Writers and book-lovers gathered in Bryant Park for the Great Read on Sunday. The goal was “A Celebration of Books,” but the theme should have been “Acting Classes For Authors.” I suggest shy or monotone authors hire appropriate people to impersonate them at readings: Chick lit writers can check Sarah Jessica Parker’s availability; sci-fi authors should use William Shatner.

A major highlight of the event was finding authors who made their work sound alive. Like Isabel Rose, who read dialogue from her novel, The J.A.P. Chronicles, in a thick New York accent. Wearing a tank top and jeans, the young author had the audience howling with her tale of a Jewish mother urging marriage and pregnancy. The protagonist protests that Madonna gave birth in her forties, until her mother tells her, “You’re not Madonna. And nice Jewish girls don’t get pregnant by their trainers!”

Rose receives the award for Funniest Excerpts, followed by L.A. Times reporter J.R. Moehringer. In a perfectly conversational tone of voice, the handsome Pulitzer Prize winner read about growing up fatherless in Manhasset. His memoir, The Tender Bar, told tales of a reclusive grandfather who suddenly “turned into Clark Gable.” Gigi Anders also poked fun at her family, with an air-piercing Cuban accent, entertaining the crowd as she read from Jubana!: The Awkwardly True and Dazzling Adventures of a Jewish Cubana Goddess. In her childhood, her mother took her to a mental hospital and told her to “play with the patients.” It was enough to make you want to cancel Mother’s Day.

Some people are attracted to success. I’m not one of them. I spend most of my time thinking about my failures, which is why, after a series of disastrous business decisions in my early and mid-twenties, I ended up working as a temporary data entry clerk at the local phone company. It gave me plenty of time to mull over the negative turn my life had taken. I’d show up at 9:00, pick up a giant box of Universal Lifeline reduced phone fee applications, put on a pair of headphones and have the pleasure of torturing myself for eight hours while my fingers flashed across a numeric key pad.

The applications were sworn statements by people saying that they were poor and shouldn’t have to pay full price for their phone service. It was a parade of poverty and rich misers but deciding whether they were lying or not wasn’t my job. I simply typed their phone number into a computer to signify that they had applied. What started to get to me though were my mistakes. If I mistyped the phone number, the computer would beep at me and reject the number. This opened up a world of possibilities. Did the computer already know the numbers and if so, why did they need me? Was this all a giant psychology experiment? Were they trying to see how long it would take before I went mad?