Self-Promotion for the Socially Impaired - Umberto Tosi
Me, far left, failing to look inconspicuous onstage with fellow Chicago Quarterly Review readers Dinner with friends is my limit when it comes to social gatherings. Parties bore me. Conferences terrify me. I turn my name tag around and try for invisibility. Sooner or later, however, somebody asks the question I like least: "What do you do?" "I'm a writer," I respond, my mouth dry, unwillingly, but I can't deny my calling after all. As a 20-something smart-ass, I used to answer: "I sell health insurance for pets." That's a real thing now that veterinaries charge as much as brain surgeons. Then comes the follow-up: "What have you written?" I know it's just making conversation. Nature hates a vacuum. Nonetheless, I break into a neurotic sweat. I imagine the questioner thinking: If you're a writer how come I haven't heard of you? I need a warm-up act. I name some titles, not that any will strike up the band:...