Proof that Flynn should be America's next poet laureate: the Word Find insult!

I came to Nick Flynn not by his poetry, but by way of his memoir, Another Bullshit Night in Suck City. This was during the height of my obsession with Raymond Carver, emulating (poorly) his stories and reenacting (with limited success) his life, one six-pack at a time. In these halcyon days, I believed heavy drinking was one step in the short march to a meaningful and respected writing career, that admitting to your friends that you might be an alcoholic was something you reported as if you’d just seen a spectacular car wreck: falsely aghast to cover the pride you know you shouldn’t feel.

I freely admit that it takes not a small bit of mental dexterity and college kid obliviousness to examine Carver’s history and come to the conclusion that alcoholism and promiscuity are badges of successful authors. It’s a meaty chunk of shame I’ve not yet swallowed, much less passed, in the eight or nine years since I first began channeling the spirit of a dead drunken frat boy masquerading as the ghost of Raymond Carver. I like to think that Flynn’s memoir helped purge those demons from both my pen and my self.

Not that it spurred some sort of epiphany, however. Suck City never saved me from four or so years of cock-ups and beat downs. A book can’t save you from yourself. But it was an enjoyable, challenging read written by a self-made fuck-up, and I needed to believe that fuck-ups could succeed, that a drunken phoenix could rise from its pyre of burned bridges. It was amongst the first narratives that invaded the imaginary world I’d created for myself, yet was written so well that I didn’t mind the resulting war of conflicting realities.

After finishing Suck City, I drove my rusted-out Volvo down to Powell’s Bookstore and purchased a signed, first edition of Flynn’s memoir. In fact, Suck City was the first book I can remember deliberately paying extra to own a collectible copy.

Years came and went. I moved from city to city and my collection of first editions coupled and bred. Though I picked up some of Nick Flynn’s poetry since that first read of Suck City, I largely forgot about the experience. I eventually landed in New York, where I began asking for insults. Which led me to McNally Jackson, to see Nat Johnson talk about his new book, Pym.

All of this was flying around my head as I sat down to watch Nick Flynn and Nat Johnson talk writing at McNally Jackson. Johnson was apparently a student of Flynn’s at the University of Houston’s creative writing program, so it was a reunion of sorts. I’d no idea Flynn was “in conversation” with Johnson, prior to showing up. I’d no idea Nick Flynn was still alive. He was smaller than I’d imagined he’d be, as if constant pressure slowly removed the space between things. But, on “stage” at McNally Jackson, he was almost shaking with energy.

Kaboom

Although Flynn appeared, during their “conversation,” either nervous or unprepared or perhaps both, their friendship was a pleasant, unexpected parenthetical to the evening. The talk went well enough, and a short Q&A followed. I initially considered raising my hand to publicly air out some of the dirty, shameful things — thoughts and emotions resembling those written above. Thankfully, the memories of the eyes I’d rolled at the nonsensical gushing so many audience members had poured into bored authors’ ears in similar Q&As came rushing back. I kept quiet. Better to wait until I could confess my sins to the internet, where nothing lasts forever.

While Nat Johnson took to the signing table, Flynn popped a squat next to a blonde friend in the audience, cycling between chatting amiably with fans and whispering to his companion. I, too, hung back. Asking interviewers for autographs, much less insults, has always felt awkward — you’re ostensibly there to see the author, not the guy with whom the author’s “in conversation.” But a handful of brave audience members broke through and Flynn seemed happy enough, so in I came.

Though initially dubious, Flynn quickly warmed to the insult idea. He has the look of a life-long smoker and the smile of a con artist, or everyone’s new best friend. The Jonathan Ames of poets, maybe. He’d look natural staring down Paul Newman in the dim light of some smoky pool hall in “The Color of Money.” When his comely companion mentioned she’d heard of Insulted by Authors from another writerly friend, he laughed and admitted he’d have to come up with something to compete against the best. Flynn was another author who took the time to think about the insult, a trait I’m growing to admire more and more. The crowd was thinning out, the baristas were breaking down the coffee shop, but still he concentrated on the insult. Finally, inspiration struck: Nick Flynn is the first author to employ the “Word Find” insult.

Again, the pain of being outside the publishing world was frustrating. I was heavy with questions about craft, his life, his troubles with substance abuse, even his poetry (I’ve never been a huge poetry fan). I wanted to tell him how much Suck City meant to me — means to me — and how excited I was to see “Being Flynn” on the big screen. Hell, I wanted to lie, tell him that his book saved me, that I’m a better man because of it. And maybe I am!

Instead, I thanked him for the insults, and rode the subway home to drink vodka.

In MIB's defense, I often dreamed I was the Anti-Christ while sleeping through Mass

Ed. note: Michael Moats is a fellow book blogger and seeker of authors’ signatures. His tale is featured on today’s blog, and with good reason: Michael Ian Black unleashed amusing profanity within the sanctity of a synagogue, stirring the jealous wrath of a spiteful god. Mike Moats recounts the harrowing events of that evening, below.

The first thing Michael Ian Black does after the standard thank-yous and glad-to-be-heres is open up his laptop and start reading a review of his new book “You’re Not Doing it Right.” Black is not upset or particularly pleased with the review; he’s sharing it because “it is truly the most terribly-written piece of crap I’ve ever read.” (This and all quotes here will be paraphrased, FYI.) The review, and I’ll spare the author attribution here, was posted on a website no one’s ever heard of (MIB: “I think this is a college paper. If it is, it’s not a very good college.”), written by someone no one’s ever heard of. And he’s right: It’s garbage.

“Michael Ian Black is one of those comedians where guys wish to high five him while some girls want slap him across the face. In the end, he is only joking…or is he?” is how review begins. The reviewer stumbles through the trite (praise for “detailed descriptions” and “witty analogies”; MIB: “I mean, I know how to use a fucking adjective.”) to the incompetent (Black’s memoir is consistently referred to as a novel) to the impolite (“It’s an easy read that entertains and exposes the real life and funny mind of a D-list celebrity.” Emphasis mine, and Black’s when he reads it to us).

I suffer from a lingering, casual interest in Michael Ian Black leftover from the 1990s. I haven’t followed his recent career closely and confess I didn’t know he was a published author. I’m here because the MTV sketch show, “The State,” defined a chunk of my high school and college life. I’m here because of $240 worth of pudding and that one where Black buys pants to the Breeders’ “Cannonball.” [ED: I’d be there because of the toothbrush sketch.] I’m here because Porcupine Racetrack was my “On the Road.”

But let me be clear that I’m not here for nostalgia. I’m happy with today’s Michael Ian Black, who has transitioned into an adulthood of “I Love the 80s,” book writing, and Expedia commercials. At my age, I enjoy these things. It’s like an old friend is in town and we’re supposed to meet for drinks – but if work runs late or he’s too tired, no big deal.

Black reads from a chapter titled “I Hate My Baby,” about the miseries of having a colicky infant. “The main problem is the sleep deprivation…I feel like I have been awake for eight months out of the last four.”

He and his wife hate each other: “The only thing preventing us from strangling each other in moments like these is the knowledge that doing so would mean even more time alone with the baby for whichever one of us is left.” As he rocks his son to sleep, he wonders, “Why is my baby such a dick?”

The book is not, as the review claimed, a novel. And it’s not a career memoir like Tina Fey’s “Bossypants” or Steve Martin’s “Born Standing Up.” We don’t hear about Black’s rise to the D-list. It’s a short, sweet, and simple book about Black and his wife and children, “the people I hug everyday,” as he puts it. It’s a good mix of his charmingly dickish humor and some of the serious trials of adult life.

It’s while he’s reading that I notice a slight uptick in my BPMs and some clumsiness in my fingers. I’m turning the copy of the book they gave me at the door over and over in my hands, and when I set it down I’m cracking my knuckles. I’m wondering about the Q&A and smiling really big. My ‘no big deal’ attitude is evolving into an overwhelming desire to make Michael Ian Black my best friend.

The Q&A is my chance. The first question’s from a young guy who tells us his girlfriend wants to know the specifics of Michael Ian Black’s cock. Way to go, asshole. Now he’s going to be on the defensive for stupid questions. Black’s answer is more gracious, and funnier, than I expect: “There’s no good answer. If I say, “big,” you’ll think I’m being an asshole, and if I say “small” or “normal,” you’ll think I’m just trying not to be an asshole. I don’t really want to answer, but Rachel, you’re invited to find out…”

I’ve been in a few situations like this before. I once gave Wayne Coyne my business card (he never contacted me). I’ve also worked in politics, where the one reliable reward for overworked and underpaid staffers is a handshake and a picture with the candidate – face time with a Famous Person.

This particular anxiety is roughly approximate to those moments at bars when you’re psyching yourself up to talk to an attractive woman. Where meaningful connection is possible, but there’s only a five-second window to get through and show them you’re worth their time. The question is whether you’ll fill that moment with something witty and charming, or just walk over and pee in your pants. I’m trying to distract myself by getting scientific about my situation. What is it about fame? Is there some sort of primal, lizard brain part of me that wants approval from a guy because he’s been on TV? Is there an anthropological explanation for why I’m having an anxiety attack because I want a picture that will get lots of likes on my Facebook wall?

I’m trying to deconstruct the Warhol-esque convergence of famous people and normal people in an internet connected world when a guy in the back yells out about winning his tickets to the reading by calling in to a radio show. Black congratulates the man with sincerity, wishes happy birthday to the guy’s wife (he also yelled about that) and then says how it’s actually kind of sad because you’re only going to win one radio call-in contest ever in your life, and he won it to be at this.

I’m sitting right next to the microphone and can ask something at any time. My inner monologue is starting to increase in volume like those kids in the old Corn Pops commercials. I’m thinking maybe I could make a joke about how the girl Rachel had stolen my first question. I think about asking him who his influences are. Then somebody else does, revealing it for the lame question it is. Black’s first answer is Eddie Murphy, and he takes longer than I thought he would to say Steve Martin. What about his influences as a writer? Same deal. Someone beats me to the punch, and it’s not a good question. (MIB: “I get asked this a lot. You’d think I would be better prepared [but I’m not because it’s a shitty question].) He says he’s reading that book “1Q84” by that guy whose name he can’t pronounce and he doesn’t even like it.

I surrender. Not to my urge, but to reality: Nothing I can do will get him to remember me. There’s nothing that will work, for any of us, to get his attention. Not your cool jacket. Not your hip beard. Maybe you went to his high school five years after him. Maybe your buddy worked landscaping with Ken Marino. Nothing’s going to work because you’re one of hundreds he’s meeting here and thousands he’s met and going to meet on this book tour. It’s like a drop of water trying to make an individual mark on a rock worn smooth by a river.

And there are a lot of things that can make it worse. Trying to recite lines, or hint at old sketches from The State (“Tell ‘em about your glass eye Mike!”) or just be familiar in general is a bad idea. I cringe a little when some guy mentions Wet Hot American Summer 2, to which Black reflexively responds, speaking fast like the fine print guys in car commercials, “Thanksnoguaranteesthat’shappening.” Trying to be funny during the Q&A can also be fatal. Black handled the penis question gracefully, but I once saw Kevin Smith tell some guy in front of an auditorium crowd in Boston, “Not for nothing but, why don’t you leave the jokes to me?”

I lead with the best thing I can think of. It’s a trusted idea, and one I steal from someone who’s better at this than me. When I get to the signing table with my book, I ask Michael Ian Black if he would be willing to insult me in the inscription. I prepare to explain something or offer suggestions but he cheerfully says sure, and with a smile scrawls out FUCK YOU MIKE across the page and hands it back.

I walk out feeling a strange mix of pride and adrenaline and disappointment (also something I remember from bars), because I didn’t fuck it up. I try a few times in the days after to bait @michaelianblack into a re-Tweet, but the guy has 1.7 million followers, so I leave it alone and get on with my life. I post the picture of me and MIB that my sister emails me as my Facebook profile picture. It gets lots of likes.

Michael Moats is the author of The Real Holden Caulfield and blogs at Trade Paperbacks, which you can keep track of on Facebook and Twitter.

Who besides the guy in line behind me could know the correct spelling of stupefying?

Something about Adam Johnson struck me as instantly likeable. I’d tiptoed late into PowerHouse Arena, maybe halfway through the audience Q&A, and quietly purchased a copy of “The Orphan Master’s Son.” Set my dainty ass on the concrete slabs, peered out from behind my thick glasses to my first visit to PowerHouse Arena.

Standing behind a podium or, later, sitting at a table, Adam’s height was striking –- an attribute that likely turned heads in Korea. I pulled out my notebook and began taking notes as Adam continued reminiscing about the citizens of the most secluded country in the world. Overall, his assessment was of a people fully aware of the life they lived, no “people’s paradise,” despite the ban on any outside media or the 24-7 barrage of propaganda.

His government-appointed tour guide, or “minder,” as he put it, accompanied him nearly everywhere he went in North Korea. The sips of information we receive via home videos released to the internet largely corroborate Adam’s summation: a crippled, sad country whose so-paranoid-it’d-be-funny-if-it-weren’t-real government is determined to put on a rosy picture for what few Westerners make it across their border.

But that’s one of many problems in finding the truth about what really goes on behind the desperately cheerful “minders” and frowning soldiers – so much of what we hear about North Korea is an anecdote, a story, a rumor. Adam used the example of in-home propaganda, a hardwired speaker or low-fi radio found in every home, ostensibly installed to protect against an American air raid. Though nearly every emigrant confirmed their existence, there’s no video, no picture, no “official” confirmation.

It’s difficult, then, to separate wild hyperbole from mild exaggeration, slight confusion from outright fiction. This might be where the critics and Adam diverge, in a way. Perhaps Adam sees his job as crafting a novel around the truth he experienced, tempered by the stories of those who managed to escape, while some critics believe that the harrowing real-life stories from the escapees justify a more somber tone.

Christopher Beha, writing for the Times, posited that Adam wanted to have his North Korea both ways; a country wildly dangerous and almost cheerfully backwards, lining up passages about torture alongside scenes of Kim Jung-Il performing like something out of “1984″ meets the “Marx Bros.”:

Johnson has said that his latest book began in a similarly farcical spirit, as a short story called “The Best North Korean Short Story of 2005,” inspired by the “loonier” elements of Kim Jong-il’s regime. But after some research, which included a trip to Pyongyang, Johnson realized that the “gravity” of his subject matter instilled “a sense of duty.” Having learned this, I found it dispiriting to arrive at a brutal interrogation scene in “The Orphan Master’s Son” and recognize the similarities here to the methods used by the police in the dystopian Oakland of “Teen Sniper.” More dispiriting still was seeing Kim Jong-il appear not just as a loony but as a kind of merry prankster.

On the question of talent, however, the critics are nearly unanimous in their praise (a comparison of Adam to George Saunders finally chased me off the couch and onto a subway). I’ll note here that my opinion of the book remains unformed, as I’ve not read it. Irresponsible, yes, but such is the life of the unemployed.

Riding over on the G train, I’d read a few reviews to have something to talk about, if the case arose. And so it did. Sitting at the signing table, nursing to the occasional bead of sweat with the back of a shirtsleeve and a swig of beer, Adam spoke with everyone as long as they were willing to stand and respond. When my turn came, in a series of apologies I begged excuse for having shown up late, for not having had time to read the book yet (and despite that, asking a question about the book). But I wondered: how did he feel about the critics who said he had a responsibility to depict a “real” North Korea?

“I don’t really pay attention to reviews,” he said. “But I found North Korea to be a hilarious place. If I didn’t include the pathos and hilarity and everything else, I wouldn’t be telling the right story.”

Boom. No hard feelings, though. Adam invited me to send him an email when I finished the book, then asked if PowerHouse was my local bookstore. No, it’s not! In fact, I make it to quite a lot of these readings, because…

Usual intro, nervousness, dry mouth, etc. Adam was doubtful, then incredulous, and finally demanded proof that I wasn’t off my meds. He asked to see my smart phone, which he’d guessed was already loaded up to assuage any nervousness on the part of the insulters. It wasn’t. I pulled it up as fast as AT&T would allow.

20 minutes later, he was convinced. He began scribbling, then posed a question: how do you spell stupefying? I remembered an “I” in the middle, and told him as much. Oops. After he’d finished, Adam read aloud the insult to those in line behind us. A student said in an accent that he’d thought “stupefying” had an “E.” I frowned, Adam squinted at the spelling.

Heart-shaped knocks

Dawn. I detested dawn. The grass always looked like it’d been out all night. I woke early with an all-percussion symphony playing in my head led by the empty bottle of scotch underneath my bed. Outside, the police sirens joined in with the garbage trucks to form a backup chorus that wouldn’t quit. Only a special dame could rouse these tired clichés from my cold, stiff fingers, and that dame was Joyce Carol Oates.

This wasn’t to be my first rodeo with Mrs. Oates. Almost two years ago, about the time I began this blog, Mrs. Oates was to sign books (no reading) in a back room of The Mysterious Bookshop. Because I couldn’t ask her myself, I approached the ridiculously accommodating Mysterious Bookshop employees about asking Mrs. Oates to insult me. After a quick explanation, they agreed. I was (and still am) incredibly grateful for their willingness to help a fellow book-nut in his pursuits.

I returned later that week, hopes high — they’d already helped me land an insult from a big fish like David Mitchell. And if David Mitchell liked the idea, I figured this insult idea must’ve been the best thing since mixed metaphors. Alack, it was not to be. While she laughed at the request, they later reported, insulting a stranger was something she couldn’t do.

Shocking! An author with novels like Rape: a Love Story was almost demure in real life. Rather than an insult, she drew a nice heart for my inscription, the most cheerful rejection I’d received.

Flashing forward to 2011, I prepared for a second chance to ask Mrs. Oates for an insult. Since they were so nice the first time, I went through the Mysterious Bookshop people to ask Mrs. Oates for an insult, in my stead. My thinking was, if the inscription request came from a trusted employee, and if she remembered the hearts she drew for me, maybe she’d admire my pluck and drive enough to drop an insult.

Conspicuous consumption for book collectors

Inside the Bookshop, I caught a whiff of weariness regarding my request. Maybe the first time, the idea of asking a star with the gravitas of Joyce Carol Oates for an insult sounded amusing in its conceit, cute. But a second time? After she’d already turned me down? Probably I was pushing my luck, and probably I sensed this when I asked. Despite it all, they promised to do their best.

No surprise, then, when I returned later that day and was handed back a pair of insult-less books. The shrug said, “You’re lucky we let you in here tonight.”

As it turned out, this wasn’t a typical reading, but a full-blown release party for a new mystery anthology. I’d asked for this special request just that afternoon, probably minutes before they were going to begin setting up. Add to the stress the logistical headache of finding space enough for the umpteen authors who’d agreed to show up for the party, as well as organizing an area for everyone to get their anthologies signed by each contributor, and you could say it was poor timing on my part.

Unfortunately, some people are just too nice to insult strangers

Rather than leave and call it a mild success, I hung around for the awkward speeches and eventual signing. I fell victim to the excitement of finally meeting Mrs. Oates, to get the chance to somehow thank her for even considering my insult request, for drawing my hearts, and then also apologize for the audacity of asking for an insult a second time. Looking back, it was unlikely I could pull this off, given the most quiet of settings.

The room hummed with liquor-amplified chatter, climbing towards a din as conversations fought for limited auditory resources. Signature-seekers jostled in the space between authors and tables. Finding where Mrs. Oates’s signing line began and ended was a challenge in and of itself.

When you’re pumping out two novels, memoirs, or books of short stories every year, it’s understandable, denying inscription requests. Even if your face happened to be featured in a certain imaginary Mount Rushmore, and that same devoted fan who chiseled your likeness into an imaginary granite cliff was the same fan who just dropped $200 he (really) shouldn’t have spent on a 1st edition of your first novel in the hopes that, upon discovering that this reader asked you to dedicate the book “To Bill” rather than the vastly more valuable-in-the-resell-market signature sans dedication, you’d break down and agree just this once to unleash your fearsome wordsmithing power on an insult. With each step forward, however, just how unlikely this hope-against-hope was became increasingly clear.

Sitting at the end of a long folding table across from what looked like a silent movie-era snake-oil salesman chattering at full-blast, Oates looked exhausted. From what I heard, Mrs. Oates had been talked into editing this first volume of what the publisher hoped would be a long series of anthologies set in various American states. This, the first, was titled New Jersey Noir, set in the Garden State.

If crafting a single insult for a fan took away a minute or two from her own stories, what would it cost to be the star editor of an entire anthology? Her moist eyes and thin smile made me regret anew having bugged her; I understood the employees’ reluctance to drop iota-of-bullshit-number-one on her plate. Joyce Carol Oates looked as if she’d had more than her fill that day.

But the line pushed forward as lines do, and there I was. No book for her to sign, no script to recite in hope of an insult. I was face to face with another favorite author with nothing to offer but a thank you.

I bent over, tried to explain who I was and what she’d done for me. I apologized for asking her for an insult, hoped she knew it was in good fun. Either the room was too loud my bookstore buddy wisely decided to skip asking her for an insult; Mrs. Oates didn’t seem to know who or what I was on about. I tried again, thanked her for the hearts she drew on all of my books. She smiled at me. “Of course,” she said.

She gave me *a* heart...

As I straightened up, saying one last thank you, a suited man across from Mrs. Oates said, loud enough to be understood in the din, “Don’t you just LOVE these events?”

Hmm. Snarky dig on me? Apology to Mrs. Oates for what, to him, must have been the nonsensical ramblings of an idiot fan who, by virtue of purchasing a book, the bookstore couldn’t prevent from annoying the talent? Possibly I misunderstood an honest if oddly modulated pronunciation of his love for boisterous readings and loud parties. I couldn’t be sure. Nor could I know truly if Mrs. Oates was really as fed up with the day as it seemed.

Anyway, my humiliation alarms rang klaxon panic down as my brain furiously pounded on the “Flight” button. I beat a path to the crisp apple outside, skipping the chance to meet a bevy of new authors.

Thus, the hunt for one of the world’s most gritty, substantial, and honored insulters must sadly end. While I’ll never give up hope that Mrs. Oates might somehow stumble over this blog and, of her own accord, offer up a scathing blast to make real the first head of my Mount Rushmore of insults, active solicitations must come to an end.

Tonight, however, a heart-shaped insult hangs proudly in the hall of insults, placeholder for what would undoubtedly be amongst the most thrilling and precise derision a man can receive. Wherever you are, Mrs. Oates, your words are an inspiration, your prodigious output is a rebuke to we, the lazy and cynical. Someday I’ll make it big enough to the point that I could explain why your hating me, if only for a sentence or two, might make this whole thing worthwhile.

According to Harbach, my soul, composed of douchiness and tardiness, is both clean as a summer's eve and very often late

The night of Chad Harbach’s reading was to become for me a bizarre, painful evening, an evening whose anthropomorphic traits I, post-disaster, characterized with mildly self-flagellating images, such as nervous nose picking, mumbling, and shame. Oh, reliable old Shame! How the echoes of your approaching footfalls quicken my heart, send rivulets of battery acid to the welcoming lengths of my armpit hair, and call to standing attention on the base of my tongue the ghost of coffees past. It was an evening to remember for its inability to be forgotten.

Though anxiety and second thoughts were familiar feelings prior to asking strangers for insults, dark premonitions were not. For no particular reason I could see, I was suffering from the acute desire to skip the Q train to McNally Jackson and instead ride the L to domestic safety. But I’d humped the bricklike Art of Fielding up and down subway pee-ways and through the grimace of what was then my full-time job, so: dark thoughts circling my head or not, I set out to ask Mr. Harbach to look into my soul and laugh.

Harbach’s work on n+1 suggested he’d be happy to oblige. Happy insulters make for easy, rewarding nights. Add to that the apparent evidence that he was a fellow lover of America’s slowest, most unabashedly boringest game, and I just had to go. The Art of Fielding was a BASEBALL book, and how often can we self-identifying literati hold our heads up proudly in our favorite Brooklyn coffee shops with sports genre type books in our laps? It seemed that Harbach pulled a Chabon – genre subject, literary pedigree.

Besides all that, TAoF is a pretty damn good literary fiction novel that happens to also be about baseball. During the discussion, Harbach admitted to limiting the baseball-centric sections to keep the population pie-slice of baseball haters from throwing the novel towards the nearest trash heap. Notwithstanding the segments of Fielding that follow the female love interest in her quest to further embody a stale idealization of what a “perfect” woman might be for a pair of intelligent male protagonists, it was every bit the enjoyable, well-written first novel that probably confirmed Harbach’s rightful place in your local bookstore.

Downstairs at McNally Jackson was stuffed with my fellow baseball lovers. Despite the turnout, Chad appeared mellow and sustainably happy, thumbs hooked over trouser pockets, riding what looked to be a mellow high of reading his novel in front of friends and well wishers. His former university buddy, Keith Gessen, author of “The Sad Young Literary Men” (which we should all read again because it’s damn good), was there to push the reading in front of the discussion bus.

Both authors performed well, shared the stage, and made fine, inspiring shoptalk. To any prospective authors, Gessen jokingly recommended, “really, if you’re going to write a first novel, make it a short one.” At that, I handled Harbach’s novel and praised myself for getting the joke. The discussion wrapped up with a handful of the usual varying quality of questions from the audience.

The turnout being what it was, I’d been forced to watch from across the room, behind the signing desk – a position that, while less than ideal for the reading, was perfect for ensuring a great spot in the book signing line. In fact, after the wrap-up speech from the McNally Jackson employee, I found myself first in line. I regretted this instantly.

First in line at an average reading is a precarious spot for the insult prospector. First in line with the masses pressing at my back, attempting to either push through to escape the McNally Jackson scrum or find the beginnings of the chaotic line forming in the chaos behind me, seemed less than ideal. With the energy in the room swinging towards the baseline frustration found on most rush-hour subway platforms and morningtime bagel joints, I considered bailing.

But why? I asked. First in line! I’ll be done in a few minutes. What’s the worst that could happen?

Meanwhile, the show ground on, Chad saying hello to friends and colleagues, receiving congratulations, slowly parting the crowd. A path opened up to the table, minimal important-looking suits to slow his progress – I had one last moment to escape what was coming, but balked. Chad scootched behind the table, nodded at the forming line, probably took an inward sigh, and we began.

Or rather, so I tried to begin. My usual introduction: hello, thanks so much, enjoyed the talk, I’m me, insults, websites, etc.

It was at this point that the co-star of my private snuff flick, my pint-sized Judas, a plumpish, curly-locked 20-something whose reek of desperation dwarfed and overpowered my own, shouted from my left shoulder:

“Oh my God! I was just going to ask him the same thing! OH MY GOD! That’s what I was going to do, ask him to insult me!”

The room went dark. Every horrible thing I’d ever seen and somehow also everything awful I’d never seen rushed in, car wrecks and body parts, mothers smothering their babies, wild stallions set aflame rushing towards what relief might be found in a river of blood, unemployment and unknown 800-numbers calling my cell phone and a lockstep procession of filial failure as far as the eye could see. I froze.

What was this? Some copycat insult-seeker? A Harbach fan looking for a way to spark a conversation? Had Harbach or his publisher hired someone to run interference on the presumptuous asking for stupid or elaborate inscriptions?

By the time I snapped back, Chad was pushing towards me a signed book. More panic. I’d only begun my spiel before the interruption; he had no idea what I was on about. Quickly, then: authors. Insults. Collections.

“I’m game for insulting people,” said Chad. Did he look confused? Impatient? It was running too long. He’d already signed the damn book, what more did I want?

I meant in the inscription.

Blank look.

I’m sorry, I meant: would you insult me in the inscription?

Meanwhile, my hateful little replicant was proclaiming his prior intent to ask Chad for the EXACT SAME THING. “Isn’t that such a coincidence?”

Chad jotted an insult, maybe I thanked him. In a daze, in the clutches of the lattermost option of a fight or flight reaction, I flinched from the touch of an older gentleman. Apparently I backed away from the table. What was it I’d wanted from the author? the gentleman wanted to know. Something about insults?

I pointed to my doppleganger. That’s what I wanted, the temerity behind whatever machinations were powering that bastard and the mindset not to care about what the crowd thought. Whatever game the facsimile insult-grabber was playing at, he was playing it balls out, loud, full-throttle. He was all-in.

Whatever his reason really was for asking Chad Harbach for an insult, this transaction was enough to demand an immediate audit of my own intentions and behavior. Whoever my double was, curly, fleshy, short but loud — I hated him for being so… close to me. Was this how I looked to people? To the authors? The question chased me away from bookstores for a few months, drove me to a hide.

In the blog’s infancy, it was enough that I got to meet, however briefly, men and women who represented my own best-case, life-affirming scenario: writing words that a sizable audience would pony up $26.95 to read. In the beginning, it was enough that I was first to publish my idea for others to see. But being the first hombre to stick my flag in the dirt doesn’t mean I’m the only conquistador to land on this brave, new idea, or that there isn’t a nearby wigwam full of inscription-seekers living with little concern for intellectual property. So, then: stripping all that away, why?

Best answer I’ve come up with? I enjoy the suspense and mystery behind the decision whether or not to insult, love meeting talented and intelligent and maybe famous folk. If I’m not the first or best to play with this idea, I still get to imagine for a moment that these guys are my friends and colleagues, and these insults are written out of love and respect. So, to my double, whoever was behind me in line, all the luck. I think we’re playing whatever game this is for the right reasons.

Brevity is the soul of wit

In theory, well-adjusted people should be glad when friends succeed. What kind of shotgun bro wouldn’t happily cheers tallboys of Natty Light with his wheelman after pulling an awesome donut in the Wal-Mart parking lot? What golfer wouldn’t share an atta-boy high-five with a pal who just knocked in a 15-footer for birdie?

It’s when those accomplishments stack up, however, when your bro pulls the donut in front of some admiring girls (driving his brand new Ferrari) or your pal birdied his fifth hole in a row to beat you by 16 strokes (in front of some admiring girls, in front of his new Ferrari), that the sweet taste of joy curdles into a lumpy reminder of your own shortcomings. We, or maybe just I, celebrate another’s accomplishments insofar as it approaches, paces, or laps my own.

Lately, it’s been difficult to fete my fellow humans in their triumphs, from the latest Powerball millionaire to the lucky chump who found a five-dollar bill in his old coat. Thus, I grudgingly celebrate receiving the first insult written by a friend. Meet Mark Svartz, author of I Hate You, Kelly Donahue.

Like many humorists, Mark manages to see the ghost of levity in an otherwise ordinary situation, a Cole Sear trapped in a room full of darkly funny observations that only he can see. Mark’s the type of friend who says what you were about to say, except a bit funnier, a tidge more accurately, and oceans more lucidly. For this reason, time spent with Mark can be as frustrating as it is hilarious.

Which is a fine segue to and facile description of his first book, I Hate You, Kelly Donahue. I laugh, but there’s a twist of jealousy with each turn of the page. Not only because I’m in a constant race against everyone I know to be the best at everything I enjoy, but because once again Mark was funnier than me. Doesn’t matter that he never considered me a rival; he’s part of the competition. The envy is there because I’m again black-eyed and canvassed, beat to a punch the other guy didn’t even know he threw.

It’s a damn good punch. I Hate You is something very different in form but very familiar in concept: a diary of impotent, furious, almost arbitrary hate, written in Mark’s own scrawl, complete with creepy mementos fished from the target’s garbage and wary emails BCC’d to HR heads. Imagine if Kevin Spacey from Seven had a baby with Dan Savage, and to that baby add the coworker who haunts the thermostat and sends nasty emails over unmade coffee pots, and you’ve got something close to I Hate You’s narrator. It’s the story of one man’s pure distaste for an attractive coworker. Let the first office worker who has never obsessed over and stared laser beams of hatred at the annoying bimbo in Accounts Receivable throw the first sexual harassment lawsuit.

Ultimately, clutch as I might, I can’t hold onto the jealousy. Mark is a slippery-nice guy who just happens to be a half-second faster to the joke, a satisfying career’s worth of approval brighter in his parents’ eyes, and a single published book ahead of me in the race. As much as I’d love to write something like I Hate You, Mark Svartz, it’s impossible. Not only because he’s probably already writing that book, but that he seems as excited about being published as I imagine I would. Just a few days ago, he admitted to hanging around the humor section in a Barnes & Noble until someone picked up his book.

Unfortunately, however, she put Mark’s book back on the shelf. She must be waiting for mine to come out.

Until then, if you’d like to buy his book or just write a nasty review you can find Mark’s book on Amazon.

Sneaky, Adam. Very sneaky

Adam Ross has a bit of Mel Brooks in him (but which part? Ba-dum-pssh!). Shining eyes that look small, set underneath a gentle curling dollop of sandy blonde hair. His almost cocky smile says he’s thinking of a joke I’d probably not get, and he’s probably right. Read his books, however, and you start to imagine a David Lynch or John Carpenter. Maybe that makes sense, describing an author by way of pop culture filmmakers: humor and psychological horror, with a dash of humanity.

The author of Mr. Peanut and now Ladies & Gentlemen is no stranger to dark humor. Peanut is confounding and at times brilliant, a grim (or any of the other “dismal” synonyms various reviewers have used, like “bleak,” “dark,” or “ominous“) and often fucked-up-funny portrayal of love, marriage, and ownership set within a detective novel’s framework set within another detective novel’s framework. Or something like that. I finished Peanut thinking I’d “figured it out,” but further examination and discussion revealed that the story’s plot twists and multiple characters and even the way Ross played with the very tropes and language of murder mystery novels were often beyond my understanding. “Frustrating, but I’m probably not quick enough… very worthwhile!” would be my blurb. Plus, Adam wrote a hell of a book and was one of my first insults, back in the day, so I’m looking forward to dissecting a more manageable frog in short story form.

The evening of the reading was fairly typical of July; Bookcourt’s prodigious air conditioners had an old woman pawing through her bag for a sweater or shawl. By the time I’d arrived, the usual beer and wine had been exhausted, despite the summer turnout. Something about New York at melting point scares away crowds, even to readings with wattage like Ross’s. No bother, more seats for we stalwart and sweaty.

Ross read a selection of “Middleman,” one of seven new short stories from his new collection. Our’s was the first reading for whom he’d read that particular selection, which maybe explained the whiff of discomfort in the opening minutes. The same woman who’d put on a sweater and had glared at my use of “fuck” in conversation (and subsequently re-seated herself further away from me and my friends) was happy in the glowing presence of Ross. If she had a problem with Ross’s language or subject material, she hid it well underneath her laughter.

But then again, I was no famous author. Ross was every bit the charming pensmith, a subtle performer at the lectern feeding off the audience’s laughter. He kept up a furious pace, a sustained burst of words that rushed out tripping over themselves yet still intelligible, speed only increasing as the crowd laughed. His face reddened with strain or stress. Alternating between an aggressive two-handed lean over the lectern and hiding a hand behind his cocked hip, he played a fierce Wild West gunfighter twitching to draw further howls from the crowd. His face turned a few shades redder, and then it was over. Ross smiled and humbly looked at Bookcourt’s “Travel” section as the crowd clapped. “I didn’t get to read my favorite part,” he said.

As a performer, Ross’s audience shouldn’t be surprised when he uses prepared lines to answer questions. In fact, I’d be surprised if the majority of authors don’t set out to prepare answers for the average Q&A session. Nonetheless, an audience question asking about his experience writing Mr. Peanut had Ross talking about how he’d known the “first line” and ending of the book, and the rest — everything in between — was about “connecting the alpha and omega.” Ross used similar language in his interview with the SF Gate.com:

“I usually have a very clear idea of, often, last lines. However, it’s always the middle – it’s connecting alpha to omega that’s the trick.”

and AL.com:

“And I also had a strong idea of how ‘Mr. Peanut’ would end. It was the middle that was difficult. Short stories are a scaled-down version of that process. I usually start with an image that truly inspires me, and I have a pretty good idea of the ending. But connecting point alpha and point omega is always the challenge.”

I’d be interested to know how often authors stick with memorized, quotable lines to typical Q&A questions. The alpha/omega line had a number of us in the crowd scratching furiously. How many times can you answer the same question over and over before you fall back on a successful rote line? I’ve well established my dislike of the average Q&A session on this blog, so kudos to the authors who put up with them.

Then again, Q&A sessions can prompt some interesting answers, regardless of whether they’re off-the-cuff or memorized. A question about the lessons Ross’d learned from writing short stories vs. writing long-form fiction (Ross wrote the majority of Ladies & Gentlemen while taking breaks from writing Mr. Peanut) had Ross talking about the “proof of the existence of the unconscious,” or depths of meaning that carve themselves into stories without the author’s explicit intent. His example came from his mother, who’d just finished reading a portion of Peanut. Peppin, the lead character of the novel, is an amalgam of “Epi-Pen” (minus the extra E, of course). Brilliant, she said. Yet it happened by accident. Authors are “empty vessels” for the stories that flow underneath, says Ross. The editing process is going through and identifying these depths, making conscious these unconscious decisions.

In the end, Ross was gracious and claimed to remember writing one of the first ever insults to appear on IbA. He was watchful, maybe wary, but promised he’d stopped by the blog. I can’t recall if he’d said he’d enjoyed it. Ah well. I’ll pretend he did until I’m told otherwise.

The rest of the evening was spent being awkward and fidgety around powerful publishing women. Ah, the joys of feeling small and stinky in shorts and sweaty t-shirt alongside the preternaturally cool publishing powerhouses. It’s good to be back.

I'd like a hug from Sam Lipsyte some day

I’m trumping my laziness and ignoring my backlog of insults. I met Sam Lipsyte at McNally Jackson last night.

He stared me down. He blankfaced me like I’d picked the dumbest fucking idea in the world out from between my teeth and flicked it on his lapels. And what was I even doing here, coughing out some stumbledrunk idea about insults. Plus, I had bad breath. Shit breath. Gargling turds and talking nonsense, why didn’t I just go home? Why didn’t I go to yoga instead? In the 20 seconds it took to mumble my usual introduction with decreasing volume and enthusiasm, I’d decided to run away on the opening lip-twitch of rejection like some frightened base runner going on the pitcher’s first twitch.

It wasn’t the reaction I’d expected, the blank look. It was theretofore inconceivable that Sam Lipsyte would be the type to spurn my insult. His books are the off-beat, dark kind of funny that’s right in my wheelhouse. This is the guy I’d loved like a literary Happy Meal during my toddler days of seeing myself as a capital-W Writer. Home Land was the book to pass along to friends I’d made in English and creative writing classes to prove my literary hipness. It proved I was the type of reader/Writer who of course read the classics and requisites fed to me but also found good books by looking. I sensed that his prose reflected back on me; by being the one to “find” his book — and it is a damn good book — it was somehow an affirmation of my taste, and by association, my skill as a writer. I got more traction in the undergrad literary scene out of Home Land, Hanif Kureshi’s Buddha of Suburbia, and my fake understanding of Barthelme than I had any right to.

That friend who glows with smug happiness when he plays that album you’ve never heard of but immediately love? That was me with Sam Lipsyte and Home Land, twirlin’ my litdick like a pocketwatch from a Luis Valdez play.

Actually, I'm very afraid. Luckily, I've not yet soiled myself

There was more to it than just growing out my social ego, though. Every time a buddy handed back Home Land with a grin, I shared in that vicious, vicarious literature boner. I’d relive my love of the book and as often as not, reread it. It was a book I desperately wanted to read before I knew it’d been written. I’d never had the 15-year-old’s Catcher in the Rye experience. I’d instead at that time privately nerdgasmed over Steinbeck and Hemmingway, and to a lesser extent, William Wharton and Irving Shaw. Maybe Home Land was my Catcher. I don’t know. I never had the foresight to talk about these sorts of things with my therapists.

When Sam met my eye, when he didn’t smile or seem surprised or “tickled” or even exasperated, I assumed the worst and was instantly, horribly crushed. Another literary luminary down the drain. Or rather: that was me receding, diminished in the eyes of someone from whom I hadn’t realized I’d needed approval. Crying my Alice tears, shrinking until I drown in my own saltiness. The scene had the potential to be some psychic catastrophe.

So I finally stopped jabbering. Bead of sweat, blood pressure, held breath. He didn’t speak; instead, he began to write. I stood quietly, stifling a little tremble of stress. He bent over the table, looking closely at his pen, the words as they appeared on the title page. When he finished with the first book, I touched my forehead with the sleeve of my tee and stammered about only needing the one insult and if he’d just address the rest “to Bill.” He looked up briefly from reaching for the second book and continued on writing. He wrote out four separate inscriptions, despite the 40 or so people waiting in line behind me.

When he was done, I gathered up the pile and began thanking him. Still he sat quietly, watching me with the same look he wore while Geoff was reading, situated somewhere between neutral and a hint of a smile. Like he’s seeing things that you shouldn’t be missing. Or maybe he thought I was about as amusing as Geoff Dyer’s story. I was wrapping up the thanks, when finally: Sam spoke. He told me that he’d been to my blog. Sam Lipsyte told me that he’d been to my blog, and that it was “very funny.”

Already have.

I was at first more relieved that he spoke. Then, more happy that he didn’t reject me. It took a couple beats before I got it: a guy whose writing I unabashedly love and proselytize said he liked my… idea? Writing? I wish I’d had the balls to stick around and maybe chat him up, but I’d sort of floated away with the same clouded happiness I walked away from Karen Russell’s insult. Perhaps I don’t want to push my luck and find out more. Maybe Karen Russell was serious about knowing other writers who’d read my blog. Maybe some of these people who I idolize actually enjoy my writing? Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Again and again, I’m amazed at the knowledge, skill, and wit with which so many of these authors speak, like it’s second nature to be so damn right about something — anything — all the time. But I also love sharing in some secret pleasure of not the lowest common denominator, because so many of these insults have been high-brow zings, but maybe in the foolish but earnest pursuit. I (and maybe some other readers) want so badly to experience the genius behind my favorite books, and to see it in a way I can comprehend. And beyond the “genius,” the everyday life of not only being a professional writer, but writing what you want to write for a living. When someone like Sam Lipsyte seems to enjoy the idea, it’s like God’s golden stamp of approval descends from the clouds. That maybe I can.

The point is that Sam Lipsyte justified his place as a star in my clichéd sky yet somehow made himself more approachable. It’s like, why not me? You know?

Thanks again to McNally Jackson for making this discussion happen.

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Again, this could be an amazing troll insult -- he might think I'm an asshole. It's the danger of asking for insults -- what do you do when someone writes something nice?

I'm particularly in love with my Denis Johnson collection, though I'm still missing Jesus' Son -- if anyone wants to sell me a copy... I FOUND A COPY!

I’m guessing that Thoreau’d sneer at me, but I take great comfort in being surrounded with the beautiful things I own. I figure most people collect something — DVDs, jewelry from ex-husbands, grudges. My love is 1st edition and signed books.

This past weekend, our household of hissing cats and beautiful women made the move from Manhattan to Brooklyn. The charm of living on the sixth floor of a six-story walk-up, with its rats, cockroaches, and garbage being stored indoors under the only staircase until the zero-hour of garbage day, had worn off after three years. We’ll miss the local color: the 2nd-story prostitute who cycled through Johns quickly and loudly enough to attract the attention and ire of her octogenarian neighbor, who called the cops when she heard through the building’s notoriously thin walls a John mouthing off about a gun; the two local “troubled kids” high schools, one of whose gangs I witnessed beat a kid with a hunk of 2X4 outside of the local McDonald’s, and who supposedly died from falling off the curb, busting his head open on the asphalt and bleed onto his screaming friend’s coat; the cute, middle-aged gay couple down the street who always let me take pictures of their corgi pups to save for later when I needed a boost of cute. There was no shortage of interesting people and great food.

Now we live in a modern apartment with neighbors whose parents pay the rent. They go to law school, play techno music that shakes the floor until three in the morning, and don’t wipe down the exercise equipment after use. A privileged bunch.

We in apartment 4J are still in the honeymoon phase, where the piles of empty cardboard boxes are more a happy reminder that the stress of the move has been weathered rather than a recycling task postponed. Even the cats’ constant hissing and fighting is mildly humorous. For now.

The extra space, however, is something that’ll never get old. My book collection was overwhelming our thin apartment, spilling over onto the floor, under the bed, into the sock drawer.

As you can see, we still need more shelves

We have another load of Ikea shelves on the way, so the rest of my excellent books (and most of my regular books) should find a place on a shelf by early next week. Maybe it’s the OCD in me, but I feel more at peace when everything has its own home. Especially the nice things like my Carver Cathedrals 1st edition.

If you have a book collection to share, I’d love to put it up here in a gallery of fellow book collectors’ shelves sort of thing. It’s almost like snooping around a stranger’s house for me: a rare treat that sends a shiver up my spine. Send a picture of your shelves to bill at insultedbyauthors and I’ll add whatever you’d like in the caption.

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Friends’ Book Collections!

Our first book collection comes from “Win” M. from John’s Hopkins School of Kicking Ass and Sending Me Emails. Win writes:

Thought I’d share my collection. No fancy editions. I like my books new so that i can take notes in them and make them my own. My primary categories are Fiction, Philosophy, Politics, Economics, Foreign Policy, History and graphic novels. I have a strong preference for modernists and ‘canonical’ works, much to the ire of everyone else in the English department back in undergrad.

Win's first bookshelf features The Sandman comic series (I love!), some George Saunders, and a mixture of contemporary and classic literature and poetry -- Win is a renaissance man-reader

Here's a close-up of the right side

And a close-up of the center.

Win’s next bookshelf looks to be filled with text books, non-fiction, and texts on war, sociology, and lots of other stuff that I probably should be reading.

Win's second bookshelf

A close-up on the top

And, a close-up on the bottom

Thanks for writing, Win! Your bookshelves honor us. SALUTE!

Our next book shelf comes from Jose G., who appears to be studying Chinese culture and poetry. Maybe Chinese poetry?

Looks like a pretty edition of Cold Mountain at the top

Thanks, Jose.

Next is Alexandra H.’s collection, with a pretty cascading style, excellent tchotchkes (no bookshelf looks truly lived-in without them), and a cool old camera. I think we could play “I SPY” all day with her collection. Well played, Alexandra!

I spy... Middlesex!

I grew up in the Pacific Northwest. I miss seeing pine cones at all, let alone cones the size of a baby’s head like the one on Alexanda’s shelf.

Is that Maggie Pouncey's Perfect Reader near the camera?

Thanks, Alexandra.

I was wearing a T-shirt that read, Kentucky: Not Just Fried Chicken

This write-up was another post that I’ve struggled to release. I wanted to write something interesting and preferably humorous about the evening because Gary Shteyngart and his novel, Super Sad True Love Story, are intelligent and funny. I found myself unable to create a coherent message about what I was reading, what I witnessed and felt, and how that interacts with who I was and what I was doing. Some sort of blockage was happening, as paralyzing as it was frightening.

I’m going to probably stray into maudlin territory. I apologize; this was the only way I could get something out.

My girlfriend, and sometimes co-writer, goes out of her way to share the things I enjoy: literature, readings, insults, corgis. She is my conspirator in many of these signings, sitting next to me in hard plastic seats, chatting and offering a little shove of encouragement to wait in line for an insult. She’s the extra motivation I often need to even board the train out to Brooklyn after a 9-6 day of wageslaving.

On what was an otherwise amazing evening, with Shteyngart sounding easy and relaxed, entertaining his Brooklyn neighbors, I’ll remember Gary Shteyngart’s reading as the first time I fucked up bad enough to make my best friend cry.

They were quiet, frustrated tears. Probably embarrassed, weeping in a crowd — though weeping is too strong a word. There was no keening on knees, no dramatic explosion. Just tears. The evening’s lesson was: selfishness — it’s for the birds.

Shteyngart’s Super Sad True is similarly about time, greed, and love. It’s also about ownership, consumption, and the danger in need vs want.

The story splits time between two narrations. Their combined testimony keeps a 4/4 beat for a dueling banjoes narrative structure: Lenny’s diary, Eunice’s emails, kertwang kertwang kerplang. We eventually discover that the diary framework is part of the book’s plot, though it feels tacked-on.

Eunice’s “GlobalTeens” email log is particularly important in terms of balance, but also annoying in a “young, selfish woman finding out there’s more to life than spending her parents’ money” sort of way. Without it, her character would’ve papered out, flimsy and flat, an Asian-American object of Lenny’s desire, a metaphor for a society that emphasizes youth and consumption, a foil for a protagonist who simultaneously rejects and embraces those same ideals.

The book’s dystopian tomorrow is filled with multiple corporate conglomerations like “LandO’LakesGMFordCredit” and “ColgatePalmoliveYum!BrandViacomCredit,” as well as acronyms like NORC (Naturally Occurring Retirement Center) and HNWI (High Net Worth Individual). Add the hat reek of trying too hard. The cheeky setting never reaches the creepy humor nor the unsettling realism of a George Saunders dystopia. On the other hand, maybe Saunders’ bite-sized dystopias are easier to swallow than a novel-length feast. Whatever the case, Shteyngart’s Super Sad True never reaches the joy of Russian Debutante.

Shteyngart writes angst and “other”ness with a strength and familiarity that strikes through the vulnerability of his characters. His prose seldom strays into sentimentality, perhaps he doesn’t love his characters as much as he loves finding the truth in his stories. He reads with a controlled humor, obviously practiced and familiar with the lines.

You might guess he’s similarly accustomed to the major themes he often revisits in his novels: hidden anger, desperate need and resentment for being needed, “other”ness and a certain kind of comfort that comes from that estrangement, palpable frustration from being different and wanting to fit in. It’s something that I identify with, especially the weird balance of love/ownership, freedom/jealousy that he so often works with.

Despite the differences in setting and character, however, Shteyngart’s protagonists have a tendency to lose their definition in my mind, the ghost of books past melding and blending with the current narrative. There’s a jolt when Lenny is described as having a slight, pigeon-chested frame rather than the luxurious bulbousity of Absurdistan’s Misha Vainberg. They’re both from some conglomeration of Semitic self-loathing, intelligence, awkwardness, mama’s boyishness, with a tinge of an immigrant’s hope-against-hope pluck. Shteyngart is undoubtedly one of our best young literary hopes. I’d just like to see something completely different from him, because he’s a damn good author.

The best writers help us see our blindspots. Though I won’t go so far as damn myself and claim my selfishness runs as deep as Eunice Park’s, the truth is that my SO’s tears came from me inherently valuing my time more than hers, something I’ve either ignored or forgotten to address from previous relationships’ lessons. Shteyngart reading from Super Sad True Love Story was a fitting accompaniment to a moment of transcendent self-realization: I’m not as good a person as I’d like to believe, but knowing it helps hold me to the standard.

Plus, Shteyngart gives good insult.

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