This is the first essay I ever published. It’s nonsense on an argumentative level, but some of the prose is pretty good. At this point it seems like it was an obvious attempt to show the world how pained and literate I was, and it did a good job, so I consider it a success. People in Toronto’s pin-sized, gossipy literary community appreciated it. Before it came out, though I’d told people I was a writer, they didn’t believe it—they just thought I was a mess. A girl who’d previously texted me “lol” when I asked her out invited me over the day the piece was released, after she shared it on Facebook. Two drinks in I became uncomfortable and left. It won a Gold National Magazine award, which I generally tell people without clarifying that the nation is Canada.
This is the only piece I wrote for New York Times Magazine that I liked, and I still like it, a lot. In fact, I regard it as basically flawless. All of the others I disliked for various reasons, some of which are explained below. But this piece is my beautiful child, my glowy-skinned cherub. I wish my career could just be composed of reflections on the banal things I love. I’d happily spend my life composing paeans to Costco, Panera Bread, and the town of Needles, California, which boasts a skate park built by Tony Hawk and a libertarian group that meets at a diner that serves cream cheese on their fries. Occasionally I convince myself that other things are more important, but this, I think, is self-evidently a self-serving delusion.
This is the first piece I wrote for New York Times Magazine. It now fills me with regret and shame. As I was writing it, I didn’t believe a word of it—not the politics, not the tone, nothing. This made it impossibly water-headed and vague, so they had to edit it heavily, and, as a result, it doesn’t sound like me at all. I was chasing clout and repute, a shot at an 0-1 Visa, and the possibility of a US book deal. However, I did get all of those things, so I can only complain so loudly. I actually flew into New York from Toronto for the express purpose of pitching this to the editor, after a bunch of pitches for things I’d actually wanted to write got rejected. I quietly resolved to be more notably pathological.
This is a fun little book review I wrote while I was hurriedly preparing for an abrupt trip to Thailand. Given the tight schedule—I had six hours to read the book and compose the review—I skimmed much of it. Initially, I felt guilty about this, but I’ve learned that this is basically the norm among low-paid book reviewers. So, if someone gives your book a bad review, don’t worry, they’re probably just reviewing a scattered impression pieced together after lunch. It took me six months to get paid because the editor I worked with abruptly left the newspaper and didn’t tell anyone I hadn’t received my check. At the time, since I was overseas, getting paid involved my friend Steve taking a picture of the check, which I’d then present to the TD Easyweb iPhone app as if it were the real thing, in violation of the app’s Terms and Condiitons. Presumably I will someday be arrested for this.
This is a piece I tried to place for a couple of years before quietly inserting it into my Substack as if it was intended for that venue. It’s one of my favorite pieces of writing I’ve ever done. Nobody shares this opinion except for Jorbs and my wife, but that’s okay, because they are the only judges who truly matter. It was rejected by Hazlitt, which had merrily published terrible work of mine on various occasions, on the grounds that the subject of Le Labo had already been covered. This confused me because this piece obviously isn’t covering anything but my navel.
This passable piece took me to Ottawa, where I pretended to be a real reporter. Subsequently, I went to a chess tournament in Ottawa in the middle of winter and tied for first place after winning 4/5 games. The secret of my success was my pre-game regimen. I listened to Lose Yourself while breathing hard and walking through the cold wind. Then, before each game, I secured a glass of ice water. During the game, I would dip my hands in the water, so that I became cold and uncomfortable, which, I hypothesized, would shake me from the psychological comfort that occasionally caused me to play too loosely. Successful as this procedure was, I never repeated it, which now seems weird. The facility that held the tournament also contained a shooting gallery, a curling rink, and a library—a truly impressive compound. Ottawa has everything you could possibly need.