I realize that I've said very little about the book festival to this point, and part of the reason is because I found it so depressing. I find all book festivals depressing, because we writers are so disappointing in person, so awkward and needy and choked with status angst. But it was even worse in L.A., because the entire town runs on the bad Kool-Aid of fame.

The festival honchos had given us all the star treatment. We stood around on a sun-dappled veranda nibbling canapis, somewhat puffed on our temporary importance. But then every 10 minutes or so a minor film celebrity like Eric Idle or Michael York would drop by and we would all stop talking and stare and recognize, at once, how sadly unfamous our little kingdom is.

I had two gigs at the festival. The first was as a moderator of a nonfiction panel. My four authors had written books on the following subjects:

1. 1968

2. Political activism

3. The development of penicillin

4. Anal sex

I am going to spare us all the embarrassment of detailing this particular panel.

The other panel was devoted to the short story, and by the time I arrived at the host auditorium it was packed. Sarvas was right in the front row, with his computer.

Before I could stop myself, I walked over to him and laid my hand on his shoulder and said, in a soft voice, "Hey, I really enjoyed your reading last night."

I was hoping to get his phone number, obviously. I was hoping to be a part of his next entry. (I am so transparent!)

Actually, that's not true. My intentions were a bit less prurient. I hoped this comment might teach him something: that he'd do best to conduct himself like an adult, to be supportive of other writers, to exhibit grace even when what you wanted to do (maybe even had the right to do) was tear someone a new asshole.

But the lesson didn't take.

I'll explain why, but it's important first to talk about the panel, which was the most inspiring I've ever been a part of. Our moderator, the writer Tod Goldberg, did a great job of loosening up the crowd and drawing us out.

Merrill Gerber talked about what it was like, as a woman of the '50s, to write stories about domestic life at a time when her colleagues -- men like Robert Stone -- were offering up accounts of war and drugs and politics.

Aimee Bender, whose stories are often fantastical, helped me see plot in an entirely new light. "When you write outside of realism," she observed, "plot becomes the internal life of the character."

Bret Anthony Johnston spoke, with terrifying eloquence, about, well, a whole bunch of stuff. "I don't believe in the idea of talent," he told the audience at one point. "I don't believe in the idea of inspiration. I don't believe in a muse or anything like that. I believe in work. I believe in dedication ... Your job is to try to make a piece of art and the way you do that is by going to your studio every day."

There wasn't a single comment that didn't smack of the truth, that didn't make me think about my own writing and the larger role of art in the present culture. I actually took notes.

Of course, Sarvas was also taking notes. Aside from bashing me, here is the sum total of what he had to say on his blog:

On the subject of the short story, the panel is moderated by Novelist/Blogger and former The Elegant Variation guest host Tod Goldberg; the other participants include Aimee Bender, Bret Anthony Johnston and Merill [sic] Joan Gerber.

Tod keeps it light, querying the authors on everything from peanut butter preferences to whipped cream references ... We also learn Tod has a short story collection coming out in September ... but apparently Tin House won't publish him ... Aimee Bender apparently brought a cheering section, as the room erupted into cheers at her introduction ... Tod identifies her as crush-worthy for smart 13 year olds ... The most notable thing to us is that Gerber has published seven collections of short stories ... seven collections ... we wonder how on earth she manages to get them published ... (Forget the seven novels she's also published ... ) Over the years, Redbook published 42 of her stories...

Attending this panel had forced Sarvas to confront his actual role in the literary world: He was a pretender with a press pass, a person who lacked the dedication Bret Johnston spoke of, and who therefore had created his own narrative (the blog) in which the essential topic was not literature at all, but his own towering envy.

So it came as no surprise that his "coverage" of the event read like a Page Six dispatch. Nor that his loyal readers felt well-served by this summary. What astonished me was that Tod Goldberg, our moderator, responded. "Thanks for providing coverage," he wrote. "And wonderful as always to see you out causing trouble."

Why would Goldberg -- an excellent writer and genuinely thoughtful guy -- offer such a comment? I suspect because he views Sarvas as someone who might help his career. The same is true of Jim Ruland. Even Dan Wickett, who appears to spend his life promoting writers, provided a forum for Sarvas' vitriol. Whatever they might think of his ad hominems, in the end they aggrandize his persona.

Publishers have started doing the same thing. If you want an index of just how desperate the industry has grown, look no further than the rise of the blogger as a phenomenon. Some folks are even parlaying their blogs into book deals. Why? In part, because publishers are drawn in by the mystique of the Internet and the notion that an author has a built-in -- what is the word the marketing people use? Ah yes, here it is -- platform.

To be clear: Some bloggers, such as Wendy McClure, also happen to be terrific writers. They use their blogs to undertake the honest labor of self-reflection. The improvisational form activates their love of the language. More power to them.

But there are also bloggers who, like Sarvas, are simply too lazy and insecure to risk making art, to release their deepest emotions onto a blank page with no promise of recognition. So they launch a blog instead.

I can understand the temptation. It's one I feel every day. Sarvas horrifies me precisely because he represents certain desires that live inside of me: the desire to avoid the solitude and humiliation of sustained creative work, to choose grievance over mercy, to find a shortcut to fame.

Does that turn you on, Sarvas? You're inside me.

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