Bryan Charles
On the day that my book came out—exactly two weeks ago—I went into the city and stopped in a few of my favorite bookstores to see what it looked like out in the world. My emotional reaction to this excursion seemed to microcosmically reflect both a) how I feel about publication in general; and b) how I’ve lived my life since the age of fifteen or so. It began at two smaller stores, St. Mark’s Bookshop and Three Lives and Company, and the feeling I got at both was one of extreme warmth and accomplishment and optimism. There was even, I admit, a fleeting return to the “young genius” mindset I had going on last fall. To see my book displayed at these establishments, to speak to the staff and sign copies (full disclosure: one of my best friends works at St. Mark’s), to picture someone browsing here, picking up the book, looking at the cover, maybe buying a copy—it all made total sense and I felt perfectly at peace and right with the world.
What happened next was I walked farther uptown and ended my journey at a big chain bookstore, at a bigger-than-usual branch, in a prominent Manhattan location. I went to the new release wall and there again was my book and for an instant the rush carried over, the sensation of pride stayed in full glorious bloom, until I paused and gazed up and began to mentally pan back, this space being physically much greater in size. The wall of new releases stretched almost to the ceiling and all around me were tables piled high with books, groaning under the weight, and there were countless titles on the opposite wall too, and down the main aisle and stretching all the way to the back of the store, there were books everywhere, there was every type of book—the Dan Brown and Da Vinci Code-related titles alone would have filled half of St. Mark’s—I was standing among thousands of volumes and I was only on the first floor, there were three more above me. I am not writing this to trigger debate over the merits of shopping at small independents, since I’ve purchased many books at the store I’ve just described. I’m merely trying to say that at best this episode put things “in perspective” and at worst made me feel as significant as flyshit.
But the thing is—and here’s what I mean about this experience reflecting my life since age fifteen (and maybe all writers are like this, I don’t know)—if I’d gone into that last store and my book had had a Dan Brown-style display, a whole table to itself, would that have been enough? Let’s take it a step further. If I’d gone in there and my book had been the only one, the lone title in the whole store, would that have been enough? The answer is yes. And then immediately becomes no. And this is another reason why I haven’t been able to enjoy the last month as much as my friends tell me I should, or as much as I thought I would back in the days when it was all just fantasy and, after that, anticipating. I’ve realized that no matter what happens with Grab it will not be enough. This state of affairs is born not of arrogance or prerogative but rather a steady humming low- (and sometimes high-) grade insecurity coupled with an outsized ambition I’ve never copped to publicly until now. It’s possible that one day in the future, worn out by this dichotomy, I’ll take the advice of a good friend and seek therapy, begin working out this and other thorny issues, phobias and existential concerns. Until then there is Chipotle, which is where I dine now that Subway no longer provides me with comfort. You may see me there some Saturday, back to the window, thinking about my novel. -BC
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