WRITER

For the past two years I have participated in the Steele Canyon High School's annual job fair. My friend is the college guidance counselor there, and she makes terrific efforts to see that a variety of occupations are represented. And I must admit, it tickles me to see the folding table set up with the WRITER sign affixed to the front. (I usually sit next to another mutual friend of ours who is an ARTIST.)

 

When the bell rings, the kids all flock to the various tables (especially the ones with the flashy displays -- MEDICINE, MARKETING, MILITARY). It's hard not to feel insecure sitting with my little stack of books and xeroxed handout with helpful links to writer's websites and MFA programs. My ARTIST friend usually entices the kids with some sort of collaborative art project to participate in at her table. Plus, she has an easel, and art!

I am always pleasantly surprised by how many students come to me -- especially when they could be learning about the rewards of being a DENTIST! A PARALEGAL! A MENTAL HEALTH PROFESSIONAL! But the ones who arrive with their clipboards and questions are earnest and enthusiastic as they read from their notes:

1. How did you become a writer?

The first one is easy. Though this is where I usually lose a lot of kids. "I went to college, studied English, went to graduate school for two years, went to graduate school again. Yes, four years of graduate school." Is that required? "No. Actually many writers don't go to school at all." (And I must admit this wins some of them back.) "I wrote books. I got lots of rejections. I got an agent. I got my first book published." And so on.

2. What do you like most about being a writer?

The second question is also easy. "I get to wear pajamas to work every day. I'm home with my children. I love what I do. I get paid to make stuff up." Which, inevitably leads to:

3. Can you actually make a living as a writer?

Hmmm. Must tread lightly here. I look at their eager faces. I know exactly what they're thinking. Because I was one of them once. They are thinking E.L. James, Stephanie Meyer, Stephen King. Imagining world tours, signing books before adoring masses.  A country home with a writing studio in some elaborate garden filled with impossible flora and fauna. Money, travel. Money.

And so I say, "It takes a while." The truth.

A few duck away, head to FINANCE, I imagine. But the remaining cluster and nod knowingly.

"It's hard, I say. "You have to be prepared to do a lot of odd jobs to support your writing." I list the jobs I've had:

Waitress
Retail (high end and low end)
Telemarketer
Ticket Sales
School of Fisheries Archivist
Temp (Real Estate, Air Conditioning, Bio-tech)
Secretary for a Tyrannical Architect
Admin Assistant (for a software developer, for an IT firm)
Free-lance child's muralist
Teacher (of grown-ups, of undergrads)

Their eyes widen in disbelief.

"You have to be brave," I say. And I suddenly envision myself not as WRITER but as WARRIOR. "You don't get health insurance. You don't even get a regular paycheck."

A few more silently slip away. Those who remain, the quiet girl with the glasses, the shy kid with acne and a beaming smile, look at me both intrigued and terrified.  

But now? they ask, hopeful.

"Now I write. Full-time. And I wouldn't trade any of those jobs, those struggling years, the uncertainty and fear, for anything." Because I am a WRITER. And there aren't that many of us who can say that and mean it.

A few months ago, I submitted a proposal to my publisher for a new novel. As a WRITER, you never know from one contract to the next what will happen next.  If this might be the end. It's both awful and thrilling, but mostly awful. As I waited, I counted my marketable skills -- which I really only need a couple of fingers to count. It's times like these that I have to remind myself (the pajamas! being home with my kids! making stuff up! doing what I love!) Because it's all precarious.

And then, finally, I heard back. An offer for three more books. And so now, joy of joys, I have the promise of three more years of writing, three more books made with beautiful paper and gorgeous covers. Three more years where I can work in my jammies, volunteer at my girls' school (and be here when they get home), to set up shop in the land of make believe, and do what I love to do. And I can breathe again, counting not marketable skills but lucky stars that I get to do what I do for a living. For my life.

And I hope that's enough to keep at least a few of those high school kids from wandering off toward INVESTMENT BANKING or, God forbid, POLITICS.

The Good Wife by Stewart O'Nan: A Review

The Good Wife by Stewart O'Nan
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I love Stewart O'Nan's work. He is the master of the quotidian, the champion of the ordinary, though this was not my favorite of his novels.

This is, quite simply, the story of Patty, a woman whose husband makes a stupid decision and winds up in prison for twenty five years. Pregnant at the time of his arrest, she spends the next two decades waiting for him, and we follow her through the appeals and prison visits, financial strife and dashed hopes as she waits for him to come home.

I have found that listening to a novel on CD creates a unique intimacy between reader and text. And I found myself slipping easily into Patty's life, as though I were there with here through the twenty-five years she waits for her husband to get out of prison.

Perhaps it was because I am familiar with O'Nan's work (Wish You Were Here, for example), but I did not expect the riveting plot line that some readers missed. My complaints were rather with Patty and how little I understood her dedication to her husband (feeling that her allegiance to him came simply out of pride and resignation rather than something more potent and meaningful). I was also troubled by her relationship with her son. I was confounded by her lack of sympathy and compassion for him as he grows up in these troubled circumstances.

However, I did feel like O'Nan, once again, authentically and beautifully paints the portrait of a working class family.

This Bright River by Patrick Somerville: A Review

This Bright River: A Novel by Patrick Somerville
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

What a wild weird ride this book is.

This Bright River tells the respective stories of Ben (a sort of hapless guy who has returned home to Wisconsin after a brief stint in prison) and Lauren (a haunted woman who is also returning to her home town) as well as what happens when they come together. It's all prefaced by a prologue (which you may have heard about here -- though don't read this unless you've finished the book) which hooked me initially and then plagued me throughout (thank God it all comes together at the end).

More than anything I loved the structure of the novel. It, like the river of its title, is meandering, at times still and contemplative, and other times violent.

I was happily confused for much of the novel...content to just keep moving. And, again, the end clarifies almost every question I had. The others I may just have to email Ben about :)

P.S. Here is an amazing trailer for the novel.
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The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown: A Review

The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The Weird Sisters is the story of the three Andreas sisters -- Rosalind, Bianca, and Cordelia (daughters of a Shakespearean scholar father). The novel opens with each sister facing the shared crisis of their mother's diagnosis of breast cancer and their own respective predicaments as well. The eldest, Rose, is torn between following her fiance to England or staying home to care for her mother. Bean has lost her job in New York for embezzling from her employer. And Cordy, the wayward gypsy of the family, is pregnant (not a spoiler...this news comes early). And so the three sisters find themselves living together again at their parents' home in Barnwell, OH. But rather than finding easy comfort and solace there, they are instead forced to face their fears, their demons, and their uncertain futures.

Told in the first person plural, it reminded me a bit of Eugenides' The Virgin Suicides, but this narrator is somehow (and strangely) the voice of all three sisters, and, as a result, the voice of none of them at all. At first, I had difficulty because this narrative stance defied all those rules of point of view that have been hammered into my head over the years. Initially, it felt a bit self-conscious, but after I grew accustomed to it, it was less distracting. I must admit, I kept waiting for each of them to gain their own voice (as in a first person narration) by the end of the novel, but the collective narrator remains.

Regardless. There are so many wonderful things about this novel:

First, there is Barnwell itself. It's a perfect little town; it reminded me in so many ways of my own hometown (as well as my own fictional Quimby and Two Rivers). I could live there.

This is also a book for book lovers. Their father is a fountain spouting Shakespearean quotes. The library, the library! And a three book-toting girls. (Of the three sisters, I do think I liked Cordelia best, and found myself most invested in her, but the other sisters were both beautifully flawed and somehow still likeable.)

Lastly, the writing was lovely and often funny. This book was cozy. I really, really loved it.

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Taking Stock

My birthday is Saturday, and birthdays for me have always meant taking stock. Every year around this time, since I was a kid, I have felt a strange compulsion to conduct a sort of inventory of those things I've accomplished, as well as examine the empty shelves waiting to be filled. As I get older, the shelves get fuller, but as a result, the empty spaces seem more prominent in contrast.

Since last June 23, I finished Grace (and set her free) as well as wrote a new book (which I'm still sitting on in my little nest). I also conceived and sketched out the next book, though I haven't gotten a contract for it yet. I managed to help get the girls through one more year without broken bones or cavities. I had an art show of my photography, gave Mikaela a new gypsy-inspired bedroom, taught some classes. I quit drinking (!)...and didn't have a single drink through my entire 42nd year (and didn't really miss it all that much). I read 51 books. I celebrated my twelfth wedding anniversary. I saw a doctor and got a clean bill of health, and I got one haircut.

I didn't exercise. I didn't write that children's book I keep talking about.I didn't pay off a single credit card or student loan. I didn't get the garage cleaned out. I didn't eat any healthier. And I didn't see the dentist. I didn't spend as much time with the girls doing fun things as I wanted to. And my hair is back to being style-less and unruly.

I've got a checklist, lots of stuff I still hope to do. Places to go. The kind of person I want to be. And I, the glass half-full girl I am, suspect 43 will be a very good year.

On Quieting the Voices in My Head

I feel like I'm in a strange place lately with my writing and trying hard to simply focus on getting the work done. Since my last draft of Bodies of Water, I have simultaneously received glowing praise from some folks whose opinions really matter, and some extremely unkind criticism from someone whose assessments I thought did. I am having difficulty reading and revising the latest draft without hearing those words that crushed me. They have changed the way I feel about my own work. It is crippling me as I head into what I hope is the final draft. It's amazing how much louder criticism speaks than praise, regardless of who is offering it.

I have a friend who is going through the submission process right now who also continues to get conflicting messages about her novel (which I have read, which is wonderful)and is grappling with whether or not to make significant changes (to the characters, to the plot) in order to sell the book. I feel strongly (and have told her so) that she needs to stay true to her original intent, to maintain her artistic integrity at all costs. Easy advice to give. Not such an easy pill to swallow myself.

The reality of being a published novelist, is that suddenly other people's voices are in your head - whether it's that idiot reviewer on goodreads or amazon who gives you one star (though they wish they could give zero stars) or an editor who doesn't deem your work worthy of publication. And like some odd ventriloquist act, those voices can begin mimicking your own, as though they are coming from inside you instead of outside.

This is not to say that criticism is always wrong, or that you shouldn't ever listen. My editor's critiques are almost always exactly what I need to hear. But learning how to filter the helpful from the harmful, the valid from the valueless, is a struggle. I feel like so much of my time is spent now quieting those voices. Trying hard to listen to my own. For my friend, whose work is brilliant and beautiful and true, I wish you the necessary silence to listen to your own voice. And for me...I will try to do the same.

Carry the One by Carol Anshaw: A Review

Carry the One by Carol Anshaw
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I don't know why this book took so long for me to read. It's only 253 pages...but it felt, somehow, epic (though not necessarily in a positive way). The premise was what drew me in (along with the very loud buzz): a carload of people coming home from a wedding strike a young girl and kill her. The novel then follows the driver and passengers as they navigate their lives following this tragedy. The writing is strong, the characters were interesting, but it somehow failed to fully engage me. I think the primary issue was that there were simply too many characters. There just wasn't time to really invest in any one of their stories. As a result, I felt somehow disconnected from their sorrow and regret. I would have appreciated the novel more had it been Alice's story (a woman who uses her art to explore and exorcise her guilt). And I really, really did not like the last scene.

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The (Sand) Bucket List of Summer 2012

Maybe it's time I start taking a cue from my ten year old for a change. Last night she asked if she could use the computer to work on her list. I grumbled something about the ink cartridge being low and warning her about the general malaise my computer seems to be exhibiting lately, and then relinquished it to her. (Frankly, I was just grateful that this particular project -- she's always doing some sort of project -- didn't include digging into our recycling or glue). And so she disappeared inside my office...and came out about a half hour later with a freaking masterpiece!!

Excerpted from her summer "bucket list":

• Read 20 books.
• Put at least 20 videos on youtube channel. 
• Make something new.
• Try five new foods.
• Make money
• Sell lemonade.
• Flash mob. [I'm imagining this going down at our cabin where we spend most of the summer.]
• Go in the boat.
• Catch a fish.
• Sleep in the treehouse.
• Swim in 10 feet deep water in the pond.
• Stay up until 6 a.m.
• Beat Dad at bad mitten [sic]
• Have parties.

How awesome is that?? So here's my riff on this:

• Read 20 books.
• Write 20 blog posts.
• Make a new book!
• Cook five new foods.
• Don't worry about money.
• Squeeze life's lemons.
• Dance more. Sit less. Sing out loud.
• Take the girls out in the boat.
• Cook the fish? 
• Sleep in the tree house??
• Swim with the girls every day.
• Get up at 6 a.m.
• Beat Patrick at badminton.
• Throw parties!

With my students, I am always harping on the necessity of setting goals and making self-imposed deadlines. As a writer, I warn, it's rare that anyone cares when (or even if) you finish a project...and so it's important that you care. I didn't realize that this has rubbed off on the girls, but apparently it has. But what their take on all of this teaches me, is that goals don't always need to be about work...but should also include play and fun.

And, in case you're interested...Esmee had quite a list herself. On her list? Do 20 cartwheels, touch the bottom of the pond, and climb a tree!

Your turn.

Summerland

I am beginning to wonder if there is some sort of physiological shift that is triggered at the last day of school -- the result of endorphin-like chemicals released from some yet-to-be-discovered gland. Because even though I have not been in school as a student now in over fifteen years, the giddiness of the first day of summer is undeniable.

This week has been one of organized chaos. There's no other way to explain it. Dance recitals and dress rehearsals, book and writing events, field trips, and teaching on top of all the other busy-ness of our lives. Perhaps the end of school is just a sigh. Just my body being able to take a breath. But I am overwhelmed by it. All that marvelous possibility of 84 days (yes, Kicky counted) without the usual obligations.

Not that there isn't significant work ahead. I just got the notes on the latest draft of Bodies of Water back from my editor yesterday. They're not extensive, but they will require digging in again. I also really, really hope to proceed with the next novel. There will be summer camps for the girls (Junior Theatre and ballet), a drive across the country (and back), an online class to teach, some editing jobs, etc...

But right now, it's 9:00 a.m., and the girls are still asleep. The house is quiet. I don't have to pack lunches or find parking at drop-off. I don't have to force the girls to sit down with homework this afternoon while trying to get Kicky's hair wrestled into an acceptable ballet bun. I don't have to recall fourth grade math or check second grade spelling. And as much as I love volunteering, I don't need to prep art lessons or plan anything. When I think about summer, I almost feel like it's a place rather than a time. A crazy awesome island where none of the regular rules apply.

Today I think we'll go to the library and sign up for the summer reading program (remember those??!!), load up on books, look through the cookbooks and find the most decadent summer foods to make, and maybe watch a movie. I'm thinking something along the lines of Aquamarine or Judy Moody's Not Bummer Summer. My two most favorite kids' summer flicks.

What about you? What will you do with your first day in Summerland?

Vee, a Short Story

About once a decade I write a short story. Today, one of them was published at Numero Cinq Magazine (which you should all be reading, by the way). This is the only story I've ever presented at a reading that made me cry. With that...

Vee.

The Collector

Last night, Patrick and I had a rare night out. For those of you who don't know him, Patrick is the Executive Director of a non-profit literacy organization by day, but by night he is very involved in a number of local arts organizations: sitting on boards, directing and producing and curating art stuff all over the city. (Really, it's a sort of Clark Kent situation.) Anyway, his latest endeavor has been bringing The Collector, a multi-media puppetry performance piece by Animal Cracker Conspiracy (directed by Lisa Berger), to San Diego. Last night was the world premier at 3rdSpace, a fabulous artist club/gallery/performance/work-space in University Heights. I went with an open mind...not having seen puppetry of any sort since the kids were little. (I've always found puppets a bit creepy.) But The Collector was fabulous. Definitely creepy, but also quite beautiful. It primarily explores our obsession with objects as well as our relationship to these objects (how they define us, how they can destroy us). However, it's not only about consumerism, but also about possession. (For anyone who has read Grace, you know that this is a thematic thread that runs throughout the novel. I'm fascinated by our need to own, to accumulate, possess, to keep things: objects, people, memories.) There's also a monkey CEO, ominous old fashioned cameras, a bird-lady shaman, and incredible sound created by Margaret Noble. Go see it!!

The End of The World As I Know It (Or, School's Almost Out for Summer)

At this time of the year, I typically find myself experiencing something between excited anticipation and the stunning realization that I have only one week left before I have to switch gears from being a full-time writer to being a full-time parent. I love both jobs, don't get me wrong. But it's kind of like being a librarian who becomes a rock star, or maybe a jackhammer operator. Seriously. As a full-time writer, I work for myself. I sit around in my quiet house in my house-clothes (as opposed to what I put on for the rare forays into the real world). I poke around on the internet (and in my cupboards), tap out a few thousand words, and then settle into the hammock with a book (research) for the rest of the day. As a full-time parent, the house is not quiet. It is loud. My little people are bickering all the time. I get dressed, because they want to go places. Lots of places. If I get to the computer at all, it's so jammed up from Webkinz-related activity I couldn't write if I wanted to. The hammock is still there...but it nearly drags to the ground with three people in it. And reading? Can you read, I mean research, when there are monkeys climbing all over you? Monkeys who want to go to the beach, out for ice cream, shopping??? Good news is, both job descriptions share a few key duties: 1. Play all day. 2. Call it "work." 3. Take care of people (characters) when they get hurt, when they feel sad. 4. Go to the library a lot. 5. Worry endlessly. 6. Love tremendously. And compensation for both is usually in joy rather than exorbitant paychecks. Here comes summer.

Name a Character in My Next Novel!

One week from today (Sunday, June 10th), I will be participating in San Diego Writers, Ink's Blazing Laptops Writing Marathon. It is a fundraising event for SDWI, where I regularly teach creative writing classes. The event lasts all day (9 hours), but due to a certain ballet dancer's recital, I will only be able to perform a half-marathon. Regardless, please consider pledging. It supports a great cause. It's easy (just click here!). And best of all, the person who makes the highest pledge will get to name a character in my next novel!!

The Sand Castle by Rita Mae Brown: A Review

The Sand Castle by Rita Mae Brown
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This tiny little book almost read like a play to me. I loved the characters (sisters Juts and Wheezie), and I also really liked the seven year old narrator, Nickel. Not much happens: a late summer trip to the eastern shore of Maryland where the two sisters build a sand castle with Nickel and her cousin whose mother has recently passed away. But I'm not sure it really had the satisfying arc of even a novella. It felt more like a sliver from something much larger. And, indeed, I understand these characters appear in other of Brown's novels. I'll have to see if I can track some of the down...because these characters were really wonderful.

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A Good Hard Look by Ann Napolitano: A Review

A Good Hard Look: A Novel by Ann Napolitano

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


This follows the intersecting lives of southern writer, Flannery O'Connor, and a cast of Napolitano's fictional creations. Set in small town Georgia, the novel opens and closes with the riotous cacophony of O'Connor's famous peacocks. In between are the stories of three families. There is a great tragedy about 2/3 of the way through, and then a lengthy (though ultimately satisfying) resolution. The pacing felt a little too languid for me...but it's a book about the south, and so I suppose that's okay.

My only other complaint was that I felt like I didn't get enough of Flannery O'Connor. She was present, of course, throughout the novel, but she wasn't nearly as vivid as I suspect Napolitano meant for her to be. I had difficulty understanding why Melvin found her so compelling that he was willing to risk so much for her companionship. I did, however, find the characterization of Lona to be flawless. Her desire and longing were palpable and painful.  

Above all else, Napolitano's writing is beautiful. If it weren't a library book, I would have marked many, many passages throughout that were simply perfect.





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Oprah and Me

I just found out yesterday that Oprah is reviving her now several years defunct Book Club. And the moment I saw the post on a friend's Facebook page, I felt overcome by a very old and powerful feeling.

You need to understand one thing at the outset: Oprah and I go way back. It was over a decade ago, back when I was fresh out of graduate school, living in a one bedroom apartment at the beach in San Diego, that our story begins.

I had written a novel as my thesis at the University of Washington called Paper Rain. It was my first novel, and I just knew that it was going to catapult me to literary fame and fortune. I found the contact names and addresses for nearly a hundred editors and agents, and I wrote to them. All of them. And some of them wrote back.  But none of them wanted my novel. After months and months (and so much wasted postage), I sadly gathered these missives into a binder which I titled, Paper Rain on My Parade.

Having once believed that Paper Rain would put me in the company of the literary greats I admired (and maybe even into a bigger apartment), I now suspected that it was more likely that nobody but my family would ever read it (and that I'd be writing at my kitchen counter for the rest of my life). And so I made a few hand-made copies. I printed the pages on beautiful paper, which I tore at the edges. I bound them with jute. I autographed them. And then I gave them away. But I kept one, and this is the one I sent to Ms. Winfrey. This was our first correspondence.

I sent it unsolicited with a letter lauding the brilliance of not only my novel, but also my lasagna. (Remember, back then, her book club met over dinner at the author's home.) I actually wrote something to the effect of "I don't have a table" -- which I didn't -- "but I have plenty of dishes.") I did not include an SASE (Why bother? She'd want to keep this treasure wouldn't she?) And then I waited.

Months passed, no phone call. No announcement on my TV in that wonderful whooping voice she reserved for announcing her Book Club picks. But then one day, miracle of miracles, she wrote back! (Or rather, her producers -- or maybe the unpaid intern who opened her mail -- did. And she also sent back my lovingly hand-crafted novel, despite the lack of postage paid.)

I had been heart-broken by my myriad rejections from agents and editors ("just not for me," "we do not feel strongly enough about this project,"  and my favorite "we publish only biographies of opera singers."). And now this. Et tu, Oprah? Et tu?

But always tenacious and hopeful, I persisted. And eventually, all that hard work paid off. I got an agent (though she also couldn't sell Paper Rain), wrote another book, published some books, won some grants, and all the while there was Oprah. Oprah was picking a book a month at that point. Books that were about to go out of print. Books by authors like me. There wasn't a single person I talked to who didn't say, "You should send your book to Oprah." Though I couldn't bear to tell them that I already had.

Then there was what I like to think of as the 6-Degrees-to-Oprah phenomena. Someone I knew knew someone who went to her gym in Chicago. Maybe she could just slip a copy of Nearer Than the Sky onto her treadmill? And then there was our friend who went on Oprah for Dr. Phil's therapy boot camp...maybe he could just hand her the paperback of Undressing the Moon? (Forget that he was there to deal with his own emotional issues. What about my book??!!) Of course, neither friend went through with it. But then -- serendipity! My friend's friend WORKED for Oprah. Specifically for her Book Club. And she did pass along my work, all three novels, and I waited for the call that would change my life.

But then came along two men who would change my life forever: Jonathan Franzen and James Frey. (And yes, I still hold a grudge.)

First Jonathan Franzen, when honored with Oprah's coveted seal of approval, poo-pooed her and her low-brow audience. I'm certain you remember this? I do, because after this, the Book Club came to a nearly screeching halt. And then she started only picking books by dead authors. (I was pretty certain I was really out of the running now.) But then a few years later she chose A Million Little Pieces. And the author, James Frey, was alive! But alas, his not-so-true, true-to-life true story became another thorn in Oprah's side, and she returned to her reliable dead authors again. And we all know what happened after that. 

Since then, I've gotten a table, and those dishes I was so proud of have long since been donated to Goodwill. I have also written five more novels...though none of them have yet thrust me into those literary realms I once dreamed of. I have moved from that little apartment, though I do miss it sometimes. We could hear the ocean from our bedroom window and the mourning doves perched in a tree outside. It is with fondness now that I recollect hammering away at the keyboard at the tiny kitchen counter where I worked. Because I was writing, and that is what I love most to do.

I've also long since given up the silly notion that literary fame and fortune should always come quickly. I have accepted that I am a slow-and-steady-wins-the-race kind of writer. I am grateful for my struggles. And I am even more grateful for the longevity of my career. With or without Oprah, I will keep writing books until the day I die.

But Oprah's Book Club is back. And I know exactly what that feeling is...the one creeping up my back as I type. It's that jingly feeling you get when you've got a plastic cup full of nickels at the slot machine, the scritch-scratch of your nail as it scrapes away the gold foil from a tear-off ticket. It's possibility. And there isn't anything in the world better than that for a writer...or for anyone...than this. She's going to make the careers of some very fortunate authors. And for the rest of us...well, we'll just keep writing and dreaming.

One Year Later

For some reason, I just revisited the blog post that I made exactly a year ago. It is stunning to me that I didn't even know the characters in Bodies of Water at this point. I hadn't dreamed a single scene. And I find it most surprising of all, that "the new project" ultimately became a love story.

From June 1, 2011:

On New Projects

So I am in that weird place in the novel-writing process where I am actually almost "done." Meaning...on June 1st I will send it to my editor and then, hopefully, have little more than some tinkering to do before it goes into print. There's still work to be done, but I can finally start to entertain the ideas for the next book.

I'm not one of those people who can work on more than one thing at a time. I am totally a totally monogamous sort of writer. But at this stage of the game, I am like a new divorcée, just waiting for the divorce papers to be finalized. There have been flirtations, of course....little notes jotted into my notebook, nights spent thinking about the new book instead of the one I'm with, but I have remained faithful. But now that the end is near, I have that itchy thrill of what will be next. New.

Starting a new project for me is so similar to falling in love. I seriously get butterflies in my stomach just thinking about all the possibilities. It keeps me up at night. I obsess. It's all I can think about. Everything I see and hear makes me think about it. My whole world revolves around it.

So here's to June 1st and new projects and falling in love. Again. 

And so on this June 1st, I begin a new affair, though this is no love story this time. I can tell you that there's a traveling carnival, some really bad people, some really good people, and a twelve year old girl named Rainy.

My Summer Reading List

Summer reading lists have been popping up all over the internet; everyone seems to have an opinion about what we should be reading at the beach, in our hammocks, or in our lawn chairs this summer. And I have noticed that these lists really don't differ from each other very much. It seems the same handful of books seem to be hogging up everybody's imagination. And so I thought I'd make my own reading list...with a few of these favorites and few of my own. I have actually done this for years...since I was just a little girl. The beginning of summer has always signaled to me the beginning of long book-filled days. I distinctly remember the sense of wonder and excitement at getting the summer reading lists from school and then searching the shelves of the basement children's room at the library to find them.

And so, for what it's worth, here is what I will be reading and why:


Set in 1962 and the current day in Italy and Hollywood. How can I resist?


Choosing to believe the hype.

Road trip novel. And look at that cover!!

Rich waspy kids in the late 80s.

 
This is the first novel written by the author of Salvage the Bones, my favorite book of the past year.


Howard is a family friend and always, always good for an engaging read.


I've had this one on hold at the library for months, and it finally came in. It's been so long I can't even remember what it's about.


I just finished Truth and Beauty by Ann Patchett about her friendship with this fellow writer, Lucy Grealy.


A fictional account of Flannery OConnor's life after leaving New York to live in her hometown in Georgia.


This was accidentally shelved with the Judy Blume books in the kids' section at the library...I can only assume I was meant to find it.


I should also add 1Q84 to my list, because I promised my friend, Tricia, I'd try...what's another 946 pages?

Bodies of Water

Today is a strange day. For the last few months I have been getting up early every single morning and laboring over the revision of my newest novel, and tomorrow I won't have to. I sent my "finished" draft off to my editor this morning.

This novel, Bodies of Water, was one of those easy ones to draft. In August the story came to me as a gift while I was hunkered down during Hurricane Irene in Western Mass. It is based loosely on a family story I had never heard before last summer when, stuck inside during the storm, my mother's cousin shared it with me. I stayed up all night, listening to the wind and drafting scenes in my head. Over the next several months it consumed me, obsessed me. And so I started it as a NaNoWriMo project on November 1st, wrote furiously to the end, and sent off the first draft to my editor on February 14th. Just three months from beginning to end.

But man, has it been a misery to revise. The characters have eluded me at every turn. The structure gave me headaches. There were mornings when I would rather have done anything than to hang out with those people again. Family or not.

It amazes me how different the process is for every novel. The first draft of Grace took over a full year to complete, but the revisions came easily. Two Rivers took five years to write and nearly two years to revise. I wrote This Glittering World in six weeks. And just when I feel like I'm getting a hang of this novel writing thing, I realize I still have so much to learn. What I do know, is that novels do not write themselves. Writers write them. And whether on the front end or the back end, it takes time.

And I'm also pretty sure that tomorrow when I get up I'm going to miss having my morning coffee with Eva and Billie.

A Land More Kind Than Home by Wiley Cash: A Review

A Land More Kind Than Home: A Novel by Wiley Cash

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I love debut novels. There is nothing quite as exciting as hearing a literary voice for the first time, particularly if it is fresh and vibrant and new. Of course there are the inevitable one-hit wonder books that seem to suck everything the author has from them. Or the debuts that garner so much acclaim that their authors' sophomore attempts inevitably pale in comparison. But then there are the books like this one.

A Land More Kind Than Home tells the story of a young boy whose innocent curiosity sets into motion a series of devastating events. We watch these events unfold through Jess's eyes, as well as via the town midwife and sheriff. The writing is pure and sweet, the story is one I haven't read before, and the characters were vivid and memorable. There were some issues with pacing and focus, I think, but overall there was something terrifically exciting about this novel. And I suspect that Wiley Cash will be back again with more.

Excellent storytelling, and just so much promise here.



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In One Person by John Irving: A Review

I am an active member of goodreads, and I started thinking that I should be posting the reviews I write here as well. So here you are:

In One Person by John Irving

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


One of the questions I am asked most frequently at readings is who my favorite authors are. And my answer always (always!) enthusiastically includes John Irving. A Prayer for Owen Meany and The World According to Garp rank high on my Top Ten of All Time Favorites list. And so it is with a heavy heart that I write this review.

In One Person has all the ingredients of a classic Irving novel: "sexual suspects," boarding schools, wrestlers, an absent father, Irving's acrobatic prose and impeccable comedic timing, the Dickensian span of the narrator's life. (There are even some "bears" near the end of the novel...you'll see when you read it.) But somehow, for me, the ingredients do not make a satisfying meal in the end. It's a souffle that should taste great, but isn't cooked all the way through and falls, hopelessly flat in the dish.

Here is the problem; I have read almost every John Irving novel. I know his tricks. And I could anticipate every single one in this novel. Nothing in this book surprised me. Not one thing. Owen Meany's success is grounded in the potency of the disparate elements coming together in the end. All that basketball practice! It was brilliant. But it ruins the wrestling maneuver in In One Person I know exactly how important that duck-hold will be in the end. This happens repeatedly throughout the novel: foreshadowing that calls such attention to itself (for readers of Irving's previous work anyway), that you can't help but to anticipate that which it foreshadows. I felt like one magician watching another magician perform. John Irving's own novels ruined this novel for me.

I also felt like the characters lacked realistic emotional responses. The book is about sex, for God's sake. About relationships. But even the AIDS epidemic's appearance late in the novel failed to elicit much of anything from our narrator. I wanted to feel the heartache that I felt when Garp loses his son. I wanted to be thrilled in the way I was at the end of Owen Meany. I wanted that Irving magic. But instead, I saw through all the smoke and mirrors, and it just made me feel sad.



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The New Procrastination Destination

I love Pinterest. And I have used it for quite some time now as a virtual version of the notebooks and binders I keep all over my house: as a place to collect and keep images of decorating ideas, DIY projects, recipes, and pretty things. But then the other day my friend (and fellow novelist), Miranda, gave me the idea of using Pinterest as a way to collect images which inspire or are inspired by my works-in-progress.

Bad idea.

I have spent hours -- and I mean HOURS -- gathering images, pinning, and organizing. I made one board for the novel I'm revising, and one for the project I just started. I have probably spent more time pinning than writing in the last few days. But they're beautiful! They evoke the mood of each piece...and represent the settings and characters as well. I'd almost be happy to just  keep pinning away and forget the novels altogether...just kidding.

I think my fascination stems from a very real need to make my fictional worlds as tangible and concrete as I can. And somehow, finding photos helps to solidify the hazier things. To sharpen the edges. If only in my own mind. I have found the same to be true when I've made trailers, and I can imagine that's what it would feel like to adapt a novel to film as well. It's like a waking dream of the novel.

So for you writers out there...here's a new way to put off the work of writing while still having all the fun of living inside your imagination. Pinterest: Station Procrastination.

On Bullying

Bullying is on my mind (and has been on my mind a lot) lately. My most recent novel, Grace, is, at its heart, a novel about bullying. Trevor, one of the main characters, is relentlessly and brutally bullied by two kids at his school. The novel is dedicated to eighteen boys who ultimately killed themselves after being bullied for either being gay (or perceived as gay) by their tormentors. As a mother, it's an issue I care about immensely. As a human being, it is behavior that mystifies and shames me.

And now, Mitt Romney. I cannot begin to express how much the latest revelations (accusations) and his subsequent dismissals and denials  infuriate me. I am usually a relatively private person when it comes to my politics, but something about all of this is bringing out the angry mama bear inside of me.

At a recent book club I was asked, point blank, if I was writing from experience when I wrote about Trevor. "Were you ever bullied?" the woman asked, with genuine interest and concern. I shrugged the question off and suggested that writers always draw from their experiences to a certain extent and said something to the effect that I had been teased (as all kids are teased) as a teenager. And then I went home and wondered why I felt this need to downplay and deny.

Bullies deny. Clearly, Mitt Romney is engaged in some fairly serious selectivity when it comes to his prep school day recollections. But what about the victims? The ones who survive anyway?

When I was in the eighth grade I went through a rapid transformation from one of the shortest kids in my class, to one of the tallest (without gaining a single pound). I also got braces and had to stop wearing my contact lenses because of an allergic reaction they were giving me. I also got the smart idea that it was time to cut my hair (which had always been long and curly...and my real pride when it came to how I looked). I was also a good student. The cumulative effect of all of this was that I went from being a cute kid to an awkward, homely, gangly, "brown-nosing" teenager. For a while, however, my confidence remained intact. I asked the most popular boy in school to the eighth grade graduation dance, and remarkably he agreed. But then, at the dance, he got up to go to the bathroom and never came back. The next day he asked my best girlfriend to "go" with him. And I was crushed.

My freshman year was abysmal. I was teased for having "poodle hair." I was pushed in the lunch line. During track practice someone stole my sweatpants and threw them up into a tree. Boys were unkind and girls were worse. It was only because parents who loved me and a strong core group of girlfriends who never abandoned me that I made it through that year. But there were times when I didn't think I would. The yearbook photo that year was the one you see below. (And, as though to add insult to injury, there was a flaw on the yearbook page which made it look like a worm had crawled across my face.)

8th Grade

9th Grade

Over time, I ditched the braces and glasses and grew my hair back out. My confidence returned. I even began to balk at my former self-- as though that girl (the one who felt such tremendous self-loathing) were someone else. I separated myself from the experience. What I didn't realize, however, during this awful time was how this year set me up for future relationships.

Because in college, I found myself a nice bully and dated him for nearly five years. While my exterior had a new paint job, I was a crumbling house inside. And he knew that. He knew how to find every weak support beam. Every broken step, every loose floorboard. It took a very long time before I was able to leave, and I know that even twenty years later, there are still cracks in the plaster.

I have never written about this. And I think it's because while bullies are able to forget their transgressions, victims of bullies simply wish they could. It was agonizing for me to scan and post this photo. A tiny part of me is still haunted by that year. It's easier to dismiss and deny for both perpetrators and victims. There is a tremendous amount of shame that comes along with being victimized by cruelty. And that shame seems never to go away.

Of course, I am a grown-up now. I have a healthy and happy marriage. I'm independent and confident. As they say, things do (always, always) get better. But I am also a mother of two young girls. And I am terrified for them. I know that while so much has changed, so much remains the same. Children are cruel creatures. And parents are often scared and ineffectual protectors. The effects of bullying can be immediate and tragic (resulting in suicide) or long-term and insidious. Shattered children sometimes become shattered adults. So what are we telling our children if we elect a man who dismisses bullying as "harmless"? And what are we telling ourselves?

Ant

For the first time in my writing life, I am working on two novels simultaneously. I am revising my most recent novel, Bodies of Water, while starting a new novel. Normally, this is not my protocol. I've always felt a sort of obligation to finish what I started before moving onto the next project, but with the end of my contract, I am overwhelmed by a strange urgency to have things firmly in place for the next book.

What this has created for me is an odd schizophrenia. I get up early and work on Bodies for about an hour. (an hour of revising is about all I can endure.) Then I shift gears and work on the opening chapter of the new book. What this means is that I have become a dual resident of early 60s suburban Boston and a traveling midway in 1970s New England. It seems like this would be difficult, but I'm actually finding thematic threads that make the transition pretty easy. I don't know why I have resisted this literary multi-tasking in the past. It seems to be working.

I just finished reading Truth and Beauty by Ann Patchett (her memoir about her relationship with Lucy Grealy, author of Autobiography of a Face). She talks about how different they were in their work ethics. Lucy was all avoidance, always waiting until the deadline was nearing (or passed) while she herself was an "ant." I absolutely identify with this. I feel very much a writing ant. One little step at a time...maybe two at a time now.

I think the sense of urgency I've been feeling creatively is also because the school year is coming to an end, and in just a month I won't have the luxury of 6 hour days to get my work done. The girls will be home for the summer, and I feel like I owe it to them to be present. They will be going to theatre camp and visiting family in Flagstaff, but my dream is that Bodies will be finished, the new book will have gathered momentum. I would like to spend more time at the beach this summer. Take advantage of the city more. And then we have Vermont, of course.

Where the Wild Things Are

This week the world lost two iconic artists: Adam Yauch (MCA) of the Beastie Boys and children's author, Maurice Sendak. And all week, I have felt strangely and overwhelmingly melancholy.

I started college at the University of Vermont in the fall of 1987. I brought two posters with me; one was a life size photo of Mikhail Baryshnikov, and the other was an illustration from Where the Wild Things Are. My musical tastes were pretty much limited to what I could find on the radio and The Talking Heads (whom I had discovered at summer arts camp). I had grown up an hour and a half away from UVM in a small town in northeastern Vermont, and most of my suitemates had also come from small towns all over the state, except for L. from Poughkeepsie, NY. She was Korean-American but spoke French. She dressed all in black, and liked the Sex Pistols and the Smiths.  Her friends were New York City punks who crashed our suite, living in the common area for weeks (even months at a time), smoking Turkish cigarettes. They did drugs and shoplifted and loitered. I was afraid of them and fascinated by them. L. was naughty but also terribly sweet. She introduced me to Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" and  The Beastie Boys.

The Beastie Boys' music represented, for me anyway, a safe rebellion. They were a hardcore punk band that got radio airtime. Their music was loud and fast, but it was also wonderfully silly. The appeal that the Beastie Boys had for me was the same that I'd found in Max from Where the Wild Things Are. Max was a naughty boy who got sent to bed without supper. And without leaving his room, he was able to travel "in and out of weeks, and almost over a year...to where the wild things are." And better still, after being crowned king of all wild things, he was still able to go home where he found his supper waiting for him.

When I was a little girl, I loved Where the Wild Things Are. It was probably my favorite book. Inexplicably, I identified with Max. I was not a naughty child. I was, actually, quite the opposite. I did well in school. I rarely "made mischief," and I don't recall ever getting sent to bed without supper. But the allure of that bedroom that turned into a forest and the possibility of running away to a place where big-footed monsters gnashed their terrible teeth was one I was mesmerized by.

It was that first year at UVM that I decided that I wanted to be a writer. Not a journalist, not an English teacher, but a writer. I gobbled up the short stories assigned to me in my creative writing classes. I scribbled poems and crafted my own stories. And when things started to go badly in my real life, I sought refuge in the fictional landscapes I created.

I was Max. 

In my writing I could be bad. I could be naughty. I could go places I was too afraid to go in real life: scary places inhabited by the terrible creations of a vivid imagination. But the beauty of writing was that I was still the one in charge of all these wild things, and I could also "tame them with the magic trick of  staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once." And best of all, after all was said and done, I could return to my room (my dorm room and later my tiny apartment and now, my office) where all of the comforts of home awaited.


Music and writing have always offered an opportunity to imagine other lives without leaving the safety of my home. (It's no coincidence that the antagonist in my first novel was named Max. Or that the cat that purrs at my feet is named Max as well.) And so I mourn the loss of these two men. Adam Yauch's death was tragic, untimely. I'm certain there was so much more music to be made. Maurice Sendak, on the other hand, was an old man who had lived a full, rich life. He found literary success and happiness with a partner of nearly fifty years, but in his final interview with Terry Gross, he suggested that his lack of faith made this dying business just a little bit harder than for believers.

And so with a heavy heart, I thank you, Mr. Yauch and Mr. Sendak. I hope that wherever you are, there's a wild rumpus of funky monkeys, and that after all is said and done, your supper's waiting for you....

and it's still hot.

Why I Write

I recently gave the keynote speech at the Central California Writers' Conference in Oakhurst, CA (near the incredibly beautiful Yosemite), and I have been asked by one of the writers in attendance to post a portion of it here. 

The focus of my speech was on why writing (both the process and the product) matter. I emphasized the importance of knowing why it is that you write, what drives you and/or a particular project.

Here is my answer:

I write because I love language. I love the way that words trip and tumble across my tongue. I love the subtleties of it, the nuances, the power. I write because writing makes me happy in a way that nothing else does. I write because it allows me to tell enormous lies. But I also write to tell the truths I am too afraid to say out loud.

I write to entertain myself; I write to entertain others.

I write because I have deadlines. But I would write even if no one cared whether I finished anything ever again or not.

I write because it’s the one thing I am good at. I write because when I don’t, I feel antsy and sad.

I write for my family, to preserve our history. I write to prove that I was here. That I lived in this world and felt things and loved things, that I experienced joy, that I despaired. I write for my children. And for the children they might one day have.

I write because I have stories to tell, even if I don’t know what they are until I put my fingers on the keyboard. I write to teach, sometimes. But mostly, I write to learn. There is still so much I don’t understand.

I write to make people laugh, and I write so that I will not cry. I write because I have no choice. I write to survive. I write to save others, and I write to save myself.

Now it’s your turn. Think about it. Ask yourself.

The Known World in Slow-Mo

I am really struggling with this one...only 65 pages in, and I am dragging my feet. The premise is such a fascinating one, but the narrative keeps losing me, and every time I connect to one of the characters, the story shifts away from them. And by the time we come back, I've forgotten who they were. Anybody else have a problem with this one??

Pulitzer Project Book #7: Gilead by Marilynne Robinson

I knew there was a reason why I decided to engage in this Pulitzer Project...and this book is the reason. What a perfect, magical, insightful, and inspiring book about one man's complex relationships with his family and friends, with his young son, with the world, and with God. It is a book not about religion but about the willingness to see the inherent beauty in the world, and to find grace in the most difficult of places.

I can't find words to do this novel justice. The prose is gorgeous. The narrator is flawed but endearing. The imagery is astounding. I will never forget the image of two women laughing in the grass so hard that their tears rolled into their hair. Read this, read this, read this.

Here's the thing about me:

as much as I hate disappointment and feeling defeated, disappointment and defeat are actually two magical things that ignite me. They make me work harder. They make me reach farther. It's been one of those days, but now that the spark is let, I plan to set the world on fire.

Pulitzer Project, Book #6: March by Geraldine Brooks

I would never have picked this novel up of my own accord. I rarely, if ever, read historical fiction and actually find myself actively avoiding anything to do with the Civil War (books, movies, documentaries, etc...). I had also never read Little Women, which I feared would put me at a disadvantage in reading this book. But I am now so pleased that I did.

The story of the missing father from Little Women, March explores the year that this abolitionist acts as a Union army chaplain during the war. What I enjoyed the most were the moral complexities that were illustrated through March's character. I felt that it provided such an authentic and troubling depiction of what we typically consider a "just" war.

My only real complaint was that the switch to Marmee's point of view near the end of the novel made me feel less compassionate toward March. He actually started to really irritate me when seen through Marmee's eyes; his convictions began to seem less honorable and more selfish. The voice of these chapters also were not clearly enough differentiated from March's voice, which pulled me from the novel's dream a bit. But overall, this was a thoroughly enjoyable read.

On New Projects

So I am in that weird place in the novel-writing process where I am actually almost "done." Meaning...on June 1st I will send it to my editor and then, hopefully, have little more than some tinkering to do before it goes into print. There's still work to be done, but I can finally start to entertain the ideas for the next book.

I'm not one of those people who can work on more than one thing at a time. I am totally a totally monogamous sort of writer. But at this stage of the game, I am like a new divorcée, just waiting for the divorce papers to be finalized. There have been flirtations, of course....little notes jotted into my notebook, nights spent thinking about the new book instead of the one I'm with, but I have remained faithful. But now that the end is near, I have that itchy thrill of what will be next. New.

Starting a new project for me is so similar to falling in love. I seriously get butterflies in my stomach just thinking about all the possibilities. It keeps me up at night. I obsess. It's all I can think about. Everything I see and hear makes me think about it. My whole world revolves around it.

So here's to June 1st and new projects and falling in love. Again.

The Blurb

You know those endorsements you always see on the back of book jackets? The glowing praise, the author love? Poignant! Haunting! A stunning debut! You'd think from these quotes that authors must be an effusive lot by nature, a whole repertoire of glowing adjectives at their fingertips, happily spouting off praise for their colleagues. Yeah, sure. I have been at both ends of this process (as both blurber and blurbee), and the truth is that there is agony in both positions.

As one seeking endorsement, this kind of literary groveling takes a certain amount of grace, but it mostly requires blind audacity. Approaching a favorite author, asking them to take time out of their busy lives to read 300, 400, 500 pages of your work and then divining the perfect words of praise? You try it. And when they decline, see if it doesn't make you hot under the collar or filled with the cold awful drip of doubt and shame.

On the other end, I absolutely understand the inclination to just say no. What if the book is a stinker? What if you put your name on a pile of ca-ca? And when you are receiving multiple requests how on earth do you decide who to endorse and who to ignore? Is it easier to just say no across the board?

My novels have been endorsed by some very generous (and busy) people. Howard Frank Mosher and Larry McMurtry both took a chance on me with my first novel. Rene Steinke, Ursula Hegi, Miranda Beverly-Whittemore, Michelle Richmond, Lee Martin, Marisa de los Santos, Garth Stein, and Luanne Rice have all managed to find nice things to say about my work. Of course, there is no way to measure the effect of these kind words, no gauge to check the influence of their seals of approval. But what I do know is that I am entirely grateful for their generosity and time. And as an author receiving requests, I make every attempt to pay it forward. Of course, there are times when I too am simply too busy with my own work, or when I fear a novel may not sustain my interest...that I may not be able to find enough kind words to offer in return. But as a rule, if the author asks nicely, and the book looks good, I will make the time. Call me superstitious, but I suspect there are some karmic repercussions and rewards for all of this.

However, as I embark on the next round of solicitations (hoping the authors I love will love me back), I am steeling myself for whatever comes. Trying not to let my feelings get hurt...trying not to wonder if they're really busy or just think the book isn't worthy of their time.

On that note...here's a pretty funny and revealing article on the blurb. Hmmm...Should I send an email to Nicole Krauss next??

Grace

I haven't written about the new book (Grace) here at all...and I just realized I have now been working on it steadily for over a year. That's a good long time. You'd think I'd be nearing the finish line. But for me, at this stage of the game is when I start second-guessing every sentence. This morning (SATURDAY), I woke up at 5 a.m. in a near panic attack about it. And so I got up, and started to read it from the beginning, trying to pretend that someone else wrote it. Didn't work.

This is my seventh novel (actually ninth if you count all of the ones I've written), and I keep wondering if I will ever get to a point where this sort of crazed insecurity phase of the process disappears.

Here is what I do know. I have two weeks until the next draft is due to my editor. This week I will comb through it again...character by character, tinkering, fixing, and probably freaking out. I will hopefully get it to the point where I can bear to let it go. And then I will hope and wait and try to breathe.

The End of the Road: Book #5 The Road by Cormac McCarthy

Normally, I am not a huge fan of sci-fi; I think the last sci-fi book I read was called The Hero from Otherwhere, and I read it in the fifth grade. (I distinctly recall making a tissue paper wolf collage after completing it.) But despite any initial resistance I had genre-wise, there was something very engaging about this story. The language was at times absolutely lyrical ("At crossroads a ground set with dolmen stones where the spoken bones of oracles lay moldering" -- wow!), and the descriptions visceral, but it was actually the simple and subtle portrait of a father and son's relationship that most captivated me.

The unnamed father and son of The Road spend the entire novel in a futile journey across a post-apocalyptic landscape. Survival is the prevailing goal, leaving little room for much else. The son has no recollection of the world before its demise, and the father must navigate a future-less world with a young child at his side. The terse dialogue reveals beautifully (and with tremendous subtlety) the nuances of their relationship.

I was actually reminded throughout the novel of one of my favorites of last year: Room by Emma Donoghue. In that novel, a mother and her young son are confined to a small room (a room in which they are being held captive). Like the boy in The Road, Jack has no knowledge of the world outside the room. What struck me was how differently each of these parents deal with their children. While "the man" in The Road discourages dreams (fearful that they are a sign of surrender), the mother in Room relies on them to create a magical place for her small child. I can't help but wonder what would have happened if she'd been the one to survive the apocalypse instead -- if she and Jack were the ones making their way through this frozen, ashen world. Perhaps what differentiated the two parents was the simple prospect of a future: hope the one thing that eludes the father in The Road.

I did find myself worrying throughout the novel about how McCarthy would handle the end. And while it was satisfying, it also felt a little too tidy, a little too happy (despite the larger tragedy at hand). It didn't detract from my overall experience of the novel, however. Read it!

The Road to March

So I am reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy now (which is PP Book #5). It's a pretty bleak read, but I'm just so damned grateful for its simplicity and the absence of Spanglish, comic books, and footnotes, that it's already got a leg up on Oscar Wao.

Looking ahead, the next winner is March by Geraldine Brooks. I picked it up at the library yesterday, as I will probably finish The Road pretty quickly. However, I just read the jacket flap and realized that the gaps I've found in my literary canon seem to extend to my reading of children's classics as well. March is based on the father character in Little Women, which -- you guessed it -- I have never read. I have also never read Tolkien (maybe it would have helped with Oscar Wao), anything set in Narnia, The Phantom Toolbooth (at least not in its entirety), or The Secret Garden. So anyway...before March, I think I need to pick up a copy of Little Women. Maybe the girls will want to read it with me.

I also think I'm going to give myself a break every 5 or 10 years worth of PP Books to read something just for pure pleasure. What I'm most looking forward to right now is Don't Breathe a Word by fellow Vermonter, Jennifer MacMahon. There's another book called In Zanesville whose cover captivated me. (I'm a sucker for a good cover -- which is another reason why e-books have been a good thing for me -- no pretty packages to woo me.)

Book #4: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz

Lately, I have been so focused on determining what a writer's obligations are to a reader, I have neglected to address what the reader's expectations are. I've been looking at this project from a writer's eyes, and neglecting the reader's perspective. I have been so fixated on defining what the writer's job is that I fear I've neglected addressing how this relates to the reader's expectations. Through this, I am learning a lot about myself not only as a writer but as a reader.

Here's the deal with Oscar Wao:

In the eighth grade, I was homely beyond homely. 5' 9" tall, 100 pounds soaking wet with braces, glasses, and an unfortunate haircut (I think I was going for punk rock but it wound up instead as a sort of poodle mullet). Anyway...I knew that no one was going to ask me to the eighth grade graduation dance, and so I took matters into my own hands. I decided to shoot high and asked the most popular boy in the eighth grade. He was a new kid, a basketball player, and had perfectly feathered hair. And, for some unknown reason, he said YES. So the night of the dance came. I got a new dress and high heeled white sandals to match. He showed up with a corsage. I swooned. At the dance, we danced two slow songs (I thought I would die then and there from happiness) and then he put his arm around me as we sat huddled in the corner with all the other couples. I had never felt so blissed out in my entire thirteen years of life. He politely excused himself at some point to get some water, and I sat grinning (I was in. I had a date!) amongst the other couples. I sat. And grinned. And waited. And waited. He never came back. And I was stuck, sitting with all these happy pairs alone for the next two hours until my dad came to pick me up.

This book is just like that boy. I was enticed by the reviews, the Pulitzer win, the recommendation of several readers I trust. But the date was a bomb. Here's why:

While the book purports to be about Oscar Wao (you'd think from that title anyway), but it's not. It's about Oscar, his mother, his sister, and his friend (and narrator) Yunior. It's also about Trujillo's reign of terror in the Dominican Republic. While all of these stories are interesting, the tragedy of Oscar's life doesn't resonate, because I didn't get to spend enough time with him to even begin to care about him.

The Diaspora it continually addresses is (ironically or intentionally?) replicated by the incredible and willful inaccessibility of the prose, which is littered with Dominican slang as well as obscure comic book and Japanese anime references. I read the entire novel with my laptop open to a website which kindly offered annotations. (I hadn't seen as many annotations since The Divine Comedy in college.) The entire book made me feel like an outsider, that poor ugly girl sitting alone at the dance after the boy ditched me. Diaz ditched me!

The narrator. Man, he's an ass. He's flippant, he's sexist, and he does nothing but disparage his culture and people. I couldn't stand him. I also felt like I couldn't trust him, because he seemed more omniscient (read, authorial) than a genuine character. See where I'm headed with this?

So anyway, I leave this book, like I left the eighth grade graduation dance that night. Disappointed and a little pissed.

The Brief Wondrous Site

Just started The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao...and I am telling you, thank goodness for whoever cobbled together this chapter by chapter annotation!

Book #3: Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout

I loved this book. I truly, truly did. Initially, I worried that the linked stories were a cop-out...a way to get around writing a novel. But instead, this collection of stories about the characters living in Crosby, ME ultimately accomplished everything a novel could and more.

Olive Kitteridge, a quirky and bitter old lady, is at the heart of the collection, though often at the periphery of the stories. But the portrait that is painted of her is vivid and complete. I found myself in tears after the final story...and close to it in many of the others.

Strout writes without sentimentality about aging and marriage, love and disappointment. I will absolutely seek out her backlist.

Book #2: Tinkers by Paul Harding

When I teach Plot in my creative writing classes, I return again and again to Anne Lamott who says, "You need to be moving your characters forward, even if they only go slowly. Imagine moving them across a lily pond. If each lily pad is beautifully, carefully written, the reader will stay with you as you move toward the other side of the pond, needing only the barest of connections -- such as rhythm, tone, or mood (Bird by Bird, 59). This is a lily pad novel. The writing is lovely, elegiac in tone, and meticulous. This may very well be enough for some readers. However, I am not sure these beautifully constructed lily pads were quite enough for me. Perhaps the pond beneath was too murky.

This novel purports to be the story of George Washington Crosby, a clock repairman, as he lies on his deathbed. However, the novel's locus soon shifts to George's father, Howard, an epileptic traveling salesman who abandons his family when his wife decides to have him committed. We also see glimpses of Howard's father, a failed preacher. The book shifts back and forth among these characters, revealing the tenuous relationships that exist between these fathers and sons. While very little actually happens in the novel by way of plot, its scope is fairly grand, examining themes of fatherhood and absence and inheritance.

But what I found most frustrating about this novel was not that so little happened, but that those events that were dramatized felt (at times) arbitrary. I wanted Harding to achieve what Tobias Wolf manages in "Bullet in the Brain." But while Wolf captures (in three pages) an entire life in that moment before death, I felt like I had only the most impressionistic sense of George's life after nearly 200 pages in Harding's novel. This coupled with the also seemingly arbitrary shifts in point of view and lack of any cohesive structure left me frustrated and eager for the novel to end.

I champion the quiet novel, and there was much to be admired in Harding's ambition and prose. But there are other novels and stories that have done it better; Evening by Susan Minot is one.

Book #1: A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan

There are books driven by the characters who inhabit their pages and books driven by the author's ideas. This is an idea book. It is an ambitious book, a collection of stories strung together loosely by a sprawling cast ("squad") of characters, but more strongly tethered by the concepts of music and time. It struck me initially as gimmicky: A-side chapters and B-side chapters, even a Powerpoint presentation chapter, footnotes for Christ's sake...all that post-modern form play that usually irritates the crap out of me. But somehow Egan makes it work and even managed to win over this reluctant reader. While I prefer books piloted by the characters, this book takes flight based on some pretty beautiful examinations of time's passing, rendered in frequently luminous prose. I probably won't remember the people in these stories, but I will remember some of the wonderful details: the autistic child's obsession with the pauses in songs, the description of someone smelling like the inside of a peach, the slow loss of a sunset to a new building as it is constructed.

Pulitzer Pile of Shame

So I thought it might be interesting today to go through my reading list of Pulitzer fiction winners and see how many of them are already on my bookshelves. I was frankly shocked and a little ashamed to find that I already own probably a dozen of them, all but a few unread. (There are a few boxes that remain unpacked -- and I'm pretty sure that in addition to what I found Ironweed , The Stories of John Cheever, and Breathing Lessons are all lying unread in the garage). There are four additional unread winners that lay in wait on my Kindle. I'm not sure what this says about me. I clearly had an interest in all of these books at one time. My interest in Chabon's Amazing Adventure of Cavalier and Clay was earnest enough that I bought it in hard cover. I have started each and every one of them. I think I've started Middlesex three times. And I'm pretty sure I started and only pretended to finish The Color Purple. I know, I know. What's even more shameful is that two of these unread authors were visitors to George Washington University when I was teaching there. I won't say which ones in case they, like me, have Google Alerts set and might catch wind of this.

As far as I can tell, I've been populating my bookshelves with Pulitzer winners my whole adult life (and then promptly neglecting them). Here's my pile of shame. How many books have you purchased only to leave their spines intact?



Anyway, I'm halfway through Book #1: 2011's winner, A Visit from the Goon Squad, which I'm wishing I'd bought in print because reading footnotes on a Kindle is turning out to be a technological pain in the ass. Can hardly wait to see what happens when I get to the infamous "Powerpoint" chapter...though it's hard to image it would be more effective on paper than on a computer.

I'm Back!

I'm back! And I thought this might be a good venue to talk about my latest personal challenge. After looking at the list of Pulitzer fiction winners recently, I realized that I had only read three or four on the list. How could that be possible? So, I have decided to try to read every fiction winner since 1948. It's about 50 books I think (there were some years when an award was not granted). I'm starting with this year's winner (A Visit from the Goon Squad) and moving backward. I'll post my reviews here (you can also find them on Goodreads. Anybody else up for the challenge?

New Project/Blog

Here's my latest endeavor...if you can't find me here you can find me HERE (Into the Tulgey Wood).

Two Rivers #1 in Kindle Store!

Thanks everyone for making TWO RIVERS a #1 Kindle download! For a limited time only, TWO RIVERS is FREE to download at amazon.com, Barnes and Noble and Sony's ReaderStore.

And if you enjoyed TWO RIVERS, I have a new book out now, THE HUNGRY SEASON which is the story of a family in crisis after the death of their teenage daughter.

Unfortunately, my earlier novels are out of print, but UNDRESSING THE MOON will be available again in October 2010.

Mermama gets her tail back.

So, five years after the major cross-country move, we've turned ourselves 180 degrees and gone back. Home. To California.

What we had when we left: a big truck full of stuff, a three year old and a baby. One job. One novel to finish.

What we have now: an even bigger truck full of stuff, an eight year old, a six year old, two cats. One job. Another novel to finish. (And a rental house with eight tiki totem poles.)

I told Patrick that I am tired of being the couple that is always saying goodbye. Together we have left Arizona, Seattle, San Diego, and now DC. I am ready to stay put. I am tired of tearing myself away from people and places. I am ready to dig in, grow roots. I am ready to call someplace home. And given the glorious 70 degree days we've had since we got here...and the smell of the ocean in the air, I think this might just be the place.

Updates

I feel like Facebook has killed my blog...at least sucked away the time I might normally spend blogging. Anyway...quick recap: I finished the draft of a new novel this spring, This Glittering World. I am very excited about it, though it is a departure in many ways from my other work. I signed a three book contract with Kensington, which is wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. My hope is that all of this good book news will actually buy me some more writing time. I also just got the jacket artwork for The Hungry Season which comes out in February. It's gorgeous, and they used one of my photos (of Esmee) which is cooler than cool.

On the home front...we're off to Vermont on Sunday for a whole month. I have a stack of books a mile high waiting to be read. I am already dreaming of being nestled up on the porch while the girls run around outside. This is my favorite time of the year. Pictures and happy little recaps to follow.

WETA Interview

Here is my first video interview ever. Enjoy!

Tomorrow Night!

It's a strange thing promoting a book, a very different endeavor than the solitary task of actually writing it. The hats I wear are, to say the least, quite different. I picture the writer-hat as a sort of tweedy pageboy cap a la "Oliver Twist." The public reading-hat is more like one of those hats you see women wear at the Kentucky Derby -- all flowers and netting and maybe even a little birdy perched on top. I must admit I prefer the wool cap, but every now and then it's nice to get fussy.

On that note, for anyone who is in the DC area, I'll be reading at the Barnes and Noble in Bethesda at 7 p.m. tomorrow night. Stop by if you're around and say hi!

Recap?

I was thinking that I should try to recap the last few months since I posted, and the mere thought of it exhausted me. I think Facebook is sucking away all of my internet creativity. That and trying to get my novel finished by February 15th.



Here are the biggies: Two Rivers is out!!! I had my first reading in Flagstaff at Bookman's, which wound up being a wonderful reunion of sorts with a lot of friends from grad school. The novel is on the Indie Next list this month, which is also great news. There have been sightings in airports, Target, and last night my dad called me from Costco. "You've really made it," he exclaimed. "You're at Costco." :)


Here are the girls and I after my signing at Bookman's.

I had a terrific break, but now it's back to work. I get up every morning at 5:30 and write for two hours. Then I somehow manage to get the kids fed and dressed and off to school and then I go to school or prep for classes. I am only teaching 2 classes at GW, but I teach two back-to-back workshops on Saturdays. It seems like it's going to be okay...though I was pretty spent last Saturday.

I am traveling a little bit for the book...to Sarasota in February and then to Flagstaff for the Northern Arizona Book festival in April. I have my fingers crossed that the novel does well and I can lighten up my teaching load. When I finish this book I have one I'm itching to write. Just not enough hours in the day.

On the Mommy front...you may remember the check-up fiasco with Esmee (she sucker-punched me in the nose as she was getting her shots). Well, we tried it again today, and though she professed a new courage I was suspicious. And, indeed, I got kicked and scratched and screamed at. That girl has got some lungs!!

Oh...the Inauguration!!! How could I forget??!! The girls and I did not brave the crowds or the cold, but Patrick did. The air is still buzzing and humming with the thrill of it all here. Ben's Chili Bowl on U Street has an O-B-A-M-A ice sculpture out front...my favorite artifact from the past week. With the weather we've been having, it may just stay awhile.


Sorry if I missed anything. It's been a doozy of a year so far.

On being seven.

Kicky is turning seven next week, and I am overwhelmed. Because I remember seven.


(Me, at seven.)

I remember seven better than twenty-seven. I lived in Concord, Vermont. I had a cat named Boogie. I liked to play "Love Boat" and "Charlie's Angels" in the yard with my neighbors, Chris and Angie. I watched "Happy Days" on Tuesdays and "Donny and Marie" every Friday night. I loved Orange Posicles and thought I might grow up to be a gymnast. For fun, I threw my Barbies up on the roof and watched them roll off. I liked to put pennies on the railroad tracks and get the hot, flattened remains after the trains had passed. I believed that notes in bottles would reach the destinations I intended. I was in the second grade, and I wrote my first short story during recess. I got the wind knocked out of me when I fell off the monkey bars, and I had a crush on Sean Cassidy. We adopted my sister the fall that I was seven. I was a devil for Halloween. Anyway, the point is (besides totally dating myself), this is a year that she will remember. And that is wild.

My New Desk

The office is a work in progress, but I LOVE my new desk!

New and Improved

The website has finally been updated after two years of stasis...to get straight to the Two Rivers stuff, go here.

On another note, I woke up grumpy and have been grumpy most of the day. Do you ever feel like all you do is clean your house? I mean, the hours I spend cleaning the house only to have it look nice for five minutes before being destroyed again. Blah.

Fellow Artists!

Oh please, please, please one of you who can ditch your life and dedicate it to your work, please apply for this residency!!!!!

http://www.gershwinhotel.com/english/site1.html

Been a long time...

since I blogged, but, thankfully, it's because I've been happily traveling to trade shows to get booksellers excited about Two Rivers. Since mid-September I've been to Portland, Boston, Mobile, and Oakland. I've signed a zillion galleys and tried, futiley, to capture "what the book's about" in tidy little sound bites. I must admit I wish I could just say something like, "It's about a man, a maverick, who wants reform, and a hockey mom, Joe six-pack..." Oops, wrong story.

Anyhow, besides being on the road non-stop, I'm trying to keep up with my teaching and parenting and all that regular stuff. We've almost finished the renovation on the house, and I lament not having the time I'd like to properly prettify it. I'm shooting for Thanksgiving.

I'm also not left with much time to write, making me feel both frustrated and guilty. Oh how I could use two weeks of seclusion to just get it done.

And strangely, while this house of cards we call the U.S. seems to be falling down around me, I feel like I'm in a bubble of happiness. Is that wrong?