It’s summer! Time to get out those binoculars and spot some writers. If you are unable to find writers, a simple whiskey trail should suffice to lure them to your backyard. Be on the lookout for these newly identified species.
The dead foreign writer who wrote eight 6,000-page recently translated novels that everyone but you somehow has time to discover and read and talk about over the course of one summer, and what the hell, don’t you people have jobs?
The writer who’s famous only among writers. And not necessarily for his work, good as it may be—but for rustic fashion sense or scandalous antics at writers’ conferences in the ‘80s or his charming southern drawl. You realize, to your shock, that your non-writer friends have never heard of the guy. You try to explain: but at AWP, he’s like Elvis! They don’t get it.
You’ve never heard of her before, but she’s written this lovely story, and look at her bio in the back of the lit mag: five collections, three well-reviewed novels. You ask around and no one else has heard of her, either. No one. You plan to find more of her work. But now you’re too depressed to leave the house.
You’ve probably heard his name five thousand times, but it simply will not stick between your ears because the poor guy is called Dan Philips or John White or something. Have you heard about his new novel? Maybe. Probably. It’s got, like, House in the title, or Water. The next time someone asks if you’ve heard of him, you’ll be equally unsure.
The writer whose author photo you have a crush on. Not the author himself, just the photo. If you were still ten years old and into kissing photos for practice, you know… Just saying.
(Believed extinct.) Known, in the ‘20s and ‘30s, to pop off the occasional short story just to pay the bills. You know, slave away at the novel, run out of booze money in the Riviera, spend the weekend writing a “commercial short story” (a what?) and sell it to the Saturday Evening Post for three thousand dollars. Easy-peasy.
The older male writer everyone’s way too eager to forgive for his utter failure to imagine interiority for any female character. Why do they still love him? No idea. It’s the equivalent of being a great writer except when it comes to nouns, verbs, and prepositions. Don’t forget that this writer is Tremendously Important. He gets the big prizes, and people worry about him dying. You see a magazine with the words “Greatest Living Writer” on the cover. You open it up. Yeah. Of course it’s him. Except that he’s not.
The writer whose rabid young fans seem to have read no one else, and can’t understand why you don’t revere the man and the novel he wrote from the point of view of a Snapple bottle. Usually referred to by initials only.
This writer is very, very important in Myanmar. You feel like an American ass for never hearing of her before, and an even bigger ass for knowing you’re not really going to run out and buy her six-volume epic poem. Admit it.
The writer whose bio on the back of a 1985 paperback is amazing: 26 years old, awards and fellowships, voice of the new generation, and look at those teeth! You Google him to see what he’s been up to, and find he’s teaching freshman comp in Nebraska and hasn’t published since the Clinton administration. (NB: This species known to induce existential panic.)
This one’s legitimately famous—front-page reviews, appearances on Colbert, hangs out with Obama—and you consider her one of the most influential artists of our time. Then one day you’re talking to someone—your dentist, let’s say—and he asks what you’re reading, and you say this woman’s name. And he looks at you with utter blankness. And you have this moment where you realize you live in a tiny bubble. A tiny, wonderful bubble. And you sit back and let him scrape your teeth and you go, mentally, back to your bubble, because in a world where you have to get your teeth scraped twice a year, you require some beauty. You demand it.