Yardbird, specializing in Southern cuisine, was cold, even though we knew to bring sweaters. We were seated in the back, away from all the other diners. Restaurants do this to keep the entire wait staff busy, but I wonder why I am habitually the one sent to Siberia. Do I look too old and unhip?
The lack of neighbors made it even chillier. When my shrimp and grits arrived, the dish was lukewarm. I had a bad feeling when I noticed a thin film had formed atop the sauce. I asked if it could be reheated. The waiter took it back to the kitchen, and then returned saying the chef would make me a new one. When I suggested he just pop it in the microwave, he told me that would ruin the flavors. He brought me two biscuits to munch on while Hania ate her pork tenderloin. I ate one; it was delicious; Hania wrapped the other and put it in her purse.
A piping hot shrimp and grits arrived. The shrimp were good but the ham was tasteless; thin strips I didn’t even recognize as ham at first. The grits were bland, even with the Pabst Blue Ribbon sauce. Perhaps they resented the northern beer.
For dessert, we shared a flourless Key lime pie that could have fed a family of six. As we headed toward the exit, passing tables filled with diners, we felt a considerable rise in temperature.
From there it was a short walk to Lincoln Road and the Colony Theater. The people congregating outside the entrance created a kind of Broadway buzz, though it was muffled by the occasional man in shorts. Dressing for the theater, apparently, is not a Miami thing.
The play was Anna in the Tropics, which both of us found disappointing. We thought of leaving after the first act. I wasn’t impressed by the writing; Hania had problems with the acting. She also chafed at the way they all pronounced Karenina, rhyming it with Karolina. The second act was a bit better, though the ending seemed pat and way too abrupt. But it was pleasant walking to the parking garage down a quiet, café-lighted Lincoln Road.
Sunday morning I reheated my biscuit in the microwave. It didn’t taste as good as it had in the restaurant.
Saturday, George Saunders was on “Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me!” and much of the conversation focused on the various odd jobs he had worked as a young man. Host Peter Sagal seemed genuinely bemused by the gigs, one of which was in an abattoir; the unspoken idea being that they were antithetical to the image of a literary man.
And I thought how much the profession of writer has changed over the decades. In the old days, aspiring writers worked all kinds of jobs, and/or joined the army; this gave them material, and put them in touch with everyday people. Today, becoming a writer is like becoming a lawyer, you spend your formative years in a classroom – college followed by graduate school – surrounded by people who are very much like you: from the same background, for the most part, and with the same interests and goals. Saunders himself now teaches in the MFA program at Syracuse University. As a result, many writers have little experience with or knowledge of the working world of the average American. Which partly explains why so many Americans don’t read them.
I drove to Miami yesterday – Bay Harbor Islands, to be exact – where I was interviewed about my life as a writer by a class of eighth graders studying journalism. I was a little apprehensive, having never worked at the most common job in journalism, reporter, but I had three other jobs in newsrooms that I could tell them about: feature writer, editorial writer, travel writer. Not surprisingly, most of the questions were about this last one, which – I had to tell them – no longer exists for the most part. At least not at newspapers.
As usual when I speak at schools here, the students were way ahead of me at the same age: most of them were bilingual and familiar with life outside the U.S. And their questions reflected their young worldliness. The first girl asked how the place I grew up influenced my writing. (She used the word “literature,” which I would have found flattering if I thought she had read me.) I don’t know if anyone had ever asked me that before, and I had to think about it for a while. I answered that growing up in a small town in the small state of New Jersey gave me a life-long affection for the underdog, one that’s often reflected in my choice of subjects (Poland, for instance). A boy asked if I ever experienced doubt as I was starting out, and I told him that I still do (like most writers). Another asked how I handle criticism.
The questions were thoughtful, the students attentive. I left feeling pretty good about the future.
I picked up The Best American Essays 2022 over the weekend and the first piece I turned to was about a woman’s relationship with her body. “At the end of fourth grade, my body mutinously exploded, flesh swelling from my chest and thighs before it happened to anyone else.” I turned to the next piece, which began “The semester prior to his suicide, my friend and I…” Then I flipped randomly to the preceding piece and read “My sister was diagnosed with Ewing sarcoma when I was in my freshmen year of high school…”
I understand the impetus for writers to write about their trauma – it can be cathartic, and help them deal with the pain. What I don’t get is the appetite of readers to read about it. Granted, for those suffering from the same or similar traumas, there’s a certain amount of consolation. But isn’t there any interest, particularly among the distraught, in being lifted up? Experiencing a more life-affirming vision? Escaping from the small island of the self into the wider, richer world?
Apparently not, as The Best American Travel Writing was discontinued this year.
Yesterday I queried a top editor at a major publishing house who responded quickly: “Yours is just not the type of work I acquire since I don't know how to put most memoirs forward.” It took great self-restraint not to reply: “Perhaps you should learn.”