I went to a raucous, reverent midnight release party celebrating Sally Rooney’s new novel. It was even more fascinating than I expected

With moments until midnight on a recent Monday evening, a crowd of stylish millennials and Gen Zs buzzed with anticipation for a work of Irish contemporary fiction. At Queen Books in Leslieville the countdown was on for the release of Sally Rooney’s “Intermezzo”: all eyes were on a digital timer that ticked down 10 seconds until the novel could be officially purchased. Guests who had been mingling in the stacks for three hours got a second wind. Tasselled kazoos were passed around. Some started chanting the author’s name as if trying to summon her spirit. One customer raised the roof. Meanwhile, on BookTok, influencers unboxed their advance galleys like sacred relics.
This amount of fanfare is usually reserved for young adult fantasy titles with leviathan followings, not literary fiction for adults. The last time I’d experienced a midnight launch was as a kid when my local bookstore held “Harry Potter” release parties; a fellow Queen Books guest recalled attending similar “Twilight” events.
But Rooney holds a unique position in contemporary literature. At 33, she’s published a triad of previous novels—“Conversations with Friends” (2017), “Normal People” (2018), and “Beautiful World, Where Are You?” (2021) — with the first two adapted into globally popular TV miniseries that transformed her prose into a tangible esthetic of beautiful, melancholic and often self-destructive young people feeling their feelings. Rooney’s frank, accessible style, particularly notable in her writing about sex and love, magnetizes highbrow literary critics and pleasure readers alike — a merging of cultural spheres that has marked her authorial celebrity with transcendent qualities. Her success, which dovetailed with both the BookTok explosion and the popularity of similarly sexually frank media like “Fleabag,” allowed Rooney to outpace literary peers like Rachel Kushner and Ottessa Moshfegh and become a frontrunner for writer of her generation.
Not all of Rooney’s characters are straight, although angsty heterosexual relationships are at the centre of her narratives. These are intellectual novels that sit at the same uncomfortable crossroads as Taylor Swift’s politics of feeling: both defiantly intimate and highly commodifiable for tenacious fanbases. During the official “Intermezzo” launch, hosted by Rooney’s publisher FSG, guests made Swift-inspired friendship bracelets with themed charms. En route to the event, amidst a fraught romantic moment of my own, I decided to lean into the vibes. If heartbreak was my doom, at least I could cosplay as a Sally Rooney character. The damp mist that hung in the air felt uncannily timed. On the streetcar, I listened to one of many Spotify playlists crafted in the author’s honour with a track list including Elliott Smith, Phoebe Bridgers and the “Call Me By Your Name” soundtrack. Sad girl fall.
I wondered how Rooney, who identifies as a Marxist-feminist, might view a ticketed party that advertised raffles to win “exclusive Rooney-esque swag.” On the invites, Queen Books had encouraged a chunky sweater dress code, but I couldn’t glean an overarching fashion sensibility amongst those present. When I asked a recently graduated English major about the Sally Rooney esthetic, she alluded to the feeling of returning from a tipsy night out to a nicely decorated apartment glossed by “generational wealth” (a reference to one of Rooney’s protagonists) and the youthful predicament of existential uncertainty. Another guest described an inherently felt sadness of being in the world that Rooney uniquely captures. “Bi panic everywhere,” deadpanned a trio of friends in their early twenties who descended into a fit of giggles, pausing to note the equal crushability of Connell and Marianne, the main characters in “Normal People.” 
A deep love for Rooney’s second book seemed to be the unifying force among acolytes in attendance, who praised the relatability of the main characters. Many clutched their hearts while expressing an attachment to Connell or Marianne or their love story. At the party, scenes from the series played at the back of the bookstore. When pressed about the fandom’s sometimes aspirational treatment of the couple’s complex relationship, most acknowledged this was a problem, though not one they necessarily had. Everyone made it clear that they were not to be lumped in with any accusations of shallow engagement with Rooney.
Regardless of the perils of the popular, isn’t it exciting to get excited about a book? Standing near the door towards the end of the event, I looked out at the sea of heads tucked together in literary conversation. Earlier, one pack chatting with the intimacy of old pals revealed that they’d only met that night. At least two book clubs had made the outing. When the clock struck the hour, a polite yet enthusiastic line formed to claim their preorders. New owners of “Intermezzo” took selfies with the book and photos of their copies: it was both a symbolic object to post on Instagram and a text to read and pick apart. The wholesome frenzy glossed the evening with the warm, hopeful satisfaction created by talking extensively about art. Despite discussing the topic with nearly everybody there, I hadn’t felt angst all night.