Author Charles Bock discusses his new novel, Beautiful Children

Charles Bock isn't your typical first-time novelist. For one thing, he's 38. He doesn't come from an Ivy League school, or from the brownstone Brooklyn literati; he hails from Las Vegas, where he grew up behind the counter of his parents' pawnshop downtown, from which a few of his most virulent stories actually sprang. And he worked on his acclaimed debut novel, Beautiful Children, for nearly 10 years, which, if he were anyone else, would just make him an obsessive recluse.

The book—a mosaic about Las Vegas runaways, punks, a stripper with intellectual tendencies named Cheri, a comic-book artist, a belligerent 12-year-old named Newell, his older, disenfranchised friend Kenny, and his emotionally struggling parents, Lincoln and Lorraine, among other Vegas denizens—certainly didn't seem to have a "hit" formula built into it. Instead, Bock found himself the writer of a New York Times best seller and the recipient of all the trappings one would least expect from his book's release: lengthy profiles, both glowing high-profile praise (the Times, Gawker) and relentless high-profile criticism (the Times, Gawker).

Bock will be reading in New York's Central Park with Richard Price—whose Lush Life is one of the year's few other notable novels—at Summerstage on July 31. Via the magic of Instant Messenger, the author and fellow Las Vegan Foster Kamer discussed the novel, how it feels to write a book for 10 years, and what Bennington girls cannot do with their pudenda.

RADAR: I thought you should know: I bought this book wanting to absolutely hate it.
CHARLES BOCK: You're probably not alone in that.

Exactly. Here was a book that was written by someone for a long time, but, more important for me, having grown up there, here was a writer from Las Vegas, where I'm convinced nothing good has come from in regard to literature or art.
Yeah. It's something that is evolving. I lived in Vegas until I was 18, basically, and haven't lived there since. But during my teen years I certainly was aware of the lack of any kind of what we would consider artistic culture, at least any organically created culture, as opposed to flying in a band for two nights, or Englebert Humperdinck at the MGM or whatever. And I think anyone from Vegas with any kind of artistic ideas or ambitions has his own ideas about the city and art and what they want to say or portray. So, sure, when a big novel about Vegas drops from a native, why not want to hate it? Especially considering that it did get a lot of publicity right off the bat. I think there's a natural instinct for people to be defensive and wonder who I slept with, first. And then also, if the fucking book is any good: Ready, fire, aim.

Was doing justice to Las Vegas—the unseen side, the local side—part of the intent? Did you think that hadn't been portrayed correctly prior to your writing this book?
Hmmm. There was the way I felt about the city. I knew I hadn't seen that. There are other portrayals of Vegas that get stuff right (Positively Fifth Street by Jim McManus, for example, or some of Dave Hickey's essays and reportage). But a lot of it is nonfiction. Fiction has to do more than report. It has to be emotionally true. While I was writing the novel, different fiction writers—a lot of them really good ones—set parts of novels in Vegas. But none of it really seemed to be concerned with things that I cared about. I think Vegas is big enough now that while there are certain things that, sure, have to be addressed, there's also enough room for people to branch off into different areas. You know, Confederacy of Dunces is a superb book about New Orleans. The Moviegoer also is about New Orleans and also is a great book. I think there's room for a lot. My book has a wide scope, but there's plenty of fertile ground. I'm glad that you think I did our hometown justice. Whenever natives tell me that, I'm particularly honored.