think about things.

Last week, I heard John D'Agata and Jim Fingal read from their book, The Lifespan of a Fact. I have been thinking ever since of what I could say about it or even how I felt. The honest truth is that it's a little difficult for me to separate my intellectual thoughts from my starstruck awe. I know it might be just me, but John D'Agata is a major literary celebrity in my life. As I've mentioned before, his collection The Next American Essay single-handedly turned me on to writing that I didn't only love, but writing I wanted to create. Which I think would be the moment I became a writer.

At any rate, the reading was entertaining and thought-provoking, but not as whipped up as I'd hoped. John D'Agata mock-rolled his eyes every time Fingal read one of his sections pointing out D'Agata's accuracy errors. Or maybe it was for real. There was a major element of performance in the reading, which I think must also be read into the book. It is an exaggeration for the sake of a point.

What has stuck with me, however, is a moment towards the end of the Q&A that followed the reading. I can't for the life of me remember what the question was, but I do remember D'Agata's intensely thoughtful answer as he explained what he believed the essay to be. The largeness of it, in my opinion, defies any simple understanding. Or simple explanation.

I think too hard about things. Life things. Philosophy things. Science things. Religion things. Decision things. I carve out a lot of thinking time for myself so that I can just sit and think about all these things. I take myself a bit too seriously sometimes, but I think we all do. Things that have to do with why and things that have to do with rules aren't always worth thinking about. Sometimes thinking about those things only screws you up. Do I make sense? I hope not. That is, after all, the point of philosophizing: confuse everyone and act smart. Isn't it?

thank you, john d'agata.

I was more or less born a reader, if one can say such a thing. What I mean is that, from the moment I learned to read, I did it voraciously. I read quickly and eagerly. I always loved language. I was not likewise born a writer. I mean, I understood grammar. I could write clear sentences and well-organized paragraphs. But the idea of writing creatively never crossed my mind.

My final year of college, I decided to turn my English minor into a major and, subsequently, I crammed a lot of credits into two semesters. I had more or less covered the literature courses I needed, but not the writing. So I took what was my first real creative writing class. I'm going to risk one great big cliche by saying: it changed my life. I read Brenda Miller's A Braided Heart in the anthology Writing Creative Nonfiction. I heard the term "lyric essay" and I instantly fell in love. I can't tell you why exactly, but it made my heart pound. So, in a wave of impulse, instead of using my senior thesis to analyze a literary work, I used it to study the lyric essay and create my own.

I'm having all this nostalgic reflection because, during this past week, John D'Agata has ignited some controversy surrounding his forthcoming book, The Lifespan of a Fact. Those many years ago when I began to explore creative writing, John D'Agata was something of an idol to me. Not because I knew him, or really anything about him. I had his collection, The Next American Essay, which I thought was very cool. And I had the original issue of the Seneca Review that began to advertise and publish what was called the lyric essay.