Baby Got Book

This is a hoot! From J'ai voulu dire...et vous avez dit (I wanted to say...and you said):

BABY GOT BOOK
(based on the original by Sir Mix-A-Lot)

Spoken: "Oh. Mai. Gyawd, Becky, look at her bookbag...she must be one of those, like, Barnes & Noble's guys' girlfriends...it's so heavy...and bulging...she's just so...SMART!"

I like big books and I cannot lie
You other brothers can't deny
That when a girl walks in with a fat Tolkien
And Cervantes in original tongue
You get sprung
Wanna read the spine
'Cuz you noticed that book was stuffed
Deep in the bag she's carrying
I'm hooked and I can't stop staring
Oh, baby, I wanna get wit' ya
And read your volumes
My homeboys tried to warn me
But with that book you got
Makes me so horny
Ooh, leather slipcase
You say you wanna get in my den
Well use it, use it, 'cuz you ain't that average reader

Read the whole rap here.

Planning Ahead

I was scheduled to fly to DC tomorrow morning, for a Book Promotion 101 workshop I'm giving on Saturday. I decided that it would be a good idea to start getting ready for the trip a day early, since I had appointments with 2 doctors this morning & an MRI in the late afternoon. (I'm having problems with my much-mended right arm.)

So I did some necessary shopping and in the late afternoon started doing the laundry, editing my workshop presentation and printing out the agenda. I was feeling very efficient and virtuous, when around 5pm I got a call from my osteopath's office manager, whom I'd called to change an appointment. In passing, she mentioned that of course she couldn't reschedule for Friday because of the snowstorm that's coming.

"WHAT?!?!?!" I shrieked.

"A big snowstorm," she replied. "Haven't you heard? We're supposed to get a foot of snow on Friday."

"AAAAH!!!" I shrieked again. I made an appointment for the 20th, slammed down the phone then checked the weather online. "WINTER STORM ADVISORY" blared the local report, with 6-12 inches predicted for Denver by Friday afternoon. I immediately went on the Frontier site to change my flight out. No dice: every one to DC for today read NOT AVAILABLE.

Then I called Frontier, and after sitting on hold for 20 minutes, a nice lady took down all my info, put me on hold some minutes more and then brightly announced that she'd booked me on an 8:40am flight to DC today.

"Um, could you put me on a later flight?" I asked, hoping that I could still go for the EMG (nerve torture) on my arm first thing and then head out to the airport.

She put me on hold a while longer then said, less brightly, "That's the last seat there is."

"OK, I'll take it," I said. Much to my wonder and relief, I didn't have to pay for the change.

By this time it was 6:20pm. I'd been slow and draggy all day, not a little depressed and worried about my arm. But as soon as I put down the phone I was in high gear; there was no time to think of anything other than what needed doing right then. First thing: Kick myself for not having washed the scuffed-up black pants I'd bought two weeks ago and left in a bag on my dresser.

In the next 5-1/2 hours, I:

• did 4 loads of laundry, including said pants
  
• made & ate a roast chicken dinner (the menfolk cleaned up)
• finished editing my presentation & printed it out
• printed out handouts and attendees' name tags
• sent a flurry of emails re DC & LA workshops
  
• updated the BP101 website and Publishers Marketplace page to include June LA workshop
• called people to set up meetings in DC today & Friday
• called doctors' answering services to cancel today's appointments
  
• packed
• collapsed into bed
  

MORAL: Don't be like me! Get ready before the last minute and always have business materials organized and a good outfit ready to go.

P.S. There's no place like Washington in the spring. I'm so happy to see trees and hills again!

P.P.S. Friday: Denver didn't get one single flake of snow. Meanwhile I had a wonderful day strolling around Georgetown.

Was It Good for You?

It's been some six years since the Supreme Court ruled in favor of freelance writers in the landmark New York Times v Tasini. As a gung-ho member of the American Society of Journalists & Authors and the Authors Guild, I followed directions and stood firm for my rights and those of my fellow writers.

What did it get me? On the plus side, I received a few hundred dollars as the result of a settlement with the Authors Guild. On the minus side, I was summarily drummed out of Publishers Weekly, for which I'd been a contributing editor for 14 years.

To get around the Tasini decision, PW (and I assume all Reed publications) required freelancers to sign a paper relinquishing all rights to their previous book reviews, with no compensation. Following the ASJA line, I refused. A few days later, I received a curt note from the editor-in-chief (then Nora Rawlinson), telling me that since I wouldn't give up the rights to my reviews, PW no longer had need of my services--in any capacity whatsoever.

What to do? PW had me over a barrel. It was the major source of my freelance income; I'd been compiling the spring & fall announcements for more than a decade, which brought in a tidy sum of money. After a few days of soul-searching, advice seeking, hemming and hawing, I caved. I signed the #%@! agreement.

And then, guess what? My services were still no longer needed. So much for my life as a scab.

I'm wondering how other writers fared under Tasini. Send me your stories.

For one opinion, see: The Tasini Decision: A Victory for No One.

Don't Try This at Home!

In Escape POD GalleyCat writes about an author who self-published his memoir after he got a lousy contract from a trade publisher.

Here's the weird part: Said author had an agent who apparently didn't negotiate the contract at all.

Weirder still: Said author hired a publicist to send out a press release about his book touting the raw deal he got from the trade house.

My first thought when reading this was WTF?*

My second was that this author is going to have to stick with iUniverse from now on, as I can't imagine an agent or trade publisher would want to touch him after he broadcast his ugly little backstory.

*© Miss Snark

Stop me if you've heard this one...or, Cool Hand Luke Was Right*

This just in from an author:

I've been setting up publicity events right and left, and thought I should let my inhouse publicist know, since it's the wise and proper thing to do.

I email her and it bounces back to me. Hmmm. This is new. I email again, on the off chance her mail box is full. Bounceback. I email her assistant, and when I get no reply from her either, I email my agent.

My agent looks into it and finds out that, yep, three weeks ago my inhouse publicist left for another house. So she makes an inquiry to my editor, asking if I've been orphaned, and I finally get an email from my former inhouse publicist's assistant, who is now my publicist, swearing up and down that she replied to my email, she took over the book weeks ago when my former inhouse publicist left, and apologises for the fact that no one sent me any kind of missive to let me know that publicist #1 was leaving in the first place.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't good communication skills part of the publicist's job description? So very frustrating! But I've been lovely and polite through it all, so...onward.

*"What we have here is a failure to communicate!"

A Face for Lit Crit

Alex Kuczynski, the multi-surgically enhanced author of Beauty Junkies: Inside Our $15 Billion Obsession With Cosmetic Surgery, wrote about A Model Summer, the debut novel by model Paulina Porizkova in yesterday's NYTBR.

Ms K comes out with claws blazing:

...Porizkova makes her own contribution to a literary sub-sub-genre, books by supermodels. Most of these get bad reviews, either because they’re truly awful, like Naomi Campbell’s “Swan,” which won Seventeen magazine’s Super-Cheesy Award, or — call me a conspiracy theorist — because jealous book critics aren’t tall and gorgeous, so they try to wield their puny amount of power to establish some sort of moral order.

GalleyCat rightly calls her out and adds a challenge:

Setting aside how this wounds me personally, I have to take that (much like Gawker did) as a challenge to the book reviewing community, many of whom are quite fabulous (although I have no idea how tall anybody is, really)... Who else do you know, especially outside New York City, that puts the lie to Kuczynski's jocularly cruel generalization?

I wouldn't characterize Ms K's generalization as "jocularly cruel." I would call it self-revelatory. Maybe she tries to establish some sort of order with her writing--notice I don't call it a "review" (more about that later)--but I would call it a pecking order, not a moral one. She comes off as the jealous one, proof that all life is high school.

I would never call myself gorgeous, though I still look OK if the lights aren't too bright. However, I am tall (6 feet in flats). I'm always the tallest woman at the National Book Critics Circle meetings. In fact, I'm often the tallest woman everywhere I go. (I stay away from sporting events, so I'm never around any female basketball players.) I'll bet I'm taller than Alex Kuczynski.

But guess what? An author's looks and height don't matter when I'm reading a book for review. Before I write, I don't look at the press kit and author headshot, if there even is one (not usual with galleys). And how can you tell height from a headshot anyway?

Beyond all this, what really struck me about Kuczynski's piece is that it's a book report (and a catty one at that), not a book review. After 850 words, most of them spent on plot recitation, I had no idea of whether Porizkova's book was well written or worth reading. A poor model indeed.

Out of the Vault: BEA 2004 Program Report

So what if all the below programs took place three years ago? The information & advice offered are still golden, especially:

• Manage expectations.
• Yelling doesn't work.
• If you want to be a successful author, you must show up dressed like one.
• Your writing career shouldn't exist in a vacuum.
• Spend part (or nearly all) of your advance on publicity.
• To reach media and your audience, you must be passionate, persistent and personal.
• THANK YOUR PUBLICIST!

Editor & Bookseller Buzz Forum
Nora Rawlinson of Publishers Weekly did a good job of keeping things on time and--wonder of wonders!--for once the panelists actually spoke into their microphones. However, most did not do as instructed: talk about 2 "sleeper" books for fall. I think the only true sleepers may be the MacAdam Cage titles and WEST OF THEN from S&S. Interesting that MacAdam Cage's Anika Streitfeld was the only woman on the panel--and also the youngest, and that only 3 of the 14 authors are women (one with a male cowriter). Umm, which 51% of the population buys something like 80% of the books in this country?

Little, Brown - Michael Pietsch:

• BLINK: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking by Malcom Gladwell (Jan.) Great tagline: "Don't think, blink!"
  
• THE HA-HA by Dave King (Jan.) I know what a ha-ha is because I read Jane Austen. Ha ha!

MacAdam Cage - Anika Streitfeld:

• HOW TO BE LOST by Amanda Eyre Ward (Oct)
  
• PINKERTON'S SISTER by Peter Rushforth (spring '05)
  

Penguin - Scott Myers:

• WE ARE ALL THE SAME: The Life and Death of Nkosi Johnson by Jim Wooten (Nov.) About a 12-year-old African boy who died of AIDS.

Random House - Dan Menaker:

• ELEVENTH MONTH, ELEVENTH DAY, ELEVENTH HOUR by Joseph Persico (Nov., of course). About the end of WWI.
  
• THE LAMENTS by George Hagen (June, i.e., now)
  

ReganBooks - Cal Morgan:

• AMERICAN SOLDIER by Tommy Franks. Some sleeper!
  
• An 11-book (fantasy? mystery? thriller?) series by some author I never heard of. Zzzz.
  
• CITIZEN VINCE by Jess Walter (Sept.) About a wiseguy who goes into the witness protection program and gets into trouble again.
  
• HOW TO MAKE LOVE LIKE A PORN STAR: A Cautionary Tale by Jenna Jameson (Aug.) It was pretty funny when Morgan said of Jameson, "Well, of course everyone is pretending that they don't know who she is," and most of the people, including Your Humble Correspondent, stared at him blankly until he explained that she's a billion-dollar-grossing porn star. The room was at least 50% women. What do we know from porn stars? (Or from making a billion dollars, for that matter.) Incidentally, the guy sitting next to me hadn't heard of Jameson either, nor had my husband. But Morgan did get some laughs (incl. from YHC) when he said, perhaps ingenuously, that it was going to be a "Trojan Horse of a book." Oh, and here's a big surprise: She has a cowriter, Neil Strauss.
  

Simon & Schuster - David Rosenthal:

• WOLVES EAT DOGS: An Arkady Renko Novel by Martin Cruz Smith (Nov.) A sequel to GORKY PARK.
  
• THE KNOW-IT-ALL: One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World by A.J. Jacobs (Oct.)
  
• WEST OF THEN: A Mother, A Daughter, and a Journey Past Paradise by Tara Gray Smith (Oct.)

How to Work Best with Your Authors' In-house Publicity & Marketing Departments
This was sponsored by the AAR (Association of Authors' Representatives), and I thought for sure would be packed. Instead it was sparsely attended, which was a shame because the panelists were excellent speakers and shared a lot of vital information. I was very gratified to hear them say some of the same things I tell people at the Book Promotion 101 workshops. (My rule: If two people who don't know each other give the same advice, it must be right.)

(Ms) Pat Eisman, publicity director(?), Scribner:
Scribner (div. of Simon & Schuster) puts out 125-150 books per season, with a "tiny" publicity staff of 7. They devise a master plan for each book, from the shelf to the cash register. Each publicist reads every book s/he handles & works on some 30(!) per season--past, present & future titles. The first question they ask is, "Who buys this book?" The publisher--not the publicity director--decides how many cities an author will tour based on prediction of advance sales. The publicity director calls: the three morning national TV shows, New York Times, major reviewers. The books are presented to NPR. The problem with book coverage these days is, "fame vs. the rest of us"; i.e., the media pay attention to celebrities first.

The typical author's complaint, "'They did nothing,' isn't true." Each book gets a galley mailing: 125+ galleys w/ a letter. They call PW, Kirkus & the major dailies; send out 300-450 review copies. They do few press releases and use few freelance publicists. "The campaign never ends. We chase books. We worked on ANGELA'S ANSHES for 5 years."

Important points for agents (and authors):
1) Manage expectations. "I'm paid to be enthusiastic, but enthusiasm should never be confused with 'got it done.'"
2) Communicate via email.
3) Yelling doesn't work.
4) The publicity department is the link. Send them video & audio of the author. Save press clips.
5) It takes six man-hours to set up a book signing.

Louise Brocket, publicity, W.W. Norton:
Releases 250-300 books a year; 50% original hardcover, 50% paperback. Eight in publicity department; each person handles 4-5 new titles per month. They prepare early on & look carefully at the author questionnaire. A statement on why the author wrote the book is very helpful, as is an author Q&A. Publicists send out: galleys 4-5 months pre-pub; a "very generous" mailing with press release, bio, etc. They pitch to all major book review sections and media. "Fiction authors need a nonfiction hook. Fiction and nonfiction are pitched in an increasingly similar way."

Lisa Gallagher, marketing director(?), Wm. Morrow: Morrow/HarperCollins is different from other publishers, in that the publicity and sales departments are involved in acquisitions. Hence, "If a book is acquired, we are passionate about it." She speaks to the publicity director "25 times a day." Morrow does 3 lists a year, each with 45-50 original titles. They prefer not to work with independent publicists.

Jeff Seroy, VP marketing & publicity, Farrar, Straus & Giroux:
"We publish authors, not books." Publish 150-175 new hardcovers a year. 7-1/2 in publicity department (the 1/2 person comes in 3 days/week). Books are assigned to publicists by affinity. They start publicity after the editor presents the book to the marketing and sales force (the "launch meeting"), approx. 10 months before pub date. They try to have the author in to talk about the book between the launch and post-launch meetings. They just did a pre-publication tour for a first author, who went to San Francisco with the agent and the publicist.

They use very few outside publicists, except maybe regionally. "It's no less work for us to have an independent publicist; sometimes it's more."

Advice to authors:
1) Have a realistic view of the publishing process and have feasible expectations. Build from there.
2) If you want to be a successful author, you must show up dressed like one. You must be good to go.
3) Your writing career shouldn't exist in a vacuum. Are you willing to write book reviews, articles for women's shelter magazines, NPR essays, op-ed pieces?
4) Ask when the launch meeting is.
5) Identify holidays & anniversaries that tie into the book.
6) Introduce yourself to local booksellers.
7) THANK YOUR PUBLICIST!

Making the First Novel Work
With:

• Lisa Tucker, author of THE SONG READER
  
• Megan Underwood, West Coast director, Goldberg-McDuffie Communications
• Craig Herman, marketing director(?), Simon & Schuster
• Mary Gay Shipley, owner, That Bookstore in Blytheville (Ark.)
• Moderated by Marly Rusoff, Tucker's agent
  

People said a lot of good stuff, but I didn't take many notes because I say much of the same stuff in my workshops. As I recall, Tucker's inhouse publicist was in the audience & she added some sage comments. Basically, they all stressed the importance of teamwork in making a book successful. Tucker certainly seems to have had the dream team, starting with her wonderful agent. This is especially remarkable for a paperback original, rather than a hardcover.

An important component in the book's success was that Rusoff (a former publicist at William Morrow & other houses) got a manuscript--or maybe it was a galley--to Shipley, who, despite her store's remote location, is legendary in the bookselling world for spotting hot titles, getting the word to other booksellers & reviewers, and handselling to her adoring customers.

Shipley noted that your local bookseller is far more likely to pay special attention to you and your book if you're a regular customer. So if you have a book in the works, stop buying from Amazon & start showing your face in your neighborhood bookstore.

Important points:
1) Spend part (or nearly all) of your advance on publicity.
2) Build author credibility by getting blurbs to go on the ARC (advance reading copy).
3) To reach media and your audience, you must be passionate, persistent and personal.

Out of the Vault: What I Did at BEA 2004 in Chicago

Wear coordinated outfits, walk & talk, exchange printed matter, walk & talk, eat, walk & talk, drink, walk & talk, ride in taxis & shuttle buses, walk & talk, go to restaurants & parties, walk & talk, sleep (very little). Repeat.

Chicago is a lot more low-key than LA, so there weren't as many...um...unusual types in attendance this year, but here are some memorable moments:

On my way out the hall one day, I spied a blonde woman in a beige pencil skirt and matching tank top with boobs the size of dodgeballs. At first glance, I thought it was a publicity stunt and that she actually had stuffed balls down her shirt, but then I realized that they were for real (or attached, anyway). At second glance, I thought, "Her poor back!" At third glance, I thought, "Porn star." And in fact, some publisher was touting a book of porn star self-portraits, with what appeared to be that woman on the cover cradling her bare dodgeballs.

In the atrium outside the show hall entrance, there was a guy dressed as a ram, complete with huge curving horns, fur-clad legs, repulsively hairy back, and Ares symbols on his arms. Blech. He was doing "interpretive dancing" (BLECH!) to promote Wild Animus, apparently a self-published book. There were also a couple of "protesters" carrying pickets denouncing the book. Someone told me that the author had taken a whole booth, complete with huge color transparency backdrop. What a waste of money. Sure, he got noticed, but not in a good way. (My correspondents tell me that he left piles of his book at book festivals around the country, and it is laughably awful.)

Ditto for the guy who walked around with a toilet seat around his neck promoting his self-published book. I think he and goat guy should have gotten together.

At the rockin' Publishers Group West party, where bluesman Lonnie Brooks played at least two hours without a break, there was a bleached blonde who didn't appear to be in publishing. Don't ask me how I knew; I just have a sixth sense about these things. Maybe it was her outfit: A sparkly black satin bikini top with matching hip-hugging pleated mini-skirt and a string of bling trailing from her navel. For some reason she struck up a conversation with me (I wasn't wearing my show badge), as follows:

Blonde: I wrote a book! (Hands me hot-pink business card with pix of her scantily clad self striking naughty poses.)

Me: Really?!

Blonde: It's about how I went to LA to be in Playboy. I wanted to be Miss April or Miss May so I got breast implants.

Me: I know.

Blonde: But to get into Playboy you have to sleep with Hugh Hefner. But I...[dramatic pause]...wouldn't sleep with Hef! So I was banned from L.A.!

Me: Oh well!

Blonde: You're not from L.A., are you?

Me: No.

Blonde: Where are you from?

Me: New York, originally.

Blonde: Don't you have to sleep with people to get a job?

Me: I guess it depends on your line of work.

Blonde: I can send you my book.

Me: No thanks, I have your card.

(For the curious, her website is www.jillann.com [now gone, alas]. And she has smaller implants than the ones pictured on her card. Downsizing indeed affects everyone.)

As reported in Publishers Marketplace: "A panel discussion on 'Bibliocide' featuring reviewing bad boy Dale Peck--who writes lengthy essays about why generally admired literary fiction writers 'suck'--squaring off against assertive Philadelphia Inquirer book critic Carlin Romano left audience members shouting at the panel to suggest something productive rather than brawling."

Going in, I wanted to smack Peck. To my surprise, he turned out to be reasonable and mild-mannered--rather sweet, actually--though a bit disingenuous about his criticism and its effects. Going out, I wanted to smack Romano, who came off as a self-important, bullying blowhard. I called out that they should take it outside. A couple of booksellers, one of whom was near tears, stood up and gave 'em hell. I've never seen such a fiasco of a program. At least O'Reilly & Franken last year were entertaining. This was just plain dumb--though I did have a great conversation about it next day with Peck and Book Babes Ellen Heltzel (who was on the panel) and Margo Hammond.

I went to a couple of fantastic panels: "Making the First Novel Work: What the Publisher, Author and Bookstore can Do," moderated by agent Marly Rusoff; and for agents (applicable to authors, too), "How to work best with your authors' in-house publicity & marketing departments." See program report in the next post.

While waiting on line in the security screening area at O'Hare airport, I had plenty of time to examine a painting made by local teenagers. One of the panels sports this message, which after slogging through the aisles at BEA struck me as particularly apt: "Look out Toni Morrison cause my writing is fantastic and it's going to take me to the top."

Out of the Vault: BEA Dispatches of Yore (LA)

I'm cleaning up and rearranging my cyberspace. In so doing, I'm moving my BookExpo Dispatches from Book Promotion 101 to here.

Where has the time gone? My copious notes from BEA 2005 are still sitting in a notebook somewhere, I missed BEA '06 due to my equestrian fiasco and now here comes BEA '07. Oh well...

Report from BEA 2003, Los Angeles

Darling, it was just TOO fabulous! Mwah! Mwah! (air kiss noises...)

I met movie stars & famous writers & famous editors & ate at divoon restaurants. Wed. night [May 28], Jeff Goldblum wowed the crowd at a club on lower Wilshire Blvd, where he played piano in a jazz band--and had a string of gorgeous, leggy women glued to him during breaks. At The Grill in Beverly Hills on Friday evening, billionaire Kirk Kerkorian was in the next booth with his "niece" (1/3-1/4 his age) & Larry King walked by. (His jawline is waaay too sharp; he's obviously had some work done. But darling, who hasn't?).

Oh right, I was talking about BookExpo...

The educational sessions on Thursday [May 29] were excellent overall, especially "The Art of Crafting the Perfect Pitch" with book publicist Kim Dower (aka "Kim from L.A.") and actor/media coach Bill Applebaum, who's her partner in Perfect Pitch Productions [now Kim-from-L.A. Literary & Media Services]. What a dynamite pair! They worked with three authors on their pitches, then did a fake morning drive-time radio show with a fourth author that was simply amazing.

LA radio & TV producers were on 2 panels moderated by Kim, which were also stellar. Note: Almost none of them reads Radio & TV Interview Report. They don't need to, as they're inundated with requests from authors & publicists (150+ emails & 50+ phone messages a day). Someone told me later that RTIR is mostly used in the smaller markets.

I left during the TV panel to go to the SRO "Editor & Bookseller Buzz Forum." Don't believe the media reports: It was a real snore. And is it so hard to speak into a microphone? There was one conveniently placed for each of the 6 editors. After the 2nd made her practically inaudible presentation, I yelled out that we couldn't hear. Then Norton's Starling Lawrence sort of got near his mike and went on and on...and ON...about a March '03 book on the heroic dogsled team that brought the diphtheria serum to Nome in the 1920s (BTW, covered in a Fall '02 Walker & Co children's picture book). Great, except the editors were told to talk about books that are coming this fall, not ones that are out already.

Knopf's Sonny Mehta (speaker #5) announced to the crowd of top media and influential booksellers, "I have nothing prepared to say," then proceeded to mumble a laundry list of fall authors: "There is the new Toni Morrison, there is the new Gabriel Garcia Marquez, which is still being translated..." For this we needed to shlep to the LA Convention Center? The same information is in the Knopf fall catalog sitting in a pile on my office shelf. Claire Wachtel of HarperCollins, who came last, was the only one of the pack who: (a) followed instructions, (b) didn't need training by Perfect Pitch AND (c) spoke into the damn mike so everyone could hear without holding their breath.

High point for me was on Sat. morning [May 30], when I got to chat with Carl Reiner for 2 minutes (after standing in line for 30) while he signed his new kid's book at the Little, Brown booth. (I figured the line would be shorter there than for his memoir at I forget which other pub.) I'll treasure it always.

I was at the Saturday slugfest...er...Book & Author Luncheon with Molly Ivins, Bill O'Reilly and Al Franken. Wow! What a show! My stomach is still in knots. Afterwards, I patted Pat Schroeder on the back (a friend who saw it on CSPAN said she had that "deer in the headlights" look) and shook Franken's hand before he was whisked away by his handlers.

MJ Rose and Jacqueline Deval's "Buzz Your Book" program on Sat afternoon was very good and the two ladies were a font of clever ideas and useful advice. However, the audience was larded with many of the same strident, needy and naive self-published authors who had attended the Thursday programs. They raise their hands to speak, but instead of asking a question, launch into a QVC infomercial for their books. After the 3rd one started her pitch I just had to leave. Besides being boring, many of them need stylists as well as therapists. It's hard to take an "expert" seriously when she has streaky orange-red hair and is wearing a blouse to match.

And speaking of style, I would have been SO much happier if the security guards had banned belly buttons instead of wheeled briefcases. OK (in small doses) on Janet Jackson or some other well-toned celebrity at a concert or movie premier. Unappetizing and wildly inappropriate on the flabby woman trudging down the concourse to the West Hall; worse, she was also wearing a sagging halter top. Blech. (And she wonders why she can't get an agent for her book!)

Saturday evening I met some folks (one of whom aptly remarked, "L.A. is the cleavage capital of the world") for drinks at the ultra-retro-moderne Downtown Standard Hotel. Afterwards, three of us went to dinner at the fabulous Il Cielo in Beverly Hills, where--surprise!--Harlequin was having their fabu party. While waiting for our table, had a great time chatting with other publishing types, then watching their faces crumple ("Oh, you mean you weren't...invited?") when they realized that we were on our way IN and not on our way OUT with them to the next fabu soiree.

The Sunday Book & Author Breakfast w/ Michael Moore, Madeleine Albright, Walter Isaacson and Maxine Hong Kingston was just as enthralling as the Infamous Lunch, though much more polite and civilized. Isaacson is a terrific speaker and moderator; funny too. At the end, Albright said that she and Moore might go out on the road as a "tag team," which elicited enthusiastic whoops from the audience, including Your Humble Correspondent.

Most surreal moment: Dr. Ruth, in a flowery mauve dress, signing her memoir at a university press booth on Sunday, when a woman in a sci-fi outfit (black spandex catsuit, black spike heels, 2-foot-high black cylindrical hat, purple face & 2-inch green eyelashes) asks can they have their picture taken together. Seems she's a big fan. I helpfully point out that Ms. Bizarro's face matches Dr. Ruth's frock. Neither takes any notice.

Join Today!

Ad in a Pacific Northwest publication:

Writer's Critic Group: Looking for writer's serious about the craft with an aim to publish.

(Seriousness about spelling and punctuation strictly optional.)

Happy April 1!

I'm joke-free today, but Ed Champion has been very busy. The first of his hot news stories is a scoop on how Jane Smiley is giving up writing about horses.

Via the inestimable Miss Snark, I came across this important press release: Google announces free in-home wireless broadband service.

My Son the Rapper (and Political Satirist)

The smartasses at SomethingAwful.com are at it again. In response to the appearance of MC Rove at the Radio & Television Correspondents Association dinner, the SA crew have been posting raps for Karl Rove (poster boy for white guys who can't dance). The Boy Wonder composed these, which I think are brilliant:

Allow me to reintroduce myself
My name is ROVE, R to the OV
Used to hate liberals in the OC
Now I'm fightin the DMC, Rove!
Right out the gate I wanna kill Hussein
All those bombs I'd make it rain

With so much drama in GOP
It's kinda hard bein Karl R-O-V-E
But I, somehow, some way
Keep bustin on them 'crats like every single day
Well I might just get a few contributions (yeah)
After '06 I need some retribution (yeah)
Eight in the evening and the fundraiser's still rakin' in dough
Bitches payin eight grand for some chicken and potatoes

If you havin girl problems I feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems and Clinton ain't one
I got 'crats crushin my strategy in 06
Tryin to put me down just for kicks
Bitches like Kerry want me to testify
He just tryin to rectify

So transcribe this: fuck off, you lost
Obama tryin to make a run for it
All the contributors with their money, pourin it
Best listen up, you ain't no Lincoln
Closest you'll get is lookin at mine
With the tail light blinkin

Colorado: All Weather, All the Time

Yesterday:

Jenny playing her favorite game. I'm the pitcher.

Today:

My backyard.

P.S. The rain that was predicted all last weekend for the VaBook Festival didn't materialize. (Whew!) But in Denver it poured all day Saturday--the first time in many months. And like this morning's 6 inches of snow (which is still coming down), it wasn't forecast.

Quote for the Ages

I'm beginning to wonder if being young is all it's cracked up to be. We dream of youth. We remember it as a time of nightingales and valentines, and what are the facts? Maladjustment, near idiocy and a series of low-comedy disasters. That's what youth is. I don't see how anyone survives it.

Cary Grant in "Monkey Business" (1952); screenplay by Ben Hecht, Charles Lederer and I.A.L. Diamond. (I suspect Diamond wrote the above, as it's reminiscent of dialogue in films he wrote with Billy Wilder.)

Back in Ol' Virginny II (More on VaBook Fest)

Audience at my "Book Publicity Basics" panel. Some people are serious note-takers!

Continuing with my excellent adventures at the VaBook Festival, last Saturday I woke up early to have breakfast with a friend at the incomparable Albemarle Baking Company. It's as good--or better!--as any bakery in New York, maybe even Paris. I've yet to find one remotely like it in Denver. SIGH....

I'd say I woke up bright and early, only it was heavily overcast and correspondingly humid. My aching head and pounding sinuses reminded me why I was eager to move away from Charlottesville. I love the people and the scenery speaks to me like noplace else, but oh, the pain and puffy-eyed dullness!

A handful of vitamins, a couple cups of serious coffee and a marvelous apricot brioche got me into shape to face the masses (well, about 80 people) at my 10am "Book Publicity Basics" program. The panelists were indie publicists Lauren Cerand, Elizabeth Shreve and Gene Taft; Callie Oettinger cancelled due to a wicked upper respiratory infection (I persuaded her to stay home & keep her germs to herself, for which I was roundly thanked). There was much good discussion, and all three stressed that authors need to be 1) REALISTIC, 2) professional and 3) prepared. The audience (very few of whom walked out, to my great relief) soaked it all up, asked a lot of questions and then stormed the podium afterward for one-on-one with the panelists.

Next I moderated Sam Horn's "Here's the Pitch," which frankly needed very little from me as Sam is a force of nature. She's quiet and softspoken till she picks up a microphone and then...vavoom! Sam told everyone to take notes and they obeyed. Not a single person walked out. After imparting the secrets of crafting and presenting a winning pitch, she had five volunteers from the audience stand up and give theirs.

I've been doing pitch sessions in my Book Promotion 101 workshops for nearly 5 years, but still I never cease to be amazed at how poorly writers speak about their work. (Think of Miles in "Sideways" when he's asked to describe his novel.) One guy wouldn't even say whether his book was fiction or nonfiction. I and more than half the audience thought it was nonfiction (I took a vote). Eventually, I wormed out of him that it was in fact a novel. When I asked him to describe it more, he told me "You'll have to read the book." WARNING: Don't try this at home, or in a TV/radio studio. The last time an author told me that, I killed the magazine piece I was going to write about him and wrote up an interview with another author.

After that, I had lunch with my friend Stefanie at the Omni. The menu stated "Soup of the Moment," which got us laughing. I asked the waiter, "What's the soup this moment?" "Beef vegetable," he answered in a thick Slavic accent (much of the help there seems to be imported from the former Eastern Bloc), "but next moment it's onion." He got a big tip.

At 4pm, I went to the Agents' Roundtable, which as always got a crowd of at least 200. Panelists were Sloane Harris of ICM, Simon Lipskar of Writers House, Deborah Grosvenor of Grosvenor Literary Agency and Jeff Kleinman of Folio Literary Agency. The panelists kept cracking up because Kleinman kept cracking wise; however they were quite serious when it came down to business.

Main message points:
1) Good writing trumps all.
2) Do research & find out which agents represent your type of book.
3) Write a crackling query letter. (See #1.)

Then I went to the festival reception, where I drank much water and shmoozed with old friends and new acquaintances. After that, Mary Sharratt and I had dinner with Sam Horn and her son Tom, who daringly wore a Virginia Tech cap (Charlottesville is home to arch-rival UVa). Tom answered a question that's been bugging me and countless others for many years: Why does Hawaii have an Interstate highway? (Answer: For the military.)

After THAT (yes, I was still standing, though a bit hoarse), I made a quick sweep of the Omni bar, where I chatted with MJ Rose, Katherine Neville and Simon Lipskar, who were at a table together; and then bade a weary goodnight to the even wearier festival assistant director, Kevin McFadden, who was counting down the hours till his 30th birthday.

Sunday morning I was up early for coffee with Mary Sharratt and Louis Bayard, author of THE PALE BLUE EYE, a marvelous historical mystery-thriller starring a youthful Edgar Allan Poe. From there, I went for breakfast with friends at their peaceful spread in Ivy, then took my favorite drive of all--through Free Union and Earlysville--to have lunch with other friends in Forest Lakes, conveniently near the airport.

I printed out my boarding pass at the latter's home, but when I checked in not two hours later, I was told that the Northwest flights I had confirmed were "grossly oversold." Instead of going on a tiny prop plane to Detroit, I was switched to a Delta jet through Atlanta and then to Denver. I'd only bought the less-desirable Northwest fare because it was hundreds of dollars cheaper than on Delta. So I got the route I'd wanted in the first place, PLUS a bulkhead row all to myself from Atlanta to Denver, PLUS a $200 Delta voucher for my "inconvenience," PLUS I chowed down on fried chicken, collards & okra at the Atlanta airport.

And yes, I was exhausted on Monday. But I dug up and moved some plants anyway because, hey, it's spring and my sinuses were happy to be high and dry again.

Chris Greene Lake Park, where I hung out for a happy half-hour when I was bumped for a later flight.

Life (or Death) Sentence & Pronoun Abuse

Stanley Fish has a sprightly Op-Ed piece in today's NYT: Murder, I Read. (Sarah Weinman at Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind annotates the entire piece--and filets Fish in the process.)

You’re at the mystery section of an airport bookstore and the loudspeaker has just announced that your flight is in the late stages of boarding. You have maybe three or four minutes to make a choice. (That is your assignment, if you choose to accept it.) How do you go about deciding?

By reading the first sentence of the book. (Well, duh!) He gives some examples of real-life losers, then offers this as a near-winner:

“Stromose was in high school when he met the boy who would someday murder his wife and son.”

Pretty good, huh? Fish goes on:

High marks for compression, information and what I call the “angle of lean.” A good first sentence knows about everything that will follow it and leans forward with great force, taking you with it. As you read this one you already want to find out (a) what was the relationship between the two in high school (b) what happened that turned a “boy” into a murderer, and (c) what sequence of events led to his murdering these particular people? The only thing wrong is that the author is as impressed with the sentence as he wants you to be; it is written with a snap and a click of self-satisfaction.

Actually, the only thing wrong is that the sentence--from T. Jefferson Parker's new STORM RUNNERS--has a glaring grammatical error. (I leave the comments about Fish's snaps and clicks to Weinman.) Did the boy later murder his own wife and son, or Stromose's? How the hell did that imprecise "his" get by Parker's editor? Or the William Morrow copy editor? Or the PW reviewer? Or Stanley Fish? Or Sarah Weinman? I know I sound like an old schoolmarm, but does no one care about good grammar and precise language anymore?

[OK, rant over.]

On the other hand, Fish makes a statement so important that it bears repeating:

A good first sentence knows about everything that will follow it and leans forward with great force, taking you with it.

Damn straight! Wannabe writers, such as some who comment on Miss Snark, kvetch that agents often don't read very far into manuscripts before rejecting them. Well, yeah. That's because if the writing is bad at the beginning--where, presumably that's where it's best--there's no reason to read any further. Jeff Kleinman made this point at the Agents' Roundtable at the VaBook Festival last Saturday.

When I read slush, I could tell if a manuscript was any good by its first paragraph. I'm sure that almost any agent or editor would say the same.

Back in Ol' Virginny I

Last Thursday thru Sunday I was at the Virginia Festival of the Book, held in my most recent (and keenly missed) home town of Charlottesville. From the time I hit the ground in VA at 4pm, almost every waking moment was scheduled.

From the cute little Charlottesville-Albemarle Regional Airport, I went directly to the Cville Barnes & Noble. There, consulting client Lynne Olson, author of TROUBLESOME YOUNG MEN: The Rebels Who Brought Churchill to Power and Helped Save England (just out from FSG), was on a panel about the build-up to World War II. The audience was mostly older and male, some of whom had very definite ideas about history, which they expounded upon at great length during the Q&A session and one-on-one during the booksigning session afterward. I thought the moderator was going to have ask them to take it outside. The only more opinionated and contentious book festival audience I've seen was at a Civil War panel. Those guys know what happened in every single freaking second of the Woe-wuh (as it's pronounced in the South) and are only too eager to share their knowledge.

Thursday evening I went to the synagogue (there's only one in Cville) for "Repeating the Past: Historical Fictions, Present Day Truths" with Katharine Weber (Triangle), Gabriel Brownstein (The Man from Beyond) and Michael Lowenthal (Charity Girl). I felt that we should have said a barucha or two, as the panelists were Jewish and practically everyone in the audience was a temple member. (A conspicuously goyische couple--she was in a flashy panne velvet ensemble--left halfway through.) Weber et al. exemplified how authors should perform: read clearly and with feeling, speak intelligently and SUCCINCTLY, interact with each other, express admiration for each others' writing, crack wise.

Friday morning I had a breakfast meeting, then an appointment with my homeopath, then a fabulous Literary Ladies Luncheon, followed by an impromptu drive out to beautiful Lake Albemarle (SIGH...how I miss it!) with an LLLer. At 5pm, I met Mary Sharratt (The Vanishing Point) and Peter Orner (The Second Coming of Mavala Shikongo) for coffee, then we had our "Displaced Persons" panel at 6:00. Their books are wildly different: Mary's is about a 17th century English girl who goes to the wilds of Maryland in search of her older sister; Peter's is about a boys' school in drought-stricken rural Namibia a few years ago. I didn't put the panel together; still, we managed to find common--and fertile--ground between the two authors and their works. When I (uncharacteristically) ran out of questions to ask, the audience supplied some good ones; Mary and Peter had a real conversation too, which doesn't always happen during a "panel discussion." No one walked out and people bought books afterward, so we all left happy.

From there, I went to dinner at Bashir's Taverna with Mary, Ken Foster (The Dogs Who Found Me), Aimee Liu (GAINING: The Truth About Life After Eating Disorders), and agent Deborah Grosvenor and husband Ed. Ken and I got there early, so we staked out seats on the couch along one side of the massive table (everyone else sat on chairs). We had a long, leisurely dinner that was almost like being at home--only better, because I didn't have to serve the food, or worry that everyone was having a good time, or clean up.

I'm Ready for My Close-up, Ms. Talese!

"Can video save the literary star?" (oy!) is the lede in an article by Julie Bosman in today's NYT: Favorite Author Not on Tour? See the Movie. British writer Ian McEwan is featured in a 23-minute film, which will debut at BEA and then be shown at bookstores in the U.S., most notably Powell's in Oregon. Seems McEwan has "declined to do traditional bookstore appearances to promote his new novel," ON CHESIL BEACH, coming June 5 from the Nan A. Talese imprint at Doubleday.

Such films could eventually take the place of in-store book readings, which attract fewer attendees all the time, many booksellers say. “Some authors go to events and are really captivating personalities,” said Dave Weich, the marketing manager at Powell’s Books. “That does not describe most of them.”

Oh yeah, like some author with a non-captivating personality is going to sparkle on camera. And who but someone who's already a literary star (which by definition means an author who's already logged many bookstore appearances) can afford to make a film like McEwan's? And let's not forget shelling out for media coaching so said author can act "naturally."

Bosman seems to have overlooked the fact that authors have been doing A/V presentations for some time already. Companies such as authorbytes.com produce websites with streaming video and book "trailers."

Though it may be hard to pull in audiences for in-store author events, I don't think they'll be supplanted by videos. Readers want to see and interact with the real, live person who wrote the book that they cuddle up with for nights on end. And a TV screen can't write a personalized inscription.

Quote for the Ages

"Here is what we have to offer you in its most elaborate form -- confusion guided by a clear sense of purpose."

--Gordon Matta-Clark, from his handwritten notes on the subject of Anarchitecture, circa 1973-76; on display at the Whitney Museum through June 3.

The Big Picture (Bella's Excellent NY Adventure Part 5)

View from a senior publicist's office at Random House.

It's taken me so long to recap my New York trip two weeks ago, that now I'm ready to go on another trip--to my last hometown, Charlottesville, VA, for the Virginia Festival of the Book. More about that in later posts.

From Friday, March 9 thru Sunday, March 11, I:

• Met with a publicist at Random House.
• Visited a long-lost cousin of my father's on West End Avenue, where she's living alone and mostly forgotten (most of her friends and family are dead) in one of the last rental apartments in a fancy co-op building. She's been there 50 years, and I don't think her place has been painted in at least 30. She's a writer too; seems to run in the family.
  
• Had lunch with a literary agent at the Stage Delicatessen. It was one of my father's favorite hangouts, but now it's a shade--and a vastly overpriced one at that--of its former glory. I'll never go back.
• Met a friend at the Whitney to see the Gordon Matta-Clark exhibit, then had dinner. I can't remember the last time I saw art that made me see differently. This truly did.
• Gave my Book Promotion 101 workshop & went to an Irish pub afterwards with most of the attendees.
  
• Went to a preview of "Curtains" on Broadway. Got amazing seats, 6th row center, thanks to someone I know with the show. Wow! It's pure fluff, but also pure fun. In the first act, there's a great production number decrying critics, which fit right in with all the NBCC events.
• Went to Sardi's after the show. This was another of my father's haunts, and happily it did not disappoint--except that no one dresses up anymore. Tatty jeans and ratty sweaters go poorly with the lush red decor and gazillions of caricatures of actors and actresses lining the walls. As soon as we were seated, I remembered being there as a little girl, looking in vain for a cartoon of my dad. I had a lot of time to reflect throughout the night, because we were served caffeinated coffee instead of decaf. Which brings to mind one of my all-time favorite movie lines, from Preston Sturges's CHRISTMAS IN JULY: "If you can't sleep at night, it isn't the coffee, it's the bunk!"
  
• Had brunch with a longtime friend at Cafe Luxembourg. Love the Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon instead of Canadian bacon. And since I was in New York, I had to have cheesecake (oink!).
  
• Dragged my exhausted carcass to LaGuardia, where my flight was delayed--natch!-- fortunately by only a half-hour or so.

Backyard Drama

Mexican standoff, Denver style, between Max and a squirrel (aka "the one who got away").

Everyone's a Critic (Bella's Excellent NY Adventure, Part 5)

The NBCC Awards on March 8 were covered in great detail at Critical Mass and GalleyCat, so I won't go over them here. EXCEPT that I found Mary Gordon's introduction to Lifetime Achievement Award-winner John Leonard waaaay too long. And I was thrilled when the only book I'd read of the 30 nominated, THE INHERITANCE OF LOSS by Kiran Desai, won the fiction prize. Read it! It's wonderful.

No matter how crazy you are about the person you're extolling to an adoring audience, your speech shouldn't be longer than the honoree's. Which Gordon's definitely was. Much longer. Leonard's gracious acceptance, however, was a complete delight. So was that of Excellence in Criticism Award-winner Steve Kallman, which was shorter and thus perhaps sweeter. My only quibble is that Kellman's glowing red visage belied his description of book critics' "pallid faces." (He explained to me later that he lives in Austin, hence he's sunburned.)

A couple hundred people went to the NBCC's post-awards reception. The New School has a terrific auditorium, but the reception room--in another building connected by an atrium-- is a big, bare box with concrete floors, served by a single, slow elevator. Once again, I gave up on the elevator and joined the herd of people huffing and puffing up four lengthy flights of stairs. And once again, I missed the thickly carpeted and graciously FURNISHED (with actual chairs to sit on!) ground-floor reception room at NYU Law School, conveniently just across a wide hall from the auditorium.

However, I stood and schmoozed with the best of them, and enjoyed myself thoroughly. Along with several business cards, I gleaned a restaurant recommendation, so a friend and I ended up the evening with a fabu--and reasonably priced!--dinner at nearby Cafe Asean.

Hail Springtime!

'Moongold' apricot tree in my backyard.

My correspondents in New England may be buried under snow and ice, but in Denver it's spring...at least this week. Locals keep telling me that March and April are the snowiest months, and I've seen with my own eyes how quickly the weather changes here. One afternoon last April it was sunny and in the 70s; by 6pm it was in the low 40s and we were being pelted with 1/2" hailstones.

The last of the snow only melted in the backyard a week ago, after covering the ground for 2-1/2 months. I was sad to be the winner of the family bets on when the Unbearable Whiteness would be mostly gone. The Boy Wonder predicted February 8. I told him he was deluded; he said he was optimistic. I predicted March 15. BW told me I was a pessimist; I said I was a realist--as was proven. Darling Husband, who came in later, hedged and picked February 19. Loser.

So now that the snow is gone it's time to water the yard, as rain is but a concept here--something that happens in movies, or on TV, but hardly ever for real anymore. I'm almost looking forward to the thundershowers that are predicted for the Virginia Festival of the Book this weekend. Almost.

Max takes a dust bath. Jenny tests the snow-free turf.

The Old Home Turf (Bella's Excellent NY Adventure, Part 4)

Glitz, not goombahs. Former site of the Ravenite Social Club, the Mafia hangout on Mulberry St. Photo by Sam Simpson.

After the NBCC luncheon on Thurs., March 8, I met a literary agent for tea at McNally Robinson Booksellers on Prince Street. How strange it felt to be there! It was like a dream: I knew the neighborhood and yet I didn't know it. The buildings and streets were mostly the same, but there were trendy little shops--and hordes of shoppers, even in the frigid cold--everywhere.

At the left end of the bookstore, where the cafe is now, there used to be a place that sold and slaughtered live chickens (referred to by some of us locals as "Chickenwald"). At the right end was a luncheonette. The mob-run garage next door on Mulberry, where the Ex used to park, is now an upscale grocery store.

Next door to that on the south--now a chichi clothing store--was the Ravenite Social Club, which I saw John Gotti and two hulking bodyguards stroll into one hot summer day. There used to be a Doberman that was always inside the Ravenite, day and night. It was suddenly gone one day, and I asked the guy hanging out by the door what happened to the dog. "He died," was the laconic answer. "Of natural causes?" I smirked. No response, but more than 20 years later I read that the Feds, who'd kept surveillance from an apartment across the street, accidentally overdosed the dog when they went to sneak in to search the club.

From my seat in the McNally Robinson cafe, I could see the window of my former apartment on Mott Street overlooking the graveyard of St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, immortalized in "Mean Streets." (Read this and weep: When I moved out in March of 1988, my rent--originally $175--was still under $300. And my bathtub was still in the kitchen. And I had thighs of steel from climbing five flights of stairs for 10 years.)

After happily thawing out over a pot of mint tea and Publishing Talk, I walked back to the New School. I peeked into the window of Fanelli's, my old hangout on Prince & Mercer, and was horrified to see someone with whom I'd had a romantic interlude occupying the same bar seat and black leather jacket as he had when we'd met 29 years ago. EEK! I scampered across the street toot sweet.

More changes: The Prince Street Post Office substation, home of the nastiest and slowest P.O. ladies EVER (they wore fuzzy bedroom slippers and moved like Tai Ch'i masters on 'ludes) is now an iPod store. One of the ever-changing boutiques just east of West Broadway is now Cleo & Puket, purveyor of scandalously priced leather goods. There were enormous SALE signs in the window so I went inside, as much to escape the cold as to buy anything. But after wiping my streaming eyes and nose, I found the Bargain of the Year: a black leather bag with a shoulder strap that zips apart so it can be worn as a backpack, for $69--on sale from $389. If there had been a price tag, I would have worn it like Minnie Pearl.

One thing that's unchanged is Soho Wines, still in the same spot on West Broadway that it was when the Ex and I bought a dozen bottles of Freixenet for our wedding party way back when. Same owner too, whom I saw through the window, standing in the same spot as always. Maybe you can go home again...

Who ISN'T Sorry Now!

There's an interview in today's NYT with author Lionel Shriver: After Lean Times, Prizes and Not One Apology. Along with shedding her birth name of Margaret Ann, Shriver also cast off the "feminine" habit of undervaluing herself.

Her observation that women — meaning her fellow [Orange Prize] nominees — are generally “uncomfortable with naked ambition, trained to have low expectations, embarrassed by head-to-head competition, and virtually obliged to act abashed when they win,” was seen as embarrassingly direct.

...Ms. Shriver made no excuses then and makes none now. “I’m as capable as anyone of manipulative self-deprecation,” she said recently, speaking in her apartment in South London. “It’s obviously a ploy, but I don’t think it’s an obligation. I do think I have the reputation increasingly as someone who is insufferably arrogant. I don’t want to be.”

If it was Mr. Lionel, instead of Ms., you can bet that Shriver would be hailed as "confident" instead of arrogant.

“...a lot of it has to do with the fact that I’m an American. Perhaps, owing to my nationality, I tend to be more forthright and less apologetic. For Pete’s sake, I have been utterly obscure for most of my life. I’m supposed to apologize now? No.”

Hooray! Though I shudder to think that English women are even more apologetic than Americans.

(On the other hand, the Brits are masters of aggressive apology: Think of John Cleese as Basil Fawlty, simultaneously cringeing and sneering over his despised guests in "Fawlty Towers." I used to channel him when dealing with obnoxious customers in my waitressing days.)

Who's Sorry Now

Women (especially white ones, I've noticed) are constantly apologizing for themselves. We apologize whether or not we've done something wrong; sometimes even when we haven't had anything to do with whatever it is we're apologizing for. Everything is somehow our fault--or at least we feel it is. It's our responsibility to make everyone happy; we're to blame if they're not, no matter the reason.

We're also sorry for our opinions, and sorry for not being qualified to voice them. Because, of course, we're never smart enough, or accomplished enough, or important enough. Or pretty enough, or thin enough; or have big enough breasts, or slim enough hips, or small enough nose, or full enough lips. Or, or, or...

Basically, we're sorry for simply existing and taking up space. (Were women just as sorry a century or two ago, when their voluminous hoopskirts and enormous hats took up much more space?)

Two women I know--one a nice Southern Methodist girl who helms a prestigious cultural organization, the other a nice New York Jewish girl with a PhD and daunting CV--pepper their conversations with so many apologies that it gets to be annoying. Or funny.

Several times, I've told each of them to stop apologizing so much. Their response: "I'm sorry."

We were on a committee together, where most of their statements were prefaced with, "I'm sorry." Their one-on-one conversations took twice as long as necessary because they constantly interrupted each other to apologize. I wish I'd kept count of how many times each said "sorry"; I could have sent the tally to Guiness for the record book.

In my Book Promotion 101 workshops and consulting practice, I've noticed that women are constantly apologizing: for being inexperienced at publicity, for not writing the "right" kind of book, for reading poorly aloud, etc. One author--an excellent writer, tall, gorgeous, naturally blonde and pencil-slim (with year-old twins!)--apologized because her first novel, a futuristic urban fantasy, wasn't "literary."

I said to her and the class, "Don't apologize for your work. You write the book you need to write, the only way you know how. If you could write a 'literary' novel, you would."

I've been mulling over all this for the past couple of months, but my thoughts were crystallized this morning by a piece I read in the NY Times: Stop the Presses, Boys! Women Claim Space on Op-Ed Pages. The article focuses on author Catherine Orenstein, who leads workshops that train women to write opinion essays.

Of the next four women who spoke, three started with a qualification or apology. “I’m really too young to be an expert in anything,” said Caitlin Petre, 23.

“Let’s stop,” Ms. Orenstein said. “It happens in every single session I do with women, and it’s never happened with men.” Women tend to back away from “what we know and why we know it,” she said.

Next she asked the participants why they thought it important to write op-ed articles....She then proceeded to create ... [a] list that included fame, money, offers of books, television series and jobs.

The Rev. Dr. Katherine Hancock Ragsdale, an Episcopal priest and the executive director of Political Research Associates in Boston, frowned. “It’s not why I do it,” she said.

That, Ms. Orenstein declared, is a typically female response: “I never had a man say, ‘That’s not why I do it.’ ”

“What I want to suggest to you,” she continued, is that the personal and the public interests are not at odds, and “the belief that they are mutually exclusive has kept women out of power.” Don’t you want money, credibility, access to aid in your cause? she asked.

Cristina Page, a spokeswoman for Birth Control Watch in Washington, leaned forward. “I’ve never heard anyone say that before,” she said. “What you’ve just said is so important. It’s liberating.”

Absolutely!

It's time for women to channel Benjamin Disraeli:

"Never apologize, never explain."

And Erich Segal, with an important revision:

Having XX chromosomes means never having to say you're sorry.

Critical Confab (Bella's Excellent NY Adventure 3)

Author photographer extraordinaire Miriam Berkley snapped James Marcus, Ken Foster, Sarah Gold of PW and me at the National Book Critics Circle luncheon at Cafe Loup on March 8.

Last Thursday was the annual membership meeting of the National Book Critics Circle, followed by a luncheon, then awards and reception in the evening.

Those who accuse NBCC of being a secret society are partially right: it's the only professional organization I've belonged to that doesn't offer a membership directory. I received one when I joined 8 or so years ago, and every meeting since then I've asked when we're going to get a new one. It's always "in the works"; only now online instead of in print. I think I'll start calling for a secret handshake in the meantime.

Organizational irregularities aside, I love going to NBCC meetings because I so enjoy being with my tribe. I may not be writing reviews these days, but reviewers are my people and we speak the same language.

For the past few years, the second half of the annual meeting consists of a panel discussion with invited guests, moderated by an NBCC member. This year the topic was "The Mandarin at the Minimart: What We Talk about When We Talk about Mass Market Fiction."

Moderator Lev Grossman, Time book critic, sat on the far right. In a line next to him were Reagan Arthur, Little, Brown executive editor; Thom Geier, Entertainment Weekly book editor; Louisa Ermelino, Publishers Weekly reviews director; and on the far left, novelist Walter Mosley (with carton below).

Photo by Miriam Berkley

The discussion was quite lively, though it only addressed one of the stated topics: "Why does genre fiction get so little critical attention?" The others were glossed over: "Why do critics review genre fiction so condescendingly? Who are the hacks, and who are the pros, and how do we tell them apart – and do literary critics have the skills to do it?"

Mosley was the bad boy on the panel, though as usual he provided the most memorable (to me, anyway) lines. He berated NBCC three times for being all white--despite a clearly African-American member sitting directly opposite him. (I'd only seen photographs of the light-skinned Mosley, and before he was introduced to the group I thought he was some old Jewish guy.) The third time, board member Marcela Valdes called out from the back of the room, "We're not all white!" Mosley also made clear early and often how incensed he was at the bad review his "sex" book, Killing Johnny Fry, got from EW and others. Thom Geier was sitting well away from him--by prearrangement, I learned later.

The conversation turned to how books are classified. Various speakers noted that when certain authors write genre fiction, it's considered "literary." For example, Philip Roth's The Plot Against America is actually science fiction--and not very good sci-fi at that, several in the audience rumbled. Someone (Mosley?) said that science fiction is by our smartest writers, which was widely affirmed.

"Good writing is good writing," said Ermelino. Damn straight!

Arthur and Geier pointed out that PW and EW review genre fiction. It was generally agreed that romance sells whether it's reviewed or not. Sybil Steinberg, former fiction editor at PW, said that when she assigned reviews to romance enthusiasts, often the reviews' prose was as purple as the books'. My thought, which I didn't get to voice, is that "literary" reviewers look for good writing, whereas romance readers look for a satisfying story; they don't mind clunky prose. (I still remember a mastodon described as a "ponderous pachyderm" in Clan of the Cave Bear, which cured me of reading any more of the series.)

Mosley observed that he's only shelved in the Mystery section, never in African-American, whereas Toni Morrison is in Literature and Af-Am. "I would like to be in two sections," he said. Classifying books, he continued, "is pure capitalism: How do we sell it best?" In reference to his "straight" fiction, which doesn't receive the glowing reviews his mysteries do, he said, "You can only write one way. The publishing company won't support you if you write a different kind of book."

Chauncey Mabe, book editor of the South Florida Sun-Sentinel, opined that literary fiction itself is a genre and has its conventions. (Hmm, maybe.) He said that his paper reviews genre fiction--except for romance, which elicited grimaces and grumbles from around the room.

The best quote of the day came from Mosley: "Fiction grows in the mind of the reader. And gains in meaning."

Despite his sometimes inflammatory statements, Mosley acted the consummate promoter by offering to sign copies of his latest book, This Year You Write Your Novel, which his editor, Arthur, had conveniently brought a carton-full. I took it as an omen (I've been procrastinating on several magnum opi for years), and had him sign one to me. I started reading it, and it's good: inspiring, sensible and succinct. If...ahem, when!...I finish my novel, I'll have Mosley to thank.

NBCC Finalists' Reading (Bella's Excellent NY Adventure 2)

I expected there would be the usual 10-15 authors presenting their work at the NBCC finalists' reading on Wednesday evening. But when I arrived at the New School's Tishman Auditorium, I found that only 3 of the 30 nominees wouldn't be showing up.

I groaned inwardly (OK, outwardly too) at the thought of sitting through TWENTY-SEVEN (!!!) readings, remembering with a shudder the year that the first of 14 readers went on for 25 minutes without interruption (I was ready to yank him off the stage myself). I'd had a yogurt before I came downtown, so I knew my stomach could make it through. But I wasn't so sure if my tush would, especially after having been on a plane for 4+ hours. Happily, the pace quickened throughout the evening, so that Fiction, Poetry and General Nonfiction, which came after an intermission, only took one hour--versus 90+ minutes for Autobiography, Criticism and Biography.

With a few notable exceptions--Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, for one--overall the NBCC finalists lived up to the stereotype of the pale, bespectacled, slightly rumpled author. Another stereotype some lived up to was the author as lousy performer: Few of them set up what their books were about, perhaps assuming (wrongly) that everyone in the audience knew already. Several read passages that gave no clue as to the book's overarching theme--or even its subject (I was as ignorant of Frederick Crews's FOLLIES OF THE WISE: Dissenting Essays after his reading as I was before). Some also had a sleep-inducing drone: Karen Emmerich, translator of the late Miltos Sachtouris' POEMS (1945-1971), did the classic poetry singsong voice in English and Greek. Snore.

Poet Daisy Fried (MY BROTHER IS GETTING ARRESTED AGAIN) gets the prize for worst career move/fashion accessory: She read with her two-month-old daughter strapped to her chest. Some in the crowd said "Awww!" when Fried went to the podium, but my reaction was "UGH!" The kid was sound asleep, but, as babies often do, emitted little squeaks and sighs, which were duly picked up by the microphone. The great thing about giving birth is that you no longer have to carry a big, heavy lump on your abdomen all the time. (The Boy Wonder was 9 lbs, 12 oz, so I know whereof I speak.) Surely Fried could have handed the baby off to its father, or a friend--or even her editor or publicist--for the 3 minutes she was onstage. During the awards ceremony the next night, Fried had to make a hasty exit from the packed auditorium when Baby Dumpling started squalling (as expected by me, if not by her doting mama). I was fresh out of sympathy.

Highlights:

• Alison Bechdel showed slides from her graphic-book memoir, FUN HOME: A Family Tragicomic, to accompany her reading. It barely mattered that she left off the last sentence of her text, which was eaten by her laptop.
• Alexander Masters gave the first emotional reading of the evening, from STUART: A Life Backwards. He was also the first of several authors from the UK Commonwealth, who were by far the best performers. In fact, thinking back on all the readings and panel discussions I've attended, I'd say that Commonwealth natives (except Canadians--sorry!) are overwhelmingly better public speakers than Americans. And it's not just because I'm a sucker for an accent.
• Daniel Mendelsohn, who had the loudest and most resonant voice of the autobiographical authors, gave a very expressive and funny reading from THE LOST: A Search for One of Six Million, complete with gestures, facial expressions and a Yiddish accent.
• Terri Jentz read an intense, horrifying account of her near murder from STRANGE PIECE OF PARADISE, which had the audience enthralled. I had a very hard time with it, though, as I'm still suffering from PTSD. If the reading had gone on any longer I would have stopped my ears and/or left the hall. Afterward, an NBCC member said that Jentz should have gotten an award just for surviving. Very true.
  
• After two deadly dull readers, Lawrence Weschler (EVERYTHING THAT RISES: A Book of Convergences) woke us back up by engaging the audience (what a concept!) with wit, humor and that old standy, an expressive voice.
  
• Debby Applegate (THE MOST FAMOUS MAN IN AMERICA: The Biography of Henry Ward Beecher) and Jason Roberts (A Sense of the World: How a Blind Man Became History's Greatest Traveler), besides giving lively readings, were among the few who gave a full sense of the book's subject. Coming away, I actually wanted to, y'know, read the book.
• I could have listened to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's (HALF OF A YELLOW SUN) rich and plummy voice all night. Sure hope she does the audio book herself.
• Kiran Desai, whose THE INHERITANCE OF LOSS was the only one of the 30 I'd read, gave an electric reading, which made me even happier because I LOVED that book.
• Troy Jollimore (TOM THOMSON IN PURGATORY) and Mark Doty, who stood in for W.D. Snodgrass (NOT FOR SPECIALISTS: New & Selected Poems), more than made up for Fried & Emmerich with wit and (once again) expression.
• Simon Schama (ROUGH CROSSINGS: Britain, the Slaves and the American Revolution) and Sandy Tolan (THE LEMON TREE: An Arab, a Jew and the Heart of the Middle East) brought the evening to a close with stirring readings that exemplified their work.

NBCC president John Freeman remarked at the beginning of the evening that there is something magical about a text coming alive through the person who wrote it. Very true--as long as that person can conjure up the magic to make the text come alive. The best of the group did that.

Bella's Excellent NY Adventure, Part 1

The view from Room 1003 at the Helmsley Middletowne Hotel.

I blew into New York last Wednesday afternoon with more on my calendar for the next four days than I'd had in the past four weeks. The wintry weather we'd had in Denver the preceeding week had made its way east; it was 21F when I landed. I was thanking my lucky stars that I'd thrown my silk long johns into my suitcase at the last minute, because thru Friday the cold and wind were bone-chilling.

I've learned a thing or three about the vagaries of air travel, so didn't make any appointments for Wed. Good thing too, as my flight was delayed two hours due to 1-1/2 inches of snow at LaGuardia. (I'm still rolling my eyes at that. Buncha weather wussies!)

After settling in at the hotel, at 6pm I was at the National Book Critics Circle Award finalists' reading at the New School, which will get its own post later.

Burning Books--and Their Buyers

Baghdad book market bombing kills 30

A car bomb ripped through Baghdad's oldest book market on Monday, killing 30 people, setting shops ablaze and leaving body parts scattered across the symbolic heart of Iraq's intellectual life.

At least 65 people were also wounded in the powerful blast on Mutanabi Street, an ancient centre of learning and culture and a rare pleasure for the capital's war-weary citizens, a security official said.

Many shops packed with books caught fire and the market was littered with blood-splattered pages after the attack, the latest assault on a US-Iraqi plan aimed at stemming bloodshed in the capital.

Full story from Agence France-Presse

How fortunate I am to live where it's safe to visit a bookstore (especially when there's one just a few doors up the street).

Quote of the Week...Make that the Century

I don't think any one individual can either indulge himself in the luxury of personal morality or put himself against what I feel today is the security and safety of the nation.

--Robert Rossen, Hollywood writer & producer, in the course of naming 47 people as Communists to the House Un-American Activities Committee in May 1953.

What Rhymes with Turdblossom?*

Today's NYT has an obituary of someone who should have been far better known than he was: Myer "Mike" Feldman, who died two days ago at 92.

Mr. Feldman’s importance was suggested in The New York Times Magazine in an article in 1962 about the prestige of having a low license-plate number in the District of Columbia. His number, 116, was the lowest of any White House official’s.

But an article in The New York Post in 1964 called Mr. Feldman “the White House’s anonymous man.”

Feldman was also the Renaissance man: law school prof, exec assistant to the SEC chairman, adviser to JFK and LBJ, back-door liaison to Israel, founder of a law firm with 100 attorneys, buyer & seller of radio stations, real estate tycoon ("he helped finance the condominium boom in Washington in the 1970s"), adviser to political campaigns, chairman of the executive committee of the Special Olympics.

But wait! There's more. Read this and weep:

Mr. Feldman was a book review editor for the Saturday Review of Literature and helped produce six plays. In the Kennedy White House, where wit and intellect sometimes seemed a competitive sport, Mr. Feldman and Mr. [Theodore] Sorensen traded memos in rhyming couplets.

If only we could have a White House like that again. SIGH...

*Nerd possum

It's the Story, Stupid

John Sutherland, a UK visiting English lit prof at Caltech, hits the obsession with Anna Nicole Smith right on the head in today's LA Times: Dickens, Trollope -- and Anna Nicole?

This story was destined from the outset to take over Page 1 — precisely because it is a classic, a melodrama with exactly the kind of plot that has fascinated people as long as there's been literature and stories to tell. Following its twists and turns, it's impossible not to get the blurry feeling that one is reading a good old-fashioned novel.

He compares the Smith plot to two by one of my all-time favorite authors, Anthony Trollope: Is He Popenjoy? (just moved to the top of my TBR list) and The Eustace Diamonds (one of the Palliser series, though it stands fine alone). And Smith's baby, "the child without clear parentage who ultimately stands (when his identity is finally revealed) to inherit a vast fortune" is straight out of Dickens. Sutherland cites Great Expectations and Oliver Twist, but there's also Bleak House (the ultimate hellish lawsuit tale) and Nicholas Nickleby.

The fact is, we need [stories] as much as we need oxygenated air. By my estimate, at least three-quarters of network prime-time TV is fictional narrative. Bookstores, walk-in and Web-based, sell more fiction than any other kind of book. The vast, vast portion of what is shown in our film theaters and on the cable movie channels is fiction. Stories, that is....

Why are we so hung up on stories? Not because we're narrative junkies, zombified fiction addicts — but because of the truth their falsehoods tell us. It's the paradox that Aristotle noted, 2,500 years ago, in the Poetics. A fiction like "Oedipus Rex," Aristotle asserted, was "truer" than history. Why? Because fiction can deal with the essence of our human condition, unlike history, which is tied to what actually happened.

To quote Henry James:

Fiction is history, human history, or it is nothing. But it is also more than that; it stands on firmer ground, being based on the reality of forms and the observation of social phenomena, whereas history is based on documents, and the reading of print and handwriting — on second-hand impression. Thus fiction is nearer truth.