Poetry Tuesday

I loved this poem so much as a child that I wrote a story about living inside a lion. My only recurring nightmare as a child was being chased by a lion into our family bathroom, me cowering in the tub as the lion roared at the window. Coincidence?

One of the great Shel Silverstein's finest.

It's Dark In Here I am writing these poems From inside a lion, And it's rather dark in here. So please excuse the handwriting Which may not be too clear. But this afternoon by the lion's cage I'm afraid I got too near. And I'm writing these lines From inside a lion, And it's rather dark in here.

of Hadley Hemingway

I know he treated women atrociously; I know he was a drunk; I know he was depressed enough to shoot himself in the head. I also know that growing up in Wichita, I knew Hemingway as a guy who worked for the Kansas City Star - practically makes him family - and he was a guy who escaped to Paris and wrote beautiful stories. After countless book reports on the guy, and knowing that his first wife was crucial to developing his writing style, I decided that if I ever had a little girl, I'd name her Hadley (after Hemingway's enigmatic first wife) and if I had a second, she'd be called Brett (after Miss Ashley, of course). 

Hadley is big news now, as a book called The Paris Wife has just been released. Reviews have been mixed; the Times wasn't so great, NPR was suitably noncommittal, but my favorite review was written by one of my favorite Guardian writers, Hadley Freeman. I'd always wondered if she was named for Mrs. Hemingway - Freeman confirms this: I was not named after someone, I was named after someone's wife. A Wag, in other words, with a name that makes me sound like an investment bank, and not even an investment bank wants to sound like one these days.  But she loved it; since I read Hadley often, and trust we have similar temperaments, I'll read it.

I'd already chosen this as a blog topic today when I heard Mary Chapin Carpenter on Radio Scotland this afternoon. She was talking about her new record, which includes a song called Mrs. Hemingway (hear it here). It's a heartbreaking song, gentle and rich in story. They played it and the lyrics are exactly how I imagined their lives were:

Living in Paris, in attics and garrets 
Where the coal merchants climb every stair
The dance hall next door is filled with sailors and whores
And the music floats up through the air
There's Sancerre and oysters, and Notre Dame's cloisters
And time with it's unerring aim
For now we can say we were lucky most days
And throw a rose into the Seine

There's something quite beautiful about this woman, who died in 1979, having a little renaissance in 2011. 

Word nerds

For the past three years, August has meant the Edinburgh Book Festival; I even planned our honeymoon last year around certain events. I'm that much of a book geek.

Book festivals are marvelous, and Scotland is lucky to have dozens to visit each year. And Edinburgh is Mecca. The place is bustling from 10am until the wee hours. Staff are friendly. Visitors are chatting, smiling, queuing. And authors are approachable.

The magic lies in this: accessibility. Actors are on a stage or a screen; rarely do they muddle with fans. Artists aren't often present at galleries or museums. Authors, however - they're active. They take our questions and answer them, looking into our eyes. They are vulnerable, behind a microphone with only a moderator between them and an audience. It can't be comfortable.

I saw Christos Tsiolkas on Saturday (author of The Slap). He was brilliant: compelling, controversial, frank. Even a bit nervous. He had a lot to say that caused a bit of furor in the broadsheets by claiming that recent European fiction was 'dry and academic, and not in the best way, but in a cheap, shitey way'. Didn't go over too well with this crowd, but I can see where he's coming from. Fiction should challenge us, should force us into the uncomfortable and the awkward and make us sit up and listen to our prejudices, our ideas of justice, our assumptions. His book was the first in a long time that I've recommended to every reader who can handle it. It's a tough book; it's not pretty, it's not filled with beautiful prose or lilting description or Hollywood endings. But it's real, aggressive, fiction. Tsiolkas did not disappoint, either.

Book festivals have the readers devouring books, discussions that continue long after the author has finished, advice that is golden. But book festivals also challenge us. They allow us to be intellectuals without seeming pretentious. They allow authors to put themselves among the reading public as ideas simmer and dive and soar. They give us proof that in a world of reality TV and video games, reading is still alive.

The smaller the text, the more confused the meaning. - Angus Dunn

I'm sunk into a sofa in the morning room of a 19th-century hotel, listening to a man read his poetry in a Highland lilt, watching the sun set behind the Highland Cathedral into a bright pink (ash-induced?) sky. There are only six of us this week; the lowest turnout yet, but it's a lively bunch. Instead of polite quiet between poems or stories, questions pepper the air. Instead of polite applause, hands are shaken, pints are bought. The harsh cawing of trumpets and trombones wafts from the bar in the back of the hotel; our Tuesday night competition begins, and I love the jazz juxtaposed with literature. It fits.

Angus writes to capture a moment. He writes because the moment doesn't seem real until it's put into words. He writes because 'now' will soon disappear into the cluttered closet of memories; 'now' won't be found again without a lot of digging. He mentioned something I hadn't thought of before - how difficult it is to tell strangers why he writes. Generalizations, like the ones in this paragraph, verge on the cliche. But it's nobody's business why he writes. The reasons change every day, with every circumstance.

Angus writes powerful haiku. It's a beautiful form; the control of language and syllables makes for especially poignant pieces (or especially horrible). He mentioned the innuendo and subtext in smaller poems and stories, how they can easily be misconstrued - like text messages: you think you're saying something and it's easily misinterpreted. People seek meaning in smaller texts, seek the subtext. Interesting idea.

I needed last night. I've let work and life get in the way of creativity. I suppose that's the idea behind this Literary Salon - to inspire. Seven people - mere acquaintances - discussing literature: bliss.

Deceit? Or clever writing?

What if you found out that a book you loved was somewhat deceptive? The White Horse, The Yellow Dragon was given a prestigious Czech literary award, and its 19-year-old female author, a member of the Vietnamese community, was praised by readers and lit-types around the world. And, indeed, the international Vietnamese expat community. The book deals with racism and is a commentary on Czech, and Western, society.

But she doesn't exist. She's a male Czech author, Jan Cempirek. He hired two Vietnamese girls to pose as the author; he only communicated with journalists and publishers via email. He turned down invitations to meet politiHe didn't break any rules, really, but he's embarrassed the publisher and confused members of the Czech-Vietnamese community.

Perhaps Cempirek was afraid to publish a book that was critical of Czech society. Or perhaps he knew that this sort of lie would make international news in the book world, resulting in translations and book sales. It's a manipulative, and perhaps brave, way to write. I'm reminded of the James Frey fiasco, and the recent exposure of Belle du Jour's identity. Do you expect honesty from your authors? Are the words enough?

In our own little worlds, we're all gods

I'm not sure if this is news anywhere else other than Britain, but the press are having fun with author Julie Myerson and her new book, The Lost Child, about her teenage son's cannabis use and how it has affected her family. Her son, who is now 20, has told the press that while he read a draft of it, he does not agree with much of what the book contains; he says "What she has done has taken the very worst years of my life and cleverly blended it into a work of art, and that to me is obscene". (Here's the father's side of the story, if you're inclined.) Initially scheduled to come out in May, Bloomsbury has decided to bring the book out early. Myerson appeared on a BBC news show the other morning and, after much dithering about the content and whether it was necessary to publicize a very private experience, said "people shouldn't judge until they read the book." Fair enough, and rock on, sister. Content aside, you've engineered a PR campaign sure to put you at the top of the nonfiction bestseller list. And likely ruined your relationship with your child forever.

At one point in an interview, Jake Myerson says of his mother: "She's a writer and like a lot of writers she is wrapped up in her own world - even if the worlds they are creating aren't quite true, they become true to them anyway, and I wasn't prepared to let her world colour mine any more." An impressive observation for a teenager, and it haunts me as a writer who might breed one day. Writers are wrapped up in our own worlds, where we play god, we get to control everything. The book I'm working on now deals with power, aggression and the negative impact of this on the psyche, and I do have to psychologically remove myself from being inside the story before dealing with the real world. This imbalance, teetering between the dreamworld I'm desperately trying to put into words and the smack of daily life, is difficult to sustain. I can see how it might ooze into family life if a writer isn't meticulous in his/her ability to switch off. (Though we can't ever switch off, really; the story is always in the background, humming, like a refrigerator, closed for now but you know what's inside and can't help planning meals, wondering if you're out of milk, etc.)

In other booky news, two literary agents hosted “QueryFail” on Twitter. Numerous editors and agents took part to expose some of the more ridiculous letters they have received, and the site JacketFlap put together a list of delights. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the number of people out there trying to write books, then I read lists such as this and am thankful that I'm a few steps ahead of the masses.

fictitious expectations

I haven't read James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. I've read the back of it a million little times but haven't yet been convinced. His new book, Bright Shiny Morning, is apparently 'fiction' and has received reasonable acclaim. The Guardian's podcast interview of Frey came on my iPod today and I hadn't heard it before. I found myself shouting at the interview (while walking home in a blizzard - I'm sure the locals think I'm cuckoo) because of Frey's pompous attitude and lazy answers, not to mention his use of the word 'gnarly' (which he then, cumbersomely, attempted to explain to the interviewer). (No one over the age of 25 should actually use the word 'gnarly', especially in an interview with the Guardian.) Frey still feels he did nothing wrong by fictionalizing his story and selling it as memoir, which then spent weeks on the nonfiction bestseller list (i.e. more cash for Frey). He claims that every memoir on our shelves has been somewhat fabricated. That he just got caught. That he started off wanting to write fiction, and even insinuates that getting his fiction published was his reason for writing the 'memoir'. He also wants to be considered in the company of Mailer, Hemingway and Wolfe, and considers his new book an attempt at that elusive Great American Novel.

The interviewer asked about Frey's use of Los Angeles as a character in his new book. Frey refuses to say whether the details in his book which seem factual are indeed so; he makes a joke about the reader's right to Google every 'fact'. His point is an interesting one: do readers actually suspend all disbelief when they pick up a novel? Or, as he seems to think, should readers accept fiction as fiction and not expect things to be accurate? Would a reader get annoyed if Hollywood Boulevard was a street in Pacific Palisades or Orange County was north of the city?

My questions here are twofold. First, is it expected to fictionalize memoir? Memoir is, after all, an individual perspective. Everyone's memories are tainted by time, events are often combined to create drama or comedy, scenes are selected or deleted to fit our personal evolution. Memoirs, or indeed memories, might not be as interesting without stretching the truth.

Second, if real places are mentioned in fiction, do readers expect facts? My current novel is set in Lisbon and Chicago, and I've spent days researching street names, historical timelines, geography, weather, everything. I feel I owe it to my readers to provide an authentic experience, even through the medium of fiction. How much leeway do you allow your authors? More crudely, where is the line between fiction and bullshit?

"He's nae been bloody Scottish since he moved to LA." - Waterstones check-out woman

Sir Sean Connery's book is out. The official hoo-ha is Monday night at the Edinburgh Book Festival - yeah, one of the many events that sold out within fifty-three seconds of tickets going on sale - but the book's out in full regalia. It's a gorgeous book (seriously - it's beautiful) with 312 pages of text and color photos, and I'm sure a copy will make its way to our SNP household, but today at Waterstones, whilst thumbing through one of the fifty or so copies stacked on a table, the folks had other things to say.
"Bastard." - random man in his 50s with a copy of "Jamie at Home" in his other hand
"What a load of rubbish." - agitated woman in her 50s with a stack of Jilly Cooper and 3-for-2 romances in her arms
"He's a bit up himself, innin-ee?" - agitated woman (above)'s companion, pulling a tartan shopping trolley
You just can't win. You're a national icon. You don your kilt whenever possible, bringing attention to your small country. You loathe the English like any good Scotsman. You've launched a zillion vocal imitators, most men in their 20s trying to pull. You're the best James Bond ever, for god's sake. And random folk in the Inverness Waterstones don't even give you any love. Even at £4 off the £20 price.

On a lighter note, Michael "The Grouper" Phelps has a book deal. Note to self: win 8 medals = book deal. And here I thought I had to actually try to write something.

I'm a fan of James Bond. I read most of the books, a long time ago. - Gordon Brown

There is something very cool about attending a London Book Fair event called "In Conversation With Sebastian Faulks", sitting around for 20 minutes as Faulks is 'delayed', then seeing Gordon Brown walk in the door. Faulks used to be a journalist, and he set a tone that allowed for Brown to comment on everything from the importance of literature to Iraq to his own writing.

Brown began by discussing how much he missed reading after a rugby injury impeded his sight for some of his childhood. He mentioned how writers such as Salinger and Kingsley Amis were key to him 'coming alive' as an adolescent, and how even now he tries to find time to dip in and out of novels as often as nonfiction. He then discussed his forthcoming book, which deals with the concept of courage and profiles numerous people he considers courageous. He is keen to understand the reasoning behind certain decisions, and feels that once we understand the reasoning, we can feel truly inspired.

They discussed the importance of cultural exchange to the political, intellectual and social climates, and, as the London Book Fair is concentrating on the Arab world and its literature, had much to say about the impact of culture, especially literature, on the relationship and understanding of diversity. Brown discussed freedom of movement and the Internet as the pinnacles of what will shape 21st century politics. The more people can communicate, can band together via text message to protest, can blog or write, the more likely the people will begin to shape politics on a more grassroots level.

Brown also touched on the influence of the internet and computers on creativity, how creativity is changing. Reading is not limited to books now, and the way we read has changed. He proposed that education continue to be open to new media and adjust to it as it becomes more prevalent. He talked about putting books into the homes of lower-income kids before the age of 5, then again at 11, to encourage reading.

Faulks cheekily asked about the contradiction between Brown's writing about his admiration of WWII leaders, soldiers in Afghanistan, Churchill and his decisions regarding the Iraq war. Brown gave a canned response to this, which was frustrating as he could have taken this opportunity to humanize the war and to perhaps extend an olive branch of admiration for the soldiers currently serving. Faulks is obviously against the war, and a few harsh words were begun and then quickly snuffed as they moved on to questions from the audience.

I sat there, a chick from Kansas amid a room full of publishing-types who are at the Fair for a reason, watching one of the world's major leaders (and an author himself) discuss books and education. Brown's appearance was a surprise to everyone in the room, but what I found more surprising was Brown's knowledge of and nods to the importance of publishing as an industry and the impact that writing and other creative outlets has on the general public and, in some ways, on political decisions. It is difficult to imagine Bush Junior knowing anything about contemporary fiction, nonfiction, and its content, let alone its potential impact. Witnessing the thoughtful commentary of a major world leader saddened me, as America deserves better.

And yes, Brown did say the above...

The book everybody likes hasn't yet been written. - Kevin MacNeil

I am still buzzed from the weekend. Shetland hosted a film and book festival (called Screenplay and Wordplay respectively) which was fantastic. On Saturday I got to participate in an excellent workshop with Kevin MacNeil. MacNeil has written every genre and type of book/play/poem out there, and has a keen eye for detail and using all 5 senses to transport the reader deep into the story. He had everyone in the room write a 400-word Flash Fiction piece, using one of the following perimeters: a) A dream you remember; b) The last time you thought, 'wow'; c) Your first ever memory. He gave us about 40 minutes to write, and less than half turned up for the second part of the workshop. The outcome was interesting, as the group was filled with people from every walk of life imaginable on this small island, from fishermen to doctors to teachers to elderly ladies who publish poems in the local newspaper. The stories were all of a similar vein, however, and dealt with memories, not dreams. Perhaps dreams are too private to share, or too difficult to translate into words. I read mine first; my voice wavering and my hands shaking. I don't like reading aloud, not my work, not to strangers. It feels like an intrusion.

In a place as small as Shetland, it's easy to truly feel the vibe of greatness oozing from people like Iain Banks and Denise Mina and Kevin MacNeil. I saw many readings in this two-day event, and each author took the time to answer questions both in front of the group and afterward. I've been to numerous book festivals where the authors are cattle-prodded through reading and signing and reading and signing, and Shetland was refreshingly void of all pretense. The authors all stayed in the hotel next to our flat, and I was even invited to a drinking sesh last night with the heavyweights (which I respectfully declined, knowing my knees were shaking enough when meeting Iain Banks let alone having a beer with him. I would spill it on his shoes.).

It's weird being star-struck by writers who are keen to know about your own quest for your writing voice. In America, I often felt that other writers were more concerned about the competitive nature of publishing and marketing than of nurturing the writers within. And festivals are often so huge that they feel contrived. This was a good weekend for me, to be around writers who are keen to hear about the successes and pitfalls of those of us new to this animal. I had some great conversations with people who have made this scribbling their careers, and all of them were positive, encouraging, and eager to help with contacts in the UK should I stay here long-term.

Saturday night we were all invited to a ceilidh (kay-lee for y'all non-Gaelic speakers) in the south of the island. The hospital pharmacist and his wife told all the junior docs and medical students (and, by default, me) to come down for the dance and to crash at their charming croft house by the sea. We were less than half the age of most of the attendees, and once they were used to us, they welcomed us with open arms and feet. The band played traditional ceilidh music, with fiddle, guitar, accordion and drums, and the number of dances filled an A4 piece of paper. Of course we joined in - and once the regulars knew that we were all pathetic, they were kind enough to guide us all through it. All in all a fantastic evening of traditional Shetland music and dancing.

Weekends like this are why I was so excited to move here.

RIP Kurt Vonnegut

If you haven't had the chance to read some of this man's work, put it on your list. He changed the way I thought about fiction when I read him in high school, and I was lucky enough to study his work in college. Read about his life here . As one article states, "Vonnegut mixed literature with science fiction long before it was cool." Fascinating writer.