Don't Write Your Second Book: A New York Week

It all started with Edward Albee...

Well, it actually started with a walk home from work. Or it started with the 76 degree June day that prompted the urge to walk. It was a straight shot down 5th Avenue (of suits in Midtown and fanny packs by the Empire State Building) before I turned west to pass the Barnes & Noble on 21st Street in Chelsea.

I saw a gathering in the window for a reading, and I curiously went inside and it turned out to be Kenny Fries, whom you probably have not heard of and neither had I until he subleased my apartment last summer when I went to Israel (which prompted the founding of the site upon which I am now writing)...

At the time he told me that he was a writer, but a critically-acclaimed published author escaped the appositives he used, so I wrote him off like I write off all the other writers I meet in New York, and then he was there at my old Barnes & Noble.

As I began to wonder if he would remember me or remember that I had left the toilet seat up in my apartment shortly before handing over the keys, my eyes wandered through the crowd of the bookstore and behind me a row back was none other than Edward Albee.

He caught me staring twice and nodded somewhat affably, but in the way that someone who is mistaken more frequently for someone's grandfather than a famous playwright does.

The reading by Mr. Fries gave me some hope for nonfiction writers who admit that plot is not their strong suit (not that I've really tried) and that narratives much be conjured by the experience of life or travel.

After the questions and answers concluded and before I got my new book signed (I am such a sucker), I approached Mr. Albee to tell him that I was a fan of his work and was honored to meet him. In apparent half-interest, he asked if I was writer and I said hopefully, when he asked if I was published, I said nominally, which prompted him to compliment me on my command of adverbs and wish me luck. He began to turn away before he leaned back and said (in a somewhat recycled manner),

By the way, don't ever write your second book. After your first book, write your third book, but never write your second book.

I laughed genuinely and thanked him (that's pretty wonderful advice) and waited in line to have my book signed by a guy who slept on my mattress for 6 weeks. While I waited the line, I watched Mr. Albee goallessly sort through the classical music section of the store, completely transfixed by nothing.

Kenny remembered me and if he did remember the toilet seat, he did not say so. We caught up as people who barely know each other will do, but I mentioned my approaching graduate school endeavors and he quickly introduced to one of my future teachers who happens to be a close friend of his, a blurber of his book, another author, and a member of the audience that night.

Charmed by all the literary luminaries of the evening's kismet, I wandered in my quixotic daze toward the exit of the Barnes & Noble, forgetting to have paid for my new (autographed) book. And as the shoplifter alarms went off, I knew that I had an ending.