-whatever cars and a dog and a cat and lawn furniture. He knows nothing and he needs everything explained to him right away, so that exposition becomes this incredible, story-killing burden. Fuck him. Fuck him to hell.
It’s all pretty great (read: bloggable (readable, too)), but this about Baltimore pride was funny:
If the ghetto dick-grab were known to me in 1985, I mightâ€™ve held on to mine when I uttered the following: â€œIâ€™m from Baltimore. And I can tell you what â€˜activeâ€™ means. It means we kicked his ass.â€ An empty moment floated through the crypt, and the other Americans on the tour just about died. At that instant, I felt it was a good thing I didnâ€™t go on with what I knew, because Ross was actually mortally wounded at North Point by two Baltimoreans with squirrel rifles who crept through the brush and shot him off his horse, infuriating the British, who sent an entire detachment of Royal Marines to kill the sharpshooters, named Wells and McComas. (They are buried under a monument in the heart of the East Baltimore ghetto and have streets named after them near the fort.)