Across eleven essays, Michael Heald compulsively measures himself against men like Eli Manning, Ryan Gosling, and Stephen Malkmus, and always comes up short. After a decade of failed relationships, estranged siblings, and abandoned hopes, he may or may not have learned his lesson. Goodbye to the Nervous Apprehension is not nearly as depressing as any of this sounds.
Michael Heald writes with a compassionate warmth and just a little bit of snark. He writes about his life, and the lives around him, in bright details and melancholy tones. Plus there's music (the MGMT stuff is great), sports, and awkward sex. The complete package, as they say. Watch out for this dude. He's real good.
When I picked this book up at Powell's, I was certain I was going to like it. The reviews made it seem like a promising read, a bit of comfort for those of us just trying to figure things out in our awkward twenty-something years. While the writing was not bad, it came across (often) as a bit arrogant, a little too masculine-white-guy-ish, and sometimes even a little annoying. It often seemed like Heald was name dropping (this may be a stretch, but that was my impression), or that he was trying to compensate for something that was lacking. Alas, I didn't have the heart to give this book less than 3 stars. I understood exactly what the author was trying to capture, it just unfortunately didn't resonate with me.
I feel like I just read someone’s unedited private journal. I suppose it takes a lot of bravery as an essayist to compile all of your deepest insecurities from as far back as grade school and spend the time, money, and effort it takes to have all of those incriminating, self-absorbed thoughts published in an actual book.
I happily stumbled across this at Verbatim Books in San Diego a couple of years ago and am glad I picked it up. Some essays are a bit too navel-gazing, white male, arts school undergrad for my current tastes but that is what they were exploring and I think they were written in an honest, vulnerable way. When Heald moves a bit away from himself and into explorations of topics and people close to him, like running or music, layered through with an exploration of his family, his talent shines--"It Should Be Mathematical" is a stellar essay and shows what he can do.
A refreshingly honest collection of self discovery and self reflection with just the right amount of self deprecation thrown in for good measure. Heald knows how to tug on the heart through the awkwardness of life in a way that has me aching for more.
I, too, saw MGMT when they were still The Management. And I, too, enjoy Broken Social Scene and the ways in which they were namedropped. And I, too, am an anxious weirdo.
Both the front and back covers of this book were promising: won over by the collaged, color-field aesthetic of the title and the reviews on the back, I thought that this was a book I needed at the moment, having some of my own nervous apprehension to unpack.
A collection of short essays that splay between periods of Heald's semi-fictional college and adult life, the set offered little cohesion or linear narration. Heald's colloquial musings and plain prose offered a mash-up of his time at Wesleyan, his interactions with the semi-famous (from MGMT to Ian Dobson), and his insecurities surrounding being a man of small stature, over the course of roughly ten years.
As much as I am in a similar, questioning phase--oh, the great years of one's twenties!--I did not resonate with the book as much as I expected. Heald's prose was a bit too dry to draw me in and quench my thirst for narrative elegance; it was a bit to pragmatic to take me to a place of intellectual inspiration; and thematically, unexpectedly, it's focus on sporty masculinity left me hanging. Perhaps I can only relate so much to stories of white, middle-class men who look up to--and seek to understand--their celebrity athletes.
The one story that did offer reflective possibilities for my own life, however, was one entitled "The 415th Time"--a trip into Mike's experience seeing MGMT play during their early years at Wesleyan and the relationship he develops with the band's music. His articulation of relating one's own story through other's songs struck a nerve; the tale reminded me of how meaning and relation shift with each listen, as the 415th time listening to "Kids" tells you a different story that may be more or less valuable than the first, the 20th, the 85th time hearing it.
Overall, it was a light read, peppered with reflective moments, yet I wish it delivered the snark and revelation promised by its well-designed covers. So, I say, onwards with my twenties--perhaps with a different set of novels in hand!
I loved Heald's essay "It Should Be Mathematical," in particular. Following the 2012 Olympic trials by way of the dreams and ultimate return-to-reality of former Olympian Ian Dobson and his wife, Julia Lucas, Heald writes from a first-person point of view that humanizes Dobson.
In some of the essays, the interest in / focus on celebrities can be overwhelming, but they are balanced out by the revealing tone of the more personal essays. This collection will leave you wanting more stories.
Michael is an old friend, but I think it's safe to say I'd write honestly about any friend's writing.
"Under the weight of the snow the hills behind her house have become the solemn and ancient hills of childhood. We go single file, moving together, making one set of footprints. Unlike last summer we don't keep to the path. We are no longer trying to repair something. There is nothing to confess, no feeling to hurt. Everything is ruined, finally. What a relief."
Terrific essays on culture, music, and running. (I may not be the most objective source, as I published one of these on Vol.1 Brooklyn earlier this year.)