(Not that You Asked)

by Steve Almond

  BLOG LOVE

  A ROMANTIC WEEKEND WITH MY VERY OWN CYBER NEMESIS

  A couple of years ago, a writer friend of mine sent me a link to a weblog in which a guy named Mark Sarvas posted the following statement, under the headline THE TRUTH MUST BE TOLD:

  The adulation accorded Steve Almond constitutes one of the blogosphere’s enduring mysteries. From the very first days of this site, I’ve shaken my head in a sort of dazed wonder at the wake of overheated prose stylings the guys [sic] leaves behind. So I am, of course, delighted that the Washington Post’s Jonathan Yardley finally steps up and speaks the truth.

  An excerpt from Yardley’s review followed. Then this summation:

  If Almond devoted a fraction of the efforts [sic] he brings to self-promotion to his writing, he might finally be on to something. But I doubt it.

  Who was Mark Sarvas? Well, he was a writer of course. You could tell this because there was a portable typewriter right next to him in his photo, which was taken outside. So he was clearly dedicated to his craft. But he was also a cool writer, the kind who wore a leather jacket and shades while hanging out next to typewriters outside.

  Sarvas lived in Los Angeles. This meant he was a novelist and a screenwriter. Somehow, between novel drafts and pitch meetings, he managed to produce a blog which he had named, unpretentiously, The Elegant Variation.

  His entries were literary gossip items for the most part, links to articles, an occasional belch of schadenfreude. His prose style stressed elevated diction, convoluted sentences, serial use of the royal “we,” and, in an effort to convey a stream of consciousness…lots…of…ellipses. Writing like Henry James (or at least Henry James for the learning disabled) apparently helped Sarvas preserve the fantasy that he was not just a wannabe writer bravely dedicated to long-distance slander.

  A FEW MONTHS later, I received an e-mail from another friend, directing me to an online forum in which Sarvas described the birth of his blog:

  I launched The Elegant Variation in a fit of madness on October 14, 2003 with a declaration of my love for James Wood and my loathing for Steve Almond. Nine months later, my positions remain unchanged.

  Given my formative role in its creation, one might expect his blog to be brimming with critical insights into my work. Nope. In fact, it was not clear Sarvas had read any of my work. In this sense, it wasn’t quite fair to call him a critic. He was more like what the young people call a hater. And not just your garden variety hater. No, he was special. He was President of the Official Steve Almond Haters Club. I considered writing him a congratulatory note and sending along a signed photo. Sadly, I do not possess any signed photos.

  Indeed, it struck as me as one of the dinkier titles in the history of belles lettres to be President of the Steve Almond Haters Club—like being an ambassador to Liechtenstein, or maybe an ambassador from Liechtenstein. Pynchon. DeLillo. Foster Wallace. These were authors one might be proud to revile. But me?

  Poor Sarvas! As I considered the guy from afar, I began (almost involuntarily) to feel sorry for him.

  OF COURSE, ANY SERIOUS writer needs to preserve the bulk of his pity for himself, so I put Sarvas out of my mind.

  That changed in spring 2005, when I was invited to the Los Angeles Times Book Festival. Knowing I was headed into town, a guy named Jim Ruland asked me to read at his series, “Vermin on the Mount.” I said sure. His next e-mail listed the lineup, which included…Mark Sarvas. Ruland also asked me to come by the Vermin booth to sign books. Among the features of this booth: Sarvas would be “live blogging.”

  The idea of not doing these events never occurred to me. On the contrary, the third-grader who thrives inside me very much looked forward to accosting Sarvas.

  When I told my pal Pete about this plan, he shook his head.

  “What?” I said.

  Pete paused. “He’s in love with you.”

  “Please,” I said.

  “Hatred is a form of love,” Pete said. “Look at it, dude: He founded a whole website based on his feelings for you.”

  “It’s a blog,” I said.

  “He’s obsessed with you.”

  “He hasn’t even read my work.”

  “It’s what you represent. You’re like his big, sexy daddy.”

  I took a moment to let this sink in. “Are you saying I should fuck him?”

  “No,” Pete said slowly. “What I’m saying is that you should fuck him and film it and post the video on the Web.”

  “That is so hot,” I said. “I’m getting hot just thinking about it.”

  Pete put his hand on my shoulder.

  “So is he. I guarantee it. So go. Go make magic with your secret online fucktoy.”

  BUT OF COURSE I could not make magic with my secret online fucktoy. Life is never that simple. For one thing, I had a girlfriend (Erin) out in L.A. For another thing, my discussion with Pete had hipped me to the idea that Sarvas wanted my attention, rather desperately. Whether he knew it or not—chances are not—he was toting around a whole scrotum full of fantasies: The basic one in which he mustered the courage to insult me to my face. The exalted one in which he read so brilliantly at our shared appearance that I would be forced to admit I was just a self-promoting hack. The kinky one in which we slapped one another with silk gloves, then slipped into tights and fought a duel.

  It was my job not to gratify this shit. Any sign that I knew who he was, that he mattered to me in any way, would simply give him too much pleasure. (Let me be honest: I was concerned he might ejaculate in his pants.) So I had to be very detached.

  My plan was simple—I would pretend I didn’t know who he was. When introduced, I would say a few nice, disingenuous things about blogs, and if he, or someone else, mentioned his antagonism, I would smile and say, “Thank God someone is out there keeping me honest!” Then later, if it felt right—and only if it felt right—I would pull down his Underoos and spank him on his hot little blogger bottom.

  MY PLAN TO show restraint didn’t last long. I had been at the Book Festival for barely an hour when I made a beeline for the Vermin booth. I walked right up to Sarvas and stuck my hand out and said, in a loud, friendly voice, “Hi! I’m Steve Almond!”

  He looked up, startled.

  “Jim’s over there,” he said, pointing to the tall fellow on his left. My hand hung in the air, waiting for the shake that would initiate our supercharged literary smackdown. But Sarvas took a swift step to the side, sat down in front of his laptop, and refused to look up again.

  I felt oddly preempted. It had been my plan to pretend I didn’t know who Sarvas was, and here he was pretending he didn’t know who I was, even though I had just introduced myself to him.

  I stood there for another few seconds, staring at Sarvas as he stared at his computer screen. I wanted to say something to him, something like, “Does anyone around here smell blog pussy?” But this would blow my cover, give him that gift of acknowledgment, so I shook hands with Jim instead and waited (in vain) for him to introduce me to Sarvas, who remained hunched over his machine, live blogging.

  THAT NIGHT MY GIRLFRIEND—against her best intentions—checked his blog. She wanted to see what Sarvas had been writing as I stood in front of him.

  Here is a direct transcription:

  1:41–Steve Almond is standing right in front of me…We haven’t spoken; he’s talking to Jim…Wondering if he’ll punch me out…I think I could take him…

  As sad as this might seem, even sadder was the response of his fellow bloggers. One of them, a guy named Robert Birnbaum, sent the following response:

  Yo! Fo! Shizzle!

  Almond b a wus. He gotz to be got.

  Remarkably, Birnbaum is not a young African-American blogger from Compton who goes by the street handle OGB (Original Gangsta Blogga). He is a paunchy middle-aged Jew who conducts long interviews with writers for his lit blog, often mentioning himself and his dog Rosie. Having been interviewed by Birnbaum myself, I tend to think of him as the Regis Philbin of the lit
game, though that may be overstating his charm.

  It was not entirely clear how I was supposed to be got (or perhaps gotz) but the presumed method of execution seemed to involve Sarvas and his keyboard: I would be live blogged to death.

  THE VERMIN READING was at a bar in Chinatown. I arrived early, to make sure I got to hear Sarvas, but what struck me was Jim Ruland’s introduction. He described Sarvas as a selfless champion of literature. It was especially disheartening to hear this, because Ruland was smart enough to recognize how little Sarvas actually cares for art, the extent to which his blog was an elaborate and indulgent plea for regard.

  At the same time, Ruland was running a reading series in Los Angeles, a town where books were a minor cultural curiosity that occasionally spawned depressing movies and, more often, sat on coffee tables, suggesting intellectual depth and accenting the color scheme. His desperation, in other words, endowed Sarvas with some perceived power, which explained why he was on the bill in the first place. It was a kind of sponsorship showcase.

  The piece Sarvas read exuded a dismal semicompetence. One of his characters spoke through clenched molars. Later on, he (or she or it) did something to no avail. He didn’t much care for his people, and it showed.

  There was an intermission, during which the readers milled around downstairs. Amazingly, none of the local lit trash on hand had enough gumption, or plain old mischief-making instincts, to engineer an introduction. Most knew who Sarvas was, and that he hated me. But none of them would acknowledge the dynamic. Instead, they all stood around in a cloud of unrequited rubbernecking.

  MY READING WAS a letdown. Ruland got the name of my new book wrong. Sarvas failed to rush the stage. I read a story, stupidly, that expressed my predominant feelings about Southern California:

  The sun was gone now; the purple smog of dusk was upon them. This was a summer evening in L.A., just the way they drew it up all those years ago. A breeze came rolling in and the streetlights began to come lit. The very thought of the city beyond his hotel exhausted him: the knotted freeways, the vast, flat valleys of porn, the hot distance of everything from everything else.

  A few hours after the event (ah, the joys of the Internet!) Sarvas offered his readers the following assessment of our respective performances:

  We’re pleased to say the reading was a smashing success…Folks even seemed to like our offering, laughing more or less where they were supposed to…and we can report that Steve Almond’s reading did nothing to alter our opinion of him…

  Later he added:

  …We found his story to be wholly not our cup of tea, its literary sensibilities a bit too informed by the pages of Penthouse Forum for our tastes…We’re scarcely prudes but Almond’s work is all assfucking and facials without much to commend itself for…we’re struck by an absence of context…of character…of depth…

  Sarvas couldn’t have known this, but my response to his entry was a distinct sense of arousal…thinking about him typing those words…assfucking and facials… with his actual fingers…we wondered what Sarvas might have been wearing when he posted…was he dressed in his leather jacket?…maybe nothing but his leather jacket…might he be whispering my name?…through clenched molars?…we were trembling…yes, trembling…entry… the very word dripped…assfucking…entry…We’re scarcely prudes… was Sarvas trying to tell us something?…we tried to keep from touching ourselves…honestly, we did… alas, it was to no avail…

  THANKFULLY, SARVAS AND I had one more shot at love—my Sunday morning visit to the Vermin booth! He would have to be there (live blogging!) and, with an hour to kill in the same small booth, he would have to talk to me. I wore something low-cut, but not slutty, and curled my hair.

  But he didn’t show.

  Devastated, I proceeded to the VIP area, a sun-dappled veranda where I stood around nibbling canapés with the other authors, all of us feeling thoroughly fluffed by the star treatment. This was L.A., after all, a town that runs on the bad Kool-Aid of fame. The problem was that every ten minutes or so some minor film celebrity like Eric Idle or Michael York would drop by and we would all stop talking and stare and recognize, at once, how sadly un-famous our little kingdom is.

  I had two official gigs at the festival. The first was serving as moderator of a nonfiction panel. My four authors had written books on the following subjects:

  • 1968

  • Political activism

  • The development of penicillin

  • Anal sex

  I am going to spare us all the embarrassment of detailing this particular panel.

  My second gig was as a panelist on a roundtable discussion devoted to the short story, which played to a full house. Sarvas had grabbed a seat up front and brought along his computer. Just before the panel began, I walked over to him and set my hand on his shoulder and said, in a soft voice, “Hey, I really enjoyed your reading last night.” I was hoping to get his phone number, obviously. I was hoping to be a part of his next entry. (I am so transparent!)

  Okay, that’s not true. My intentions were a bit less prurient. I hoped this comment might teach him something: that it was best to conduct yourself like an adult, to exhibit grace even when what you wanted to do (maybe even had the right to do) was tear someone a new asshole. But the lesson didn’t take.

  I’ll explain why, but it’s important first to talk about the panel itself, which was sensational. My co-panelist, Merrill Gerber, talked about what it was like, as a woman of the fifties, to write stories about domestic life at a time when her colleagues—men like Robert Stone—were offering up accounts of war and drugs and politics. Aimee Bender, whose stories are often fantastical, helped me see plot in an entirely new light. “When you write outside of realism,” she observed, “plot becomes the internal life of the character.” Bret Anthony Johnston spoke eloquently about the practice of writing. “I don’t believe in the idea of talent,” he told the audience. “I don’t believe in the idea of inspiration. I don’t believe in a muse or anything like that. I believe in work. I believe in dedication…. Your job is to try to make a piece of art, and the way you do that is by going to your studio every day.” There wasn’t a single comment that didn’t smack of the truth, that didn’t make me think about my own work and the larger role of writing in the present culture. I took notes.

  Of course, Sarvas was also taking notes. Aside from bashing me, here is the sum total of what he had to say on his blog:

  On the subject of the short story, the panel is moderated by Novelist/Blogger and former The Elegant Variation guest host Tod Goldberg; the other participants include Aimee Bender, Bret Anthony Johnston and Merill [sic] Joan Gerber.

  Tod keeps it light, querying the authors on everything from peanut butter preferences to whipped cream references…We also learn Tod has a short story collection coming out in September…but apparently Tin House won’t publish him…Aimee Bender apparently brought a cheering section, as the room erupted into cheers at her introduction…Tod identifies her as crush-worthy for smart 13 year olds…The most notable thing to us is that Gerber has published seven collections of short stories…seven collections…we wonder how on earth she manages to get them published…(Forget the seven novels she’s also published…) Over the years, Redbook published 42 of her stories…

  ATTENDING THE PANEL had forced Sarvas to confront his actual role in the literary order: He was a pretender, a person who lacked the dedication Bret Johnston spoke of, and who therefore had created his own narrative (the blog) in which the essential topic was not literature at all, but his own towering envy. Why them? Why not me?

  It came as no surprise that his “coverage” of the event read like a Page Six dispatch. Nor that his loyal readers felt well served by this summary. What astonished me was that Tod Goldberg, our moderator, responded. “Thanks for providing coverage,” he wrote. “And wonderful as always to see you out causing trouble.”

  Why would Goldberg—a fine writer and genuinely thoughtful guy—offer such a comment? I
suspect because he views Sarvas as someone who might help his career. The same is true of Jim Ruland. Whatever they think of his ad hominems, in the end they kiss his ass.

  Publishers have started doing the same thing. If you want an index of just how desperate the industry has grown, look no further than the rise of the lit blogger as a phenomenon. Some are even parlaying their blogs into book deals. Why? In part, because publishers are drawn in by the mystique of the Internet and the notion that an author has a built-in—what is the word the marketing people use? Ah yes, here it is—platform.

  To be clear: Some bloggers also happen to be terrific writers. They use their blogs to undertake the honest labor of self-reflection. The improvisational form activates their love of the language. But many bloggers are simply too lazy and insecure to risk making art, to release their deepest emotions onto a blank page with no promise of recognition. So they launch a blog instead.

  I can understand the temptation. It’s one I feel every day. Sarvas horrifies me precisely because he represents certain desires that live inside me: the desire to avoid the solitude and humiliation of sustained creative work, to find a shortcut to fame.

  Does that turn you on, Sarvas? You’re inside me.

  THE LIT BLOGGERS out there will, I suspect, eagerly interpret the foregoing as a blanket condemnation of blogging. It is not. My beef isn’t with the medium, but those who glibly abuse its privileges. (Or, as I prefer to think of them: assholes who blog.)

  Twenty years ago these guys were, for the most part, struggling writers whose assholic notions were limited to friends, family, and those unfortunate souls they encountered at cocktail parties. Today, they get to broadcast these notions to the world, under the banner of “lit blogging.”

  All of which raises the question: Why do so many people read lit blogs?

  To begin with, not so many people read them. Instead, a very concentrated population read them over and over. Namely, other bloggers. They all read one another, in the hope something they mentioned on their blog will be cited on another blog. It’s a kind of Ponzi scheme in which the object is attention, and the shared illusion is one of relevance.