A Review of the Literary Beef between Sean Thor Conroe & Sam Pink

 

Stuart says the author looks like a sad lime in his Louis Vutton rain jacket and it’s funny and it’s true but that’s not the point, I don’t think. The author is Sean Thor Conroe, and his debut novel is Fuccboi and it comes out today and there will be, and have been, a lot of pieces written about the author and the book and that’s great for the author and the book and, unfortunately, this is mine.

 

Sean Thor Conroe is a famous author now, with a book deal and a $200,000 advance, and he poses in the pages of Interview Magazine in a pair of Louis Vutton jncos, cigarette dangling, beefy tanned arms glistenting, head down, and he looks like a sad lime, Stuart says, and he’s not wrong but that’s not the point, I don’t think. Sean Thor Conroe wanted to be a famous writer and he is now and his favorite author is Roberto Bolaño and I wanted to be a famous writer and Robert Bolaño is my favorite author. Sean was willing to pay the price to realize his dreams — he looks corny in the pages of Interview Magazine and he is photographed, styled, and interviewed, and his answers say nothing and they are incoherent and hyper hypocritical and blank, and he is derided by a legion of authors desperate for their own version of success and I am using Sean Thor Conroe to write about myself and everyone else is, too.

 

The Interview Magazine piece, written by Geoffrey Mak, is titled “The Sick Burn of Sean Thor Conroe” and makes a clumsy and poorly written and conceived  attempt to compare Sean’s “sick burn” of professional groups participating in “organized classism” to rap battles. This fresh, inciteful take on organized classism occurs underneath a photograph of the author with the following caption: “Tank Top by Calvin Klein, Jeans by Louis Vuitton, Men’s Belt by Balenciaga, Bracelet by Tiffany & Co., and shoes by Nike x Commes Des Garçons Air Foamposite One.”

 

“So yeah, I sampled your voice,

you was using it wrong,

you made it a hot line,

I made it a hot song”

 

—- Jay-Z

 

Fuccboi, like Sixty Shades of Gray before it, is fan fiction. Sean Thor Conroe was a big fan of Sam Pink. Sam Pink is a proudly underground author and artist. Two of his paintings hang in the room where I write. I have read one collection of his poetry, Your Glass Head Against The Brick Parade Of Now Whats, and it left no impression. Sean Thor Conroe has read everything, and it made a significant impression. Sean interviewed Sam for his entertaining literary podcast, 1storypod, and professed his admiration. Sean sent Sam an early draft of Fuccboi with a note that he (Sean) hoped he (Sam) wouldn’t find the similarities in style “too flagrant.” Sam Pink didn’t “read more than a page or two” at that time “because it was extremely hard to get into.”

 

Sam Pink was admittedly flattered, and Sean Thor Conroe was upfront about the influence. Later, after the $200,000 advance was announced, Sam Pink wrote a 6,000-word blogpost  destroying Sean Thor Conroe as a plagiarist, a poser, a cultural appropriator, a sycophantic monied New York MFA elite that pulled material from the dingy places and spaces where Sean Thor Conroe was only ever a tourist, while Sam Pink tweets pictures of his paintings three times a day and pictures of his self-published poetry collections three times a day with an invitation to his followers to PayPal him so he can fix the broken muffler on his truck.

 

“You a fan, a phony, a fake, a pussy, a Stan”

— Nas

 

Jay-Z and Nas’ rap beef is incredibly well-known, over-reported, and understood. Jay-Z idolized Nas as an artist. On his climb up the social and financial ladder —the only direction Jay-Z had any interest in going — and with calculated moves he directly addressed in his writing, Jay-Z took a line of Nas’ and made it into a hit song. Jay-Z got paid and Nas didn’t and the feud was on. The line Jay-Z sampled, fittingly, is about the power of money (“I’m out for dead fucking Presidents to represent me.”) Decades later, both of them are rich and respected, and in 2021 on producer Rick Rubin’s podcast Nas said he was honored to be involved in the beef. Their respective roles in the feud confirm our image of each of them. Jay-z is a business, man. Nas is your favorite rapper’s favorite rapper. They traveled in different lanes and just happened to bump into each on their respective rides. Jay-Z was, and is, the motherfucking shrewdest. By coming out with his diss track first, he blunted a lot of criticism that could have come his way about ripping off styles. Not that Jay-Z gives a fuck — “I thought I told you characters I’m not a rapper.” Sean Thor Conroe made the mistake of paying respect to a writer who was working in the same stream, and Sam Pink, like a pro, pounced.  

 

Sam Pink was humbled (“it’s always very humbling”) to influence Sean Thor Conroe’s writing until Sean Thor Conroe got paid for his writing and then Sam Pink decided it rose to the level of artistic theft, and not mere influence. The book itself had not changed. Sam Pink still had a (supposedly still mostly unread) copy. He finally read it through though, once money got involved, and decided, once money got involved, that Sean was in violation.

 

“This is not beef, this is rap, homie; I don’t have a scratch on me.”

— Jay-Z

 

Sam Pink’s claims against Sean Thor Conroe are serious, and yet no one seems to take them seriously. Sam writes, in his blog post, “my entire work stolen from me, in the form of Sean Thor Conroe’s forthcoming book Fuccboi, which he sold for 200k.” We’ve yet to hear a word from Sean Thor Conroe or his agent or Little, Brown or his publicist or his stylist or his lawyers. Sam is a pissant minor annoyance in the New York literary society Sean runs with, and somehow this serves both of them very well.

 

Fuccboi is about, probably, a young man wanting to sell his book and become a famous author and the people he fucks along the way. One of its earliest champions was the influential, irreverent, and revered Giancarlo DiTrapano, the founder and publisher of Tyrant Books. Giancarlo’s support of Fuccboi (he was unflinchingly enthusiastic about the author and the work) lends a credibility that even Sean Thor Conroe cannot manage to fuck up. Giancarlo passed away in April 2021 at age 47 in New York City while visiting Sean Thor Conroe. No one has ever explicitly stated he died of a drug overdose, though it is implied in his life and work. Since his death, supporters and detractors of Fuccboi alike have muddied the soles of their shoes on his grave to further their cause, and Sam Pink was no exception.

 

(The layers to this story, like seemingly everything in the modern world, are complex, with each trap door, side quest, and rabbit hole designed to cement our pre-existing belief structure. Sam Pink, on January 3rd 2021, as I am editing this story, drops an unsubtle innuendo on Twitter related to Sean Thor Conroe’s role in the deaths of Giancarlo DiTrapano and an unknown individual named “Kyra.” While he quickly refuses to elaborate on his supposed information “because the people who have given me info are afraid,” the implications are clear enough. I feel absurd having to spell this out, but if Sam Pink’s “people” are correct then there are much bigger moral, criminal, and legal issues at play than stealing a literary style and if Sam Pink’s “people” are incorrect then the emotional harm and suspicion he has thrust on Sean Thor Conroe is extremely out of line.)

 

Littered throughout Sam’s blogpost accusing Sean Thor Conroe of stealing his entire work and selling it for 200K is a pointed attack on Giancarlo’s money, influence, and literary connections. Sam Pink reduces Giancarlo DiTrapano to a rich kid with no credibility (“…big publishing hasn’t had credibility for a long time. This is much of what Tyrant was, rich connected kids.”/“Gian somehow fooled people into thinking he was indie or an outsider, he received a lot of money from his dad and tons of New York connections.”). The importance of the work Giancarlo DiTrapano did for American literature is undeniable, and Sam Pink’s attempts to deny them by painting the deceased publisher as a fraudulent heir only serve to make Sam look jealous and bitter. Giancarlo DiTrapano put out some great books and introduced readers to some great authors, and having or not having a trust fund does nothing to invalidate that aspect of his legacy.

 

Sam also obsesses (oddly and unnecessarily) on women’s role in publishing and literature:

 

• “White New Yorker women editors/agents”
• “I can see a rich white woman in expensive office, reading Fuccboi and thinking they’d found the next dude.” (sic)
• “The white women editor/rapper slang thing…”
• “agents and editors are mostly linked by schools/sororities etc…”

 

At one point, in the fall of 2021, a writer working on a story about Fuccboi reaches out to Sam Pink. Sam takes the opportunity to post her (completely kind and professional and normal) email to him to his 4,846 followers with the sick burn “Get a real job” and makes a comically obvious effort to not cover up her name. The ensuing article comes out in Vulture on January 3rd, 2021. The same day Sam Pink chooses to insinuate Sean Thor Conroe is involved in the premature deaths. Sam does this, clearly, to divert attention from the Little, Brown promotional machine behind Fuccboi, hoping once again to make the conversation about him and his stolen style without recognizing that his crusade against the author and the book are only doing Little, Brown’s work for them (and for free). The article itself gives space to Sam Pink’s side of the story and is respectful, but she is a woman and she works in New York writing about literature so he had to bully her. He wrote a 6,000-word blogpost about another author stealing his “entire work,” and someone had the audacity to be interested. She took Sam Pink’s side seriously and wanted to report on it. Sean Thor Conroe comes across, in the Vulture profile and every other, like an insecure loser and an aggressively unserious writer and person.  Sam Pink’s desire to remain unspoiled by the boogeyman of an imagined all-female squad of monied literary elites hatching plans to overtake the publishing industry in their sororities means his work threatens to be reduced to a footnote in the Sean Thor Conroe origin story.

 

You knew me before records, you never disrespected me

Now that I’m successful you’ll pull this shit…

What you eat don’t make me shit, where’s the love?

— Jay-Z

 

Sam Pink’s crushing screed against Sean Thor Conroe is careful to not mention a glaring, obvious, and unfortunate truth: a lot of the male authors in this “scene” — and in particular many that Sam Pink champions and works with regularly — sound exactly the same. Does it all come from Sam Pink’s style? Is he the originator of this literary movement? I don’t know. I don’t find the writing compelling enough to find out. Much of it reads like first drafts and tumbler posts and is easily dismissed.

 

This is where it gets potentially uncomfortable for me because I consider myself “internet friendly” with some of the authors whose work is implicated, and I have even enjoyed and positively reviewed some of it. I will focus on one press, a press I love run by two dudes whose art and approach to art I admire: Back Patio Press. Back Patio Press is run by two authors, Cavin Bryce Gonzalez and Zac Smith. I reviewed (and loved) Cavin Bryce Gonzalez’s I Could Be Your Neighbor Isn’t That Horrifying for Expat Press in November of 2020. No one who reads Gonzalez’s work with any familiarity with Sam Pink’s work could ignore the comparisons. The author himself is well aware of them and cites Sam as an influence. Similarly, Zac Smith’s work owes a debt to Tao Lin (and Zac Smith’s new book, Everything is Totally Fine, came out on Tao Lin’s imprint, MuuMuu House.) Sam Pink’s artwork is used on Back Patio Press t-shirts and promotional materials. Cavin Bryce Gonzalez made it into the pages of Tyrant Magazine thanks to Sean Thor Conroe’s guest editing.

 

Cavin Bryce Gonzalez did not secure a book deal and $200K advance, and so Sam Pink happily works with him and they enjoy mutual support and respect. Sam is not writing 6,000-word blog posts laying out the case that Cavin Bryce Gonzalez stole his entire work. It’s not about art or purity of art. It never was. Sean Thor Conroe acknowledged the influence, paid respect to Sam Pink, provided him with the manuscript before it was sold, and promoted his work constantly. But he made the unforgivable sin of getting paid for his work and for wanting a version of success different than what Sam Pink wants, and so here we are.

 

“I’d rather be broke and have a whole lot of respect”

 – Sole, from his diss track “Dear Elpee”

 

It’s not the same story with Sole and El-P and their own lesser-known, underreported rap beef. EL-P, the emcee, was half of Company Flow, a rap group out of Brooklyn. He wasn’t quite EL-P, the emcee, half of Run The Jewels, the biggest rap duo since Outkast yet and he wasn’t even El-P, the producer, creating the beats for Cannibal Ox’s The Cold Vein, an immediate and enduring classic rap album. Sole was an underground, independent rapper involved in a nascent hipster rap scene. Sole felt EL-P dissed him. (Maybe he did, I have no idea. It doesn’t matter.) He released his diss track “Dear Elpee” in 1999.

 

 

“I feel like Selena; the president of my fan club’s trying to kill me.”

–EL-P

 

Sole was a fan of El-P and desperately craved his attention, acceptance, and endorsement. When he didn’t receive this on the basis of his talent alone, like an elementary school kid on a playground, he taunted and chased until he was finally noticed. El-P took voicemail messages left by Sole and turned them into the chorus of his track returning fire (“Linda Tripp”), and decimated Sole. Sole came across as a sad, pathetic fan desperate for attention. He used El-P’s relative notoriety to insert his own name and music into a wider audience and cultural conversation. It didn’t work exactly, and yet it still won’t stop me from trying the exact same thing.

 

I paid Sam Pink to read my manuscript and write a 772-word email telling me the entire construct didn’t work for him, that I should strip it of all the metafictional elements and artifice and stick to the self-contained stories within. He was kind and encouraging. I was annoyed. I wanted Sam Pink to like me and my work and I paid for it. I wanted Sam Pink to retweet the announcement of my book deal to his 4,846 followers. I wanted Sam Pink to champion my work because I thought then more people would want to read it. I want readers. I want your attention. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Now I have it. It feels disgusting. Once this is published, wherever that is and whenever that is, I will crawl into my bed, cover myself with blankets and hide in shame and fear. I am willing to embarrass myself for readers. I am willing to ruin my reputation, insomuch as I have any at all, for readers. I am willing to piss off Sam Pink, who I admire as an artist, for readers. I am willing to piss off Sean Thor Conroe for readers. I am willing to tell the truth for readers, even if it means learning it myself and then having to live with it.

 

Rap beef is performance art and a thinly disguised promotional strategy. Maybe I’m missing something obvious in all of this. Maybe I’m wrong. It’s happened before, and it will happen again. Maybe I will regret saying anything about an author and a book and another author and a scene and a literary tradition that is none of my fucking business. But I would rather say exactly what I mean, at one particular moment in time, and risk being wrong or hated or ostracized, or clowned or ignored, than change my tune for fear of upsetting someone or, worse, say nothing out of fear of becoming unpublishable or unreadable (but it’s close!). I choose to express myself and my impressions of petty bullshit that still matters to those of us that believe in (and fucking need) literature and accept that I may be wrong or my view(s) might change. Sam wrote: “I need this kind of stuff to remain special and meaningful,” and Sean believes in the power of the novel as salvation — (“What Sean, and by extension his same-name creator, deeply believes is that to write a novel is to wield power.”) — and so all three of us agree, at least, on that.

 

The most degrading punishment is getting everything you’ve ever wanted. We are in the midst of inflation. The price of everything is going up. The price you pay for readers, of ever dwindling and discerning supply, is constantly going up.

 

The first or second piece of fiction I published online, “Wilson Street,” at Expat Press, cost me a lifelong friend. I traded him for readers. I would do it again. There were other factors. It was complicated like all lifelong relationships, and he was an asshole to me and made me feel like shit a lot and I took it because he was my friend and I don’t have many friends and I want to be liked by everyone. I can’t stand conflict even as I actively seek it out with my words and behavior, but I want readers more. And I have a few of them. The price was high. I want more. I anticipate the price will be even higher.

 

I’m jealous, but not of the money because the money comes at a price I’m not willing to pay. I’m jealous of the readers. The potential readers. The readers not yet born. The gawking readers, the hateful readers, spiteful readers, bored readers — all of them .

 

The attention, undivided, a reader gives to the consciousness creation of the author and that intimate conversation between author and reader spanning centuries, sometimes spanning languages.

 

Sean Thor Conroe will attend the literary parties and his beautiful, flat, affectless face will be photographed and admired, his impressive body clad in designer threads. But he will always be a poser, a phony, a fake, and everyone surrounding him will know it and never be able to forget it for even one second and he will know it and has always known it. Is it worth it? I hope to never find out. The absurdity, lack of self-awareness, vacuity, naked ambition at any cost, shamelessness, is all there for the world to see and interpret and fuss over as they see fit, and the fit is tight. I’m sure Sean would agree. Is it worth it?

 

This isn’t a review. This isn’t a preview. I don’t plan to read the book. Maybe I will at some point. I’m rubbernecking. I’m not a critic. I’m not a reporter. I have a real job. I’m kidding. It’s called a callback. I’m a fan. It’s a fan’s fiction.

 

I am a fan of fiction. I wanted to join the literary conversation which traverses time and space and is immortal and secret and precious and, much to my eventual and perpetual horror, I did. Barring any blowback from publishing this piece, my debut novel, Characters, comes out this year. Is it worth it? I don’t know yet, but I’ve fucked around and now I’ll find out. I too have gotten everything I ever wanted, unfortunately.