To quote fictional capitalist mastermind Don Draper: “The most important idea in advertising is ‘new.'” And, as the holiday season began, I worried that my debut memoir, Theatre Kids, which had come out June 18th, was becoming the opposite of new.

So I needed something “new” to flog on social.

I had been working on a second book proposal (a collection of fun/dumb advice to dudes) but I wanted to find a way to celebrate my book for Christmas, and maybe sell a few copies because I think it’s a good read. Publisher’s Weekly called it “wry and boisterous.” The New York Post described it as “moving.” I describe it as an uncomfortably personal memoir about weirdoes and drama queens navigating grief, friendship, and cheap cocaine.

It’s worth the money. I never imagined I’d be the sort of person to think that way. I’m an artist after all.

But I have bills to pay.

What’s the Big Idea?

I have learned a great deal about the craft and business of writing over the past few years, but, first and foremost, I learned that at the beginning of this project, I was a literary genius. And now, six months or so after having been published for the first time, I am simply a book salesperson.

I love writing. But, for now, I am here, on planet Earth, with a singular mission. I am here to sell books and chew bubble gum and I am all out of bubble gum.

And then it hit me: what I needed was a good ol’ fashioned marketing gimmick. A stunt. A little razzle-dazzle. I needed a fresh message. Instead of “Hey pay attention to this old thing,” I needed to shout “Hey, pay attention to this new thing.”

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So I impulsively posted a video across all my platforms declaring that I was going to read the entirety of Theatre Kids’ in one sitting, one long marathon performance. I would do it at an experimental theater space deep in Brooklyn called Crawlspace. It’s intimate and warm. Speakeasy-ish. Imagine if Stanley Kubrick designed a sex dungeon; that’s the vibe. Once I posted that was that.

I began to get nervous in the days before the reading and considered lying about catching a stomach bug, which is the original “Get Out Of Jail” card. But instead, I emailed and posted and emailed again. “Come to my reading,” I barked, across platforms.

7 1/2 Hours in Heaven and Hell

It’s important to know what your goals are in all things. My primary goal with this project was to sell books by inspiring a new conversation on social media. So, I didn’t charge tickets. Admission was proof of purchase: hardcover, Kindle, or the excellent audiobook from Audible read by Brian Holden. I didn’t expect anyone to come for the whole thing — I made it a point in emails and posts to mention this.

Here’s an example of the copy I used: “Show up whenever. Don’t be afraid to barge in or loudly sigh and storm out. Bring friends! Laugh and point at the funny man reading his book of feelings! This is casual: swing by for a few minutes or two hours. Stay for the whole thing! Sadly, I will not be signing books because I will be on stage, suffering for MY ART.

I started reading my memoir at 1:15 PM on December 14th and finished at 8:45 PM. 216 pages. 70 thousand words. I took two fifteen-minute breaks to use the restroom, chug Red Bulls, and snack on popcorn. For 7½ hours, I sat in a folding chair at a small desk in a dimly lit basement micro-theater located in one of the most inconvenient-to-get-to corners of Bed-Stuy. The space was still littered with set pieces from the previous night’s workshop: a production of an adaptation of a beloved French novel about creepy twins.

I think, in all, twenty or thirty people cycled through. The evening ended with just three maniacs—dead-enders who endured hours and hours of my overshare-y memoir. When I finished the last line, they cheered, and I nearly fell out of my chair.

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Aftermath

The morning after, I felt hungover. My body ached as if I’d exerted myself physically—which I hadn’t, really. No, I mostly sat, hunched over my book, reading out loud, which, after the first hour or so, turned into a kind of religious chanting, like I was a primitive holy man hallucinating on mushrooms. I lost all sense of time at one point. During the second break, I confided to a friend, a physical therapist, that I had pain in my lower back and sides and she laughed because the diagnosis was obvious.

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My emotional journey came in three parts: I regretted the marathon reading almost immediately. Then, I became euphoric, like an unprepared mountaineer suffering from hypoxia during their ascent. As I approached the final fifty pages, my mind returned to regret. My throat was raw. I could feel my ribcage. I also, oddly, didn’t want it to end? But it ended, and I went to a Christmas party and I think I talked to a few dozen people, including one director whose work I admire who told me she had given a copy of ‘Theatre Kids’ to a young student. That made me smile. But, mostly, I emotionally ate all the salty meats from the host’s charcuterie plate and then floated home alongside my wife, who supported every step of my performance art/public self-flagellation.

Here are some things I learned:

• If I were more successful, I could afford shame. But I can’t. So I shamelessly promoted the reading and my book online constantly: Instagram, Facebook, Twitter/X, Threads, Bluesky, Linkedin. Sheesh, yes, even LinkedIn.
• Reading your book out loud, whether it’s in a studio or in a theater for a marketing stunt, is humbling and frustrating. If you’re a perfectionist, you will learn that your book is not perfect. I found typos! And repetitive words! There were lines and paragraphs that should have been cut! No one noticed these things but me!
• One person caught a factual error: James Lapine was the director, not the lyricist, of Sondheim’s Into the Woods. My god. Mea culpa.
• I should have hired a professional photographer or, at least, a friend who is very good at social photos and pics. Ah, well. Next time.
• I wasn’t wearing my glasses, so I couldn’t see who was there. If you were and we haven’t talked, please say hi. I want to thank you.
• Throwing an event/reading/launch/work of performance art? Buy donuts! Everyone loves donuts.
• How did I talk non-stop for almost 7 hours? VOCAL WARM-UPS. And, honestly, a gallon or so of water and a half-dozen cans of seltzer. I kept my instrument MOIST.
• There has got to be an easier way to promote sales of my book. There probably are, but I did not choose one of those ways.

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Writing a book is difficult, but publishing one and marketing it is just as challenging. This process has taught me to resist confusing integrity with insecurity. I learned to sell my work. I learned that every time I heard a little voice say, “You’re promoting too much,” I should immediately promote my book. These platforms are of decreasing utility, largely existing to extract attention by stirring raw and unhappy emotions, but they can still sell shit. I hope you’ll consider buying my shit—for yourself or for someone you love who suffers from Theatre Kid Syndrome (TKS). You can find the typos together! And that one sentence I repeat!