Letters From Alex

My best friend in first grade (hi, Robbie) and I were briefly forbidden from seeing each other after school because our mothers decided we were too silly together. They had a point. Soon as I showed up at Robbie’s house (or vice versa) we would collapse on the floor, giggling helplessly for no apparent reason.

I’m proud to say I’m still silly. You can see this on display in some of the Thursday videos I make for Gotham’s social media, and they got especially silly during the darkest days of the pandemic. Evidence here and here and here.

I’m in good company, I think. Monty Python specialized in silly, nowhere more apparent than their famous sketch about the Ministry of Silly Walks. Perhaps you have your own favorite masters of silliness. Anyone else here love Sally O’Malley?

So, what exactly is silly? The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines it as: exhibiting or indicative of a lack of common sense or sound judgment. I’m sorry Merriam and Webster, but I dispute that definition. I’d say that silliness is about taking a break from reality, relishing the willy-nilly around us, and perhaps even laughing at the ever-ready sword of our inevitable death. The fools in Shakespeare’s plays are usually the wisest characters, are they not? 

And maybe a bit of silliness might help your writing. If you’re feeling uptight, overly judgmental, put on a goofy hat or do a dopey dance and you’re bound to enter with a lighter approach. Most stories could use a little levity too. Put a ridiculous obstacle in a character’s path or give someone a funny name.

(Funny names slay me, by the way. I can’t look at the picture above without snickering.)

Or just write something outrageously silly as a creative stretching exercise. I’m still laughing about something I read on McSweeney’s Internet Tendency about 15 years ago, by Tim Carvell. It was a “serious” essay pondering how various scenarios might have impacted the fame of Elvis Presley. Like so:

What if he—instead of Tennessee Williams—had written A Streetcar Named Desire, but he’d also been born with lobster-like claws for hands? Leave aside the question of how he would have written the play—for the sake of argument, let’s say he dictated it, or maybe had some sort of special typewriter. How he wrote the plays isn’t important. The question is, would he have been as widely adored? More so? Less so?

You’re free to bring your silliness to any Gotham class, but you might find it especially welcome in our Stand-Up Comedy Writing and Humor Writing courses. Maybe Robbie and I should sign up for these.

Alex Steele,

Gotham President

Gotham Writers Workshop was born in New York City, is based in New York City, and the very name invokes New York City (Washington Irving, way back, gave it the nickname “Gotham”).

Truth is, we have more students living outside of NYC than inside, made possible by our Online and Zoom classes, not to mention commuting. But I like to think whenever you take a Gotham class—from anywhere in the world—we’re bringing you the grit and glamour of this fabulous town.

If you look at our logo up there on top, you’ll notice a hint of the bat signal and the Chrysler Building. Right?

Some notable bits of NYC news for us…

Our New York City classes have been on pause since March 2020, but they’ll resume in a few weeks. Welcome NYC students: we can’t wait to see you. (And it was great seeing so many of you at our Bryant Park appearances this summer.)

Also, if you’ve spent any time on the streets of New York, you’ve probably noticed the Gotham box—a free-standing box with a Gotham brochure inside. Like in the picture. After about 25 years as part of the NYC landscape, we’ve removed our boxes from the city streets. Paper and plastic aren’t so environmentally friendly, and the pandemic increased our fears of touching strange objects, so it felt like the right time. Adieu Gotham box: your spirit will haunt those streets forever.

And…the Gotham Writers Conference is happening on Zoom this year, October 14-16. If you’re dreaming of publishing a book, a good way to connect with the New York publishing world. At the very least, notice the snazzy subway design on our Conference pages.

Finally, I give you some nice quotes about NYC:

Tom Robbins’s novel Even Cowgirls Get the Blues:

“In every direction, her tired eyes saw flashing lights, lights that caromed off the horizons and joined with the stars in the sky. The city seemed to be inhaling Benzedrine and exhaling light; a neon-lunged Buddha chanting and vibrating in a temple of filth.”

Colson Whitehead’s nonfiction book The Colossus of New York:

“Thousands of people pass that storefront every day, each one haunting the streets of his or her own New York, not one of them seeing the same thing.”

Fran Lebowitz, interview with People magazine:

“When you leave New York, you are astonished at how clean the rest of the world is. Clean is not enough.”

E.B. White’s essay “Here is New York”:

“But the city makes up for its hazards and its deficiencies by supplying its citizens with massive doses of a supplementary vitamin—the sense of belonging to something unique, cosmopolitan, mighty and unparalleled.”

Alex Steele,

Gotham Writers President

I didn’t want to go. Although, I did a little bit. And I’d already said I’d be there.

These were my thoughts a few weeks ago as I prepared to leave for an event in the West Village, all the way over by the Hudson River.

Like many of us, I hadn’t been going out a whole lot over the past few years, especially to crowded venues. And I was a bit apprehensive about this event because no one was able to go with me and I was certain to be the oldest and squarest person at this gathering of the city’s coolest crowd.

It’s called The Tell—a once-a-month program (at a historic hotel where the survivors of the Titanic stayed) that combines people telling tales of strange encounters and noir-ish musical acts. The whole thing is put together by Gotham teacher Michael Leviton, and I’d been telling Michael I’d come for years.

I felt a bit off balance as I walked into the faded glamour of the hotel’s ballroom, where the show happens. I didn’t know anyone or quite belong and wasn’t sure how the seating worked. But after settling deep into a worn couch on the mezzanine level, I chatted to the heavily-tatted guy next to me and then spent a spellbinding two hours or so drinking in the stories and music. I walked home buzzing with the magic that Manhattan has to offer, when you’re lucky enough to find it.

It’s gotten easy to avoid going out, and by “out” I mean something more than wandering the mall or dining in a café. I mean something bolder, maybe even something you’ve got to push yourself to get to.

It’s good to get out—good for us as writers and as people attempting to live interesting lives. (Caution, vaccines, and masks are wise, of course.)

If you’re in the NYC area, you might get out and catch some Gotham Writers action. We will be offering free 90-minute classes every Thursday night in August in Bryant Park, which is perhaps the best spot in Manhattan: a rectangle of greenery surrounded by soaring buildings and the magnificent “lion” branch of the library.

You can check out the schedule here, and take note that I’ll be teaching a class on Character on the night of August 25. (If you come to that one, please say hi to me afterwards.)

In the words of the philosopher Søren Kierkegaard (about whom my friend Pete is creating a TV series): To dare is to momentarily lose one’s footing. But not to dare is to lose one’s self.

Alex Steele

President