The Calm Before the Twitter Storm

As I sit at my window in Hoboken, snowed in and trying to focus on rewriting the final draft of Lindsey Graham’s memoir, my mind keeps slipping away to the shitstorm I had unleashed. Despite writing the (now posthumous) memoir of one of America’s most famous politicians, it was getting involved with a local, not even a real celebrity, Emma Larson, that caused my national disgrace.

For you to understand what happened, I think I need to explain a few things.

First, Emma Larson is one of those online zero-waste influencers, sort of a Brooklyn version of a trad-wife. Someone who's always posting to Instagram about collecting honey from their urban beehive, growing vegetables in the communal garden, sewing their own clothes. In her latest video, she transformed used matcha teabags into a cute outfit for her miniature poodle. It got two million views. Sponsors love her.

Second thing, I'm broke. Publishing is a struggling industry, and my fees for ghostwriting memoirs and copyediting vanity novels have tracked the industry ever downward. I’m either too old, or perhaps set in my ways, to sell myself on BookTok or write clickbait online romance.

Lastly, out of a mix of curiosity and financial desperation, a few months ago, I subscribed to her channel. I’ll admit it, some of Emma Larson's tips actually worked. I now simmer vegetable scraps that I would have tossed out into a broth that tastes so good, I don’t need to order takeout. Another small victory to help me make rent in Hoboken.

None of this was actually on my mind the afternoon I saw Emma step into the West Elm behind Trader Joe’s on Willow Avenue. At first, I was just simply starstruck. Then, as I watched her shop for homewares, I realized, with a rush of pride, she had moved to Hoboken. A deep schadenfreude that even zero-waste influencers are being priced out of Brooklyn.

Emma loaded her cart with thick cotton towels and top-shelf silk sheets. She didn’t even pretend to browse the sustainable section. She went to check out, paid $427, then asked for free delivery and had a fit when they said the earliest they could deliver was the next day.

The hypocrisy! Loading up on the new things she tells us we don’t need. Like a sneaky voyuer of consumerism instead of pleasures of the flesh, I followed her at a distance, carrying her shopping bags until embarrassment kicked in. Then anger took over. I pulled out my phone.

The video was shaky but clear enough: Emma Larson, advocate of reuse and zero impact, lugging enough new linen to outfit a mid-tier hotel.

I sat on it for a week as I continued to ghostwrote Lindsey Graham’s soul-crushingly boring memoir (the NDA stopped me from using the juiciest bits), and tinkered with my third novel. My previous novel sold a total of three hundred copies and was probably read cover to cover by about thirty people. It didn't come close to earning its $2,000 advance. I needed to do better this time.

I required creativity and everyone knows, since Roman times, that wine fuels the creativity juices. That night, busily redrafting the third chapter of my novel I made multiple trips to the fridge to refill my glass with Pinot Grigio. Each time I poured my glass, a luxury I could barely afford, I saw her face. Glowing after she had just dropped $400 on towels.

Finally, around my fifth glass, I had a realization. I couldn’t let her get away with it. I drafted a title with all the right hashtags and uploaded the video to Twitter. (I still call it that, screw Elon and his rebrand).

The first reply came within minutes: “Is this for real?”

I replied: “Yes. Took it myself.”

She gave me a like and retweeted the video. The next hour my post steadily got Likes and Retweets and an occasional Quote Tweet.

And then @dogturd911 retweeted it, and that was all it took.

The comments started flying in fast.

“Emma Larson is a Hypocrite”

“Another performative liberal.”

“Recycled clothes for the peasants, West Elm for Emma.”

The view count on my video went exponential. Within five hours, it was over 1 million views. By morning, it was everywhere. Clips. Reactions. Double takes set to Stayin' Alive. Someone slowed it down and zoomed in on the price tags.

A few people began to pop up and take her side.

“Why are you stalking Emma Larson?”

“Another sad misogynist”

“Everyone needs towels, incel.”

The attacks escalated. A few people started digging. They found my old novels. They found my dating profile. The bad photo of my receding hairline from a Hoboken writers meetup. Screenshots circulated with captions like “This is the loser trying to cancel Emma Larson.”

By day three, I was getting death threats mixed with suggestions to move to Texas where the grass was greener. Someone doxxed my building.

Jake, my literary agent, called. He hadn’t checked in with me for months.

“You okay, man?”

“Fine," I said, exhausted from barely sleeping for days. "As a creative, it’s always good to make waves, right?”

“Waves are fine. Just don’t capsize, buddy.”

"My ship is pointed straight ahead," I said, hanging up. Then, feeling immediately embarrassed I hadn't come up with a better comeback.

So I opened that day’s first bottle of Pinot Grigio and poured myself a glass big enough to drown in.

The next week was a blur of takeout, Mediterranean white wine, and constantly refreshing Twitter and Facebook. My ghostwriting leads began to find out. One prospect, a hedge fund guy, with whom I already had a working title, ‘Breaking into Wall Street, emailed: “Given the current situation, I think it's safer to shift to a new writer.” I received a few more rejections and statements of concern for which I had no answers.

Trying to take a break from it all, and peruse trends on Goodreads, I noticed my previous novel, which had been limping along with a few decent reviews, suddenly had a new audience. They left one-star ratings, called me a “climate change denier” and “manosphere troll.” The algorithm, in its infinite quest for engagement, pushed those reviews to the top.

Emma herself never mentioned me directly. She posted a vague story about “toxic masculinity,” then went quiet while her followers did her dirty work. Soon, they had “proof” my original video was an AI deepfake. Her engagement numbers were through the roof.

I switched off social media, completely powered down my WIFI so I didn't slip, and cracked open the first volume of Remembrance of Things Past again. I slept with the couch pushed up against the front door. I bought a Ring camera I couldn’t really afford so at least my death would be recorded. Then, two weeks in, Jake called again. His voice held an enthusiasm I had never heard from him before.

“So… bad news and good news!”

“Hit me.”

“Bad news. You’re still toxic in respectable circles. No one wants to touch you for an editing contract right now.”

“And the good?”

“Your little stunt has publishers asking about you. Listen, they still publicly say they despise you, but they want the story. They are hinting there is a market segment for this kind of drama. An angry underdog. Flame wars. That sort of thing.”

I wanted to mention I didn’t flame anyone, but… publishers asking about me? I laughed for the first time in weeks. "Tell me more."

Jake brainstormed queries I could pitch to publishers. Told me about the new kids on the block, who could get a book to market in three months, while it's still relevant. Gave me suggestions on new titles I should read asap to get in tune with market trends.

I looked out the window at the dirty snow melting on the Hoboken sidewalks. Somewhere out there, Emma Larson was probably filming herself turning nectarine pits into eyeshadow while her new sheets were hidden away off-camera.

And I’ve begun querying publishers with fresh novel ideas.

The storm isn’t over. Every time I turn on social media, an incoming tide of hate washes in. But for the first time, I can see the shape of something useful left in the detritus of my career. Every cloud, as they say, has a silver lining.

Since then, Emma Larson’s profile has only grown larger. She’s selling tickets for in-person events and making television appearances. I keep an eye on her Instagram, watching videos that come out regularly. I am never mentioned, but Brooklyn landmarks like Prospect Park and Devocion show up from time to time. Then an article in HobokenGirl catches my eye: Famed New York Times editor Janet Larson, mother of social media influencer Emma Larson, left Florida last month and relocated back to Hoboken.

Emma wasn't buying those towels for herself; they were for her mother. It's odd she never mentioned it. I poured myself my last glass of Pinto Grigio and realized that instead, she turned The Case of the Towels at the West Elm in Hoboken into content gold for both of us.