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“You just like them because they’re old,” my dad said to me, after I proudly showed him the 1943 Random House editions of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights I recently purchased from two different independent booksellers. They were originally sold as a set.
“Well yeah,” I admitted. “But also because of the art. And the smell. And the inscriptions. And the marginalia.”
The art is truly incredible.
What is most amazing about the art is that they are actually wooden engravings letter pressed from electrotypes. I don’t know how well you’ll be able to ascertain how detailed they are from the photographs, but it is impressive. The artist, Fritz Eichenberg, also produced wooden engravings for several other books: Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, and Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, among others.
One of my favorite smells in the whole world is “old book.” I love browsing through the stacks in libraries and scouring the aisles of antique bookstores. The quiet atmosphere, the smell, the organization! Heaven 
Being surrounded by books makes me feel safe and comfortable and just happy; especially in San Francisco. If I pass a bookstore I will step inside, if only to look around for a moment and take a few deep breaths and relax. The city can be a little overwhelming for a country girl like me
Finding a used book with a personal inscription in it is more exciting to me than finding money on the ground… or at least as exciting! Maybe as exciting as finding a one hundred dollar bill To read something so intimate and ambiguous is like peeking into a stranger’s past and becoming a silent witness at a particular moment in their lives. It is special.
My friend, “Lee”, wrote a beautiful inscription to his friend about, ironically enough, old books. (Lee and I are a lot alike. I started writing this post a few days ago, when I first got the books, but haven’t had the time to finish it. In the meantime, Lee emailed me, and told me to read this inscription he wrote and I was surprised for about two seconds. Our thought processes intersect quite frequently, so the novelty has begun to wear away.) Anyhow, I don’t know his friend but will link you to her website so you can read his wonderful inscription. It is too good for me not to link you to it. I can only imagine how, a hundred years from now, someone will someday discover that book and read his inscription in complete awe.
I cherish all the books I own that contain inscriptions, whether they were written for me or not. I just hope that one day, when I am no longer here, someone will care for them as much as I do.
Marginalia. That’s a great word, isn’t it? Used books tend to be marked down in price if their pages contain marginalia. I find that lucky and baffling, at the same time. If I had to choose between a clean book and one with notes in the margins and highlighted passages, I’d choose the latter, every time. To me, it isn’t about getting the cheaper copy (although that is a lucky bonus!) more than it is about having a book with a little history; a book that can offer a second perspective. I love the hints and insight given by the previous owner, seeing what that person thought was important enough to highlight and note. I love having that disembodied connection with the book’s past.
But maybe my dad is right, in the end. More than anything else, I love holding something that is almost 40 years older than I am. Knowing that when something is truly special, it will endure the wear and tear and decay of time. I resent the Amazon Kindle. It may be practical, but it isn’t romantic, the way a book is. I almost feel like it is disrespectful. I never understood why some people first hated the idea of mp3s, or even CDs. I myself much prefer to download music. But because of the Kindle I now totally understand why audiophiles who cherish records and/or jewel cases resent the inevitable obsolescence of those items. They’ve become novelty.
Nothing is sacred for everyone. Not books, not records, not CDs, not art, not even god. The important thing is to figure out what is sacred to you, if you haven’t already. And respect what others find sacred. Even if you don’t.
*I recently patronized a Barnes & Noble with my mother. She was looking for a certain book; when we made our way to the register, the cashier asked if we were club members. My mother looked at me and said, “Aren’t you?”
“No,” I said and smiled at the guy, not wanting to go into detail and possibly insult him. When he started in on his spiel about how if we spend $250 in one year we end up saving a lot of money with the membership, I almost laughed. Instead I smiled again and said, “Quite honestly, I never spend that much money here. I usually shop at independent and used bookstores, but thanks anyway.”
I do sometimes feel a little guilty about the fact that I am basically working in the book publishing industry yet I refuse to shop at major book chains. It seems pretty hypocritical, right? But you see, it is because of those market-hogging giants that the industry is in such a rut right now, demanding what will sell and ultimately controlling what gets published, so eff them, really. Thousands of independent bookstores went out of business last year, and not just because the market is so shitty. I think the general consensus is that when monopolies begin to control any industry, nothing good will come from it.
To find an independent bookstore near you, visit IndieBound.*
Writing rejection letters is worse then receiving them. Trust me.
I love that at M/C we go the extra mile to write personal rejection letters. The author of each manuscript we decide not to accept receives a very polite letter, explaining our “pass.” We even offer complimentary criticism of the “praise sandwich” variety; a bit of constructive criticism stated between two pieces of fluffy compliment. I think it is admirable to do this, especially in a publishing climate as icy and impenetrable as today’s.
The hard part for me? Trying to write a witty, helpful, gentle yet firm letter; one which they will, naturally, be disappointed to receive, yet nevertheless feel appreciative toward; that an editor(ial intern) took the time to not only read his/her manuscript, but actually gave it enough thought in order to offer praise and criticism.
The hardest part for me? Receiving phone calls from the rejected authors and, being the nice person that I am, finding myself on the listening end of a 30-minute conversation about life, depression, dogs, and regret that concludes only after the author has said, “Let me ask you one more question” five times, and I politely reply with each appropriate response.
Don’t get me wrong; being nice isn’t the hard part. I have loads of diplomacy up my sleeves, customer service skill like Michael Jordan has BBall skill, and patience like Sleeping Beauty, waiting for her prince. Being nice is my middle name.
The hardest part of rejecting a manuscript is feeling like an evil, bitch editor who will inevitably become the antagonist in each rejected writer’s memoir; the person who almost dashed all the hopes and dreams of a future Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. I hold in my hands, at any given moment, the blood, sweat, tears and carpal-tunnel-syndrome-inducing pages produced from the imagination and experience of an eager and optimistic writer. Those pages are the pride of his very existence. The embodiment of her passion, dedication, inspiration and purpose of life.
I have the utmost respect for those pages.
I respect anyone and everyone who willingly offers up his words for others to read. I respect every writer who manages to actually focus her attention on one story long enough to create a novel.
Unfortunately for those who manage both of these emotionally challenging feats, not everything is worthy of being published. Not every story will appeal to a wide enough spectrum of people in order for a publisher to recoup printing and marketing expenses and make a profit. And not every writer is willing to put in all the hard work, research, and rewriting necessary to produce the end result they all desire.
Unfortunately for me, I will ultimately be the bad guy; my name is at the bottom of the rejection letter. I become the bitchy editor who doesn’t see what an amazing and brilliant writer you are; shame on me. My loss, right?
All I can ask is that you don’t use my name in any future story you write. Which is why I will definitely continue handing out praise sandwiches as if my life depends on it! And because I like to be nice
I’ve been living in two worlds lately. Well, more like living in an imaginary one, and just sort of existing in the other, the tangible world, merely because physics commands it to be that way.
Unfortunately, the tangible world has felt less and less so, as I find myself continuously inundated by imaginary worlds, hundreds of imaginary worlds. I am stuck between pages, crammed into sentence space, lost in black letters. Fictional characters are my friends, and my real friends feel more fictional than the fictional, or at least equally so, since most communication with them occurs on pages, in sentences, black letters on a white screen. You can see where the line of demarcation between real life and imaginary life might blur… No? Okay, maybe I’m being a little dramatic.
But after two months of becoming better acquainted with characters in stories and all the fictional drama that ensues, I feel less acquainted with the flesh-and-blood cast of characters of whom my tangible world has typically, in the past, been enmeshed. I’ve felt so completely stuck inside my own head that I very nearly had a nervous breakdown. This was proven to me two nights ago, as I checked my email for the fiftieth time in the past week to find, yet again, that a certain friend had still not emailed me back. While lack of frequent communication with said friend would typically not bother me too much, since we do actually write each other a lot, the combination of that lapse and my hermit-like reading habit for my new editorial gigs, PLUS my lack of proper socialization in accordance with The Standard Twenty-Something Lifestyle Rulebook, led to an all-out “woe is me, where have all the cowboys gone” emotional crisis in email form, sent, undeservingly so, to this friend. He responded immediately and said nice things (although he did call me the second best guilt tripper after his mother), and didn’t offer the number to a suicide helpline. So I guess (hopefully) I didn’t sound that pathetic.
On the bright side, the imaginary worlds have been welcoming and incredible (for the most part) and I have accepted this strange, new existence because I don’t mind the trade-off. I have finally found that I can be a 9 to 5 paper pusher, when the paper I am pushing is literary and and fun and new all the time, and not just hotel invoices, guest itineraries and mundane, office data-entry crap. On the not-so-bright side, at least I was getting paid for the mundane paper pushing. These two literary gigs are amazing experiences and will look great on my resume, but, aside from free books, occasional lunches and the pride of actual contribution to published literature, no pay is given in exchange for services rendered. Thus, I continue my search, the never-ending search it seems in this economy, for a job where a paycheck will be a benefit, if even the only benefit.
I wish I could talk about my literary gigs more openly and in hilarious and horrifying detail, but, ethically, I cannot. Or maybe I can, but I’m not sure I should. I will say this: If you are a writer and are planning to query a publisher or literary agent, please check your spelling and grammar. Please have other people read your work, and edit, edit, edit! Please research the people/company to whom you are sending your work; maybe even read a book they’ve already published so you can get an idea of what they might like. And always personalize your cover letters! Never write “Dear Editor” or “To Whom It May Concern.” But I’m just a newbie, right? What do I know? A LOT, actually! And fyi, since hundreds of editors have been laid off throughout the publishing industry, interns and assistants like me are probably the people who are sending the rejection letters. And we’re a tough crowd, since we’re all trying to impress the senior editors by discovering the next hit book, thus achieving personal success in the form of a real, editorial job. (Oh man, I wish I could type that without a sad chuckle.) So make sure your writing is fucking stellar!
Here’s hoping for a literary revival and the resurrection of publishing in 2009! May it recover from the awful ass-kicking it has recently received. Happy New Year, indeed.
Read this awesome book, for even better advice on getting published.
This one too.
November is National Novel Writing Month.
Get it?
NaNoWriMo
Visit the website at www.nanowrimo.org if you don’t believe me! I first learned about Nanowrimo from another Litquake volunteer and recently signed myself up, after a serious discussion with myself that went sort of like this:
“Uh, yeah right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like you can really write a 50,000 word novel in a month?”
“Well, I’m gonna try. That is the whole premise of the idea, isn’t it? To try?”
“YEAH RIGHT! You can hardly write more than a blog post or two in a month! You think you’re really going to write a 50,000 WORD NOVEL! HAHAHAHAHA!”
“Screw you, jerk! I’m GOING to do it now, just to prove you wrong!”
“Wanna bet?”
“Okay.”
“If you write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November, then I will give up chocolate and soy lattes for the entire month of December.”
“But that will mean I have to give up chocolate and soy lattes too. What the hell is in it for me?”
“Hey, you’ll lose a little weight!”
“Okay, fine jerk, it’s a bet.”
As you can tell, I’m a little lonely these days
After signing up I got a little welcome email from Nanowrimo, offering a bit of advice and some general guidelines. For instance, you create an author profile where you can upload your word count, starting November 1st, and excerpts from your novel-in-progress. You can also join a region, meet other Nanowrimos and participate in write ins, where a bunch of people get together to, well, write. It’s basically a support group.
The important thing, they urge, is to write and write and write and NOT EDIT. Which is something I will certainly have trouble refraining from doing. Also, one rule they have, is that you must start from scratch. Nothing already in progress. Their argument is that you will be too attached to the idea and care too much about your characters. Start afresh. This way, you can be totally cutthroat. It will be messy, yes, a brand new story and characters and plots without the safety net of careful typing and thoughtful, precision-like editing? That is so not my style. But that is probably a good thing, since I haven’t gotten SHIT published in about six months.
Perhaps the most important thing they suggest, is to tell EVERYONE that you are writing a novel in November. “The looming specter of personal humiliation is a very reliable muse.” So they stated. And I believe it. So I am merely becoming an active participant, for real, and not just in my little head, by voicing it to the world.
Effin a.
It’s safe to say I will be burying myself into a hole next month. It’ll be like Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow and scurried right back into his burrow. To write for four straight weeks.
It’s a good thing I already voted via absentee ballot
Check me out at NaNoWriMo: http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/416853
After showing Tobias and Catherine Wolff to the green room, I was practically bouncing, on clouds, back to the check-in table.
As I passed the main entrance of the Contemporary Jewish Museum, I glanced at the glass doors, which were locked (the museum’s security is on par with security measures at The White House, it seemed) and saw George Saunders and his wife waving to get my attention. I waved back and pointed them to the cafe entrance to which I ran, in heels no less, and opened the door. Mr. Saunders extended his hand and introduced himself as George, “and this is my wife, Paula!” They were so nice! You sometimes don’t expect celebrities to be all that cordial, but writers are of a different breed. I should know that I shook their hands, guided them toward the check-in table, and walked them back to the green room. Tom Barbash checked in next, with a friend who he introduced as “also a writer” and who’s name I, embarrassingly and regrettably, cannot remember. They were very nice as well, and chatty, as I guided them, yes, to the green room.
(In the middle of all the chaos, Wavy Gravy was chillin’ at a table in the cafe, drinking coffee and reading.)
The tribute commenced shortly thereafter, following me literally running around to see if the emcee, Dr. Michael Krasny, of NPR/KQED fame, had yet arrived. Thankfully he had, he just hadn’t checked in. (I heard one of the museum curators say to another, “I’ve never seen someone who could run in heels so well!” I laughed and took that as a compliment.) After the audience had taken their seats, we volunteers quietly slid in and up the stairs, sitting in the very last row of the small theatre.
The tribute lasted a little over an hour, begun with a stellar performance from Word For Word of an excerpt from one of Mr. Wolff’s stories, Down To Bone. Everyone spoke with such respect and reverence for Tobias Wolff, not only as a writer, but as a mentor and a friend and a human being, it made me want to read everything he has ever written. In fact, it made me ashamed that I had not yet read everything he’s ever written, and I’ve vowed to do so as soon as possible! But more than that, it made me feel incredibly honored to be a witness; a spectator at this beautiful award ceremony for a writer whose work has consumed my attention, and whose character, proven in the admiration of his friends and colleagues, and contribution to literature and education represents a person truly worthy of idolatry; an anomaly in today’s celebrity culture, especially in America.
Ann Packer talked about her relationship with Wolff, one that began as idolatry and evolved into a camaraderie, and about the dichotomy between the two; the respect she has for the writer Tobias Wolff and the friendship she has with Toby Wolff. The other speakers echoed this, in anecdotes about their experiences with him as a teacher, as a writer/role model and as a friend.
His political views and contributions were also recognized. Stephen Elliott praised Mr. Wolff for his contribution to the Progressive Reading Series, quoting Ann Packer in saying that Mr. Wolff is a “willing foot soldier in the war against idiocy” explaining that “many writers are appalled by the meanness of the Bush administration, but few have actually rolled up their sleeves and done something about it.” (I may be paraphrasing!) He has done readings for the Progressive Reading Series, placed phone calls to voters on election days, “Imagine getting a phone call from Tobias Wolff reminding you to vote!” Elliott exclaimed, and has worked to raise money and awareness for progressive candidates and causes.
George Saunders mentioned that, upon purchasing the house previously inhabitated by Mr. Wolff and his family, he discovered in the garage, the actual sled from Wolff’s story The Chain, (recently republished in his short story collection, Our Story Begins) pencil markings of his children’s heights at various times in their lives, and “in the basement, on a workbench, marked in red crayon in a childish scrawl: DOWN WITH THE REPUBLICANS!”
One of my favorite moments was also described by Saunders:
During the Q & A, [after a reading at Syracuse University] someone asks what Toby would do if he couldn’t be a writer.
A long, perplexed pause.
“I would be very sad,” he finally says.
The room makes a sound that means: we would too.
My new friend Jen and I milled about the museum after the ceremony, hoping for the chance to talk to him and perhaps even ask him to sign our books, but he was encircled by friends and fans and, ultimately, we lacked the courage to do so. Frozen by fear, in spite of the knowledge that he is affable and easy to approach, we finally gave up. Unfortunately, volunteers were not invited to the reception (one volunteer blew it for everyone after she was escorted out of the opening night reception for harassing the authors) so we left reluctantly.
Even though we didn’t get our books signed, I’m okay with that. And I’m okay with my status as an idolater. I feel as though I need build up a repertoire of literary accomplishments, before I can talk literature with my idol. “I’m a big fan” is all I’m worthy of saying to him at this point in my career!
Hopefully, I’ll stop feeling like a grinning idiot soon. I guess idolatry and idiocy are separated by a very fine line
I do not know where to begin. I am (almost) at a loss for words. I suppose I must begin by saying never, in my entire life, have I felt more inspired, more in tune with who I am, where I belong and why I am here, (yes, in that ever-so-existential way I can be fantastic at pondering pensively) than I do right now, at this moment, five days into volunteering for Litquake. Sitting on a BART train flooded in harsh, fluorescent lights, I feel as if I am floating; my entire being had been uplifted. I’m not exaggerating. My handwriting is shaky, erratic, unrecognizable even, because of this energy buzzing, coursing, through my body. (Even now, as I type this an hour later, I am still shaky.) I feel as if I have soaked my body in a coffee bath, my energy level so high one might say it could only be produced through osmosis, my skin absorbing gallons of the highly caffeinated liquid. (Or shooting speed perhaps, but I like the coffee reference better – it’s more innocent.) I would say that I have been in the presence of literary greatness in a way I’ve never imagined and if I have absorbed anything, I hope it is a even just a spark of what makes the literary figures to whom I’ve been an eager audience and hopeful idolater, so luminescent, so talented and so inspirational.
“I stood there quietly drowning in two rivers of happiness at the same time.” I read that in Elizabeth Gilbert’s beautiful memoir Eat, Pray, Love recently, and immediately after, set down the book and wrote the quote in my journal, and then wrote that I’d settle for one river. Or just a little creek. Hell, I’ll take a puddle! Because when going through a difficult time in your life, you hope that anything can lift you from the depth of your despair.
I have to admit that my “prayer” for a puddle has been answered and then some. I have been swimming in an ocean of happiness these past few days. And tonight, I think I finally, happily, drowned.
I arrived at the Contemporary Jewish Museum an hour earlier than the volunteer call time. I have been early for nearly every event I have worked. (Except one, only because the train I was on was moving much slower than usual for some reason.) Because of my unusual “early birdness”, I found myself sitting at a table in the museum cafe, chatting with Jane Ganahl, one of the founders of Litquake, and Ann Packer, along with Ann’s friend, also named Ann.
At first it was just Jane and me, and she casually mentioned how stressed she felt and that she had tweaked her neck somehow and couldn’t look to her right, so she had scheduled a massage for the next day. I smiled, a little timidly, and said, “Actually, I’m a massage therapist. I’d be happy to try to help you right now.” Her eyes widened and she said that that would be great. As I was performing the neck/shoulder melt on Jane, she spotted Ann Packer walk through the door and called out to her. Ann laughed as she approached us, Jane explaining the impromptu chair massage, and Ann mentioned how she had a headache. I couldn’t help myself: I said to her, “I’d be happy to show you a few pressure points that might alleviate your headache.” She smiled, sat down at our table and said, “Sure!” I finished with Jane, (who could fully move her head to the right after just a few minutes of massage!) and sat next to Ann, showing her pressure points on her hand, on the back of her neck, and just under her eyebrows. Yes, it felt a little strange to be in this situation, but hopefully I helped them both, even just a little bit. As we sat there afterward, I kept a little quiet, listening to the ladies talk about the festival. I wanted so much to say to Ann that I loved her short story collection, Mendocino and Other Stories. But I couldn’t. I think it was mostly because I felt mortified at not yet having had occasion to read her other books. The possibility that she might ask what else of hers I’d read, stopped me altogether from engaging her any further than offering a brief tutorial on one principle of Traditional Chinese Medicine. Basically, I chickened out.
So they chatted, without much interjection from a stupidly-smiling me, as the other authors began to pour into the cafe. All at once I was in the company (albeit at a safe distance of a few feet) of Tom Perrotta, Stephen Elliott, Andrew Foster Altschul, and the man of the hour himself, Tobias Wolff, along with a host of other people clearly comfortable in the crowd at which I stared, as casually as I could, in awe.
Jane and Ann joined the circle and I stayed at the table, hesitant to mingle, deciding to maintain my post at the check-in area. The crowd began to disperse, walking toward the green room to watch the presidential debate. I noticed that Tobias Wolff and who I presumed was his wife, stayed back to order food at the cafe. I glanced around the museum lobby until Jane caught my eye and said, “Melissa, will you please show them to the green room?” She gestured toward Mr. Wolff who smiled at me. Tobias Wolff smiled at me! I thought. I smiled back and jumped up and said, “Absolutely!” and as I approached them Mr. Wolff extended his hand and said, “Hi, I’m Toby and this is my wife, Catherine.” I shook both of their hands and replied, “Hi, I’m Melissa.”
I had imagined this moment on the ride into the city, not really thinking it would actually happen. But I had imagined everything I would say to him. I would tell him that his prose is so beautiful. I’d thank him for inspiring me; for writing such amazing stories that make me smile, or make me think, make me laugh or completely shock me, because of how wonderful they are and how they inspire me to be a better writer. I would apologize for only recently discovering his work and would say that I’d have to also thank him for the future me, because I know that he will continue to inspire me. I can foresee that inspiration, and it sounds ridiculous, but I know he will be a big influence in my life. I just know it.
I wanted to tell him all of that and more, but instead I said, “Congratulations on the award. I’m a big fan.” I was bursting inside, but I didn’t show it. (Ten years in hospitality has taught me a thing or two about discretion.) Toby smiled at me and said, “Thank you.” Catherine asked if I had seen Word For Word perform ever, and I told her I had not, and they both exclaimed how wonderful it was and that I was in for a treat, and so we chatted, all the way to the green room.
I was smiling so wide my cheeks hurt.
Stay tuned…
Previously posted on Littoral; the blog of the Key West Literary Seminar.
Can a personal essay be written by two people? If it’s never been done before, then our emerging voices will attempt it, in this blog, before your very eyes.
We are Melissa Ruby and Mike Cook, and (we believe) we were the youngest writers at the 2008 Key West Literary Seminar. Not that being the youngest guarantees that we have new voices or even distinct and worthy voices, but to be surrounded by writers so exceptional is to hope they find our voices new, distinct, and worthy.
Carolyn Mackler’s editor said that to find new American voices one has to look no further than Myspace, which, coincidentally, is why we’re here.
As reluctant as we are to admit we met on Myspace, we’re equally grateful that we did, because there was and is no other forum where we could have found that familiarity in such a chaotic ensemble of new voices. That recognition inspired a camaraderie.
We met on a Myspace group called the Young Readers’ and Writers’ Network. A worthwhile Myspace group is an anomaly (can you even use “worthwhile” and “Myspace” in the same sentence?) but sometimes life allows for extraordinary fruit to come from really stupid shit. We heard our own voices reflected from the other coast in each others’ work.
How do you explain that another writer’s words pump the blood through your veins? How do you find other voices that do the same? A bar patron told one of us about Key West and the upcoming seminar on new voices. We’ll have to thank her, but mostly we have to thank Miles and the board, because without financial aid we would not be here.
We’re here to find solidarity in a world that’s really fucking lonely. We’re here because ultimately we desire to be those new American voices. Because we can’t imagine being anything else.
The new voices we heard in the seminar have inspired us to refine our own. Constant inspiration is vital. Unlike the others in the Keys, we were surrounded by writers who weren’t here on a vacation. We’ve had a lot of fun in Key West, but we didn’t come for the mojitos either. We’re not doing this for kicks; we’re doing this to breathe.
Mike and Melissa
Read more from Mike, my Baltimore-based male alter ego, at: Literature Is Not Dead
Litquake begins in one week! I am so excited I can hardly contain myself! For those not quite in the know, Litquake is San Francisco’s brilliant festival of all things literary. A nine-day extravaganza of readings and discussions and gatherings that culminate in a mass pub crawl, the Lit Crawl, which takes place at about two dozen bars, cafes and bookstores in the Mission district.
One of the events I am most looking forward to takes place on Tuesday, October 7th. The Second Barbary Coast Award is being presented to Tobias Wolff and, (as some of you read in one of my previous entries) because I was recently mesmerized by his book, Old School, I am very excited to meet him. Did I type meet him? Yes, I most certainly did! Because as one of the Litquake volunteers, I get to meet all the authors. Furthermore, for the Barbary Coast Award Night, I get to be one of the author escorts! It is my responsibilty to greet the authors and escort them to their seats. Some may think this is a silly thing to be excited about, but I wouldn’t be more excited if I were an escort at the Academy Awards. I might be wearing a fancier dress, but I wouldn’t be as excited. I don’t know if being an escort includes escorting the honoree, but even so, just being behind the scenes at this magnificent event is enough for me to feel like I am a part of quite an amazing literary community, right here, in my home of the San Francisco Bay Area.
Let’s just hope the shootings and murders that have been rampant in the Mission this past month fully subside for the safety of festival goers. Gulp.
I don’t typically voice my politics, nor do I ever embed Youtube videos, in my blog. But I had to in the last post, because I have a raging contempt for Sarah Palin.
In order to restore beauty, literature and poetry to my blog, please enjoy two of my favorite Neruda poems.
Poetry
And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
I do not love you
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words.
I think words are worth thousands of pictures. Millions of pictures.
Because what I see may be completely different than what you see, even if we’re reading the same book. And both may be completely different than what someone else sees. I guess it is kind of like meeting people after “hearing so much about” them. The reality of what they look like is usually not even close to what you saw in your mind.
There is a reason that we’re often disappointed after seeing a movie based on a book we’ve read. No big screen production, not even on Imax, can compare to the sheer magnitude of what our imagination can produce. Not to mention all they leave out. While watching a movie we’re merely spectators. But when reading a story, we become involved in the character’s lives in a much more intimate way. We have a life-like, 360 degree view of the story, not a two-dimensional rectangular one.
And sometimes we even become a character in the story. Especially if it is written in the first person. We have such a close relationship with that “I” character that it can be difficult not to identify with him or her.
Creating fiction, being a writer of fiction, has to be the most difficult and least appreciated art form there is. Not that taking a beautiful photograph or painting a masterpiece isn’t difficult. But they are certainly easier than crafting a novel; inventing characters, and their lives, their worlds. And in a society attuned to instant gratification, it is certainly easier for people to appreciate a photograph or a painting, even with the slightest of glances. But to fully appreciate a story one has to invest time, cognitive thought, a bit of reflection and sometimes a little discussion. Or a lot. Especially when you’re reading the classics; that almost goes without saying.
So you can imagine the struggle a writer feels at any moment in his or her “career”, wondering if their months, years, decades of passion will ever come to fruition. Will ever be appreciated in a world diagnosed with ADD. And you can imagine how frustrating it is when someone suggests you pursue something else, too, so you have a career to fall back on. And you just grit your teeth, but smile and nod, knowing it is the practical thing, and yes, maybe you are even pursuing other options. You tell them so. You tell them that you are a certified massage therapist and health educator. You tell them you have worked in hospitality for over ten years, in all aspects of the industry, from housegirl, to bartender, to concierge, to banquet manager. You tell them you are currently interning at a record label, and you have a deep love of the music you are representing, even if they think it is frivolous. Like disco was. You tell them you would like to write for a magazine one day. You tell them, no, I don’t have a boyfriend, but yes I would like to get married and have kids one day. Soon? They ask. You are at that age, they say and smile sympathetically. Maybe, you say, smiling back as your stomach churns uncomfortably. And all these things are true, of what you have done and who you are and who you eventually want to be.
But behind your smile is the relief in knowing that even if all of those things are true, it is partly because in order to write about dynamic lives, you have to live a dynamic life.
(Isn’t that the secret all writers share, but keep to themselves?)
