July 2009 Archives

In recent weeks I've been on a very successful hunt.  Since taking a book promotion class on-line a few months ago, I've had the thought in the back of my mind that I need to tap into the blogosphere.  My first step was in March- with starting this blog.  Which I will say, was done hesitantly.  It took a bit of convincing for me to think I could make use of- and enjoy!- having an author website and blogging.  This is somewhat about being shy, and more so about timidly taking on a writer's identity.  But I have found so much joy in embracing my identity as a writer and in building a stronger writing life in the last two years as The Sign for Drowning left my own computer.  It's been all pleasure-- except for the writing days that have been terrible.

 

So, a few weeks ago I discovered an amazing collection of on-line groups- which contain hundreds of members all of whom blog about books, do book reviews, or are authors, and all avid readers.  I've been crawling through the members and their blogs ever since and have found no shortage of totally interesting, entertaining, fun, and like-minded writers/bloggers/readers/people. 

One of the best relationships I've made so far is with Sheila DeChantal.  She has a chock-full blog that dazzles the eye and is hard to leave once you're perusing.  She was so gracious as to interview me, review my book (upcoming) and give away two signed copies of my paperback in one her giveaway contests.  On top of all that- she takes care of business lickety-split.  The other great find was Book Club Queen.  Desiree at Book Club Queen reviews books and makes recommendations for book clubs.  She's astute in her reviewing, and made me think about my writing style anew.  Thanks to both of them!  

 

There is a pun in this blog entry title.  Coincidentally, when my parents took us as small children to England, my sister and I saw a streaker on the street in London and were inspired to streak in the halls of our hotel that night.  But here I am referring to a reading streak.

I recently went on a furious McEwan streak.  Last year, I enjoyed the great fortune of Bret Lott comparing my novel to The Child in Time by Ian McEwan.  When I first saw his blurb I was dismayed- embarrassed really.  I asked my publisher if it was allowed!  It was.  My British friend, Alan, calls me the American McEwan- very sarcastically.  Anyway- it was very kind of Lott- and I hadn't read the book.  I'd read Atonement, Amsterdam and Enduring Love and loved them all, but I hadn't actually heard of the much earlier- A Child in Time.  I ran out and read it and loved it as well and I admit- I could see how McEwan had grown.  This summer, I decided to finish off McEwan.  I began with The Cement Garden- a very slim and distubing novel- and excellent.  And then Saturday and On Chesil Beach.  Saturday is self-referential and drops a line about The Child in Time.  Which felt like McEwan was winking at me personally.  On Chesil Beach utterly surprised me when I assumed I knew what takes place in a post-nuptial hotel room.  McEwan is a master craftsman.

I hopped over to Ireland, like a Brit on holiday.  A lot of years ago I read Roddy Doyle's, The Woman Who Walked Into Doors.  I thought he was little known and that I'd discovered a gem.  I kept my copy, but didn't need to.  The book was totally unforgettable for me, but I failed to keep reading Doyle.  A week ago I read Paula Spencer, the woman (who walked into doors) and the sequel.  Even though perhaps a decade has passed, the first book leapt up in my mind and I couldn't get enough of seeing what happened to Paula and her children.  I feel I could read a serial a day about the family for the rest of my life. 

But one thing got me.  The Irish critics on the back of the book said the book was hysterical, so much fun, a great laugh.  Now, I'm not Irish but I thought myself capable of catching tone.  This book about a physically abused alcoholic woman and her alcoholic child wasn't "so much fun."  Maybe in retrospect it had a lot of humor.  

But who could say, when two nights ago I finished The Snapper- and was laughing out loud all the way through.

As everybody already knows, Roddy Doyle can friggin write.

Last night I sat in my car for twenty minutes and listened to Frank McCourt on NPR taped in 2005.  He re-framed the memoir with Angela's Ashes, giving it the credibility and linguistic beauty of any prose, and raising the bar for all memoirists I think.  And he's more than lovely to listen to on the air as well, as his many NYC students could attest.  As Roddy Doyle would say, he's grand.

I don't think I'll be leaving the United Kingdom just yet.     

I know who I would give Albany to.  This got me thinking about what writers I felt had earned a city.  There are writers who just come to mind when you think of a particular city.  This might in some cases be where they are from, but just as often- it's a place they brought to life in their writing.  I think perhaps setting is the most commonly overlooked aspect in writing.  One really can't get away with overlooking character or plot, and most of us pay too much attention to theme.  But it's not often demanded of us to utilize setting to the utmost.  And for that reason, when someone brings setting to life- makes setting a character- readers are excited.  I love being given a place when I read.  And it's often what I take away with me, even when I loved the characters and story; I'm incredibly satisfied to feel I experienced a place deeply, especially if it came in the form of a novel.  But then giving out cities to writers really says more about the person doing the assigning than anything else.  For example, I'd like to give Paris to Hemmingway, Gertrude Stein, James Baldwin and Adam Gopnik.  Ridiculous!  All Americans!  Says something about me and what I've read.  I'd give the whole state of Mississippi to Faulkner over Twain- again just me.  Who would argue to give Sacramento to Joan Didion?  London I've enjoyed through Will Self, McEwan, and Zadie Smith.  All contemporary- sorry Dickens.  My Chicago goes to Saul Bellow.  NYC?  Yikes.  Well I want to give it to Bernanrd Malamud and again James Baldwin- but there's Walt Whitman, Richard Wright, EB White- just too many.  Let's say F. Scott Fitzgerald gets Long Island and Philip Roth gets Newark.

This photo is of a trestle bridge over the Hudson in Albany.  I was there two weeks ago for a work meeting.  Before dinner I walked to the Hudson River Park for the first time.  There can be no question- and I'm serious here- that Albany belongs to William Kennedy.  Having gotten to know Albany through his words, more than the many visits I've made there, I walked this path and gazed at the dark river that night with Kennedy in my ear.  Lucky for me that he captured his city, and by doing so, helped define it.   

  

Books on the Square is a great independent bookstore in Providence.  Carole Finger is the manager, who arranged my reading, and her blind Westin Terrier, Max, is a store mascot.  It was a super relaxed place to give a reading and also to look at books.  My cousins Rob and Faye got out a good crowd for me including Sara, Amy, Peter, Lucy and some attorneys from Rob's firm.  All a lovely audience.  But what really made a lasting impression of the night, for me and the audience I think, was a lovely Dad and son.  I always say when you give a reading there are no strangers in the room.  But this father, who had two deaf sons-twins- had noticed a flier for my reading last week and guessed that the book was about deafness in some way.  He checked it out and decided to come back with his older son for the reading.  He shared some of their personal experience with having deaf sons, their learning to sign and getting cochlear implants and learning to talk, and eventually going to mainstream schools.  He said his sons weren't that into signing right now, but he hoped as they became teens their interest in it would return.  He added something real to the subject, that however educational fiction might be- it just isn't real life.  Thanks for coming everyone!