To Read or Not to Read: The NEA Study

Friday, November 30, 2007


Like most authors and parents, I've been paying close attention to the recent NEA report, "To Read or Not to Read." Described as the most comprehensive survey of American reading, the study reveals what many of us already suspected to be true: Elementary school reading may be on the rise, tweens may still be turning to books for pleasure, but teens and adults are not, by and large, carving out time in their lives for literature of any sort. It's not just the book industry that's suffering. It's society at large—employers who grow increasingly frustrated with the compromised ability of new employees to read, to understand, and to write; political and cultural institutions that are struggling to gain passionate civic support; families that grow more fractured.

Americans are reading less, and so, of course, they are reading less well, and when you aren't reading well you put many crucial things at risk, not least among them the ability to empathize and to form and express a point of view.

So that here we are, living in an era when high school students are packing their resumes with A.P. courses and club presidencies, and when, despite this madcap race toward perfection, they find themselves in need of a writing consultants' help when they sit down to write their college application essays. Here we are, living in an era when the career expectations of new college graduates are high, despite the fact that a frightening percent of them are barely reading at a proficiency level. Here we are, facing, as a world, enormous political and environmental challenges—challenges that will only be overcome with the very best, most well-read minds.

Once, when screening candidates for a communications job on behalf of a client, I read some 100 resumes and writing samples. In the entire collection there were but four or five who wrote accurately, and two who wrote with style. These were candidates for a communications job—individuals who, by all rights, should have been obsessed with words.

Our children have so much to dissuade them from reading. It's hard. It's hardly fast. It's not available in stereo sound. I know the excuses, because I found myself, a few years ago, faced with the reluctant reader of my son. In my book SEEING PAST Z, I wrote about our struggle to make the stories found inside the pages of books real and alive and powerful. We found the glory of reading, my son and I, through the glory of the conversation that took place afterward. His perceptions measured against mine. His questions taking me back to look for a passage that might better explain a character to us both. So that now, when there's no homework pressing, no college applications to mail, I'll find him upstairs, curled up on his bed, turning the pages of a book.

We live in a world in which instant connections are possible. Making books exceptionally relevant again means, I think, reminding ourselves and those we love that books are not islands, not isolating. They are about you and me. They are social.

For a recent Talk of the Nation segment on the topic, please visit: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=16739654

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Lumin Essence

Wednesday, November 28, 2007


I take my camera everywhere with me now, chasing light and glimmer. Most of the time, the shimmer escapes me; it's right there, I see it, it is gone at the sound of the shutter. I read. I go all manual with the functions. I try again. The thing eludes me.

That's writing, too. That's how it felt, early this morning, when I was dodging client calls, working in secret on a single sentence in a brand-new, and so tentative, novel.

All I wanted was to get the one sentence right.

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Dancing with the Stars



So of course I was watching the finale of Dancing with the Stars last night, and of course I was sad to see the season go. Dance remains for me the great tantalizing diversion, the thing I am most greedy for (though I'm terribly greedy when it comes to photography, too, and also to books and to gardens, and when, by the way, is greed not greed but passion, and where passion is dim has life really been lived? memorably lived? for the ages?).

Well, the thing is, I wanted both Mel and Helio to win in the end—Mel because she fit herself so exquisitely inside music, Helio because he's like the rest of us who have to try exceedingly hard to heel lead in the smooth dances and reverse it for the Latin.

Tomorrow I'll be back at my own dance studio, working on my cha-cha, rumba, west-coast swing, even bolero (if I can work it in). Wishing for more talent than I've got, but loving every second of the struggle.

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Backstory

Tuesday, November 27, 2007


I have been thinking about backstory and its choreography—the rise and fall of what is happening right this instant in a story, set against what is remembered, what comes before. Transitions between the present and the past and back to present again become as important as plot. Or maybe it is more accurate to say that perfectly executed transitions are plot.

I've been thinking about those authors who are masters at this sort of thing—Michael Ondaatje, of course. Wallace Stegner. Alice McDermott. Jayne Anne Phillips. Alyson Hagy. Ann Patchett, in her newest novel, RUN, does an exquisite job (I think) of slipping between the now and then of her characters' lives. So does Howard Norman in THE BIRD ARTIST, Ron Carlson in FIVE SKIES, Debra Dean in THE MADONNAS OF LENINGRAD, and Sarah Waters in THE NIGHT WATCH.

Sometimes an author will slide forwards and back, take nearly imperceptible steps through time. How does that happen? And sometimes the transition is declarative, abrupt. Why can that work so well? When does it fail?

I'm interested in gaining your perspective.

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Leaf Withdrawal

Sunday, November 25, 2007


It happened in one day: My Japanese maple shorn. We went away, and we came home, and the tree had shed itself of color. In the morning, when the moon still hung so fat and wide between the white panes of my window, I crept outside and photographed what I had thought of as the tree.

Now it is pure architecture out there—all structure and bone collecting (as I write this now) the newest shimmer of moon. My friend Alyson writes from Wyoming about her own bright moon, and Grete writes from an ocean beyond, and Kris writes from Los Angeles—all of us watching the colors shift and the moon fatten, then go cold.

This is life in its broadest sketch, and in its most intimate tones.

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Just Living

Saturday, November 24, 2007


Here is the thing that I've been working on lately: Not living my life as if it's a race toward making and making and making.

Just living.

Which means that last night, after my brother called to describe the comet that had burst wide open in the sky, I actually did go out and stand under the moon and look up until I found it.

This morning the moon is hung huge in my window.

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George Childs: The Superlative Philanthropist

Friday, November 23, 2007


My essay about one of Philadelphia's greatest citizens, George Childs, is running in the December issue of Main Line Today, which is out on newstands today. Childs wasn't just the judicious editor of the Public Ledger (a guy who cared about getting the news right, as opposed to, say, salacious and juicy). He isn't just the guy who, along with his friend Anthony Drexel, created one of the first suburban outposts ever (I lived my whole adult life wishing I could live in one of the houses that erupted from his gracious suburban planning). He was also perhaps the greatest philanthropist Philadelphia ever knew—a man who devoted hours of every day to listening to the dreams of young people and then making them happen.

There's so much about the way that this man lived that deserves to be remembered. So many lessons for today. And so I say thank you today to Hobart Rowland for making room for my small tribute.

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Keeping the Peace


My husband, son, and I spent yesterday at an inn along the Delaware River—just the three of us watching the last of the lemon-colored leaves fall. Everything seemed hushed, out where we were. Nothing urgent or pressing, just old autumn color (which is antique color) and sky.

I would like to believe that I can keep the peace that I found out there alive. That it won't dissolve itself inside the rush toward Christmas, that I can, this year, avoid that rush. Driving home I wondered how my friends would feel if my holiday gift to them were something they might never see—an elephant pump, I'm thinking, installed somewhere in Zimbabwe on behalf of school children and their families. One pump can bring water up from the earth for 500 people, I've read. It can do that sustainably, changing the health and welfare equation, sprouting gardens, teaching children science, their parents hope. A British organization called Pump Aid makes it possible to sit right where I am and to do this sort of good, and why not make this the gift of the year? A pump in the name of my friends: It seems like the right thing to do.

So I'm thinking about that, and if you too are interested in helping to replenish one small fraction of the earth in this way, I encourage you to go to this web site, and read.

http://www.pumpaid.org/

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On Giving Thanks

Wednesday, November 21, 2007


This year will be the first Thanksgiving that I have ever spent without my mother. Her turkey gravy, chocolate chip cheesecake, jewel eyes. It takes a long time to process loss and absence, and maybe that work never really gets done. Everything seems more fragile to me now, and also more heartbreakingly beautiful.

But I am also aware, this Thanksgiving, of all those who are and who have fundamentally been here. Once I wrote a book about friendship, and still: I don't understand the mystery, I don't get how it happens. All year long I've been made lucky by others—forced to take another look at things, gutted out by laughter, invited onto a roof deck to get a sunset view of the city I love. Listen to this, they've said. Think about this.

Grass dies down to seed so that it can be grass again.

So that I am grateful, a word that needs no adverb pomp.

I am also grateful this day to Toby Bloomberg, who gave me room to think out loud about just why I write this blog—what it means, where I am trying to take it. That story appears today in her truly world-famous blog,

http://www.bloombergmarketing.blogs.com/.

Toby (and dear Nettie Hartsock, who made this connection for me), thank you.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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A Poem

Tuesday, November 20, 2007


On Listening to Carolyn Forche Read Poetry
in a Bar in Prague, 1995
(Beth Kephart)

Because in Prague I was nothing but wanting
with words and still recovering from new sin,
and because the bar was also dark and lamped
by the yellow of your hair, you made me believe
in the running for the heart of a poem,
the superceded shush between memory and maw.

It was how you read, how you resurrected
Terrence, how the sand in the wind of your words
caught out the knots in my hair.
It was how you riddled me almost
clean with possibility.
I was sitting with my son.
I was sitting beside my husband.
You were — may I use the word? — explicit.

In the same way that a stone wall falls
more sensationally than it stands,
in the same way that a rescued love
is made more tender by its damage,
in the same way that women understand beauty
only in its passing, you in the bar in Prague
blew smoke up through the crevices of language.
Smoke the color of angel wings.
Poetry as salvation.

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The Big Apple

Sunday, November 18, 2007


So I was supposed to be in the Big Apple this evening, spending time with the fabulous team at HarperCollins and perhaps meeting some of the English teachers who have lately been walking the floor of a convention, sharing stories about stories (and students).

My plans were foiled—something about downed wires or a slow-moving diesel that was impeding the back and forth of trains between Philadelphia and New York. The lady at the Amtrak window would not even sell me a ticket. "Look at all those who have been waiting hours," she pointed beyond me, to the vast waiting room. "Think about how long it would take for your train to finally pull out of this station."

I came home (barely beating the snarl of frustrated traffic) and read research instead—the cold, hard rain slapping against the roof as I tried to conjure 135 years ago. I was thinking about smell. I was making lists of all the food I believe would have been in a certain place at a certain time, and imagining the float of it in the air. Mixed in with heat. Mixed in with kerosene and cigars.

(A part of my brain trying to conjure, all the while, New York and the people I never did get to meet.)

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Guardian Angel: School Library Journal Best Books Pick

Saturday, November 17, 2007


This morning, Jill Santopolo, the HarperTeen editor about whom I rave-blogged not long ago, sent a sensational email from the floor of the National Convention of Teachers of English, where UNDERCOVER was apparently just named one of the Best Books of the Year by School Library Journal.

The news floors me, but most of all it assures me that my mother, who passed away so tragically close to a year ago, is looking down on me. UNDERCOVER was the book she most deeply believed in, the book she longed to see come to pass, and every single time something blesses this book, I know, irrevocably I know, that she is out there pulling strings.

Mom, this one's for you.

The light through these trees?

That's you, too.

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Autumnal Blessings: Kirkus Top Books

Friday, November 16, 2007


A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of being interviewed by Jamie Engle, for the upcoming 12/1 issue of Kirkus, which will feature UNDERCOVER as a Top Young Adult Book for 2007. I was grateful to her for the thoughtful questions, for the way that she returned me to the novel's very earliest days, when it was more impulse and instinct than story, and when being brave mattered more (as it always does at first) than getting it absolutely right.

Yesterday, while walking the streets at near dusk with my camera, I found this fully articulated tree. Its leaves are the very colors Elisa, the novel's heroine, sees—the colors with which I began to limn the tale.

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Thank you, Amazon

Thursday, November 15, 2007


This is a note of thanks, plain and simple, to the editors of Amazon, who have graciously named UNDERCOVER one of the top ten YA books of the year.

It means more than they could know.

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Waiting through Rain


It has rained these past few days—the real falling-from-the-sky rain, and the other rain of loosened leaves.

I hunker down in my office, She, my watchful giraffe, nearby.

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Rescue Operation

Wednesday, November 14, 2007


This happens to be a photo of my kid on the morning he stepped inside an exhibit of blue (Venice Biennale, a few years ago).

But it is also a metaphor for me last night, as I prepared to talk about a river to some very wonderful people who had gathered at a nearby library. Let's just say that the technology gods were not with me (the lap top and the projector were not on speaking terms) and the lights were going dim and my brain was pumping panic and I was about to have to improvise (and I had a migraine, and migraines are fundamentally opposed to improvisation) and then: Elizabeth Mosier (whom I hope you all know as the author of MY LIFE AS A GIRL) saved the day. Called her husband (artist, writer, jewelry maker, rock band guy Chris Mills) who arrived—snap of a finger, white knight fashion—and insisted (a touch of his hands) that the two machines end their pointless dispute and reinvigorate their dialogue.

The machines obeyed.

The show went on.

But here's the thing that I remembered later, driving away from the scene of it all: How easy it is to think that we writers are all alone in a swell of blue, and how often we are saved.

On another note: HarperTeen has started a great My Space blog on which their authors are daily posting. Check it out, if you can: http://www.myspace.com/harperteen

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The Unanticipated Impulse

Tuesday, November 13, 2007


I'm in the very earliest stages of researching a new book—googling the heck out of one specific night in one specific year, tromping home with piles of library books, checking out my favorite used book barn up the road, which I raid at the start of many projects (the books are shelved in old peach crates; there are multiple sets of stairs that don't always necessarily lead anywhere). Every book is sui generis. We are forced to sit back and learn.

Like GHOSTS IN THE GARDEN and FLOW: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF PHILADELPHIA'S SCHUYLKILL RIVER, this new book returns me to an era—the 19th century—that has endlessly obsessed me. Ghosts obsess me. The possibilities that lie just within reach of old photographs.

Of course, the challenge of writing about things that have already happened is making everything feel as if it is happening right now. Making it urgent. With GHOSTS, my hope was to make the past personal. With FLOW, I was drawn to writing about a river as if I were myself a river, ripe with arrogance, disbelief, ruin, yearning.

With the new book: Who knows? But this, I find, is one of the privileges of writing. We leave ourselves wide open to the unanticipated impulse.

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Gifted

Sunday, November 11, 2007


Once, when writing the preface to a book of poems written by young writers I'd been teaching, I wrote: "You measure good writing by any number of criteria—by the accretion of telling details, by the ingenuity of the narrator's voice, by the pizzazz of dialogue, by the you-know-them-when-you-see-them signs of originality. We come to value, in good writers, so much more. Exuberance and compassion. Reliability and audacity...."

I was thinking about this yesterday after I discovered a fat package in my mailbox, return address naming Rahna Reiko Rizzuto. Reiko is the author of the extraordinary, American Book Award winning WHY SHE LEFT US. She is also one of my dearest friends—has been since our essays appeared together in MOTHERS WHO THINK—and when I saw the package, I had this mind-trip moment of remembering all the gifts she's ever sent me. A paper vase from Japan. A piece of jade from Hong Kong. A pair of earrings. It goes on. She's the sort of person who fills an afternoon in New York City with detours into niches I'd never know existed. Also the sort who listens brilliantly, and calms you with her words. She's a fantastic writer, ask anyone. But she is also so much more, and it is the more of Reiko that I think of first—the who she is trumping the what she writes, but also, of course, creating the frame in which she writes.

There were bookmarks from Japan in Reiko's package—they sit here now, on my shelf. And then there was DIVISADERO, Michael Ondaatje's newest book. I'd read it, of course (I've read every last Ondaatje word), but I didn't, as her note said, have a copy inscribed to me, which this one was. Jetlagged, just a few hours off the plane from Japan, she'd gone to see this great author read. She'd waited in line. She'd bought me his book.

Writing is impossibly hard; we all know that. There are those who make the journey sound. Reiko is one of those.

(Photo above: Reiko to the right, and our families, at Hawk Mountain.)

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Review Confessional

Saturday, November 10, 2007


I'm not going to mess around with this: I hate writing negative reviews. Take zero pleasure from it. Know how hard it is to write a for-the-ages-sentence, let alone a book. Haven't met a writer yet who hasn't hoped for a warm (okay: rousing) reception, and while I'm always true to a reviewer's purpose (honesty, clarity), while that is what I am paid to do, what readers of reviews are owed, I try my best not to strut, as a reviewer, not to declaim, not to scold. Because where's the humanity in that? Where's the reach?

But I was challenged a few months ago by Alice Sebold's THE ALMOST MOON. I couldn't find redemption in those pages, couldn't walk myself away from the simmering conclusion that the book was designed, first and foremost, to shock, to singe. I questioned, most of all, the author's purpose, which is an ugly thing to do, strictly puritanical and judgmental, but there I am today, casting and declaiming and maybe even scolding in the pages of the Chicago Tribune, and still wishing that I could have found another way to talk about the story.

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Editorial Good Luck

Friday, November 9, 2007


I've been lucky, when it comes to editors. Alane Mason of WW Norton dug my first manuscript out of a slush pile and called on my birthday to say that she thought she could gain her colleagues' support for the book; she did, she edited wisely, she became, over the course of two additional memoirs, a reliably intelligent provocateur and friend. I respect Alane—the books she's chosen to take on, the book she herself translated (CONVERSATIONS IN SICILY, published by New Directions), and her tremendous work as the founding editor of Words Without Borders, for which she has edited anthologies of writing from around the globe. From Alane I learned about structure. I learned how to look over my own shoulder, to opt for substance over flourish, to not allow my obsession with the sound of language to overwhelm the stories I tell.

Lately, I've been working with this Vegas Fab (as my friend Lori used to say) team at HarperTeen—Laura Geringer (reflective, encouraging, compassionate, and herself an award-winning writer), Jill Santopolo (not just an incredibly responsive and thorough editor, but a kind and patient one), and Lindsey Alexander, who is as dear as her name suggests. From these three women I've learned when to delve deeper, and when to cut a line short; I've learned weave. I've also felt like I've been given a very real, second home in a tremulous world, and, really, who doesn't want that? And let me just say that I love the covers they've been putting on my books—love the fact that they have cared so much about getting every last detail right.

Jill has her own YA book due out next summer (ALEC FLINT, SUPER SLEUTH: THE NINA, THE PINTA, AND THE VANISHING TREASURE) and I'm basically standing here first in line to read it. Her web site is now up, in the meantime, complete with Rebus Riots to solve. I hope you'll check it out. http://www.jillsantopolo.com/

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Are we done yet?

Thursday, November 8, 2007


Galleys for my second novel for young adults, HOUSE OF DANCE, arrived a few days ago, which gave me cause to reflect (as it does for every book) on whether we're ever really done with whatever it is that we write. I've heard of writers going to press to change a book's final lines. Tennessee Williams' endless revisions are legendary. And yes, when I read from my long-since-published work, I find it awfully difficult (don't you?) not to change the phrasing, not to mix up the rhythms.

So that when galleys arrive, I am wrecked by the temptation to go back in, mess around, report on where the characters have gone in my head since I last feathered the manuscript across my office floor. I've got a new word that fits, I'll think. I've had a thought I didn't see coming. I could maybeprobablyjustincase take this character not just to the end of the street, but five feet around the corner.

But are afterthoughts always better thoughts?

I'm sitting here. I'm thinking.

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A Poem

Wednesday, November 7, 2007


Curiosities
(Beth Kephart)

In the shop of garden curiosities,
where butterflies are daggered into extended flight
and fish scales sit quite apart from the fish
in a dish behind the counter,
I choose the bones with you —
the smooth white jewels of death,
the wide-socketed architecture
of pine marten and coyote,
turtle and mouse, zebra
finch the size of fingertips and hollows
in the place of sight so that
we hold them, we
arrange them on the shelves of our hands,
a dozen on my palm,
a dozen on yours,
these unfeathered skulls of birds,
these poem as white as bones.

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Making Ready


"Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It's as though I could fly."

Anne Sexton

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Trusting the Accident


"A poem always has the elements of accident about it, which can be made the subject of inquest afterwards, but there is always a risk in conducting your own inquest: you might begin to believe the coroner in yourself rather than put your trust in the man in you who is capable of the accident."

Seamus Heaney

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Bone

Tuesday, November 6, 2007


Today I woke up thinking about Fae Myenne Ng, whose voice I first heard on the radio by accident, and whose Philadelphia reading of BONE I attended despite the fact that it was 1993, a time when I rarely got out for such adventures. BONE is exceptional, the story of three sisters growing up in San Francisco's Chinatown. It is one of the most controlled, deep-plunging books I've ever read.

I waited in line that night to speak to Fae. I wanted to tell her only how her reading had given me the sound of her voice, and how that sound would now carry me forward as I finished her book for myself. The line was long, every person telling Fae something about their own life, and Fae listened, patient and gracious. When it was finally my turn to speak, Fae (still patient, still gracious) asked me the simplest hardest question: Are you a writer? I didn't know. I had been publishing short stories in literary journals, I said, and yet, I didn't know what qualifies one as a writer. I didn't know how I would know when I had crossed that line.

A few months later (and this was long before the ubiquity of email), I received a package in the mail—Fae's name on the return envelope. I remember shaking, tearing open the envelope, reaching into the pouch to find what was inside, and do you know what was inside? A pen. She had been traveling, she wrote, and had remembered our conversation. She was sure, she said, that I was a writer.

A pen.

I was forever wanting to read Fae's next book. I was always asking in bookstores, then googling, but there was nothing. Today, as I sat down to write this blog, I googled again, and my news of today is that Fae Myenne Ng has a new book due next May, something titled STEER TOWARD ROCK.

Between us she will always be the real writer. She will also always be to me one of those rare people (but not, by any means, the only one) who reached out, who said, Believe.

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Writing for tweens

Monday, November 5, 2007


I loved Judith Warner's most recent blog post, Seventies Something (http://warner.blogs.nytimes.com/). I loved the questions it raised: "What power can any of us – moms and daughters, adrift in the cultural mainstream — have against the hugely seductive, hypnotic machine that has brought us Paris, Miley, Lindsay and more?" I loved its conclusion: "The only thing we can do is provide some sort of inspiration – of a kind of womanhood that makes them want to connect to the better aspects of the girlhood we once knew. And then, give them the space and the time to make it their own."

When UNDERCOVER, my novel for tweens, was released this past September, I wondered how it would fare in a gossip-glittered world. I still don't have any quantifiable answer to that, but what I do have is a growing collection of anecdotals—moments where I've been stopped by mothers, aunts, young readers themselves, and asked point blank: Is this a (to use one person's word) "whole" story? Is this a novel in which intelligence is celebrated? Is this a novel that gives young readers something more than Paris and Britney to think about, aspire to?

I have been surprised by the questions. I have listened. And while I am no sociologist and will never name an era, I can say, in response to a line in Judith Warner's blog that yes, perhaps, there are more of us out here than I might have previously thought. Readers and writers who want heroines to soar, to transcend because of how deeply they think, how brilliantly they see. Maybe smart and self-defining is the new cool. Here's hoping, anyway.

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Brief Encounters with Che Guevara


I do cheat when I read books—can't help it; I do. Start in the back and read from the middle before I settle in with page 1, and where there are acknowledgments, I read them early, and where there are author interviews bound right in, I read them straight off, first. Maybe it shouldn't matter who a writer really is, but to me (and call me sentimental; you wouldn't be the first) it always has.

Yesterday's book was BRIEF ENCOUNTERS WITH CHE GUEVARA, the incredibly charming and smart collection of stories by Ben Fountain, and if you're writing about place, if you are interested in the world, you just have to read this book. Fountain knows exotic birds, Haitian street names, indigenous terrors, but in particular he knows how not to drown a story out by the hard-earned particulars. You get that reading the stories themselves, but in the About the Author pages, which I of course read first, he explains just how he works:

"Research is done by the saturation method; I try to get my hands on whatever is out there, and by the end of the process I'll usually have a big thick file and half a shelf full of books. I almost always reach a point where the thing seems unmanageable—I've got too much information and too little ability to handle it, but I've learned over time that this too is part of the process, the despair that comes of 'oversaturation'....."

A nod of thanks to Fountain, then, for this morning, after weeks of wavering, I took the research plunge. I'm about to go straight down the stony path toward despair. I'm going to hope for my own rescue.

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The Uncommon Reader

Sunday, November 4, 2007


Yesterday's guilty pleasure was THE UNCOMMON READER, Alan Bennett's totally fine new novella that wonders what would happen if the queen of England suddenly morphed into an avid reader. Fabulous premise, telling lesson in how ideas can in fact advance plot, how apparent contradictions do indeed broaden understanding, how vocabulary pitched to just the right high can aerate the reading experience (words for the book of words: glabrous, divigation, opsimath). Reading is both passive and a muscle to be developed. Writers are equally brave and mewling. Reading is not for "doers" and yet, reading "tenderises," alters perspective, catalyzes new forms of doing. Bennett has a field day best and worsting the entire lit scene, but cruelty doesn't enter in, only astute observation.

Myopia, self-absorption, grandstanding, melodrama: It can all get the best of us writers. Reader talk, writer talk: Yes, you're right, it grows incestuous, can send my husband (the most happily determined non-reader I know) straight across the room—a cannon shot.

But everytime we write, and everytime we read, and everytime we're out there talking about reading, talking about writing, we are defining what literature is and what it means. We are being given the chance (we are taking the chance) to torque, twist, blue sky it, toward that thing that we want to be part of.

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A Poem

Saturday, November 3, 2007


Sheriff’s Sale
(Beth Kephart)


On the last day
she sent us through, she sent us up,
she whispered my mother’s lace,
my mother’s crystal, my mother’s kitchen
table, eight Orientals, my father’s watch
are hidden, like it was some kind of war
we were in, like we were lowering our heads
to our own eviction.

Afterwards
the forsaken house stood forsaken
until one brow fell and a hinged door
buckled and the garden became fisted
and foiled, leaving its loosened seeds
to the squirrel, who carried them through the roof’s
soft tissue and dug them deep
into asbestos while in the bowl
of a chandelier
a black snake slept.

Snow made it want for its own beauty.
Wind made it howl.

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Ringing the NASDAQ Bell

Friday, November 2, 2007


Today my co-author for ZENOBIA: THE CURIOUS BOOK OF BUSINESS (an Alice in Wonderlandish tour of corporate America, due out in January) is in New York, ringing the NASDAQ bell, opening a day of what we all hope will be better-than-yesterday trading (much better).

I'm not there, but I can imagine what it looks like: Matt Emmens (who is not just my friend and co-author but the CEO of Shire Pharmaceuticals) and a crowd of Shire-ites—a fist of energy on the trading floor. Dreams fulfilled (the big ones, anyway). Dreams still spinning forward.

Photos of the event here: http://www.nasdaq.com/reference/200711/market_Open_110207.stm

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Obsession

Thursday, November 1, 2007


“If you aren’t obsessive,” writes Hanif Kureishi in HOW I WRITE, “you can’t be an artist, however imaginative you might be.”

Read that at 4:18 this morning and thought, okay, well, okay, feeling just a little better now. Because they called me obsessive in college, when I pinned all the poems I’d been writing to the wall above my bed. And they called me that wherever I went to work, as in, Give it to Beth, she’ll get it done, she’s obsessive. And (equally), Did you ever learn the word, relax?

No one used the word when I was a kid, filling black book after black book with poems (watercoloring the pages swirly colors first, so as to establish mood). Maybe they thought it, but nobody said it.

So maybe I read too hard (and still come up short for answers). So maybe I write too much (and have yet to write the perfect book). So maybe you find me talking to somebody and half of the time, we're talking about stories and words. I'm still not half the artist I want to be, but I'm drawing the conclusion right here, right now that being obsessive has its perks.

PS: Congratulations to Kristina (http://kristinasfavorites.blogspot.com/), who has won a copy of UNDERCOVER via a competition held by Em's Bookshelf (http://emsbookshelf.blogspot.com/). Thanks for all those who showed an interest!

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