Bud tweeted the address and start time of the reading. I happened to see it and decided to attend because it was a 20 minute walk from my apartment.
I knew from the previous reading I attended on this rooftop—16 months prior—to arrive an hour late. When I arrived, the rooftop resembled a party without any music or dancing: clustered groups were presumably talking about mutual people they each knew.
Within 10 minutes of staring off the roof down at the neighborhood where I made my life’s biggest mistakes the reading began. Bud introduced himself and thanked everyone for coming. One by one people started to sit on the rooftop. When I was the last one standing in the back, I also decided to sit.
There would be six readers tonight, each an alumni of the 6 week writing workshop Bud ran in his Jersey City apartment. I had no expectations because I didn’t recognize any of the readers. The last time I attended this Rooftop Reading it was with the intention of meeting Sam Pink, and buying his new book.
Since then, Bud Smith has risen to de facto boss of this new lit genre, taking the reigns of significance from the published sell-out and originator of defunct “Alt Lit,” Tao Lin.
Bud Smith is self taught, and worked (works?) heavy construction, so he isn’t some soft, introspective liberal arts educated patsy. (Maybe his writing is.) He has a respectable ratio of followers on twitter and writes a long weekly essay (about his life) for Hobart Pulp, a website I don’t read. I liked his “novel” Work. I would consider reading it again, its short enough.
He is older than this new crowd of Tao Lin and Megan Boyle wannabes, and is like a supportive father figure of whatever is left of this “movement." He knows he has clout, and says nice, vague and necessary things about all of the readers, like “She is honestly one of my favorite writers. She hosts one of the best reading groups, definitely check it out.” (I will, if they ever respond to my email.) Meaningless, but well meaning. I can't blame him, what else is there to say?
The first reader read stories about food and what she thinks about it. It was funny-ish, and I chuckled a little, but it was nothing I hadn’t heard from other writers, or myself.
I knew from the previous reading I attended on this rooftop—16 months prior—to arrive an hour late. When I arrived, the rooftop resembled a party without any music or dancing: clustered groups were presumably talking about mutual people they each knew.
Within 10 minutes of staring off the roof down at the neighborhood where I made my life’s biggest mistakes the reading began. Bud introduced himself and thanked everyone for coming. One by one people started to sit on the rooftop. When I was the last one standing in the back, I also decided to sit.
There would be six readers tonight, each an alumni of the 6 week writing workshop Bud ran in his Jersey City apartment. I had no expectations because I didn’t recognize any of the readers. The last time I attended this Rooftop Reading it was with the intention of meeting Sam Pink, and buying his new book.
Since then, Bud Smith has risen to de facto boss of this new lit genre, taking the reigns of significance from the published sell-out and originator of defunct “Alt Lit,” Tao Lin.
Bud Smith is self taught, and worked (works?) heavy construction, so he isn’t some soft, introspective liberal arts educated patsy. (Maybe his writing is.) He has a respectable ratio of followers on twitter and writes a long weekly essay (about his life) for Hobart Pulp, a website I don’t read. I liked his “novel” Work. I would consider reading it again, its short enough.
He is older than this new crowd of Tao Lin and Megan Boyle wannabes, and is like a supportive father figure of whatever is left of this “movement." He knows he has clout, and says nice, vague and necessary things about all of the readers, like “She is honestly one of my favorite writers. She hosts one of the best reading groups, definitely check it out.” (I will, if they ever respond to my email.) Meaningless, but well meaning. I can't blame him, what else is there to say?
The first reader read stories about food and what she thinks about it. It was funny-ish, and I chuckled a little, but it was nothing I hadn’t heard from other writers, or myself.
The second reader, Shy Watson, a poet, wasn’t accustomed to reading longer fiction. Her piece was “20 pages, double spaced.” She self-consciously asked the audience to tell her if they wanted her to stop before the story ended.
“No, it’s good!” Someone shouted.
“Keep reading!” Shouted someone else.
“It’s awesome, I love it!” Said Bud.
Her story was about going to visit her ex-boyfriend in Philadelphia over the summer while he was working the Liberty Bell and in a band. It was cute in a forgettable way. It reminded me of the things I used to do and think way back when I also thought they were cool.
She stopped reading abruptly, shortly after she took us out of her self conscious story with her live self consciousness. Everyone clapped, and Bud thanked her for reading.
Some guy read next, and there were some planes going overhead so I couldn’t hear all of the story, but I also didn’t feel like I was missing anything. He went on vacation somewhere with his girlfriend maybe, and there was a boat called Petty Cash. It was also cute, in a quirky hipster way.
They decided to take a break, and I decided to leave. Nothing personal. I got what I wanted: my competitive spirit back.
My problem with the reading was not just that all of the stories sounded the same. They were the same. If I choose to read a memoir, it is to learn life lessons from someone who very different from anyone I know, and has accomplished much more. For example, disagree with the politics of George H.W. Bush, but that man lived an amazing life of accomplishment and his memoirs would be worth reading.
I am no longer interested in hearing the word ‘semester’ in fiction. I am no longer interested in hearing people talk about parties, or shows. I am no longer interested in cute quirk from cute quirks.
I looked at my stories (not my diary) from the fresh perspective of time, and decided to seek an audience. My stories were not a rehash of my dull lived experiences, made quirky and cute for a quirky and cute audience of hipsters. I don’t know what my stories were, but I proudly admitted that they weren’t about me. (Though they were for me.)
There was a rollerblading rapper on the sidewalk in front of the Popeyes. I’d seen him on my way to the reading, and ignored him. On my way back he got my attention with a hook about spaghetti. He hadn’t stopped rapping in the hour I was at the reading. Talk about endurance.
@paperboytheprince elicited legitimate laughter, so I tipped him $5 because he was worth it.
She stopped reading abruptly, shortly after she took us out of her self conscious story with her live self consciousness. Everyone clapped, and Bud thanked her for reading.
Some guy read next, and there were some planes going overhead so I couldn’t hear all of the story, but I also didn’t feel like I was missing anything. He went on vacation somewhere with his girlfriend maybe, and there was a boat called Petty Cash. It was also cute, in a quirky hipster way.
They decided to take a break, and I decided to leave. Nothing personal. I got what I wanted: my competitive spirit back.
My problem with the reading was not just that all of the stories sounded the same. They were the same. If I choose to read a memoir, it is to learn life lessons from someone who very different from anyone I know, and has accomplished much more. For example, disagree with the politics of George H.W. Bush, but that man lived an amazing life of accomplishment and his memoirs would be worth reading.
I am no longer interested in hearing the word ‘semester’ in fiction. I am no longer interested in hearing people talk about parties, or shows. I am no longer interested in cute quirk from cute quirks.
I looked at my stories (not my diary) from the fresh perspective of time, and decided to seek an audience. My stories were not a rehash of my dull lived experiences, made quirky and cute for a quirky and cute audience of hipsters. I don’t know what my stories were, but I proudly admitted that they weren’t about me. (Though they were for me.)
There was a rollerblading rapper on the sidewalk in front of the Popeyes. I’d seen him on my way to the reading, and ignored him. On my way back he got my attention with a hook about spaghetti. He hadn’t stopped rapping in the hour I was at the reading. Talk about endurance.
@paperboytheprince elicited legitimate laughter, so I tipped him $5 because he was worth it.
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