My New Favorite Author

One of the worst hobbies you can pick up is writing. With other hobbies, you need to dedicate specific time to nourish them and practice them. For instance, you can't just paint randomly, there's a setup involved no matter how basic you want to get. Whereas when you are writing, you can just be doing it while writing an email or sending a text or just solving an exam question but are you REALLY doing it.

Like yes, I get the point that those are different kinds of writing but how do I control the accidental 'cooking' I concoct while offering unsolicited advice to a friend or when I execute an autonomous humorous bit during a discussion in the group chat. Those are well-worded sentences that will never be published with my name, and at best will be regurgitated by my cohort to a larger more appreciative audience.

I did say writing is 'one' of the worst, but not the worst because reading is the worst one. Period. It's got the same problems as writing and then more. It is such an annoying hobby, because while all-consuming and enveloping there is not much you can do in this hobby except indulge in it. You cannot really get any better at it; reading faster isn't always the best. I suppose one of the points I am trying to dodgedly make so far is also that hobbies like everything in our lives have become a victim of capitalism. You cannot simply indulge in it. It has to be turned into something productive, it has to be something you can invest into and get greater returns from, it has to be able to be screamed about or social-media-fied, and you have to keep improving and if it's nothing of those things is it really a hobby?

I digress, let's circle back to reading. It is hard to even talk to someone who enjoys reading because really most of the time you are talking about the book more than the act. The act too has evolved so much over the years.

You must forgive me, I haven't written anything cohesive that has made its way out of MS Word from my 'E' 'R' and recently dethroned 'H' key-less laptop in about two years. There are going to be a lot of diversions and meaningless meanderings. But I promise, there is a point or two in here somewhere.

For the longest period of time my go-to answer to what my hobby is, has been: 'Reading and Writing'. I actually enjoy(ed?) doing both of these activities and felt like I could hold a conversation as well, even if I weren't actively doing them. Or really getting any better. I reservedly might have publicized like a couple writings in the past 5 years (despite having written at least a hundred or so, all of them rotting in MS Word files, or my Notes app) and according to Goodreads my annual read books are only decreasing.

I say 'according to Goodreads' because I want to add an element of mystery to my persona—as if I might be secretly reading dozens of books off-platform, hoarding literary experiences like some kind of bibliophilic hermit. The truth is more mundane: I just forgot to log some of the books I read because the website feels performative and I'm lazy about performing.

Anyway, speaking of performance, I recently decided I'd maybe try writing more, no matter how dog-shit it looked to me, (this is my fourth rewrite of this entire 'essay(?)' as well) and I would let more of my writings see the light of day and not let my ideas compost waiting for them to blossom a garden for which no seeds were going to be sown by me.

Did I say there's going to be a point here and there?

If you enjoy reading and have ever told someone so, you must have been hit with the question at least once: 'Who's your favorite author?' The favorite book is easy to answer and say that it is hard to make a choice. But to say the same on favorite author puts your claim of having reading as a hobby into jeopardy.

For me, the answer was very straightforward for so many years: 'Neil Gaiman'.

Long, long pause.

Last June, when I traveled to the US, whispers had already started. But I didn't want to believe them—or maybe I couldn't afford to. I happily carried my 'American Gods' copy wherever I went and got multiple nods on the title from people who caught a glimpse of it. I loved Gaiman because his books felt authentic despite being compelling stories in a fantastic world. There were lessons in his books, wisdom wrapped in myth, and when I read them I could hear his voice guiding me through impossible worlds that somehow made perfect sense (regrettably I still would, if I were to read them).

Then the allegations became impossible to ignore.

You know that feeling when someone you've admired from afar—someone whose work has shaped how you see storytelling, imagination, even morality—turns out to be fundamentally different from who you thought they were? It's not just disappointment. It's a kind of retroactive embarrassment, like realizing you've been enthusiastically recommending Typhoid Mary’s Diner to everyone. Suddenly every conversation where you'd praised his work felt tainted. Every time you'd quoted his stories or shared his wisdom, you'd been unknowingly promoting someone who had caused real harm.

When the news hit mainstream media, my world collapsed, not only because I'd supported a terrible person and preached about his stories, but also because suddenly for the first time in my adult life, I had no answer to the question of who my favorite author was. Without any trigger warnings the omens were no longer good; the monsters weren't neverwhere but in front of me; no amount of stardust romance with an open marriage or paternal love with a haunted recreation of a Kipling story was redeemable; the smoke and mirrors had been dissipated to show mans fragile image of self that once wished to even hide from the Sandman. Unfortunately, there was no milk as well.

It was like losing a piece of my identity that I hadn't realized was so central until it was gone.

It was a very busy, busy, busy time of my life though, which provided welcome distraction. And I found myself unable to field an answer to this question were it ever asked of me. Thankfully, no one did. Actually someone did ask. And it was myself.

I blame my inability to read 'any' book for the first four months of 2025 on this very conundrum and indecision. The weight of every book felt heavy because I wanted it to mean somthing. Every time I glimpsed at any book or heard about Gaiman again I cringed simply because I had no answer to the question, who my favorite author was. It was a gut-wrenching feeling. Of course, I understand now that this was a vin-dit.

The breakthrough happened when I was sitting in an old bookshop wondering if I wanted to buy a book or just pass time in a semi-pleasant manner. I came across a book that showed the drawings of many famous authors. By this time, I had already short-listed some favorite author names in my head and involuntarily right now I was only looking up those specific authors, their drawings and their thought process behind it.

And to my surprise, I really liked what Kurt Vonnegut was cooking.

Let's get this straight. I am awful at recalling stories, whether that be from books, movies, shows, or real life. I can recall the gist of it but the particulars are always hazy and I blame my mass consumption of media for it. Keeping that in mind here are some facts:

• Sirens of Titan is my favorite Vonnegut book—it's got the perfect balance of his absurdism and genuine human tenderness
• I liked Slaughterhouse-Five particularly the 'So it goes' repetition. It imparts a sense of doom and frivolity in the writing that adds to the deadpan satire of the book
• I think the absurdism and particular brand of comedy of his books might not be best suited for the current era, which makes them feel like a secret handshake with readers who get it (You see I am just propagating the absurdism)
• I have read most of his stories and I find some of them to be strange, and some just feel unfinished. Maybe that's the point—life is unfinished, stories are unfinished, we're all just making it up as we go
• Cat's Cradle is one of my most frequently re-read books, probably because it perfectly captures how arbitrary and meaningful everything is simultaneously

There are more observations where these came from, but be content and have your fill out of these for now. The implication of all of these facts being that when I left for the US again, because another wampeter was waxing in my life, the only book I carried with me was Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut.

My new favorite author.

This is not the end. As you might have guessed by now I am awful at getting to the point. The title is foma, misleading, this isn't about my favorite author. Never has been.

You see between the time it took me to choose a new favorite author, my life was still ticking by. I got into the NBA for one—meaning I became obsessed with basketball in a way that surprised me. Other things were also happening at breakneck speed. My karass was expanding (or shrinking into a duprass), I was learning new habits and forgetting old ones. I was becoming what I was pretending to be and being very careful at what I was pretending to be. I got so much and most mud got so little.

And the only real lesson I learned is that I have got to be kind.

I used to say my favorite verse was by Philip Larkin: 'This Be the Verse'. I will replicate it here:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don't have any kids yourself.

I used to think of this poem a lot too. It was still my favorite but something didn't feel right because I did not fully believe in it anymore. Then, without any warning one day I found myself penning (yes actual ancient ritual of physically writing) this down:

Thus Became The Verse

They fuck you up, your mom and dad.

Who says they don't mean to? — they do.

They fill you up with the traits they had,

Then stitch some extras into you.

A chain of fuck-ups — now it's your turn

To pass on baggage and fuzzy coats,

A lineage of fools, kooky and stern,

Bludgeoning their mantras down your throats.

Still, man hands down misery to man —

Or so tells one spine on the bookshelf.

While you're here, enjoy what you can:

Fuck around, or don't; imagine Sisyphus… yourself.

It's not exactly Keats, but I liked it. I might have written better flowing more loquacious poems or verses but after a long time I had written a poem I was proud of. It let me stop resenting Larkin's verse. I could still say it was my favorite and have a rebuttal, a footnote of my own at the end of it.

Before leaving for the US my brother randomly put an Indiana Pacers cap on my head. They were in the NBA finals at the time, and him doing it just felt right. I am not particularly a fan of the Hoosiers, but I do like to say 'What the Hali' every time Haliburton clutches up, which is a lot.

In the flight, while re-reading Cat's Cradle I realized Kurt Vonnegut was also from Indiana. Finally, man (me) got to tell himself he understand.

And no, I am not going to Indiana any time soon. But that's not the point.

You see the point though, right?

See the cat? See the cradle?