Normally Special is the most recent book by the pseudonymous California toy mogul and bloggerturned-writer xTx.

It is published by Roxane Gay's Tiny Hardcore Press. There's something psychological in titling one's press in such a way, I have to say, but I'll leave such inferences to your imagination. The story of xTx and me goes like this: near the end of 2008, around the same time HTMLGIANT came to my then-limited attention span, shortly before my deployment to Iraq, I read an issue of Thieves Jargon in which she had a story, Good Time Dan, which is about a fuck doll. It was so hilarious. Knowing Matt DiGangi well enough (he now actually co-edits with me on another magazine), the policy has always been to send your praise directly to the writer. And so I did, and she got back to me surprisingly quick, and looking back through my Gmail, one of the first things she ever said to me (on 10/23/2008, roughly 11 months before either of us heard of Roxane Gay) was: I love being called retarded. It's one of my favorite adjectives. This is characteristic of our love letters, which grew in volume in the months and years to come, and could easily compose a book in themselves. Because yes, I am a boy who has fallen in love with a woman named Tracy X. True to form, this love is bound to be unrequited, and I think somewhere along the way we both got that, but this did not stop us from frequently talking of sex that would never happen. Always something about a bathroom stall. A quick blowjob. Certainly got me through my days. I went to Iraq. Tracy, as I call her (or Tracey, as I've often said, which pissed her off to no end), xTx as she is known to more each day, kept in touch. She was one of the few people doing that. She was really a savior. Before going, I had founded a weird press/moniker thing called nonpress and I wasn't sure what I was going to do with it. The more conversations I had with her, the more we wrote back and forth and got to know each other, the more I knew that she would be the second nonpress writer. And so around March or April, we finally had agreed on things. There was compensation. It was all very informal. We worked extremely hard on this thing. I wanted to take her to the next level. I wanted her to either come out as herself or make up a better pseudonym. I foresaw something like this happening a solid two years ahead of schedule. The whole thing culminated in the first page of the book, wherein she solidly requests to keep the moniker xTx. The title, too, I thought could have been something different. I wanted to go with something like Blah Blah Wine, which was something she had said to me once. It was more characteristic of her. Anyway, after much hard work on both ends, we brought Nobody Trusts a Black Magician to fruition in October, 2009. By this time, Roxane Gay had brought herself vehemently to my and, it seems, everyone else's attention in a big way. Suddenly this person with the one X and the one N was getting published everywhere. Well, maybe it was a bit before that. Maybe during the summer months. For obvious reasons all these months blend together. But regardless, this was during what I call Roxane Gay's rising period.

Indeed, in her submission to dispatch on 6/19/2009, her bio read only: Roxane Gay's writing appears or is forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Storyglossia, mus luscious, The Foundling Review, DOGZPLOT, Necessary Fiction and others. She is the associate editor of PANK. She would go on to rack up dozens of credits, contributorships at various respected or not-so-respected culture blogs, and somehow gain a legion of admirers who are likely reading these words right now, fuming, red-facedly penning their variously motivated defenses of their fearless leader in the comments box. At the time, I considered her simply to be a overzealot. Having come from this school of there's not enough time! splatterbombing and activity myself, and graduating sometime around 2007, I could understand that. Later she became something very different, and so now we fast-forward. I'm not sure, exactly, what went down between xTx and myself that made it so she doesn't want to speak to me anymore. As recently as December, 2009, around the time she made a very memorable drunk call to my cell phone (I had just returned from the war; I actually thought/hoped she was someone else, and she tweeted drunk dial fail following the call), she wrote to say Thank you sweetness. Please remember that I'm always on your side. I honestly don't remember what led to this. As you may have gathered by now, I am fucking bat-shit crazy. I probably sensed some form of disloyalty. There are other things I could reveal at this point, but I don't want to ruin everything. There is still a bitch to be slapped. In total, I have 16 conversations with rgay74@gmail.com. The earliest is from June, 2009, as previously discussed. The second is a withdrawal of that story by the author (now published here). Thus it can be reasonably agreed that most of our disagreements and engagements took place in the public eye, at the book promotion website called HTMLGIANT, where Gay frequently contributes whatever sort of bullshit she thinks will get her the most attention that day. As recently as this week she was claiming poverty. Quick research reveals that her father, Michael Gay, is a Haitian construction magnet, but I don't want to digress into too personal matters. I'll engage anyone in the public eye. I'll shoot across the bow of any ship if I feel it threatening the things I love. Over the past two years, Roxane Gay has had an effect on the independent literature scene that I have taken particular exception to; and her cohorts have made it much nastier. Until January 15th, 2011, I was of the solid belief that she was just another true believer who would eventually come around, who would get her act together and make good on all her empty promises to the literary world. I mean, after all, she had solicited and published a piece of mine, which was an ego boost. Later I discovered that Pank is literally on a mission to publish everyone, with little or no editorial cohesiveness, which is a solid business practice in the literary world, but sort of a crap shoot when it comes to the reader's perspective. Somewhere deep inside, I think, Gay must realize that no one's reading anyone else's words anyways. There is such a thing as overpublishing, and I discuss that in more detail here. Anyway, somewhere along the line, Roxane Gay founded Tiny Hardcore Press in order to publish a print book by xTx. Allow me to be very clear: this was always our intention, mine and xTx's. We considered it a calling card, a Roxane Gay

cornerstone; what they used to call a reader. A sampling of her work. So when it came to my attention that a new print book would be coming out by her (we had words over her previous thing, He Is Talking To The Fat Lady, because I didn't want her giving me a copy; I just wanted her to set one aside for me until I got the money together), I was delighted. Mission accomplished, right? A real print book, probably on par with Nobody, something that would say: I am Tracy, hear me roar. After all, I love this California blonde, and I have since Good Time Dan, and nobody can take that away from me. The weirdness only grows when you hear Gay call a pseudonym her best friend in comments threads. She clutches that which she stole from me ever closer to her sizable bosom, yes. So of course I bought it. Why wouldn't I? I had bought other things from Pank. I buy a lot of things. But this is one thing I wouldn't fail to buy. Normally Special a great title. I'd love to know which side of them picked it. I'd love to know a lot of things about that process. At various times, in thinking about the book in the run-up to press, I wondered if there were some way to weasel my way into Gay's life and be friends with her, if only to get my love back. Of course by now you realize that's simply not possible. Everyone who calls themselves Roxane Gay's friend is so on a submissive level. You must submit to the fact that Roxane Gay is right, even when she's wrong. In fact the biggest debate in recent memory in which I attacked her, this gender thing, she openly admits to my being right about something. Which bolsters my earlier statement about her being an attention whore. Today being on one side of the gender debate gets you attention, you take that side. Tomorrow, being on the opposite, so you take that. In politics these people get eaten alive. In the new era of electronic independent literature, it seems, these people get more acclaim for each time they take up a new position. I am interested in a more open society. I am interested in a better tomorrow. I am interested in more honesty. Unfortunately for me, I am not interested in being anyone's bitch. All of my friends are my equals. The relationships wherein my friends consider themselves either superior or inferior to me never last. Over the years, I have cultivated a small group of people to love and cherish. One day, I do hope, Tracy will come back. But after this, it's unlikely. So I placed my order. I had gotten my finances together. When He Is Talking To The Fat Lady had come out, I was going through a characteristic period of stimulated idiocy. Drunk or high all the fucking time. That's why I didn't have the money to buy the book. That's why I didn't want her to just give me one. Regardless, by the time Normally Special went on pre-order, I had gotten my finances back in order, founded a new business venture which actually is doing alright, and happily plunked down my $14.99 or whatever for the digital/print copy. I didn't care where the money was going. I'd have bought that book from my ex's fiance. I'd have bought that book from anyone, literally anyone. And you can rest assured I will buy her future books. And I will always watch this garden grow. I do hope that one day she trusts herself and the world enough to reveal herself to everyone else, but it doesn't matter. She is a great writer. And I will always love her. 15 days after I placed my order, my money was refunded. I didn't notice at first. It took about 8 hours. Then the devastation and the rage set in. Part of my psychosis is that I get inside these little rooms inside my head and I see nothing but that which is bothering me. I had these visions of Roxane Gay laughing at me: haha, you can't buy this book I published by the writer you love so much. Because I said so. Because I don't like you. Because you never just say this was a good post when I am rambling incoherently about identity politics or publishing. Because you refuse to grant me even one iota of unearned respect. Because you're stuck in the old ways. Because you did nothing to further foment my meteoric rise to some modicum of prominence. Because I said so. Because

And I lost it. The message she had written in the refund notice was this: No thanks, Paul. I'm not interested in your money. A word of preface as regards money between her and I. She had pre-ordered Adam Moorad's Oikos several months before, and we had shipped her two copies, if I remember, albeit behind schedule. When I received the money, I'll admit, I had briefly thought of doing what she was now doing. Instead I put her in the credits. Because thank you, you know? We're glad to have the support. And we don't much care where it comes from. I felt no moral ambiguity about accepting the money. More importantly, it was about Adam. It was about Oikos. A worthwhile side-note here would be that in an earlier accusation levied at me, she claimed to separate the personal and professional as much as possible; she was pissed at me because I published one of her tweets out loud. Yet here she was, telling me my money wasn't good enough to buy the book that probably wouldn't have happened without me. Indeed, I have a recorded conversation between xTx and myself in which she explains that I rescued her from whatever mental block she had been suffering there at the end of 2008. Up until around that time, it should be noted, Tracy X was mostly a blogger. She's now mostly a writer. Go figure. Anyway, I wrote her back. I called her a cunt. I swore my revenge. In the end, Gay said this about it: What this says about me is that I won't do business with someone I can't stand. Indeed, how very professional of you. And how good for the press, and for the writer. If only I'd done that when you had sent the money for Adam's book. (By the way, I returned her money plus interest the same day this whole thing went down; interest being an additional $20. We had a PayPal back and forth. I begged her to just give the money to xTx, sort of surreptitiously hoping that Tracy would offer to send me a copy of this book the way she had before. In the end, Gay ended up with her $20 donation back, and I had to find an alternative method to obtain the book I herein review.) I got in touch with one of my friends. Despite whatever marginalization campaign certain parts of the blogosphere have taken against me over the years, ignoring my best contributions/efforts and focusing on my occasionally frothing insanity, I still have those, friends. And one of my friends was happy to take my money and buy himself and me a copy. I don't want to reveal his name because he might get in trouble with Gay, and as of this writing she still represents a credible threat to the good of the western literary world. Having been a scourge for so long now, I stand here, in the public eye as always, quite unafraid. So the copies went out and mine came a few days later, by way of my friend. Such a roundabout way of doing things. If Gay had just made it available through Amazon or some other channel, we could have done this impersonally, and I wouldn't be writing this blasphemous tome against her. I noticed immediately the design of the book. Really top-notch. It is a pleasant object to hold in my hands. Never fear, though, I do want to part with it (it's unsigned and so has no real value for me) everyone who comments on this post will be entered into the running for my copy of it, which cost me around $35 and thus has added value; as a bonus, I will include a CD with my and her hour-long conversation while I was in Iraq and she was at work. The cover picture by Briton Robb Todd is pretty great; I can't get over that guy's figure. I want to be shaped like that. Seriously. Then you realize that the little girl in the doorway is actually the subject of

the photograph and you wonder about your own sexuality, as a man I mean. We open with an homage to a mother, perhaps xTx's, and an homage to herself, of sorts. Characteristic of xTx, thisthe feeling of loss at the same time as the feeling of warmth. It's a mind trip, as any follower of her blog can tell you. Took issue with the line I resent the weakness of my sex felt easy, predictable, and editorially I would have changed it to fairness. Because if you're going to attack something, attack it. Later, in The Importance of Folding Towels, we hear that each fold was a slamming door, and we know that this has not been said before, which is what makes xTx a great writer, which is what differentiates her from Roxane Gay, because almost everything Roxane Gay has ever said has been said before, and somewhere inside, I think she knows that. I felt this story could have ended at the line I keep folding the towel. But it takes an actual editor to make those kinds of decisions. I discussed earlier the mission of Pank, under direction of Gay, to be the world's biggest group blog. Standoff was extremely engaging; I would have titled it Champion of Failure. This isn't so much a criticism as it is a note. These are things I'd have said to my love if we were still friends. As was discussed in the Catherine Lacey article about xTx and pseudonymity, xTx denies ever being sexually abused but stories like Father's Day are bound to make you wonder. Which is of course what any good writer or public persona wants, so I don't necessarily feel one way or the other about it. Then, on the following page, in Marci is Going to Shoot Up Meth with Her Friend, we get yet another line which may have been said before but not quite in this way: My hands will tremble because that's what they do when they get close to the truth. This is why I know Tracy X is a fucking pioneer, and everything be damned: I still love you, xTx. The Mill Pond is likely one of xTx's longest pieces ever, and for once she manages to maintain a coherent narrative past a few paragraphs. I felt a great, condescending satisfaction in seeing this story on the page; the hints of sex with an old man made it into a classical Tracy story, to be sure. Because I Am Not A Monster, on page 87, is where we get the title of the book. It is a love letter to someone exactly 1 day and 6 hours away from her house. A fan letter anyone who's ever really fallen in love with the work of someone else can understand. It is cathartic, even for the reader, who is left to believe, if he lives in Texas and has the kind of history with the author as this writer does, that it is to him. Which it probably is not, but one can dream. In the end, I was forced to give Normally Special four stars out of five. I felt it was lacking in some areas. I'd have done more with the design, I'd have done this, I'd have done that; what it comes down to is that I am not a regular reader, and so I think giving it less than five stars is a privilege I take quite seriously. All commenters will be randomly entered into a drawing to win my copy of the book and the CD, as previously mentioned, and will be contacted if their name is drawn. My intention here is, in fact, to stimulate sales of the book and generate wider interest in the once-unknown gem that is xTx. She is an original, something her new publisher is not nor claims to be, and I'd hate to see her career fizzle out as a result of the eventual backlash that will result from Roxane Gay's complete and total inability to maintain a coherent position on anything, to consistently be honest, to reasonably argue beyond the baroque niceties of her stilted prose, or to just be a better person. As for me, well, I'm over it. For now.