NYC Writer’s Circle Reading
KGB Bar
85 E. 4th St., NYC
Oct. 25, 2023
To quote featured poet Greer Gibney, as a gesture toward summary of Wednesday evening at KGB, the magic of this reading series is in that subtle “merge from I to We.” Gibney’s poem with that message describes in soft lyric the budding of a romance in the languorous heat of high July, but this brisk October evening — overcrammed near to locking elbows in a bar with a desperate need for additional seating — those of us gathered experienced en masse the sweaty sublimity of this very merging.
A reading should not be this good a time.
I know, I know. If you’ve skimmed a handful of my reviews for this publication you’ll no doubt noticed a trend of overwhelming positivity. I can’t say whether it’s on account of sheer luck that I’ve managed to go to so many great events, or it’s simply the exercise of attending events with a presence of mind and attention that must render a piece of writing in response, or, moreover perhaps, if I just have a soft spot for folk doings things that they really want to be doing. But please know, reader, that my intention here is never to aggrandize, never to fluff over the rough, never blow smoke where there’s no fire to be found. If you know me personally, you know I’ve absolutely no qualms with indulging in the negative. But maybe what I’m finding is that, in lieu of roiling fire, there most often is at the least a spark…
Enough about me. This shit rocked.
Kicking off the show, other than host Nat Kimber, was Mark Salzwedel, a composer and writer of sci-fi/fantasy fiction who delivers his prose in a humble, knowing cadence.
There’s a wisdom woven into the work he presented, an excerpt from a novel-in-progress. A Faustian closes the excerpt, spoken by his principle character Zelda: “Life is often full of sorrow and disappointment, even before friends and family move away or die. If I knew I could have 25 whole years of bliss and good fortune, I would happily pay the price and live off my memories.”
No writer on the bill could possibly be more different than any other writer on the bill. That’s the juice of the NYC Writer’s Circle project. This group is one of the few organizations I know of in the city that operate, de facto or de jure (who’s to say?), under a zero-tolerance rule toward pretension. The mix is wild, the crowd welcoming; Hayseeds rub shoulders with MFAs, the industry mingles with hobbyists …
Speaking of hayseeds: Enter, Daisy Cashin!
I jest, hick-to-hick.
Being honest, the minute Cashin opened his mouth my partner and I, both southerners from the Upper-Coastal Plain of Georgia, swamp-rats through and through, dropped our shoulders and settled into his drawl happily wistful. It’s not often we hear an accent in this city that reminds us how much of our own we’ve lost…
From Cashin’s Story:
He said, “Oh, wow. So, do you identify as a Southerner?” […]
An upsetting sarcasm bubbled in my body.
“I sure do! […] In fact, I once had a wet dream about Robert E. Lee.
He let me call him Bobby and juggle his nuts while he sang David Allan Coe. Boy, oh boy, was it special!
Of course, I did not say this because I was raised to have manners, to say this kind of thing behind someone’s back or wait until it’s dark outside.
I really said, “I hadn’t considered it until I moved to New York.”
I had not considered it because I have never identified as anything but confused …
Another reader, Li Sian Goh, presented a piece which posed the question: “Who says literature doesn’t have an impact?”
The political and cultural usefulness of art is a topic forever up for debate. My favorite take on this question is from Andrei Tarkovsky: “Art only has the capacity, through shock and catharsis, to make the human soul receptive to good. It’s ridiculous to imagine that people can be taught to be good … Art can only give food – a jolt – the occasion …” Which speaks to the power of this gathering of organized strangers. A love of literature, as varied in its specifics as KGB’s crowd was in name, is what brought everyone there.
The reader most tuned into the possibility of effect and impact of the written and spoken word was John Iadarola. He read a piece of horror fiction, perfect for the season, entitled “The Grinning.” Obviously a Covid metaphor of sorts, but the horror lies not with the apocalyptic spreading of the disease. The most unsettling element of Iadarola’s story was the detail given to what remained despite the disease:
After I screamed at him, Ben eventually got the hint and stopped bugging me about everything. We’d put on something cute and stupid and pretend to forget about it. But I wouldn’t. I’d stay up late on my phone scrolling through stories. A subreddit dedicated to pictures of the smiles was quickly shut down, but they were still too easy to find. The pope was forced to comment on it. Everyone was. There were the conspiracies, government psyop, racist bullshit. Others thought it was something new in the water, a contaminant only now manifesting in this odd way. Somehow everything else kept humming, but empty.
It is not a matter of simple fortune that the readers on Wednesday were so spectacular. The organizers of the group — agent Nat Kimber, writer Talia BarNoy, and publisher Michael Dolan — have put in the real honest and earnest work to cultivate a social environment that is welcoming to literary creatives at all strata of experience and expertise.
“If you want to read at one of these events or have any questions,” Nat said to close the show, “please ask away. We’re all here together.”
The problem with so many artist circles in this city is the tendency toward clique, the internal hierarchies (I’m looking at you, LES), and the rules of engagement that must be learned to participate. The NYC Writer’s Circle stands in firm-footed, soft-hearted opposition to this cynical mode.
In short, and in thanks to them for doing this work, I extend their invitation to all. Writing is activity done in isolation, and the loneliness can be crippling at times. My final word to all writers in the city who’ve no patience for credentialism outside of the quality of their work, for over-aestheticized social performance, and for the cut-throat games of reputation and class: This is the community you’re looking for.
See you next month, and every last Wednesday after that.
