BIG OTHER

I had to leave the Big Other reading early because I was nervous I was going to pass out. As I await my next surgery (third in ten years) I find myself increasingly feeling more and more self absorbed which I’m supposing is some sort of coping mechanism I haven’t fully come to terms with yet. During this self absorbed period of my short lived life, I’ve been in a talking mood and so I would like to talk about this: Unity and writers in general. When Cooper Renner told me that there was to be an elimae reading, and that I should ask to be included, I emailed around. This was only nearly two years ago and while I had published in New York based journals, I was what one might call “green” to the literary scene here. I emailed Shya Scanlon to ask if I could be included in the reading. Later that week, I was at a party and discussing the upcoming reading with some people and said to Justin Taylor (and you can ask him about this) of Shya Scanlon, “She seems nice.” Justin looked at me and said, “Shya’s a dude.” The cat was out of the bag, I was a total n00b. Then John Madera contacted me to do some writing for his project at the time which was “The Chapbook Review.” I loved that project. I picked Shya’s chapbook because we had the reading going on and because I liked what I saw in the write-up. What I later found was pleasant comeraderie with a writing colleague. Now, according to my research, there seems to be no actual information on who is credited with starting the first Literary Blog, though I’m guessing it dates back to somewhere in the 1990s, though there certainly were internet messageboards in the 1980s and it is possible if not probable that there were literary blogs then too, if not people discussing literature on a black screen green font format. (I can feel myself sounding like an idiot here, I’m sure some NYU Professor talking about technology has the answer.) No-matter the blog you run, belong to, post in, read periodically or religiously, the point here is a dialogue about our craft. Tonight I was blessed with the ability to stumble through a reading of my own work in a room full of incredibly talented peers. Some of which I’ve spoken to via email and blogs for years now, and it is always an honor to be in the presence of people who simply and complicate(dly) put: are Writers. John Madera introduced me by calling me I think, “intelligent,” and that in itself was quite an honor, particularly given our public eye-rolling at one another at all times, which I enjoy greatly and hope continues always. We are strange if not rare birds, and the compulsion to write and then the discipline to follow through with editing, with workshopping, with the craft is a bond no-matter who writes it or how. (I just so happen to be lucky enough to know some great ones, the people in the room tonight, for example.) This is not about a race for acclaim, this is about a love of the word, an inescapable intoxication with language, a questioning. As John was introducing all of us, he said something to the effect of, “I do not care where anyone went to school, I do not care what awards they’ve been given, where they’ve published, I care that they are writing.” (Forgive me for botching that, but it was something like it.) I’m sorry I couldn’t stay to hear everyone. That Lopez, for example, that man has “the word” in him, as far as I’m concerned. He and John are probably playing music and asking literature related trivia as I type this, to a crowd of humanity and respect, and that is a part of why I get so sappy about the writing global community at large. (Despite the fact that my own personal blog seems to have been taken over by “4chan” true story, bummer for me.) Barry and I were listening to John’s album the other night, his singing voice reminds me of the singer from Rusted Root a little, here is the youtube of that. Between blog posts, interviews, reviews and shorts, I published 67 times this past year, and all I can say is thanks for reading, to everybody. I still have absolutely zero idea why you people bother with me, I wouldn’t. Love and Solidarity even if I have to sometimes leave a reading early, I can only say this: It’s not you, you are wonderful. It’s me.