What does a frustrated, stunted writer do when she goes to see a favorite, world-reknowned author?
First, naturally, she goes to the bookstore early; she gets a decent spot; she sits, rapt, with a higher than usual attention span, on an uncomfortable surface where the children’s books usually go; listens, laughs, absorbs; then waits patiently to have her book signed- only to walk out the door and only then remember exactly what she wanted to say to him.
goddamn.
I’ve experienced this kind of thing before- you have your chance, you squander it, and you walk away from the experience feeling a complete failure. Where was the sparkly comment? The witty and flattering compliment, or the compelling political statement, or the Important Question, which would make you stand out from all the other slobbering, greedy little fans? Even some insane blabbering, which might make it into a memoir or book? No, no, it’s gone, there’s no running back inside to blurt it out, no loitering outside to wait for your chance.
All in all, it’s better this way.
The man you spotted on the bus, the one reading the great book, the one with the hands which made him the man of your dreams- he was wearing a wedding ring, you noticed before he left. Remember?
The simple fact is, if you’d opened your mouth tonight, you’d have had to fit both size tens in there, and you would have highly regretted the experience. You’d be beating yourself to a pulp (and far better than Ed Norton ever could): you idiot, you sounded like a moron, I can’t believe you wasted the guy’s time, you silly bitch, jesus, what were you thinking?
But Mr. Amis- all I wanted to say was, thank you for rephrasing “All women hate pornography” as “Most women are more anti-pornography than men.” And please, let’s remember- many women don’t hate pornography- they’re simply bored by it. Mostly because it’s all geared toward men. And it's awfully boring. Remember what Vonnegut said.
Thank you.