I’ve had a big, fat artist-crush on Joey Comeau since I was fifteen.
He is the writer and wit behind a softer world and overqualified among others.
I used to fantasize about traveling out east and running into him in the street, or on a bike somewhere, and smashing windows and writing poetry together in the street. I’m sure I’m not the only one.
His prose are explosive, raw, chaotic, and also adorkably sentimental at times. I discovered his work at a time when I thought all Canadian literature had to be polite, subdued, and restrained. Darkly humorous and instantly relatable; I quickly read everything by him I could get my hands on.
His voice is crystallized in the age of internet sensationalism, 24/7 connectivity and mass loneliness, drunk texting, cultural commodification, zombies and reality television. A Canadian Jack Kerouac, his stories capture the restless, tense, heart broken energy of a generation of skateboarding skids and indie hipster kids.
I don’t “follow” a lot of authors, but Joey is someone I bite my nails over, worrying that his creative well could dry up at any minute, and also thrilled that he could just as easily spew forth forty new works over night.
Joey’s writing reminds me that reading is suppose to be fun first and foremost, and threatening second. It doesn’t have to be pretty, but it has to be smart, and sometimes that includes jokes about sex and farts. The awkward moments can be soothing, and vulnerable moments scathing. His darkly sardonic narratives are oddly hopeful and invigorating. Like an open ended dare, the challenge is to get out of bed in the morning and live another day, because why the fuck not?
I hope if you get nothing else out of this post you go check out asofterworld.com right now, and I strongly encourage you to go buy all his books and share them with your friends. It will be totally worth it I promise you.