The Wrong End of the Telescope by Rabih Alameddine

Then I’d pull myself up by the Calvin Klein underwear, and I’d start writing again. Yet with every publication, I’d spiral the drain of depression before getting sucked down. I wised up once more, further reined in my expectations. I, like Jesus, like the Church of Latter-Day Saints and the new age movement, would save souls, one at a time.ĭo I have to tell you, gentle reader, that I failed miserably again? My book came out and again nothing happened. Changing the world was outside the scope of a novel, but, you know, the purpose of literature is to change lives. Why, you might ask, would I write? Well, I had matured. After a year of depression, I pulled myself up by the boxer briefs and began to write again. I understood that neither changing the world nor selling a billion copies of my book was going to happen. This article appears in the Summer 2022 issue of Alta Journal. OK, maybe the Greek chorus was a bit much, but what can I say, I was young.ĭo I have to tell you, gentle reader, that I failed miserably? My book came out and nothing happened. Oh, and men would line up outside my door begging for a chance to date me, with a Greek chorus urging them on, of course. Not only would my novel knock capitalism to its knees, but the ex who had dumped me would regret his decision and spontaneously combust, and all the kids in kindergarten who hadn’t invited me to their birthday parties would realize the errors of their ways. My seething, righteous rage would infect readers, flow in every vein, and men, women, and genderqueers would rise to demand justice. My novel was intended to blow up how we were perceived. People with AIDS were dying so pleasantly in literature. I thought all the books about AIDS were nothing like what I was living through. I wanted to change literature, or at least change the world.

When I wrote my first book, I thought I knew.

The Wrong End of the Telescope by Rabih Alameddine