Letter

Back when I wrote book reviews for the Chicago Tribune, every now and again my efforts were unappreciated and rejected. Without exception this happened with negative reviews. It always made me wonder which side of the journalistic/promotional fence my editor had more allegiance to.

This was six or seven (nine?) years ago. The book-review landscape was in decline, but not the bleak tundra it is today. Maybe that editor——who has since been let go as have most employees of that publication, when it was sold to whatever hedge-fund/junk peddler/bottom-feeder runs it now——knew that the way things were going, our job was just to fluff out publishers’ press releases and be happy to cash our checks.

I’m dumb that way. When I review a book, I read the whole damn thing and try to convey what it did for me, imagine what some other reader could get from it. I don’t care about pull-quotes or making sure my review’s publication coincides with the book’s release date. I’m not paid by publicists or authors, so I don’t do their bidding. But, like I said, I’m dumb and don’t know how to play the game.

Anyways, what prompted this brilliant think-piece is that I was cleaning out a folder of old writing and happened upon the killed review of Testing the Current. I don’t recall the precise reasoning my dearly departed editor gave for not running it, but it had something to with not seeing the point of publishing a negative review of a New York Review of Books reissue. I guess since that respected entity deemed the book a lost classic, we had no right to disagree. Maybe they sent her a free tote bag and she felt guilty not reciprocating graciously. Who knows?

Maybe with the dearth of outlets willing to even give lip service to books, the time of the enthusiastic pan has passed. Does this mean we only mention art we endorse now? Trust me, no corporation in their right mind would want me as their brand ambassador or junior shill.

Perhaps my work here is done.

Ten years ago, when my first book came out, it felt like there was a little momentum to my writing career. Perhaps it was smoke and mirrors——a side-effect of the efforts of the publicity department at University of Chicago Press——but for a short interval, I bought into the idea making books could be a legitimate chunk of how I’d pay my bills.

I knew nothing about the publishing industry then. My adventures mucking about the outskirts of that sphere have disabused me of any pipe-dream delusions about my prospects. My book career has gone bass-ackwords; I started as close to the top as I’d ever hope to be and have been hobbling and stumbling down down down ever since. The reasons for this are manifold. Lousy timing, my inability to play well with others, rapid technological advances, shortening attention spans, creeping illiteracy, bad actors, you name it. It’s been a bumpy ride.

Back in the hopeful early times, I was part of a new authors event at the Union League Club. It served as the launch of that year’s Printers Row Lit Fest. Gillian Flynn was one of the other new writers in that fancy hall. I hear she’s done alright for herself. I don’t know what I dreamed I’d be doing ten years later, but doubt it was paying for half a table in the Small Press tent at that same fair to sell books I wrote, designed, illustrated, and published on my own. I didn’t have a crystal ball then, just as I don’t have one now, but there’s no way I’d have predicted the utter collapse of all infrastructure to support what I do.

I know there’s still a publishing industry and it pumps out more titles than any other time in human history, but it feels totally divorced and untethered from many of the writers I know. We’re wandering an apocalyptic wilderness. Gleaning usable scraps amidst the ruins of a once-mighty edifice. It’s slim pickings for all concerned.

In the ten years that have passed, the only thing I’ve done as part of Printers Row was to stand and sign books a couple hours one time. No panels, no talks, no invites to participate in any way. Maybe I didn’t go to the right parties or make nice with people that mattered. I’ve never had good political instincts. It’s hurt me a million times over.

And yet, this year I felt an alien urge to be part of it again. Maybe it’s the plague or perhaps I’m just old and beaten down, but I wanted to swim with the current a couple minutes. I’d missed the registration for vendors. Hell, I didn’t even know when it was open. So I asked a couple acquaintances I knew would be part of it, if they could spare a few square feet of table. Jason wrote back someone had just canceled, so half a table was available.

I emailed every Chicagoan in my address book to invite them to come by, then set about making bookmarks. I write this the day before the fair. I don’t know how it’ll go. But I’m excited about it for some reason. Come Monday, I’ll likely be bitter about the whole thing, but I’ll try to remember this baffling hopefulness to keep the bitterness in check.

I ask Sam if he’s free Thursday and he says anytime after 4pm, when he gets off work. I price rental cars, but they’re through the roof these days. Zipcar turns out to be cheaper. Never took one for longer than three hours, nor left the city, much less the state in one before, but what the hell? I think back to when I drove my leased Yellow Cab all the way to Columbus just to see a band.

Off the interstate in Michigan an hour after leaving Chicago. I text Sam I’m close. He asks if I’m hungry. I say sure. I drive into his town and squint for the street number. There’s a garage/carwash where the house is supposed to be. I loop back around and get some suspicious looks from a couple guys not working on the cars. I call Sam and tell him I don’t see his place. He explains I have to keep going to the north side of town. Who knew a one-horse town would require north and south sides?

He’s standing by a truck in the parking lot. I get out and we shake hands. We’ve never met before. He says to hop in the passenger’s seat. We make a couple turns and pull into a grocery store lot. He walks straight to the meat counter and asks for four rib-eyes. The counter man tells him how much it’ll be, tries to talk him out of it, but Sam insists. Then asks if I want water. He gets a bag of charcoal and lighter fluid.

We turn off the road onto a gravel path. He takes it real slow, saying there were huge divots and potholes the last time. We park and carry the meat, paper towels, charcoal, lighter fluid, water, a small grill, and two folding chairs decorated in the stars & stripes down to the river’s edge. A couple fishermen cross paths with us, nod, then keep walking. This is Sam’s grill spot.

He says he never thought much about grilling until a friend gave him this little boxy number with fold-out legs. It looks like it was soldered together in someone’s garage. He says he comes out here all the time now as he stokes the coals. We talk about art and books as the steaks slowly turn from red to brown.

An official-looking SUV with a canoe on a hitch rolls down the boat-launch a few feet from us. The park ranger in the driver’s seat asks Sam a bunch of innocuous questions that Sam answers curtly. I can tell his attitude toward cops is about as good as mine. Satisfied for the moment, the ranger reverses back up the path and disappears.

——Guess I should’ve gotten some plates.

The rib-eyes cool on a piece of tin-foil on the grass. We each unroll a bunch of paper towel. There are no utensils, so we just gnaw at the meat like cave-dwellers, talking some more about the stupid racket we’ve devoted our lives to.

——It’s really good!

He nods agreement. The sun has set and we can barely see one another now. We talk more, but now there are more pauses, gaps. We lapse into silence. Neither of us is a chatterbox and it’s a wonder we kept batting the ball back and forth for as long as we have.

We pack up the gear and get in the truck. Back outside his place, I reach into the Zipcar, grab a book, and give it to Sam. We say goodbye and I drive back to the city.

(“Fakeboi”)