The World Is Ours

The Walkmen: 'We Can't Be Beat' + Spending eight years writing one novel + Gang vocals + Fancy wine and cheese + Tambourine

Jun 25, 2024

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I meant to spend two or three years writing my first novel, but before I knew it three years had passed and the novel wasn’t anywhere close to done. Then four years had passed, then five, then – you guessed it – six.

I sometimes felt glorious, like a happy farmer patiently tilling the soil of literature. I sometimes felt painfully aware of other things I might have done with that time: paid work I might have taken; other, more finishable novels I might have started; alternate versions of myself I might have become. I sometimes felt deranged.

To cope with the derangement — and also, I recognize, to stoke it — I would imagine a future in which the novel was done. I would picture the moment when I could see it in a bookstore. The moment I saw my first review. Or, best of all, the moment when a publisher agreed to take it, proving to everyone (in my imagination, anyway) that all my time and angst had been worth it.

At some point I gave this imaginary scene a soundtrack: The Walkmen’s “We Can’t Be Beat.” I would put the song on, pretend my book had been sold, and savor the feeling.

It’s not a full-on celebration bop. When it starts, it doesn’t register as a victory song at all. It’s downtempo and soft ,with acoustic fingerpicking and lyrics steeped in defeat.

I was the Duke of Earl
The Duke of Earl
But it couldn’t last
I was the Pony Express
But I ran out of gas

For almost two minutes it stays in this mode, with lyrics about the weight of dreams and the pain of loneliness: an acknowledgment, in my mind, of all my hard work and uncertainty.

But then the lyrics switch into direct address:

If you want my eyes
Take my eyes
They're always true
If you want my heart
Take my heart
It's right here for you

Maybe the narrator’s talking to his own dreams, expressing his ongoing commitment to give them everything he can. Maybe he’s talking to the people who kept him company along the way, helping him avoid falling into monomaniacal obsession. (On The Walkmen’s YouTube page, the image that accompanies the song is a picture of a couple with young kids.) As the narrator proclaims his devotion, the backing vocals — a chorus of aaaaahs — starts getting louder, like his gang is cheering him on, helping memorialize his perseverance.

It’s been so long
Been so long
But I made it through
It’s been … sooo-ohhhhhhhhhhh-oh-ohhhhh-oh-oh-oh-oh … long

On that last long the song finally enters celebration mode: there’s foot-stomping and tambourine; there’s boasting (We can’t be beat / We’ll never leave / The world was ours); there’s big swelling OH-OHHHHHH-OH-OH-OH-OH-OHs from the backing chorus.

Eyes closed, I would listen and stomp my feet and pump my fist and sing OH-OHHHHHH-OH-OH-OH-OH-OH and imagine myself swaggering down the street with my friends, book contract in hand, broadcasting to the world that My Time Had Come.

Somewhere around the eight year mark I finished the novel, nudged along by my awareness that I was about to become a parent. Three or four months later, the day came: a publisher agreed to put it out. The news came early in the morning. I was up in the dark with my son, making him breakfast. When my wife woke up I told her the news, and when my mom came over for a childcare shift I told her too.

I texted some friends and family. I was happy, but perhaps more relieved than pleased, and also queasy from all the adrenaline. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. This was 2020, pre-vaccine. Some old friends called a local wine shop and ordered me some bottles that were nicer than what I’d typically buy myself. I drove to pick them up. I texted some more friends.

For a few of the book-writing years I’d supplemented my income from freelance magazine writing by working as a wealthy family’s tutor/driver/grocery shopper/cook. The mom was something of a cheese aficionado, and I was often sent to a local store renowned for its selection of fancy/imported/artisanal/subtle/stinky wares. I decided to go buy some for myself.

It was on the drive there that I remembered “We Can’t Be Beat.” I hadn’t listened to it in a while: as the possibility of my book selling had approached, it had become too stressful to imagine any outcome, even a good one. Now, sitting in the parking lot of the cheese place, I played the song on my car stereo.

I was the Duke of Earl
The Duke of Earl
But it couldn’t last

I’d long known that, while having a book deal would be a wonderful thing, the high was certain to fade. (It’s a whole genre, the “my-book-deal-didn’t-change-my-life” essay; I’ve read them all.) But of course it was still worth celebrating, all the more so against the backdrop of so much else worth celebrating, which was there for me no matter how many books I did or didn’t sell.

I sang along. I drove home with a silly amount of fancy cheese. I ate some of it and drank some of the fancy wine with my mom and my wife. I made dinner. After my son was asleep I Zoomed with the friends who’d sent the wine, and raised a glass up to my computer screen. I went to bed early. Tomorrow was another day. My son’s sleep schedule knew nothing about book deals. I fell asleep quickly, the way I almost always do now. I was the Duke of Earl, and it couldn't last, and that was fine. ✹

Paperback Readers:

I promise I didn’t write this piece with the specific goal of hawking literary product. But of course my novel — 10 years in the making, all told — is available for purchase, now in paperback.

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