I’m excited that the next couple of days will offer me a distraction from emails about editors and publishers and the subsequent emotions. (Of course, my BlackBerry is still a third arm. But that’s neither here nor there for the sake of this post.) Bret Easton Ellis is spending two days reading in New York.
A step back: Those who’ve followed me (or, hell, had a single conversation about contemporary literature with me) know that in my literary vocabulary, Ellis is my most important writer. He’s the voice who piqued my interest in books, informed me enough to hone my own work, taught me most through his writing and legacy, and, most recently, reminded me not to let my characters rest (hence, the dawn of the second novel, which is moving right along). I’ve never seen him in person nor met him, and I’m not the kind of person who is starstruck by celebrities nor create worlds in which she believes she knows said celebrity, but I’ve always felt this sort of strange parallel between his world and mine, his story and mine. I’m thrilled to connect the thread over the next two days seeing him read, and I don’t think it could be happening at a better time.
I’ve been floored by the way in which the recent events of my life have fallen into place—the people with whom I’ve connected, the way in which I’ve met them, the news that’s been delivered, the progress really happening. I won’t lie that I’m crossing my fingers that I’ll have some more good news to contextualize with my first face-to-face with the man who’s most inspired me. But I suppose I’ll scale it back a bit focus on getting my first full night of sleep in a couple weeks instead.
M
