Summer Reading Assignment for Obama & Congress

To the legislators of 2011 and most especially the candidates of 2012, I offer this excerpt from Charles Dickens's LITTLE DORRIT:

Containing the whole Science of Government

Whatever was required to be done, the Circumlocution Office was beforehand with all the public departments in the art of perceiving--HOW NOT TO DO IT.

Through this delicate perception, through the tact with which it invariably seized it, and through the genius with which it always acted on it, the Circumlocution Office had risen to overtop all the public departments; and the public condition had risen to be--what it was.

It is true that How not to do it was the great study and object of all public departments and professional politicians all round the Circumlocution Office. It is true that every new premier and every new government, coming in because they had upheld a certain thing as necessary to be done, were no sooner come in than they applied their utmost faculties to discovering How not to do it. It is true that from the moment when a general election was over, every returned man who had been raving on hustings because it hadn't been done, and who had been asking the friends of the honourable gentleman in the opposite interest on pain of impeachment to tell him why it hadn't been done, and who had been asserting that it must be done, and who had been pledging himself that it should be done, began to devise, How it was not to be done. It is true that the debates of both Houses of Parliament the whole session through, uniformly tended to the protracted deliberation, How not to do it. It is true that the royal speech at the opening of such session virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have a considerable stroke of work to do, and you will please to retire to your respective chambers, and discuss, How not to do it. It is true that the royal speech, at the close of such session, virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have through several laborious months been considering with great loyalty and patriotism, How not to do it, and you have found out; and with the blessing of Providence upon the harvest (natural, not political), I now dismiss you. All this is true, but the Circumlocution Office went beyond it.

Back to Mr. Dickens

I kept thinking how much the US Congress dickering over the debt ceiling is just like Dickens's Circumlocution Office, with all the talk of why "it can't be done." So I put aside Susan Isaacs's LILY WHITE, which was boring me, in favor of LITTLE DORRIT, which isn't.

The cinematic opening, which I looked for in vain when I watched the BBC series, fits right in with the breathless weather we're having:

Thirty years ago, Marseilles lay burning in the sun, one day. A blazing sun upon a fierce August day was no greater rarity in southern France then, than at any other time, before or since. Everything in Marseilles, and about Marseilles, had stared at the fervid sky, and been stared at in return, until a staring habit had become universal there. Strangers were stared out of countenance by staring white houses, staring white walls, staring white streets, staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from which verdure was burnt away. The only things to be seen not fixedly staring and glaring were the vines drooping under their load of grapes. These did occasionally wink a little, as the hot air barely moved their faint leaves.

There was no wind to make a ripple on the foul water within the harbour, or on the beautiful sea without. The line of demarcation between the two colours, black and blue, showed the point which the pure sea would not pass; but it lay as quiet as the abominable pool, with which it never mixed. Boats without awnings were too hot to touch; ships blistered at their moorings; the stones of the quays had not cooled, night or day, for months.

This may be the last time I read my Penguin paperback edition, which I bought in 1984, as the pages keep fluttering out of the cracked binding. It's odd to have a book that I remember buying new to be looking--and especially smelling--so old.

Patrick Dennis Forever!

Holiday thoughts from razor-witted Patrick Dennis (aka Edward Everett Tanner III), who deserves to be remembered as the author of books beyond AUNTIE MAME.

AROUND THE WORLD WITH AUNTIE MAME (1958) begins with this:

Christmas is nearly here and I look forward to it more and more with loathing. All the shops that didn't have their holiday decorations up by Michaelmas made up for it with sheer ostentation by Halloween. Canned carols bleat from every corner. The clerks at Saks are surlier, the ones at Lord & Taylor lordlier, the ones at Bergdorf's bitchier than at any other season.

From THE JOYOUS SEASON* (1964), narrated by a 10-year-old boy:

Daddy always said that Christmas is a joyous season when suicides and hold-ups and shoplifting and like that reach a new high and that the best place to spend the whole thing is a Moslem country.

*Confession: I've put down THE FINKLER QUESTION twice to reread Patrick Dennis. Interpret as you wish.

I ♥ Anthony Weiner!

Sometimes histrionics are The Right Thing:



Unconvinced? Read this NYT editorial: Feckless and Cruel.

The Perfect Summer Job

Looking for an isolated spot to complete your magum opus--or just enjoy some of Elmer Fudd's "nice west and wewaxation"--from Memorial Day to Labor Day?

How about this: Be a summer caretaker at Maine's Seguin Island Lighthouse.

The job requires "two compatible people" to live on the 64-acre island, 2 miles out from the mouth of the Kennebec River, near(ish) Popham Beach. Specs are here (scroll down); stipend may be $75/week.

NB: Must like foghorns. Seguin's blows three double-blasts per minute on the many foggy days. The concussion is said to knock nearby gulls from the air.

"Awww" for the Day

As counterprogramming to The Big Game (since I'm not an official sponsor, I can't mention the Super Bowl), here's a genuinely heartwarming story, courtesy of the Friends of Pemaquid Point Lighthouse, Maine: A True Whale Tale

Renaissance Woman

I never conduct my L.A. workshops without the presence of Kim Dower, better known as Kim from L.A. Turns out that not only is she one of the best book publicists in the West, but she's a damn fine poet too. She's the latest writer to be showcased reading work al fresco in Guerrilla Reads, an "online video literary magazine."

Virtual--and Visual--Treasure Trove

The LIFE magazine photo archive, with millions of photos (some never published), is now online--and best of all, searchable--via Google. Start looking HERE.

I searched for "stander" and found pix of my father I'd never seen before. The one above is by famed photographer Gordon Parks, taken in May 1950 on the NYC set of St. Benny the Dip. Dad played one of a group of cons (a "dip" is a pickpocket) who disguise themselves as clergymen. He's flanked by Roland Young (misidentified in archive caption as Charles Ruggles; I sent Google a note) and singer Dick Haymes.

Lest We Forget

In honor of Veterans' Day, courtesy of The Guardian UK

Suicide in the Trenches
by Siegfried Sassoon

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

Quote of the Day

That’s the problem with the truth, isn’t it? People don’t always want to hear it.

--from Recalling a Cheerful Man Made Angry by Hypocrisy by Clyde Haberman in today's NY Times. Writer Eliot Asinof, who died last month at age 88, had been a front in the 1950s for screenwriter Walter Bernstein ("The Front"), who called him "God’s angry man."

At a recent memorial at New York's Harvard Club,

Julian Koenig, who knew Mr. Asinof going back 80 years, told the assembled group that his friend “didn’t like agents, and he didn’t like publishers.”

“And lawyers,” a woman cried out.

The Light of Dawn!

You'll excuse my gushing, but I love this blog! I especially love my readers! Most of all, I adore readers who leave brilliant comments that lead me to the TRUTH--or at least a happy solution to my email migration woes.

In Bella v Laptop, Solidus left a comment suggesting that I download Thunderbird and use that to import my Eudora address book, then use Outlook to import from Thunderbird. So I downloaded Thunderbird. Nada, even when I imported the Agents sub-address book into the main Eudora Nicknames folder. WAAAH!

Then I Googled the terms Thunderbird import Eudora address books. That led me to the Mozilla site, where I found information about Dawn, a FREE program that converts address books in Eudora (and many other programs) to Outlook (and many other programs).

After uninstalling Thunderbird, I downloaded and installed Dawn. My first attempt at importing didn't work. Then I transferred the Agents sub-address book into the main Eudora Nicknames folder. VOILA! OH HAPPY DAY!!!

I'm still going to have to do some manual work: transferring each Eudora sub-address book (Clients, Family, Friends, etc.) into the Nicknames folder for importation and transferring it back again, then going through each entry in Outlook to put info in the proper fields (I was sloppy about that in Eudora) and assigning categories (Mailing List, Agent, Client, Author, etc.).

But still, I'll take quick, clean-up tedium over endless, brain-melting tedium.

And Solidus, I owe you a drink. Make that two drinks!

From Book Reviewer to Author Photographer

For years I've seen (and occasionally chatted with) Miriam Berkley at the annual National Book Critics Circle members meeting, luncheon and book awards ceremony in New York. Now, thanks to a lengthy interview in Eric Forbes's Book Addict's Guide (condensed in the July issue of Quill), I've learned that there's a lot going on behind "The Eyes of Miriam Berkley."

Quote for the Day

“If you need a victory, you aren’t a fighter, you’re an opportunist.”

--Abe Osheroff, Lincoln Brigade veteran

They don't make 'em anymore like Abraham Osheroff, who died on April 6 at age 92.

Per his obituary in today's New York Times, he started out in Brownsville, Brooklyn, the child of Russian Jews--his mother a sweatshop seamstress, his father a carpenter. A lifelong troublemaker, Osheroff tried to burn down Erasmus Hall High School, organized industrial workers in Pennsylvania, fought for the Spanish Loyalists, got into a fistfight with Ernest Hemingway, joined and then quit the Communist Party, worked in Mississippi in the Freedom Summer of 1964, protested the Vietnam War, aided Nicaraguan leftists, and battled real estate developers in Venice, CA.

The quote above is from 2000, but it could have been said today about John McCain's (and others') stance on the Iraq war.

Inside Scoop: Why I Love What I Do

Meg McAllister, McAllister Rowan Communications Group, has an uplifting antidote to PW's A Day in the Life of a Book Publicist:

Sometimes I forget how much I enjoy what I do, and the joy I take in being a productive part of the publishing process and its ensuing marketing industry. My partner Darcie and I are known for our "straight-from-the-hip" assessments of the publishing industry and the business of marketing books, and thankfully people like Bella create sites like this where we can come together to share ideas, express concerns and...hopefully...enlighten one another from time to time.

Authors are VERY brave people! Just the act of putting words on a paper can be nerve-wracking, but then sending a book out there (like a mother sending her child off for the first day of school) into the big world to be savaged by agents, acquisition editors, publicists and media, should come with a Purple Heart. So why do you do it? Being somewhat jaded (but we hope terribly charming with it) marketers, Darcie and I have come to view authors as brands, and the books they write as tools in a larger plan/agenda.

But this week I was reminded in a big way that sometimes an author writes simply to tell a wonderful story, and in doing so share a part of themselves that impacts millions. If you don’t already know who Randy Pausch is, I urge you to learn, hear, and read more about him. A highly acclaimed professor from Carnegie Mellon, Randy is making news daily, not for his academic accolades, or his vast knowledge in the computer science field, but because he’s dying.

A relatively young (at 46 just a year older than I), vibrant, father of three, Randy has an aggressive and terminal case of pancreatic cancer. In September 2007 he was told that he would have a relatively short time left to live. Faced with a diagnosis that would send most of us into a flood of tears and a tub of Hagen Daaz, Randy instead agreed to take part in an academic tradition known as “The Last Lecture”. The premise of The Last Lecture is what insights and messages would we share with the world, if we knew this would be our last opportunity to do so. Randy addressed a standing room only crowd at Carnegie Mellon and talked not about achieving greatness, but about realizing childhood dreams; not about dealing with mortality, but living each day with renewed wonder and joy; and most importantly, not about achieving personal success, but helping others achieve theirs.

If you haven’t seen the lecture Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams, I implore you to invest the 76-½ minutes to do so, because it could change your life. Also please consider reading THE LAST LECTURE, which expands on Randy’s story, the lecture, and the impact it’s had on people throughout the world .

Randy’s lecture reminded me why I do what I do for a living. I want to promote books (though alas I am not promoting his) that have a meaning and a purpose that transcends Amazon rankings, bestseller lists, and units sold. I want to open the door to ideas and discussion. And I guess in my own way, I want to achieve success by helping others realize their goals.

So the point of my story is this: When you think about why you want to publish, why you want to promote, start by asking yourself why you write, and what it is you’re hoping your reader will really gain from reading your book. And when you have those moments where you’re bogged down with writer's block and insecurities, or when you’re that jaded (did I remember to mention charming?) publicist dealing with stress and media rejection, or when you’re that beloved publishing consultant dealing with everyone else’s hysteria while courageously dealing with her own issues and demons, perhaps Randy’s signature phrase will offer some inspiration: “We cannot change the cards we are dealt, just how we play the hand.”

Serenity

As a counterpoint to the previous post, here are photos I took in Washington last April at Dumbarton Oaks, in Georgetown. It's been my favorite place in the United States since I first visited at age nine. Above is Lover's Lane Pool (my computer wallpaper); below is Forsythia Hill.

Rumors of Reading's Demise Are Greatly Exaggerated

Like others in our widely scattered clan, my second cousin Aaron Stander is a writer--also an English prof, kayaker and carpenter. He's self-published a couple of mysteries set in northern Michigan, where he moved after spending many years in Detroit. This morning he wrote me:

I've got to tell you about a recent Saturday evening. I was invited to give a talk about my books and writing at a small community library in one of the poorest little towns in the region. The main street is two blocks long, and the only businesses still operating are a bar, a small grocery, and a restaurant. There's also a VFW hall, and one church. There are a few dozen houses in town, most built during the lumbering years.

There was bingo at the VFW, about ten cars at the bar, and about thirty people showed up at the library. Most of them had read one or both of my books. After the talk they had cake and coffee. I had been asked to talk for thirty or forty minutes. They kept me there for more than two hours.

What an amazing experience. In spite of all the doom and gloom about the decline in reading in America, there are still people out there who love to read and talk about writing.

An Enormous Disturbance in The Force

I've been feeling mopey and didn't know why. I looked at my favorite blog a little while ago, and now I do:

Miss Snark is retiring

It may be bright and sunny here in Denver, but still the day is jet black. Where will I go when I want to laugh and roll my eyes at clueless nitwits? What will I do when I need more surgery on my arm, and there's no Get Humerus Poetry Contest to get me through it?

I defy any Snarkling to have dry eyes by the end of this video.

And see this tribute at 101 Reasons to Stop Writing, which also offers nifty Miss Snark badges. I just put one in "Even More About Me" at right.

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

A Dose of Humer...er...Humor

For three long months, my broken right arm was making steady, if slow, progress. I could move it more, lift heavier objects and--finally!--type with both hands, even though the thumb and first two fingers were dysfunctional. Then a couple of weeks ago things started going rapidly downhill. Now the arm clunks constantly, I can barely move it without pain and I'm back to almost exclusive use of my (non-dominant) left hand.

An Xray last month showed a bone splinter jutting out of the upper humerus--right where the arm hurt most, as I tartly informed my orthopedist. I had a CT scan a week ago, and one image showed the bone shaft looking like this: S
instead of this: O.

So in less than one hour I go to the hospital, where the orthopod will screw a 4" stainless steel plate to the bone. (I was assured that I'd get a special note so I could go through airport metal detectors-- my first worry.) I sent emails so informing my various correspondents. To my enormous surprise, the marvelous Miss Snark, the Literary Agent responded by running a "First (and last!) Bella Stander Get Humerus Poetry Contest."

Good thing my broken ribs and split lips have healed, else reading the entries would be excruciating. As it is, I laughed so hard my face ached. I can tell that some of the poems were written by personal acquaintances ("richly textured" in #5 is my pet-peeve phrase). Beverage Alert for #26, which had me weak with laughter, and a special nod to #10 for the brilliant Robert Frost take-off.

Laughter is indeed the best medicine. Thank you, one and all!

A Real Politician: The Kinkster

Back when I was a dissolute art student, one of my favorite bands was Kinky Friedman & His Texas Jewboys. Kinky penned such ditties as "Homo Erectus," which begins:

I left Barber College
Searchin' for knowledge,
Went to the university.
I must confess, Sir
This lady professor
She turned me on to anthropology.
Now I'm a Homo Erectus
Got to connect this
Bone that I discovered yesterday.
Tyrannosaurus
Lived in the forest,
Died because its heart got in the way.
Dear Doctor Howard
Come down from your tower
And join me for lunch at the Y.
Although you're thirty
I still think you're purty
Let's give it that good ole college try.

Many years and one divorce later, I knew I'd found my soul mate in Darling Husband, who loves Kinky's music and devours his comic mysteries. What greater demonstration of love can there be than DH letting me goad him into playing "They Ain't Making Jews Like Jesus Anymore" on his Christmas morning radio show--in goyische central Virginia, no less? (It was 6am, but still!)

Even though DH doesn't give a hoot about Texas politics, the lone bumper sticker on his car reads "Kinky Friedman for Governor." There's a great feature on him by Peter Carlson in yesterday's Washington Post, "But Seriously, Folks." You gotta love a politician who calls Democrats and Republicans "the Crips and the Bloods," and who:

complains about people who complain that his speeches are full of one-liners: "All politicians speak in one-liners and sound bites. They're just not as funny as mine."

He quotes Mark Twain. He quotes Oscar Wilde. He quotes a pig farmer he met while campaigning: "You ain't worth a damn," the farmer told Kinky, "but you're better than what we got."

I sure hope he wins!

See Bookslut Dec. 'o5 interview with Kinky.