The Real First Event
Inspiration from tonight's event came from a real desire to escape from The SuperBowl. You see, I live in a (rather typical) 100-year-old building in the Village. What this means regarding large, popular sporting events is that I can actually hear everyone in the building watching the game, whether I want to or not. I'm not sure if there is a word for this unintended participation -- is there an equivalent to voyeurism, but via the sense of hearing? Anyway, during the 2009 World Series, I could not get ANYTHING done in my apartment because any time there was a close play or the Yankees scored a run, the building was on fire with noise. So, opting to not have to succumb to the same aural pain for SuperBowl, I thought, What the heck! I'm gonna get out and explore the city!
Initially, I had intended to go to a movie. But upon perusing my latest edition of Time Out NY, I discovered an interesting-sounding book reading in the East Village:
Dani Shapiro + Geoffrey Becker
After her son asked her about God and the afterlife, Shapiro (Slow Motion) attempted to better understand her stance on spirituality. Her search—which led her to a yogi, a rabbi and others—is elegantly recounted in her new book, Devotion. She reads with Becker, whose just-released Hot Springs explores the life (and heartbreak) of an adopted girl through two opposing narratives: that of the mother who gave the child up, and that of and the couple who took her in.
Hmmm... intriguing! I was interested in Shapiro's work because it mentioned spirituality and yoga, and Becker's work caught my attention because of its theme of adoption, something my family knows a fair bit about. And so I ventured out into New York's frigid temperatures to find this unusual venue: KGB Bar.
I arrived at 6:55 and it's a good thing I did. I found myself a seat at the bar -- the last seat at the bar, as it turned out. When I turned around next, every seat in the house was taken and people were even sitting on the floor, waiting for the reading to begin. I instantly liked this edgy venue with its interesting story. It was intimate, cozy, red, velvety, warm, and cultured. And I was happy to share the space with other SuperBowl refugees -- so many that the place was full up. Hurrah! We choose literature over sports! We are educated and a bit pretentious!
Because I am a sucker for cheap drinks, I ordered one, and waited for things to begin. It wasn't long before the friendly middle-aged man to my left turned and asked me, "So, are you a writer?"I have always hated that question. How does one respond? What is a writer, anyway? How do writers define themselves? I must admit that I do consider myself to be a writer, even if I've never received money for my work -- I do, in fact, write every day, and would feel very strange if I didn't. But I've been slapped on the wrist a few times -- especially since moving to New York, by Real Writers who get all uppity about the use of the term "writer." As in, "Well, I'm a writer, so I can't really watch a Broadway show without thinking how I would have done it differently." (Actual quote. I tell no lies.) So, at the risk of not offending anyone or (gasp!) tarnishing the title, I usually respond to that question with, "Well, not really."
. . . which is how I responded to this kind man next to me.
He laughed and didn't seem to believe me, asking, "Whaddya mean? Do you write or not? Anything? not just like, professional stuff, but like, anything?" So I proceeded to say pretty much what I just wrote in the preceding paragraph, and our conversation continued casually for some time. Brent, it turns out, used to be a reporter, but lost his job last year and has been working freelance ever since. He considers any kind of writing to be "real" -- blog posts, poetry, memoirs, diaries, whatever. I immediately liked talking to Brent.
The book reading began.
First, Becker: his prose was soft, casual, but struck me as feeling honest. His second selection, with its descriptions of a night-time bar scene felt more ephemeral and light than the first selection which felt serious, heavy, and important. Still, I enjoyed both passages. I was disappointed that the stories of adoption were unclear in what Becker read, and although I liked his writing, I won't be itching to buy it.
There was a break. I continued my conversation with Brent, who, it turns out, is a regular patron of KGB and was pretty sure that everyone in the room lives in Brooklyn: "Seems like every writer in this city lives in Brooklyn. I don't get it -- can't you be a writer and live in Manhattan?" We talked briefly about types of writing, about Mr. Beller's Neighborhood (which I hadn't known of before), about the authors speaking, and about the woman sitting on the other side of him, who apparently was a "published writer" -- i.e., she has a book coming out in a couple of months.
Second, Shapiro: I must admit that Shapiro's writing captured me. I love how she structures her sentences, her paragraphs, her vignettes. I love that each incident is a story all on its own, and that she weaves together these smaller stories into bigger stories, and that this is, in essence, what her life is about -- and really, what all life is about: stories tied into stories. I also liked the spiritual, self-searching theme and the vulnerability that came through in her words. She felt heartfelt and a bit scared, but so genuine.
When it was all over, I chatted a bit more with Brent, exchanged business cards, and decided to go. Many other KGB patrons were hanging about, waiting to get books signed and chat with the writers they had come to listen to. I wrote in my notebook the name of Shapiro's latest book (Devotion) and said goodbye to Brent.
Conclusion: a great Sunday-night cultural and educational freebie. While I didn't have to buy a drink, I felt a little silly not buying one, being that I was sitting at the bar. The crowd was definitely welcoming, friendly, and kinda my scene. Being there tonight made me think about the manuscripts I've got sitting in plastic boxes under my desk ("Safe keeping," said Brent. At least they're protected from water!") and in digital form on my computer. Why haven't I done anything with my writing? I suspect that if I go to more events like those at KGB tonight, I'll find myself needing to address that question in more than a rhetorical sense.
(image respectfully borrowed from the KGB bar website)
