A reckoning of sorts.

"And then one day I woke up, and I realized I was never going to be normal, so I said, "Fuck it." I said, "So be it."

            —Hard Harry, Pump Up the Volume

A few days ago, I found myself in a wild quandary. After reposting on the socials a plea to be kind, I then posted something distinctly, pointedly unkind. At a specific person. And not just any person. Perhaps the top of the field in which I work, probably the top American copy editor: Benjamin Dreyer. Called him "insufferably pompous" while also crediting him for promoting the use of the em dash in the face of people who are now using it as irrefutable evidence of AI writing and not human writing. For my trouble, I was told "go fuck yourself!" Alongside that came a smattering of defenses by his supporters, including one astutely noting the hypocrisy of supporting kindness, then in the next breath, acting against that support.

Why?

That's the big question, of course. Why spit in the face of an established pro, an unquestionable authority? Well, I really do think he is insufferably pompous. Seriously. His writing is overblown and he seems too clever by twice. I read Dreyer's English, and although I was happy to start reading it, I began to be annoyed by his supercilious attitude. I tried to brush it off as a hallmark of a good copy editor, but the more I read, the more it got in the way of his message: a contemporary commentary on what makes good American English style and grammar. And unfortunately, maybe it is just that good copy editors have a supercilious way about them. I'd like to think otherwise, but I can't deny that we have a certain reputation, and reputations exist for a reason.

But why bring it up in a public forum? Maybe because he has been an annoyance for a long time. So much so that when I tried to follow him on the socials, it took a matter of a few weeks for me to unfollow him. I could not tolerate his tone. And it was a blessed relief not to see him for a long time. But when I saw Colson Whitehead's repost of BD's em dash commentary, it brought back all my animosity with a vengeance, and I felt pushed in the moment to voice my opinion. Besides, I felt, surely I can't be the only one who feels this way.

And why post this, when I had just reposted someone else's plea for kindness on the interwebs? Whither the hypocrisy? Well...to quote Whitman, do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large; I contain multitudes.

The Aftermath

First thought: "I didn't think he'd respond. I'm on his radar. Wild." And with it, a frisson of excitement like a push of Meyers cocktail to the gut. I'd felt this before, and not in the greatest of settings. An awful lot during my time dealing with an affair that fucked me up but good.

As time went on, I felt worse and worse about it. I checked to see who had blocked me as a result of my comment. A fair lot of people, himself included.

I had posted this on my personal, slightly prurient account. Not on my professional account. I post significantly less to my professional account and have fewer followers. After some thought, I realized that perhaps I might be easy to find on my professional account and link back to my comment (which I deleted after not much time). So I took the time to block everyone on my professional account who had blocked me on my personal account. Thought it would be wise.

Well...turns out ol' BD saw who I was. He blocked me on my professional account as well, which freaked me out, because great...he knows my professional info, and now can possibly do damage to my reputation or my work. (Of course, it would be me who did the damage.)

I felt pretty crippled yesterday while contemplating what I'd done. And began to feel an apology was necessary. Only thing is...apologize for what? Voicing an opinion in public I felt was true to me? Injuring his ego? Making him look bad in the eyes of his followers and admirers? It felt off for me to do this. I felt like a child being forced by a parent to apologize for some slight. But I did give it some major thought.

Steve Albini, Oddly, To the Rescue

On my flight to Palm Springs last night, I listened to Our Band Could Be Your Life, a paean to some 1980s alternative bands by Michael Azerrad. Specifically, I chose the chapter on Big Black, the abrasive noise band fronted by Steve Albini. (He subsequently gained fame for recording/producing such classic albums as Surfer Rosa by the Pixies, Rid of Me by PJ Harvey, and In Utero by Nirvana, to name perhaps the most salient ones.) And wow, was Steve Albini one twisted fucker. Won't go into details, but in general, his mien was so unapologetic that it boosted my mood decisively. He did crazy shit. Said wild things, the likes of which made my comment of "insufferably pompous" about a copy editor seem like a mosquito bite. And I began to realize how useless and unnecessary it would be for me to apologize. If someone were to confront me with my act, I'd own it and say, "Yeah, what of it?" By the end of the chapter, I felt cleansed, relieved. If Albini can be that punk rock and go crazy, surely I can too, in my own tweed-and-bow-tie manner. And who cares about my statement? He's gone on with his life. He has better things to deal with than my comment. And I have better things to do than deal with that fallout.

Beyond that, my comment about ol' BD is surely something he's heard many times before. He's well established. That "insufferably pompous" attitude that imbues his writing—and his demeanor, I'm certain—has led in no small part to his professional success. People are often impressed by people impressed by themselves—especially if they have the chops. Confidence is attractive, and derring-do in whatever field similarly pulls the eye. But it's when the confidence spills over into hauteur that I draw the line. And I have little tolerance for that.

So thanks to the powers that be—in this case, Hard Harry and Steve Albini—for pulling me away from the swamps of sullenness and saying, "So be it. Get on with your damned life." And in the meantime, maybe I'll grab a copy of Atomizer or The Rich Man's Eight Track Tape or the Pump Up the Volume soundtrack in gratitude.