There's a certain blogger, who lives in Austin, whose writing I love. It's the kind of writing I would aspire to if I even remotely thought I had a modicum of his talent: funny, sincere, intelligent, literate. He is seriously talented, and I admire the hell out of him.
Good writing makes me excited. And I believe in applauding people when they do a good job--especially when there's so much crap writing muddling the internet, because I know I would want the same if I made my living by writing. So it started innocently enough: I wrote him an email about a year ago to tell him that I appreciate his writing, and he responded back. I thrilled a little, I'll admit. Over the next year, I read something of his whenever I could, and sometimes I laughed out loud, sometimes I teared up unexpectedly, and sometimes I would copy parts of it into this journal of quotes I've been keeping since high school. His writing is that good.
And so, inevitably--and because I am stricken with a malady similar to drunk dialing, except I send emails when I am completely sober--I sent another email. Which he responded to. And another. Which he responded to, with a question. It took me an hour to craft my 50-word response.
Keep in mind that the writing is the reason for all of this. I realize how this all sounds, but it's really just me getting caught up in the writing. In the way that I liked to be around people who read and wrote in grad school; same thing here.
I happen to read in his blog that he was planning to be at a certain Austin establishment this morning. And so I decided I would happen to be there as well. I would happen to be reading a book by his favorite author--not the one that everyone reads in high school, but his first one, to show that I know my way around modernist writers. And somehow, we would meet. Completely spontaneously.
I have a record of carefully planned spontaneity when it comes to writers I admire. And that record is: I act a straight-up fool around them. My carefully rehearsed speech to Dave Eggers made me look crazy, and my would-be memorable aside to Jonathon Safran Foer ended with me blurting out my full name and then nearly tripping down the stairs when my heel caught in the cuff of my pants. Because of this, I have put myself on restriction from talking to anyone whose work I admire.
So I decided I had one of two options here: do it but never tell anyone; or, don't do it and write about it instead. Sanity has clearly won the day. Relatively speaking. And it's for the best, really. Because I am 30.
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3 comments:
is this the TVWoP guy? could your loyal readers get a link to said blogger?
also, this is exactly the kind of thing i would do.
additionally, i have a journal of quotes too!
Hilarious.
And I find this 2 days after my own strange, personal confession of Jacobmania. When I met him face to face last year, and stayed over at his place for a few days, he insisted that I sleep in his bed, while he crinkle crankled on his crap couch.
Other than that, though, he was a terrible host, and I ended up cooking and cleaning, out of boredom and personal health concerns, while he clack-clack-clacked away on his pc. Chatting with computer people, which he does so well.
I thought: Hmmmm. He is like a tennis pro, who is very very good at tennis. I will continue to admire him for his tennis!
I think there was a hero/reality clash of matter and antimatter that fried a little corner of my mind. Now I remain obsessed with someone I don't even like or admire much.
30 Love.
I anticipate little progress on this one. Okay, play ball.
I once tried to speak to Stephin Merritt after a Magnetic Fields concert, and one of my two sentences was, "I really like your music." The blank look on his face, 100% appropriate, killed whatever is that ethereal thing between an artist and his audience. It was the beginning of the end for me and MF.
I totally agree: Never meet your heroes. Thankfully, so many of them are dead. Hello, Nathanial West!
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