‘Literary’ might not be the first adjective that comes to mind when describing the city of Los Angeles. But it should be. Sure, there’s Hollywood, the ‘industry’ (both film and porn), the celebrities, the hopeful Midwestern waiters and waitresses working various restaurants throughout the city. You know the L.A. Myth: Being discovered at LAX or the Chevron on Melrose. Becoming an overnight success. From all over the world, people flock to Los Angeles, hoping to benefit from its limitless possibilities. They cash their savings, stuff it into a white legal envelope and head to L.A. Five days later and a hundred dollars or so shorter, they arrive.

What is missing from the stereotypical image of Los Angeles is the literature that gives voice to its less optimistic outcomes. Often grim and sometimes dark, writers frequently portray the other Los Angeles—the one that’s a bit mysterious, that precisely opposes the illusion of glamour. Nathanael West, Raymond Chandler, Charles Bukowski, Joan Didion—without their narratives, L.A. might only be the perpetual and intangible fantasy Hollywood has falsely promised. Instead, literature allows Los Angeles to be multi-faceted; shaded and darkly nuanced. So much so that this city could hardly be what it is today without the stories in which it has starred.

Take Joan Didion’s Play It As It Lays, which chronicles the fame-induced ennui of movie star Maria, who struggles with the emptiness of success. Or Charles Bukowski’s chronically belligerent protagonists as they lose menial jobs, battle poverty, and chase women. While the showbiz side of Los Angeles touts unrealistic ideals of success and stardom, the literary side of the city paints a bleaker portrait. Add to the list Raymond Chandler’s gangsters, dangerous femme fatales, and corrupt policemen and it’s clear that this is not exactly the stuff dreams are made of. Stuff that probably wouldn’t procure a cross-country bus trip and an envelope stuffed with cash. So what then, is it worth?

A great deal. Imagine this place if it was only the concept of Hollywood. Only naive hopeful stars. Only celebrities. That is just not the Los Angeles I know. The L.A. I know is one of spotlighting helicopters; wailing police sirens; autonomic traffic; an overwhelming amount of people; the consistent smell of skunk, broken-in cars, a homeless epidemic, and a keening ability to decipher gang graffiti tags. I love my L.A., but it isn’t very glamorous. Success is slow. Fame amiss. I have yet to be discovered. I’ve seen a celebrity or two, but they both looked tired. Reality exists in my Los Angeles.

The city lies at the crux of this clashing of constructs. There’s the promise of stardom and the often-bleak reality its literature depicts. Los Angeles constantly shifts between these two spheres. Which explains why this city simultaneously attracts and repels me. It is at times beautiful, and at others grotesque. It is suddenly perfect and a moment later all wrong. It is a city in a constant state of confounding confliction. And if you catch it at the right time, you can see the real L.A., which is everything: the success, the squalor, the fame, the infamy, the power and the poverty. The underbelly is at the heart of Los Angeles just as much as the celebrity.

The gritty Los Angeles depicted is, put simply, better than any myth. The real L.A. is culture. It’s street cart oranges, cheap beer, food trucks. It’s the post office, the alleyway, the dive bar. This grit is what makes Los Angeles gleam. Because it’s what actually awaits you when you get here. And the result is an ideal atmosphere for creativity and imagination that is optimal terrain for writers. With an abundance of contradictions, juxtapositions and opposites, the city holds a wealth of inspiration. And in turn, stories of hardship and scandal allow L.A. to be accessed and understood—to exist just as much on the ground as in the clouds. And if this is the L.A. you come for, your white envelope might take you a bit farther than if you come looking for glamour.

Los Angeles’ literary heritage provides the anti-myth. The down-and-outs. The proclivity for dereliction. The dangers of excess. Without these stories, our conception of Los Angeles might be downright dull. Without Raymond Chandler’s noir or ‘The Poet Laureate of Skid Row’s’ vulgarity, what kind of L.A. would come to mind? Call it dark, dreary or depressing, but give it credit for the insight it provides. Because when I read Charles Bukowski’s Post Office, I know his L.A..

They might not warrant prestige or fame—they hardly even sell books—but these bleak stories, quite frankly, keep us grounded. And if there’s one thing we should turn to this city’s literature for, it’s sanity. Yes, sanity. Because it’s the truth; it’s L.A..

by Katie Manderfield
an MFA candidate at CalArts, an editorial assistant for Black Clock, and is constructing an experimental literary journal for women; her work has been published or is forthcoming in Pindeldyboz, 3:AM, and dogmatika

image courtesy of ATomek