Finished!

Image

Thrilled. Not as thrilled as William is with his stick, but pretty close.

Do you know how you know when your epic, year-long, blog-destroying novel revision is finished?  When your agent e-mails you and says, “nice work.”  Just like that.  I feel like William looks.  It’s so nice to be finished with something like that.

So now, it’s back to:  books, food, and why a stick is more exciting than anything you could possibly imagine.

Books:  Robert Caro.  The Passage of Power.  The fourth in this big-ass biography of Lyndon Johnson.  Whatever Johnson was (and he was a lot of things — talented, flawed, tragic) he was huge.  He was also 6’4″.

Janet Flanner’s Letters from Paris:  Her New Yorker columns from the late 1940s after the war until the early 1960s.  Wonderful evocations of daily life in Paris as the city and the country picked up after the war.

And now, I’m off to see how everyone is doing.

xo

The Spirits of the Air

If Blake is to be believed, the spirts of the air “live in the smells of fruit.”  I kid you not.  And even better, this all happens in autumn.  Investigating this fruit-related issue, I have discovered that he is indeed correct.  At least in Berkeley, California, where the nectarine and the peach are the first thing you see when you walk into a produce market.  Even in Safeway.  Also, the tomato.

I have been disconnected from the internet for all of August, which is a good thing, because the break allowed me to gather myself together.  Actually, first I fell apart under the onslaught of teenagers (the relevant statistics there are 2 and 16.  Two of them.  And they are 16.)  They don’t live in Autumn, as I do.  They’re all about heedless summer.  That’s good, unless you’re the mother.  And then you have to increase the meds and do a lot of yoga.  Which is precisely what I have been doing all of August, to be absolutely frank.

And I would like to say that those of you who so nobly embarked on the BlogLily Summer Reading Program are heroes in my eyes, because your summers were, well, obviously somewhat heedful.  And those of you whose packets have been delayed by adolescent angst?  Would you email me please and I will send you the BlogLily Fruit Smelling Fall Reading Packet? (Also, I would just like to get some e-mails about something book-related.)  There is no  reason in the world that you should be denied this pleasure.  Fall is, after all, the time of the book report, is it not?

xo

The Untailored Spy

I adore George Smiley.  You probably do too, because you probably have already read all the John leCarre books that feature him.  Lucky me, I had not, which is why I chose two of them as my BlogLily Summer Reading Program (which I like to think of, acronymically, as B-SLURP) genre choices.  The first, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and the second, the Honorable Schoolboy, are among the best books I’ve read in a very long time.

George Smiley, who is at the center of both books (and a third I haven’t yet read, called A Perfect Spy thank you Joe, for pointing out that the third book is actually called Smiley’s People), is basically all about righting the sinking ship that is the British secret service in the 1960s and 1970s. Smiley’s work is not triumphant or inevitable, as maybe an American’s might be — in Smiley’s world, there are no rocket launching cars or poison gas shooting pens.  Instead, budgets are tight, and notes are delivered later than they should be because people get busy, there’s little political support for Smiley, and plenty of Americans who look down on the British as the worst kind of amateurs.  These books are imbued with a kind of melancholy, not so much about a lost world or lost values, but more about aging and endings in general and the losses that come with them.  They are about the cold war, of course, but also about the compromises of age, about the fatigue of living, and about the way in which we still go on and try to protect, as best we can, the things we have built or have admired as they were built.

Which brings me to Smiley — a man in his sixties who wears beautifully made suits that are too big for him, marries a beautiful woman (Lady Ann) who, like his suits, doesn’t fit him, and so leaves him again and again to his sorrow, but never anger.  Smiley closes his eyes and thinks when someone tells him something you’d expect to make him shout, and pads around and patiently figures out the most complicated things, not with flashes of insight, but by looking closely at the budgets for old projects, while he never puts sugar in his tea or coffee — always saccharine — because he is, regrettably, watching his weight (how delicate is that?  he is never “on a diet.”) In most spy books, characters either have no limits or their limits are weaknesses they must fight against.  Not so with Smiley.  He has plenty of limits, but they seem to all be external.  He is a man who appears to some — the more foolish people in these stories, in fact — to be weak and ineffectual, but he is anything but.

If it is true that plot is simply character in action, then leCarre’s plots are also brilliant.  After a while you don’t care that the twists and turns of the story are difficult to follow because you realize, or you accept, that the plot isn’t really the point — the point is that the world is terribly imperfect, and dangerous and difficult to understand and men struggle with these things bravely and often fail but sometimes don’t.  And that occasionally, and at great price, a temporary equilibrium is achieved.  It is leCarre’s greatness that this balance is created not by strong confident men with sports cars but by almost finished men who nevertheless have a kind of wisdom that I, for one, am grateful to have come across this summer.

It’s Sleeping in My Memory

you're breaking my heart, you're shaking my confidence daily

For reasons unclear to me, as I was driving to work, some lines from Alexander Pope’s stupendously long poem, An Essay on Criticism, popped into my head.  I would like to say that the poem is roughly 362 pages long, and I only read up to these lines, which occur very soon into the poem.  I mean, I’m sure I “read” this poem, but only if “read” is defined loosely as “slept five minutes, forgot entire meaning, read five minutes, slept five minutes, forgot entire meaning, repeat for six weeks.”   The whole thing is written in couplets.  Reading it was like riding on a bouncing stagecoach.  Anyway, the lines are:   “Unfinished things, one knows not what to call,/Their generation’s so equivocal.” 

What impresses me now is that Pope pulled off rhyming “not what to call” with “equivocal.”  I mean, really.  ” Call” doesn’t  truly rhyme with equivocal.  But when you make a line out of those four words (“not what to call”) you get something that rhymes with equivocal and doesn’t sound stupid.  What must have been floating around in his head, waiting to become a rhyme I cannot even begin to imagine. 

But I digress.  What I really have today is a question.  I am curious about what pops into people’s heads.  This is the first time I can remember that actual poetry appeared.  Mostly what comes to me when I’m driving to work is either (a) something someone said to me once that so shocked me that I still think about it (for example, a boyfriend, on his sexual responsibilities: “I am not a service station,”) or lines from pretty much any song on Bridge Over Troubled Water (“still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest”)     

What lines of poetry or dialogue or description or wisdom or insult pop up in your head with some regularity?

French Lessons: Champagne All Around

A few years ago, I did a writing residency at the Atlantic Center for  the Arts in Florida.  It was magical, that place.  They had a room full of beach cruisers for us to ride — and the ocean wasn’t very far.  The writer who was the “master artist,” Antonya Nelson, turned out to be called Toni, and to be not in the least bit scary, which was my great fear.  I got a lot done there.  And I became friends with some really remarkable women.

One of these women was Ellen Sussman.  I’d been seeing her anthologies around in bookstores with provocative names like Bad Girls, and Dirty Words (which has an essay in it by my first writing teacher, Thaisa Frank) and honestly, I was as intimidated by her as I was by Antonya Nelson.

And then I met Ellen and she wasn’t intimidating in the least.  What she is, among many other things, is a really disciplined writer.  While we were in Florida, she sold French Lessons, a novel that she had been sweating over for quite a while, to get it just right.  Apparently, she got it even more than just right.  There was an auction and a glamorous trip to New York to meet with her new editor and a bunch of other stuff that left me speechless because it seemed so, well, professional.  And then there was champagne.

And here’s the book.  It just came out.  It’s wise and bright like Ellen.  And quite moving.  It’s the sort of book that makes you feel just a little bit more alive, more awake, and grateful that Paris exists and people like Ellen are around to write about it.

So, champagne all around.

it might be a little hard to read this review, but you can find it here

The Beauty of the Bookmark

ha! and you thought birthmarks were hot

It was an arts & crafts kind of weekend, blog friends.  Specifically, I spent an embarrassing amount of time making bookmarks and booklets and sizing up my stash of stationery items to see what else might go in the official BlogLily Summer Reading Program mailers.  I also made one thrilling trip to Elmwood Stationers, our neighborhood independent stationery store that I, alone, keep robustly profitable.  On that trip, I acquired clear plastic gift bags in which to stick the BLSRP mailers.  These classy items were a revelation to me.  I had no idea that a private individual could acquire stuff like this, thinking as I did that they were specially made for far fancier operations.  Apparently not.  Total cost of classy stationery items:  2.99.  Everything else:  free.  (Well, except for the Martha Stewart folding contraption, which is actually very cool and I am certain will not gather dust, being useful as well as cool.)

If you have given me your address, your mailer should arrive soon.  If you have not, please send it to me at bloglily@yahoo.com.  For you latecomers, your version of the BLSRP mailer will reflect the many ways in which my arts & crafts skills improved throughout the weekend.  For example, I learned that the proper amount of glue is a lot less than I thought it was.  Actually, the votes are still out on that.  If you get a bookmark that starts to fall apart, don’t tell me, okay?  Just glue it back together.

Tomorrow, I have a guest poster who’s got some ideas about good summer reads.

xo BL

ChicFic

chicfic is the new ladylit

Here is my first BlogLily Summer Reading Program report.  Haha.  I am ahead of everyone else because I have the prototype program booklet thing in my hands. (Yours goes out this Friday.)  But then again, I am not actually competing for any of the prizes because that is not allowed.  It’s not allowed ever in any program of any kind, is it?  Still, in the interest of participating in all the fun, here is my review:

In Her ShoesJennifer Weiner.

I checked this out from the South Lake Tahoe Public Library because I am under the impression that this is women’s fiction, which is one of the categories of reads for the BL Summer Reading Program.  Why am I under this impression?  Because Jennifer Weiner eloquently and unapologetically says it is.  And she should know, because she wrote it.  Plus, she went to Princeton, and I think that gives her a little added authority, don’t you?  (You don’t?  Well, maybe you have a point.  By the time you’re in your thirties, your Ivy League credentials have aged into irrelevance.  And then all that matters is whether you can write a book that made me cry.)

Book made me laugh:  Yes.  Jennifer Weiner is funny.  No question.

Book made me cry:  It did!  It did!  I gave up all critical distance and gave myself completely up to the story, which is basically the tale of two sisters — one sensible and a size 14 (would that be Sense?) and one dyslexic and hot as hell (would that be Sensibility?)  One hurts the other.  Guess who?  (Yes that would be sensibility who does the hurting.) They wear the same size shoes (that would be the title).  One is a lawyer (that would be Sense.)  They must learn to get along, and they must also come to terms with their mother’s death early in their lives and the horrible fall out from that death.  It is a really fine plot.

Did I cringe at the writing?:  No.  Jennifer Weiner is a good writer.  She is clear and clever and a good plotter.  Whatever this is, it is not trash.

Did I learn something new about myself, about life, about people, about how fiction is put together?  No, I did not.

Did I expect to learn something new about myself, about life, about people, about how fiction is put together?  Not really.  Why must every book do this?  Jennifer Weiner did not set out to do this, so why should she be penalized for not accomplishing something she never even suggested she was going to do?

Is this a bad book?  No.  As I mentioned, I enjoyed it.  I like crying at stories when I know that everything is going to work out.  It’s like a movie where you know exactly what’s going to happen but the acting is good, the locations are lovely, the dialogue is sharp — you know you’re in good hands.

Is it a great book?  No.  Sense and Sensibility is a great book.  It is very difficult to write a great book and really I very much doubt a great one has yet been written this century.

Other books like this:  Well, I believe I have mentioned Sense and Sensibility which is also the story of two sisters who have to learn to love properly.  They do, however, get along through most of the book.  Another book this reminds me of is Cathleen Schine’s  The Three Weismanns of Westport, which I vaguely remember is modeled after Sense and Sensibility, although honestly I wouldn’t have realized that if the book jacket didn’t mention it.