Literary Readings: The Perfect Low-Expectations Party

The solution to that pesky third-places problem?

Mar 19, 2025

Literary readings are a funny thing. They’re often held at bars, but they’re not exactly ragers. I rarely see anybody get wasted at these things the way people often get on their nights out. Most people seem to have a drink or two in order to achieve a polite level of buzzedness, as they would at a dinner party (it’s considered very rude to throw up the host-cook’s roast chicken and pommes dauphine). Unlike during a night of bar-hopping these days, it’s not weird to chat up strangers because, after all, everyone’s there for a common purpose: to support the readers and the group that’s hosting the event.

After about an hour of socializing with the friends you came with and/or new acquaintances you’ve just made, the emcee(s) begin the readings. They say everyone in the line-up is an incendiary talent. Many readers will read from their phones, saying (or claiming) that they just wrote their thing in the last day or two. Maybe even on their way over. In S1E9 of Girls, Hannah’s former writing professor—played by Michael Imperioli, which always makes me fear for Hannah’s life—invites her to read at his literary event. She reads from a piece she wrote on the subway ride there, which is supposed to make her seem flippant and unconfident. But now, I’m thinking what she did is just par for the course.

The most well-received readings are short, punchy, and humourous (but not haha funny… this isn’t boorish stand-up comedy) self-contained narratives with plenty of inside jokes to flatter the audience. Longer, more serious pieces often don’t go over well. The crowd is quiet and respectful, but I’m not sure how many are paying genuine attention (except when their friend is reading). Does anybody remember what was read even five minutes afterwards? I’m guessing many people are counting down until they can return to sipping their drinks while chitchatting with others (possibly with that cute guy or girl they’ve been eyeing since they came in).

But the actual readings serve a necessary function. Without them, the literary reading becomes just a bar party, with all the pressures to create wild memories (that will get promptly forgotten via blackout). As such, the readings create a plausible explanation that everyone is actually at a cultural event.

Yet it’s not one of those stuffy cultural events, like the opera. The performances will take up only about an hour, and most of the time is meant for socializing. And as a reader, it’s not as if you’re putting on a recital. There’s no memorization involved, and there’s no real equivalent of playing a sour note, and in fact, any slip-ups will only endear the performer to the audience. The readers enjoy their moment in the spotlight, which they deserve since it’s hard enough for writers to feel appreciated in what is often a very isolating endeavour. For some, being invited to such a reading may make them feel as if they’ve finally made it to some degree (I definitely felt like that at my first reading).

The party then resumes. At the very least, the readings provided a social refuge for people to recharge their conversation batteries and scroll through their mental library to line up a few more anecdotes and witticisms to deploy at opportune moments.

Last week, I went to a fun reading hosted by

Language Arts

in Bushwick. Afterwards, my friends and I went for drinks and we talked more about this new type of literary reading that’s become popular since the end of COVID-induced social distancing. We noted how readings didn’t used to be like this, that they were more formal events where most of the readers were well-established writers with books to sell. In contrast, the readers at these events are just as likely to be your friend with the cool but underappreciated blog. It’s an encouraging sign of what

Mo_Diggs

describes as the return of the mesoculture, referring to thriving local cultural scenes that were flattened by the internet and winner-take-all corporatism.1

In case I came off as a bit snarky about these literary readings, let me clearly state that I really enjoy them. Rejuvenating literary culture is important and I’ve met a lot of great people at these things. Some become friends you ask to come to your birthday party. Others become the type you often run into at these gatherings. Some fade away. But they’re all good company.

These readings are a welcome strike back against the oft-lamented demise of third places. They offer a well-balanced hybrid between the exclusivity of a house party and the chaotic free-for-all of a clubbing night.

Tell the Bees

2 has written about how young people are overly valourizing a homebody life and/or proudly proclaiming their lack of even the most basic social skills. Anything that encourages the opposite is a good thing.

Each reading tends to have its own character and vibes. I’ve been to ones where the readings are so short that it felt as if the readers were fearing the vaudeville hook, like something out of Looney Tunes. Some readings are full of intellectuals who want to talk about a recently translated novel from Slovakia (to which I nod along politely, pretending to have heard of) while other readings are populated by Twitter addicts. One reading I went to was held in a small space with a broken AC in the summer and it just became a sauna, while another was held in a grand church on the Upper West Side. Another featured a shibari performance. One in an art gallery in London let us smoke indoors. Some have been held in beautiful private residences. One made us wait outside for almost an hour in the freezing January night and finally let us in with all the orderliness of a Black Friday sale.

If these readings do have a downside, it’s that they don’t seem geared towards creating great art. The first ever reading I ever went to in NYC was at Franklin Park back in late 2016. Since then, I’ve witnessed one truly great reading: by Hanif Abdurraqib as he read from his essay about Whitney Houston’s transcendental live performance of “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” at the 1988 Grammys. I’d neither liked nor disliked Whitney Houston, but he put so much passion and even tragedy into his reading that I was temporarily convinced she was the greatest American artist of the 20th century. At the end, he received a standing ovation, probably because such virtuoso readings were such rarities.

This is not to impugn writer-readers. Good writers often aren’t good performers (and vice versa). And a lot of prose writing just doesn’t lend itself to performance anyway. I’ve had the privilege of reading at a couple of events myself, and it’s not as if I hold myself up to be a particularly good reader. My readings were excerpts from literary essays I’d published with the host magazines, so I was essentially reading an English paper in front of the class. My main objective was: Don’t bore (and don’t mumble).

It’s like we’re all re-enacting Dead Poets Society. There’s a funny scene in the movie where Mr. Keating tells his students what the club was about and one of them (Charlie, I think) asks him something along the lines of: “So it was a bunch of guys reading poetry to each other?” Mr. Keating refutes his mocking characterization and tells them it was more about deepening friendships and boldly trying new things.

I wonder if years from now, we’ll look back at this time and when tomorrow’s young people ask us about this era of literary readings, they’ll be like Charlie: “So it was a bunch of random people reading whatever?” But we would say it wasn’t just about that; it was also about the creating chances for people to step up and speak up, especially when more and more people just feel that not many would notice if they were to completely disappear off the face of the earth.

My law school put on a musical every year. When I was a 2L, we did RENT, and I played piano in the pit. Our conductor/Maureen was a young woman named Caitlin. She was a year above me, and her dad played guitar in the pit as well. He told us about how he’d been accompanying her at talent shows and open mics ever since she was little. The decline of the mesoculture tells us that the arts are a waste of time unless we strive to become (instantly) rich and famous through them. So at our final performance, I felt sad that this could possibly be her last time performing. I hope she’s kept on singing in public since then.