In addition to reading and reviewing this creep-tastic novel, the author Koethi Zan graciously wrote a guest post for your enjoyment! Without further ado please welcome The Never List author, Koethi Zan to The Lit Bitch!
How a Cult Tried to Get Me
When I was eighteen years old, my college roommate and I were lured into a cult. It isn’t what you might imagine. We didn’t move to a commune somewhere in Texas with some charismatic leader who had a cache of weapons and multiple wives. They were much too sophisticated for that. They drew us in slowly with very innocent “study sessions” that were part self-help, part group therapy, and part meditation class.
It started with my college boyfriend’s parents who had been involved with this “philosophy study group” for many years. They urged my boyfriend to go so my roommate Ann and I decided we’d tag along. We were up for anything and curious about what we’d heard.
There were five of us at the first session, one of whom was a stunningly beautiful girl about my age. She had an ethereal quality about her and was very close to reaching the next “level” in the study group. I was convinced my boyfriend would end up in her group too—without me. I had to get to the higher level too, and fast.
Like many cults, this one had a mystical text, a dynamic long-dead leader, and an almost corporate organizational structure. They were practiced at the slow seduction. Their main scripture contained a bizarre and complex cosmology that made no sense whatsoever. We studied only a page or two each week, carefully dissecting its strange logic and arcane symbolism. I was getting nowhere with it.
Study sessions began with a long meditation, in which the teacher would ask us to focus on each individual body part until we felt it tingle. I had a hard time sitting still that long. Then we would work on our main objective: learning to be “present in the moment.” Each week we would leave with specific tasks to practice: upon entering a room, look at the ceiling, or eat meals using the non-dominant hand. Eventually, our sessions involved learning the art of bookbinding, which seemed a bit odd, but I mildly enjoyed that part at least. It reminded me of being in the Girl Scouts. All in all, it seemed harmless enough.
Then, just as Ann and I were getting bored with the whole thing, we were informed that we had reached a high enough level to go to a special weekend “retreat.” An important leader from New York City would be presiding. The group had bought a house that needed work, so naturally there would be “work sessions.” We were flattered. We went.
The first thing they did was set us to work scraping the floors of the house—for hours. That was a mistake. Not my cup of tea. Next we had an extensive presentation about the cosmology. I was bored out of my mind. Then after lunch, we were instructed in special “movements” at a school gym they’d rented out. We would hold out our arms and spread our legs, and then, in time with ominous chords of piano music, we would have to jump suddenly into the next position. I was starting to freak out a little.
Up until that point, no one had mentioned money to us. They were clever enough to know we’d see that as a warning sign. But back at the house that afternoon, I overheard the fancy leader from New York City pressuring a young member to make his contribution. That was just about the final straw. So when, in our next session, we were seated in rows for an hour-long meditation session, I feigned illness and was excused to the other room. I realized I had to get out of there. I tried to signal to Ann through the doorway, but she was in a deep state of meditation.
Without telling anyone, I slipped out the front door, hoping Ann would figure it out and follow me when she finally opened her eyes. She did, and we reunited back at the dorm that day to celebrate. Needless to say, we never got to the next level.
About the Author
When Koethi Zan was born in the sleepy farming town of Opp, Alabama, the “City of Opportunity,” her mother was Valedictorian of the local public high school and her father the star of its football team. Her parents named her after the homecoming queen of Lurleen B. Wallace Junior College, perhaps hopeful that some of that glory would rub off on her.
But Koethi would never be a homecoming queen. In fact, she spent most of her youth in her room, reading, listening to Morrissey, and avoiding everything connected to high school football—not an easy task in those parts.
After graduation, Koethi put herself through Birmingham-Southern College with scholarships and a small “cow fund” courtesy of Molly, the Charolais heifer she’d received as her third birthday present.
She used the money wisely, travelling to New Orleans on the weekends to hit the club scene, almost always in silver-sequined costume, surrounded by transvestites, Goth kids and her gay male entourage. Perhaps, in some roundabout way, she had fulfilled her homecoming queen destiny after all.
Then, in what may have been a misguided fit of pique, Koethi threw away her all-black daywear and her thrift-store evening gowns, and went to Yale Law School, with some vague idea of becoming a film producer. Afterwards, however, she unexpectedly found herself twenty-eight stories up in the Manhattan offices of Davis Polk & Wardwell, a prestigious white shoe law firm that represented mostly investment banks. She regularly pulled all-nighters working on secured financings and revolving credit facilities. She tended to wear demure black pantsuits, with her hair up.
It didn’t take her long to realize corporate life wasn’t for her, and Koethi spent the next fifteen years practicing entertainment law both in private practice (at Paul Weiss Rifkind Wharton & Garrison and, later, Schreck Rose & Dapello) and in-house business and legal affairs positions (for the film producer, Ed Pressman, and, most recently, at MTV), with a slight detour along the way to study cinema at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts.
As an entertainment lawyer, Koethi attended glamorous premieres and openings, international film festivals and celebrity-filled parties. She dealt with gritty production issues as varied as suicide threats, drug overdoses and sex-tape allegations. She warred with Hollywood agents and befriended reality stars.
Then, while Senior Vice President & Deputy General Counsel at MTV, she decided to fulfill a lifelong dream on the side, and in the early mornings she wrote a crime novel, The Never List.
Now, coming full circle in a way, Koethi, her husband, Stephen Metcalf, and their two daughters, live in an old farmhouse in a rural community in upstate New York. Her husband occasionally watches a football game on television. But her daughters have never even heard of homecoming queens.