On Sam Pink, Scheming, and Slander

The truth about MFA Dave...

I did an event at this new community space / coffee shop American Grammar in Philly over the weekend. It was a great event, it was great talking with Terrance and Luke. We spoke about political inscrutability in art, literature as a tool for self-formation, and self-invention as the supreme American act. I appreciate them for inviting and hosting me, and everyone who came out for coming out. Here’s a video of it. 

During the Q and A, something came up that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. I’m honestly glad it came up, as it made me realize that I need to write something about it. It was a question about artistic influence, and the exploitation of “outsider art,” and the “ethics” of this. When she asked the question, it took me a sec to realize what she was even asking—or rather, to understand how she was applying what she was asking to me and my book. I realized that she was basing what she was asking on this “essay”—this hysterical, embarrassing, cancel-attempt written by the writer who goes by the name “Sam Pink,” back in August 2021, five months before my novel was set to publish. 

Listen (draft):

I didn’t respond to this directly for a few reasons. It came out of such bad faith and opportunism, and I was honestly initially shocked he would do such a transparent publicity stunt in a time when I was undergoing such real-life grief, grief he knew more than most about. I felt embarrassed for him, for acting so hysterical and self-victimizing, projecting so much onto me about his own choices. I thought it would be self-evident that this was someone going through something, lashing out, throwing a tantrum; I didn’t expect it to be taken seriously. Once you read the book, I thought, you’d realize that whatever influence he’s claiming to have on my work is stated right there, in the book itself—it’s never in question. And also that, the character attacks, about me being “wealthy and connected,” would be proven to be total bullshit, based on what’s in the book.

But it turns out some people actually believe this shit. 

I realized that it’s time to speak on it.

There are a few things going on in his essay. The first is that I somehow “stole” something from him. The second are the series of made-up character attacks, all of which are projections of the author. 

I’ll address the first thing first.

I didn’t steal anything from him. I cited his writing in my book, and asked him for permission to cite him over a year before he wrote that essay. (While also throwing him some encouragement, that’s where those lines are drawn from in his “essay,” me being encouraging to him, as if that’s “evidence” of anything.) He gave me permission, was fully supportive of the project, and then, once my book sold, suddenly started saying he wasn’t.

Here’s what he said, right after I sent him the book initially, back in May 2020. 

And I think that puts it perfectly. I used a technique, one Pink also uses, I made it my own and took it to the next level. 

Couldn’t have said it better myself.

I cite everyone I’m influenced by in Fuccboi. That’s part of the message of the book, that we should and can be influenced by others and should read aggressively and create from that receptive, open state.

At the same time, I don’t want to understate how much of an influence he specifically was. It’s as absurd to say I plagiarized from him as it is to say I wasn’t influenced by him. I absolutely did not plagiarize from him; I absolutely was influenced by him. I identify him specifically as a writer to look to to understand one aspect of my book: a formal technique some of the chapters are written in. Just like, for some structural elements of the book, how it’s a philosophical investigation of how to be, I point to other writers; and for some diaristic elements, how it’s an investigation of shame and the unsayable, I point to still others. Same goes for the vernacular element of the flow, and for the intimate arc of the story, etc.

But of course I credit him so generously, and this starts getting to his head, and when he suddenly realizes that Gian’s death means me and my book, as Gian’s last understudy / project, will get all this attention and acclaim, he felt envious and tried to make it about him. 

But say I didn’t get permission beforehand to cite him. Pink’s confusion is that he somehow originated something, that he “owns” a way of writing. He learned how to write in “sentegraphs” from Noah Cicero, he’s stated this in interviews. Noah Cicero is the one who came up with the term “sentegraphs.” Sean Kilpatrick breaks it down well in this review of one of Pink’s books. 

YOU CAN ABSOLUTELY BE INFLUENCED BY THE FORMAL TECHNIQUES OF OTHERS. THIS IS WHAT WRITING IS. THIS REQUIRES READING. I URGE EVERYONE WHO WANTS TO WRITE TO READ WIDELY AND FIND NEW WRITING TECHNIQUES THAT RESONATE WITH YOU, THAT YOU CAN USE TO WRITE THE STORY YOU NEED TO TELL, AND USE THEM.

Pink is a Tao Lin baby, scroll to the earliest Muumuu House stories, there are countless examples of people writing in this mode. 

So there’s no argument here. I consciously wrote in a specific mode, studied it, took the parts I liked, made it my own, and combined it with all my other influences to write something urgent and vulnerable and untouchable. 

And he was one of those people I drew from. 

That’s really all I’ve got to say about that. That’s not why I’m writing this.

The thing that’s most backwards about Pink’s essay is the character attacks and slander, his claims about me being some “well connected rich kid” who “manipulated” my way into Fuccboi coming out how it did. The idea of me “coming from money,” for those who know me, is laughable. This is a ridiculous, unfounded claim, based only on the fact that I went to an MFA—which I’m totally open about. “Sam Pink” is a pen name made up by a guy named Dave who also went to an MFA. I didn’t tell the story about how Fuccboi came to be a Little Brown book with a big advance because I was grieving, and it happened under such unexpected, painful circumstances. To imply that I “manipulated” it to happen how it did is not just a lie, it’s borderline evil, knowing what actually happened—as Pink did.

Pink, on the other hand, had a book deal at Soft Skull (no different than Little Brown, in terms of “mainstream-ness,” in terms of institutional funding), but then got greedy and wanted more money, so withdrew his book from Soft Skull and submitted it to Little Brown. Then got mad and wrote that essay. Pink was the one who tried to scheme.

I felt bad for him when he wrote that essay, which is why I didn’t say anything. The reason why I am now is because I realize what a dishonest and harmful narrative it is, in the implications it has for aspiring writers. The question that young woman at American Grammar asked me made me realize this. 

This narrative being: there’s an “authentic,” “totally original” underclass that strives to “make it,” yet due to the way of the world are never-ending victims, manipulated by a scheming cabal of privileged “rich people” who “steal” from them, profiting off their struggles. The underlying implication being: if you’re from this “underclass,” you should stop trying. That those “born rich and connected” will forever “manipulate” and “scheme” their way into those cherished positions of cultural influence. 

The conflict I felt when the woman at American Grammar asked me about this was, on the one hand, wanting to agree with her. Maybe the world did, in many contexts, work like this. The only problem was, she was applying it to my story. That’s not what happened with my story.

What actually happened: I came from a position of societal and financial and literary outsiderness (from both mainstream and alternative literature), had a vision about the book I wanted to write, took the risk of moving to New York to do the Columbia MFA with no backup plan, no safety net, stuck to my vision, was totally open about my process, shared vulnerably and intensely and in my unique lexicon that I came up with. I didn’t compromise. I found people who supported me. I navigated the real world as best I could, used what opportunities I had—all while being totally open about the process. 

The meaning of this story is: when you listen to your inner calling and risk everything, take leaps of faith, have the courage to be vulnerable, to go against the grain, and stick to your vision even when the world denies you over and over, there’s still hope of finding a place for yourself in the world.

This is a good, positive story. And it’s all true.

So when I “defend” myself here, it’s not so you’ll think better of me; it’s to defend the truth of the my story, and to defend the validity of the meaning of my story, so others can learn from it in a useful way. 

PINK’S SLANDER (1–3):

1. 

That I’m a “rich kid with connections”

My parents took care of disabled people for a living growing up. My family lived in self-sustaining communities for disabled people during my early years, where they received no income, and then for one year tried to live out in the real world, in Sacramento, working as substitute teachers. And then for middle and high school my mom and sisters lived in Santa Cruz, in the house of a woman with cerebral palsy, who my mom worked as the live-in caretaker for. I went to undergrad on a full, need-based scholarship; I demanded and got all but $5K/year covered for grad school at Columbia, after six years of working random jobs in between, struggling. It’s weird to conflate “education” with “wealth,” based on zero evidence, especially in reference to a place like Swarthmore, where I went to undergrad, which is notoriously need-blind and covers tuition according to your parents’ income, such that anyone with under $40K combined parental income gets a full-ride. That’s why I went.

And it’s especially dishonest since YOU YOURSELF WENT TO AN MFA, only part way through DECIDED to self publish under your fake name. This was one of the first things Pink and my mutual friend at the time, B, told me after my book sold. That Pink suddenly regretted his decision to go the route he took, impulsively self-publishing how he did while he was in his MFA, not following through, not taking the patient, transparent, vulnerable route I took. This is not a matter of OPPORTUNITY, it’s a matter of CHOICES.

You’re over here lying about your life, to promote this fake idea of yourself you have and hide your schooling. This is not helpful to anyone. It’s dishonest. I don’t know about your upbringing, because you, again, write under a fake name and hide all biographical details about yourself—our projects are so different, they’re basically opposite—but in my experience, the type of white kid who is proud of being poor is generally rebelling against his wealthy upbringing. I’m not proud of having no family safety net. And nor am I claiming to be the most underprivileged person. I understand the contradiction of having attended a good school, and then finding myself in a position six years later of having no role in society (I finished undergrad in 2013; I started my MFA in 2019). But that’s what I’m saying about the world today, in my book. In today’s day and age, a college degree in writing and philosophy, like mine was, doesn’t mean shit. For a certain type of guy, there’s no place for him in society, and people write him off for being a certain type of guy. I wrote a book based on my lived experience, sharing vulnerably and openly about the strange contradictions of what I come from, in order to say something bigger about the era we live in, and to complicate our perceptions of who people who appear and sound and look a certain way really are. You’re like a high schooler, walking around with your little image of yourself, trying to be cool. I don’t want you to think I’m cool. I want to scare the shit out of you and change your view of the world. 

You didn’t have the patience to do what I did, to write a 70K-word, 350 page novel that employs a range of forms. You’ve never in your life even written a novel—by definition, a collection of over 40K words; you write the same 90 page novella over and over, never pushing yourself to read and evolve—of course this man thinks I copied him, he has no clue about the other writers I reference and am partaking in the tradition of. And apparently doesn’t even read the writers who send him their books for permission requests to cite his work.

2.

That I “appropriated” some “underprivileged culture.”

This idea is the funniest shit to me. “Alt lit” being an “underprivileged class.” “Alt lit” is 95% white kids with affluent upbringings overwhelmed by the ennui of modernity, doing drugs, musing nihilistic and depressed and ironic about how alienated they feel about the world now that they have phones. My aesthetic has elements of this, for sure; the drugs, the internet speak, the desperation. But I am not nihilistic and absurdist. Fuccboi got compared to Sorrows of Young Werther for a reason, it is ultimately earnest and ultimately believes in the redemptive power of art. I am NOT AFFLUENT AND WHITE, my mom didn’t speak English till she came to the states for the first time at twenty seven, my Japanese grandma and uncle DON’T SPEAK ENGLISH. I have always, linguistically and socially, been ostracized by this class of people who constitute alt lit, I went to Swarthmore because I got recruited there for basketball and they gave me a full ride, and I got in because I was blessed to have a rigorous mother who, along with being a caretaker, was a part time Waldorf teacher, who instilled a work ethic in me. I hate this line of thinking; of course I had privileges, and THIS IS NOT A BAD THING. But to act like I’m some trust fund kid is absurd. And to claim you alt-lit kids are somehow “underprivileged,” it’s like, get a fucking grip. One look at the disdain and disgust towards my writing and my flow in Fuccboi by these kids and it’s abundantly clear who the “outsider” is.

My book is about a narrator who is completely broke, who doesn’t have any family safety net, who risks everything for his art. This is so different from Pink. Pink is an absurdist, he sneers at the world, projecting a persona as this psycho guy, sharing nothing real about himself.

3.

That I somehow “masterminded” my book coming out how it did

This is the personal, slimy, honestly disgusting aspect of this whole thing. The narrative of me having “masterminded” Fuccboi coming out how it did, knowing all he did about what actually happened, and that I wasn’t ready to talk about.

I didn’t try to “scheme.” I was committed to publishing with Gian since first connecting with him in the Fall of 2019, when we first linked. We worked on the book through the pandemic year, all through the MFA, till finally, come March 2021, Gian’s out here finalizing the book, he wants to start a new press (since he’s having internal issues with his partner at Tyrant) and wants my book to spearhead it, he’s already thrown me a contract for $3K for it, I’m ready to sign, he’s telling me to hold on signing  till an agent gets back to me—he wants me to have an agent for our relationship, so I know what I’m signing—I’m literally about to, when one of the agents gets back to me, she’s down to work on the contract, and we’re so stoked since this is the last step, we’ve already got the cover, the blurbs, this is everything we’ve been working for, my girlfriend Kyra wants to celebrate, we go out that very night to celebrate and that’s the night she dies. And then, three days later, Gian dies. And Pink knows all this. He’s messaging me shit like this right after it all happens.

And no one knows about all that’s happened yet. That’s how close our circle is.

And then it’s just a shit show. Dealing with, on the one hand, the onslaught of attention Gian’s death brought onto me and the book. And, on the other, upholding the desire for privacy Kyra’s family requested of me.

Then the questions about what would happen with the book. It was Gian’s last project. It was set to go—he’d been texting people, literary people, images of the cover, gassing it up. I was getting emails, asking when and where it would get published. There was talk of trying to continue Tyrant, or getting Gian’s new press going, but that was also muddied. Those closest to Gian were firm on no one besides Gian running it. But the book had to come out. 

And then a month after all this, my agent—the agent Gian got me—asks if she can send it out. I agree. I want to get out of the city. I don’t care about this book shit. Then the morning after she sends it out, Little Brown makes an offer. I say, So long as nothing gets changed, so long as Gian’s edits stay. They agree. They say they’ll do everything to honor Gian’s memory. I sell the book. 

How the FUCK was that “scheming”?

To know all this, and then make up this story that I somehow “manipulated” my way into all of that happening? 

That’s fucked up, bro.

So then a month later, days after the book sells, unhinged B, our mutual friend at the time, who I’ve been basically the grief counselor for since that February, for a shocking loss he suffered, this kid who acts tough online but went to Naropa, starts telling everyone how much the book sold for—which, of course it did, the book is gas, it’s like nothing ever written, and Gian is the most legendary editor of all time, and this is his last book, what are we even talking about—

Because what the outside world needs to understand is, in this “alt lit” bubble, Gian is King. He was the last tastemaker, whatever he said went. And to those kids who eventually turned on me especially.

And in February 2021 Gian had made me guest editor of Gian’s magazine, New York Tyrant Magazine, which is the grail for these boys, and everyone who flamed my Goodreads, all 50 1-star reviews I got five months before the book came out, before they even read it, were people upset about how things happened, maybe rightfully confused they never heard back from me, but Pink’s was one of the pieces I solicited and edited and published—the last four pieces on the site were the ones I published—but the sudden power dynamic shift of that, he thinks I’m his student, and then suddenly I’m publishing him and have elevated “above him,” if you want to think of it like that, which he didn’t have to but did, but that’s inevitably part of what happened—

But the book sells and “Pink” is all calling me, going, “I don’t like it man, I feel wronged.” I’m all, “What?” He’s all, “everyone keeps stealing from me.” I’m all, “What are you talking about.” And he starts going off about people stealing his ideas, about another writer paying him $5K to edit his book and then not acknowledging him, while meanwhile Gian’s over here getting eulogized all over the place, and that made him feel unappreciated, and he can sense how big of a wave my book will be, we all can, and he feels left out—he’s going on and on to me, on the phone, about how he hates his job, how his $10K book deal from Soft Skull is not enough—

And it’s really not my business, it’s not on me to be trying to save this man. But I’m in full PTSD, and I feel bad—I do—about how he feels slighted. So I’m all, Yo bro, I’m gonna throw you a sick acknowledgment, because this shit doesn’t really matter, we have bigger things to worry about, right? 

Like, say, trying to grieve the woman you love, who you’d planned to do everything together with, having her meds get all whacked out and dying, and then Gian, the most valuable person in publishing and my closest friend over the insane year that was the pandemic overdosing… Right?  

Don’t we?

And that’s when I, still shocked about how things happened, feeling like anything I do will end in catastrophe, go ahead and add that acknowledgement to “Pink.” 

But fine. That’s all good. Fuck books. Whatever you need. Acknowledged.

But so then it just keeps going, I’m just trying grieve and live in peace in LA with my mom and sister, prepare myself for this totally radical and vulnerable book coming out, and my dude’s all texting me like wanting to pod, and wanting to fabricate some fake beef for his publicity. All texting me shit like, “Let’s give the people what they want. Warrrrrr!!”

I’m all, Get the fuck out of here, bro. 

But so then I’m heading back across the country, and I ask him to pod—I say, I’ll pull up to your house right now—and he gets scared. 

Pink wasn’t satisfied with what he had. He was worried only about money. This is the meaning of the story, shit goes bad when you worry only about money. His book deal—which, by the way, he got through his connections, his friendship with Tao Lin—was totally legit. He didn’t need to do that. 

He tried to scheme. And then flipped out when he realized he played himself and wrote that essay, saying I did everything he did.

I found someone who understood what I was doing, who fully supported it, who I listened to loyally through all the workshops and feedback of people questioning my vision throughout my MFA. Who I was, at the time he died, in the process of finalizing a $3K contract with. Someone you yourself sent your books to, who you had no problem being published by, in his magazine, by me, just months before all this.

So watch your fucking mouth disparaging Gian’s name the minute he dies.

My book went where it did, for the money it got, because I stuck to my vision and didn’t care about money, staying loyal to those who supported it and most understood it; it was a set of totally insane and unpredictable and tragic circumstances that led to it coming out how it did. 

You, on the other hand, as soon as you got wind of possibly getting more money, got greedy and immediately turned on the editor who supported you up till that point, and then got angry and self sabotaged—selling this lie that you’re somehow a victim and wanted to self publish all along.

I don’t give a shit what you do. It’s not about making fun of you for your career choices. 

But what the lie of your story tells aspiring writers is, you’re not supposed to not try to reach a wider audience, you shouldn’t go to an MFA if you want to be “authentic.” You went to an MFA! That’s fine! We both went to places to learn about writing, since we both wanted to write. You don’t need to come up with some whole persona to hide this fact.

You’re upset because of decisions you made. You projected all you did onto me. It was never a question of me being influenced by you, I make it abundantly clear that I was. 

But to try to discredit my art, and my whole story... that’s bullshit, bro. 

And to act like I did something wrong by selling the book, in the circumstances I found myself in, especially after all you did. It’s just so dishonest and fake.

The thing about is, I don’t think you actually give a shit about literature. That’s why you don’t read anything. Even though it happened how it did, it happened because I risked everything, moved to New York, with no plan, knowing I could move back into my van if I had to, writing something completely urgent and soul baring, being completely open about everything I’m doing, who I’m influenced by, who I am, getting recognized by Gian. 

You chose a different route. To hide your schooling, write under a different name, do your absurdist novella schtick. And you do it well, keep doing it. My mistake was thinking I was somehow responsible for your life choices. That has nothing to do with me.

And I understand you guys on my Goodreads had those stories you wanted published in Tyrant, some of whom I even responded to and said I’d get back to, and didn’t, and that it was shocking when you didn’t hear back and Gian died and Tyrant ended. And then the book got announced. 

But that’s what happened. And I’m sorry to everyone I didn’t respond to.

But you motherfuckers who sit there and besmirch Gian’s legacy the minute he’s gone? That’s coward shit. Andrew Wilt, you trash human—literally a wannabe Gian, riding my dick about my pod, sending me dozens of your books, begging me to have your writers on. You got triggered by the book and tried to get attention for yourself and your writers. For your press. That’s slimy. 

I view writing as an actual tool for salvation, for the reader and for the writer. I always have. That’s why I pod how I do. You don’t. And that’s okay. We are not the same. Anyone who actually reads the book knows that it’s that kind of story. Or they’re too triggered by their feelings about the superiority of their language, or by their political posturing, or by their moral purity—there are plenty of things to get triggered by in there. That, to me, is what a work of art should do. You guys are in high school, trying to look cool, trying to be liked. I’m not trying to be liked. I’m trying to actually change the literature. To speak to those who need it, and to shock those who don’t. That’s what the vision always was. What it still is.

And you know what? I did do that.

Gian—we did it. We changed literature.