The SO SAD TODAY book trailer is live. For the backstory–including details of my ideal cremation urn–check out this piece on Nylon.
Also, I did a thing about music with NPR. I kind of feel like if I was someone reading the piece I’d be like ‘why do I care what she thinks about music?’ but it was fun to talk about my fav rap radio stations in LA. Shouts out to Real 92.3, 93.5 KDAY and Power 106: Where Hip Hop Lives.
Last night I did a poetry reading in an alternate dimension and it sucked. The reading was alphabetical so I was supposed to read first. My wife, Faith Fairhead, was reading fifth. Faith was a buttercream blonde. I was like Look at my hot bitch. I felt entitled to act like a dirty dog, because I was a girl and it seemed cute. It wasn’t cute.
As a result of my attitude, the universe swapped my hot wife for a husband, Gerald Ford, who made me very late for the reading. He had to run a lot of errands. I was like Gerald! No Whole Foods! Not now!
I couldn’t figure out what outfit to wear. My mother appeared in a sheep’s head to tell me that leather leggings were very last year. I wore them anyway. What did being a year late have to do with poetry? Maybe nothing.
The reading was at Slimey’s, a deli that specialized in hot pastrami and doubled as an ampitheater. Immediately I knew the leather leggings were a mistake. Everybody was wearing jeans with alt sneakers or velvet boho capes or they were nude.
Everybody was talking about Purple Pinko’s forthcoming trilogy of military flash fiction, FMP. I didn’t know what FMP stood for but I knew it was something cool, like Stephen Dorff’s SFW. I felt about Purple Pinko the way I felt about Stephen Dorff in the 90s. I longed.
Longing is wonderful, because you don’t have to be present for your life—in any dimension. I knew I shouldn’t indulge these feelings. I knew I should be present. I was like How am I supposed to stop thinking about Purple Pinko if his work is everywhere? It seemed like a conspiracy.
I wasn’t allowed to bring paper into the new dimension so I had to memorize everything. I’d memorized nothing. I made up the poems as I went along. One of the poems was called “Colorado.” It was in first person present and it went like this:
Colorado
I want to be a zombie but the cult won’t click.
I’m in it for a brain belt though I’m bad with unity.
We shoot up with pine needles, only vanilla.
This leaves a hole I cover in postage stamps.
I can’t find the horses and I can’t find the horses.
We go see the world record velvet Elvis.
They do a slideshow of his sandwiches.
Everybody liked him better alive.
It didn’t matter that the poem sucked, because the microphones were broken. This lent itself to simultaneous feelings of Sisyphusian something and liberation.
Following my reading was a reading by a naked girl. She read microfiction while a Haitian man vomited and vomited into a bowl next to her. Vomit is always great. The crowd went wild. I wish I invented that performance art.
A journalist from The Star Daily Star asked if he could take my picture. All the velvet boho capes were watching me and they mouthed C-O-R-P-O-R-A-T-E. Not one to turn down interstellar publicity, I posed.
The journalist was like You won a big prize this year. How does that feel?
I was like No. No prize.
He was like Then where have I heard of you from?
I was like You’ve heard of me from nothing. You’ve heard of me from the air.
Coupla things re: me.
I have a new poem involving a lonesome cowgirl up at H_NGM_N.
I have a new poem up at Lamination Colony involving menses and/or jello. It is run with a photo. I appear orange in the photo. I globbed on Sephora Perfekt in “rich” when I should have used “radiant.” Editor Blake requested that we send a photo from the shoulders up, no shirt, if we felt comfortable. Sending the photo was optional. I thought “Oh yes, I will send a photo. It will be a pretty photo.” I wish I was the kind of writer who is uncomfortable sending a photo. Instead, I am the kind of writer who is uncomfortable one month later. I had a lovely time this morning feeling guilty that the lip gloss invalidates my work. Though in many ways, that is what the poem is about.
I have a new piece up at HuffPo involving grand theft poetics.
I’ll be in Rome (and thereabouts in Italy) until November 7, at which point Polestar w/ Aaron Fagan, Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz and Garrett Kalleberg will commence. Did you know that the vomitoriums are largely a myth? I didn’t. So very disappointed.
Me: Let’s start the conversation by telling people where we are. That’s how they do it in Vanity Fair.
Twitter Persona: Tell them we’re at The Mandarin Oriental. No wait. Tell them we’re at The Breslin at The Ace Hotel. I’m wearing a heather grey Alexander Wang tank dress, no makeup and my décolletage is showing. I’m picking at a scone. And I’m luminous.
Me: Ok. My first question is: Why do you rarely converse with other Twitterers? Isn’t Twitter supposed to be a conversation.
TP: I like to keep my home unfettered by @’s. Aesthetically it’s more fetching. I have mild OCD and when I’m surrounded by @’s I get uncomfortable.
Me: You do come across as very angsty and self-deprecating. Much more angsty than I am. Why?
TP: I think that’s a question you need to ask yourself.
What up yo? Oh me, not much, just trying to stay somewhat spiritually fit as I navigate the waters of ego.
My default settings are More! and What’s next? But if I get quiet, a little voice says: Slow down, trust me and know that you don’t have to make anything happen.
Also there’s this beautiful review of Mother in decomP. Thank you, Spencer Dew, for being the first reviewer to use the word “methadone.”
Last summer, I curated a reading at Polestar for Brandon Scott Gorrell and other members of the Muumuu House extended family. Brandon is the author of the poetry collection During My Nervous Breakdown I Want to Have a Biographer Present. On Twitter he is @LydiaDavis. I like these.
The reading was July 4th weekend. Two people came. The Muumuus grew silent. They were young, vegan-thin, styled by Vice. I was turning 30, eating animal byproducts on the sneak, looking extra-Jewy. Sorry, I said.
Months later, I wondered what Brandon thought of me. Did he ever think of me at all? Was I at fault for the poor showing on The Lower East Side, or could we all shoulder the blame? One question in particular kept me chewing the Nicorette late into the night: Could I get to the bottom of those ‘scare quotes’?
I had an opportunity to email with Brandon for my last post: Richard Hugo Didn’t Twitter, in which I asked a number of poets how Twitter has affected their craft. Brandon’s response stood out from the fray. I saw my moment. Went Bill Moyers on him:
As seen on Jezebel.
In Sharing is Creepy, Nick Carr asserts that “Twitter shame” arises from revealing the contents of our brains to total strangers (and assuming they care). Okay, yes.
For me, Twitter shame also pertains to the elusive (and oft unspoken) Twitter ratio: trying to cultivate more followers than people you’re following. The Twitter ratio has the ability to transform a perfectly normal person (who happens to be following twice as many people as she has followers) into Martha Dunnstock from Heathers.
This brings us to Twithers. Anyone who manipulates, contemplates, or is at all conscious of their Twitter ratio probably wants to be a Heather. But some of us are not Heathers. Some of us will never be Heathers. Some of us are Veronicas.
I’ve devised a little quiz.
If you identify with “A” in most of the following, you’re a Twitter Heather McNamara (the yellow one) or a Twitter Heather Duke (Shannen Doherty). You might be bulimic.
If you identify with “B” you’re a Twitter Veronica. Try not to accidentally kill anyone.
If you identify with “C” you’re a Twitter Heather Chandler (red scrunchie). Avoid drano at all costs.
A. You choose to “follow” someone. When the person doesn’t follow you back within two hours, you de-follow them.
B. You choose to “follow” someone. When the person doesn’t follow you back within two hours, you de-follow them. You feel shame.
C. You only follow Derek Blasberg. Everyone else follows you.
A. You send probing “replies” to people whom you don’t yet follow to try to get them to follow you first.
B. You send probing “replies” to people whom you don’t yet follow to try to get them to follow you first. You feel shame.
C. You only reply to Derek Blasberg. Everyone else replies to you.
A. You try to lure innocents, not yet on Twitter, into being on Twitter so you’ll have more followers.
B. You try to lure innocents, not yet on Twitter, into being on Twitter so you’ll have more followers. You feel shame.
C. What’s an innocent?
A. You de-follow your sister because she hasn’t tweeted in six months and is “dead weight” on your ratio.
B. You de-follow your sister because she hasn’t tweeted in six months and is “dead weight” on your ratio. You feel shame.
C. Your sister follows you and tweets often. You don’t follow her. Unless she’s Derek Blasberg.
A. You create a second Twitter account, an alter-ego to lure followers. When you get more followers on that one than you’re own, you “come out.”
B. You create a second Twitter account, an alter-ego to lure followers. When you get more followers on that one than you’re own, you “come out.” You feel shame.
C. You’re Derek Blasberg.
EPILOGUE
If you don’t know what Twitter is, you’re Veronica’s Dad.
If you’re on Twitter, and starting to get a sinking feeling you might be Martha Dunnstock, don’t panic. On prom night, you’ll get to “pop some popcorn” with Winona Ryder. I hope this post gives you shower-nozzle masturbation material for weeks.
If you’re not on Twitter, but are a “frequent status updater” on Facebook (“Just saw Mr. Big in Union Square!” “Fair trade coffee and a vegan maple-bacon donut!”) you are Peter Dawson at the “Westerberg Feeds the World” table.
And if you’re not on Twitter purely out of defiance, good for you. You’re J.D. Now go be sexy and get your middle finger shot off.
Feeling a bit like Chava in Fiddler on the Roof…right before Tevye disowns her.
I’m reading tomorrow night at The Gryphon in Wayne. The crowd will consist of:
a. My parents
b. My parents’ friends
Really don’t want to say “gargantuan sudsy banana” in front of my dad.
Definitely don’t want to say “rubbing against his mushrooming” in front of my dad.
Would prefer not to say “nothing-tits” in front of my dad.
If at all possible, it’s preferable that I don’t say “what about my urethra?” in front of my dad.
Absolutely do not want to say “bang it in” in front of my dad.
Under no circumstances will I say “bumping the bum meth off his bum” in front of my dad.
Does anyone have some poems they can lend me?
I don’t know.
I feel like I’m supposed to be tweeting the Twit now that the book is 15 days from publication. But I just don’t see myself going peacefully into the dull night of the “Really, Massachusetts? Really?” or “OMFG hahahahaha LMAO BRB LOL!!!!!!!” or “Seriously, dry cleaners? Seriously?” crowd anytime soon.
So for now, I’m running a semi-structured alphabetic poetics experiment from aboard my ‘tweet deck.’ [UPDATE: This didn’t last. Though I did make it all the way backwards to the letter “A.” Once.] Yeah. I figure banal posts about other people people’s poetry (O.P.P.?) can at least be classified as benevolent.
Sounds enticing, eh?
I must admit, though, that it’s tempting to twit the Twat every time I, say, have a thought. Here are some of the tweets I’ve restrained in the past two days, since ‘going public’ on Twitter:
Meditated this morning next to an open toilet.
Apparently my guinea pigs are now too upmarket for baby carrots.
Nicorette in yoga class makes for spicy Savasana.
Yoga Journal hates you.
I hate water.
Guinea pigs now too upmarket for baby carrots AND apple.
Don’t be afraid to brush curls and transform into Stevie Nicks.
Lady on A Train has bottle of Purell carabinered to her purse.
I still love you junkies.
Guinea pigs resemble Puffy and Biggie. The nasty one will surely outlive the sweet one.
Why shouldn’t she be nasty? Consider the collective unconscious of the guinea pig.
Book proof just arrived UPS!!!
Does book resemble a pamphlet?
Crying to publisher (via text)
Spin teacher really believes we are on the open road.
Publisher going to upgrade paper stock!
Why is that Misshape always at Souen?
Why am I always at Souen?
Mother and Mother-in-law are running viral grandchild marketing campaign.
Blackberry has now officially merged with hand. Hanberry. Bland?
Is it gauche to promote your book (which has nothing to do with Haiti) in light of Haiti?
What if you tweet about Haiti?
What if you tweet about Haiti and your book simultaneously?
What if you add Haiti as a Facebook friend?
What if you write about your book on Haiti’s wall?
What if you request Haiti to become a fan of your book?
What if you invite Haiti to your book party?
What if you pass around a hat for Doctors Without Borders at your book party?
What if you post a link to Doctors Without Borders on your promotional website?
What if you hold a bake sale for Haiti (and sell your book there next to Aunt Carol’s lemon squares?)
What if you watch CNN all day?
What if you watch CNN all day whilst pitching your book?
What if you request to follow Anderson Cooper on Twitter?
What if you pitch your book to Anderson Cooper while he’s in Port au Prince?
What if you set your book trailer in Port au Prince?
What if you write a bad poem and dedicate it to the people of Port au Prince?
What if you immediately submit the bad poem to 10 literary magazines?
What if you read your book at a benefit for Haiti?
What if at the end of your reading, you say: Book is on sale in the back!
My mother always said: You know the Jews and the Italians are a lot alike. Well I married an Italian, but I am most definitely a Jew. How do I know this?
Today I was looking for a dress to wear to my book party* and I told the salesgirl, who was Italian, about the book.
She said: You must be delighted!
I said: I’m terrified.
She said: No no no, you must just relax and enjoy.
Relax and enjoy is not a Jewish attitude toward anything, let alone book publication.
* Worry #663: If people have to buy their own drinks, can I really call it a book party?
"Milk Fed is a romp…a pageant of bodily juices and exploratory fingers and moan after moan of delight."
–Los Angeles Times
"A dizzily compelling story of love, lust, addiction, faith, maternal longing, and…frozen yogurt."
–Vogue
"A revelation…Melissa Broder has produced one of the strangest and sexiest novels of the new year..."
–Entertainment Weekly
"A thrilling examination of hunger, desire, faith, family and love."
–Time
"Milk Fed bravely questions the particularly female lionization of thin and loathing of fat, landing on fresh explanations…deliciously droll…a celebration of bodily liberation."
–The New York Times
"Melissa Broder’s Milk Fed is a delectable exploration of physical and emotional hunger."
–The Washington Post
"A sensuous and delightfully delirious tale… Filled with an unadulterated filthiness that would make Philip Roth blush, Broder’s latest is a devour-it-in-one-sitting wonder."
–O, the Oprah Magazine
"A modern-day mythology for women on the verge — if everything on the surface stops making sense, all you need to do is dive deeper.."
–The New York Times
"The Pisces convincingly romances the void."
–The New Yorker
"Explosive, erotic, scathingly funny…a profound take on connection and longing that digs deep."
–Entertainment Weekly
"The dirtiest, most bizarre, most original works of fiction I’ve read in recent memory…Broder has a talent for distilling graphic sexual thoughts, humor, female neuroses and the rawest kind of emotion into a sort of delightfully nihilistic, anxiety-driven amuse bouche…"
–Vogue.com
"A page turner of a novel…funny and frank."
–Washington Post
"The Pisces is an intellectual, enthralling voyage into one woman’s swirling mind as she brushes with the extraordinary."
–Refinery29
"Get ready to laugh-cry over and over again...a perverse romance that captures the addictive and destructive forces of obsessive love. The Pisces is as hilarious as it is heartbreaking."
–Vulture.com
"What separates Broder from her confessional cohort...is that she doesn’t seem to be out to shock, but to survive."
–Elle
"Broder presents a dizzying array of intimate dispatches and confessions…She has a near-supernatural ability to not only lay bare her darkest secrets, but to festoon those secrets with jokes, subterfuge, deep shame, bravado, and poetic turns of phrase."
–New York Magazine
"A triumph of unsettlingly relatable prose."
–Vanity Fair
"Her writing is deeply personal, sophisticated in its wit, and at the same time, devastating. SO SAD TODAY is a portrait of modern day existence told with provocative, irreverent honesty."
–Nylon
"At once devastating and delightful, this deeply personal collection of essays…is as raw as it is funny."
–Cosmopolitan
"Broder writes about the hot-pink toxins inhaled every day by girls and women...and the seemingly impossible struggle to exhale something pure, maybe even eternal...there's a bleak beauty in the way she articulates her lowest moments."
–Bookforum
"Broder may be talking about things like sexts, Botox, and crushes, but these things are considered alongside contemplations about mortality, identity, and the difficulty of finding substance in a world where sometimes it’s so much easier to exist behind a screen."
–The Fader
"…So Sad Today is uplifting and dispiriting in seemingly equal measure. It’s a book that’s incredibly human in the way it allows for deep self-reflection alongside Broder, which speaks not only to her powerful writing but also the internet’s magical ability to foster connections."
–A.V. Club
"...delightful...Broder embarks on an earnest, sophisticated inquiry into the roots and expressions of her own sadness...deeply confessional writing brings disarming humor and self-scrutiny...Broder's central insight is clear: it is ok to be sad, and our problems can't be reduced to a single diagnosis. "
–Publishers Weekly
"Broder is probably the Internet’s most powerful merchant of feelings…"
–GQ
"Vividly rendered and outspokenly delivered essays…Sordid, compulsively readable entries that lay bare a troubled soul painstakingly on the mend."
–Kirkus Reviews
"Broder manages to conjure a psychic realm best described as one part twisted funhouse and two parts Catholic school, heavy on libido and with a dash of magick. This gritty, cherry soda–black book...is bizarrely sexy in its monstrousness."
–Publishers Weekly
"I don’t know what a book is if not a latch to elsewhere, and Scarecrone has pressed its skull against the hidden door. It is neither drunk nor ecstatic to be here—it is a state unto itself."
–VICE
"Lushly dark and infused with references to black magic, Broder's work often feels less like a book and more like a mystical text."
–PAPERMAG
"Out to 'crucify boredom,' her poems show us how any relationship with the divine is no less at risk of engendering grotesque lust...What makes Broder such a pleasure on the page is her insistence that these dramas play out on a workaday stage infused with surreal Pop and imaginative muscle..."
–Publishers Weekly
"With a title recalling Yeats...Broder risks the divine in her second book...shrewd, funny, twisted, sad poems..."
–The Chicago Tribune
"Meat Heart...is unbelievable and overwhelming for its imaginative power alone, but if you listen past the weird you can hear all sorts of things: sadness, seriousness, life, death, and a whole lot of laughter....Broder is a tremendous talent"
–Flavorwire
"...Meat Heart embodies that strain of sustenance, that sort of psychosomatic excitement most valiant art more or less tries to pull off…Her poems don’t bore or bear down. They beam oracle energy. They pump a music of visions for the life-lusty death dance."
–BOMB
MOTHER
“This debut from Broder is as funny and hip as it is disturbing… a bright and unusual debut.”
–Publishers Weekly
"…obsessive, energetic and pop-culture-infused poetry…"
–Time Out New York
"Broder’s insight and honesty will make your brain light up and your hair stand on end.”
–The San Francisco Examiner
"Broder’s verse is acrobatic and whip-smart… its own creature."
–Bomb
