12 Questions for Matthew Davis
The debut novelist on John Lennon, religion, parasocial relationships, attractive women laughing at him on the street, previous romantic flings, and more.
Texting with Matthew Davis a few weeks before the publication of this interview and I tell him I’ve pretty much finished his intro.
‘Is there a quote we can put in the Amazon blurb section… a good glazing quote?’ He says.
‘I’ll look back and see. What’s glazing, I don’t use this adjective? Like plumping?’
‘Gen Z slang for praising.’
‘You identify as a Z-er?’ I ask.
‘Yeah.’ Davis says. ‘I am a Zoomer novelist.’
He goes on to ask several times if I can include a photo of his book cover, which was designed by the artist Jon Rafman.
‘I’m just gonna put the photo of you.’ I say. ‘But I’ll link the book.’
‘We’re here to sell books and get other websites to interview me and REVIEW my book.’ Davis responds.
‘No, that’s why you’re here.’
‘This will be good for Jewish novelists in general.’ Davis tells me.
‘That’s true.’ I respond. ‘We need more of that.’
This is a typical interaction one might have with Davis, disingenuous and irritating, unnecessarily ironic yet devoid of wit, but, I must admit, a touch of seduction and mystery, something that keeps you interested, engaged, if not very slightly charmed, a thing that prohibits you from ignoring him altogether. He’s a nice guy in search of attention; aren’t we all? At the end of the day I think he means really well, though that might just be something called the benefit of the doubt. When interacting with Davis, you need the forgiving sense of the benefit of the doubt, or at least, to just not take life too seriously. Otherwise, it’s true, you might pull your hair out.
Can someone be so disingenuous that they become, in effect, the most oddly genuine, authentic person you know?
***
Over the past several months, I’ve been making a concerted effort to never cancel any plans; an exercise in commitment. I figured that if I go to every plan I make, no matter where and with whom, that maybe I’ll think twice about agreeing to certain things in the first place, and will finally be able to carve out a bit more time for myself, which means more time to read, to write, watch films and stare into space. Time, time that’s so valuable, something I never, no matter what, feel I have enough of. Death creeps forward, ever closer, drawing near. This is terrifying. Theoretically, I enjoy the idea of doing what I’ll say I’ll do, of following through on said commitments. Often I’ll go to a social engagement, date, work obligation or interview and find it to be a useless waste of time, inane, insisting to myself that I’ll never make the same mistake again. Still, for whatever reason, I persist in making reckless plans. The novel I’ve been working on remains incomplete; if someone asks me about it again I’m at the point where I'll pounce them in the face with the dense, unedited manuscript. We’re a social species addicted to building, pushing forward, habitual creatures of manifest destiny despite knowing all the better. At thirty years old I haven’t quite figured out how to say no when I’m merely not in the mood, ever weighing the moral obligation of each request, what I owe every person in terms of what I said I’d do, or mentioned I might be interested in. Some people never start saying no, and then they die without fulfilling their dreams.
My friend Moriah and I were going over the most obnoxious thing someone could say to cancel a plan, and by a long-shot this is the line we both agreed to be the winner: I’m sorry I’m unavailable, but I’m trying to cultivate my own theoretical paradise, a wondrous place where I could exist, and you’d be getting in the way. It’s true that this is rude but, it is actually, in terms of the writing I don’t do and the films I don’t watch and the endless list of books I don’t get around to reading, the truth. It is also exactly the kind of text we’d both love to send to absolute strangers, to new acquaintances, taking pleasure in their reaction, but in reality would never dare. Well I did it once, and never heard from the person again. Success, I suppose. Moriah mentions it might be better to just text something simple, like, I’ve eaten too much, and no longer have the wherewithal to be social whatsoever. In a sudden turn, a complete non-sequitur, Moriah starts to bemoan the type of people who buy the same shirt and pants in different colors, wearing them on consecutive days, thinking no one will notice. ‘Those are the type of people I wouldn’t mind canceling plans with,' Moriah says. ‘Perfect candidates for the theoretical paradise text.’
‘Yeah,’ I respond, not really listening, and not listening because I’m thinking of a certain Matthew Davis, who’s been occupying a truly unjust and in no way reasonable sum of my mind. I’m thinking of exactly what I could text him to get out of the interview, this far in, after he’s already completed his responses, before acquiescing to despair. ‘There’s no way out of this one,’ I murmur to myself.
‘What?’ Moriah says.
‘No, nothing. Matthew Davis.’
‘Who.’
‘Downtown writer guy. Engineer. Religious.’
‘Oh.’ Moriah says, deeply uninterested. She finds the whole downtown literary world creepy, rightly so. I attend many events and readings, I’m part of it in some abstract way, and I don’t disagree, lashing myself with discontent every time I’ve had a good time, or have become too close.
Despite my desire to cancel the whole charade, to not spend any time writing this intro, publishing this interview, something does genuinely interest me about Matthew Davis, an element of his persona that drew me close several months ago.
A parent, desperately, gauges the interiority of their children, what’s really going on in their lives. In the same way, a child will never truly know the inner-life of their parents, at least not until they’re dead. Beyond the art, good or bad, I wish to know something of the inner-life of my subjects, here and now Matthew Davis. From the few times we’ve casually spoken, I’m building a good idea of Davis’s interiority, to the extent that he’ll let me in, the man he’s hiding behind the defense of so-called irony. And it’s something casual, dare I say even quotidian; there’s nothing wrong with that. I suspect, though, that Matthew Davis thinks there’s something wrong with that. He wants to be more.
***
When he’s not writing, editing, or posting on the internet, Davis works in tech as a software engineer. He grew up in an upper-middle class family in Poughkeepsie, New York, though on a recent phone call he asked if I could include the sentence that he grew up with a lot of money anxiety; he describes himself as blue-collar middle class, basically another way of saying financially comfortable yet entirely uncultivated. He moved to the city to attend NYU and after graduating fell into a trendy Lower East Side crowd, dating the novelist Honor Levy before beginning a relationship with the podcaster/actress Dasha Nekrasova, attending all the very in parties and readings. He regularly discussed and flaunted his Catholic/Jewish identity during a period when it was in fashion to attack a vague concept often labeled neoliberalism. From the root of economic disparity, despair, and online confusion, there existed, among the young, hot, modish new socialites, an understandable desire to make an artful, graceful return toward conservative religious values, all with a form of alternative, aesthetic flair. Houellebecq’s humorous 2015 novel Submission, and his erudite, witty book of essays Interventions 2020, which primarily focus on how society has trouble sustaining itself without a collective religious belief system, had an effect on the way this new movement began to define itself, even if it seemed like only a handful of people actually read the books; through X and Instagram, the loose notions of these complex theories began to spread. It’s in this environment that Davis found himself joining a new sect of the downtown literati, and where he sold his first novel, Let Me Try Again, which, he told me, he wrote over the course of a few months in his early twenties for an hour or two a day, just before the lower-Manhattan literary scene began to resurrect itself as something more sex-filled, edgy, and — paradoxically — conservatively faith based. (Skyhorse Publishing bought the rights.) While previous iterations of Manhattan’s literary world contained a uniquely American, Puritanically neutered dogma at its heart and core, the new scene, which grew organically, would be socially reckless, erotically tinged, politically questionable; God would be present, monitoring the situation, a place where one could go to ask for forgiveness.
Considering the supposed enoughness of Davis’s life, (I mean this all sounds interesting enough, publishing a book in this milieu, sustaining himself financially through a stable full time job where his skills will always be useful), why then does he consistently try to portray himself as something extra to or more than what’s already there? What point is he trying to prove, to himself, and to others?
A few days later, I answered my own question, through the help of Cassidy Grady, a writer and actress who moves in the same downtown scene as Davis. ‘I love Matthew, he’s so cute.’ Cassidy says after I bring up the interview.
‘Yeah, yeah. Sure.’ I respond. ‘But why is it that, in the answers to his questions in the interview and also at the points in his work where he could really show himself, why is it that he retreats to irony and sarcasm as opposed to the occasional discomfort of sincerity, or the simplicity of being straightforward? I mean part of me likes him but I also find it, well him, pretty annoying.’
Cassidy takes a large sip of water, then gulps, and hiccups, before coughing several times, laughing, deciding, finally, that it was time to answer. ‘Irony is used as a crutch as opposed to a tool because it gives you plausible deniability over everything. Like yeah, irony is a literary device, a comedic tactic, but if you’re not able to master it anymore, it’s because it’s mastered you, and the artist has lost control.’
‘Is it like nihilism?’
‘No.’ Cassidy says, still coughing, lightly punching her stomach as she tries to stop. She flips her hair back. ‘It’s not as thoughtful as nihilism. The decimation of having anything to say at all is in itself the statement. That’s the tragedy of being irony-pilled.’
‘Irony-pilled?’
‘What you’re describing about Matthew. It’s like a disease and it’s not even really intentional.’
‘But he’s aware of it deep down and wishes to be more sincere?’
‘No that’s what you’re projecting. He might not really care or give a shit.’
‘But either way, it’s a coping mechanism, right?’
‘Oh yeah.’ Cassidy says. ‘Like alcohol and drugs, sex and women, eating too much, pathological lying, uhm.’
‘Irony.’
‘Yeah. But it’s cool when it’s used in the right place and time.’
‘Eating dessert also has its time and place.’
‘But only a broken freak wants to eat dessert all the time!’ Cassidy says, smiling with the grin of a mischievous child. She breaks out into laughter, ha-ha-ha, a high pitched giggle.
***
Time has the unique ability to save us from ourselves. This is true almost always, except for the occasion when immediate action is required and something cannot wait. Knowing when to act and when to pause and let things be is, in my opinion, the definition of wise behavior, a form of wisdom that at times appears impossible to grasp.
It’s been a couple months now since I finished conducting this interview. I’m reviewing my notes from when I first started Matthew’s intro in the middle of July. Here’s a light sample:
It was around noon on a Saturday, the sabbath, that I finally decided, against my will, the kind of piece I was going to write. I was sitting at Bar Ricardo, one of the oldest tapas bars in Valencia, drinking beer and Spanish rum. The weather could best be described as scorching; humid and above 95, at least. I watched the Spanish women play France in handball, a quarter final in the Paris olympics. My waiter kept fluttering his lips every time France would score, they were winning by nine. I looked up at the screen and thought with certainty: I’m going to tear him to shreds—rightfully so. The tapas bar, like Valencia, was near empty. It was a day before they were about to go on holiday for a month, a much needed break, the manager told me. I’m going to tear this fucking asshole to shreds, I thought once more before taking another sip of my drink, dreading the process of going home to begin writing the intro. France score again, two in quick succession, and the waiter throws his towel on the floor before kneeling down to pick it up, saying ‘puta madre, coños francesas’ (French cunts), laughing, much glee, childish and cruel.
‘Ughh.’ I sighed, staring at the TV and again back at my beer, and then the rum, picking it up to pour it down in one go. ‘Yeah, alright, fine. Fuck this guy.’
Sitting down now to write, I begin to wonder about what point we decide, subjectively, personally, that someone just kind of sucks? We do, or at least I do, have hope at the start of every new interaction…
At that I point I stopped writing, and began working on something else. The tone, the sentiment, the annoyed self-aware yet still vengeful attitude didn’t feel quite right. I put it aside for a little while, hoping he’d never text to follow up.
But he did, on a Monday at the beginning of this month.
‘What happened to our interview?’ He rightly said.
***
Not that anyone cares, but I’ve actually come to like Matthew, to recognize his charm, irony-poisoned or not. I’m happy I waited for the seasons to change before sitting down to write this. Looking back, though, I did have good reason to be miffed, a bit annoyed with Davis.
When I first reached out asking if he’d be interested in the interview, he called a mutual friend of ours, Peter Vack, and began to ask who I was, enquiring as to whether I was an internet schizophrenic intent on ruining his life.
‘No.’ Peter assured him, laughing into the phone. ‘He’s just, like, a New York kid with this interview series. You should do it.’
Later that day, I ran into Peter on Essex and Hester and he explained the situation.
‘But isn’t that kind of schizophrenic?’ I asked Peter, referring to Matthew’s paranoia.
‘I mean, I guess.’ He said. ‘But there have been a few people to come after us, like actually harass us online with no end in sight. And it can be really frightening.’
That’s fair enough. I run into Matthew outside of a reading at a gallery on Orchard a few days later, the first time I meet him in person. I’m walking my dog and purposely pass the event, to see who I might run into.
‘Gordon, Goooordon, Gordon, Gordon. I’m sorry I called you schizo to Peter,’ he says. ‘There were just like, some scary situations recently that freaked me out, this guy with a podcast and a cowboy hat who was like, threatening to ruin my life with blackmail. Honor Levy’s life too. Everyone. It was crazy.’
‘Oh,’ I responded. ‘A guy with a podcast and a cowboy hat.’
(Looking into this further, there was in fact a man with a mediocre podcast and cowboy hat threatening to harm writers and artists who associated themselves with this relatively new downtown scene. It would have scared me as well.)
This summarizes the first interaction I’d ever had with Davis; it wasn’t smooth, to say the least. Deciding to conduct the interview closer to summer-time, to the release of Let Me Try Again, we loosely kept in touch on social-media. I found a lot of his Instagram stories to be funny, a mix of caustically abject captions laid upon a photo of something that didn’t match, completely out of context with what was being said. Or sometimes just a tweet-like aphorism against a black or pink background. Having friends and chilling is one of the worst things a writer can do, one of them read, and I found it funny, making the uncontrolled gesture of, as they say, laughing out loud.
My irritation reignited when Davis and I had our second proper interaction, a particularly unpleasant ninety minute phone call consisting of, in no particular order: How many people are gonna read this thing anyway, like three or four? No, hahah, I didn’t read your work, and I’m not going to. Is there anyway we can do a deal where you get Dwight Garner to review the novel and I in turn introduce you to my agent Julie and can help you get a book deal, a little quid-quo-pro? Yeah, Gordon, the other downtown writers are kind of jokes. Writers used to be serious people who could quote Dostoevsky and Wittgenstein offhand, now they’re people who have tattoos and aren’t good at math who try to make stories. They used to be able to read Latin and Greek, now they smoke weed and then write stories about the time they smoked weed. None of these other writers with books out can do that, they’re just online personalities, they meme Hello Kitty and stuff. He went on to name a few of his friends, and then: What makes me different is that I just really love reading and writing, you know? What have you been writing since the book? I asked. I’ve got some stuff cooking. He responded. We started to talk about religion: The thing about me and my work is that, I’m like, a Catholic, but I’m Jewish. I’m a Catholic but at the end of the day I’m Jewish, and that just defines my whole life. Can you say more? Just my Judaism constantly undermining my Catholicism, like we’re sinners and we’re going to hell but I’m bargaining my way out, with no success.
OK, I said, giving a full-Jewish sigh. The very next day I wrote the intro mentioned earlier, the one in the tapas bar. There was another sentence I didn’t add. It went something like: Matthew Davis is a good, young writer with promise, and I wouldn’t discourage you from reading his new book, but he’s not good enough to be such a fucking asshole.
Again, I’m happy I took the time for summer to pass, to let certain emotions pass. He’s really not that bad. Few people are.
***
An editor of a widely read online publication recently told me, insisting he not be named, that he found Davis’s perspective on religion, specifically on Christianity, to be performative, if not entirely disingenuous.
In conversation, Davis talks a decent amount about his Christian background, his sense of faith. He grew up, he says, under the influence of Vatican II, the outcome of a council which modernized the Roman Catholic Church and promoted interfaith dialogue. He likes to mention that the Vatican II (which he now denounces) in its tolerant recognition of other religions, is not really true to what Catholics believe in, a kind of neoliberal muddying of something deathly harsh, yet pure.
In the aforementioned unpleasant ninety minute conversation, I asked him if he could be more specific. He dodged the question and began again to talk about being half Jewish on his father’s side, how that gave him a good sense of humor but the endless curse of neurosis.
‘What do you mean?’ I responded.
‘It’s like I said before, the Jewish thing subverts the Catholic stuff, much to my chagrin.’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, like, you know, I’m a Neo-Freudian Jewish novelist that’s also Catholic. It’s like that.’
‘I don’t really follow.’
‘So how many people are going to read this thing?’ Davis asked again.
The answer to my question of what, actually, it is that this man wants to say, has to say, about and to the world, was yet to be answered.
I called Davis again this past Friday and asked him for his response to the well known editor’s accusation of religious disingenuousness.
'I genuinely believe.’ He says. ‘Look, this isn’t something I like, but I really believe that if you’re not inside the Catholic Church, then you’re going to die and go to hell, forever.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I’m not trying to be edgy,’ he says. ‘It’s a thing I’m tormented over, and it’s what the Church has taught for over 2000 years. I don’t like it but it’s what I’m supposed to believe.’
He says this over and over, but for some reason I have trouble believing him. That’s my problem, my prerogative. I press him again on where the Jewish equation comes in. I quote to him our conversation that took place during the summer, where he failed to really say what any of that meant.
‘Like, in my view,’ I begin, ‘Judaism is a complex dialectic as opposed to a dogmatic black or white, it’s a never-ending conversation.’
‘Well yes, and I do have this innate Jewishness that makes me react to the world around me, I embody a certain Jewishness.’
‘How would you define that Jewishness?’
‘Judaism is a set of commandments in the torah.’ Matthew responds. ‘Observant Orthodox Jews are obsessed with loopholes, like the way they utilize Shabbas lamps and elevators. And with the utilization of loopholes, that’s how I operate within the strict confines of Catholicism.’
Finally, after he tried again, and again, I begin to understand what he wants to say, or something of the substance of what he means deep down. Perhaps it is me that wasn’t reading between the lines, that was slow on the uptake, or maybe it was him, who, as a writer and self-proclaimed Neo-Freudian novelist (one of his tired yet admittedly funny bits), failed to conceptually put his perspective into words. If anything I was serving as Freud, Davis the unwitting subject. All to say, we were getting somewhere.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Matthew says toward the end of our call. ‘I want you to know that I started the religious trend in the downtown scene. I baptized Honor Levy in my bathroom, my other ex never even went to church before I did.’
‘Got it.’ I say. ‘And oh, can you say just a little more about your response to the accusation of religious disingenuousness?’
‘I’d say that writing a novel is the most earnest thing you can do, it’s a vulnerable novel about heartbreak and religion.’
The preference, like with the content of our other conversations, would have been for Davis to be a little more specific, or provide an example that could be pulled. What annoyed me most was that it didn’t feel like he was being evasive, or hiding anything, just that there wasn’t much there. But it’s true he did, after all, write this book; to a certain degree his response is true; Matthew Davis put himself out there, and you can’t blame him for having certain defense mechanisms, or for not being perfectly media trained like a well-oiled sociopath. He’s a human with diverse beliefs. And young, twenty-seven, still figuring things out and finding his way. I, and many others, would like to see what he does next.
***
There’s relief now that this is done, could be the weight of hell, if such a thing exists. It’s true I feel like dancing.
GG: Can you tell me a bit about your relationship with jealousy, perhaps some instances where it’s had an effect on your life?
MD: This calls to mind a John Lennon lyric from Run For Your Life “Well, you know that I'm a wicked guy / And I was born with a jealous mind.” It's referenced in the book. John later disavowed this song as lazy and misogynistic but I think it’s very vulnerable, a tongue in cheek song about how bad things can really get.
I relate to it a ton, I’m extremely petty, jealous, and bitter. I have a ton of contempt for every other writer I meet, and I constantly feel like they’re getting attention and praise they don’t deserve. As I get older I find myself less bitter, less jealous, but it’s a dark and scary thing deep inside of me. Some may say my entire debut novel, Let Me Try Again is about jealousy and was written in a petty and jealous state.
Who are some of your favorite writers and why? Which of these writers most closely inspired Let Me Try Again ? Further, what attracts you to these writers — is it their style and tone, or the unique contents of what they discuss?
Nabokov, Kafka, David Foster Wallace, Oscar Wilde. They all knew how to write. I think Wilde, Wallace, and Kafka understood loneliness, Nabokov understood how to write beautifully while still being entertaining, and how to portray mad men on the page. I read his book Despair while I was finishing the first draft of my book and it’s a great story about a mad man, so funny and so smart. Kafka understood what it’s like to be a creepy Jewish guy and be ashamed or deeply uncomfortable with the person you are. David Wallace is the best at a lot of things, but one of my favorite weapons of his is that postmodern trick of creating absurd fake businesses, fake historical events, etc, etc, that add texture and ground you in the universe of his story. Think of Subsidized Time in Infinite Jest, among other things. This device (certainly not invented by Wallace, surely Pynchon, DeLillo and others even earlier were doing it first) works wonderfully on TV, and I think 30 Rock is the best at it. Watched a lot of 30 Rock while writing this book.
What was it like to grow up in Poughkeepsie? Any funny stories from childhood that are relevant today?
I spent all my time watching TV and going on Twitter, playing video games. Never went out. Drove around in the car with my dad a lot. I guess it was good that I got to watch a lot of TV. Not that interesting. Next!
What’s the difference between parasocial relationships and artistic inspiration? Where do they meet / coalesce? How do they contrast?
There are schizophrenic guys who DM me but I don’t think any of them are talented or have anything to say. Do I inspire them? I’m not sure.
I will say, actually, I really liked The Howard Stern Show, a ton, as a kid, was basically autistic for it. I think Howard’s ability to make his office staff part of the on-air universe created this feeling that anyone could be interesting, and made the audience feel like they really had some insight into what was going on, like these people on the radio were their friends. The New York City podcast universe, of which I’m, uh… tenuously connected to, is the modern day version of this. People think they’re friends with the podcasters because podcasters talk about / to their unimpressive friends. Instagram, podcasts, “readings,” they make schizophrenic people feel like they know you.
Any healthy, thriving literary/arts scene has rivalries, and I think these rivalries are integral for the production of art that’s any good, any worthwhile. Who are your rivals and why? What would you say to this rival if you’d really want to get under their skin? Further, what, in your opinion, makes your work stronger, more vital, more necessary, than the work of your rival?
Almost every other writer in this “scene” you’re asking me about is irredeemably bad. Either outright terrible, or at best merely mediocre and unimpressive. They have nothing to say, they’re not funny, the prose sucks, they can’t do math, they can’t code. If you go to any of these “readings,” you’ll sit there for an hour and hear some of the worst stories ever, delivered with zero charisma, lots of swearing and graphic descriptions of sex, though. In most of my stories, with the exception of some of the lowbrow trite antagonisms, a bunch of stuff happens, there’s internal conflict, they’re often funny, there’s no swearing, the message is usually sex negative.
Wow, I just came back to this answer after hearing a homily at mass today (Sunday 7/28) about how dangerous pride is. I feel really ashamed of what I wrote. That’s not very nice. People work hard on stuff. I do think a lot of them aren’t very entertaining, but I should try to be nicer. People have dreams of being creative. Sorry, sorry. Let me shout out some people whose writing I like: Honor Levy, Writers Life Tips, Zans Brady Krohn, Madeline Cash, Jordan Castro. There are some others, but I’ll name these as people who’ve produced things that I really enjoyed reading.
Who are some artists, living or dead, that you’d love to talk to? What questions would you ask them? How come those questions, why those artists?
Probably like… John Lennon. I never really paid attention to The Beatles until I was 21 and living in Los Angeles and had a faintly English girlfriend whose baby boomer parents inflicted them on her as a kid—but I digress… The Beatles, and John in particular, often blow me away. John has, perhaps, the most sensitive perspective of any mega-popular artist, and while he didn’t die at the peak of his powers, he seemed to be getting back into a creative groove.
Oh, Kanye, too. I’ve been autistic for Kanye since high school. He’s a true artist. He’s almost never very articulate at explaining his own genius feelings, although he’s done some of the best and most emotional interviews ever, especially during the Yeezus era.
There are some other guys who died too young and get a lot of credit for it. I’d love to talk to John Cassavetes, David Wallace, it seems like they had more work in them and were deeply sensitive guys, true artists like John Lennon, Elliot Smith, Lana, Kanye. Oh yeah, also Steve Jobs. I had an obsession with Steve Jobs as a child and spiraled pretty hard when he died.
For any of these people, I don’t know if I could tell you what I’d ask them. It would be more about chilling, being around that level of TRUE ARTISTRY, and then brilliant ideas would naturally come up.
Building on the last question about talking to interesting artists. Let’s say you are asked to sit down for a penetrating interview with Adolf Hitler on MSNBC, standing in for Rachel Maddow. The thing is, Hitler is very busy, so you only have time to ask him one question. What would it be, and why? Further, what do you think it would be like to make love to Rachel Maddow?
I don’t really get this question. Hitler? Huh? I guess I would say “How DARE you sir?” As for fornicating with Rachel Maddow? I imagine it would be pretty rough as she’s a well-known lesbian (one of the more prominent ones from my childhood, up there with Ellen and Rosie) and probably would not enjoy it. It would be rough for both of us. I’d be pretty uncomfortable with the discomfort I’d surely sense from her. Gives me the chills just thinking about it—feels really sad to even imagine how we’d end up in that position.
Let Me Try Again is your first novel. Do you see yourself as a career novelist, or do you think you’ll now begin to explore other forms?
I’d like to write more novels; I think the novel is a beautiful form. I have a feature film I wrote with my good friend Writers Life Tips, and that was pretty easy, it came out smooth. It’d be nice to write more stuff for the screen. I started writing stuff for the screen when I was in middle school, after discovering this screenwriting software called CeltX (people don’t really use it anymore but it had a moment). I wrote several “episodes” of a TV show starring me, a bunch of my classmates, and my teachers. This was not quite autofiction, kinda the inverse of it, as it featured real people in scenarios that did not actually happen even a little. (Whereas autofiction often refers to descriptions of real events written in a “literary” style, with the names sometimes changed). I was obsessed with TV back then. I didn’t know you could even write novels, definitely not funny novels.
Who would be the right director for the film adaptation of Let Me Try Again? Why them? What do you think this director would need to change to make the book work as a film in their unique style?
Woody Allen would be dope, also this guy Alex Ross Perry would be really good I bet, I’ve only seen his movie The Color Wheel but I liked it a lot. It kinda reminded me of my book. Jewish guy. I met him one time but I don’t think he remembers me.
When you hear a group of attractive women laughing on the street, do you assume it’s about you? If so, why? If not, does that mean you feel secure? I’m wondering while I write this question — what does it mean to feel secure in the first place? Is it even possible?
Yeah, actually, I always assume women are laughing at me. Is this in the book? Or is this a common thing for Jewish men to feel? I joke about it a lot but I didn’t know other Jewish men felt this way. I feel like Kafka probably felt like women were laughing at him on the street. What does it mean to feel secure? Maybe that you’re not worried people (women) are laughing at you. When things are going well I think I'm less inclined to feel like women are laughing at me, but if I haven’t eaten all day or if I find myself frustrated or humiliated for some other reason, it starts to feel like the whole world is giggling at my misfortune. I think Kafka understood this, look at the little parable, Before The Law in The Trial about those gates. It’s a great metaphor for delusional narcissistic victim mentality. This feeling that the whole world is conspiring to punish just you, for no real reason.
What’s your relationship with religion? What was it like to be raised under the ideas of the Vatican 2 (as you mentioned on a recent phone call)? How do your beliefs today differ from your beliefs growing up? How have your religious beliefs had an effect on your artistic output?
I am a traditional Catholic. I was raised in the Vatican 2 religion and was basically taught that everybody goes to heaven, as long as you “believe in Jesus,” but also, that Jews have a special path to salvation, and also that it doesn’t really matter anyway. I went to the new mass every week at home and never missed it even once during college and the first year after graduation (pre-Covit). I used to roll out of bed, show up, get the cookie (the new “mass,” is of course, invalid and so what I received was merely a cookie, and not the transubstantiated Body of Christ…), never go to confession, kinda do whatever I wanted. And then I watched this very interesting video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VB_hUdRKi4o) on January 1 2020, and became convinced we’re living in end times, and started attending a Byzantine Rite Catholic church. Now, imagine how much of a genius I must have felt like when the entire world shut down due to a mysterious plague two months later? It was a crazy level of apparent vindication.
What was your time like at NYU? What did you study, and how did it lead to writing? What kind of social animal were you?
Had a bunch of friends at first but never went to any parties as I was afraid of alcohol and loud noises. Some women kinda liked me when I first showed up in the dorms, but then I lived “off campus” after my first year. I was studying math and computer science. I moved to Downtown Brooklyn in a tall fancy building in 2017 and had no friends, felt terribly lonely, started reading a bunch of books (I’d never read any before this), and then started writing fiction. I probably have like 100,000 words of fiction from 2018, it’s all great stuff, better than the stories I see my peers publishing now even as they’re like 9 years older than I was back then.
Can you tell me a bit about some of your previous romantic relationships ? How have these relationships shaped your current perspective, your disposition?
Basically uhh, constant emasculation and humiliation. I think I’m still friends with every woman I’ve ever had any intimate or romantic interactions with. The one this book is about might be mad at me, I’m not sure, I saw her a few months ago and it was nice but then she texted me afterwards and said my reading (she came to an event where I did a “reading”) “dismayed” her. I don’t really know why it dismayed her. Everyone else kinda liked it. The other women I’ve had romantic interactions with I still talk to a lot. A few times a week, a couple every day still. Makes me think of another iconic John Lennon lyric (also from Rubber Soul) where he says
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
I was thinking about this a ton when I was writing my book, I have a tendency to have trouble letting go of things, blah blah blah, but I wanted to capture this feeling in the heartfelt (some may say mawkish…) ending of my debut coming-of-age comic novel. Also kinda the end of The Age of Innocence has a feeling similar to this. About being kinda sad about something you missed out on but content with it after enough time. Deep. Love that book.
Not a leading question, but something I think it’d be interesting to hear your answer on: Would you say you have a good/healthy relationship with women, ‘the female sex’? What does it mean, in the first place, for a man to have a healthy relationship with women?
Kinda answered this above but I’ll reiterate. I’ve had a series of relationships that all ended slowly and tragically. Still friends with all of them. I have a female psychoanalytic psychotherapist, female literary agent. I talk to them a lot. I think it’s important (but easy to forget) to love women for what they are—not try to change them or expect them to act like your Boys. I think my book is kinda about a guy who loves women for what they are, ultimately. But it’s sometimes frustrating to accept that we’re different and will inevitably see things differently. My other relationships probably ended in tragic fizzles because of well, maybe a combination of being drawn to women I was ultimately only dubiously compatible with, and my own youth and inability to settle for small amounts of incompatibility. Compatibility itself, being kind of a made up thing (what? You think you can’t be with someone who doesn’t like the same flavor of ice cream as you?), and is only as much of an issue as one person or the other refuses to accommodate some quirk or shortcoming in their partner. Now that I’m older—and have been thoroughly beaten down by life—I hope I’ll never try to make a woman stop smoking cigarettes again, either because I am mature enough to accept her cigarette smoking, or because I’m mature enough to join myself romantically to a woman who doesn’t smoke cigarettes and get drunk all the time, etc, etc, etc, etc. The ending of my book is kinda about how you can’t change other people, and you can’t change yourself. Except you kinda can, by becoming Christian. It’s all in the book.
What do you like about making memes? Can a meme be art? What, anyway, do you think qualifies as art? What doesn’t?
It’s not art, at least not when I do it. I made a meme page to promote my book because people are stupid and they like memes, I like memes too, because I’m r-worded. It’s not that hard to make memes, I don’t think it’s impressive to make memes, there are none I’m proud of. There are some really funny memes out there. Uhh? What is art? Kinda a stupid question that’s too hard to answer. I want to entertain people.
What do you now enjoy that you never have before? What do you no longer enjoy? Is there anything you’d like to enjoy, take pleasure in, that you’re simply not able to?
I been chilling a lot lately, drinking a lot of Diet Coke. That’s been pretty cool. Also, books have not been hitting for me as much lately. I used to love every book when I first started reading a lot of fiction. There was something enchanting about reading the best authors. I’ve been reading more contemporary stuff lately and it makes me feel sort of empty. In college I hated every movie and loved every book, now I love every movie (maybe because I go see them in theaters and drink Diet Coke) and hate every book. Or maybe because I only see old movies and I only read new books.
When you write, who are you speaking to? What is it that drives the need for self-expression? Do you know why it is that you write?
I thought young men would like this book, but actually middle aged women really seem to be enjoying it. I write because uh…. I guess I have this idea that I have stuff to say, and want to entertain.
What’s your relationship with death? How often do you think about it? How does death define your work? How does death define your approach to life?
So scared of dying. The Catholic teaching is that everyone who isn’t Catholic goes to hell, and even most Catholics go to hell, since no one goes to confession. https://youtu.be/efiJauhz664 — Link this vid. It’s powerful. Similar to the homily in Joyce’s Portrait. Both inspired by one from Saint Alphonsus Liguori.
How humiliating is the process of self promotion?
I told you to add this question when you called me on the phone. It’s pretty humiliating.The act itself (“Hey, I wrote this book…. Maybe you’d like it? Maybe you could tell your famous friend about it?”) is quite humiliating, you have to debase yourself and plead, but what’s even worse, is basically admitting how desperate you are for validation and recognition. I mean, I think all writers are messed up and desperate for recognition, wanting people to think they’re smart and funny, but maybe the best ones have a sort of shame about it, and wrote things just for their friends and had to get thoroughly encouraged to put themselves out there. Think Kafka and Max Brod. Kafka was deeply ashamed of himself, and probably his work, begged his friend to burn all those letters and the unpublished stories. Good thing he didn’t.
So I guess my natural inclination is to be shy / adorable and Kafka coded, but now that my book is actually coming out and other people have a four-figure financial investment in its success, I want everybody to read it. Please, if you’re a journalist, write about my book. I want to sell a lot of books.
Great interview and strikingly honest introduction. How do you remain committed to honesty regardless of bordering the line between being insulting/insensitive to the person you’re writing about? I respect the honesty, and it makes for a fun read, the novel sounds good too but this aspect is what stood out to me most. Thanks for sharing.