On Monday night The Fiction Advocate will be squatting in a meadow in Central Park, waiting for fly balls to drop in left field. So we’re pissed we have to miss Colson Whitehead’s reading at Book Court in Brooklyn at 7:00pm.
If you make it to the reading, which promises to be funny, packed, and triumphant (with all the great press he’s been getting lately) please tell Colson we think he’s dreamy.
Maybe we’ll just have to open a Twitter account and follow him there.
I think it’s worth remembering that authors are not mortal like the rest of us. They are physical embodiments of the spirit of their work. Colson is not “present” in this photograph; he IS the photograph, and the dock and the water and the white bird shit on the wooden planks. All of it, together. His tie-and-vest combo says Victorian dandy; his cuffs and boots say punk rocker; his skin and dreadlocks say black and proud; the clouds and sea say heed our warming, for this man will write many great books in the years to come.
But yeah, it’s silly.
So I believe you that he’s really cool, but that photo is redonk. Is he waiting alone on a dock for his yacht? Why are his jeans rolled up? I don’t understand.