Bash Compactor: The Write Stuff

I had selfish motivations for wanting to attend a “house party” celebrating the National Book Awards. With my first novel rejection still looming, I hoped it would be uplifting to be around a group who’d successfully published. However, I knew I’d most likely end the night in a drunken, jealous stupor.

My writer outfit consisted of black jeans, a cardigan and a herringbone jacket, the closest thing I had to tweed. Walking into the sweeping lobby of the Random House building, where The Young Publishing Group was throwing the event, I felt a bit like a young baseball player walking into Yankee Stadium. That’s when it occurred to me that by “house party,” they meant Random House party. Ugh.

Walking into the party, I noticed, at the opposite end of the room, a table topped with little boxes marked “Pop.” Beside the table, a guy with cropped black hair and a boxy double-breasted suit was shoving burgers in his mouth. Starved, I lunged toward the table. I could see from the distance that there were only a few boxes left. I was stopped by two guys with their own table who wanted to demonstrate their product, a little white slot that plugs into an iPhone, turning it into a credit card machine. It was nifty, but not enough to keep me from the last burger on the table. I took a few more steps only to be stopped again. Two girls wanted me to sign in on Foursquare in order to receive a free copy of their book. A moment later, two guys wanted to take a photograph of me and, since I’d taken special care to dress writerly, I obliged. They explained to me that their product turned photos into video slide shows so that people could look at themselves at events, like this one, on a screen, like the one in the next room. I nodded, but my eyes were pinned to the burger table as the guy in the suit grabbed the last slider.

Sidling up to the bar, I found a variety of Brooklyn Brewery beer, so I downed a Winter Ale before attempting to make conversation. The first person I set my sights on was a blond with tattoos standing in the middle of the room, leafing through a graphic novel on a table of raffle prizes.

“This party kind of looks like a Brooks Brothers commercial. I was at least expecting to see some tweed,” said writer Samantha Paul.

In the next room I met writer Teja Cole, whose novel, Open City, seemed to be the upcoming release to talk about. Selfishly, I asked him to tell me about his process of selling the book. “I had an unusual experience,” said Cole. “I sold the book before it was finished.”

I thanked him and excused myself, fearing the jealous stupor rolling around in my stomach amongst the ale. I walked into the main room where the awards were being broadcast on a large screen. Over the music, it was difficult to hear what was going on, but soon enough a face I recognized came onto the screen—it was Patti Smith, receiving an award for her book Just Kids; a few people in the room cheered.

A guy standing alone beside me said his name was Mike Crain. I asked if he was a writer and he said that he wanted to be, but that he currently worked in a bank. He asked me who I was writing for and I told him.

“That’s so cool. I would love to do something like that. It just seems so hard to break into.”