18th
what I learned in the Gawker comments section
Dear Friends,
So I ventured last week into the Gawker comments section. Not that I haven’t been there before. But not quite like this.
What was I looking for there? Justice, I’m pretty sure. There’s that Edmund Wilson essay—Justice for Edith Wharton. And a few years ago there was Justice for Constance Garnett. And I thought, I could use some of that. That sounds about right.
I expected—I don’t know what I expected. What I got was pretty surprising. I had always imagined the commenters as a pack of wolves… and if they smelled blood, my blood, because there I was with them, they would pounce. And then we could have it out.
Instead, the commenters wanted me to leave. It was as if I’d misunderstood. Dude, said the commenters, in effect: We weren’t talking about you. We were talking about “Keith Gessen.” You’re just a name to us. Kind of a funny name, actually. And an author photo. Kind of an obnoxious author photo. But we don’t mean you, personally. We’re bored at work. Come on.
And that was really strange. I have a friend who occasionally makes the argument: You’ve put yourself out there, now people can take their shots. I have another friend who puts it a little differently: You manifest yourself in public, and then people will make of it what they will. But this didn’t feel like either of those things. It was more as if I’d given up my name and photograph as an offering, for people to take shots and interpret those things—not me. That was the deal.
And, if you look at it that way, it’s kind of hard to argue. I have no interest in ruining other people’s fun. I like fun.
So, it’s cool.
And yet, something’s still bothering me.
Maybe I’m uncommonly thin-skinned. But, honestly, I don’t think I am. My book received some very hostile reviews—the reviewer for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram suggested I be escorted out of New York at gunpoint, eg—and I never once thought of writing angry emails or protesting or whatever. A review is a review. It might persuade a person not to read a book—true. But it’s something that can be argued about; it’s something that can be checked against actual evidence. The book is there and people can decide for themselves whether or not I should be escorted from New York at gunpoint.
I guess what finally pushed me into blogging—welcome!—was the sense that people were suggesting things about me based on some kind of private information. For the most part, it was private information that I knew they didn’t have. This is genuinely annoying—because people can’t check. People have to take the writer’s word for it. But everyone’s working so quickly—this is where the internet does come into it—that they just don’t check. Choire Sicha wrote a response in Radar to a few of my posts that, given the language I’d used in “Choire and Emily,” seemed pretty friendly and good-humored. And yet even there, suddenly, up rises a reference to “proof” he has that I don’t like being edited. Which is weird, because if he asked me if I liked being edited, I’d probably say: “So-so. Not that much. It reallly depends on the editor.” You know, whatever. Instead it’s made to sound like a dirty secret on which Choire has the goods. Except I’m pretty sure I know what he’s referring to, and it’s not in fact proof of me not liking editing. I’ll relay it as an episode of very very minor interest—and if it happens not to be what he’s referring to, well then we’ll know that much more about me. This is a blog, remember, not the New York Times. So, a few months ago I reviewed Denis Johnson’s Vietnam novel for the Nation, and on the day they closed the issue I asked for galleys of the article to be emailed or faxed to me so I could look over the article one last time. And they said that they don’t do that anymore. This was… a bummer. The value of galleys to someone like me who goes through many drafts is not that you can monitor your editor (the piece had been edited very lightly and very skillfully, that wasn’t at all the problem), but that when you’ve gone through say eight iterations of something in Microsoft Word and your eyes have glazed over and you can hardly read it anymore, it’s nice to see it in a different font and format, it’s a chance (practically the only chance) to really see it anew. One’s first pass through a galley is, for me anyway, probably the most significant read I do of a piece. So, that’s why the Nation should reverse its policy—and that’s what that was all about.
But you can see how that’s annoying, right? Or am I being touchy again? Well, maybe I am. OK. Enough! Ultimately the battle for the internet will have to take place somewhere OUTSIDE the internet, that is to say in the world of flesh and blood, and toward that end, readers of this Tumblr, I announce a TAKE BACK THE INTERNET PARTY.
This Friday night. 8 pm until midnight.
n+1 office in DUMBO
68 Jay St. #405
York St. F stop closest stop
Entrance on Jay St. a little past the intersection with Front
All Tumblr readers welcome! And others. Even if you’ve said terrible things about me on the internet, I forgive you. I know you didn’t really mean me. Even if you did.
Keith
