Just typing his name into the subject line makes me feel like I’m reporting for a gossip site.
Just typing his name into the subject line makes me feel like I’m reporting for a gossip site.
In the last few weeks, I’ve read more about him than I have about myself. His book, Black Leopard, Red Wolf, is exploding. Reviews, profiles, interviews everywhere. There’s not enough gossip circulating but maybe that’ll come. His novel is enjoying a warm reception. Insert here the emoji of the party favour exploding.
I interviewed him last night when he swooped into town for a Vancouver Writers Fest event. He’s in San Francisco by now.
Sorry. Speaking of gossip, the one time I was getting close to something juicy about him, we were standing backstage and he made a joke about something-which-will-remain-off-record, then Leslie Hurtig, the Vancouver Writers Fest director, called my name and I had to step on stage. I never got a chance to circle back.
Circling back, Marlon James has been on my mind for weeks. He’s as smart and funny and electric and irreverent as you’d expect. He probably makes his friends sputter laughter in public when he texts them. He has a confidence that makes you trust his artistic decisions. He has a reason for every choice he makes. There’s no accident in Black Leopard, Red Wolf. The man researched the book for years.
Taller than I predicted. Maybe 6’1. He was wearing layers of black–pants with a white side-stripe, a knee-length tunic over that (he called it a dress), and a shirt over that. And a medallion. Black boots. His dreads were tied back. I suspect the whole look was on trend, like from NY fashion week, and not simply goth, as the untrained eye would label it.
I’ll try to find some more pics. Here’s one of us just chillin’ on the porch.