Seth Sawyers


A Chat Session Gone Wrong

Ever tried to do stuff on a company’s or organization’s internal human resources website or, worse, websites? It can be frustrating. And so can the chat features (I think): A chat session gone wrong at The Awl. 


John le Carré, Jonathan Franzen, Where We Are

Grand pronouncements are tricky but they’re tons of fun, aren’t they, and maybe it’s because I’ve finally gotten around to picking up Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections, which seems full of grand pronouncements or at least the promise of them, but last Thecorrectionscvrnight, listening to John le Carré on Fresh Air talk about where he thinks we are in modern Western history (in relation to the early Cold War days), this struck me as truthful and a lot sad, too:

“Back then, we had a clear philosophy which we thought we were protecting, and it was a notion of the West. It was a notion of individual freedom, of inclusiveness, of tolerance. All of that we called anti-communism. That was really a broad brush. Because there were plenty of innocent people living in communist countries who weren’t as bad as one might suppose. But now, today, this present time in which these matters are being reconsidered, we seem to have no direction. We seem to be joined by nothing very much except fear and bewilderment about what the future holds. We have no coherent idealogy in the West. We used to believe in the great American example. I think that’s recently been profoundly underminded for us. We’re alone.”

He’s talking more or less about England, but he’s also talking about the postwar Western idea, of, essentially, liberalism, too. Really big picture stuff. Maybe I need to stop trying to make sense of Trump and Brexit fourteen times a day. It’s happened, and likely it was happening for many years. The backlash against the idea of helping each other, of being on the same team. Now, it’s: fuck you, Belgium, fuck you, Sweden (but, you know, hi, Russia). It all makes me so sad.

The Corrections really is very good so far, though. I know that’s not groundbreaking news. I don’t know why I put it off for so long. The size of it, maybe, and the foreboding sense I get with books that I know are going to be deep dives into sad, anxious families. But it’s a sprawling beautiful mess, too, and those are good. We need more of those.

A boy wore soccer cleats to school

A new one, short, up over at Pithead Chapel. A boy was so proud of his soccer cleats that he wore them to school. I enjoyed writing this one. I’d been rolling it around in my head for years, with several false starts, and it felt nice to sit down over the course of a few days this summer and get it out the way it came out.


And sometimes in Swedish

Sometimes, in writing, something really cool happens. Was lucky enough to be asked by Arkitektur magazine to write something about the row house, by far the most iconic and common place for people to live in Baltimore, where I live. I had a lot of fun writing this essay (caveat: I’m not an architect or an urban planner or anything like that, just a regular person who lives in a row house), and here’s how it appeared, in print, and in Swedish (English version below).


Baltimore: Row House and Me

Seth Sawyers

I am not an architect nor an urban historian and so I don’t know why exactly the row house, of all the kinds of houses, is so common in my city. The row house exists elsewhere, too, just down the road in Washington, D.C., and up the road in Philadelphia, New York, Boston, but if you were dropped almost anywhere in Baltimore and if you were to squint your eyes, you’d see a long bank of red brick, second-floor windows peeping at you like eyeballs, and twelve or eighteen ground-floor doors like uneven teeth. If you’re in a lucky part of town, those houses have flags out front, flowers, kids playing on the sidewalk. If you’re in an unlucky part, at least some of those windows and doors are covered by battered plywood warped by the sun and rain, warped from neglect. Baltimore, as even the most optimistic among us recognize and despite its strange charm, has its problems.

But before I get into what I actually know about, let’s turn to the row house, then, as a unit for human dwelling. I know enough to know that it originated as cheap, efficient housing in Europe and especially industrial England, that it came about in such numbers over there and here in America because of the intersection of big forces such as money and industry and geography and labor. It doesn’t take an expert to see that row houses are good at making the most out of two things: area and brick walls. Essentially, they are stacked tight and they share support structures. I assume row houses were cheaper than the alternatives. Beyond that, I don’t know the details about the history of the row house, is what I’m saying. I do know they exist, in great numbers.

And what else I know is that, without doubt, almost everyone I know lives in one.

* * * * *

I was 20 the first time I stepped inside a proper Baltimore row house. I grew up in a small mountain town far away from any big city, and had seen row houses only on the nightly news, only on TV. The family in the 1980s show 227 lived in a Washington, D.C. row house. The Cosby Show’s Huxtable family lived in a very, very high-end row house in New York. I was aware of them, vaguely. Then, one afternoon in college, my roommate got an invitation to go downtown. He had a car. I tagged along.

As we walked up to the door, I thought what everyone thinks when they first see a row house, which is: that’s a very narrow house, and it’s connected to the house on either side of it and the houses just keep going, in either direction. How do these people live here, in these houses stacked like books on a shelf? And then we were inside and I thought the second thing that everyone thinks, which is that this house is much, much bigger on the inside than I thought it would be.

This was 1998. My roommate’s friends were playing Risk, the board game, a world-domination contest in which you either slowly overtake your enemies or else they slowly overtake you. It is a game that takes hours and hours to play. I played for a while but then I got bored, and so I lost, more or less on purpose. I wanted to look around.

The people who lived there, older than my roommate and me, probably 24 or 25, were impossibly cool. I have a clear memory of the walls, softly wavy from age and gently shadowed in the yellow lamplight, on which hung framed posters from rock shows, the fact that you could frame rock show posters and hang them entirely novel to me at the time, and very cool. There was the long front room and a kind of middle room, a dining room, both lined with the stuff belonging to a certain kind of person I admired back then and probably still do. It was all bookshelves, guitars, records, paintings, drawings, ironic tourist souvenirs, all kinds of surprising specially chosen delightful weirdness. Their kitchen was comfortable, everything selected and not merely acquired. Above all, there was the sense of relaxed urban coolness, a sophistication cradled by all of these long, long rooms. That first row house made an impression on me, which has never really gone away.

Of course, not everyone who lives in a row house is cool, or has the luxury of thinking about being cool, or has coolness on their minds at all. Perhaps my experience was the exception, and not the rule. Of course, not every row house is even lived in. Many are, still, despite the Great American Urban Renaissance, boarded up, rotting, signs on the outside saying: if an animal becomes trapped inside this abandoned row house, please call this phone number.

* * * * *

Terminology is important. I don’t know the exact definition but I will say that row houses are, simply, homes in which each house shares a wall on either side with another house, unless your home is on the end of the row, in which case you share just one wall. Row houses are not duplexes, in which exactly two houses share one wall. Row houses are not standalone, or “single-family,” if you’re a realtor, which share no walls, and which are as common in Baltimore as flamingos (actual ones, not plastic). And they are not townhouses, which are row houses except that they are fancier, or else are in the suburbs and want to seem fancier than they really are. I don’t know anyone who calls a row house a townhouse.

Row houses are, most of the time, simple things, boxy, and as such are the places in which we, my friends, my neighbors, breathe. They really are everywhere. Visit Baltimore and you’ll notice them. Stay for a week and they’ll lose their novelty. Live here, and you’ll cease to see them altogether. I like to think of row houses as tortillas. If you see a tortilla, you know you’re in Mexico, or at least in a Mexican restaurant. If you see a row house, you know where you are. A tortilla is made of corn and is what you eat. A row house is made of brick and, in Baltimore, is where you live.

* * * * *

We bought a row house. We live in one. We moved in the day that some parts of Baltimore exploded because of the way police had mistreated a young black man, but really the explosion happened because of many, many other things that boil down to one thing, which is that many poor black Americans do not have the same chance at what most of my friends and I take for granted.

We like our house. It is not a large house, but rather it is big enough for the two of us, for a dog, some books, some bikes, more than enough food to eat. It is a place of laughter, of baseball games on the radio, of music, painting, writing. Two good friends live a block away, in a three-story row house with an added-on kitchen that used to get very cold before they insulated it. Friends live in all kinds of row houses in Hampden, Charles Village, Bolton Hill, Mount Vernon, Fells Point, Butchers Hill, Belair-Edison, Canton, Federal Hill, Reservoir Hill, Ridgely’s Delight. They are by no means uniform. Some have front porches. Some have rooftop decks. Many are covered in a kind of stucco called Formstone, which is concrete shaped and colored to look like actual stone. Some have vestibules in front where you can keep dry if it is raining. Some have tiny front yards. Some are four stories high. Some, if you know where to look, contain valuable art, rugs, jewels, animal heads on the walls, old and rare books, elaborate dinner parties, people with last names you might recognize from commercial goods you might, to this day, buy.

How about another kind of list, a more personal one? Over the course of the past fifteen years, I have gotten very drunk on cheap red wine and watched The Royal Tenenbaums in a row house as my friends made fun of me for my purple-stained lips. I have wrestled dogs in row houses. I have thrown up in them. I have passed a kidney stone in a row house. I have fallen in love. I have watched as a black man with a weird name got elected president. I have tapped my fingers on at least five different computers’ keyboards. I have been to one hundred million parties in which it was hot, at which everyone was drinking cold cans of National Bohemian beer (sometimes the beer was warm) and at which boys tried to get girls to notice them and the other way around, too. I have read some books. I have watched too much TV. I have shouted in row houses. I have cried in them, bled, sweat, shed, napped, shaved, paced in them. I have lived nearly half a life in them.

* * * * *

But I’m no special thing, because so have many others. And here’s what a whole city living its life in row houses looks like: windows in the front and the back, but not on the side. Arguments from the side, yes, but only if they’re especially loud. Sex from the side, sure, but only if it’s especially really very loud. Old R&B from one neighbor, indie rock from the other. A barking dog from one neighbor, soy-ginger-marinated smoke from the other. Cigarettes from one neighbor, iPad video-game bells and whirs from the other. No gunshots, I hope.

* * * * *

And there’s one other thing you might think were you to look at a block of row houses, an obvious thought, maybe, which is: man, they’re just so close together. That’s true. It is impossible for row houses to be any closer together. No sky between them, no dirt, no grass, just the stuff that grows from the cracks in the sidewalks. We’re in here tight.

But how’s this: when we moved in two Aprils ago, that day that Baltimore’s long-forgotten exploded, our neighbors said hello. Prisha is a pediatric nurse and her boyfriend, Ryan, is a chef. We’ve become friends. In their kitchen, they make dinner for us sometimes. Sometimes they come over and we, poorly, make dinner for them. Over the little fence out back, we trade beers or hot peppers or herbs or, you know, gossip about the dickhead a few doors down who refuses to park his 1985 Monte Carlo like a grown-up. It’s just life, life, and more life, is what I’m saying, in these simple boxy houses that are all connected to each other, and some days I think that’s all there is, and thank god for that, this life lived between two sets of windows and two long walls, this regular glass, this regular brick.

Some novel-writing thoughts

I’m getting close to finishing. I think. You know, I hope. This is my first try at this, and so what do I know, but I can’t help but think that:

  • The reader, when he or she turns the page, for the most part is turning the page to see what happens next. And, at least for this writer, that what-happens-next part of the craft is not the most interesting part. The most interest parts are the Jesusmoments (sometimes the long moments) that happen when the character is done getting to where he or she needs to go and has a realization or when the story itself

    has a moment of realization. When there’s the ka-pow of beauty or wisdom. (I’ve just read Denis Johnson’s collection Jesus’ Son and his best moments are those ka-pow moments but the what-happens-next stuff happens to be more than compelling also.) It’s almost as if the writer slips in the parts he or she cares about like a parent slips in a bunch of spinach in with the otherwise sweet stuff. I realize this is a

    gross oversimplification and that the best writers will make all of this seamless and so that you maybe don’t know why you’re turning the page at all. In the masters’ hands, you’re just turning the page, and it’s more or less all ka-pow.

  • That said, I do often wrestle with how and when to do the ka-pow (if I even can). How much do you move your characters around? How much do you get them into danger? When and how do you “lift off” with your smarts and your insight and your beauty? I often wrestle with this balance. (I’ve been reading Emma Cline’s The Girlscline
    and she particularly is adept at doing just this in a very balanced, time-release way. Her character will do something dumb and then she’ll be very smart ab
    out something or at least beautifully dumb. And then she’ll do something else stupid and then be beautiful about it. And it all comes through that first-person filter, which is consistent and level. The close third-person I’m doing does allow you to step back now and then and rhapsodize from, say, the corner of the room as opposed to doing it from someone’s shoulder. At least I think so. I hope so.)
  • I’m trying, in this third try at an ending, to follow the feels and not the brains. I’ve done so much brain-ing this time around, trying to make it all go up and down in the right way, trying, essentially, to deliver and to not fuck it up. But now I’m trying to get a little less analytical and to try to let the soft, squishy parts take over. The brain, I think (I hope) got me to this point, and now that I think the ups and downs are in place, I’m trying to let it take itself all the way home.

What Your Favorite Former Secretary of the Interior Says about Your Favorite Cocktail


Thomas Ewing (the first Secretary, 1849-50); gin and tonic

  • “Pedestrian. Like drinking a sheaf of unlined paper.”

Alexander H.H. Stewart (1850-53); Manhattan

  • “A business Venture once demanded I visit the namesake Island in the great Harbor and there I witnessed a most stirring Sermon.”

Orville H. Browning (1866-69); Campari and soda

  • “We did not have this libation during the Black Hawk War.”

Zachariah Chandler (1875-77); dry martini

  • “Fucking tight, son.”

Lucius Q.C. Lamar II (1885-88); Moscow mule

  • “Dear Sirs. I hasten to proclaim that I possess insufficient time to attend to the addressing of such matters. Sincerely, Lucius Q.C. Lamar II, Secretary of the Interior.”

Hubert Work (1923-28); whiskey and soda

  • “Never touch the stuff. To relax, I prefer The Evening News-Courier, a fire in the hearth, and a glass of warm milk with a dash of Sullivan’s Head Ache & Deep Sleeping & All-over Discomforts Tonic.”

Douglas McKay (1953-56); amaretto sour

  • “I got zany on these one weekend on the Oregon coast. I think I made love with a man.”

Thomas S. Kleppe (1975-77); Jägerbomb

  • “I had one of these. It was about two minutes ago. I’d now like to fight or vomit.”

Manuel Lujan, Jr. (1989-93); screwdriver

  • “One part vodka, two parts orange juice, eight hundred fourteen parts go fuck yourself.”

Sally Jewel (2013-2017); old fashioned

  • “I like these after a long day of masturbating to my favorite national parks. Lately what’s been doing it for me is Wrangell-St. Elias. If I’m in a rush I go with the usual: Big Bend.”

Ryan Zinke (2017-present); rum and Coke

  • “Fake drink with a mixer from a failing company. SAD.”

The Food Market

I try to write funny things now and then. It’s a way to take a break, to finish something short (sense of accomplishment and finality), and to try to make someone laugh. This one got rejected, and so leaving this here. (One of these just opened behind our house).

Something Has Gone Awry with the Vendor-selection Process at The Food Market

Seth Sawyers

Welcome to The Food Market, the hottest thing in town, a former auto-body shop that’s been transformed into a dining destination where top local chefs have brought their adventurous ideas together under one roof. This is Chet Reynolds from the WTZX City Team and I’m excited to take you on a behind-the-scenes tour. Let’s start with this gentleman right here. What inventive culinary ideas do you have up your sleeve?

Vendor 1: I make bologna sandwiches.

Chet Reynolds: That’s so interesting! So, these sandwiches are a nod to the school cafeteria lunches of your youth?

Vendor 1: It’s bologna on white bread.

Chet: How nostalgic!

Vendor 1: And there’s some mayonnaise on there.

Chet: Fantastic. Moving right along. What do we have here? A nice young woman offering up what I’m guessing is hibiscus tea, perhaps with some agave syrup over ice?

Vendor 2: It’s red drink.

Chet: How delightfully simple! On a hot day like today, this must really hit the spot! Can we try some?

Vendor 2: That’ll be a dollar. If you just want a cup of ice that’s 10 cents.

Chet: Well, I don’t seem to have any—

Vendor 2: Beat it, dickjob.

Chet: OK. What do we have over here?

Vendor 3: I got some boiled carrots.

Chet: OK. And you, right over here, ma’am?

Vendor 4: Microwaved hot dogs.

Chet: Goodness. Let’s try you, sir.

Vendor 5: Instant mashed potato mix.

Chet: I was not expecting that. And you, sir.

Vendor 6: Loose Fritos that you grab with your hands out of this plastic tub.

Chet: My! I was not expecting any of this. Let’s move over to the other side of the building, shall we? Oh, oysters! Wonderful. Ma’am, where are these farmed?

Vendor: My cousin gets them down by the pier by the old battery plant.

Chet: Oh, my. And you, sir. What are you selling?

Man: I don’t work here but I could get you a phone charger.

Chet: Hey, that’s my phone charger!

Man: Two bucks.

Chet: I will not be paying for my own—

Man: I got some VHS tapes in my car. They’re not blank but they still work.

Chet: Well, this is turning into something, isn’t it. No, wait. I think I finally see what all the fuss is about, right over there. Ma’am, what is it you’re offering up today?

Vendor 6: These are locally sourced—

Chet: Good!

Vendor 7: —artisinally packaged—

Chet: Wonderful!

Vendor 7: —Ziploc bags of hand soap from the waiting room at the hospital.

Chet: Oh, boy. We’re done here.

Vendor 7: It smells like Jolly Ranchers.

It never goes away

A lot of writers, actors, directors, in interviews you’ll hear them say something along the lines of: “I’m just waiting for everyone to find out that I’m a fraud.” Last night’s dream was especially this, for any writer. It’s a high-level fiction workshop. The teacher, a writer of highly literary novels that have never sold well (and maybe he hadn’t published on in a while), goes through his critiques of two other writers’ work. The critiques are pointed but not devastating. And then he gets to me.

It is devastating. He asks where I grew up. I say “western Maryland” and on the chalkboard, he writes “Rural concerns.” Then he asks, not really me but instead the class, “Mr. Sawyers, do you have any concrete plans to actually step away from the bus stop and answer any real questions?”

So it’s always there, the doubt. I’ve got to assume it won’t ever go away.

Writing a novel, part 437

I have been lax in writing little things here and there about this novel that’s now in its fourth year. For many reasons, but mostly because it’s all I can do to try to write the thing itself and also because I’m so new to it and am sf2750425601eb4b5d8317efec99159ddo unsure about so many things that who am I to profess about this sweet, difficult sport?

But I can say one thing for sure, and that is that I’m almost certainly getting better at it. I’m basically teaching myself how to do it, making tons of mistakes, some of them huge mistakes, and am learning mostly by reading books as I go and by trial and error writ large.

I’ll try to write more about it, but I can say a few things.

  1. It’s hard, and it takes a lot of words and sentences and paragraphs to make a novel.
  2. The kind of story I’m trying to write–half literary, half story about two people fucking up and meeting each other and fucking up some more before giving it a final go–seems to want to be all about deeply felt characters moving through a series of actions driven by their own characters.
  3. My urge as a writer is to let my characters be happy, and feel stuff, and sort of transcend. But I’ve found that fiction requires difficulties. I have to constantly remind myself to throw difficulties at them. New characters and bad choices can help in this regard.
  4. I didn’t set out at all to write a book that required much in the way of research–rather I wanted to try to write about the stuff I already knew and loved and cared something about–but I have found it necessary to research the following: the 1994 World Cup, mid-90s hip hop, the 1988 Orioles (false start that won’t wind up in the novel), very tall people and their medical problems, 1994 Baltimore, 1994 Norfolk, Virginia, and 1994 Cumberland, Maryland, balsa wood, hang gliders (another false start), and the making of pants.

I’m in the throes of a third draft. I feel better about this one. It’s harder work than the first two but it is, I hope, because I’m getting in there and doing the heavy work of figuring out my characters and figuring out effective plots and figuring out how to make these three people in my head come alive, both beautifully and whatever it is opposite.