Pity Ira Silverberg. He may be an incredibly powerful literary agent, but he's had a rough streak of authors. Last year, there was that whole JT Leroy incident. And now, there's the Ishmael Beah scandal. Isn't anyone who he says he is? Given the explosion of memoirs-that-really-weren't (James Frey, Margaret Jones) and given the numerous self-effacting interviews that Silverberg has had to give, won't someone cut the poor guy some slack?
Yes, I say, yes! I will! Setting aside his knack for representing powerhouse queer authors (Kathy Acker, Dennis Cooper, Adam Haslett), he's quite fetching. He looks determined, forthright; he continues to champion Ishmael Beah's veracity even though the evidence to the contrary seems quite convincing.
A joint Ira Silverberg venture isn't necessarily just about advancing my literary career; it's about fulfilling his life on an entirely different level. No longer would he have to fear of some concocted identity: why, I've been right here all along, making toast and buttering your muffins. Good morning! And the possibility that he'll be burned by another concocted memoir? Forget it; I'm fiction all the way. (At least until I get around to my memoir. But even then it'll be 100% true. And mostly verifiable.)
I urge Mr. Silverberg to take me on as a client at his earliest possible convenience. It's in his best interest, really, considering all the cheats and frauds littering the marketplace. In fact, it may be his only safe bet.
Possible positive boyfriend aspects: Shameless literary hucksterism. I'll no longer have to send out stories; Ira will do it, and the New Yorker will clamor to rush me into print. "Alice Munro who?" they'll say.
Possible negative boyfriend aspects: If I'm not mistaken, I believe his current partner works for the New York Times, in which case, Michiko Kakutani might come gunning for me.