PAULA WHYMAN
curiouswriter

In which we wonder about writing, food, music,  
& random curious events. 

Take a listen to this fabulous interview with author A.S. Byatt by Charlotte Higgins at The Guardian. Byatt is one of my favorite writers (you're beginning to think I have too many "favorites," but when one considers the vast number of published authors, really, my list still seems insignificant). In this interview, she touches on everything from how difficult it must be to grow up the child of a children's book author ("children's writers want to prolong their own childhood") to the difficulty with defining one's identity in the absence of a religious framework.

It's her discussion of the latter that I find most intriguing. She refers primarily to Western society when she says that the map of the world provided by religion is gone--that religion itself has "gone away," leaving only an interest in "ourselves." She talks about the various frames for trying to understand ourselves--how to work out identity--and finally identifies the "blogosphere" as the place where people are attempting self-definition. She says that everyone needs a mirror to "tell you who you are"--and that we are finding that mirror on Facebook. According to Byatt, Facebook has, in that sense, replaced God.

If we do look to Byatt's "blogosphere" for self-definition, that presents an interesting problem. Because the identity people construct, their online "persona," is just that: a construct. A fiction. Is that the primary mirror through which you see yourself, this fiction you've created?

For the sake of argument, how is this different from any other locus of self-definition? Isn't any self you put forward a fiction, exclusive and exclusionary, by definition? Shaped by you, both consciously and unconsciously?

I would think that, more than any other medium, the web's sheer pervasiveness, and the possibility of spending so much of one's time and "relationship" energy there, could make it the overwhelming source of one's self-definition.

I'm obviously not a scholar of philosophy, and I'm not a psychologist, I only play one on TV. But if Facebook (etc.) really is where we locate our primary sense of self, that seems dangerously reductive and illusory.

Byatt thinks someone should write a book about it. I think she's right.

In this enlightening interview with novelist David Mitchell at The Rumpus, Mitchell is asked about the sheer variety of his work. He tells interviewer Alec Michod that writers are like duck-billed platypuses "and critics are taxonomists, and to us duck-billed platypuses the question of whether we should be considered as an egg-laying mammal or what is a pointless exercise... A novelist’s job is to write a novel, not worry about how it fits into one’s oeuvre..."

I've always wondered what to call myself: fiction writer? humor writer? food/travel/grocery list writer? At some point, I settled on..."writer." But now I'm thinking duck-billed platypus might be a more descriptive label.

Mitchell comments on maturing over time as a writer: "...the older you get the more familiar you become with your own ignorance. Your writing, hopefully, has more spontaneity and verve as you age. Now it can take painstaking weeks...to excrete a single sentence. It can be like having a hemorrhage, but one hopes the quality is superior the greater the excretion."

Mitchell's hemorrhages are a good deal better quality than most. His latest novel, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, has been long-listed for the Man Booker Prize. His earlier acclaimed novel, Cloud Atlas, was shortlisted in 2004.

Carolyn Parkhurst is back from a whirlwind tour to promote her new novel, The Nobodies Album, which Liesl Schillinger reviewed glowingly in the NYT this past Sunday. Carolyn has condensed her on-the-road experiences into this list of hilarious book tour wisdom. Highly recommend.

A sampling:

Stay in character. When you call home, have your kids ask you a few questions about narrative voice.

In-flight writing exercise: Choose an item from the SkyMall catalog and try to imagine a character who might actually use it.

While you're on the road, you're functioning as an Ambassador of Literature. This means you can pretty much park anywhere.

(On my way to the DMV now to get one of those Ambassador of Literature hang-tags for my car...)

I just finished reading Scott Turow's New York Times review of Mr. Peanut, the new book by first-time novelist Alex Ross. The book sounds marvelous, exactly the sort of story I'd enjoy reading. It's about three faulty, possibly deadly marriages, and includes a character based on the real-life Sam Sheppard, who was accused (and then acquitted) in the murder of his wife. All three husbands portrayed here consider killing their wives. Which made me want to ask my husband a few questions. Anyway, the plot is complex, the story multilayered, and Turow describes it as "daring, arresting" and praises its "audacious and moving honesty." So far so good; it sounds brilliant, and I can't wait to read it.

And then Turow interrupts himself midstream to congratulate Ross on tackling such a forbidding topic: Marriage.

Really?

Turow tells us that back when he was in writing school, Richard P. Scowcroft, then Director of Stanford's Creative Writing Center,
"told those of us in the advanced fiction seminar that the one subject he had always feared writing a novel about was marriage, because it still seemed to him the most complex and frequently unfathomable of human relationships, notwithstanding his own long and successful marriage. Scowcroft’s remark is a testimonial to Ross’s bravery. In many ways it would have taken less courage to present a sympathetic portrait of Osama bin Laden than it did to write this novel, which flouts the treasured conceptions of love and marriage many of us depend on to make it through the day."

Wow. Did I read that correctly? Less brave to write a sympathetic portrait of an international terrorist than to write a deep and accurate portrait of marriage? Flouting treasured conceptions? Maybe it depends on who's doing the flouting.

If all novelists did was reinforce conventional wisdom, I suppose that would be pretty dull stuff. So, is that what most novelists who write about marriage are doing?

My complaint about Turow's review has nothing to do with what sounds to me like an intriguing book that I'd love to read. It's about Turow's puzzling assertion.

Normally, when one writes about marriage--attempting to get to the meat of it and portray, deconstruct, analyze, explore, whatever--well, such books are not often called out for their brave importance, are they? The authors are not usually lauded as fearlessly confronting this awesome yet central human territory. And yet, there are so many that do it. I'll leave their mention to others. (Yes, I'm being lazy, but this is my blog... so I'll just say that the first one that came to mind was Nadine Gordimer's None to Accompany Me, and the second was Paula Fox'a Desperate Characters.)

I'm led to wonder--I just wonder...whether the topic of marriage is suddenly deemed such a difficult and brave one to tackle because a man finally decided to write about it.

Those of you who know me will know that I'm not given to knee-jerk feminism, and usually I pay little attention to these kinds of inequities. That's because I'm not interested in keeping score or evening out a playing field just for the sake of it. And frankly, I want some help changing that flat tire. But this strikes me as all too rich. Our little novels of domesticity written by women are considered a dime a dozen, but as soon as a man tackles the subject, whoa, what courage!

One would think that women rarely produce myth-busting examinations of marriage, and only the husbands lie in bed at night dreaming of murder.

Susan Coll's hilarious new novel, Beach Week, is featured on NPR in Lizzie Skurnick's Three Degrees of Failure for the Recent Graduate.

I like this part: "It might seem odd to describe a novel that involves barfing in cars, stalking boys and a drunk dad playing beer pong in his underpants as heartwarming..."

Behind the barbs that Coll wields are understanding of and affection for her targets, and that's part of what makes the book's humor so effective.

Three Books is a regular NPR feature in which writers recommend their favorite three books in a given category. (You can read my contribution to the series here.)

Terrific review in The Washington Post for The Nobodies Album, which I blogged about here a few days ago. Art Taylor calls Parkhurst's novel "brisk and engaging...a meditation on writing itself and on the curious intersections between the imagined world and the real one."

What did I tell you?

I am always amazed by Carolyn Parkhurst's seemingly limitless imagination, and the unique lens through which she views the world, both of which are evident in her writing. I've known Carolyn since we were in grad school, and now we're in a fabulous writing group together. As a result, I've had the privilege of reading her new book, The Nobodies Album, as she was writing it. It's an absorbing, intelligent, complex work, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching the process as it unfolded, eagerly awaiting each new installment. The structural task Carolyn set for herself seemed huge: The main character, Octavia Frost, is a novelist late in her career. Her newest book is a rewrite of the final chapters of EACH of her previous novels. These final chapters, and their revised versions, are actual chapters in Parkhurst's book. In the novel's "present" story, Frost learns that her son, a famous rock musician, has been arrested for the murder of his girlfriend. Frost and her son are estranged because of something she wrote in one of her novels. The story of the murder and the mother-son relationship is told in chapters alternating with those final chapters of Frost's novels.

It sounds like one of those things one is told not to do in writer-school. But, that is because most people couldn't pull it off. Carolyn, however, DOES pull it off, which makes it a fascinating read.

It may seem like I'm putting too much emphasis on the complex structure, which I don't want to do--I don't want it to put people off. Because the amazing thing about it is that while it sounds complex in the explaining, when you read it, it's quite clear and clean and even elegant in its logic. And human--because Carolyn nails the mother-son relationship in all its strains, as well as the desire to remake one's own "story."
Booklist calls The Nobodies Album "a stunning blend of craft and ingenuity."

Publishers Weekly says that Parkhurst has "the gift of a real storyteller."

In case it wasn't enough to merely write this book, Carolyn has also created a real website for Octavia Frost, her fictional author-protagonist, which even includes book covers and descriptions of Frost's (fictional!) works. And, Carolyn has begun posting an entertaining series of tweets, which you can find on Twitter under #selfpimpinghaikus. Each tweet is a clever haiku that relates to her novel. And if you'd like to know what music inspired various aspects of the characters and story, on Carolyn's website, you can find a playlist that she used in the course of writing the book.

I may be Curiouswriter, but it's very likely that Carolyn Parkhurst is Geniuswriter.

I neglected to mention that Susan Coll will read from her new novel, Beach Week, this week.

Thursday, June 3, 7pm
Barnes & Noble
Bethesda Ave. at Woodmont Ave.

See you there!

For more scheduled events, see Susan's website.

I feel privileged to present a guest blog from the funny and talented novelist Susan Coll, whose newest novel, Beach Week, will be available in stores on June 1.



Seeing as Paula was bold enough to guest blog for Alternate Sides about an embarrassing moment in air travel, I thought I’d return the favor with an anecdote about my most embarrassing moment in book promotion. I should probably add, my most embarrassing thus far.

My last novel, Acceptance, was a satire about college admissions hysteria, with some inevitable subtext about the culture of hyper-parenting in the affluent suburbs. Because I approached this book with something of a journalistic eye, interviewing academic deans and admissions officers, and using source material, I came to know a lot about college admissions. I also wrote a piece for the Washington Post Outlook section about helicopter parenting. Somewhere along the way, the line between fact and fiction became a little blurred, I suppose, and I found myself frequently being asked in interviews for advice on raising teens and on shepherding them through the transition to college. These questions caught me off guard each time, but I answered them politely, even somewhat confidently at times---hey, I may not be a child psychologist, but I am a mother!

A couple of months into the book promotion cycle I was invited onto a network news program in the New York City metropolitan area---a small coup for a novelist. Accordingly, I went all out and bought a new brown top from Banana Republic and spent a fair amount of time trying to decide whether or not to wear my glasses. I made my way into the building, past security, and up the elevators at 30 Rock, trying to channel my inner Tina Fey. But the disaster began with the first question, and I never recovered. The young producer, probably just out of college herself, clearly had me confused with Dr. Phil, and began to ask me a series of parenting questions way beyond the range of even a battle-weary mother of three. I tried to fudge my answers for a while until the whole thing began to feel dishonest; I had visions of some aggrieved parent banging on my door demanding to see my Ph.D., and in return I’d slip her a slim comic novel. I finally interrupted the interviewer and asked if she was aware that I had written a novel. Um, no, she was not. The ride back down the elevator was something of a blur, particularly as I’d removed my glasses. The segment never aired. I gave the brown shirt to my daughter and she wore it to a recent interview. At least she got the job.

Susan Coll is the author of four novels, including Acceptance, which was made into a Lifetime Network film starring Joan Cusack. Coll's new novel, Beach Week, is a dark comedy that examines a suburban teenage rite of passage--the adult-free, post-high school trip to the beach. Teenage girls plan an unhinged blowout at the beach, while their misguided, affluent parents are too busy worrying about legal liabilities to fret over some missing pills or random hookups. Beach Week will be available on June 1. Also check out Susan's funny blog, Alternate Sides: Adventures Along the Northeast Corridor.

I think the humiliating book tour story could become a regular feature on this blog, so for those of you who have such tales and are willing to publicly humiliate yourselves (a second time?) for the benefit of...art...please get in touch!

Author C. M. Mayo has been living in and writing about Mexico for many years. Luckily for me, she also spends a good bit of time in Washington, DC, and I've had the chance to chat with her on many occasions. Not only is she a wonderful writer, she is full of helpful information, innovative ideas, and contagious enthusiasm for all things writing-related, and she doesn't mind sharing with the writing and blogging community at large, to our great advantage. See for instance, her tips on "How to hang in there and finish your novel" (yes, I'm taking copious notes...) on Leslie Pietrzyk's fabulous Work-in-Progress blog.

If you have not already had the pleasure of reading C.M. Mayo's novel, The Last Prince of the Mexican Empire, which was a Library Journal Best Book of 2009, rush out and get the paperback, which is now available. The Last Prince follows Maximilian’s short-lived career as the unfortunate Emperor of Mexico, and focuses specifically on his doomed adoption of a half-Mexican, half-American boy he chooses to be his heir. This little-known and fascinating piece of history is brought to life in Mayo's novel.

Publisher's Weekly calls The Last Prince of the Mexican Empire, "an engaging story brimming with majestic ambition."

Library Review says, "Mayo's cultural insights are first-rate, and the glittering, doomed regime comes to life."



Mayo's story collection, Sky Over El Nido, won the Flannery O'Connor Award for Short Fiction. She is also the author of the widely acclaimed travel memoir, Miraculous Air: Journey of a Thousand Miles through Baja California, the Other Mexico; and the anthology, Mexico: A Traveler s Literary Companion. Mayo is an avid translator and editor of contemporary Mexican literature.

Here, you can watch an interview with C.M. Mayo on WETA's Book Studio, hosted by Bethanne Patrick.

Here, you will find Mayo's Library of Congress lecture about her novel.

C.M. Mayo is a blogger extraordinaire, writing-savvy and internet-savvy, and she can be found in that incarnation at Madam Mayo. I especially admire her writing exercises, known as C.M. Mayo's Giant Golden Buddha and 364 More Daily 5-Minute Writing Exercises. Honestly, I don't know where she gets the energy for all she does! I wish I could borrow one-tenth of it now and then. Maybe when she takes a rare nap, she wouldn't mind... Madam Mayo, do you nap?

Author Debra Galant has me thinking about cars. I am a person who can mark time by the types of cars I've owned--or didn't own. From my grandmother's '63 Chevy Bel Air, which didn't survive quite long enough for me to get my driver's license, to my first car, a '68 Dodge Coronet 440 (the only car my dad ever bought new)--which did survive, barely, unless you factor in how it would stall out every time I was about to turn left across three lanes of oncoming traffic. The car I drive today is the first one I really chose for myself, plus it has XM radio (my first one only had AM...), so it's my favorite.

Now, Debra Galant has brought us the funny, poignant new novel, Cars From a Marriage, which charts the important events--big and small--in one couple's relationship by way of the automobiles that drive them throughout the course of their lives. The cars steer the reader from Ivy and Ellis's first meeting, to their first fight, and down the line to a family funeral. Finally, on a drive along the Pacific Coast Highway, Ivy and Ellis come to some serious and illuminating realizations about their lives.

Publisher's Weekly calls it "an affecting and strikingly honest look at a marriage."


In an interview from Crazy for Books, Galant talks about the slightly nontraditional structure of the book:

Unlike my first two books, “Rattled” and “Fear and Yoga in New Jersey,” which are satires, “Cars from a Marriage” strove to tell a really nuanced story of the way romantic love fades over the course of a marriage. With each successive chapter, Ivy and Ellis grow further apart, telling secrets to the reader that they wouldn’t dare tell each other. This breaks one of the rules of fiction writing, which requires a single protagonist. Because Ivy and Ellis get equal weight in the story, sympathy shifts between them. In a way, the protagonist of “Cars from a Marriage” turns out to be the marriage.

Crazy for Books says the author "deftly navigates" through the lives of this couple "with humor and insight."

You can also hear Ms. Galant discuss her book in this interview with Brian Lehrer on WNYC radio.

Full disclosure: I met Debra Galant during a residency at the VCCA, where she hooked me into playing the diabolical, addicting game known as Ex Libris. I was daily entertained by her perceptive wit, and I had the opportunity to hear her read from her funny and absorbing work. I highly recommend it!

Kermit Moyer, author of The Chester Chronicles, which I discussed here, has interesting things to say about the intersection between fiction and autobiography. After I heard his quote in a Writerscast interview, which I mentioned here, I knew he had only scratched the surface of his thoughts on the matter. Here, then, more on the subject from Kermit Moyer (and enough said by me).

I believe that the best way to tell the truth about yourself and your experience is to lie—that is, to write fiction rather than a memoir. Having just published an autobiographical novel called The Chester Chronicles, I can tell you that, first of all, it’s simply easier to tell uncomfortable truths about yourself when you seem to be talking about someone else. As the poet Richard Hugo has said,

The poem is always in your home town, but you have a better chance of finding it in another. . . . Though you’ve never seen it before, it must be a town you’ve lived in all your life. . . . [Here] it is easy to turn the gas station attendant into a drunk. Back home it would have been difficult because he had a drinking problem. (The Triggering Town)

But there’s another, even more crucial way that fiction is necessary if we’re going to tell the truth about our lives. If my recounting of my experience is to be as detailed and as richly textured as my experience has been, I have no choice but to use my imagination as much as, or more than, my memory. Because it’s simply impossible to do justice to life’s intricate and filigreed surfaces, its detailed particularities and varied textures, without resorting to imaginative invention.

And who can do without dialogue? But if dialogue occurs in a memoir, it tends to be suspect, to partake of the imagined rather than the remembered, since we can’t usually recall whole past conversations verbatim. So the inclusion of dialogue tends to compromise the memoirist’s primary obligation, which is to be true to the actual facts of the author’s life. The fiction writer’s primary obligation, on the other hand, is to be true to feeling rather than to facts. As E. L. Doctorow says:

Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader—not the fact that it’s raining, but the feel of being rained on.

Finally, I think the special power of fiction has something to do not only with the way it can render a felt sense of life in all its intricacy but also the way it can render life’s moment-by-moment spontaneity and its constant openness to surprise. I may start with the feeling of a remembered situation, but to be true to my experience, I have to let things develop on the page as they will, just as they do in life. Sometimes they take a course I’m familiar with; sometimes—in fact, more often than not—they don’t. Unlike the memoirist, I am free to allow my narrative’s course to be open to the living moment and to unfold as organically as life itself does rather than being predetermined by the facts of my life.

Which is also why I opted to use the present tense for The Chester Chronicles, even though the point of view is retrospective: the present tense indicates that the recounted experience is happening again right now in the memory and imagination of the narrator, and of the reader. And if the reader is living through it imaginatively along with the narrator, the effect is to make readers feel like the story has happened to them too, that it is actually part of their own experience. And when that happens . . . well, that's it, isn't it? That's what we're aiming for.

Kermit Moyer grew up an Army brat in the 1950s. He got his BA, his MA, and his PhD in English from Northwestern University and in 1970 joined the faculty of American University in Washington, DC, where he taught literature and creative writing for 37 years. His short fiction has appeared in The Georgia Review, The Southern Review, The Sewanee Review, and The Hudson Review, and he is the author of Tumbling, a collection of stories published by the University of Illinois Press. He lives with his wife Amy and their dog Zora on Cape Cod.