Stephen Elliott, author of The Adderall Diaries, is reserved, a compact man with interesting tattoos and a slightly tenorish voice - a man easy to picture as a masochist. He read his clean, brisk prose last night in puffy suburban Bethel CT (at Molten Java at 102 Greenwood), with a quiet voice as even as the surface of his narrative.
The audience also asked how difficult it was to do the the kind of extensive self-revelation that The Adderall Diaries contain. Elliott said that getting used to revealing your secrets was a gradual thing, and that he'd previously written several novels where he used material from his life. He compared the process to a transvestite's coming out. First, Elliott said, the man puts on a dress when he's home alone. Then, after a while, he puts it on and wears it out for a quick trip to the store. A few months latter, he's out dancing in it, and can hardly remember when just putting it on was a big deal.
odd fly buzzes in the ointment:
She interrupted to announce officiously that there would be no book sales, as Molten Java's lease had a non-competition clause with the bookstore. Of course Molten wasn't selling the books, the author was. For her part, she had no copies of his book to sell in her store. So it seems her only object was to thwart the income of one author selling directly to his public, and to piss off people who had formerly been her customers.
After a final section of prose was read, the company left the coffeeshop and went to the pizza parlor across the street where we ordered pizza, and drinks, talked and many of us bought a book directly from the author. Art will out, landlords notwithstanding.
-- Mar Walker