Volume 4, Issue 90: Evicted

"It's too late to be unclear."

Here is a button where you can subscribe to this newsletter now, if you have not previously done so. I do hope that you enjoy it.

Also, the book tour for The Time Has Come makes its final stop this coming Friday. I will be in St. Simons Island, Georgia, at the St. Simons Casino Building (not an actual casino, I’m told), 550 Beachview Drive, at 10:30 a.m. ET Friday morning. You can find all the details right here. This event is sponsored and hosted by Jittery Joe’s Coffee, which is not only where I get my matcha every day but is also where I’ve wrote The Time Has Come and am currently writing the new one.

Details:

October 27, 2023
10:30 a.m. ET
St. Simons Island, Georgia
St. Simons Casino Building
550 Beachview Drive

Here is a flier for the event, before they fixed their Autocorrect error:

If you are, say, in the area for the Georgia-Florida football game—a game I understand many people are into—you should come. I will sign your forehead. This is the last stop of the book tour. It has been very fun. Thank you for being a part of it.

This week, after three weeks of my editor (quite understandably) bugging me about it, I finally acquiesced and wrote about Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift. The piece I wrote, I have to say, turned out extremely well, allowing me not only to come at this non-sports story from a sports angle, but in fact use the piece as an avenue for a lot of thoughts I’ve been having about media, celebrity and the vagaries of public relations. (It also allowed me to make fun of Aaron Rodgers and Clay Travis, which is an opportunity that’s always difficult to pass up.) There is nothing about the piece that is compromised or is in any way not my voice, and in fact if you had never read a word I had written in my life and were looking for a Cliff’s Notes version of the perspective on the worlds of sports and culture that I’ve been writing about for nearly 30 years now, one could argue it would serve as an ideal introduction. It should be every writer’s ideal: To express yourself, your style and your voice to a large audience that otherwise might not have been familiar with your work.

I still felt sort of gross about it. Part of it is my general discomfort with low-hanging Internet traffic fruit, the idea that, all told, I could have written anything, even something stupid, especially something stupid, about Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce and it would have been popular. (I went deep on this Deadspin-era aversion a couple of weeks ago, that’s a good piece, you should read it if you haven’t yet.) But I think the larger part is something that may be unique to me, or at least unique as a product of my generation: I’m actively suspicious of anything that people actually want to read about. It feels like cheating, like I’m manipulating people into reading my work—like I’m trying to sell them something they otherwise might not want to buy. Something about writing about the thing that everyone happens to be paying attention to at that specific moment has always felt a little bit like jangling your keys in front of a baby’s face, or, better, spoonfeeding them something you know is bad for them. It somehow feels like it should be my job to convince them that what I care about is important, rather than just tell them more about something that they already about.

This is, to say the least, an absurd notion. It’s completely impractical, first off, borne out of the early Internet age, before social media, when you legitimately could just randomly stumble across a writer you’d never heard of, fall in love with their work and then follow them down whatever rabbit hole they went down. That’s how I absorbed the work of Dave Eggers, or Chuck Klosterman, or Jami Attenberg back in the early aughts: A voice you stumbled across and instantly felt like someone you’d know forever. That’s always been my dream, my ideal reader, but it is a notion completely out of step with how anyone absorbs media and, frankly, dramatically overstates how much the average person even notices the name of the person writing the thing they’re reading at that moment anyway. I sweat and fret about not only just this “ideal reader", but even how that ideal reader discovers my work in the first place, which is completely stupid, not to mention myopic to a ridiculous degree. Nobody actually cares. David Foster Wallace once wrote, “you’ll stop worrying what others think about you when you realize how seldom they do.” It’s a lesson I stubbornly refuse to learn.

But the larger issue is that this mindset is inherently insulting anyway. Who am I to decide what you, the reader, should care about? You do not exist to serve me; I exist to serve you. To decide that the only things that are worth writing about are things that I specifically care about is self-indulgence in a rather extreme form. I might care deeply about what I am trying to say, but if there is no one who wants to hear it, I’m just talking to myself. (And I might be. Right now, even.) If you want to read about Taylor Swift rather than, I dunno, detasseling corn or the cornball emotional majestry of Meat Loaf albums, who am I to tell you you are wrong? What makes me so special that I should try to avoid writing about topics people care about simply because I don’t care about them or think they are important? Nothing. Get over yourself.

And around and around we go, which is how you get editors wondering, why, exactly, the guy who writes about sports and culture for New York is saying that he’d rather not write about the biggest sports and culture story in the country right now. And how you get a writer who gives in and writes a piece about it that actually turns out really well and still ends up feeling guilty and strange about it. It’s all so pointless and circular and masturbatory. I have writer friends—most of my writer friends, if not all of them—who are more straightforward about this: You meet your audience, you don’t demand that they meet you. “Write what people want to read,” one told me, “just write it the way you want to write about it.” It’s good advice. It’s advice I took for the Kelce-Swift piece, and it all worked out great. It still gave me a stomachache.

It’s a just dumb, self-defeating way to look at the world, or one’s career. But I think I might be stuck, too old and too entrenched, to pivot at this point. I’m still trying to break out of it, though. And, this week, as I found myself wrestling with this (as opposed to dealing with the actually horrible things happening in the world), I thought back to a time when I was not nearly so precious about this, back when I would take any writing gig I could get, back when I’d do anything just to get published and paid for it.

Which reminded me of the most ridiculous gig I ever took.

It was 2004, I was 28 years old, working at Registered Rep. magazine, doing a truly terrible job of covering the financial services industry. I basically sat at my desk in Chelsea all day, AOL Instant Messaging my friends and using the free office Internet to update the “independent” website I was doing with my friends called The Black Table … basically anything that wasn’t my actual job. I was broke, bored and increasingly concerned that my decision to move to New York City to become a writer had completely ruined my life. I was pushing 30, had no career to speak of and was a very long way from home. There are times of my life I find myself nostalgic about. This was not one of those times.

One day, though, a freelancer was working in the office and overheard me talking about trying to “make it” as a writer. “Hey, I help edit a real-estate website, we pay for freelance articles,” she said. “Might help with some quick cash if you can write stuff fast.” I didn’t know anything about real estate, but I did know I could write fast. We met for drinks the next week to discuss any work I could do. We didn’t find much. I lived with three roommates in a fourth-floor walkup without air conditioning on 204th Street in the Inwood area of Manhattan, a month-by-month sublet I was just barely hanging onto. What in the world did I have to contribute to a city real estate Website?

She looked at me and smiled. “Hmm,” she said. “How full of shit can you be?”

I told her I was quite capable of being very full of shit.

“Good,” she said. “We’re trying something out and I bet you could write it real fast.”

Now, before I tell you what the gig was, you have to realize something about real estate in New York City in 2004. The market back then was booming so much, a realtor’s market in every way, that it was nearly impossible to find a place; the minute the broker (and there was always a broker) showed you the building, someone would grab it right out from under you, often before you had even left. To find an apartment took more than money and gumption: It required pure luck. You had to look constantly in hopes that you would stumble across a place you liked before anyone else knew about it, and then you had to pounce immediately. It was exhausting, discouraging and relentless.

It left you feeling powerless, without any control whatsoever. And you know what people do when they feel like they don’t have any control.

They look upward, to the skies, to the gods … to the stars.

“So it’s a horoscope column, but for real estate,” she said.

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“Basically, we’d want a weekly column in which you wrote real estate advice for each of the 12 Zodiac signs,” she said. “People would check their horoscope before heading out to look for places to live that week.”

“Uh,” I said.

“People are really desperate for guidance,” she said. “You know what? I bet it’ll be the biggest piece we do all week.”

“But I am not, um, a horoscope maker person,” I said.

“You mean an astrologist?”

“Yes,” I said. “That.”

She looked at me like maybe I wasn’t up for this assignment after all.

“Yeah, well, Will, I hate to tell you this, but horoscopes are not in fact real,” she said. “You are as qualified as anyone else to be an astrologist. Just make it all up. Obviously.”

“Oh,” I said. “OK. I get it.”

“It’s 150 bucks a column,” she said. “Due every Wednesday. Don’t be late.”

And I wasn’t. Reader, I am, 20 years later, delighted to inform you that if you were reading the CityRealty Website in 2004 and consulted the horoscopes page before heading out to find yourself a great apartment, you were reading my work.

I bylined it “Johan More,” which was a pen name A.J. Daulerio and I were using regularly for drunken pranks back then. (Johan More was the imaginary poet laureate of South Carolina as well as the author of a young adult jokebook “The Anti-Valentine’s Day Handbook.”) And I wrote that thing every week for a year.

How did I come up with my little bon mots of advice? At first I took the job very seriously—I really needed that 150 bucks—but after a while, one couldn’t help but start treating it like an extended gag. I was back in Mattoon that Christmas with my sister and we decided to make a game out of it. I’d tell her to give me a word, any word, and I’d build a horoscope out of it.

She glanced around for a second. “Window.”

She looked over my shoulder as I typed:

It can be scary being alone and wondering whether you’re ever going to find the right place. But realize that you’ll never find your dream apartment sitting at home staring out the window. Get outside! See the world! Your next home is not going to find itself.

She cackled. “OK, try ‘chicken.’”

Being willing to take a risk is the first part of discovering what could be in store for you. Others might be afraid to make the leap. But don't be a chicken. Take a chance! Get out there! Fortune favors the bold.

Eventually I just wrote all of them like this. I can still do this, I’m proud to say; I’ve been playing a fun game with the boys all week, writing fake horoscopes off prompts they give me. Half of them involve the word “fart.”

Now you might be wondering, “weren’t there real astrologists out there offended that this ‘Johan More’ was writing these without consulting the actual Zodiac charts?” If you are wondering about this, I have bad news for you: Johan More has as much insight into what the stars might have planned for you as every astrologist you’ve ever met in your life. At least Johan could write his obvious bullshit quickly.

Eventually, the gig ran out of gas, for a very amusing reason: Curbed, an up-and-coming real estate blog at the time, had caught wind of CityRealty’s horoscopes and pointed them out as “the most inane afternoon entertainment we've come across in ages: horoscopes for apartment buyers.” That the snarky Curbed was making fun of their site spooked the suits at CityRealty—who probably didn’t even know they were running a real estate horoscopes column in the first place—and they ended up discontinuing it, and my fun word games, and my 150 bucks. The person who wrote that Curbed post, as it turned out, was Lockhart Steele, who, five months later, then as managing editor of Gawker Media, would agree to my pitch for a sports website. And after that launched, well, I didn’t need to be writing any real estate horoscope columns any more after that. Even if I had gotten really damned good at them.

In many ways, the real estate horoscope column was the last time I didn’t get to pick and choose my projects, the last time I would take any gig I could as long as they could pay me. All told, I’m not sure I’ve ever written anything more cynical, more bullshit, more just-spoon-feed-the-audience-all-the-slop-they-could-possibly-want enterprise than I did writing weekly horoscopes for a real estate website. It’s exactly the sort of thing I’ve fought against my entire career.

And you know what? After thinking about this all week, I realized: I loved writing that column. I even sort of missed it. It wasn’t art. It wasn’t expression. It wasn’t careerism. It wasn’t precious. It was just writing a silly column for money, in a way that I found deeply goofy and incredibly entertaining. I loved it.

Here, let’s try it. Give me a word.

PILLOW

The search can wear you down, and remember that you’re going to need to be sharp. Don’t be afraid to lay your head on a pillow and get the rest you need. A clear, calm mind is a strong mind. And a strong mind leads to the best version of yourself.

BOX

Today could be the day for you. The long road could be coming to an end. You will be in your new place, unpacking that last box before you know it. Then you’ll be the place you were searching for, and always going to end up: Home.

C’mon, it’s fun. Why I am sweating Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce? Anybody need an astrologist? Or a horoscope maker person?

Here is a numerical breakdown of all the things I wrote this week, in order of what I believe to be their quality.

1. Travis Kelce Is a Much Better Face for the NFL Than Aaron Rodgers, New York. And here’s that piece linked one more time.

2. Martin Scorsese Movies, Ranked and Updated, Vulture. Updated with Killers of the Flower Moon.

3. Leonardo DiCaprio Movies, Ranked and Updated, Vulture. Also updated with Killers of the Flower Moon.

4. Previewing Saturday’s MLB Playoff Games, MLB.com. This here is a jam for all the fellas.

5. Previewing Friday’s MLB Playoff Games, MLB.com. Trying to do what those ladies tell us.

6. Previewing Thursday’s MLB Playoff Games, MLB.com. You get shot down because you are overzealous.

7. Previewing Wednesday’s MLB Playoff Games, MLB.com. You play hard to get, females get jealous.

8. Previewing Tuesday’s MLB Playoff Games, MLB.com. OK, smarty: Go to a party.

9. Previewing Monday’s MLB Playoff Games, MLB.com. Girls are scantily clad and showing body.

10. Previewing Sunday’s MLB Playoff Games, MLB.com. A chick walks by and you wish you could sex her, but you’re are standing on the wall as if you were Pointdexter.

PODCASTS

Grierson & Leitch, we discussed “Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour,” which is, uh, pretty great? We also discussed “The Mission” (which is also pretty great) and “The Burial” (which is fine).

Waitin' Since Last Saturday, we recapped Vanderbilt and then took the week off, like the team.

LONG STORY YOU SHOULD READ THIS MORNING … OF THE WEEK

“The Last Days of John Allen Chau,” Alex Perry, Outside. Still going down every rabbit hole on the John Allen Chau/Sentinelese story that’s the focus of the movie The Mission. This is another great piece about it.

ONGOING LETTER-WRITING PROJECT!

This is your reminder that if you write me a letter and put it in the mail, I will respond to it with a letter of my own, and send that letter right to you! It really happens! Hundreds of satisfied customers!

Write me at:

Will Leitch
P.O. Box 48
Athens GA 30603

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO

“Jenny and the Ess Dog,” Stephen Malkmus. Shoutout to Malkmus for being: a) awesome, and b) totally cool about the “Barbie” joke.

Remember to listen to The Official Will Leitch Newsletter Spotify Playlist, featuring every song ever mentioned in this section.

Also, now there is an Official The Time Has Come Spotify Playlist.

I’m running the AthHalf on Sunday, my 11th half-marathon, so if you see me out there, please do not laugh and point.

Have a great weekend, all.

Best,
Will