Judging A Book By Its Lover

Why Ernest Hemingway Once Told John Updike

Literary New York

Is A Bottle Full of Tapeworms Trying To

Feed On Each Other

by Lauren Leto

For as long as you can remember,

you've wanted to be a writer.

Fantasies of lounging in some dimly lit and quiet bar with men in plaid suit jackets and conversations about Proustian memories over bourbon and ice filled your mind while you sat under fluorescent lights in your high school math class.

You arrive in the big, bright city

with ambitions to live in squalor,

by the light of your computer.

You arrive hungry to debate the

nuances between Atwood’s

characters in different works,

Lin’s use of quotation marks,

and

your

own

hopeful

plot

twists.

and

your

own

hopeful

plot

twists.

and

your

own

hopeful

plot

twists.

and

your

own

hopeful

plot

twists.

and

your

own

hopeful

plot

twists.

and

your

own

hopeful

plot

twists.

This is the place you’ve dreamt of

for debate, for discovery, for showing

off the obscure tidbits of literary trivia

you’ve absorbed through years of study

You are in New York City.

Suitcase in hand.

Eyes at the sky.

You are in New York City.

Suitcase in hand.

Eyes at the sky.

You are in New York City.

Suitcase in hand.

Eyes at the sky.

You are in New York City.

Suitcase in hand.

Eyes at the sky.

You are in New York City.

Suitcase in hand.

Eyes at the sky.

You are in New York City.

Suitcase in hand.

Eyes at the sky.

You can’t afford to live in the city so you move to Brooklyn or Queens, or you manage to find a place in the city and you have three other roommates in an apartment designed for one.

(but that’s okay because everyone you’re going to learn from is doing the same, and this will tighten the bond with your new guides, the other unpublished writers).

You can’t afford to live in the city so you move to Brooklyn or Queens, or you manage to find a place in the city and you have three other roommates in an apartment designed for one.

(but that’s okay because everyone you’re going to learn from is doing the same, and this will tighten the bond with your new guides, the other unpublished writers).

And you say,

“I have this story”

or,

“I want to write

for this place,”

“I want to write

for this place,”

“Sure, I’ve applied to those too, I’ve sent stories around as well. Good luck.”

Your roommate says while getting ready to go out to a bar they can’t afford.

“Sure, I’ve applied to those too, I’ve sent stories around as well. Good luck.”

Your roommate says while getting ready to go out to a bar they can’t afford.

... and the others smile with the knowledge of how hard you, young one, are going to get broken.

But you think you’re different.

You’ve got the real fire, the inexhaustible flame, not the kind that dissipates to ennui so harsh that your peers can’t find time in their languishing days to write.

It’s the red hot, bursting out of your skin,

causing-you-to-smile-on-the-street-with-sudden-inspiration

sort of fire ambition.

It’s the red hot, bursting out of your skin,

causing-you-to-smile-on-the-street-with-sudden-inspiration

sort of fire ambition.

It’s the red hot, bursting out of your skin,

causing-you-to-smile-on-the-street-with-sudden-inspiration

sort of fire ambition.

It’s the red hot, bursting out of your skin,

causing-you-to-smile-on-the-street-with-sudden-inspiration

sort of fire ambition.

The perfect opening to a chapter hits you as you’re waiting for the subway, and you take the long walk home instead because you’ve been hit by too much energy to sit down.

You pick like-minded people to surround yourself with, whether it’s through a living arrangement or friends you make at work or people you were introduced to through hometown acquaintances.

“Why are you here?”

“I want to be a writer”

[you’ve already messed up by exposing this vulnerability.]

“Why are you here?”

“I want to be a writer”

[you’ve already messed up by exposing this vulnerability.]

“Why are you here?”

“I want to be a writer”

[you’ve already messed up by exposing this vulnerability.]

“By the way, have you read such and such new book?”

“Yes! It was great!”

”I thought it was overly droll.”

“Oh.”

“By the way, have you read such and such new book?”

“Yes! It was great!”

”I thought it was overly droll.”

“Oh.”

“By the way, have you read such and such new book?”

“Yes! It was great!”

”I thought it was overly droll.”

“Oh.”

“By the way, have you read such and such new book?”

“Yes! It was great!”

”I thought it was overly droll.”

“Oh.”

“I heard so and so got a book deal.”

“Oh! Good for them!”

”My friends who work there say the editor wants to kill so and so – they’re an awful writer. It’s going to be such an atrocious book.”

“I heard so and so got a book deal.”

“Oh! Good for them!”

”My friends who work there say the editor wants to kill so and so – they’re an awful writer. It’s going to be such an atrocious book.”

“I heard so and so got a book deal.”

“Oh! Good for them!”

”My friends who work there say the editor wants to kill so and so – they’re an awful writer. It’s going to be such an atrocious book.”

“Well, what’s it about?”

“It’s a memoir. They got the book deal from their blog.”

“Oh. Huh.”

“Well, what’s it about?”

“It’s a memoir. They got the book deal from their blog.”

“Oh. Huh.”

“Well, what’s it about?”

“It’s a memoir. They got the book deal from their blog.”

“Oh. Huh.”

“Did you really think such and such book was great?”

“I liked the point of view.”

”Oh God, that was such a gimmick. So and so can’t resist being kitschy if their life depended on it.”

“Did you really think such and such book was great?”

“I liked the point of view.”

”Oh God, that was such a gimmick. So and so can’t resist being kitschy if their life depended on it.”

“Did you really think such and such book was great?”

“I liked the point of view.”

”Oh God, that was such a gimmick. So and so can’t resist being kitschy if their life depended on it.”

“But, I think it serves his purpose well. It’s an untrustworthy narrator, that’s why it might strike you as unauthentic.”

“Please! We’re going to have to teach you. There are like, only two good authors, and that’s [insert completely esoteric author] and [insert completely obtuse author].”

“But, I think it serves his purpose well. It’s an untrustworthy narrator, that’s why it might strike you as unauthentic.”

“Please! We’re going to have to teach you. There are like, only two good authors, and that’s [insert completely esoteric author] and [insert completely obtuse author].”

And then you step and repeat that conversation enough times until everyone in the city has worn you down enough that you can’t possibly think anyone has any talent.

And you grovel in the bottom of the bottom of the bottom of submissions, sending in story after story as your hatred for the author who got a book deal for his seemingly boring and stagnant and as of yet uneventful life just because he had a lot of hits on his blog for a post which was nothing more than a superficial imitation of Wallace’s metamodernism grows and grows until it scabs your brain, specifically where your ambition center is located.

And the conversations you expected about the humor in Kafka are overshadowed by deriding of Lorrie Moore’s novel or how someone who works for the publishing house that Jonathan Safran Foer is published by said his next work is basically nothing more than commercial fiction and you start to realize that literature is a social event for these people, a way of defining themselves and a way of living but not a purpose.

And this realization makes your hands seize up next time you’re about to put story to paper because you write to avoid this way the world works, not to try your hand at this contrived pecking order.

Until finally, one day, you give up.

My solution for all the young writers being