First, however, I want to thank TNBBC for working hard on behalf of the “literati.” As I prepped this, I realized that I’ve guest-posted here an amazing five times, dating back to 2012, when my first book was published. Thank you, TNBBC!
Second, I’m now into it, into the thick of it, this writing
life. I never think I want something else. I have regrets and
sorrows—but I have to admit: I don’t foresee some kind of midlife crisis about
my vocational choice to “be a writer” (though money would be nice).
So, in honor of my fifth book, Kids
Without Horses (description below), I thought I’d give you a glimpse into
this, um, “writing life.”
My Top 5 Most Humiliating Writer-At-Large Moments
(these are pretty tongue-in-cheek, because
there have been MANY agonizing moments I can't even talk about)
a. A. Reading to no one at a busy cafe in Seattle:
I read at the Wayward Coffeehouse in June 2019, when I was
“touring” (I arranged a few dates) for my novel, And So We Died, Having
First Slept. Though I swear I booked ahead, I apparently was not expected.
They were, like, Well, you can go do it over there. I had a box of
books, my husband, and two Seattle friends (embarrassing). I stood up and
announced, “I’m the entertainment” (this is my husband’s favorite part). Then,
I read. No one paid attention. Maybe one guy did.
a. B. Not having a profound moment with David
Sedaris at a book-signing:
In November 2017, I went to a Sedaris reading. I have a
whole “Ode to David Sedaris” in Kids
Without Horses, so you might say I’m into his writing. When I got to
the front of the book-signing line, I was really hoping for this epiphanic
moment, some kind of kismet between us, like Sedaris and I would bond over our
mutual aesthetic concerns. Sedaris is actually known for trying to be nice to
the people in line. And that was just it. He was very nice to me. He asked me
what I did. He signed my book. The End. Nothing magical happened. Only
my husband who was watching us detected my private humiliation. David Sedaris
did not look deep into my eyes and say, “I know you . . .”
Here's a better photo, taken by my friend—Geoffrey Varga: Sedaris
pretending to read my book.
C. Not selling a single book at
numerous events, including a reading with Lydia Millet at Antigone Books
in Tucson:
In December 2012, we read together (arranged by Antigone) and
we sat side-by-side at a table for the book-signing—not a soul came up to me,
except for my best friend since second grade. And she had already read my book.
WAIT A MINUTE! As I was writing this, I remembered that Stacey Richter, who
wrote My Date With Satan and Twin Study, attended for me (!)
because I reached out to her as a fan! So it was my best friend and Stacey
Richter!
D. Falling flat on my face in the book fair at the Associated
Writing Programs Conference (AWP) in Portland (2019) when I was trying very
hard to be cool.
No photo exists, thank God. I was probably wearing those
same clothes as above, likely holding a hot coffee, and some trendy writer-dude
probably asked me if I was okay. And then I said, Oh, I’m fine! (He
couldn’t see my skinned knees. Miraculously, my lip wasn’t busted open.) Coolness,
you elude me, bro.
E. On a serious note, having the rug pulled out
from under me when my pub closed shop and I decided to self-publish And So
We Die, Having First Slept.
No one actually asks about my self-publishing thoughts, and
it’s not easy to even talk about it in this Brave New World, but there were
many ramifications from self-publishing. I can’t say I’m a fan. I did not enjoy
the experience.
My Top 5 Books, Movies, or TV Shows That Compelled Me to Positively Fold While Watching For Some Peculiar Writer-Reason
(even though I might like others
better)
a. Sex, Lies, and Videotape, especially Andie
MacDowell’s singular performance
b. Succession, especially Jeremy Strong with his
spectacular acting
c. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. I
will never not say that this is my favorite book.
d. The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera.
It’s not my favorite book. That movie killed me, though.
e. Home by Marilynne Robinson. I don’t know. I
read it and might have heard Peter Frampton singing “Show Me the Way” in the
background.
My Top 5 Writer-Sorrows
(not to be confused with familial or existentialist or soul-crushing personal
sorrows, OR humiliations)
a. a. I'll probably never get to see The Cure in
concert. I feel like this is important.
b.
I never got to be friends with Amy Krouse
Rosenthal. I’m sad that I discovered her only after she died in 2017 at the age
of fifty-one.
c.
When the editor of my first novel, Love Slave,
asked my husband and I if we wanted to have dinner after my Colorado reading
in 2012, I initially said no—not because of him (Fred Ramey) but because
it was late and I didn't get the etiquette (my editor was asking me to dinner!)—and
this embarrasses me to think about. We went for dinner with him that night
anyway, because my husband kinda let me know that I was supposed to say yes,
and I was, like, Oh! I am? Okay. I mean, I just didn't get it.
Did Fred feel slighted? Did he realize I’m awkward? (I think so.) Wait,
how do I schmooze? I don’t know how to schmooze! NO WONDER MY BOOKS DON’T SELL.
You can find Kids Without Horses here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DSVTQ179/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.0PoHFwuajVs1a5JxZcFlQINI5PWPi3l07LF_2uiIsQTAptpB5xtJWnDyLhnSBOpPaaPkPF0BjC6AJNLLM9WoySTGKa-SAEO6pa2QRljn3Mg.ONgAm9Y8p4ni7ifhVkLXmIXCabbzm73Imm0OntrQsNI&qid=1736787602&sr=8-1
a. d. I guess I think the stereotype of the eccentric
artist who suffers, often alone, is true—even though I think it's now uncool to
claim any kind of singularity. So I'm saying that writing is a bit
sad. Writers are in tune with sorrow. Sting: King of Pain?
b. e. I love my audience—I do. But I'm a bit resigned
to not being widely read. I can deal. Don't worry. But it's a sorrow.
And that, my friends, are my Top Fives. Five books out
there. Each breaks my heart just a little. Each is a secret treasure too.
What is Kids Without Horses? This is a collection of weird creative nonfiction pieces. In
this personal pet-project of sorts, gathered and shaped when Covid hit through
mid-2024, Jennifer Spiegel brings together some previously published pieces, an
“Ode to David Sedaris,” and a little Gen X-obsessing. The topics are diverse:
Philosophizing over Pulp Fiction or recalling Spiegel’s
failure to pass the Foreign Service Exam might give way—and often does—to
thoughts on creative writing and Art (uppercase “A”). Frankly, this is a
myopic, personal, and eclectic collection. It’s okay to repeat that: a
myopic, personal, and eclectic collection. From Red Square and Dublin to
Oklahoma and Brooklyn, from Nelson Mandela and Michael Scott to Donald Trump
and Larry David, from Rick Springfield and Ethan Hawke to U2 and Elena
Ferrante, Spiegel writes with, well, gusto on religion and
race and rock ‘n’ roll. This is, at the end of the day, unorthodox orthodoxy.
#Truth.
Who is Jennifer
Spiegel? Jennifer Spiegel is a writer and professor. She is the author of four
other books: The Freak Chronicles, Love Slave, And So We Die, Having First
Slept, and Cancer, I’ll Give You One Year. She’ll soon be an empty-nester
living in Massachusetts with her husband and pets. No one ever let her name a
cat “Bono” or “Dave Chappelle.”
This is a collection of weird
creative nonfiction pieces. In this personal pet-project of sorts, gathered and
shaped when Covid hit through mid-2024, Jennifer Spiegel brings together some
previously published pieces, an “Ode to David Sedaris,” and a little Gen
X-obsessing. The topics are diverse: Philosophizing over Pulp Fiction or
recalling Spiegel’s failure to pass the Foreign Service Exam might give way—and
often does—to thoughts on creative writing and Art (uppercase “A”). Frankly,
this is a myopic, personal, and eclectic collection. It’s okay to repeat that: a
myopic, personal, and eclectic collection. From Red Square and Dublin to
Oklahoma and Brooklyn, from Nelson Mandela and Michael Scott to Donald Trump
and Larry David, from Rick Springfield and Ethan Hawke to U2 and Elena
Ferrante, Spiegel writes with, well, gusto on religion and race and rock
’n’ roll. This is, at the end of the day, unorthodox orthodoxy. #Truth.
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