Bio

A Brief History

Suitable for Snap Judgments, as of December 2011

Micah Nathan is an award-winning author, short story writer, and essayist. His debut novel “Gods of Aberdeen” (Simon & Schuster) was published in five languages and became an international bestseller. His second novel “Losing Graceland” (Random House/Broadway) was released January, 2011, and a collection titled “Jack the Bastard and Other Stories” is slated for July, 2012.

His work has appeared in Bellingham Review, Glimmer Train, The Gettysburg Review, Diagram, Boston Globe Magazine, Post Road, Commonweal and other national publications. He received his MFA from Boston University, where he was awarded the 2010 Saul Bellow Prize, and his short stories have been finalists for the Tobias Wolff Award and the Innovative Fiction Award. He has also worked as a script doctor for Dimension Films. When he’s not penning his next tale of mayhem and woe, Micah teaches at several impressive colleges in the Boston area, writes the occasional video game, watches a pitch-perfect blend of French New Wave cinema and indie horror, and serves as fiction editor for LEMON Magazine.

Agent:

Jud Laghi
The Jud Laghi Agency
(718) 285-0798

Legal/Management:

Barnes, Morris, Mark, Yorn & Levine
2000 Avenue of the Stars
3rd Floor, North Tower
Los Angeles, CA 90067
(310) 319-3999

A Longer History

Suitable for Killing Time at Work

Where it all began

Born in Hollywood (identity thieves: take note) during the era of bad fabric and pudding-soft music. My parents were intellectuals in the tradition of Dylan, Kissinger, and Nureyev. They longed for a bi-coastal life (if you consider Lake Erie a coast) but their Buffalo roots ran deep; we soon left the beautiful decay of West Hollywood and settled twenty miles south of Buffalo, in the farm town of Boston, New York. I remember the smell of cow manure in the spring; hills speckled green; Lynyrd Skynyrd always playing on someone’s radio.

How I entertained myself

Micro-violence was my hobby–pitting ant colony against ant colony, spider against hornet, my Wiffle Ball bat/Thundarr Sunsword against Nazis. Cartoons were a necessity, as were books. A typical Saturday morning:

6:00 a.m.: Arise, eat, watch cartoons.

7:10: Write/edit stories.

8:19 a.m.: Action figure battle royale (featuring an eclectic mix of garage-sale castoffs: Gobots, paraplegic G.I. Joes, He-Man villains).

9:02 a.m.: Run outside. Collect struggling bugs from swimming pool and feed to ants. Observe and assist.

10:13 a.m.: Cartwheels, handstands, sprints, random jumps.

10:27 a.m.: Run inside. Eat pickles/olives.

10:40 a.m.: Write/edit stories.

11:31 a.m.: Play with fire.

Noon: Kill dozens of imaginary enemies with Wiffle Ball bat/sidearm/pine cone grenades.

At night I read. Mostly Lovecraft, Poe, Twain, Gygax, and Greek mythology by way of Bulfinch.

The middle years

I considered myself both outcast and popular kid, a fashion pioneer (kung-fu slippers, velcro-buttoned shirts, parachute pants), breakdancer, and martial arts master in the tradition of Bruce Lee and Michael Dudikoff. I weighed approximately 80 lbs. My hair was large and unruly. I got my first professional haircut in ninth grade, when–after watching Jeff Bridges being interviewed–I decided I wanted hair just like his, and made an appointment at Glad You’re Hair. Thus began my hatred of salon puns.

A defining moment: G.I. Joe issue #21. Snake Eyes and Storm Shadow have the same tattoo. No dialogue is used throughout the entire comic.

My parents were rock concert promoters, during those halcyon days of local ticket companies. Mine was a life spent backstage, watching rock stars in their quiet moments: Bruce Springsteen eating his birthday cake, Bob Seger brushing his enormous teeth, Prince yawning. I was a mediocre student. I wrote stories during class. I practiced irony with my friends. It was, on the whole, a typical childhood.

Later

Heartbreak, my first (and, to date, only) hangover, more writing, more heartbreak, an obsession with medieval history–my college years were defined by preternatural focus and intensive study of Emerson, Montaigne, and Godard in an attempt to develop sophistication. I raised and bred African cichlids. I started boxing. I embarked on a motivational speaking tour: the first stop at Barnes & Noble on Niagara Falls Boulevard in Buffalo, the second at Charleston College in Charleston. The first was well-attended by a mix of friends, family and a handful of strangers who’d wandered in from the self-help section. The second had four audience members. All four were the audio/visual guys who set up my slide presentation.

A little later

A hazy blend of false starts and excellent girlfriends. Somehow, I graduated. I say “somehow” because I had no grasp of paperwork or planning. Both wastrel and bon vivant, I went through money with stunning alacrity. A typical Friday:

11:00 a.m.: Arise, work out, eat.

12:32 p.m.: Comic book store (X-Men, Punisher, etc.).

2:10 p.m.: Aquarium store (Cichlids, feeder fish, etc.).

3:30 p.m.: Late lunch at Little Talia. Mixed greens with crumbly gorgonzola, perhaps some sauteed chicken, a wedge of tiramisu. Said lunch almost ruined by a carafe of what I considered the best wine on the market: Beringer White Zinfandel.

5:06 p.m.: Music store (Public Enemy, The Police, A Tribe Called Quest, Soundgarden, Miles Davis, Ministry, Robert Johnson, etc.).

6:19 p.m.: Clothing store (ill-fitted oxfords, sweaters, khakis, etc.).

8:00 p.m. Writing.

10:00 p.m.: Video games with friends. Pizza, wings, pickles and olives. Occasional–yet pronounced–intoxication involving β-myrcene, Trans-β-ocimene, Δ⁹-THC, et al.

Much later

The selling of my first novel “Gods of Aberdeen” followed by marriage and Willy Wonka-esque domesticity.

A defining moment: Tasting Japanese gummies for the first time.

Another defining moment: Shabu-shabu.

Yet another defining moment: Realizing that one can make a living as a writer, if one is both lucky and absurdly, almost self-destructively, stubborn.

November 2nd, 2011