The city of East Lansing has a program called One Book, One Community which, as far as I know, is a kind of city-wide book club. A single book is selected and for one year events and learning opportunities are centered around it. It is required reading for incoming MSU freshmen. The author makes an appearance for book signings and talks and the like. It's not something I ever paid much attention to.
Until now.
A day or two ago I was idly perusing the paper when my eye was caught by the compelling cover of Jonathan Safran Foer's fantastic book, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Since my fandom of Jonathan Safran Foer is beyond measure, logic, or sanity, and his other novel, Everything is Illuminated, is one of my top ten favorite books of all time, I read the attached article.
I learned that Extremely Loud had been selected as this year's One Book. I learned - and my stomach dropped as I read the words - that Jonathan Safran Foer himself would be visiting in August.
All the rest of the day I found myself overcome by a confusing conglomeration of emotions.
To fully appreciate my feelings, one must understand what, exactly, Foer's writing does to me. To say it is a sucker-punch to the gut is a weak metaphor. He shatters me. Breaks me into a million shard-like fragments and then reassembles me, piece by piece, into a different shape, and I don't quite fit into my life anymore. Like a jigsaw puzzle piece that has grown distorted from being dropped in water, and now does not fit in its space. His writing is so raw, so heart-wrenchingly beautiful, that it almost hurts to look at. He turns over and reveals the tender underbelly of humanity that most writers only hint at. And then he tears it open with a blunt scalpel to bare the beating heart within.
Foer writes, in other words, exactly as I only dream of writing.
He is one of those authors - one of many, admittedly - that paradoxically both encourages and discourages my own dream of being a writer. His writing reminds me why I want to write, how I want to affect people with words; and yet at the same time, I feel as though I will never be even half, even a quarter as excellent as him.
His forthcoming arrival in East Lansing fills me with similar paradoxes.
On the one hand, I am excited at the opportunity to meet not only one of my favorite authors, but one of my favorite human beings. So excited, in fact, that I feel as though I may shake out of my skin with nerves. The day cannot come fast enough.
But on the other hand, I have built Foer up in my mind as such a superior soul, and I'm terrified to face him. Am I even worthy to stand before this literary god?
And on the other hand (this is a three-armed dilemma), I will have mere moments to speak to him as he signs his books. How will I impress him with the power his words have over me? How will I appear to him as anything more than just another slobbering fan? Because when I read his books, I feel like more than that. I feel connected with him.
I will be lucky if I am able to choke out words at all, or anything more than, "I love your books." I will be lucky if I do more than stand before him, sobbing like an idiot.
My roommate has reassured me by reminding me that I will have several months to think of something to say to him, but I remain worried. I'm not sure my feelings can be properly expressed in words. Because I'm no Jonathan Safran Foer, literary god.
His talk and book signing are on August 28th. I have 156 days to think of something to say that is brief, poignant, and expresses in even the smallest amount what his writing does to me. It is not enough time.
