The Stern Lesson

By KEN GORDON

On May 9, I asked novelist Steve Stern to write for JBooks.com. Stern, in case you haven't heard, is a professor at Skidmore College. He's also what you call a "writer's writer" or, perhaps more appropriately, a critic's writer. Sanford Pinsker describes his fan base well: "I’m a card-carrying member of the Stern gang—not the Zionist paramilitary group that fought the British during the days before Israel became a state but, rather, a member of the band of literary critics who have been following Steve Stern wherever his wacky, altogether wonderful imagination would take him." I introduced myself via email and invited Steve to contribute. He replied, "Thanks, Ken. I will definitely keep your offer in mind."

Would you, I asked Stern four days later, write a short essay about the piece Peter Edidin had published in The New York Times? (The story, in short, talked about how critics adore Stern but that off-campus readers hadn't quite caught on.) Stern responded: "Let me think about responding to the Times piece. I'm still a week a way from finishing grading, and truth is, I have such a savage desire to get back to my desk that I wish all the students asking for recommendations would stand in my way so I could tear out their genitals and smear the gory mess in their faces." Whoa! I thought. "Sorry, but that's how desperate I feel." The apology was good, and his candor was better. What a fascinating writer! "But give me some time to clear a little space in my head, and again, thanks for asking."

In June I wrote, "I hope that Skidmore's May 21 graduation help[ed] dispose of your various academic headaches, and that you're now back at the writing desk." Stern, however, wasn't quite ready for the essay. "Yes, I'm done with the semester and clinging to my desk like Ishmael clinging to Queequeg's floating casket, while sharks keep carrying pieces of me away."

He asked how I was and I reported that my wife and I had just bought a house and that I was busy and tired from being a writer and editor and dad. Then I added "But I can't complain. Thanks to JBooks I spend much of my time thinking about literature—and I even get to correspond with terrific writers such as yourself."

Stern had a response in mind but was just "looking for the time to jot it down. I too am on the verge of buying a house, and while I have no children, the prospect still makes my heart palpitate like a speedbag."

Nice simile, I thought. And took a break until the next round. In July. July! I thought. Summertime. "Okay, Stern, I've got you now. It's the middle of summer. Let's have the essay." Stern, however, had other ideas.

"The summer so far has proven nearly as crowded as the spring, and between a host of commitments and obligations I won't bore you with, I continue to fight for time. It is literally the story of my life—and probably yours and everyone else we know."

He said he hadn't forgotten about the piece and hoped some day to find "a tranquil evening (if such a thing ever occurs) when I can sit down and write a sad but funny response to Peter's article."

Fair enough. But then, at the end of the month, I had a sudden editorial crisis. I needed one more article to finish off an issue of JBooks. Would Stern step up to the proverbial plate?

You know the answer.

"Sorry to be such a disappointment, Ken, but this has turned into the summer of my discontent," he wrote, adding: "Your bee remains in my bonnet, but it may be a while before I find the wherewithal to extract the stinger."

Then I got a 50-watt idea. Maybe he could write the essay for one of our two October High Holidays issues. I imagined that his essay would touch on the theme of forgiveness. In the middle of September, I asked about the essay, adding that if the answer was no, "I promise never to bug you again about this."

The muse of misery liked this and pushed the beleaguered novelist to write: "Ach, Ken, I feel guilt guilt guilt on many fronts, yours being not the least of them. But I just moved into an old house and my life has become one of those predictable old house comedies. Where once I was devoted to literature, I seem now to be all about caulk, spackle, and weather-stripping. I hate the house and hate my girlfriend for pressuring me into buying it, and I miss the life I knew. I have become a pathetic bourgeois cockroach and no longer anticipate enough peace of mind to ever write a lucid sentence again. Write me off as both author and human being." He signed off with "profound self-loarthing."

Profound self-loarthing? The man was clearly in trouble, so I threw in the editorial towel. Though I loved getting his funny, brilliantly phrased responses, I couldn't bear to continue increasing Stern's misery index. I wanted to put a stop to his kafkan exercise in self-torture. I wanted him to, well, forgive himself.

And so now, in the spirit of the High Holidays, I say to him—I say this to you, Steve—"Forget about the essay. Forget about the Times. Teach your classes, write your letters, turn to your novel when you can, love your girlfriend, and enjoy being a homeowner. Life is short and art is long. Chag sameach."