The Great Read

Most writers tend to be narcissistic assholes who tend to wait for their turn to read instead of listening to the live ammunition that is firing out of other writers' mouths.

I say this with all the love that I can muster.

What's worst are the ones that achieve too greatly. The ones that lose sight of what was born inside them as a driving force in order to cope with their depression, addictions, raw childhoods, and what-have-yous. What's left is a money and power struggle that tends to force out bad writing instead. The kind of writing that is used to fill bookshelves and sell copies.

Do not lose touch with why you began creating you art in the first place.

Here's a little anecdote which involves one of these "authors" and myself:
 --
 New York City holds (maybe held is more appropriate at this point) a book fair every year in and around Bryant Park. It's called "The Great Read in the Park" or something to that effect. Anyways, a bunch of famous authors always get booked for this event because it's at the end of the summer, early fall, and that's the time of the year when most books are published and/or released (feel free to fact check that; I think I heard the statistic from a drunk man). So, besides having to deal with NYC pedestrian traffic, you have to deal with these book-loving jack-offs that buy special passes to meet special people and think less of you because, at the time, you happened to be a penniless college freshman who dreams of having a novel of your own published someday. You also have to find the room to squeeze past some huge egos that are radiating from the asses of these successful authors. Most of which do not want to be there meeting you, or the book-loving, special privilege assholes. 

"Excuse me," says the lanky prick in the tweed jacket. "This line is reserved for VIP passes only."

"You mean this isn't the line for the bathroom?" I asked. "Sorry, man. I didn't realize that you don't shit and breathe like the rest of us."

He ignored my statement, of course. As well as the middle finger I held six inches from the back of his head.

I really do love all people.

I went with a good friend of mine to the Great Read in the Park in 2009. He's a real book addict with contacts around the Broadway district. The people at the theater book shops know him by name. He rambles to the city quite often via the Beiber Bus out of Kutztown University (my Alma Mater) and insisted that we go together this particular year to hear one particular author (who will remain nameless) be interviewed, give a reading, and then sign books afterwards. I told him that I would take a break from academia and go with him. My paper on Puritan literature could wait until the last possible second.

We took the bus together to the Port Authority and walked to Bryant Park, I took a moment to observe my surroundings and make mental notes on what was going on in NYC on that particular day (spoiler alert: it's still a cesspool).

Why does everything in New York City smell like pee. Straight up pee. Not strong pee with a hint of asparagus, but old pee. Not pee from an old person, but pee that has been peed out a while ago and the pee puddle has dried, but the smell still remains. Like walking into the room of an old cottage and saying to yourself "golly, it smells like old pee in here." That's what NYC smells like all the time. Does everyone who lives there get a free pass to pee wherever? Is it included with your rent, or can you apply for one at the DMV?

I want a pee pass...

Urination aside, there were also plenty of people to stare at. Homeless people being ignored, men and women dressed to the 9's, and twenty-somethings, like me, who looked like they bought their shitty-looking clothes from the store that day instead of taking the time to not do laundry and break their clothes in the way I've been doing.

When it comes to a toss up between laundry and books, I always go for the literature. Nobody ever wrote a good book about the their laundry routine (note to self, consider writing that book).

We got to the park a little before noon and were immediately sucked into the rushing crowds and arranged bouquets of shiny new hardbacks from the featured authors.The crowds, the noise, the smell of a fresh pompous ass around every booth clothed in forest green vinyl covers. God, it made me anxious.

I'm going to skip ahead to bring us to the piece de resistance.

After spending the day waiting in line to talk to a couple of famous authors (who will also remain nameless), We went into a building next the the park for the "main event."

Upon entering, my friend and I felt a great deal of confusion. There was hardly anybody in the main hall. But, as we moved down one white corridor and rounded a corner, we began to see signs of life. Posters, plants, and people scattered throughout. And they were beginning to pour into a large auditorium. We followed suit. And found our seats in the very front row.

A no-named host introduced himself as the "blah-blah" (God I need coffee) of the "University of Bloopity Bloop's Chair-yada-yada." Then, he introduced the author, who shuffled his scrawny, New-York-Time-Bestselling ass on the stage and waved. He then took his seat and began to answer every question the first jack-off could muster.

When the interview was over, I looked over at my friend. He did not seem impressed. I could tell. His brow was wrinkled and I thought I heard him mumble "horseshit."

After he left the room we were all directed down another white hallway to the book signing area. My friend and I were the first two people in line.

Now, the moment we've all been waiting for...

So there I was. So there he was. An unknown writer. A Times Best-Seller. The only thing dividing us was a velvet rope. But then, the security guard removed the rope, and the face-off began.

"Hello," he said.

"Sup?"

"So, who should I make this out to?"

So, they end sentences in prepositions too..."Ryan."

"Did you enjoy the talk?"

"Meh. It was cool, I guess."

"Well... Glad you thought it was--"

"Lemme ask you somethin'. Is this what it's all about?"

He stopped writing and shot me with a look that demanded an explanation. "Is what what it's all about."

"The best-seller list. The interviews. Good Morning America. All of these people standing in this line behind me. Is this what it's all about?"

He scowled. Sighed. And then retorted. "I love it. I wouldn't have it any other way."

I shook my head and smiled. "Not good enough, boss. I'll keep that in mind when I'm sitting on your side of the table."

That got him. He scribbled a little more. Closed the cover, and slid the book in front of me.

"Well, kid," he said. "I wish you the best of luck."

I took my book. Walking out in the hallway. And waited for my friend.

The bus ride home was longer than expected. I kept thinking about all those writers that struggled and struggled, and then were engulfed in the fires of fame and fortune. And, how some of them could never get back what the hunger gave to them in the beginning. I always dreamed of making a living off of my writing. But only a living.

I didn't go there to pick a fight. I was just a kid who wanted answers.

And shit, man... I got 'em.

Cheers,

~Torres