The Art of Reading

Writers head to meatspace

I’ve been privileged, in my career, to do my fair share of public speaking. In my capacity as a journalist, I’ve spoken on panels and appeared on television. One time, I ran for office, and slowly became better at delivering speeches, both those I prepared in advance and remarks delivered extemporaneously. I’m probably most comfortable answering questions in a public forum because I’ve done it for so long—punditry and analysis for the consumption of others—and I could flex my speechifying muscles again if needed, if I don’t particularly miss giving speeches.

One mode of public speaking I’ve undertaken with increasing frequency over the last couple of years—after doing very little of it prior to 2022—is reading my own fiction to an audience.

Last night, I was excited to take part in a great reading series in Manhattan where I read an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Glass Century. I also read an excerpt from Glass Century in June, at the Tense reading series in Brooklyn. And last year, I read, at KGB Bar in Manhattan, the short story “Tad,” which is yet another Glass Century excerpt. (I also read from a book review essay that I wrote for the Mars Review of Books at their Manhattan launch party in April.)

It’s been gratifying, if quite a different experience, to read my own work aloud to others. I still feel more comfortable pontificating, having some interlocutor ask me questions about the political scene or the romantic turn in the culture or something else entirely. Q&A makes a great deal of sense to me. Reading from something I’ve written, and doing nothing else, remains strange. Not because I wish to remain on stage longer or suck up more oxygen in the room. It’s more that fiction has never felt like a performative medium to me, unlike poetry.

I still do not know how to act fiction. I read with some authority and try to take deep breaths. I try not to mumble. I don’t do a variety voices because I’m not a good mimic. I’m not a thespian, so I don’t have any flourishes to offer. My voice can be an acquired taste. I read, and then people applaud, as they do for everyone else. What I can’t quite figure out is whether my piece landed. Sometimes, I’m certain my writing moved someone. Otherwise, I have no idea. When I gave speeches or spoke on a panel, I had a stronger sense of whether my words were resonating with an audience. Fiction is different. And since I am reading excerpts from a novel, a work of literary fiction, the internal metrics of success, to me at least, are even more opaque. Did I do a good job? What is a good job?

Is great writing also the kind that sounds best out loud? I am not sure. There are certain styles that appear to move live audiences more. Self-contained short stories seem preferable to novel excerpts, but since I don’t write short stories anymore and prefer to put my energy into books, this will not be an option for me. At least until Glass Century is published in May of next year, I will be reading from that book and promoting it more aggressively than anything else I’ve published. I’ve been pleased with how my excerpts are received. Compliments are doled out. It’s clear to me, though, coming to an audience in medias res is not necessarily the way to win them over. I cannot self-mythologize enough to you to claim they are enraptured.

Stories, in a live setting, triumph over novel excerpts, and humorous stories with a certain rat-a-tat cadence are the most preferred. There are humorous sections of Glass Century—wait until you meet Heed Ezekiel—but I have yet to read those to an audience. Perhaps I should? Then I begin to wonder if I have the panache to pull off those sections the way I’d like. I’ve never done stand-up comedy, absent peculiar and thankfully never-filmed Andy Kaufman-style performances at a college open mic sometime around 2009. It feels safer to stick to the chapters of Glass Century that are grim or poignant or carry the gravity that I like. But then I read a section set during the first wave of Covid deaths and the audience—at least from what I could determine—seemed a bit flummoxed. Where were the laughs?

A novel is an interior project, undertaken in solitude. Communing on its contents afterwards—discussing your work or what you just read—is a bonus, and often doesn’t happen at all. I know, from attending readings, I’d prefer to hear writers talk about their books than read from them. I want to hear about their inspiration, their attention to craft, how the novel came to be, and what they make of literature, past and present. A great disappointment for my late father, a lifelong Philip Roth devotee—he read just about every Roth book in the year it was published from Goodbye, Columbus to Nemesis—was going to the 92nd Street Y and hearing Roth read from Sabbath’s Theater. Since he was on stage with Nicole Krauss, we both expected him to be in conversation with the novelist afterwards, or to even take audience questions. Instead, Roth read a passage from the novel and promptly left the stage. My father did not care to hear Roth read his own book. He wanted to hear from Roth himself, to get some sense of what a legendary novelist thought about writing and life.

I do think, with time permitting, it is more productive for novelists to take questions than to merely read from their own work. There’s been discourse on that, arguing the opposite point—writers shouldn’t give interviews, they’re often lousy orators, the actual process of writing requires much more forethought and intensity than glibly mouthing off. I get that. I think I am a better writer than public speaker. But I do think if writers are choosing to engage with the public—accepting the invitation to the reading or going on tour—they should do more than simply read their prose out loud. This is because I can read their prose well enough, since I know how to read and my internal voice functions effectively. There is no great premium to hearing the recitation of prose. Many readings now do feature question and answer sessions, and moderators do lead conversations at book launches. Some readings, for space and time constraints, cannot do this, especially if a large number of readers are on the bill. I am very glad there has been a readings renaissance in New York City and young people will actually pay to attend book readings. May this culture flourish a thousand years. And may I get more invites.

I suppose what I prefer, both as an audience member and a performer, is the asking of questions—the probing, the grilling, the excavating. Open me up. Ask away. Give me the privilege, when I return to the audience, of doing the same of the next writer. I want to know what you think and how you create. I want to understand, as much as possible, the human being behind the work if the human being is standing before me. If I have a novel in my hands, I will only care so much. Perhaps, when finished, I’ll research the author and try to learn what I can, especially if I enjoyed the book. If I’ve seen the author, this will only feel more pressing. As a writer at the microphone, I am reminded that, in fact, audiences exist, and my work must live in the world with others. Intellectually, I know this, but the act of creation forces its own logic. When I write have no “ideal” reader, no imagined Other who nods along and digests my prose. I write to be read but I do not write with any particular reader in mind. I don’t imagine a man or a woman, someone young or someone old. I don’t imagine critics. There is creation—what I desire, what I can achieve—and then it is done. I want my writing to be liked and celebrated; I am human, and my ego protrudes. This remains, though, something of an abstract longing, the faces never defined. (Wild praise in the Times Book Review? That would be nice.) When I go up to read, I remember there are people, and some might become my regular readers if I do my job right. I’ll have to perform.