I am rawly and richly embarrassed.
Here I’ve been thinking how great it is that a guy I went to college with has published a few books and then I google him and find out he’s a goddman New York City darling and some sort of writer wizard. Apparently, I live under a rock. That tall ginger who lived down the hall from one of my boyfriends is a phemon and I had no idea. Please, don’t mistake this as a wail of regret for not having followed so clearly a talented young man through the course of his career. No, this is just the dry-heaves sick feeling of me being silly enough to contact him through fucking Facebook and say Hi.
In my own defense I made it a point to cut off most of that college crowd. I am not proud of the girl I was then. I don’t want to be remembered for her. I made little to no effort in staying in touch with people. And clearly, here is one of the dangers of Facebook. Making tall, handsome, unattainable men from college accessible; you can poke them, you can say Hi, you can send them a cell phone through Mafia Wars. Was there ever a more obvious sign that I need to get a life?
I recently read The Year of Endless Sorrows by Adam Rapp and loved it. Having the same college in common I felt in on some of the jokes. The sheer noise of New York crowds any novel written about it, but having a shared place of origin like that, well, it felt like being leaned into and whispered at. The breath of a certain yellow jacket with block purple letters (mine’s from the Pom Squad) brushed that small space between my ear and cheek and I couldn’t help but blush and smile. Dorms named after nuns?! I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t know for a fact that it was true.
When I went off to college I left Minneapolis for a small city in Iowa - not really a step up. I thought that getting out of my parents house would allow me to stretch myself and grow. But that experience of going somewhere to expand yourself and then practically being stifled by it had vexed me in ways I cannot fully express. It is that feeling of confinement that seems to shadow Mr. Rapp’s nameless narrator throughout the novel. I could relate to that, to so badly wanting to shed a formal self but realizing too late that it’s just not possible; we are who we are. We are all already ourselves. The two years I spent in college down in Iowa were terrible and wonderful. It was awful making such huge stupid mistakes. I loved easily and probably too much, I felt at times I was hurt beyond repair. And while broken and shattered I took enough away from the place to be a better person. Mr. Rapp’s narrator seems to deal with much of the same themes during his first year in New York. While parts of the novel are wickedly funny, parts are so heart-breaking I wanted to reach through the pages and give the young man a hug and a home-cooked meal.
So while this isn’t necessarily a review, it is in fact a strong and high recommendation. Heh, just how I like my men, strong and high. Sorry, couldn’t help it.
Again, I feel late to the party here. Mr. Rapp has written a ton of books and I’m only now discovering his talent. Maybe Nerd Girl needs a side-kick, like Lame Chick.
