1. Like anyone trying to sell something “artistic” and anachronistic — for example: a novel — in an era defined by extremes of technological saturation and aggressive self-promotion, I’ve been spending time trying to find an angle to pitch my forthcoming novel #gods. And by “pitch” I mean entice/persuade a few people (my followers) to click through to publisher’s website and spend $20 (including S&H in the U.S.) to order a copy, which will ship on July 18th, nearly a month earlier than if you order it on Amazon Whole Foods (for $25). Having carefully observed the social-media habits of other novelists, I had learned one thing, which is that they/we (because I was not an exception to this rule) are really annoying! Retweeting every kind thing that anyone says about your work, or linking to articles from mainstream media outlets and educating followers on the problematic nature of the current presidential administration: these are the habits of a child who wants nothing more than to be twirling around in the middle of a room where everyone admires you. Novelists should not be allowed to have twitter accounts or FBs, on account of how disgustingly, relentlessly needy we are. Some authors try to be more CrEaTIve, for example, by “telling a story through twitter” or tweeting “in character,” but these tactics (dreamed up by marketers in 2013) are too dispiriting to entertain. But what choice did I have? I had written a novel and owed it to myself (and the publisher) to use my “platform” to “engage” my followers, which soft science has proven is the only way to sell books, or at least books that could be said to fall within the “genre” of “literary fiction,” which these days is a market that’s about as big as an evaporating raindrop.
2. Admittedly, it was a dilemma, but — like all dilemmas — one that seemed to offer many brilliant solutions, at least while I was running through Fort Tryon Park, surrounded by natural beauty and with my brain starved for oxygen. For example, it occurred to me that I could inform people that my novel (#gods) will almost certainly win a Nobel Prize for Television in Literature, notwithstanding the minor issue (minor, at least while I was running, and with my brain starved for oxygen) that such a category doesn’t exist.
3. Unlike the usual category, I thought, which each year causes so much tedious speculation and debate regarding which nonhomosexual writer is going to win, the Nobel Prize for Television in Literature can (and, if I have anything to say about it, will) be awarded to the work of fiction that features the most television shows. The only question for the Nobel committee is to identify the novel with the most television shows. Like an actual race, it takes the subjectivity out of the equation.
4. Hmmm, I thought (remember: still running, still oxygen deprived) this is something I can win. (As if the category already existed.)
5. I couldn’t think of another novel that referenced as many television shows as #gods. (I didn’t try very hard.)
6. Seriously, what other novel includes quotes from: 1) TWIN PEAKS, 2) MR. ROBOT 3) THE X-FILES 4) AMERICAN HORROR STORY: COVEN 5) BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER 6) THE WIRE 7) ANGEL 8) BATTLESTAR GALACTICA 9) DARIA 10) THE SOPRANOS 11) PARKS AND RECREATION 12) FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS 13) MY SO-CALLED LIFE 14) THE WALKING DEAD 15) SIX FEET UNDER 16) WONDERFALLS 17) SLEEPY HOLLOW 18) DYNASTY 19) STAR TREK: VOYAGER 20) THE O.C. 21) TRUE BLOOD 22) STRANGERS WITH CANDY 23) BATES MOTEL 24) BIG LOVE 25) EMPIRE 26) THE GOOD WIFE 27) ORPHAN BLACK 28) THE HILLS 29) STAR TREK 30) SCOOBY-DOO 31) BROEN/BRON 32) ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT 33) TREME 34) THE MARY TYLER MOORE SHOW 35) UNREAL 36) PLEASE LIKE ME 37) BREAKING BAD and 38) THE PARTRIDGE FAMILY ?
7. I saw myself sitting in the audience at the awards ceremony. “For referencing 38 television shows in a single work of fiction, we would like to award the Nobel Prize for Television in Literature to Bob Dylan #gods.” (Pre-order here.)
8. For a few seconds, this television angle seemed like a good one. Everyone who watches television (which is everyone) will understand the concept that, circa 2017, it’s the closest thing we have to a religion, and — even more important — the characters on these shows (but NOT the actors) are the closest thing we have to gods, exalted beings completely oblivious to our existence and devotion, but who inspire us with their words and actions.
9. But then I thought about all the people who don’t like television, and how some of these people are my heroes. For any of you who might be reading, rest assured: it’s not the only focus of the book. In fact, it’s really minor compared to the idea that our society is in the middle of what might be described as a manic death seizure that — if we are to survive — requires us to find something maybe a little more substantive to “believe in” besides television (and, umm, every organized religion including capitalism and probably nationalism).
10. And then, as I kept running, I stopped thinking about the book at all. I stopped worrying about how to “market” it. (If you’ve made it this far, perhaps you share my relief.) Instead I admired the clouds over the Hudson River, and the way they resembled a mountain range.
11. I thought about the color orange, which was always my mother’s favorite color (and something I’m happy to have inherited from her, along with her good running legs, my still-tender hamstring aside).
12. I was in the most beautiful park in the world. How could such beauty exist? The answer, I knew, was a result of government funding and a collective commitment to public spaces accessible by all (without regard to need or income). I sighed. It was depressing to think about politics.
13. Instead, I thought about the sadness I sometimes feel when I read gay writers whose work features no gay characters, and whether this sadness was more or less or just different than the sadness I feel when I read gay writers whose work features gay characters.
14. I thought about the sadness I always feel about the word “gay,” even though I always use it as a (sad, inadequate) shorthand that for me has never captured or distilled the complexity and otherness and power (emotional, physical, and political) implicit in whatever it is we do that makes us g-y or nonheterosexual. Or “queer,” which for me is a word that carries even greater sadness — because I’m too old and exhausted and probably damaged to feel “empowered” through “reappropriation” — which is why I never use it (but totally have no problem with anyone else using it, because these are choices we all must make and there are no right answers). I felt the sadness of saying something like “these are choices we must make and there are no right answers,” and how it’s a question we’re forced to grapple with all the time when so many people who are not like us don’t have a clue. Which isn’t to say they don’t grapple. The sadness of the word “grapple” does not even need to be pondered.
15. I wish a perfect name for my condition existed, a name that was not completely literal but managed to describe a state of being, a name like “Lamb’s Ears.” On second thought, maybe not Lamb’s Ears.
16. Every life is a landscape.
17. Daisies are my mother’s favorite flower, which is something I didn’t inherit from her, although I like them. How could you hate a daisy?
18. I once had a friend who loved blue hydrangeas; this friend and I had a very serious falling out, which I try not to hold against the plant. (Although I still do, a little.)
19. Still, I prefer the white hydrangea flowers, because when you’re squinting and deprived of oxygen and thinking about imaginary categories for Nobel Prizes that will entice/persuade people to click through and buy something that means a lot to you (because novels are difficult to write, even the bad ones) and implicitly means a lot less to them (unless they co-wrote it), these flowers look like clouds and you might for a second — while both of your feet are off the ground — experience a sense of weightlessness or flight. Which is how you know your training paid off. (I haven’t felt this since I ran the marathon a few months ago, because recovery takes a long time, but I remember this feeling, which might have to be enough.)
20. Sometimes a blurry image is the better choice if you want to capture the beauty of the natural world, where everything is constantly moving.
21. What are these towering red plants? They are so angry and beautiful, I thought, wishing I could summon their energy and actually doing it for a few seconds — a quick sprint — but then being reminded by my legs that I am too old to be angry and beautiful. (But not too old to remember.)
22. Here is the spot where a weeping cherry stood last week but was knocked over in the storm.
23. And here are the cone flowers mourning the loss.
24. And here they are getting over their grief, but not completely, the way we do when confronting the loss of an old tree.
25. Like the weeping cherry tree, I’ve learned that the wind is just as strong off the river during the summer months as it is in the winter.
26. I’ve also learned to wear shorts with deeper pockets so I don’t break my stupid cell phone screen while sprinting down a hill, which is a lesson that the trees don’t ever need to learn.
27. And like so many others on this Fourth of July, I’ve learned to fear my state as much as I admire it.
