All photos courtesy of the author. 

Memberless Clubs

“Please accept my resignation. I don't want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member.” - Groucho Marx

At the beginning of the year, my obsession with getting published began. I was looking for any magazine, book club, reading, or anything of the sort to read my writing and allow my writing to be read. But it felt like when things were read, they were all used up. When I say used up I mean read up, all read up and useless now. When something is read, does it lose its value, like after you’ve had your first love and you can never love the same, or like when you show your favorite film to someone who isn’t paying attention?

In May, a couple of months deep into this search for approval, my friend Allegra asked me to be part of her poetry reading nights. By “she asked,” I mean I begged. She said alright, and I threw together a little piece of prose. I got all dressed up; my mother even flew out to see me. I was the first one to arrive at the venue despite knowing I was on last, and while waiting, I got nervous. I got so nervous, I slouched a big gray coat over my dainty black dress. The dress was beautiful, with layers of translucent fabric, building on top of each other and falling behind me as I walked. A slit on my left leg, a deep cleavage to reveal the top of my breasts. Tiny straps, held together only by the silk fabric that revealed the shape of my nipple and fell over down from my collarbone when I laughed. But I covered it with a gray coat I stole from my nanny after she died, and covered myself entirely. So that nobody could see, so that nobody could look anywhere, but merely hear what came out of my mouth. I had papers to read, but by the time it was my turn, it was past 11 and the guests had taken advantage of the open bar. When I got up on stage, the audience went quiet, and my nervousness grew brighter, like when you focus too much on a candle’s flame and the whole room grows red and tired. It was too dark, and I could not see.

Then, it became apparent: I was possessive, entirely obsessive of my work. It was for me. Mine. At that moment, I was giving it away for the first time. And it hit me that writing is meant to be read, and that every time it is looked at, heard, or touched, nothing is detracted. Rather, an entire new dimension begins to take part.

This is what I now understand of writing. To write not for yourself and certainly not for others, but for the text to be digested, to forge a bond between the flavors that make its taste and melt it on your tongue.  Writing should be churned under the teeth, be cooked like a meal for a party of twenty. I’m learning to share. I suppose that is what London has taught me, in all of its underground clubs and readings. Nothing is just mine. So there you go, this piece is not for me, or for you. It is to exist in the space between us, and hopefully, closes the gap between minds alike.

That was in May. It just turned December, the afternoon of the calendar. A couple of days ago, I went out to speak with my friend Allegra, who gave me my first ever public reading opportunity at her twice-annual poetry reading night. The one that made me so nervous I wore a coat that looked like a smock and could not figure out the microphone. I joked to her that writers are notoriously introverted, shy, and inarticulate. Most of them are dead, at least the good ones; this is not ideal if you’re planning a reading party. But Allegra, much wiser than me, understood the importance of sharing work. She is the reason I do not despise the sensation of reading aloud anymore. Usually, I am too clumsy, and my tongue lags behind. But because of her, I am now curious—I’ve been a guest at a reading too, instead of nervously tearing paper while waiting for my turn. I’ve taken advantage of the open bar and found it terribly difficult to listen to whoever was reading, really immersing myself in the role of audience member. Being a reader is difficult, but I wondered how stressful it is for the host, the person who puts the evening itself together. So I called. I sat down. I asked, and Allegra spoke.

N: why did you start the Gothic Bar poetry readings?

A: I started Gothic Bar Readings because I had been performing at other people's spoken-word nights and I got asked to do my own. It was at the Monroe Gallery, which was a gallery in Notting Hill. I tried to do a collaborative evening with paintings and poetry. I realized that I really enjoyed it and how popular it was; it was completely packed. It was a small space but by the end of it, people couldn't get in and I realized how much people actually enjoyed poetry. Especially in these kinds of short blasts. All the poetry readings that I went to, however, were at 7pm, always sit-down, always very serious. A lot of my friends were doing events and parties at the time, and I thought how interesting it could be to combine that kind of atmosphere of a late-night party with a reading. I thought that could be an interesting way to make people feel more comfortable and receptive to self-expression. If the audience was a little bit drunk, people would come for a party and stay for the poetry. That was the concept. And it worked.

N:  What do you think is the significance of sharing work with each other?

A: I think there's something about sharing your work, especially as a writer, because it's very personal. I feel like it is the same with painting. You are completely by yourself when you are creating and it's so deeply internal. When I started sharing my writing, even if it was just to friends, that was when it started feeling real. It was that step from journaling or just writing free-flow prose to writing with a purpose. I was writing something to be read. Self-expression is such an important part of life. It is necessary to share work.

N:  What do you think of the resurrection of book clubs, although in the format of Instagram, Zoom chats, and whatnot?

A: I think the resurrection of book clubs is great. I guess it started during the pandemic. I know there's like, hot girl book clubs for celebrities—I think Dakota Johnson has one, and Kaia Gerber started a book club online as well. There are no particular qualifications to start one, except for being a reader. The whole concept of a book club in the classic sense is that you read a book a month and then you meet in person, and you discuss it. It forces you to critically think about the work that you've read, and I think anything that can encourage critical thinking is incredible. There is snobbery in the literary world around that, but I don't think that it's very helpful.

N: Is writing performative for you?

A: The fact that I am a writer is not performative. I have to do it because it's the only thing I'm relatively good at. But when I write pieces that are more widely read, like pieces that I'm writing with the intention of publication, I do consider the audience very strongly. And I guess that's why there will be a performative aspect to it. My opinions and my language and my tone is all mine. It's just that I will slightly alter it depending on what publication I'm trying to write for and what tone I'm trying to convey, or who I think is going to read it.

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After Allegra had to go, I sat in the cold, far from the May that turned to summer like a screw turns into old wood. Wood—I would like a fire, to warm me up so my thoughts could defrost. No, I can’t just defrost at room temperature—it needs to be quick, like when you go into the shower with frosted legs and turn on the hottest water. It hurts, doesn’t it? Almost burns your skin that has turned to snow. My impatience, I guess, is what these readings and book clubs feed. How infuriating it is to write, in such long stretches of time, and have it bubble up in your stomach. When it cannot be cooked, melted, churned to develop, as a meal for twenty. What is creativity if not for sharing? What are these words worth if they are not read? May I borrow your eyeballs for a moment? Can I show you this thing I wrote? Can I read it out loud to you?