Kind of a Tragic Story

Ned Vizzini was my upstairs neighbor. When I'd first moved in, our interactions were limited to very quick "hellos" while coming and going on the stairs - typical of Brooklyn apartment dwellers. After all, New York is a place packed with creative workaholics focused on whatever we're doing next (many of us, myself included, wouldn't have it any other way). That's not to say that you can't get to know someone, it just takes a bit longer. This is especially true when one neighbor makes frequent trips to LA to write for television (him) and the other is a guitarist who tours the world much of the year (me).

When one of our building's board members moved away, my name came up as a replacement, having appeared to be a responsible tenant, little did they know (kidding). It was Ned who filled me in and showed me the ropes. By then, he'd been on the board for a few years and had built up an extensive knowledge of building codes, maintenance contractors, real estate law and other details. This was all strange, uncharted territory for this first-time condo owner. It was quite impressive how he'd approached his position on the board with such a scholar's diligence.

Judging by Ned's professional demeanor, admirable handling of building board responsibilities and peer-like interactions with other board members - all of whom were in their late thirties or forties, I figured he must be close to my own age, mid-thirties at least. He was only in his late twenties.

One day I bumped into Ned on the stairs and noticed he was carrying a large pile of books. He insisted I take one. Realizing they were all copies of the same book, I asked "You wrote a book?" He told me he'd written three so far, this was the latest. At that point, I'd had no idea he was a writer, let alone a professional one. He went on to say that I was under no obligation to read it, in fact he'd understand if I didn't - it's really not that good anyway and besides, the one he's working on now will be much better.

Despite Ned's self-deprecation, not to mention his book's strange title, I soon took it off the shelf. I hoped to find something to like about it and feared the mask I'd have to wear if I didn't. It's not everyday that the author of a novel you're reading happens to live two flights up.

I needn't have worried.

"It's Kind of a Funny Story" had me laughing aloud one moment, on the verge of tears the next, and back again. I couldn't believe someone could successfully capture a character like this - one whose lifelong battles with depression were so severe, they'd resulted in suicidal thoughts and a trip to the psych ward - yet never losing his overall perspective. At the same time, the book was written with effective humor and a pop culture awareness, like hanging out with a friend speaking directly to you. One didn't need to have experienced clinical depression to relate to some of the feelings described. And not to take anything away from him but the book wasn't all fiction - it's based on events that are largely autobiographical.



It was quite fortuitous to have ended up as a neighbor of Ned. Having recently started this blog, I’d finally been taking writing seriously. Although planning to write books for years, I hadn't yet found a way to balance it with the demands of my first craft, guitar playing. Writing a book seemed like such a Herculean task.

Now, having a human face attached to a great book I'd just read helped reinforce the idea that it can be done. Not wanting to come across as a "wannabe writer" type (of which there are many, just as there are in music), I let him know how much I liked his book, mentioned it in a blog post but mostly kept quiet about my own writing. After all, this was a very serious and successful writer, despite his young age.

After one of the building board meetings, at a different location, we walked back together and Ned let me know he had some musician friends who knew who I was and had been excited to hear that he and I were neighbors. He introduced me to them via email. At that point, it felt ok to mention my blogs, plans to write books of my own. He seemed genuinely interested, and from then on, whenever he had a moment, would be forthcoming with advice and suggestions.

Though I'd never think to ask, Ned would later be kind enough to offer, even insist on reading my own manuscript when it was ready. As soon as he read it, he gave me great feedback, advice and a wonderful quote for the book, for which I'd always be grateful.

I've since read in other tributes that Ned Vizzini was always incredibly supportive and encouraging towards aspiring writers. He enjoyed giving workshops and answering questions. He was never guarded about his process, speaking freely of throwing away much of what he wrote, even abandoning projects at a certain point. Much of the act of writing involved sifting through your pages of "clutter," finding the “good stuff,” and tweaking it. Though I'd sensed this somewhat - it is a similar process to that of composing music - it helped to be in the vicinity of someone doing it so well.

Just seeing Ned around the neighborhood was inspiring. Bumping into each other at a local coffeehouse, we'd give a quick wave with silent understanding of being, as they say in sports "in the zone." I'd rarely seen someone work so hard on their laptop and with so much intensity. This re-enforced what I’d been reading in motivational books for writers: that it was a matter of being there; showing up, hitting that keyboard (or typewriter, notepad, iPad or whatever) with abandon, turning off the phone and internet and just going for it. I'm still baffled at his level of focus and productivity, let alone for someone his age.

Ned had been writing professionally since the age of fifteen, freely channeling his high school angst and insecurities into a career as an author of YA or “young adult” novels (his were books I'd wished had been around during my own precarious high school years). Natural talent was one necessary component, of which Ned clearly had prodigious amounts. But he also specialized in that other requirement, often overlooked from the outside: a heck of a lot of hard work. The same is true of music.

Speaking of which, Ned was a big fan of music as well. Having written professional music reviews, he could discuss albums with an educated listener's insight. A child of the '90s, he'd grown up on Nirvana and Smashing Pumpkins and mostly listened to indie rock and classic rock. But that's not to say he couldn't respect other styles. He'd seem to greatly enjoy my jazz trio album I passed on to him (Veritas) and would keep up with my own career, even after he'd moved permanently to the West Coast. An email from 2012 would include the following: "On another note, the new Testament album (Dark Roots of Earth) is great. I'm not big into thrash but for me it has a lot of the elements that I really like from bands like Solace and Kyuss, the slow, heavy stuff. From listening to samples I think it's the band's best work yet."

Before then, there'd be a day when I'd walk into our building just as a Fed-Ex guy would hand Ned a large envelope from the Disney corporation. Ned would explain that this was paperwork to license his book for a motion picture. I'd congratulate him, but he'd respond tepidly, explaining that this happens all the time - movie companies license numerous books, often for films that never get made. He'd be certain it's all just a bunch of cheap talk that won't result in anything. Though he'd appreciate my enthusiasm and be glad that someone in the film world seemed to"get" his book, he'd remain largely skeptical.

Within two years, New York City buses would be plastered with ads for "It's Kind of a Funny Story," a film starring Zach Galifianakis, Viola Davis, Emma Roberts, Keir Gilchrist and The Daily Show's Aasif Mandvi.



From this point on, things happened fast for Ned. The film was a huge hit with critics and film festivals - despite not being a box office smash - and many more writing doors opened in Hollywood. By 2011, he'd rented out his apartment as he was spending more and more time writing in LA. In addition to the popular network TV show "Last Resort," he finished another acclaimed novel, The Other Normals. Despite no longer living upstairs, he was still on the condo-board and would fly in for meetings. In midst of it all, he'd gotten married to a fellow writer, Sabra Embury, and they'd had an adorable baby, Felix, whom Ned brought over to my apartment a couple times while on visits to New York.

Soon, however, it would make sense to sell his place upstairs and settle with his new family in LA full time. He and I would continue to stay in touch via email and social networks. As recently as September, he'd chime in on Twitter during my music-related rants, usually with some poignant, hilariously witty pun.

Although Ned's clinical depression was well documented, he seemed to have it under control at least. Any suicidal impulses appeared to have been left on a corner that he'd turned long ago. Until a few days ago, that is. That's when I noticed a flurry of online activity connected to a friend's Facebook account, words along the lines of "Please, no." "This can't be true." It was coming from Ned's profile.

A few posts spoke for many of us - we wouldn't believe it without an official confirmation. Perhaps it was all just a cruel internet hoax? Like others, I tried calling him but couldn't get through. Then, like a blow from a hammer - dreaded but anticipated - came the first official report, a link from The LA Times

How could someone who's achieved it all at 32 years old - acclaimed novels, full time gigs in Hollywood, a beautiful family, friends, respect, success at something creative and seemingly everything anyone could ever want - suddenly and without warning take his own life?

I can only think of the words of another great writer, one who'd also battled with mental illness, eventually ending his own suffering:

“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.” - David Foster Wallace

As I see stories on the death of Ned Vizzini, the well-known writer, in People Magazine, Entertainment Weekly, The New York Times, CNN and so many other mainstream media outlets, I can only think of the good-natured, extremely hard working, wise-beyond-his-years and privately tormented fellow who lived upstairs; my friend and former neighbor, Ned.

In addition to his family, Ned leaves behind a body of poignant work that will reach for many years to come. Ned's upstairs apartment, where much of his writing took place, is now owned by a professional classical violinist whose daily emanating passages of concertos by the likes of Bach and Handel seem to capture the creative spirit that remains, a fitting tribute to the loss of its previous occupant.

And at this point in the story I, like all of Ned Vizzini's acquaintances, admirers, friends and family, am at a loss for words.



Ned Vizzini Website