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Friday, Oct 10, 2008
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My cyber-nemesis had been trashing me for months. Then we met, and I had a chance to take a terrible revenge.
Oct 13, 2005 | A couple of years ago, a writer friend of mine sent me a link to a weblog in which a guy named Mark Sarvas posted the following statement, under the headline "THE TRUTH MUST BE TOLD":
The adulation accorded Steve Almond constitutes one of the blogosphere's enduring mysteries. From the very first days of this site, I've shaken my head in a sort of dazed wonder at the wake of overheated prose stylings the guys [sic] leaves behind. So I am, of course, delighted that the Washington Post's Jonathan Yardley finally steps up and speaks the truth.
An excerpt of Yardley's review followed. Then this summation:
If Almond devoted a fraction of the efforts [sic] he brings to self-promotion to his writing, he might finally be on to something. But I doubt it.
Who was Mark Sarvas? Well, he was a writer, of course. You could tell this because there was a portable typewriter right next to him in his photo, which was taken outside. So he was clearly dedicated to his craft. But he was also a cool writer, the kind who wore a leather jacket and shades while hanging out next to typewriters outside.
Sarvas lived in Los Angeles and this meant he was a novelist and a screenwriter. Somehow, between novel drafts and pitch meetings, he managed to produce a blog that he had named, unpretentiously, the Elegant Variation.
His entries did not compose a meaningful discussion of literature -- few of the so-called lit blogs actually undertake such a thing. They were gossip items for the most part, links to articles, an occasional belch of schadenfreude. His prose style favored elevated diction, convoluted sentences, serial use of the royal "we" and, in an effort to convey a stream of consciousness ... lots ... of ... ellipses.
Writing like Henry James (or, at least, a learning-disabled Henry James) helped Sarvas preserve the fantasy that he was not just a wannabe writer bravely dedicated to long-distance slander.
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A few months later, I received an e-mail from another friend, directing me to an on-line forum of lit bloggers put together by a guy named Dan Wickett. The forum included Sarvas, who described the birth of his blog like so:
I launched The Elegant Variation in a fit of madness on October 14, 2003 with a declaration of my love for James Wood and my loathing for Steve Almond. Nine months later, my positions remain unchanged.
Now it became clear to me that Sarvas wasn't just your garden-variety Steve Almond hater. No, he was special. He was the president of the Official Steve Almond Haters Club. I considered writing him a congratulatory note and sending along a signed photo. Sadly, I do not possess any signed photos.
Indeed, it struck as me as one of the dinkier titles in the history of belles-lettres to be the president of the Steve Almond Haters Club -- like being an ambassador to Liechtenstein, or maybe, more accurately, an ambassador from Liechtenstein.
Pynchon. DeLillo. Foster Wallace. These were authors one might be proud to revile. But me? I was a short story writer with a small press. The closest I'd come to the New Yorker was a subscription. I couldn't even find an agent to represent me.
Poor Sarvas! As I considered the guy from afar, I began (almost involuntarily) to feel sorry for him.
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Of course, any serious writer needs to preserve the bulk of his pity for himself, so I put Sarvas out of my mind.
That changed this past spring, when I was invited to the Los Angeles Times Book Festival. Knowing I was headed into town, a guy named Jim Ruland e-mailed me about participating in a reading series called Vermin on the Mount. Ruland had written me before and seemed like a nice guy, so I said sure. His next e-mail listed the lineup, which included ... Mark Sarvas.
As it emerged, Ruland knew all about the Sarvas blog and his hatred for me. But strangely, he never felt compelled to address the issue. (Oh, just so you know, you'll be reading with your cyber-nemesis.) In fact, he also asked me to come by the Vermin booth to sign books. Among the features of this booth: Sarvas would be "live blogging."
The idea of not doing these events never occurred to me. Sarvas seemed like such a blowhard. The juvenile part of me very much looked forward to calling him out.
When I told my pal Pete about this plan, though, he shook his head.
"What?" I said
Pete paused. "He's in love with you."
"Please," I said.
"Hatred is a form of love," Pete said. "Look at it, dude: He founded a whole Web site based on his feelings for you."
"It's a blog," I said.
"He's obsessed. He's obsessed with you."
"He hasn't even read my work."
"What's that got to do with anything? It's what you represent. You're like his big, sexy daddy."
I took a moment to let this sink in. "Are you saying I should sleep with him?"
"No," Pete said slowly. "What I'm saying is that you should sleep with him and film it and post the video on the Web."
"That is so hot," I said. "I'm getting hot just thinking about it."
Pete put his hand on my shoulder.
"So is he. I guarantee it. So go. Go make magic with your secret, online luv-toy."
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