Writing on Memoir in The Millions. Being Reviewed in Bookslut for Dr. Radway. Going to San Francisco.

Summer eases away. Yesterday I let it. Some rain, some sun. Some breeze, some stillness. Reading, and then writing, and then writing again. Making a list of all the books that I must read. Buying several.

By Thursday evening of this week, I'll be in one of my favorite American cities—San Francisco—to conduct three very different (from each other) Handling the Truth workshops at Book Passages, Books Inc., and the Flamingo Conference Resort and Spa (located in Santa Rosa, conducted on behalf of the Redwood Writers Workshop).

(For more on the nearly twenty events scheduled for the next few months, please look for the events on the left-column of this blog.)

I'll also be holding the gloriously designed Going Over galleys in my hand for the first time, hugging dear Tamra Tuller, meeting that incredibly vivacious publicist Lara Starr in person (oh, yeah!), sitting down with the wonderful Ginee Seo, Stephanie Wong, and Amber Morley of Chronicle, and sharing a meal with local librarians and booksellers. Finally, I'll have a chance to spend some real time with Wendy Robards, whom many of you know as Caribousmom. Wendy's Small Damages quilt sits before me as I write these words. It is here as inspiration.

The days will be jam-packed. I'm looking forward to every second.

In the meantime, today, I share this essay, written for The Millions, about memoirists who glance up from the page and recognize their readers—and those who do not. I feel privileged to be given room on that amazing book site.

Also, finally, beautifully, I share this Bookslut column, by Colleen Mondor, who took the time to read and to write about Dr. Radway's Sarsaparilla Resolvent. All of you know how much this book means to me. It makes me so happy, therefore, that Colleen embraced it.What's more, she embraced it in a column called "Living in a Springsteen Song" (could you get any closer to my heart?) and likens it to "Copper," one of her favorite TV shows.

To more sun. To more breeze. To endless Springsteen.

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Here, in this final week of August (looking ahead to Atlanta, GA, and San Francisco, CA)

I welcome the quiet of working hours and the chance to revise a book I believe in. It's taken me a while to wrestle this Florence novel into something continuous, riveting, but also calm. It's funny what adding several scenes can do, while shuffling others to the side. It's funny, too, how I learn again (and again) that plot is dictated by tone, and how every time you write a novel, it's like the first time you write a novel; you have to give yourself a lot of long and hard talking to's. And yet, it's wonderful to be with these characters again, to be back in Florence, and to know, at last, that I can do this.

I welcome the chance to look ahead to Decatur, GA, where, in a few days, I'll be teaching a memoir workshop, and (the next day) joining Stacey D'Erasmo in conversation on a stage. She'll be talking about intimacy on the page. I'll be talking about truth. In between the workshop and the conversation, I'll be seeing old friends, learning from others, giving the dear Jessica Shoffel a hug.

The following week, I'll take off for San Francisco to conduct three Handling the Truth workshops (each of them different) and to meet with my friends at Chronicle. I'll hold the galleys of Going Over, my Berlin novel with that gorgeous cover, for the first time. I will thank, in person, the team that so believes in that story, and see the talented Tamra Tuller again. (Also, Lara Starr, I will not eat dog biscuits.) San Francisco is a city I love and frequently turn to. A place where I'm happy to walk the hills.

If I am less a presence here than usual, forgive me. If you are in Georgia or Northern California, I'll look for you.

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Gearing up for the Handling the Truth workshops (and see you at Independence Mall this Saturday?)

The other day, when my very bright orange Handling the Truth arrived, I took a very deep breath. It is time, I thought. Time to think about the way I will talk about this book and take it out into the world.

I'm still happy for the decision I'd made months ago to conduct workshops on behalf of this book, as opposed to offering traditional readings. Some of those workshops are noted on the left column of this blog—events in Alexandria, VA, Philadelphia, New York, and elsewhere. Three will be conducted in northern California. One of those (noted above) will take place at one of my very favorite independent bookstores, Book Passages.

I hope to see you in my travels. And I hope, perhaps, to see you this Saturday, when I'll be signing copies of Dangerous Neighbors and Dr. Radway's Sarsaparilla Resolvent on Independence Mall. It's gorgeous down there; it's the heart of Philadelphia history.

July 13
1:00-4:00 pm
Independence Visitor Center Store
1 North Independence Mall West
6th and Market Streets
Philadelphia, PA

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Me in Person

It was my friend Buzz Bissinger who got me onto Facebook—a series of notes from him that could not be read unless I went ahead and plugged myself in. I'm not what anyone would call Facebook adept; I still can't figure out which notes are private, which are public, what the world sees and what gets sent to just one friend. And don't even ask me about that wall, and to be honest: the photos that I've posted are just the ones that have stuck; who knows where the rest of them have gone to.

Still and nonetheless (and yet!): Facebook has brought me back into touch with former high school track teamers (Donna and Donna) and with a Bread Loaf alum (Leslie Pietrzyk). It has introduced me to editors and readers. It has kept me up-to-date with the infamous personalities of the ballroom dance world (the famous ones, too), and it has presented me with a number, an actual number, of friends. Counted them up for me on the off-chance that I need to quantify my life. (According to the stats, I have far fewer "friends" than the average Facebooker.)

This week, I received a message, and then a brief series of notes, from a writer named Kathy Briccetti. Ultimately I received from her an attachment. It was an essay she'd written for an anthology called A Cup of Comfort for Writers. The piece is called "The Drowning Girl." It recounts a moment several years ago in the Tiburon bookstore, Book Passages, where I'd gone to read from my Chanticleer memoir, Ghosts in the Garden, and where I talked about the writing life. Kathy had been in the audience that night. She captured that moment in time.

I am no celebrity writer. I rarely read from my own books. I've only ever once been invited to the BEA, and this is what happened then: They put my signing "line" directly beside Jodi Picoult's signing line. Guess which line was longest (by about ten miles)? And so it touched me more deeply than I can say to read Kathy's account of an evening four years ago, to realize that I'd been listened to that carefully, that I'd been transcribed onto another's page. I don't believe I've ever read another's account of me; it's one thing to be interviewed and it's another to be described. My wild hair is there. My deep set eyes, lost entirely to shadow. My way of speaking, pausing, thinking.

What is the punch line? What is there to say? Nothing, but that I found myself in tears by the essay's end. That was me then. I existed.

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