Never Meet Your Heroes - Main Street Writes

I clanged a fork on the champagne-filled crystal goblet and stood.

“Good evening,” I addressed my dinner guests, giddy and nervous. “I’ve invited you all to my home tonight because your work has influenced and enriched my life.”

Lynne Avril grumbled and asked if we could eat already, noting the time was well after 4 pm.

“Patience please, the oven timer hasn’t gone off yet. The cheesy broccoli casserole will be ready at five o’clock. To speed things up, I’ll do quick intros around the table, and shout out your books I love followed by thanks. I’ll start with you, Lynne Avril, illustrator of the beloved children’s books Amelia Bedelia.

What’s that? Yes, I know she’s not an author, per se, but the writing prompt said to throw a literary dinner party for living authors and Peggy Parish is dead. Anyway, Amelia Bedelia was a larger-than-life character who touched my heart, helped shape my sense of humor, and nurtured my love of reading, which is why I went a little off script and settled for Amelia Bedelia’s second run illustrator Lynne Avril, no offense Lynne.

Next up is—someone please hand Fredrick Bachman another napkin so he may wipe his brow. Fredrik, your novels Anxious People, Britt-Marie Was Here and My Grandmother Asked Me To Tell You She’s Sorry, all have an underlying theme of well…anxiety. Being a little high-strung, I appreciate a collection of works I can relate to. Especially characters like A Man Called Ove who are so tightly wound that at the midpoint of the second chapter, I almost took up smoking again.

Yes, Fredrik, I agree, your book was better than the movie. Will someone please refill Mr. Bachman’s champagne again—oh wait, you’ve brought your own flask of oak barrel aged scotch, never mind then. Perfect.

Lynne Avril, please stop drawing caricatures of the guests on their napkins.

Moving on, I’d like to introduce—what? No, you cannot introduce yourself, Samantha, it’s my dinner party. Oh, alright then. Apologies to everyone in advance—Samantha Irby has just handed me a pre-approved list of bullet points to hit during my intro, so here goes. Samantha Irby is a badass bald black lesbian boss—her words not mine—once again, my apologies. But seriously, her brilliant, irreverent, laugh-out-loud essay collections make her one of my literary heroes—I’m sorry, sheroes. Wow, No Thank You is a hilarious examination of what it means to be a real woman suffering today’s societal pressures of perfection and memes. Your words are like gospel to my suburban white lady ears. Your other works, We’re Never Meeting in Real Life and Quietly Hostile are among the paperbacks under the rickety leg of my nightstand. Just kidding, you slay Queen.

One more grunt about how late we’re eating, and I swear Lynne Avril you’re going to be sketching those illustrations at a bus stop.

While essayist Samantha Irby is a tough act to follow, Dr. Mary Claire Haver is a shero to millions in her own right. She is a board-certified Ob-Gyn and YouTube sensation who literally wrote the book on perimenopause. No, seriously, her book is called The New Menopause. Thank you for your inspiring words to us women over forty. To loosely quote the good doctor, “Perimenopausal women aren’t irrational, we’re hormonal.” Also, thanks for your chapter dedicated to the midlife/midsection spread and reminding people like me that it’s not about a calories-in calories-out formula anymore because diet is a noun, not a verb. You’re the reason I threw away my scale and insisted my husband sleep in the garage during every moon phase of my waning menstrual cycle. Namaste.

Ok, Samantha, let’s not be rude. Dr. Mary Claire Haver is not here because Barbara Kingsolver declined my invitation. You take that back and refrain from spewing any more insults. We’re all bestsellers here.

Speaking of, Jonathan Lethem, your bestseller Fortress of Solitude set in Gowanus, Brooklyn is one of the best representations of growing up in an impoverished, yet diverse urban neighborhood I’ve seen since Sesame Street. From one inner-city kid to another, I am in awe of your use of the colorful city as a character. Your bestseller Motherless Brooklyn wasn’t bad either, eh? I’m just kidding, the plot kinda fell apart but you can’t win them all.

So, without further ado, let’s raise our glasses—Is that the doorbell? Who could it be? I’m not expecting anyone else. No, Fred Bachman, relax. I’ll get the door. It is my house. What the—Okay, which one of you satirists invited J.D. Vance?”