Yesterday evening I dragged my sorry carcass out of bed, where I've been spending most of my time since last week's surgery, and took a cab to the Denver Press Club. There, after fortifying myself with Acapulco Anesthesia (i.e., a margarita--tequila* numbs me more effectively than any pill I've been prescribed) , I joined in the private meet and greet with artist Ralph Steadman (THE JOKE'S OVER: Bruised Memories: Gonzo, Hunter S. Thompson, and Me), who went on to give a public talk in the nearby Denver newspapers' auditorium.
And how did these twinned events come to pass?
Because I PICKED UP THE PHONE instead of sending an email.
Yes! Back in June, I'd had a few back and forths with a Harcourt publicist on the West Coast about an author I wanted to get for an event at the Press Club. I had a bunch more questions, and decided that speaking with her would be more efficient than trading emails over hours...or days. Besides, I'd always liked her and it had been a long time since we'd spoken. So I called and we settled the business about the author (which finally turned out to be a bust due to scheduling conflicts).
Then I asked the publicist if she had any interesting titles coming for fall. She mentioned a couple of books, then said almost in passing that Harcourt was doing Steadman's memoir of Thompson in October.
"What?!" I shrieked. "That is the one book I'm waiting for! I even blogged about it in February, wondering when it would be picked up by an American publisher. This makes me so happy!"
I gushed a bit more, then asked the next logical question: "Are you sending Steadman on tour?"
"Oh yes," she said. "He's doing a national tour: New York, Washington, LA and San Francisco."
There was a pause while I tried to think of a polite way to point out that two cities on each coast doesn't quite exemplify "national." Funny how I notice that sort of thing now that I no longer live near a coast.
"How about sending him to Denver?" I said. "Hunter Thompson lived in Colorado; he even has his own shelf at the Tattered Cover. That would be a great event for the Press Club. I'll bet they'd get a good turnout."
The publicist said they hadn't thought of sending Steadman to Colorado (I was sure she could hear me rolling my eyes), but it was a good idea. She gave me the contact info for the NY pub who was handling the book, which I passed along to the Press Club events coordinator, who was just as excited as I was.
And the rest is now history.
Oh, and when I chatted with Steadman last night, he said he'd been touring all over the country. Next stop: Miami.
(More on the actual event in another post. Meanwhile, look on the right above to see what I started reading last night.)
*This marvelous audio, courtesy of Miss Snark's "Rx for Bella" of Nov 6, explains it all. Warning: Swallow before listening.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Publicity Terrible Tale #14: A Fright at the Fest
From Sally Nemeth, Book Promotion 101 workshop alumnus & author of The Heights, the Depths, and Everything in Between:
All in all, my very first book festival went pretty well. I met many wonderful authors and illustrators, and that's always a blast. It was this state's very first book fest as well, and their Center for the Book did a lovely job, and things ran smoothly, except...
THEY DID NOT HAVE MY BOOKS. None. Nada. Zilch. Zip.
I'd come clear across the country for this book festival and there were NO BOOKS.
This was NOT the organizers' fault, but was the fault of the Big Bookseller, who had been contracted to do the onsite book sales. The manager of Big Bookseller told me some incomprehensible story about a mixup at the warehouse where my books, which he swears had been ordered, were shipped back to Random House by mistake. Big Bookseller discovered this mixup Thursday p.m., said they couldn't get the books drop-shipped to them on Friday, and somehow it didn't occur to them to have the books drop-shipped directly to the fest on Saturday a.m. Huh?
The terrific organizers of the fest, who by the way were NOT informed by Big Bookseller that they didn't have my books, went into action and immediately got on the phone, calling every bookstore in the state. They were going to gather stock and have it sent by courier to the fest, which might have been a good solution since we discovered the "no books dilemma" at 11 a.m. and my presentation was not until 2:15.
However--and this is somehow even MORE disturbing to me--there were no books to be had instate. None in stock. The fest had placed a nice, big, front-page Arts Section feature article on me in the Sunday paper, since my book is, in fact, set in that very state. So either the article caused a buying frenzy, and EVERY other bookseller instate had sold out of my book, OR the books were never instate to begin with.
Luckily, I did have a BIG stack of book cards, which I put in the book sale tent so people could at least have info on the book, and I always carry bookplates with me, so I signed bookplates for people after my presentation. But it was somehow like kissing your cousin. [Such a good girl! This is exactly what I say to do in my workshops--except for kissing your cousin.]
Anyway, I'm sure this isn't the first time this has happened to an author at a book festival [sure isn't!], and I'm sure it won't be the last, but it's the first and last time it's gonna happen to me. Because from here on in, I'm traveling with at least a case of books, no matter how far I've got to schlep 'em!
This definitely goes down on the "live & learn" list!
All in all, my very first book festival went pretty well. I met many wonderful authors and illustrators, and that's always a blast. It was this state's very first book fest as well, and their Center for the Book did a lovely job, and things ran smoothly, except...
THEY DID NOT HAVE MY BOOKS. None. Nada. Zilch. Zip.
I'd come clear across the country for this book festival and there were NO BOOKS.
This was NOT the organizers' fault, but was the fault of the Big Bookseller, who had been contracted to do the onsite book sales. The manager of Big Bookseller told me some incomprehensible story about a mixup at the warehouse where my books, which he swears had been ordered, were shipped back to Random House by mistake. Big Bookseller discovered this mixup Thursday p.m., said they couldn't get the books drop-shipped to them on Friday, and somehow it didn't occur to them to have the books drop-shipped directly to the fest on Saturday a.m. Huh?
The terrific organizers of the fest, who by the way were NOT informed by Big Bookseller that they didn't have my books, went into action and immediately got on the phone, calling every bookstore in the state. They were going to gather stock and have it sent by courier to the fest, which might have been a good solution since we discovered the "no books dilemma" at 11 a.m. and my presentation was not until 2:15.
However--and this is somehow even MORE disturbing to me--there were no books to be had instate. None in stock. The fest had placed a nice, big, front-page Arts Section feature article on me in the Sunday paper, since my book is, in fact, set in that very state. So either the article caused a buying frenzy, and EVERY other bookseller instate had sold out of my book, OR the books were never instate to begin with.
Luckily, I did have a BIG stack of book cards, which I put in the book sale tent so people could at least have info on the book, and I always carry bookplates with me, so I signed bookplates for people after my presentation. But it was somehow like kissing your cousin. [Such a good girl! This is exactly what I say to do in my workshops--except for kissing your cousin.]
Anyway, I'm sure this isn't the first time this has happened to an author at a book festival [sure isn't!], and I'm sure it won't be the last, but it's the first and last time it's gonna happen to me. Because from here on in, I'm traveling with at least a case of books, no matter how far I've got to schlep 'em!
This definitely goes down on the "live & learn" list!
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Publicity Isn't All Scary
Though I'll continue to post publicity terrible tales as they come in, I'm now collecting stories of gratitude (interpret as you wish), which I'll post for Thanksgiving. See bottom of preceeding post for inspiration.
More Terrible Tales
Agent Janet Reid, of Jet Reid Literary, posts some horror stories from her publicist days here. My favorite:
a client who spent twenty minutes at a reading telling the audience why the review in the local paper was wrong wrong wrong.But she also cites some authors who are Real Gems (see my Author Taxonomy), including:
JoAnna Lund, bless her dear departed heart, who said "you make it all so easy to do, thank you."
Friday, November 03, 2006
Publicity Terrible Tale #13: Age Appropriate
From author Karin Gillespie:
Once, on a tour of Florida, the Cocoa Library hosted me. My audience wasn’t large and most were retirees. The librarian apologized for the small turnout and one of the patrons overheard her.
“You should have been here last week,” the patron said. “There was an author here who had them lined outside the door. They were packed in like sardines.”
“Who was the author?” I asked, imaging Grisham, Pat Conroy or even Paula Deen.
“Well, I don’t recollect the name of the author,” the patron said. “But I do remember the name of his book. It was called Overcoming Incontinence.”
Once, on a tour of Florida, the Cocoa Library hosted me. My audience wasn’t large and most were retirees. The librarian apologized for the small turnout and one of the patrons overheard her.
“You should have been here last week,” the patron said. “There was an author here who had them lined outside the door. They were packed in like sardines.”
“Who was the author?” I asked, imaging Grisham, Pat Conroy or even Paula Deen.
“Well, I don’t recollect the name of the author,” the patron said. “But I do remember the name of his book. It was called Overcoming Incontinence.”
Publicity Terrible Tale #12: Flashed Fiction
From author Jennifer Macaire:
My YA book came out with a small press and was nicely publicized by the publisher on the front page of a trade magazine and with some full-color ads. But I'd always dreamed of doing a book signing, so, when my book came out, I immediately put my plan into action.
Nothing went as plannned.
I got flashed at my first book signing.
Before that, I was on cloud nine. I was a published author of a YA fantasy book! I was going to New York for the summer! What better way to kick off the new book than with a book signing in a big bookstore? I looked up a bookstore in the neighborhood and set the date. I asked all my family and my friends living nearby to come. I found a passage to read that was not too long, not too short and had some humor in it. Perfect. I found a little black dress that looked professional but cute. I brushed my teeth. I arrived on time.
The bookseller had set up a little auditorium with a table and my books sitting upon it. I had a poster the publisher gave me, which I propped up near the books. I sat on the chair. I waved to my parents, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles...and several strangers. The strangers sat up front. My family, in an élan of generosity, left the whole front row free. I introduced myself, picked up my book, and started to read.
The man front and center opened his legs wide.
He had on baggy shorts. He lifted them a bit to make sure I noticed he was not wearing any underwear.
I lost my place in the paragraph and had to start over. My first book signing and I was getting flashed.
I was determined not to let that little detail ruin my book signing, but my glamorous life as an author was taking a beating. I was getting flashed at my first book signing! And then the bookstore's cat jumped on the table and sat on my pile of books. It wasn't comfortable there. It jumped down and prowled around the table as I read. There were several titters--and I hadn't gotten to the funny part yet.
I risked a glance at the audience. Wrong move. Flasher had pushed his shorts up and was practically waving his equipment at me. The cat jumped down to my lap, lay down and purred. I kept reading. The cat left. I finished reading and stood up, determined not to look at Flasher. There were more titters.
I looked down. There was cat hair all over my black dress. It looked like I was wearing a gray apron. Resigned to my fate, I asked if there were any questions. There was a long silence. One person raised their hand.
"Yes, Mom?" I said.
Luckily there was an ice cream shop nearby, where I propped up my sagging morale with a double chocolate-dipped cone with lots of sprinkles.
My YA book came out with a small press and was nicely publicized by the publisher on the front page of a trade magazine and with some full-color ads. But I'd always dreamed of doing a book signing, so, when my book came out, I immediately put my plan into action.
Nothing went as plannned.
I got flashed at my first book signing.
Before that, I was on cloud nine. I was a published author of a YA fantasy book! I was going to New York for the summer! What better way to kick off the new book than with a book signing in a big bookstore? I looked up a bookstore in the neighborhood and set the date. I asked all my family and my friends living nearby to come. I found a passage to read that was not too long, not too short and had some humor in it. Perfect. I found a little black dress that looked professional but cute. I brushed my teeth. I arrived on time.
The bookseller had set up a little auditorium with a table and my books sitting upon it. I had a poster the publisher gave me, which I propped up near the books. I sat on the chair. I waved to my parents, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles...and several strangers. The strangers sat up front. My family, in an élan of generosity, left the whole front row free. I introduced myself, picked up my book, and started to read.
The man front and center opened his legs wide.
He had on baggy shorts. He lifted them a bit to make sure I noticed he was not wearing any underwear.
I lost my place in the paragraph and had to start over. My first book signing and I was getting flashed.
I was determined not to let that little detail ruin my book signing, but my glamorous life as an author was taking a beating. I was getting flashed at my first book signing! And then the bookstore's cat jumped on the table and sat on my pile of books. It wasn't comfortable there. It jumped down and prowled around the table as I read. There were several titters--and I hadn't gotten to the funny part yet.
I risked a glance at the audience. Wrong move. Flasher had pushed his shorts up and was practically waving his equipment at me. The cat jumped down to my lap, lay down and purred. I kept reading. The cat left. I finished reading and stood up, determined not to look at Flasher. There were more titters.
I looked down. There was cat hair all over my black dress. It looked like I was wearing a gray apron. Resigned to my fate, I asked if there were any questions. There was a long silence. One person raised their hand.
"Yes, Mom?" I said.
Luckily there was an ice cream shop nearby, where I propped up my sagging morale with a double chocolate-dipped cone with lots of sprinkles.
Publicity Terrible Tale #11: Demon Spawn
From Kevin Smokler, author of Bookmark Now: Writing in Unreaderly Times:
While signing books at the Capitola Book Cafe last year, one very nice man was holding a baby. He bought two books, had me sign them both, then asked if I wanted to hold the baby, who was grinning a baby grin at me. I like babies and said sure. I handed the man his books, he passed me the baby. The kid looked at me, grinned and threw up.
While signing books at the Capitola Book Cafe last year, one very nice man was holding a baby. He bought two books, had me sign them both, then asked if I wanted to hold the baby, who was grinning a baby grin at me. I like babies and said sure. I handed the man his books, he passed me the baby. The kid looked at me, grinned and threw up.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
More Taxonomy
A book publicist wrote me as follows:
Gawker ran A Taxonomy of Book Editors a few weeks ago. I think it's worth highlighting this spot-on comment that someone left in response to the Taxonomy of Book Publicists post:
The Enthusiastic Editor Who Thinks All of Her Books Are Major Publicity Magnets
"This book is about the history of spices. Don't you think Martha Stewart would just love it?! It's also such a natural for the New York Times food section. They could do a feature at her home, which is really lovely. Oprah recently did a nonfiction book. This author would be SO perfect on Oprah!"
The Acquirer of Small Literary Books Who Doesn't Understand Why Her Author Isn't Being Sent on a 30-city Tour
Usually a whiny, mousey type who has a perpetual Charlie Brown aura. Has no clue how marketing, sales, or publicity works and feels she's always getting the short end of the stick.
The Editor Who Acquires One or Two Books a Season and Doesn't Have a Clue About Publicists' Workloads
When you point out that you are promoting 15-20 books at any given time, he still doesn't get it.
Gawker ran A Taxonomy of Book Editors a few weeks ago. I think it's worth highlighting this spot-on comment that someone left in response to the Taxonomy of Book Publicists post:
I've always felt editors should have to spend at least six months publicizing books before they have a right to utter one word of complaint. Once they've actually tried cutting through the noise out there from movies, music, politics, television, world events, etc--and had producers laugh at them/hang up on them/yell at them for wasting their time--then they can start complaining about the job publicists are doing.Here are my contributions:
The Enthusiastic Editor Who Thinks All of Her Books Are Major Publicity Magnets
"This book is about the history of spices. Don't you think Martha Stewart would just love it?! It's also such a natural for the New York Times food section. They could do a feature at her home, which is really lovely. Oprah recently did a nonfiction book. This author would be SO perfect on Oprah!"
The Acquirer of Small Literary Books Who Doesn't Understand Why Her Author Isn't Being Sent on a 30-city Tour
Usually a whiny, mousey type who has a perpetual Charlie Brown aura. Has no clue how marketing, sales, or publicity works and feels she's always getting the short end of the stick.
The Editor Who Acquires One or Two Books a Season and Doesn't Have a Clue About Publicists' Workloads
When you point out that you are promoting 15-20 books at any given time, he still doesn't get it.
Back at Ya! Author Taxonomy
While I was unconscious yesterday, Gawker's curmudgeonly guest editor, "Unsolicited," posted A Taxonomy of Publicists, classifying the different types of inhouse pubs, many of whom "suck at their admittedly difficult and repugnant jobs."
This gave me the happy idea of asking publicists--inhouse and freelance--to list the author types they deal with. So herewith I present:
A Taxonomy of Authors
The Chiseler
Wants everything on the cheap and tries to haggle down your fees--while expecting topnotch service, of course. Asks, "Do you offer a divorce discount?"
The Whiner
Kvetches constantly about every little f***ing thing, but won't stand up for herself to agent/ editor/bookseller/media escort because, "I want everyone to liiike meee!"
The "Yes, but..."
Acknowledges the sense of your suggestions, but always has a reason why s/he can't follow them. "Yes, but I can't give any readings in my hometown because I've only lived there for 10 years and don't know anybody."
The Star
Won't lift a finger for him/herself; expects deluxe personal service day and night, weekends and holidays. Can't be bothered with petty details, such as establishing beforehand exactly who is going to pay for an unneccessary car rental at an event that offers volunteer driver-escorts.
The Space Cadet
Needs constant reminders about interviews, public appearances and travel. Couldn't come out with a cogent sound bite if his/her life depended on it. Shows up at the last minute for a reading--often without a copy of the book--and asks, "What do you want me to do?" Brings guitar to a panel discussion, expecting to sing a lengthy, off-topic song. Appallingly dressed, with even worse hair.
The Amnesiac
Confirms available dates for interviews and then forgets the commitments and takes a vacation to Australia without telling anyone.
The Socialite
Wants to do "lots" of media as long as it doesn't interfere with opera schedule, assorted plays, morning sleep, afternoon teas, trips to Miami, etc. Gets married or gives birth the same week as the book's publication date.
The Promoter in Author's Clothing
Thinks he knows publicity better than you. Calls producers and talks badly about you, sends review copies behind your back, secretly believes you aren't sending books out on his/her behalf.
The Know-It-All
Regardless of the author's primary field of endeavor (doctor, artist, actor, writer, lawyer, dog breeder, but especially politicians--and ONE in particular), they want you to know that THEY know more about book publishing, media, stores, etc., than you do. Note: Necessary to have doorways enlarged to accommodate author's head.
The Innocent (but secretly a Schemer)
"Aw shucks, I don't know anything about books and how it all works. Can you help me?" So, you provide some guidelines, tell her what you'll do, request that she NOT do certain things. Then you hear that she has done the direct opposite. When confronted, she says, "...well, I didn't know THAT would happen..."
The Rare Gem
Great attitude, can-do spirit, unfailingly gracious and courteous, demonstrates appreciation and gratitude all around. Asks how to best work with the publicist, then does exactly what's expected--and even more. Verifies in advance all dates and logistics, and who is going to pay for what. Shows up in good time for events and interviews, always well prepared, appropriately dressed and neatly groomed. Never cancels an appearance, no matter how sick s/he may be. Practices and times all readings, and never runs long. Brings pen and bookplates to signings (the latter is in case there isn't enough stock to sign). Hint: Sends thank-you cards and presents to hardworking publicist!
This gave me the happy idea of asking publicists--inhouse and freelance--to list the author types they deal with. So herewith I present:
A Taxonomy of Authors
The Chiseler
Wants everything on the cheap and tries to haggle down your fees--while expecting topnotch service, of course. Asks, "Do you offer a divorce discount?"
The Whiner
Kvetches constantly about every little f***ing thing, but won't stand up for herself to agent/ editor/bookseller/media escort because, "I want everyone to liiike meee!"
The "Yes, but..."
Acknowledges the sense of your suggestions, but always has a reason why s/he can't follow them. "Yes, but I can't give any readings in my hometown because I've only lived there for 10 years and don't know anybody."
The Star
Won't lift a finger for him/herself; expects deluxe personal service day and night, weekends and holidays. Can't be bothered with petty details, such as establishing beforehand exactly who is going to pay for an unneccessary car rental at an event that offers volunteer driver-escorts.
The Space Cadet
Needs constant reminders about interviews, public appearances and travel. Couldn't come out with a cogent sound bite if his/her life depended on it. Shows up at the last minute for a reading--often without a copy of the book--and asks, "What do you want me to do?" Brings guitar to a panel discussion, expecting to sing a lengthy, off-topic song. Appallingly dressed, with even worse hair.
The Amnesiac
Confirms available dates for interviews and then forgets the commitments and takes a vacation to Australia without telling anyone.
The Socialite
Wants to do "lots" of media as long as it doesn't interfere with opera schedule, assorted plays, morning sleep, afternoon teas, trips to Miami, etc. Gets married or gives birth the same week as the book's publication date.
The Promoter in Author's Clothing
Thinks he knows publicity better than you. Calls producers and talks badly about you, sends review copies behind your back, secretly believes you aren't sending books out on his/her behalf.
The Know-It-All
Regardless of the author's primary field of endeavor (doctor, artist, actor, writer, lawyer, dog breeder, but especially politicians--and ONE in particular), they want you to know that THEY know more about book publishing, media, stores, etc., than you do. Note: Necessary to have doorways enlarged to accommodate author's head.
The Innocent (but secretly a Schemer)
"Aw shucks, I don't know anything about books and how it all works. Can you help me?" So, you provide some guidelines, tell her what you'll do, request that she NOT do certain things. Then you hear that she has done the direct opposite. When confronted, she says, "...well, I didn't know THAT would happen..."
The Rare Gem
Great attitude, can-do spirit, unfailingly gracious and courteous, demonstrates appreciation and gratitude all around. Asks how to best work with the publicist, then does exactly what's expected--and even more. Verifies in advance all dates and logistics, and who is going to pay for what. Shows up in good time for events and interviews, always well prepared, appropriately dressed and neatly groomed. Never cancels an appearance, no matter how sick s/he may be. Practices and times all readings, and never runs long. Brings pen and bookplates to signings (the latter is in case there isn't enough stock to sign). Hint: Sends thank-you cards and presents to hardworking publicist!
Pharmaceutical Fun
After staying up till 1:30 a.m. and waking up three hours later with a pounding heart and churning thoughts, I remembered why I stopped taking Demerol after my first surgery: It prevents me from sleeping. What's the point of taking a painkiller that keeps you awake? Might as well just live with the pain. Sooner or later you're bound to fall asleep, with no nasty side effects. And you can have a glass of wine (or two) without fear of falling down or ruining your liver.A perky lady named Lynette from the surgical center just called to see how I was doing. "Just fine! Couldn't be better!" I told her in a fake hearty tone dripping with sarcasm. How else does she think I'd be feeling the day after having an already sore arm cut open from armpit almost to elbow, with a half-inch-thick bandage tightly wrapped around it and taped to my shoulder?
Lynette asked whether I was taking any pain medication. Just Celebrex, I told her, and recounted my problems with Demerol. "Oh, but you have to take narcotics!" she exclaimed. (It's been a long time since any stranger tried to force addictive drugs on me--and never by phone.) "But I don't tolerate narcotics," I growled. "Percocet and Vicodin made me itch so much I drew blood."
Pause.
"Oh, then take Tylenol," she offered brightly. "Yeah, OK," I said, not bothering to ask why I should do that when I have the Celebrex, which is way stronger and more effective.
After asking some more questions, Lynette wished me a "blessed" recovery. Oy vey, I thought. "Uh, thanks," I said. Never mind the meds, maybe I'll just have that drink.
Surgical Fun
Francis Bacon, "3 Studies of a Crucifixion"Things to do right before surgery:
OK, so I wasn't in a happy mood this morning.
I was unhappier still when the surgeon came by, and after writing "YES" on my right arm and drawing a circle over the most painful spot, he had me sign ANOTHER consent form. This one had me affirm that I understood that the surgery might not alleviate my symptoms; in fact could make them worse, necessitating MORE surgery. It's been exactly six months since I broke my arm; he told me it would take at least another six till we know whether the nerve damage has healed.
Then I signed a few more papers for the anesthesiologist. I felt like I was going in for a mortgage, not a surgical procedure. Which went fine, by the way. I was out by 3:00pm, as predicted, sporting a thick honkin' bandage from armpit to elbow, which has to remain dry and undisturbed for the next 10 days. (Good thing I took that shower!)
For the record, I like being sedated. No pain, no...um...pain. (And the original pain remains , overlaid with the new.) Demerol is keeping the edge off for now, but I dread how I'm going to feel in the morning. Wish I could do as a friend suggested, and treat my body like a car--leave it at the shop and drive a loaner till everything's fixed.
- Get hair cut.
- Get pedicure.
- Laundry.
- Shower.
- Clear reading matter & laptop off bed.
- Dress for success: warm socks, pull-on pants, loose shirt, slip-on shoes, outerwear that fastens easily. All color-coordinated, of course--you never know where the "What Not to Wear" team may be lurking.
OK, so I wasn't in a happy mood this morning.
I was unhappier still when the surgeon came by, and after writing "YES" on my right arm and drawing a circle over the most painful spot, he had me sign ANOTHER consent form. This one had me affirm that I understood that the surgery might not alleviate my symptoms; in fact could make them worse, necessitating MORE surgery. It's been exactly six months since I broke my arm; he told me it would take at least another six till we know whether the nerve damage has healed.
Then I signed a few more papers for the anesthesiologist. I felt like I was going in for a mortgage, not a surgical procedure. Which went fine, by the way. I was out by 3:00pm, as predicted, sporting a thick honkin' bandage from armpit to elbow, which has to remain dry and undisturbed for the next 10 days. (Good thing I took that shower!)
For the record, I like being sedated. No pain, no...um...pain. (And the original pain remains , overlaid with the new.) Demerol is keeping the edge off for now, but I dread how I'm going to feel in the morning. Wish I could do as a friend suggested, and treat my body like a car--leave it at the shop and drive a loaner till everything's fixed.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Publicity Terrible Tale #10: Auto Snob
From a publicist:
I had an author, “a former Oprah regular,” who wanted to “approve” the types of cars that author escorts were going to drive him around in because he didn’t want to have to get into an “old, dirty Honda.”
P.S. He ended up canceling the tour. [Quelle surprise!]
I had an author, “a former Oprah regular,” who wanted to “approve” the types of cars that author escorts were going to drive him around in because he didn’t want to have to get into an “old, dirty Honda.”
P.S. He ended up canceling the tour. [Quelle surprise!]
Publicity Terrible Tale #9: Yet Another Ghastly Event
From a YA novelist:
The Educators' Night from Hell
A very good local bookstore was having an educators' night; in other words, a night where they invite local educators to meet authors of books for children, teens and 'tweens, buy those books for their classrooms and hopefully book the authors into their schools for paid, in-school presentations. A good deal, right?
Wrong. I carpooled up there with three other young adult authors, and though this store is a bit of a schlep, the good company made the drive roll quickly by. We arrived at the bookstore to find that we, along with about ten other authors, had been positioned at tables scattered throughout the place, so the educators could flow through the entire store, passing other books, stuffed animals, educational toys--i.e., distractions. Luckily, I was stationed in an area with a bunch of other authors who not only had good senses of humor, but had brought snacks. Chocolate, even.
The event began, and there were maybe twenty educators there - teachers picking up free posters and book promo freebies that publishers manufacture for their BIG books. After a short time to mingle with authors, the teachers were called to a seating area where the woman running the event--a totally clueless marketing wonk--was going to give a short presentation on all the fall books these teachers might be interested in...AND NONE OF THEM WERE OURS.
In fact, none of us were invited to present our books. We were left at our outposts, gossiping, discussing the merits of blogging and, yup, eating chocolate. Not long after the presentation, the event was over. It was, after all, a school night. My fellow carpool authors and I, plus one, went to a local eatery and drowned our sorrows in pie.
And I still sent my damn thank-you notes, thank you VERY much!
The Educators' Night from Hell
A very good local bookstore was having an educators' night; in other words, a night where they invite local educators to meet authors of books for children, teens and 'tweens, buy those books for their classrooms and hopefully book the authors into their schools for paid, in-school presentations. A good deal, right?
Wrong. I carpooled up there with three other young adult authors, and though this store is a bit of a schlep, the good company made the drive roll quickly by. We arrived at the bookstore to find that we, along with about ten other authors, had been positioned at tables scattered throughout the place, so the educators could flow through the entire store, passing other books, stuffed animals, educational toys--i.e., distractions. Luckily, I was stationed in an area with a bunch of other authors who not only had good senses of humor, but had brought snacks. Chocolate, even.
The event began, and there were maybe twenty educators there - teachers picking up free posters and book promo freebies that publishers manufacture for their BIG books. After a short time to mingle with authors, the teachers were called to a seating area where the woman running the event--a totally clueless marketing wonk--was going to give a short presentation on all the fall books these teachers might be interested in...AND NONE OF THEM WERE OURS.
In fact, none of us were invited to present our books. We were left at our outposts, gossiping, discussing the merits of blogging and, yup, eating chocolate. Not long after the presentation, the event was over. It was, after all, a school night. My fellow carpool authors and I, plus one, went to a local eatery and drowned our sorrows in pie.
And I still sent my damn thank-you notes, thank you VERY much!
Publicity Terrible Tale #8: Haunted Sleep
A touring author's worst nightmare; fortunately this really was a dream. Sent by Beverly Gray, author of the Halloween-appropriate biography ROGER CORMAN: Blood-Sucking Vampires, Flesh-Eating Cockroaches, and Driller Killers.
I was on the phone doing an early morning 30-minute radio interview to promote my book. At the midpoint, the hosts put me on hold and went to a long string of very dull commercials. At some point, I nodded off to sleep (in my dream!). When I woke up they were doing the sign-off, and I realized with horror that not only had I subjected them to dead air but I had not gotten my key points across. I tried desperately to jump back into a conversation, but of course was ignored. There's a cautionary tale in there someplace!
I was on the phone doing an early morning 30-minute radio interview to promote my book. At the midpoint, the hosts put me on hold and went to a long string of very dull commercials. At some point, I nodded off to sleep (in my dream!). When I woke up they were doing the sign-off, and I realized with horror that not only had I subjected them to dead air but I had not gotten my key points across. I tried desperately to jump back into a conversation, but of course was ignored. There's a cautionary tale in there someplace!
What Terror?
From an author in Los Angeles, the bubbling cauldron of artistic expression (and appalling behavior):
Obviously, the pluggers and the hawkers don't recognize the sensitivity of the artists that they are privileged to serve. Authors are special people who need greater latitude and understanding. They simply don't play by the mundane rules of normal society. Publicists are just going to have to grow up and accommodate the special needs of their clients. They should be awed to sit at the feet of these literary giants. So stop whining and start kowtowing.
Obviously, the pluggers and the hawkers don't recognize the sensitivity of the artists that they are privileged to serve. Authors are special people who need greater latitude and understanding. They simply don't play by the mundane rules of normal society. Publicists are just going to have to grow up and accommodate the special needs of their clients. They should be awed to sit at the feet of these literary giants. So stop whining and start kowtowing.
Publicity Terror Tale #7: More Stupid Author Tricks
From another NY inhouse publicist, who brags (rails?), "I got a million of 'em!!":
- The author who locked herself in the bookstore storage room with a bottle of Jack Daniels and wouldn't come out.
- The author who was so drunk on a local talk show she fell out of the chair during the interview on live tv.
- The author who wouldn't promote in Chicago because there was wind.
More Slicing & Dicing
Getting screwed on August 15 didn't do enough for me, despite the poetic encouragement of the Snarklings. My right middle finger has gotten more numb, and though I've regained some function in the other digits, the thumb and index finger remain weak and the ring finger partially numb. Anything requiring fine motor skills is very difficult, if not impossible: writing; using a fork, tweezers or nail clippers; turning a key; buttoning clothes; blowing (or picking) my nose...Two orthopedists, two neurologists and a neurosurgeon finally agreed that I need additional surgery. My osteopath has been saying it for months, but MDs don't want to hear what a DO thinks--even though he's been the only doc who's been, you know, actually touching me all along and not just looking at Xrays. One neurologist even rolled his eyes when I told him the osteo's opinion during our first visit. Naturally I felt compelled to point out to each and every MD that the DO had been right all along.
So tomorrow a hand & arm specialist (orthopedist #5, for those keeping track) is going to do exploratory surgery on my right arm in order to free the median nerve from the mass of scar tissue in which it's entrapped, presumably near the site of the original break.
The outpatient (aka "drive-by") procedure will be done exactly six months after the equestrian fiasco that broke my arm and so many other parts: on All Saints' Day. Here's hoping the surgeon is the saint he seems to be. I nearly plotzed when he called me at home--unprompted!--last week to ask me whether I had any questions before the surgery.
Publicity Terror Tale #6: The Librarian's Revenge
From an author who wishes to remain anonymous, for obvious reasons:
When my first book came out, my publisher's tiny publicity department arranged a series of talks at libraries and community centers around Southern California. Most of these events went very well, and I was particularly looking forward to the final talk, which was at the library in a community where I used to live.
I showed up about a half-hour early, and discovered, to my discomfort, that the librarian responsible for the author series was someone I had dated years ago, and the relationship did not end well. She spent the half-hour showing me photos of her husband and kids, and telling me how wonderful her life was, in an effort to demonstrate that she had done much, much better than me.
The time came for us to go to the room where I was to give my talk. I stacked my books neatly on a table, I arranged my notes on the lectern, I tested the sound system, and I waited for the audience to arrive. And waited. And waited.
Eventually it became clear that not one single person was going to come for my talk. My ex-girlfriend assured me that she had publicized my talk just as she publicized the other talks in the up-to-now successful series, but I can't help wondering whether she "forgot" one or two crucial steps.
Moral: A spurned librarian never forgets.
When my first book came out, my publisher's tiny publicity department arranged a series of talks at libraries and community centers around Southern California. Most of these events went very well, and I was particularly looking forward to the final talk, which was at the library in a community where I used to live.
I showed up about a half-hour early, and discovered, to my discomfort, that the librarian responsible for the author series was someone I had dated years ago, and the relationship did not end well. She spent the half-hour showing me photos of her husband and kids, and telling me how wonderful her life was, in an effort to demonstrate that she had done much, much better than me.
The time came for us to go to the room where I was to give my talk. I stacked my books neatly on a table, I arranged my notes on the lectern, I tested the sound system, and I waited for the audience to arrive. And waited. And waited.
Eventually it became clear that not one single person was going to come for my talk. My ex-girlfriend assured me that she had publicized my talk just as she publicized the other talks in the up-to-now successful series, but I can't help wondering whether she "forgot" one or two crucial steps.
Moral: A spurned librarian never forgets.
Publicity Terror Tale #5: Stupid Author Tricks
Be afraid...be very afraid. A publicist at a large New York house writes, "I don't know if I dare share these."
- The author who called me late at night, at home, while she was in a hotel in the Midwest, to complain that she didn't like her pillow.
- The author who cursed me (and the other publicist) with major F words, out in front of an audience AND the media at a midtown B&N.
- The author who was arrested on an outstanding warrant during an event in Texas.
- The author who contacted the event host to cancel an event, but didn't tell us, citing that he was sick, but all the time he was in his hotel room, and hadn't even bothered to fly to the event city. And he double billed us, claiming that he HAD gone to the other city (when hotel bills confirmed he hadn't). He's the same one who wouldn't shake hands with anyone, and insisted that nobody make eye contact with him. [Darling Husband asks: Who is this guy--the Emperor of Bookistan?]
Publicity Terror Tale #4: Another Ghastly Event
Children's and YA author Sally Keehn writes:
I was invited to speak and sign books at a well-known chain bookstore. It was part of a citywide, month-long literacy festival. I was told there'd be TV coverage, pamphlets handed out, middle schools contacted. Scores of kids and teachers would attend the program. Two weeks before the festival, I called and found out that I'd be one of FIVE authors who wrote middle-grade fiction who'd be presenting that day. Got there and was ushered back to the children's corner. There, two preschoolers sat in tiny chairs facing a tiny stage with four middle-grade authors hovering nearby, looking worried. Where was their age-appropriate audience?
Those middle-graders never appeared. Neither did the assistant book manager who'd roped all of us into coming; he was "off for the weekend." Neither did the students he'd told me he'd round up to be a part of my "Gnat Stokes Reader's Theatre." So I used my fellow authors, their relatives, my friends, the two little girls and their parents. We put on a loud show that drew the few people in the store over to our corner. At which point, the head of the citywide festival happened to come into the bookstore and wanted to find out what all the racket was about. When she saw us carrying on and making the most of our situation, she said, "Oh what fun! We plan to put on a festival next year. You must come again!"
I was invited to speak and sign books at a well-known chain bookstore. It was part of a citywide, month-long literacy festival. I was told there'd be TV coverage, pamphlets handed out, middle schools contacted. Scores of kids and teachers would attend the program. Two weeks before the festival, I called and found out that I'd be one of FIVE authors who wrote middle-grade fiction who'd be presenting that day. Got there and was ushered back to the children's corner. There, two preschoolers sat in tiny chairs facing a tiny stage with four middle-grade authors hovering nearby, looking worried. Where was their age-appropriate audience?
Those middle-graders never appeared. Neither did the assistant book manager who'd roped all of us into coming; he was "off for the weekend." Neither did the students he'd told me he'd round up to be a part of my "Gnat Stokes Reader's Theatre." So I used my fellow authors, their relatives, my friends, the two little girls and their parents. We put on a loud show that drew the few people in the store over to our corner. At which point, the head of the citywide festival happened to come into the bookstore and wanted to find out what all the racket was about. When she saw us carrying on and making the most of our situation, she said, "Oh what fun! We plan to put on a festival next year. You must come again!"
Monday, October 30, 2006
Publicity Terror Tale #3
From author Marta Randall:
One of the darker and more amusing moments in my putative career came at a large book-signing where I was seated next to Stephen King. This seating arrangement is not good for a writer's ego, but King was charming and funny and did what he could to minimize the fact that perhaps 10 people, through the course of the evening, asked for my autograph, while his line stretched out the door, around the block, and into the neighboring state. After quite a while he started suggesting to the assembled fans that things would go a good deal faster if he let me sign some of his books for him. The expressions on the faces before us were pure gold, and if I ever doubted King's ability to horrify with a few well-chosen words, those doubts were put to rest forever.
One of the darker and more amusing moments in my putative career came at a large book-signing where I was seated next to Stephen King. This seating arrangement is not good for a writer's ego, but King was charming and funny and did what he could to minimize the fact that perhaps 10 people, through the course of the evening, asked for my autograph, while his line stretched out the door, around the block, and into the neighboring state. After quite a while he started suggesting to the assembled fans that things would go a good deal faster if he let me sign some of his books for him. The expressions on the faces before us were pure gold, and if I ever doubted King's ability to horrify with a few well-chosen words, those doubts were put to rest forever.
Publicity Terror Tale #2
From an independent publicist, who notes, "I have too many of these stories in the past few years":
On the morning of BEA's opening day, I'm standing in the office of a producer at NPR in Washington, whom I know quite well. Also in the office is a client. He had been in Washington a couple weeks earlier and I had set up a lunch meeting with him and the producer. Although his book wasn't going to be featured on NPR, he was; he'd written an offbeat essay that worked perfectly as a weekend feature. So while he can't plug his book, per se, he still gets on the national airwaves.
So there we all are: He's all wound up and ready to tape his piece, and I'm standing there complaining that I wasn't really excited about BEA, and how I'd have to be perky and upbeat and get in there and sell myself--and I just wasn't looking forward to it.
Author pipes up and says: "Maybe you don't have the right personality for this job."
The producer and I stare at each other. I was so taken aback, I can't quite remember if I said what I was thinking: If I didn't have the right personality for the job, you wouldn't be standing here in this office, you jerk.
The producer says something about how she'd rather hear from me than most people from the houses in New York, and she walks me down the stairs to the door.
I say to her, "I can't believe he said that." She says, "Yes, his arrogance knows no bounds."
And I have never spoken to him since.
On the morning of BEA's opening day, I'm standing in the office of a producer at NPR in Washington, whom I know quite well. Also in the office is a client. He had been in Washington a couple weeks earlier and I had set up a lunch meeting with him and the producer. Although his book wasn't going to be featured on NPR, he was; he'd written an offbeat essay that worked perfectly as a weekend feature. So while he can't plug his book, per se, he still gets on the national airwaves.
So there we all are: He's all wound up and ready to tape his piece, and I'm standing there complaining that I wasn't really excited about BEA, and how I'd have to be perky and upbeat and get in there and sell myself--and I just wasn't looking forward to it.
Author pipes up and says: "Maybe you don't have the right personality for this job."
The producer and I stare at each other. I was so taken aback, I can't quite remember if I said what I was thinking: If I didn't have the right personality for the job, you wouldn't be standing here in this office, you jerk.
The producer says something about how she'd rather hear from me than most people from the houses in New York, and she walks me down the stairs to the door.
I say to her, "I can't believe he said that." She says, "Yes, his arrogance knows no bounds."
And I have never spoken to him since.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Publicity Terror Tale #1
For Halloween every year, I send around true book publicity horror stories that I collect from authors, publicists and booksellers. Here is the first, by the self-proclaimed Queen of Bad Signings. Feel free to email me your scary (scarring) story: {bella at bookpromotion101 dot com}.
My Anonymous, Harrowing Horror Story About Booksignings
Once upon a time, a long time ago, an author traveled many, many miles to read and sign books at a bookstore that had called her up and asked her to be the guest of honor at the Saturday morning story hour. When the author arrived, there was no sign announcing her appearance in the window, or on the door, or by the cash register. The author's books were not in the front window. Instead, they were stacked on a tiny table at the back of the store, behind a bookcase, adjacent to the bathroom.
After settling in, the author went to the kiddie korner, where she read to a small group of cavorting kids and caffeine-swilling parents. The author sat, waiting for someone to announce the store's super-duper special guest. But eventually, she gave up and began reading on her own. The owner, of course, wasn't there to do it, and the employees up front were busy with whatever they were busy with... Anyway, after a breathtaking performance of all the book titles on said signing table, the story-hour crowd was so enthralled they immediately went over to the media tie-in titles and stuffed animals and comic books, and bought those instead of the author's books.
Because the story hour was early in the morning, the bookstore owner had asked the author to stay longer than her standard two-hour signing time, so the author did. The next two-and-a-half hours consisted of meeting folks who were intrigued by the author's books, asking all sorts of questions about them, and paging through all the cute illustrations, and then declining to buy one because: "Oh? This is for a child up to 8 years old? My nephew is 7 already, and I can't buy a book that will be no good in just one year." Or, "My niece just LOVES books about kitties. But, she has too many. Don't want to buy her any more!"
After three hours and three books sold, it was time to call it a day. The author said her goodbyes and thank-you's, and went out the door to the parking lot where she'd been told to park her trusty van upon arrival. And...HORRORS! EEK! What was there on the windshield but...a PARKING TICKET?
The author rushed back inside, in tears, certain that the store would make things right. The employees were already loading the author's books into boxes for return to some warehouse Never-Neverland. When asked about the parking ticket, said employees didn't really seem surprised, having apparently watched the ticket being placed there earlier in the day. As they informed the author, people get tickets there all the time. It's only 90-minute parking and very strictly enforced. "No kidding!" the author exclaimed.
The author asked if they were going to reimburse her for the ticket, since the owner had instructed her to park in that very spot, while fully aware that the author would be there for three-plus hours. "No way!" they replied. A phone call to the owner seconded their opinion. In fact, she said, the author should have known better.
And that, dear reader, is how one struggling author managed to spend a tank of gas AND a hefty parking fine in order to earn royalties on three hardcover picture books one fine spring day!
My Anonymous, Harrowing Horror Story About Booksignings
Once upon a time, a long time ago, an author traveled many, many miles to read and sign books at a bookstore that had called her up and asked her to be the guest of honor at the Saturday morning story hour. When the author arrived, there was no sign announcing her appearance in the window, or on the door, or by the cash register. The author's books were not in the front window. Instead, they were stacked on a tiny table at the back of the store, behind a bookcase, adjacent to the bathroom.
After settling in, the author went to the kiddie korner, where she read to a small group of cavorting kids and caffeine-swilling parents. The author sat, waiting for someone to announce the store's super-duper special guest. But eventually, she gave up and began reading on her own. The owner, of course, wasn't there to do it, and the employees up front were busy with whatever they were busy with... Anyway, after a breathtaking performance of all the book titles on said signing table, the story-hour crowd was so enthralled they immediately went over to the media tie-in titles and stuffed animals and comic books, and bought those instead of the author's books.
Because the story hour was early in the morning, the bookstore owner had asked the author to stay longer than her standard two-hour signing time, so the author did. The next two-and-a-half hours consisted of meeting folks who were intrigued by the author's books, asking all sorts of questions about them, and paging through all the cute illustrations, and then declining to buy one because: "Oh? This is for a child up to 8 years old? My nephew is 7 already, and I can't buy a book that will be no good in just one year." Or, "My niece just LOVES books about kitties. But, she has too many. Don't want to buy her any more!"
After three hours and three books sold, it was time to call it a day. The author said her goodbyes and thank-you's, and went out the door to the parking lot where she'd been told to park her trusty van upon arrival. And...HORRORS! EEK! What was there on the windshield but...a PARKING TICKET?
The author rushed back inside, in tears, certain that the store would make things right. The employees were already loading the author's books into boxes for return to some warehouse Never-Neverland. When asked about the parking ticket, said employees didn't really seem surprised, having apparently watched the ticket being placed there earlier in the day. As they informed the author, people get tickets there all the time. It's only 90-minute parking and very strictly enforced. "No kidding!" the author exclaimed.
The author asked if they were going to reimburse her for the ticket, since the owner had instructed her to park in that very spot, while fully aware that the author would be there for three-plus hours. "No way!" they replied. A phone call to the owner seconded their opinion. In fact, she said, the author should have known better.
And that, dear reader, is how one struggling author managed to spend a tank of gas AND a hefty parking fine in order to earn royalties on three hardcover picture books one fine spring day!
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Wisdom from the Front Lines
Micah Nathan's Tour Blog, cited yesterday, includes this gem from June 9, 2005:
What a refreshing counterbalance to all those articles by newbie authors whingeing about their rotten book tours, which are constantly cropping up on Slate and elsewhere. Yay, Micah!
Strange how art—even a solitary art like writing—creates human connection. I am continuously amazed that more authors don't talk about the profundity of connecting with one's audience at these readings. Most of what I read from various authors is melancholic, bitter complaint. "Only two people showed up...when they introduced me they botched my name...nobody bought the book..."Count yourself fortunate those two people cared enough about your art to donate their time. It's your book. You're the expert on it. Act like one and don't be ashamed to show your love.
Monday, October 23, 2006
"What If They Ask Me That Question?"
An author on one of the forums at Readerville.com worried that audiences at her readings would grill her about a particular sex scene in her novel. Katharine Weber (Triangle, The Little Women, etc.) posted the following response, which I think is pertinent to any writer, no matter what genre. The last three sentences are well worth keeping in mind during any interview or public talk.
Sometimes when we go out in the world to talk about our fiction, it is helpful and important to remember that we are not our books. We are going out to talk about the writing, not to talk about ourselves. We are not the characters in our books even if readers think we are, and even if they think our characters have written our books. It is up to us to control how we want to discuss what we have written. If the right questions aren't asked, we can still take the discussion in any direction we choose. There is no question anyone can ask that cannot be answered intelligently with something you want to say about your book or your writing.
Report from the Front Lines II
Today I sent out a call on my newsletter for more book tour tales, along the lines of Sally Nemeth's Virgin Voyage in Book Tour Land. Book Promotion 101 alum Micah Nathan, author of Gods of Aberdeen, immediately obliged with the assessment below.
Overall my tour was a blast. I had a couple very small (4 people) crowds, but even those were fun because I turned them into writing seminars. My Italian publisher flew me to Milan for a whirlwind press junket, and that rocked. The Europeans treat authors like celebs, even no-names like me. I was the David Hasselhoff of Italy...minus the chest hair, of course.
Once my book came off the shelves to make room for the next wave of hopefuls, I decided to start marketing myself to local colleges. (I live in Boston, so the choices are endless.) My approach: contact the college's creative writing club (usually they publish the college literary magazine), flash my credentials as a published author, and offer to speak for free in exchange for being allowed to hawk my books.
Thousands of books sold? Not quite, but a box at every gig, and a chance to remind myself why I got into this crazy career in the first place: connection with one's audience. I'll spend 2 hours lecturing, fielding questions, and riffing on the publishing world, and by the end I'll have sold my product without emphasizing the product itself. Because at those types of events, the author is the product. On the shelves, your book jacket is the voice. In person, it's all you.
I'm really into the public speaking thing so maybe that approach won't work for everyone. But it's so damn fun.
[Note: Micah is such an engaging and funny speaker, he could sell shoes to snakes.]
No horror stories I can think of, but at a signing in Buffalo a gentleman came to my table with a stack of about nine books and asked me to sign them. Great, except not one of the books was mine. Clancy, Grisham, etc.. I pointed this out and he said, "This is an author signing, right?" I couldn't argue with him, so I signed every one.
P.S. A more detailed account can be found at my Tour Blog.
[Ya gotta read about his interview with an Italian teen magazine. The New York Review of Books should ask such trenchant questions.]
Overall my tour was a blast. I had a couple very small (4 people) crowds, but even those were fun because I turned them into writing seminars. My Italian publisher flew me to Milan for a whirlwind press junket, and that rocked. The Europeans treat authors like celebs, even no-names like me. I was the David Hasselhoff of Italy...minus the chest hair, of course.
Once my book came off the shelves to make room for the next wave of hopefuls, I decided to start marketing myself to local colleges. (I live in Boston, so the choices are endless.) My approach: contact the college's creative writing club (usually they publish the college literary magazine), flash my credentials as a published author, and offer to speak for free in exchange for being allowed to hawk my books.
Thousands of books sold? Not quite, but a box at every gig, and a chance to remind myself why I got into this crazy career in the first place: connection with one's audience. I'll spend 2 hours lecturing, fielding questions, and riffing on the publishing world, and by the end I'll have sold my product without emphasizing the product itself. Because at those types of events, the author is the product. On the shelves, your book jacket is the voice. In person, it's all you.
I'm really into the public speaking thing so maybe that approach won't work for everyone. But it's so damn fun.
[Note: Micah is such an engaging and funny speaker, he could sell shoes to snakes.]
No horror stories I can think of, but at a signing in Buffalo a gentleman came to my table with a stack of about nine books and asked me to sign them. Great, except not one of the books was mine. Clancy, Grisham, etc.. I pointed this out and he said, "This is an author signing, right?" I couldn't argue with him, so I signed every one.
P.S. A more detailed account can be found at my Tour Blog.
[Ya gotta read about his interview with an Italian teen magazine. The New York Review of Books should ask such trenchant questions.]
Monday, October 09, 2006
Schadenfreude
According to Wikipedia, the German word meaning "pleasure taken from someone else's misfortune" has no direct English equivalent. Maybe not, but Clive James illustrates it perfectly in his poem, "The Book of my Enemy Has Been Remaindered."
Willkommen, Bienvenue
So instead of reading about pre-WWI smalltown France, I'm now reading about pre-WWII urban Germany. THE BERLIN STORIES by Christopher Isherwood, to be exact. And as I discovered this evening, a marvelous accompaniment is Ute Lemper singing Kurt Weill. I hardly ever read with the TV on, but this time I put on the DVD of Lemper (courtesy of Netflix) and happily immersed myself in Isherwood's world. Even the weather is Berlin-ish: chilly, overcast and damp. Maybe tomorrow I'll read to "The Threepenny Opera"-- or if I start feeling too cheerful, to Lou Reed's "Berlin."
Proust v. Stander
Marcel wins by a knockout. In fact, several of them. I tried, I really really tried. But day or night, SWANN'S WAY put me to sleep. Its torrential verbiage wore me out and left me hungry--not for a tea-soaked madeleine, but for the lean clarity of THE GREAT GATSBY or the finely wrought sensuality of Colette. The ultimate sign of my defeat is that I moved the two copies of the book (I thought I'd do better with the new translation after the Dover edition proved unreadable) from my bedside pile to an upper shelf in the living room. Onward and upward...literally.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Report from the Front Lines
Author, playwright and screenwriter Sally Nemeth took my Book Promotion 101 workshop in Los Angeles, her current hometown, this past January. She just returned from her first book tour, and offered to share her marvelous account of it here.
My Virgin Voyage into Book Tour Land
by Sally Nemeth
My book, The Heights, the Depths and Everything in Between, (Knopf), came out this past July. I had a great local launch party and signing here at Skylight Books in LA, and sold lots of books to my friends. And then what? OF COURSE my friends are going to buy my book. They're my FRIENDS. How do I get perfect strangers to do the same? Well, tour the damn thing, I guess. But where to begin?
Even though the book is set in Delaware, and that great small state will be next on the itinerary, my fabulous publicist, Paula Singer, and I had decided that we'd begin my book tour in Birmingham, Alabama, since it is a) where my family lives, so I can not only visit with them, but I can STAY with them; b) a smallish market, so getting press shouldn't be too difficult; c) a place where I have an existing relationship with schools so I can easily arrange school visits; and d) a destination to which I can use my boyfriend's frequent flier miles. So aside from the petsitter and the airport parking, the trip would be, miraculously, FREE.
I arrived in Birmingham on a Tuesday night after rising at 4AM to catch a 7AM flight. This is the problem with living in Los Angeles: unless you're flying WEST, to say, HAWAII (dream on), you're losing time, so a travel day east is a lost day. Paula had managed to get me an interview with the local NPR affiliate, WBHM, but the only time they could talk to me was at 8:30 AM Wednesday; so, sleep deprived and gravel voiced, I did my interview. I'm not sure what I said, but I'm sure it can be artfully edited. It hasn't aired yet, but will eventually on their arts magazine show, Tapestry. Tune in online, if you so desire. I make no promises as to my coherence.
By the way, the theory that since Birmingham is such a small market that press should be easy to get -- not true. Birmingham, for all its charms, has pretentions of being Atlanta, a cultural bastion and the de facto capital of the Deep South. Not that Birmingham doesn't have culture. It's got a decent symphony, good museums, a nationally recognized high school for the arts (and more on that later). But it ain't Atlanta. Still, the arts reporters couldn't have cared less, even with the home-town-girl-makes-good angle. My mother kept going on and on about how much press John Green -- fellow alum of my high school (though decades after me) and fellow YA writer -- got when HE was in Birmingham flogging his book. I had to point out to her that he SET his book in Birmingham. And then he won every award known to man. Enough said.
Anyway, after my WBHM interview and some down time, it was off to the Alabama School of Fine Arts to talk to the writing students and faculty there, about 100 folks in all. I had gone to ASFA for a blessed year in '74 when I first moved to Alabama, and it is a phenomenal school. Since that time, it has added a math and science wing, and those brainiac students win national awards with alarming regularity. I told the writing students about the old days at ASFA when we went to class in the semi-demolished dorm of a local college campus and were roundly despised by the college students, and the kids pored over my old '74-'75 annual, wisely supplied by my sister Carolyn -- a BIG hit. The clothes, the hair. They couldn't get enough of it.
I talked about my career as a writer, did a seventies trivia quiz (the book is set in the 70's, all trivia questions relate to the book, and I award correct answers with sallynemeth.com pencils, not found in any store), read from the book, and then opened it up for questions. It was a complete barrage. I hadn't expected it. Not only did they want to know about the writing of the book, and -- yup -- what the school was REALLY like in the 70's (even though they had photographic evidence), they also wanted to know about the writing life, and how I've managed to make a living at it for 15 years. I'm not even sure myself how I've managed, but I faked it good. They were great. Afterward, the owner of the Little Professor Bookstore in Homewood was there to sell books, and sold all of ONE. It seems the ASFA folks didn't tell the kids she'd be there, so none of them had a dime. But a faculty member bailed me out and bought a book so I didn't feel so very lost and lonely.
The next morning was Indian Springs School, my alma mater, and the campus immortalized in John Green's Printz Award-winning novel, Looking for Alaska. There, I spoke to the entire student body -- about 300 high schoolers. After an embarassing intro by my old English and drama teacher, Mr. Ellis, where he READ FROM ONE OF MY OLD PAPERS (God, do teachers save EVERYTHING?), I again talked, did the 70's trivia quiz (it goes over BIG every time), read and answered questions. This time, aside from wanting to know about the book and about my stint writing for "Law & Order," the kids wanted to know about -- yup - ISS back in the 70's. And, again, they were great. And THESE kids had credit cards. The woman from Little Professor was there again, and sold out two cases of books. I felt much better for her, after having schlepped the books to TWO event, that she sold 'em out.
That afternoon was my public signing at a local indie bookstore, Milestone Books, that was lovely, but the owner, Linda, a really wonderful woman, was a tad overworked and scattered. In fact, she had ENTIRELY FORGOTTEN I was doing a reading there until Paula -- who had booked the reading in July -- called her a week before to confirm. Oops. Still, she rallied, and sent out letters and e-mails to her teen reading group. Bless, her, she even got phone orders for the book and ended up having to reorder, since we sold her out of two cases as well. So, aside from family and friends, I did have some complete strangers there -- book lovin' teens -- who not only bought the book, but one of them read it THAT VERY NIGHT. And how do I know this?
Well, the next day, I visited my niece Lily and nephew Carter's middle school, and talked to the 100 or so students in their 7th grade "pod". Which I guess makes them pod people. But that same girl was there, and told me she'd devoured the book overnight -- probably reading under the covers, right? And haven't we all, when riveted to a book? I was totally flattered. The kids were amazing, through the talk, the trivia quiz and the reading. And then they asked incredibly insightful questions -- stunning from 7th graders. And I do know the level of 7th grade discourse. (In fact, Lily & Carter, who are cousins, have a movie posted right now on YouTube called "Things that Hurt Carter." Look it up if you want a good dose of 7th grade humor.) The leader of their pod, Mrs. Montgomery, was even surprised by the depth of their questions. Though there was no bookseller there, I did donate a copy to the school library and hand out book cards, so I'm sure I'll get a reader or two. Eventually.
I had a weekend with family -- nieces, nephews, sisters, parents, dogs, cats -- then on Monday I went to Atlanta to what is probably the best children's bookstore I've ever visited: Little Shop of Stories in Decatur. Amazing store. The manager, Terra McVoy, had her teen reading group read the book, so we sat on a sofa while the kids had some after-school ice cream from the lunch counter in the store, and I finally got to discuss the book with kids who had actually read it. It was wonderful. Prior to this, it had all been about introducing the book and getting people to buy it. Now I was talking with actual readers, and they had some interesting thing to say.
And here's what all kids want to know: Who am I in the book? And I have to tell them the truth: I'm every character. I have to be. If I can't get inside every character and inhabit them, they aren't real for me. So there's something of me in every character.
Before I left Atlanta, I signed some stock for Terra and we talked about the possibility of having me participate in next year's Decatur Book Festival, sponsored by the Atlanta Journal Constitution, which would be great if it could happen. I returned to LA the next morning, tired, entirely out of book cards and sallynemeth.com pencils, and happy for the experience.
And what has it taught me, my Virgin Voyage in Book Tour Land? Next time, more lead time -- Paula and I are now working toward having me tour Delaware and Chicago, but are planning for the spring. It gives bookstores more time to hook into schools, a YA writer's bread and butter.
But the biggest thing it has taught me is that no matter how great the internet is and how many venues and avenues there are for getting yourself and your book out there via the ether, there is nothing like doing it face to face. Not only did I need to get really clear about my book and how to present it to a living, breathing audience of teens and 'tweens, but then their energy and enthusiasm sent me home with more enthusiasm and energy of my own. And that is the greatest gift of the traditional book tour.
There's no substitute for doing it LIVE.
My Virgin Voyage into Book Tour Land
by Sally Nemeth
My book, The Heights, the Depths and Everything in Between, (Knopf), came out this past July. I had a great local launch party and signing here at Skylight Books in LA, and sold lots of books to my friends. And then what? OF COURSE my friends are going to buy my book. They're my FRIENDS. How do I get perfect strangers to do the same? Well, tour the damn thing, I guess. But where to begin?
Even though the book is set in Delaware, and that great small state will be next on the itinerary, my fabulous publicist, Paula Singer, and I had decided that we'd begin my book tour in Birmingham, Alabama, since it is a) where my family lives, so I can not only visit with them, but I can STAY with them; b) a smallish market, so getting press shouldn't be too difficult; c) a place where I have an existing relationship with schools so I can easily arrange school visits; and d) a destination to which I can use my boyfriend's frequent flier miles. So aside from the petsitter and the airport parking, the trip would be, miraculously, FREE.
I arrived in Birmingham on a Tuesday night after rising at 4AM to catch a 7AM flight. This is the problem with living in Los Angeles: unless you're flying WEST, to say, HAWAII (dream on), you're losing time, so a travel day east is a lost day. Paula had managed to get me an interview with the local NPR affiliate, WBHM, but the only time they could talk to me was at 8:30 AM Wednesday; so, sleep deprived and gravel voiced, I did my interview. I'm not sure what I said, but I'm sure it can be artfully edited. It hasn't aired yet, but will eventually on their arts magazine show, Tapestry. Tune in online, if you so desire. I make no promises as to my coherence.
By the way, the theory that since Birmingham is such a small market that press should be easy to get -- not true. Birmingham, for all its charms, has pretentions of being Atlanta, a cultural bastion and the de facto capital of the Deep South. Not that Birmingham doesn't have culture. It's got a decent symphony, good museums, a nationally recognized high school for the arts (and more on that later). But it ain't Atlanta. Still, the arts reporters couldn't have cared less, even with the home-town-girl-makes-good angle. My mother kept going on and on about how much press John Green -- fellow alum of my high school (though decades after me) and fellow YA writer -- got when HE was in Birmingham flogging his book. I had to point out to her that he SET his book in Birmingham. And then he won every award known to man. Enough said.
Anyway, after my WBHM interview and some down time, it was off to the Alabama School of Fine Arts to talk to the writing students and faculty there, about 100 folks in all. I had gone to ASFA for a blessed year in '74 when I first moved to Alabama, and it is a phenomenal school. Since that time, it has added a math and science wing, and those brainiac students win national awards with alarming regularity. I told the writing students about the old days at ASFA when we went to class in the semi-demolished dorm of a local college campus and were roundly despised by the college students, and the kids pored over my old '74-'75 annual, wisely supplied by my sister Carolyn -- a BIG hit. The clothes, the hair. They couldn't get enough of it.
I talked about my career as a writer, did a seventies trivia quiz (the book is set in the 70's, all trivia questions relate to the book, and I award correct answers with sallynemeth.com pencils, not found in any store), read from the book, and then opened it up for questions. It was a complete barrage. I hadn't expected it. Not only did they want to know about the writing of the book, and -- yup -- what the school was REALLY like in the 70's (even though they had photographic evidence), they also wanted to know about the writing life, and how I've managed to make a living at it for 15 years. I'm not even sure myself how I've managed, but I faked it good. They were great. Afterward, the owner of the Little Professor Bookstore in Homewood was there to sell books, and sold all of ONE. It seems the ASFA folks didn't tell the kids she'd be there, so none of them had a dime. But a faculty member bailed me out and bought a book so I didn't feel so very lost and lonely.
The next morning was Indian Springs School, my alma mater, and the campus immortalized in John Green's Printz Award-winning novel, Looking for Alaska. There, I spoke to the entire student body -- about 300 high schoolers. After an embarassing intro by my old English and drama teacher, Mr. Ellis, where he READ FROM ONE OF MY OLD PAPERS (God, do teachers save EVERYTHING?), I again talked, did the 70's trivia quiz (it goes over BIG every time), read and answered questions. This time, aside from wanting to know about the book and about my stint writing for "Law & Order," the kids wanted to know about -- yup - ISS back in the 70's. And, again, they were great. And THESE kids had credit cards. The woman from Little Professor was there again, and sold out two cases of books. I felt much better for her, after having schlepped the books to TWO event, that she sold 'em out.
That afternoon was my public signing at a local indie bookstore, Milestone Books, that was lovely, but the owner, Linda, a really wonderful woman, was a tad overworked and scattered. In fact, she had ENTIRELY FORGOTTEN I was doing a reading there until Paula -- who had booked the reading in July -- called her a week before to confirm. Oops. Still, she rallied, and sent out letters and e-mails to her teen reading group. Bless, her, she even got phone orders for the book and ended up having to reorder, since we sold her out of two cases as well. So, aside from family and friends, I did have some complete strangers there -- book lovin' teens -- who not only bought the book, but one of them read it THAT VERY NIGHT. And how do I know this?
Well, the next day, I visited my niece Lily and nephew Carter's middle school, and talked to the 100 or so students in their 7th grade "pod". Which I guess makes them pod people. But that same girl was there, and told me she'd devoured the book overnight -- probably reading under the covers, right? And haven't we all, when riveted to a book? I was totally flattered. The kids were amazing, through the talk, the trivia quiz and the reading. And then they asked incredibly insightful questions -- stunning from 7th graders. And I do know the level of 7th grade discourse. (In fact, Lily & Carter, who are cousins, have a movie posted right now on YouTube called "Things that Hurt Carter." Look it up if you want a good dose of 7th grade humor.) The leader of their pod, Mrs. Montgomery, was even surprised by the depth of their questions. Though there was no bookseller there, I did donate a copy to the school library and hand out book cards, so I'm sure I'll get a reader or two. Eventually.
I had a weekend with family -- nieces, nephews, sisters, parents, dogs, cats -- then on Monday I went to Atlanta to what is probably the best children's bookstore I've ever visited: Little Shop of Stories in Decatur. Amazing store. The manager, Terra McVoy, had her teen reading group read the book, so we sat on a sofa while the kids had some after-school ice cream from the lunch counter in the store, and I finally got to discuss the book with kids who had actually read it. It was wonderful. Prior to this, it had all been about introducing the book and getting people to buy it. Now I was talking with actual readers, and they had some interesting thing to say.
And here's what all kids want to know: Who am I in the book? And I have to tell them the truth: I'm every character. I have to be. If I can't get inside every character and inhabit them, they aren't real for me. So there's something of me in every character.
Before I left Atlanta, I signed some stock for Terra and we talked about the possibility of having me participate in next year's Decatur Book Festival, sponsored by the Atlanta Journal Constitution, which would be great if it could happen. I returned to LA the next morning, tired, entirely out of book cards and sallynemeth.com pencils, and happy for the experience.
And what has it taught me, my Virgin Voyage in Book Tour Land? Next time, more lead time -- Paula and I are now working toward having me tour Delaware and Chicago, but are planning for the spring. It gives bookstores more time to hook into schools, a YA writer's bread and butter.
But the biggest thing it has taught me is that no matter how great the internet is and how many venues and avenues there are for getting yourself and your book out there via the ether, there is nothing like doing it face to face. Not only did I need to get really clear about my book and how to present it to a living, breathing audience of teens and 'tweens, but then their energy and enthusiasm sent me home with more enthusiasm and energy of my own. And that is the greatest gift of the traditional book tour.
There's no substitute for doing it LIVE.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
L'Shana Tovah
No High Holy Days services for me this year. I can't sit for long, nor without major squirming, due to continuing problems with my right arm. (More surgery may be in the offing.)
Still, I got into the New Year mood yesterday morning with the Rocky Mountain News, whose editor offered what may have been the first newspaper mention of Rosh Hashana in Colorado, along with a classic example of half-assed reporting. From the Rocky, Sept. 21, 1865 (all spellings are verbatim):
Still, I got into the New Year mood yesterday morning with the Rocky Mountain News, whose editor offered what may have been the first newspaper mention of Rosh Hashana in Colorado, along with a classic example of half-assed reporting. From the Rocky, Sept. 21, 1865 (all spellings are verbatim):
To day is some sort of holliday for the Jewish persuasion, unknown to us gentiles. Business houses kept by that class in town are closed from 'rosy morn 'till dewey eve.'"Apparently someone of the Jewish persuasion paid a call to Geo. West, author of the above--or maybe to his boss, who I hope chewed him out for his laziness--because the next day this item ran in the Rocky (again verbatim):
Yesterday was the opening of the Jewish year 5626, and consequently was a gal-aday with our Jewish residents. Ten days thereafter comes the day of atonement, which is kept by fasting. This will account for the closing of the business houses of this class yesterday. We hope none of our readers will understand that any disrespect was meant toward our Israelite friends in our local of last evening.In the afternoon I pondered things Jewish by finishing THE RETURN OF THE PLAYER, nicely warmed by Max who cuddled up with his head under my chin. Here's another quote for the ages:
He didn't know much about Judaism, but neither did most of the Jews in Hollywood, and half of them were married to Christians or called themselves Buddhist. He couldn't understand how the Jews could control Hollywood and know so little about themselves. He couldn't understand how the Jews could dominate entertainment when their sacred text told such incomplete stories. Homer made sense as a movie guy. Shakespeare made sense as a movie guy. Moses didn't make sense as a movie guy, because the Jewish stories didn't follow the plot arcs that make money.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Around & About
Your humble correspondent, Loveland Pass, Labor DaySeen in South Park: the Dinky Dairy & Grill
Yes, South Park really does exist. However, it is nowhere near as picturesque as in the cartoon. In fact, from the road it is totally devoid of any picturesqueness at all, and appears to have been built on a gravel midden, with the center of town--or what passes for it--occupied by a giant gravel works.
Best strip mall
On Colorado Blvd. in Glendale, just south of Denver, there's a cluster of businesses: Damascus Syrian Restaurant (the best falafel, dolmas, hummos & baba ghanouj I've had anywhere), a Moroccan cafe, a Persian-Lebanese restaurant (grilled halloumi, yum!), a Middle Eastern market, a kebab joint, maybe another similar restaurant, and in the middle...Curl Up and Dye hair salon.
Darling Husband, the Boy Wonder and I nearly curled up and died laughing when we spied that. I told a group of DH's colleagues about it at a party last week, and one said that "Curl Up and Dye" was the name of a salon in the movie "Earth Girls Are Easy." And that he'd come up with that name and suggested it to the screenwriter (but no screen credit, alas). What a small world.
Hard knocks
Today's Denver Post has a feature about concussions, "NFL's Big-Bang Reality," which DH--who knows I don't read the sports section--considerately left at my place at the dining table before he went off to work. As I emailed him, this is good news! According to the article, many football players suffer concussions in the double digits. I've only had three--or is it four?-- so I have plenty more left in me. Of course, there's the little matter of remembering words (a necessary skill for writing, not to mention living), names, recent events and where I put stuff--like the camera that went missing for 3 months. Oh yeah, and there's the dizziness and horrible headache too. And I forgot about the sleepiness and depression till the article reminded me. OK, so maybe a poke in the eye with a sharp stick would be a better option now.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Coming Soon: More Drunkelogues (ZZZZ...)
Seems there's now a 13th Step. After hitting bottom, you hit the keyboard--if you're a white boy with glitterati cred, that is.
According to Choire Sicha in the NY Observer, this fall there are no less than four (count 'em: 4!) rehab memoirs hitting the bookshelves, all from youngish men with somewhat famous last names and/or connections. All that and the film of RUNNING WITH SCISSORS too.
I can hardly wait...NOT!
Tolstoy famously noted, "All happy families are alike." Here's what I discovered: So are all recovery stories. I came of age--and beyond--surrounded by drunks and drug addicts. Even married one, once upon a time. So I've been to countless Al-Anon meetings and a few AA meetings as well. And every wretched tale I've heard or read goes like this:
And another thing: Why are these recovery books all by men?
Way back when AA started, it was thought that women couldn't be alcoholics. We know better now. Are women on the crash-and-burn party circuit not writing tales of speedy redemption? I would hope they'd have the sense not to, but I suspect that for some reason (sexism?), more likely their stories are just not getting picked up for publication. Not that there's anything wrong with that: what goes on in those rooms should stay in those rooms, if only because it's so nauseatingly repetitious. I wish the boys felt the same way, or at least would wait till they had a complete 4th act--or even a 5th or 6th--to share with the world.
According to Choire Sicha in the NY Observer, this fall there are no less than four (count 'em: 4!) rehab memoirs hitting the bookshelves, all from youngish men with somewhat famous last names and/or connections. All that and the film of RUNNING WITH SCISSORS too.
I can hardly wait...NOT!
Tolstoy famously noted, "All happy families are alike." Here's what I discovered: So are all recovery stories. I came of age--and beyond--surrounded by drunks and drug addicts. Even married one, once upon a time. So I've been to countless Al-Anon meetings and a few AA meetings as well. And every wretched tale I've heard or read goes like this:
- Drunk falls into downward spiral of alcoholic excess, often losing home/job/friends/love of significant other(s).
- Drunk bottoms out, sometimes in a spectacular fashion, almost always in a sordid one.
- Drunk goes through painful drying-out process.
- Drunk rejoins society a new and better, if rather shaky, person.
- End of story, except for those poor souls who lather, rinse & repeat; sometimes more than once.
And another thing: Why are these recovery books all by men?
Way back when AA started, it was thought that women couldn't be alcoholics. We know better now. Are women on the crash-and-burn party circuit not writing tales of speedy redemption? I would hope they'd have the sense not to, but I suspect that for some reason (sexism?), more likely their stories are just not getting picked up for publication. Not that there's anything wrong with that: what goes on in those rooms should stay in those rooms, if only because it's so nauseatingly repetitious. I wish the boys felt the same way, or at least would wait till they had a complete 4th act--or even a 5th or 6th--to share with the world.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Quote for the Day
From THE RETURN OF THE PLAYER by Michael Tolkin (Grove Press):
What impelled life originally to hide the codes of life in flesh, and then divide that flesh into men and women, and then call them together for sex, and then drown them in car pools?
Being an Intellectual is Hard!
Marcel Proust would so get blasted on Miss Snark's Crapometer. She gave writers hell for opening their novels with back story and having nothing exciting happen in the first 500 words. I'm 60 pages into SWANN'S WAY, nothing has happened other than dinnertime conversation and the nameless narrator is still whingeing about getting a proper bedtime kiss from his overly beloved maman. I hope to dog there's going to be a plot soon, but I'm not holding my breath. There's something very meta-PoMo about my lying in bed every night, reading about some mamma's boy lying in bed every night.
My special challenges are to:
Guess what else? I gobbled up RUMBLE in a day and a half and am now roaring through RETURN. Neither one has put me to sleep, even with Max's soporific purring on my chest. In fact, each has kept me awake--most happily, I might add.
So, to those who prefer to savor every soggy morsel of their tea-soaked madeleines, I wish you bonne chance. For now, I'm sticking to Cheez Doodles and California rolls.
P.S. Watched "Match Point" the other night, which I loved, but was struck by how similar it is to "The Player" (the movie anyway; I haven't read the book). So similar, in fact, that I guessed what the ending would be. I hate when that happens--and it didn't with RUMBLE ON THE BAYOU.
My special challenges are to:
- manage to read over and around Max, who takes my picking up a book as a signal to park his 13-pound self on my chest;
- wade through Proust's endless, semi-colon and dash bespattered sentences without immediately falling asleep;
- stay so interested in the book that I won't forsake it for others.
Guess what else? I gobbled up RUMBLE in a day and a half and am now roaring through RETURN. Neither one has put me to sleep, even with Max's soporific purring on my chest. In fact, each has kept me awake--most happily, I might add.
So, to those who prefer to savor every soggy morsel of their tea-soaked madeleines, I wish you bonne chance. For now, I'm sticking to Cheez Doodles and California rolls.
P.S. Watched "Match Point" the other night, which I loved, but was struck by how similar it is to "The Player" (the movie anyway; I haven't read the book). So similar, in fact, that I guessed what the ending would be. I hate when that happens--and it didn't with RUMBLE ON THE BAYOU.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Monday Philosophy Club
Sometimes there's a payoff to doing nothing. In April I bought a packet of morning glory seeds, but never got to plant them because of my smash-up. All summer I lamented my barren, sun-blasted backyard, where much of the grass died from not being watered. Back in VA, our grass died from too much shade. I don't think I have an aptitude for turf.
Darling Husband has been too busy to attend to the back 40 (feet, not acres). Surprisingly, it's lush and green now--though with weeds and rampant ailanthus, which latter we had cut to the ground in spring. Where there was lawn, now are coarse, tallish plants topped with graceless seedheads. I was all for having them whacked till the other day I saw sparrows and finches perched on them, nibbling the seeds. Best of all, there are morning glories everywhere. Bright pink ones.
Just call me Chance the gardener.*
*I just moved "Being There" up my Netflix queue; loved the book too.
Darling Husband has been too busy to attend to the back 40 (feet, not acres). Surprisingly, it's lush and green now--though with weeds and rampant ailanthus, which latter we had cut to the ground in spring. Where there was lawn, now are coarse, tallish plants topped with graceless seedheads. I was all for having them whacked till the other day I saw sparrows and finches perched on them, nibbling the seeds. Best of all, there are morning glories everywhere. Bright pink ones.
Just call me Chance the gardener.*
*I just moved "Being There" up my Netflix queue; loved the book too.
Friday, September 15, 2006
The Road to Hell
Yesterday GalleyCat mentioned that MAKING COMICS author Scott McCloud is "taking his wife and two daughters along on a promotional junket that, spread out over the course of twelve months, will hit all fifty states and the United Kingdom to boot."
I love Darling Husband and the Boy Wonder to distraction, but I couldn't bear 12 days in a car with them; forget about 12 months. The feeling is mutual, they assured me. (DH noted that I wouldn't want to spend an entire year traveling, period. He may be right, but that's beside the point.) After just a few days of 24/7 family coziness at the beach, I'm craving some time alone.
I sent the McCloud info to an author friend who's a loving partner and devoted dad. He immediately shot back:
Similarly, the thought of home schooling gives me the heebie jeebies. I have friends who do it, one of them with four kids. I don't understand how they not only can bear it, but even enjoy it. Me, I'd be like the friend who was stuck home with the kids while her husband travelled on business for weeks on end. She mentally composed a newspaper headline: "Mother of 3 kills children, self." (She and husband are now retired and the kids all lived into adulthood.)
I love Darling Husband and the Boy Wonder to distraction, but I couldn't bear 12 days in a car with them; forget about 12 months. The feeling is mutual, they assured me. (DH noted that I wouldn't want to spend an entire year traveling, period. He may be right, but that's beside the point.) After just a few days of 24/7 family coziness at the beach, I'm craving some time alone.
I sent the McCloud info to an author friend who's a loving partner and devoted dad. He immediately shot back:
A YEAR-LONG driving book tour with wife & 2 daughters? Oh, dear God! Was he hoping to gather material for a true-crime book?My sentiments exactly.
Similarly, the thought of home schooling gives me the heebie jeebies. I have friends who do it, one of them with four kids. I don't understand how they not only can bear it, but even enjoy it. Me, I'd be like the friend who was stuck home with the kids while her husband travelled on business for weeks on end. She mentally composed a newspaper headline: "Mother of 3 kills children, self." (She and husband are now retired and the kids all lived into adulthood.)
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Lost in the Stars
"September Song" always comes to my mind at this time of year. But with the anniversary of the WTC and Pentagon attacks two days ago and that of my beloved aunt's death today, along with all the carnage in the Middle East, Sudan and elsewhere, the above-captioned song resonates more with me.
I first heard it a few years ago on a "Saturday Night Live" show compilation, in an achingly beautiful performance by Madeline Kahn from 1976. Elvis Costello did a serviceable, though far less poignant, rendition in the documentary "September Songs: The Music of Kurt Weill" that played on PBS some 10 years ago. I tore the house apart last night looking for the VHS tape I'd made off the air, but it's nowhere to be found. The soundtrack is now on CD (the Boy Wonder downloaded it from a secret location) and features performers ranging from Teresa Stratas to the Persuasions to Lou Reed--normally a favorite of mine, but he massacres Weill's haunting melody for "September Song" in an overlong solo.
Lost in the Stars
lyrics by Maxwell Anderson & Alan Paton
music by Kurt Weill
Before Lord God made the sea and the land
He held all the stars in the palm of his hand
And they ran through his fingers like grains of sand
And one little star fell alone
Then the Lord God hunted through the wild night air
For the little dark star in the wind down there
And he stated and promised he'd take special care
So it wouldn't get lost again
Now, man don't mind if the stars grow dim
And the clouds blow over and darken him
So long as the Lord God's watching over him
Keeping track how it all goes on
But I've been walking through the night and the day
Till my eyes get weary and my hair turns grey
And sometimes it seems maybe God's gone away
Forgetting the promise that we heard him say
And we're lost out here in the stars
Little stars, big stars
Blowing through the night
And we're lost out here in the stars
Little stars, big stars
Blowing through the night
And we're lost out here in the stars
I first heard it a few years ago on a "Saturday Night Live" show compilation, in an achingly beautiful performance by Madeline Kahn from 1976. Elvis Costello did a serviceable, though far less poignant, rendition in the documentary "September Songs: The Music of Kurt Weill" that played on PBS some 10 years ago. I tore the house apart last night looking for the VHS tape I'd made off the air, but it's nowhere to be found. The soundtrack is now on CD (the Boy Wonder downloaded it from a secret location) and features performers ranging from Teresa Stratas to the Persuasions to Lou Reed--normally a favorite of mine, but he massacres Weill's haunting melody for "September Song" in an overlong solo.
Lost in the Stars
lyrics by Maxwell Anderson & Alan Paton
music by Kurt Weill
Before Lord God made the sea and the land
He held all the stars in the palm of his hand
And they ran through his fingers like grains of sand
And one little star fell alone
Then the Lord God hunted through the wild night air
For the little dark star in the wind down there
And he stated and promised he'd take special care
So it wouldn't get lost again
Now, man don't mind if the stars grow dim
And the clouds blow over and darken him
So long as the Lord God's watching over him
Keeping track how it all goes on
But I've been walking through the night and the day
Till my eyes get weary and my hair turns grey
And sometimes it seems maybe God's gone away
Forgetting the promise that we heard him say
And we're lost out here in the stars
Little stars, big stars
Blowing through the night
And we're lost out here in the stars
Little stars, big stars
Blowing through the night
And we're lost out here in the stars
Monday, September 11, 2006
Landmark Memories
My first and last glimpses of the World Trade Center towers were on television. While they were being built, we cursed them because they interfered with our reception. All through high school, I could see their uneven shadows growing up the TV screen in my parents' Westchester living room.
I always thought the towers ugly--two Saltine boxes grotesquely out of scale and style with the Gothic spires of lower Manhattan. But they were a landmark, twin beacons that slowly flashed on and off, on and off, all night. Standing on the fire escape of my tenement apartment in Little Italy, where I lived from 1978 to 1988, the towers were 45 degrees to the left; the Empire State 90 degrees right. They were the only compass I needed. One or the other--sometimes both--was usually visible during my frequent nighttime outings.
I worked in the towers several times as an office temp. The elevators went so high and so fast I had to keep yawning to make my ears pop. Once I took my stepbrother to the observation area. He was a daredevil skier and surfer, but so afraid of heights that he stayed a good two feet back from the windows. And once, I and the man I thought I'd love forever had drinks at Windows on the World while Manhattan twinkled below us in the velvet dark.
I started writing about my experiences on that bright and awful day five years ago, the last time I saw the towers standing in real time on TV. But I can't continue. The emotions are still too raw; the words to express them seem trite and banal.
Many people have made the pilgrimage to Ground Zero. I can't, though I've often stayed with a friend who lives just blocks away. She heard the first and saw the second plane crash. An air purifier runs constantly in her loft, filtering out toxins released in the wreckage. Nevertheless, she has developed a chronic cough.
I used to feel so free in New York. Twenty years ago, you could go everywhere, walk through the lobby of any office building. And there were plenty of lobbies worth seeing--elevator doors too--as I discovered during my temping days.
I took my son to the city two years ago, just before the Republican convention. We went down to Wall Street. I wanted to show him the fabulous Art Deco lobby of the Irving Trust building. No dice; only open to employees with ID badges. I thought it would be cool for him to see the Stock Exchange, where 25+ years ago I'd watched the frenzy on the trading floor in incredulous fascination. (And that had been a slow day, a trader told me.) There was a labyrinth of police barricades on the street in front of the Exchange, which was also open only to employees; the visitors' gallery had been closed for years. I stood there in the bright August sunshine, fighting back tears, my son watching me in befuddlement, a policeman with mild disdain. (I could almost hear him thinking, "Frickin' hayseed! Everyone knows you can't visit the Stock Exchange.")
I was crying for what we had lost on that day in 2001: our precious freedom, never to be regained.
I always thought the towers ugly--two Saltine boxes grotesquely out of scale and style with the Gothic spires of lower Manhattan. But they were a landmark, twin beacons that slowly flashed on and off, on and off, all night. Standing on the fire escape of my tenement apartment in Little Italy, where I lived from 1978 to 1988, the towers were 45 degrees to the left; the Empire State 90 degrees right. They were the only compass I needed. One or the other--sometimes both--was usually visible during my frequent nighttime outings.
I worked in the towers several times as an office temp. The elevators went so high and so fast I had to keep yawning to make my ears pop. Once I took my stepbrother to the observation area. He was a daredevil skier and surfer, but so afraid of heights that he stayed a good two feet back from the windows. And once, I and the man I thought I'd love forever had drinks at Windows on the World while Manhattan twinkled below us in the velvet dark.
I started writing about my experiences on that bright and awful day five years ago, the last time I saw the towers standing in real time on TV. But I can't continue. The emotions are still too raw; the words to express them seem trite and banal.
Many people have made the pilgrimage to Ground Zero. I can't, though I've often stayed with a friend who lives just blocks away. She heard the first and saw the second plane crash. An air purifier runs constantly in her loft, filtering out toxins released in the wreckage. Nevertheless, she has developed a chronic cough.
I used to feel so free in New York. Twenty years ago, you could go everywhere, walk through the lobby of any office building. And there were plenty of lobbies worth seeing--elevator doors too--as I discovered during my temping days.
I took my son to the city two years ago, just before the Republican convention. We went down to Wall Street. I wanted to show him the fabulous Art Deco lobby of the Irving Trust building. No dice; only open to employees with ID badges. I thought it would be cool for him to see the Stock Exchange, where 25+ years ago I'd watched the frenzy on the trading floor in incredulous fascination. (And that had been a slow day, a trader told me.) There was a labyrinth of police barricades on the street in front of the Exchange, which was also open only to employees; the visitors' gallery had been closed for years. I stood there in the bright August sunshine, fighting back tears, my son watching me in befuddlement, a policeman with mild disdain. (I could almost hear him thinking, "Frickin' hayseed! Everyone knows you can't visit the Stock Exchange.")
I was crying for what we had lost on that day in 2001: our precious freedom, never to be regained.
Friday, September 08, 2006
My Life & Times
In case you can't get enough of me me me (and honestly, who can?), check out my interview at Bloggasm, in which I divulge my shocking lack of Proper Education* and the sordid origins of my writing career.
*though not my self-improvement course via Nabokov's Lectures on Literature
*though not my self-improvement course via Nabokov's Lectures on Literature
Homework Is a Bitch (and so am I)
There's a tang of fall in the air, school's back in session and...what's this? Teachers are assigning books to read and reports to write about them. What to do?
Ooh, I know! Google the book's title, and when your first click leads you to a book reviewer's web site, send said reviewer an email asking her to do your homework for you.
Only guess what? Some reviewers (e.g., yours truly) not only send a scathing reply but post the email exchange on a Blackboard of Shame. Read it and snigger...or cringe.
Ooh, I know! Google the book's title, and when your first click leads you to a book reviewer's web site, send said reviewer an email asking her to do your homework for you.
Only guess what? Some reviewers (e.g., yours truly) not only send a scathing reply but post the email exchange on a Blackboard of Shame. Read it and snigger...or cringe.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Must-See TV
Peter Finch as Howard Beale, the first knownman who was killed because of lousy ratings.
BW declared it one of the best films he's ever seen. I'm with him: "Network" really says something, thanks to the incomparable Paddy Chayefsky's screenplay. Yeah, it veers into preachiness towards the end, but so what.
Dunaway looks as though she stepped put of the pages of a current fashion magazine: stick-thin with shoulder-length hair, dressed in gorgeously draped silk blouses and pencil-slim skirts (though Today's Woman would wear a bra--or at least a camisole). The two male leads, Peter Finch and William Holden, look timeless too. The film only shows its age with the cars, shlumpy hairstyles and clothes of the secondary characters, and of course the quaint sounds of real telephone bells and clickety-clacking typewriters and teletypes.
The film is most famous for crackpot newscaster Howard Beale (Finch) raving, "I'm as mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore." (BW liked the line so much that he's using it in a project for his American Lit class.) But the most killingly funny scenes, which I'd entirely forgotten, were the ones in which a radical black communist--obviously modeled on Angela Davis--gets into a spit-flying rage over subsidiary rights and profit points with Dunaway and the dorky network suits. Money, as always, is the great corrupter.
In another prescient scene, Ned Beatty as the CEO of a shadowy conglomerate gives a tour-de-force speech on how in the future there will be no more USA or Germany or Japan, just companies like IBM and Exxon, which are going to fulfill all our needs and make everyone happy. We just have to give in and go along with them. BRRR!
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Mustn't-See TV, or
The Year of Living Dangerously
As the bombs began falling on Baghdad in March 2003, I moderated a discussion with novelist Lee Smith and columnist Hal Crowther, her husband, at the Virginia Festival of the Book. Someone in the SRO crowd asked Crowther about his writing process. He answered, "I read the morning papers, and when I get mad enough I start writing." That got a big laugh, though I thought he was rather quaint--and maybe a bit immature.
Then I read this morning's paper and completely identified with Crowther. What set me off was this headline in the "Play" section of The Denver Post:
Exactly one year ago, we were bombarded by non-stop media reports of the devastation and misery caused by Hurricane Katrina. As I noted then, perhaps the second-worse thing to being trapped with the miserable hordes in the Super Dome was watching them on TV in the E.R. waiting room with one's mysteriously sick child. (Food allergy was the spot diagnosis, but it turned out to be a hiatal hernia.) For weeks, the horrific news from the Gulf Coast was accompanied by oppressive humidity, low air pressure that immobilized me with crushing neuralgia (I suffer from "weather head") and torrential rains. That's when I made up my mind that it was time to quit Charlottesville, VA, for high and dry Denver.
We moved to Denver in December, thanks to Darling Husband's employer, which is headquartered nearby. No hurricanes here, though I got a bit of a chill when I saw the "Tornado Shelter" signs posted by the rest rooms at Denver International Airport (which to all intents and purposes is in Kansas).
Since moving into Our Gracious Home:
Now that the case against the "extremely weird John Mark Karr is toast," as Denver Post columnist Diane Carman so succinctly put it today, the media is "back to all that important stuff [it] was criticized for ignoring....War, politics, natural disasters, social issues, the economy."
Enjoy, everyone! As for me, I plan on curling up with classic novels and Netflix. I'm sure you'll understand.
Then I read this morning's paper and completely identified with Crowther. What set me off was this headline in the "Play" section of The Denver Post:
No comfort in "Last Days"TV critic Joanne Ostrow gets right to the heart of the matter in her opener:
Scientists paint seven real-life doomsday scenarios showing how humankind may perish, in a terrifying special edition of "20/20."
You say you're sleeping well, experiencing a sense of security, feeling confident about the future?
Elizabeth Vargas will fix that.
And a few grafs later:
"Last Days on Earth," at 8 p.m. Wednesday on KMGH-Channel 7, is calculated to scare the pants off viewers. And it's not even the November sweeps!Wow! Just what I needed! Something else to make me feel anxious, helpless and depressed.
Exactly one year ago, we were bombarded by non-stop media reports of the devastation and misery caused by Hurricane Katrina. As I noted then, perhaps the second-worse thing to being trapped with the miserable hordes in the Super Dome was watching them on TV in the E.R. waiting room with one's mysteriously sick child. (Food allergy was the spot diagnosis, but it turned out to be a hiatal hernia.) For weeks, the horrific news from the Gulf Coast was accompanied by oppressive humidity, low air pressure that immobilized me with crushing neuralgia (I suffer from "weather head") and torrential rains. That's when I made up my mind that it was time to quit Charlottesville, VA, for high and dry Denver.
We moved to Denver in December, thanks to Darling Husband's employer, which is headquartered nearby. No hurricanes here, though I got a bit of a chill when I saw the "Tornado Shelter" signs posted by the rest rooms at Denver International Airport (which to all intents and purposes is in Kansas).
Since moving into Our Gracious Home:
- In mid-January, the dog had surgery to remove 2 (!) cracked and abscessed molars only 6 weeks after her old vet gave her a clean bill of health.
- I came down with pneumonia over Super Bowl weekend.
- In early March, I got a wicked case of shingles.
- At the same time as #3, the dog was diagnosed with kidney failure that would kill her within 2 years. (Apparently a misdiagnosis, as she is fine and frisky with no medication.)
- In mid-March I fell and broke my nose.
- In late March I got a wicked sinus infection.
- On April 12, I came down with food poisoning minutes before the start of our Passover seder.
- During all of the above, we had to replace the entire heating system, much of the plumbing and all but one of the nearly 30 windows in our charming new (ca. 1902) house--all under the close supervision of yours truly.
- The Boy Wonder missed 38 days of school due to allergies (which were supposed to disappear once away from moldy VA) and various illnesses.
- In the wee hours of May 1, my mom in Maine went into the hospital with a knee injury.
- That afternoon, I landed in hospital for a week with multiple trauma from what should have been a short and pokey horseback-riding lesson: concussion, bruised liver; broken right arm, ribs & facial bones; banged-up mouth.
- In early June, I had 3 root canals on my top front teeth, and may yet need one on the bottom.
- Two weeks ago today, I had a 6-inch steel plate permanently screwed to my humerus.
- In two days, I'm getted knocked out at the dentist to: a) determine why my front teeth still hurt like crazy; b) put permanent fillings in the root canals; c) make bite plates to put my molars back where they belong so I can chew grown-up food again.
Now that the case against the "extremely weird John Mark Karr is toast," as Denver Post columnist Diane Carman so succinctly put it today, the media is "back to all that important stuff [it] was criticized for ignoring....War, politics, natural disasters, social issues, the economy."
Enjoy, everyone! As for me, I plan on curling up with classic novels and Netflix. I'm sure you'll understand.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Food for Plot
If you're looking to be the next Jodi Picoult or Thomas Harris, but stymied for plot hooks, try trolling the web searches recently released by AOL. Here are some, courtesy of Something Awful, once again brought to my attention by the Boy Wonder.
For a "woman's" novel:
can not sleep with snoring husband
online friendships can be very special
online friendships
how many online romances lead to sex
how many online romances lead to sex in person
how do i get to the omni hotel in san antonio off i 10 coming from houston
omni hotel san antonio tx
how to make a good first impression
how to make a good first impression on a man
how to drive a man crazy with desire for you
nervous about meeting online trend
god does not want you to worry because he will help you
don't cut your hair before a big event
how can a woman charm a man and make him laugh
keeping busy can help your nerves
how can i learn how to relax
staying calm while meeting an online friend
should you plan sex before meeting a cyber lover
hotels in san antonio tx near the omni
husband does not think it is good idea for me to meet my online friends
my family does not want me to meet my online friend in person
how can i tell if my spouse put spyware on my computer
i gve my heart to another man
married but in love with another
i met my cyber lover and the sex was not good
why would a guy act weird towards a woman after they had sex
guy online used me for sex
how can you tell if he used you for sex
did not like cyber friend when we met in person
online friend is horrible in person
can someone get hepatitis from sexual contact
sexually transmitted diseases
how can you get aids
how can you contract aids
symptoms of herpes of the mouth
can herpes of the mouth be transmitted to genitals
had an affair with a man and he thinks i need him now
how do you break off an affair
the guy i had an affair with won't leave me alone
post traumatic stress disorder
i thought i could handle an affair but i couldn't
affairs cause so much trouble
you will get nothing out of having an affair
how do you get a mentally ill parent to get medical help
how to get your parent help for depression
For a heartbreaking woman's novel or Grammy-winning C&W song:
signs of miscarriage
bleeding during pregnancy
bishop skylstad
catholic diocese of spokane
catholic diocese of idaho
miscarriage
preconception advice
pregnancy symptoms during miscarriage
planning pregnancy
pregnancy complications and mother's intuition
pregnancy danger signs
pregnancy with twins
toddler sleeping problems
stress
relationship trouble
marriage horoscope
signs of an unhealthy relationship
hysterectomy
divorce
pre conception
preconception checklist
signs divorce is on its way
how to avoid divorce
chat rooms for lonely married people
chat
dad and miscarriage
how to know your marriage is over
chuck e. cheese
For a scary thriller and/or true-crime story (shudder):
tara makowski
unsolved murder of tara makowski
tara makowski found dead in car
tara makowski found dead in car in san jose
young woman named tara found dead in car in san jose
unsolved mysteries
unsolved mysteries tara makowski
unsolved mysteries tara
cold cases in san jose california
san jose police departments cold cases
edward beaton questioned about the murder
san jose police edward beaton
edward beaton of campbell
psychological test given to prisoners
test to see if you are a serial killer
For another sequel to Silence of the Lambs:
feasting on thighs of young girls
steaks for thighs of young girls
barbequed girl meat
girls fattened for butchering
cannibals feasting on buttocks of young girls
spit roasted and eaten girls
girls strangled and eaten
cooked tender flesh of girls
girls cut up into steaks
N.B. I hope with all my heart that the last two searches were for research purposes only, but I have serious dubts.
For a "woman's" novel:
can not sleep with snoring husband
online friendships can be very special
online friendships
how many online romances lead to sex
how many online romances lead to sex in person
how do i get to the omni hotel in san antonio off i 10 coming from houston
omni hotel san antonio tx
how to make a good first impression
how to make a good first impression on a man
how to drive a man crazy with desire for you
nervous about meeting online trend
god does not want you to worry because he will help you
don't cut your hair before a big event
how can a woman charm a man and make him laugh
keeping busy can help your nerves
how can i learn how to relax
staying calm while meeting an online friend
should you plan sex before meeting a cyber lover
hotels in san antonio tx near the omni
husband does not think it is good idea for me to meet my online friends
my family does not want me to meet my online friend in person
how can i tell if my spouse put spyware on my computer
i gve my heart to another man
married but in love with another
i met my cyber lover and the sex was not good
why would a guy act weird towards a woman after they had sex
guy online used me for sex
how can you tell if he used you for sex
did not like cyber friend when we met in person
online friend is horrible in person
can someone get hepatitis from sexual contact
sexually transmitted diseases
how can you get aids
how can you contract aids
symptoms of herpes of the mouth
can herpes of the mouth be transmitted to genitals
had an affair with a man and he thinks i need him now
how do you break off an affair
the guy i had an affair with won't leave me alone
post traumatic stress disorder
i thought i could handle an affair but i couldn't
affairs cause so much trouble
you will get nothing out of having an affair
how do you get a mentally ill parent to get medical help
how to get your parent help for depression
For a heartbreaking woman's novel or Grammy-winning C&W song:
signs of miscarriage
bleeding during pregnancy
bishop skylstad
catholic diocese of spokane
catholic diocese of idaho
miscarriage
preconception advice
pregnancy symptoms during miscarriage
planning pregnancy
pregnancy complications and mother's intuition
pregnancy danger signs
pregnancy with twins
toddler sleeping problems
stress
relationship trouble
marriage horoscope
signs of an unhealthy relationship
hysterectomy
divorce
pre conception
preconception checklist
signs divorce is on its way
how to avoid divorce
chat rooms for lonely married people
chat
dad and miscarriage
how to know your marriage is over
chuck e. cheese
For a scary thriller and/or true-crime story (shudder):
tara makowski
unsolved murder of tara makowski
tara makowski found dead in car
tara makowski found dead in car in san jose
young woman named tara found dead in car in san jose
unsolved mysteries
unsolved mysteries tara makowski
unsolved mysteries tara
cold cases in san jose california
san jose police departments cold cases
edward beaton questioned about the murder
san jose police edward beaton
edward beaton of campbell
psychological test given to prisoners
test to see if you are a serial killer
For another sequel to Silence of the Lambs:
feasting on thighs of young girls
steaks for thighs of young girls
barbequed girl meat
girls fattened for butchering
cannibals feasting on buttocks of young girls
spit roasted and eaten girls
girls strangled and eaten
cooked tender flesh of girls
girls cut up into steaks
N.B. I hope with all my heart that the last two searches were for research purposes only, but I have serious dubts.
Book Reviews for Fun and Profit!
Kudos to HarperCollins for having an online publicity department. At least they have their ears to the ground...er...eyes on the Web and are looking to expand coverage of their books beyond the usual literary suspects. In fact, they go so far beyond that they trolled Something Awful, the Boy Wonder's favorite cyber-hangout, to find someone to review Remember Me: A Lively Tour of the New American Way of Death by Lisa Takeuchi Cullen.
HC indeed found a reviewer in Hassan "Acetone" Mikal, but I wonder whether they didn't think that maybe--just maybe--a smartass like him (and they're all smartasses on Something Awful, especially my own not-so-little darling) would write a smartass review. Which of course he did. Mikal's review of a Free Book I Got may not be quite what HC was looking for, but it had me weak with laughter.
There has been much talk of late on GalleyCat and elsewhere as to the importance of author photographs, and whether they attract readers. Mikal definitively settles this dispute, writing of Cullen:
Update:
Acetone writes: "Tell everyone you know that they can get a positive review out of me as long as I can sell the book for money to support my various crippling addictions!"
My response: "Um, you might want to actually, you know, review the book rather than the author pic and blurbs--though I much enjoyed your piece over ones in the NYTBR or Wash Post."
HC indeed found a reviewer in Hassan "Acetone" Mikal, but I wonder whether they didn't think that maybe--just maybe--a smartass like him (and they're all smartasses on Something Awful, especially my own not-so-little darling) would write a smartass review. Which of course he did. Mikal's review of a Free Book I Got may not be quite what HC was looking for, but it had me weak with laughter.
There has been much talk of late on GalleyCat and elsewhere as to the importance of author photographs, and whether they attract readers. Mikal definitively settles this dispute, writing of Cullen:
She is pretty cute based on her picture on the inside cover though. This woman has no business putting words on paper. She should be in a classy lingerie catalogue. I'm talking Sears catalogue for sure, maybe Nordstom.
Mikal also discloses the secret that every reviewer--including myself, of course--guards jealously:
The key to writing a good review isn't in the criticism, it's getting a quote on the back of the book. Don't be satisfied with getting your quote on the inside sleeve or in the introductory pages. You want it on the back cover right up top or else it means nothing. This is why you must strive to get review copies as early as possible and review them as quickly as you can. Skip a few chapters if you must. The most important thing is getting the review done.He offers these helpful examples:
RIGHT: Cullen's seminal work is both a pleasure and a delight to read and will inspire readers for decades to come.A publisher will probably put this on the back of their book. Even years after the book is released the quote will still be relevant. Your quote doesn't even have to have anything to do with the book. It just has to sound fancy. In fact I expect Harper Collins to plaster this all over the next edition of whatever book I'm supposed to be reviewing here.WRONG: Stacy is a sloppy cunt ass ho who will sleep with every guy but me. What a bitch. I want my shirts back Stacy.When writing reviews it is important to leave the drama with your mama! That's what The Daily Dirt is for. While Stacy may be a slut who will sleep with everyone but you it has no place on the back of a major book. Maybe a Random House book, but we're talking the big leagues here.
Update:
Acetone writes: "Tell everyone you know that they can get a positive review out of me as long as I can sell the book for money to support my various crippling addictions!"
My response: "Um, you might want to actually, you know, review the book rather than the author pic and blurbs--though I much enjoyed your piece over ones in the NYTBR or Wash Post."
Friday, August 25, 2006
Shabbat Shalom
What you don't want to see on a peaceful Friday evening:
Four policeman with drawn weapons converging on the house directly across the street. If ever I neeeded reminding that I'm not on my sleepy, leafy old street in Charlottesville, VA, anymore, this is certainly one of those times.
Update: The cops cuffed some people, then let them go. Then the cops left. After that, nada.
Four policeman with drawn weapons converging on the house directly across the street. If ever I neeeded reminding that I'm not on my sleepy, leafy old street in Charlottesville, VA, anymore, this is certainly one of those times.
Update: The cops cuffed some people, then let them go. Then the cops left. After that, nada.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Well and Truly Screwed
My right humerus shortly before (l) & after (r) surgery. The vertical line with holes is a 6-inch steel plate; the horizontal bars are screws.
Rather belatedly, here's the overwhelming winner of Miss Snark's Get Humerus Poetry Contest, who I hope will step forward--along with all the other anonymous poets--so I can convey effusive personal thanks:
#62
A Confucian get-well sentiment:
I hear your arm hurts
nothing make bone happier
than a real good screw
Runner-up was #4, which provoked special hilarity because Darling Husband lost his pants years ago:
Sorry for your bone
At least it's not Alzhei--
Where have my pants gone?
My special favorites:
#41
Bored of counting the ceiling tile
She offered to help with the slush pile
Bella held up her bedpan
And asked Miss Snark in a deadpan
Would you like a new query file?
#44, by YA author & veterinarian Christine Fletcher
Gomez, was it a bee
That compelled
You to propel our Bella
Into a post
Or just cussedness
You’re a horse so
We trust you had no
Plan involving
Fences
Much less, consequences
For bones
And yet
A moment’s regret?
A tiny Sorry from
A tiny brain
And then
Oats.
#10, who gets a special Robert Frost Parody award
One bone diverged in a writer's arm
And, sorry it did not mend as well
As they had told her, doctors warm
On other ways to undo that harm
Which came upon her when she fell
They called the interns, young and fair
Though having perhaps a lesser claim
Because they had trouble rememb'ring where
The humerus was, and would declare
The trouble to be that she was lame
And so next morning nurses tried
And poked till she was blue and black
Oh! They never finished, so she'd hide
Her record chart, till one of them spied
It peeping out of her laundry sack
I now come to the part where she,
Sick of waiting ages since
The doctors had told her she'd be free,
Tried healing it through poetry
And that has made all the difference
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