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It may well be true in every field of endeavor, but it's especially so for scribes, I think, that we are alternately inspired and discouraged by the work of other writers.
David Rakoff, a funny, whipsmart essayist whose talents I admire (and, I'll admit it, envy) greatly, once admitted to me that he experiences this phenomenon, too, so I know I'm not alone. "It's the difference," he said, "between seeing Gene Kelly dance, who makes you think you could do it, and seeing Rudolf Nureyev, who makes you realize you couldn't."
It's an apt analogy. The truth is, both those dancers were doing things well beyond the abilities of us mere mortals, but somehow Kelly fooled us into thinking we could match him move for move, if only we'd get up off our duffs.
The writers who play the Nureyev/Kelly roles in my own creative struggle are, respectively, Michael Chabon, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay, Wonder Boys, and The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, among others, and Nick Hornby, whose books include High Fidelity, About a Boy, and How to Be Good. They're both compelling, extremely talented writers whose work I thoroughly enjoy, but somehow, when I read Hornby, my inner monologue goes something like, "Wow, this is charming and funny. This is right up my alley. I could achieve something like this."
When I read Chabon, those inner voices grow a bit more tremulous. "Who are you kidding? How dare you call yourself a writer? This guy's a real writer; you're not in his league." (Mind you, those perhaps half dozen people out there who have read both my work and Hornby's might be moved to remind me that I'm not in his league, either, and I would heartily agree.)
You can see, then, why I'm grateful that Chabon's not more prolific; if I were to read his stuff more often, I'd never get a thing written, whereas, if Horby could see his way clear to cranking it out a bit faster, I might've already completed the novel on which I'm currently laboring.
Last night brought an opportunity to confront my demons. The Paris Review held an event to salute the 2003 Paris Review prizewinners, and each of the honorees -- Yiyun Lee, Julie Sheehan, and (gulp!) Michael Chabon -- was on hand to read from his or her prizewinning work.
It was the kind of soiree that serves to remind me of why I came to (and why I remain in) New York. A large room packed with intelligent, articulate, talented people who care about writing (and, of course, reading). I've little doubt I was the dumbest guy in the room.
Upon arriving, I spotted Chabon in the corner of the crowded room, chatting with an admirer. I'd somehow decided that it was a good idea to present him, if given the opportunity, with a copy of my own book. I'm not entirely sure whence sprang this idea. but I was resolved to carry it through.
So I wandered over and waited my turn to speak to Chabon. I was surprised at how nervous I suddenly felt -- I've met, chatted with, interviewed, and otherwise interacted with any number of famous people over the years and not reacted this way, so my skittishness caught me off guard. I can't imagine our brief encounter was anything less than uncomfortable for Chabon, but he was very gracious, noting who had published my book and asking who'd served as my editor. The fact that, in my jittery state, it took me fifteen or twenty seconds to recall her name (I'm sorry, Lee!) must have struck him as a bit odd -- it certainly struck me that way -- but he was patient in waiting for my synapses to begin firing.
With our brief encounter over and my humble little hardback in Chabon's possession, I scurried away, mortified that I'd not handled myself with more aplomb.
I assuaged my embarrassment with some of the free 12-year-old Scotch provided by one of the event's co-sponsors and tried to be satisfied that I'd at least said hello and passed on the book. I found a seat -- no small miracle in that packed house -- and chattered on mercilessly to the poor soul who'd found herself seated beside me until finally -- mercifully, for her sake -- the reading began.
John Guare, the acclaimed playwright whose works include House of Blue Leaves and Six Degrees of Separation, was elegant, erudite, and utterly charming in filling in for recently deceased George Plimpton. Guare paid tribute to Plimpton by reading a bit of his prose recounting the early days of TPR before he introduced Li, winner of the 2003 Plimpton Prize (awarded to the best work of fiction or poetry published in The Paris Review by an emerging or previously unpublished writer). After Li read from her prizewinning story, "Immortality," Sheehan, winner of the 2003 Bernard F. Conners Prize for Poetry (awarded to the finest poem over 200 lines published in The Paris Review) read from her prizewinning poem, "The Brown-headed Cowbirds."
Last on the bill was Chabon, and, judging by the crowd's response, he was clearly the man most in attendance were there to see. He apologized in advance for the accents (German and British) he would use in reading from his prizewinning story, "The Final Solution," but he needn't have done so. He reads very well, bringing his wonderful (if, to me, intimidating) prose to life very effectively (yes, the accents left something to be desired, but I certainly could have done no better).
The ovation he received at reading's end was even louder than the one that greeted him, and it appeared, as they filed out, that the crowd was very pleased indeed. I'd convinced myself during the reading that I'd not made such a fool of myself during our earlier encounter that I couldn't ask Chabon to sign the copy of Kavalier and Klay that I, er, just happened to have with me, and to his credit, he seemed perfectly happy to oblige. But there were enough attendees waiting to speak with him that I didn't get the chance to ask him what I truly wanted to know: By whose talents, if any, is Michael Chabon cowed? By which writer, in the event of a face-to-face encounter, would he be rendered him timorous and twittery?
That question will have to remain unanswered for the nonce, but I will seek comfort in assuring myself that such a writer must exist. Surely, even Michael Chabon has his own literary Nureyev.
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