Category Archives: Books

The Art of Storytelling

23 Tuesday Jul 2013

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I’m a fan of museums as creative inspiration. I’ve been enchanted by statues in the Louvre, photography, and lavishly embellished pen cases, and I even spent the last summer session of grad school trying to find the voices of a room full of beautiful women at the Walter’s.

This year, I am spending some time wandering through the American Visionary Art Museum’s featured exhibition, The Art of Storytelling: Lies, Enchantment, Humor & Truth. It’s like they knew I was coming.

As you walk up the stairs, you’re greeted by Beatrice Coron’s intricate cutout images. The tableaux look to me something like a Day of the Dead celebration reimagining Hitchcock’s Rear Window. Skeletal black-and-white figures work, eat, dance, and climb over branches or through tunnels, depending on whether the world holding them is a web, globe, or tree.

Picture from the Baltimore Sun review

Picture from the Baltimore Sun review

One of my favorite pieces is Mars Tokyo’s Theaters of the 13th Dimension: You walk around a podium, opening doors to see a tiny scene. It’s fun to write a prompt based on one that speaks particularly to you, or imagine a novel that could capture each moment in turn.

My other favorite art “story” is Debbie and Mike Schramer’s amazingly detailed fairy houses. As big as the Barbie Dream House I played with as a kid and oh-so-much cooler, the house is made of wood, glass, moss, dandelion fluff, flower heads, wire, lichens, stone, and other found things, coming together in a house that looks more like it grew than was built. This piece fascinated me especially because I felt the artists’ presence as characters in the story so strongly. Why had they built fairy houses? Who exactly were they hoping to invite? Was it his or her idea to include a music stand? An outdoor reading nook? Whose favorite books are those on the shelf?

Picture found at cauldroncraftminiatures.blogspot.com

Picture found at cauldroncraftminiatures.blogspot.com

The exhibit is open until September 1, so there’s plenty of time to catch it if you happen to find yourself in the Baltimore area. If you do, be sure to check in and let me know which pieces caught your imagination!

I’d also love to know: which museum exhibits (current or past) have inspired you?

Self-Publishing: The Problem of In-Between

16 Tuesday Jul 2013

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I’ve reached a stage I’m sure is common to many self-published authors: the decision of whether to invest in a second print run. I had a great first response to Room Full of Strangers. Between book sales and trades with the other writers I graduated with, my initial supply of 100 copies has dwindled to fewer than 20, which I am thrilled about. However, 20-odd is still a stack of copies, and I’ve reached out to the obvious circles of friends, co-workers, church family, and so on. I do have a few ideas up my sleeve to put my book out there, but the question, “Is it enough?” is a tough one to face.

Arguments for: shows greater faith in book, eliminates ‘limited copies’ as an excuse to avoid readings

Arguments against: it would cost about 3/4 of the money I made from book sales so far, I don’t have a concrete plan for how to sell an additional 100 copies

I haven’t made a decision yet, so I’ll put it out there: what would you do in my place? (Or, if you’ve published and marketed your work, what did you do?)

What I’m Reading: Mr. Palomar

12 Friday Jul 2013

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An easy mistake readers and writers make is confounding serious literature with serious subject matter. Death, devastation, relationships torn apart–these are the meat of literature, right? A man overwhelmed by the selection in a cheese shop, or trying to figure out where to look when passing a woman tanning topless? Fluff.

Until, that is, you see how Italo Calvino does it. Mr. Palomar is a series of essays, stories, and meditations featuring the eponymous protagonist, a man with a deep internal life and a certain level of, shall we say, nervous intensity in his day-to-day habits. The book is divided into three sections, progressing from internal meditations to more narrative pieces featuring some interpersonal interaction and ending in a section that considers its subjects on a wider historical/metaphysical/sociological plane.

I thought all of the stories were lovely, although don’t expect even the narrative stories to stray too far from Mr. Palomar’s head. In any particular piece, Mr. Palomar doesn’t do all that much: he takes an evening swim, watches a gecko in his living room, runs an errand to the butcher. The beauty is in the way his interpretation of the grander meaning of an act or place transforms the ordinary, and in Calvino’s lightness.

When I say lightness, I do mean humor, but almost tangentially. The real “lightness” is more that Calvino has a way of saying things that may be profound or perfectly silly without working too hard to define how the reader should take it. It’s a “maybe this is so” approach–you’re not pressured into accepting its gravity, but you also don’t get the impression that nothing matters. Mr. Palomar approaches life with an open mind as far as that goes, ready to appreciate meaning anywhere. When he passes the topless woman over and over again, trying to determine which way is the most polite to look (staring at her may be intrusive, but perhaps not looking is an insult to feminism via a rejection of the worth of female physicality?), it’s hilarious. When he considers the other swimmers in the water, all of them reaching toward the reflection the setting sun casts and seeing it as directed at them alone, it’s more contemplative.

I’d love to try some of the techniques out for myself. My stories are typically dark, even when they’re funny in places, and I love dialogue as a way of moving a story forward. I’m trying to capture more lightness in the story I’m working on now, and to see potential to show beauty or meaning through characters’ thoughts and actions, or even the surrounding environment, rather than concentrating on dialogue.

My Ideal Bookshelf

08 Monday Jul 2013

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I found a coffee-table book on my last library visit called My Ideal Bookshelf. The idea is simple: ask artists, chefs, writers, architects, designers, musicians, and other creative spirits to put together a small sample of the books that have had the greatest impact on their lives. There’s no strict limit on number of books–just keep the list short enough to let the books stand or stack together on a short shelf, perhaps half the length of your standard IKEA fixture. Each page spread features an illustration of the books and a brief explanation by the person in question of why he or she picked them. The result is lovely: a lively sort of dialogue begins to unfold, even though the people featured throughout the book may never have spoken to one another.

Some books appear on shelf after shelf; some are famous and many I’ve never heard of. One chef chose a book whose spine was ripped off entirely, with thicker lines of glue on the binding-cloth to show where the connection between book and cover used to be. The cookbook had belonged to her grandmother and was full of notes in the margins. Junot Diaz’s shelf balanced Lord of the Rings over books on torture and race relations. In many cases, it was easy to see how the books people chose had shaped their own work, but there are surprises as well.

Of course, as soon as you crack the spine you want a notepad to start a to-read list, and it’s a matter of pages before you start daydreaming your own bookshelf. A few of mine that would make the list:

  1. Something Wicked This Way Comes, by Ray Bradbury. The beauty of the language thrilled me at 13, and as I’ve gotten older, Bradbury has still caught me with his enthusiasm for people, his disregard for genre pigeonholing, and of course the lyricism throughout his writing.
  2. Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte. People tend to love or hate this one. I love it for making an obsessive, consuming love into both the redeeming quality and downfall of two barely likeable people.
  3. The Smitten Kitchen Cookbook, by Deb Perleman. I started reading the blog at 19, before it was even about cooking. Over years, I began to understand the deep vein of creativity that lies in making food. Now, cooking, and especially baking, is a hobby and a way to work out my creative kinks. I also credit Smitten with introducing me to artichokes, but that’s another story for another time.
  4. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams. Reading this book is what led to me meeting my husband, but if that wasn’t enough, I’d list it here for its irrepressible playfulness and as a reminder that flying by the seat of your pants can lead to good writing and a lot of fun.
  5. The Little Prince, by Antoine Saint-Exupery. Because it’s true, and beautiful, and makes me cry no matter how many times I’ve read it.
  6. Childcraft, because this is the collection of poems my father read to me.
  7. Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Latin magical realism in general has proven to me that magic does have a place in canonical ‘literature,’ something I had hoped but had a hard time believing.
  8. A Good Man is Hard to Find and Other Stories, by Flannery O’Connor. I wish I was her. I love the way the grotesque and the spiritual come together, and the way she saw her writing as a way of communicating her idea of God. She inspires me technically and reminds me to aspire to do more than entertain.
  9. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz. Diaz doesn’t apologize or slow down his writing for anyone. It keeps his writing smarter, and also more intimate because of the way he assumes you know what he knows.
  10. The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran, because it feels like a gift.
  11. Of Mice and Men, by Steinbeck. Steinbeck is able to write short novels that don’t feel forced into economy of language. There is still description and beauty, but the story and characters are kept so tight and clean that a slim little book can tell what others couldn’t do in 400 pages.

The beauty of an “ideal bookshelf” is that it can change over time. I’d love to hear what’s on your shelf right now, or what I should consider adding to mine.

The Book, Step 1: Tackling a Revision Plan

11 Tuesday Dec 2012

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The semester is over! Hooray! And it ended on a high note: my professor left me the most positive review yet of my last story. I’m feeling bold enough to consider submitting it for publication once I put in a few more edits. It’s nice to end the semester with a dash of bravery.

What makes the jolt of self-confidence particularly welcome is that this winter break I will be preparing my manuscript. This past semester gave me a much stronger feeling for what people notice most in my writing and what I might like to highlight, but I’m looking at at least one more pass on every story I’ve lined up. I don’t want the break to slip away from me, so here is my Revision Plan, a guide to help me make the most of my time and relax over the holidays, too:

how i write

  1. Count stories. Count days/weeks. Plan accordingly. Know when to move on to a new story that needs attention instead of picking endlessly at one.
  2. Start by identifying the issues. Note the most common critiques or the areas I see as most in need of revision to avoid wasting time wondering where to start.
  3. Focus on the big stuff first. Minor language edits are easy enough to sneak in at the last minute than character development, a shift in pacing, new dialogue, or even additional scenes.
  4. Spread work out over multiple sessions. I usually get more done in three 30-minute sessions than one 90-minute slog. It helps me to think about the story and come to a more creative solution to a problem during my “off” time and keeps me feeling more focused and relaxed while I’m in front of the screen.
  5. Put in as many days as possible. Ten minutes spent fixing a paragraph means now I have a fixed paragraph. It’s still worth it.
  6. Keep a positive outlook. However tough this project is, I’m working toward my first book, and that’s something to celebrate! Just try to save most of the congratulatory wine sipping for after the night’s editing is done…

Why Do You Buy Books?

04 Tuesday Dec 2012

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I’m curious–do you (you specifically, not the rhetorical “you”) still buy books? It’s been obvious to me for a while that I get most of my reading material from the library, but it recently hit me that I rarely buy books anymore, except as gifts. I buy cookbooks because I like them as constant references/inspiration and I’m a recipe note-scribbler, but fiction? Three weeks plus renewals is apparently good enough for me.

I feel weird about that as a reader, and concerned about that as a writer and  worker in the publishing industry.

So I’m asking you to make the case for me: how often do you buy books? What kinds of books would you buy versus borrow? What does it take for you to make the leap between “I’d like to read that” and “I gotta have it”? I’m all ears.

Seeing the Light

16 Friday Nov 2012

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I registered for my last grad school class! There are only 3 class sessions left in this semester, and then one semester’s worth of design, editing, and production, and then (knock wood) I’ll burst out the other side of school into a world where I have my degree and all my evenings to myself. Not to mention that I’ll be a published author.

One of the things that excited me most about the program I chose for my MFA was that instead of amassing a manuscript for my thesis, I’ll get to go through the whole process of designing and publishing my work, with instructors and peers there to mentor and support me through the process. It’s an incredible thought after the 8 years I’ve spent studying and practicing writing, and despite my professor’s advice to the contrary, I haven’t been able to help daydreaming about the content, organization, and cover design for my first leap into the shelves.

It doesn’t feel quite real yet. I imagine it won’t until January, after I’ve revised this semester’s work and put together my rough manuscript (once I hold that in my hands I know something is going to click!). But the first rosy glimmers of “this is real” and “I’m going to be done” have arrived. I’m starting to feel more excited than nervous about what the next 6 months will bring.

Reading Dead Writers

12 Friday Oct 2012

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I just finished Micro, a novel “by” Michael Crichton. I use the word “by” a little loosely because Crichton died while writing it, and the book was completed by another writer. It was still okay, but it missed some sharpness. There were summarized passages that I felt sure would have been explored more vividly if Crichton had lived to revise. Reading that last book got me thinking about what happens to manuscripts when the writer has died.

Micro isn’t the first example of a book that was a work in progress (sometimes barely more than a few drafted chapters and some Word files full of notes) that was finished by another writer. I will admit it’s one of the few I’ve read, mostly because a few dips into posthumously completed novels, including some I really love (Douglas Adams comes to mind) has taught me that a lot of what I love in an author’s voice comes later in the revision process.

I’m a voice girl when it comes to reading. Plot and character matter, of course. The premise better be interesting to make it on my favorites list, and the ending should count. But I will forgive a lot of sins on the basis of a great narrative voice, and I’m quick to put down almost any story if I don’t care for the way it’s told. It’s hard to get voice right on a first draft–it’s the kind of plaster or molding (I don’t know enough about carpentry to keep this metaphor accurate–whoops!) that you can only worry about when the scaffolding of the story is in place.

These days, editors don’t have much time to do extensive developmental editing with writers before the book is published. This is in many ways an unfortunate thing–a good editor can help a book cross the last inch (or more!) from a workable manuscript to a masterpiece. But that’s another story for another day. The point is that I think the authors themselves, and their personal communities of hand-selected readers, are the ones shaping most books today. A publisher assigning someone else (hopefully also popular in the same genre, to attract sales and ease suspicious readers’ minds) just isn’t the same to me. The question, then, is should the work stop if the author is no longer alive?

I know there is a lot of important work that happens after the writer is done putting words on the page (I wouldn’t be working in publishing if I thought that wasn’t true!). I know there are agents and even some editors who still take a strong personal interest in a book. But although I can understand the fans’ desire for just one more book and the publishers’ for one last good sale from an author, the writer side of me feels an uncomfortable twinge imagining an unfinished book going out. There is no last chance to review the book, or change it. There’s more possibility for anyone to say “close enough” to a not-quite-polished page. We should be grateful we even have this much, right?

Not me. I want the last book I read by a beloved author to be a proper send-off, with all the qualities I love in the work that got me hooked in the first place. I’ll miss out on a glimpse at the new characters and ideas my favorite writers were creating at the end of their lives, but I want that wonderful voice in my head to stay the same.

Should death be the final deadline for an author’s work to get published, or is it better to find a way to publish what they’ve left behind? I’d love to hear your take.

Ray Bradbury

28 Thursday Jun 2012

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The first time I found Bradbury was through Something Wicked This Way Comes, the book that devoured me so utterly that I had a moment of panic when I looked up and realized it was July instead of October. The lyricism of the writing, the horror of the situations, and the strength of the strange friendship between two such different boys captivated me, and I knew I had to read everything this man had written.

The first time I found Bradbury was in the Golden Book of Children’s Literature, my tome with green script on the side, with embellished old fairy tales and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and Kipling and Aesop. The story was “Switch on the Night,” and there was a character called Dark in that one too, but not at all like Something Wicked’s nightmare carnival man. Dark the girl embodied night–crickets and stars, porch-lights and croaking or chirping frogs, the soft wings of owls and the texture of black tree branches against midnight sky.

Both of these stories are true–the first time I read Bradbury knowingly, and my actual first encounter. It turns out I have been discovering and rediscovering Bradbury for most of my life. The horror of the carnival stories, murderers, and people trapped within their own private fears; the sweet nostalgia for the mythical small-town America; the exhilarated rush of space and machine, and the prickling alien-ness that they hold; and always, the great human yearning toward understanding of self, of other, of loved one. I read and reread and stopped by his row on the bookstore shelf just so I could rest my hand against the block of books for a moment.

I took Bradbury with me to college. He was my Honors project. I combined literature and sociology in a way I hoped he’d be proud of, following his keen interest in people rather than the classifications he always eluded. Not quite sci-fi writer, too complex for moralist, too nostalgic for a doomsday prophet, too optimistic for pure horror. Dandelion Wine and From the Dust Returned, Fahrenheit 451 and The Golden Apples of the Sun, Martians and Greentown, Illinois.

One of the things I love about Bradbury is the stories he told about himself. He swore he remembered every instant of his life, including birth. He said a carny named Mr. Electrico had recognized him, age 12, as the reincarnation of his best friend, who had died in his arms in the first World War. He said Mr. Electrico had knighted him with lightning and commanded him to live forever, and he said it all with such conviction that I believed him.

Last Wednesday, Andrew called me up at lunchtime to tell me Ray Bradbury had died. Of course I started crying. I feel like I lost my grandfather. He formed my writing self, the play of it, the love of people and where people go wrong, the yen toward short and strange. My first thought was, What do I do if Bradbury is dead? What does the world mean if Mr. Electrico misspoke about that boy, all those years ago? How do I make sense of the world anymore when he isn’t here?

Bradbury made me feel like the mythos that you formed around yourself as a child was okay to carry into adulthood. More than okay, it was something to fuel you, feed you. He created himself like a story. Sometimes my friends tell me I see the world in different or strange ways; there’s a trio of us in which I am indisputably the loopy one, not because I think I actually am so silly as all that, but because I suppose there is a fancifulness and a sense of play that is more alive in me because Bradbury lived it so well.

Rest in peace, Mr. Bradbury. Live forever.

Happy Women’s Day!

08 Thursday Mar 2012

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I thought I’d already missed International Women’s Day, but turns out it’s today! I first heard about the existence of this day in Spain, from my super-feminist Spanish Women’s Studies teacher, who made us hold hands in a circle and talked about how all women have goddesses inside them or some such. A little weird, but celebrating women = still a great idea!

My Favorite Female Authors (in no particular order):

  1. Madeleine L’Engle
  2. Margaret Atwood
  3. Joyce Carol Oates
  4. Suzanne Collins
  5. J.K. Rowling
  6. Ingeborg Bachmann
  7. Emily Bronte
  8. Francesca Lia Block
  9. Angela Carter
  10. Dorothy Parker

Favorite Female Authors Who I Plan to Read This Year

  1. Amy Hempel
  2. Isabel Allende
  3. Maya Angelou
  4. Joan Didion
  5. Jodi Picoult
  6. Emily Dickinson
  7. Shirley Jackson
  8. Toni Morrison
  9. Flannery O’Connor
  10. Zadie Smith