Studs

The other night I went to a reading by two of my favorite writers.  Although I didn't recognize Nick Flynn at first, I should've. Not just because I study bios on the back of book jackets (and then Google authors to find out juicy personal information like said author dating Lili Taylor), but because of the obvious self-deprecating swagger of a lit star. This is not to be confused with the bravado of a rock star or the good looking cockiness of a movie star, but instead, the insecurity worn on the sleeve of every writer, that coupled with some sort of acclaim or success, can be used as a means to get laid.  

Nick Flynn and Chuck Klosterman (the other aforementioned writer/reader of the night) are talented writers; they have a way with words. The self they write about in their poem/essay/memoirs--the Flynn/Klosterman character--is often a fuckup. He's bumbling through life like the rest of us and he isn't too sure of himself. But the man who is telling this story--the writer--delivers his flaws with an honest, complicated self-awareness. Striking a delicate balance between the character's struggle to arrive at some sort of insight and the smooth writing that gets the reader to arrive there with them. 

Again, this is talent, and therefore to a writer like myself, this is hot. But I think most women over the age of thirty would find self discovery in general attractive. (He's in touch with himself but he isn't a sap! He's a mess but I don't have to fix him!) Flynn is more this type of writer. Although Klosterman isn't as skilled with language (Flynn is a poet first; Klosterman a journalist), he is better with persuasion. You'll follow Klosterman's arguments and exploratories because he appeals to your common sense and common generational experience. (Is Bono for real of full of shit? People like bad television because it's reassuring; no one cares if it's interesting.) 

The subtle discrepancies between these two lit stars were exemplified in how they entered and where they sat at the bar Wednesday night. Klosterman looked like the caricature on his book jacket (a blond male version of Velma from Scooby Doo). He was parked on the first bar stool closest to the entrance--the place where you had to order your drinks. By the time I did a double take, a petite brunette was in his face praising all of his books. A steady stream of above average looking, modestly-built brunettes continued to come up to him until the reading started. (A friend who once went to a Tin House writers conference said all the established writers there had brunette girlfriends who were in their late twenties/early thirties. I suppose smart girls, or lit groupies,  have dark hair and a few years on them, and why I was here instead of say, backstage at a Bret Michaels concert.)

Flynn on the other hand, showed up five minutes before the show started, which was technically ten minutes late, and headed for the corner of the stage, actually my bar stool while I was in the bathroom. (I felt like a douchebag when I realized this after he took the stage, but not before shooting him a contemptuous smirk when he made some comment about my friend letting him keep my seat warm or whatnot.) Flynn had a more stereotypical I'm-of-the-new-generation-of-irreverent-but-acclaimed-literati look about him. Mid forties, casual buttoned-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Wavy hair, a little too long and greasy. A loner, who'd probably really would prefer to talk to absolutely no one, but has learned how to turn snark into wit over years.

I could go on to describe the reading itself. But it was what it was: self conscious disclaimers, followed by verbalized prose and a plug for their work that'll be coming out in the fall. 

Instead, I'll skip to the part after the show, when girls continued to come up and ask them to sign their books. The writers stayed and chitchatted for a bit but then they disappeared before a band closed out the evening. Which was surprising to me because I thought a seasoned writer didn't know when to leave a bar. Hmph.