Lit: Gentlemen, Start Your Pretensions, by Kristen Miller

Everyone has a coming of age story: naiveté exposed, innocence lost forever, worldly wisdom creeping in like a dense, wet fog.  I must have been particularly wide-eyed because I have about twenty of these, and they all seem to stem from a little freakish success I had involving a certain short play.

I found myself (to my dismay) being introduced around as “Kristen.  The writer.”  It’s not that I wasn’t a writer.  I was.  Not ashamed to admit it (it’s the first step).  But I had begun to sense that there were certain expectations associated with being “the writer”, and I was not at all sure what they were or how to live up to them.  On one such occasion, introductions were made, nice to meet you John, etc. All was casually pleasant until John, avid reader and book snob, asked me one of the literary world’s many loaded questions.  “Oh, you’re a writer?  So who are your favorite authors?”

Of course, I didn’t realize it at the time, but this is the magna mater of all loaded literary questions. Within seconds, the asker can determine the cultural savvy, political views, and overall general hipness of the askee.  I just thought he was interested, so I made the amateur mistake of answering honestly. At the time I was rereading of one of my classic favorites: Till We Have Faces, so the name C.S. Lewis naturally came to mind. The moment I said it, John’s expression informed me of my mistake.

Apparently, my answer was like listing The Magic Kingdom in the places I need to see before I die.  For the rest of the evening, John spoke to me as if I was an adorable, knee-high, furry creature, created by Lewis but re-imagined by Disney.

Since that experience, I’ve learned a few of the many intricacies of having favorites.  When listing your top authors, it’s not what you have to say about them that counts, but what they say about you.  How do your books typify you?  As edgy?  Experimental?  A classicist? An Oprah book-clubber? An airport reader?

Also if you’re going with modern literature there are a lot of additional rules if you’re to get any respect at all.  Your author’s work can’t have been featured in the NYT Book Review.  Can’t have won any awards.  Definitely can’t have been made into a film.  Can’t be found in most mainstream bookstores.  Can’t have been on any bestseller list.  Ever.  Really, it doesn’t matter if you actually like that particular author.  The most important thing is to make sure that 95 percent of people don’t have a clue who he or she is. Extra points if you can’t even tell if it’s a he or a she.

After months of having the same self-conscious conversation over and over, I found that this can be made into an amusing game. When presented with the Ultimate Loaded Question, I’d put on my pensive face and reply “Johnny Torani” or “Eliza Cokebottle-Pimms”.  From here, things could go one of several ways.  They occasionally caught on and laughed about it or admitted they’ve never heard of the person. They sometimes got a confused look, and quickly changed the subject.  But best of all was when they put on their pensive face and replied, ‘Mmmhmm… Johnny Torani…’

Shameless plug:  In the Poetry and Fiction room of the Sojourn message board, we, your fellow writers and readers, value you and your honest likes and dislikes.  We care more about what you have to say about your favorite authors and books than what they say about your image.  Additionally, for those of you who frequent the discussion board and are now wondering, Thomas Zvi Wilson is, in fact, a real person.

Très Geek: Artesian v. Artisan. (Or pretentious water v. pretentious bread.) Heading to your favorite local bakery for a loaf of delicious ar-TEE-zhun bread?  Or is it AR-tih-zen?  Feeling a bit anxious?  Having spent half my waking hours these three years beside a glass-topped pastry case, I’ve heard it all: artisan bread, artesian bread, Asiatic bread, Argentine bread… but we’ll stick with the first two.  Artisan (är’tĭ-zən) describes hand-crafted goods and the artists who make them.  It derives from the Latin artītus, meaning (appropriately) “skilled in the arts”.  Artesian (är-tē’zhən), however, refers to water pressurized in an aquifer, which rises naturally to ground level without the need for all those inconvenient pumping mechanisms.  The word is a nod to the Artois province of France, in which this method of water extraction (or lack thereof) became notable.  In conclusion: for ordering made-from-scratch treats at the bakery, the winner is: (ding!) artisan.  Save artesian for the next time you’re discussing internal hydrostatic pressure.