Guests
by Laura Moriarty, August 31, 2007 10:36 AM
This blog will be more difficult for me to write than anything I've ever written. But the emotionally squeamish needn't fear: the reason I will have so much difficulty is because around five o'clock today, I almost cut my finger off while trying to snip the stems off some black-eyed Susans my neighbor had thrown away. And I was using scissors. I really got myself good, though: I had to go get stitches (my daughter let me hold her blanket for courage), and I had to get a tetanus shot. I now have my left middle finger wrapped heavily in gauze, so please forgive any typos. But here's what I want to say: in the previous entry, I wrote about how much I love connecting with readers while doing readings and visiting book clubs. And I really do love to hear their questions, with the exception of one question, which is asked at almost every reading: "How did you get your agent?" Now, there is nothing innately irritating about this question. My irritation with it has more to do with the way it is often asked ? with narrowed eyes, with I-know-how-this-business-really-works-Missy cynicism, or with this-is-the-beginning-of-a-relationship-with-someone-who-can-open -doors-and-pull-strings-to-help-me-publish-the-novel-I-haven't-even -written-yet opportunism. (Can you believe I typed all those hyphens with this thing on my finger?) If someone asks this question in one of those ways, he or she is generally unhappy with my response, which is the truth: 1. I finished my novel. I had read that it would be easier to get an agent to take on a finished work rather than an unfinished one. (If you need time/money to finish your idea, I suggest you go to grad school or try for a fellowship. I did both. An excellent fellowship for unpublished writers is the George Bennett Creative Writing Fellowship at Phillips Exeter Academy. There's another good one at Colgate.) 2. I combed through The Writers Market to learn exactly how to contact an agent, how to choose an agent, and how to avoid the mistakes writers often make when contacting an agent. The Writer's Market can be found in the reference section of any library. The Writer's Market also lists contact info and areas of interests of agents. 3. I asked all the writers I knew how they liked their agents. A lot of writers don't like their agents, or they at least think their agents could be doing more for them. I wrote down the name of the agent who was most enthusiastically recommended (Jennifer Rudolph Walsh at William Morris), and I contacted her, taking care to follow the suggestions I'd found in The Writer's Market. (If you don't know any writers, you can usually find out how much an author likes her agent based on the acknowledgements page in one of her books.) That's pretty much how I did it. But a certain kind of person does not seem pleased with the answer, which is basically that I plotted, worked, and followed guidelines. In a great book review of Shoot The Widow in The New Yorker, critic Louis Menand points out the illusory magic we often give to the idea of fortune, epiphany, and the chance encounter: People like the notion that a little luck is involved in success ? that becoming famous could be sort of like winning the lottery. One day, you're riding along on your donkey or in your Honda Civic or whatever, a voice speaks to you, and suddenly you are on the way to being St. Paul or Leonard Bernstein. Now before anyone gets huffy, I want to make it clear that, even with painkillers coursing through my veins, I know I am not St. Paul, nor Leonard Bernstein. I know I'm not even famous except among very dedicated readers of a certain type of fiction. But I was, in fact, driving a Honda Civic and living in a sketchy part of Portland, Maine, when I got the call from my very hard-working agent telling me that my first novel would be published. If you want to completely chalk that call up to luck and secret handshakes, you can, but I think you're wrong. I will never know how much of the wonderful experience that is my current vocation can be owed to being in the right place at the right time. But I do know that if I had hoped for fortune, and fortune alone, to help me reach my goal, I would probably be doing something else for a living. For the record, I do want to say that I believe in bad luck, blameless misfortune. I also know that agents, when deciding whether or not to take on a client, have to consider what will sell, not just what is good; sadly, that's not always the same thing. And it is true that a lot of the really good agents are so good that they have stopped taking on new clients. But there will always be someone young and hungry out there, and a good agent will be able to spot what she can sell. But I want to put one myth to rest: you really don't need a published writer to 'introduce' you to an agent. I have 'introduced' several people I think are good writers to my agent, and she hasn't taken on any of them. That's kind of a bummer for my friends, but at least it shows that cronyism isn't the rule of the day. My experience with the publishing industry is that it is much more open and democratic than many people believe. What I mean is to be
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Guests
by Laura Moriarty, August 30, 2007 10:40 AM
I get to go on a book tour pretty soon. I've already done a couple of readings from The Rest of Her Life here in Kansas, and I did one reading in Iowa, but the real travel ? involving airplanes and hotels ? starts next week. For people who would like to know, here's what a book tour is like: I'll go to about twenty cities, and I'll do at least one reading in each. To fill the time between when I arrive in a city and when I actually do a reading, I'll do radio interviews, and if there's spare time, I'll go to every bookstore my author escort can get me to so I can sign books and thank booksellers for putting my book where a customer might see it. For some people ? and especially for some writers, I imagine ? all this hand shaking and plane hopping would be a nightmare. For me, it's a dream vacation. It can get a little tiring ? on my last tour, I sometimes moved through two cities in one day, and I had five a.m. wake up calls (from courteous and chipper hotel staff!) after late nights. On my tour for The Center of Everything, I was getting by on very little sleep, lots of adrenaline and excitement, and probably too many cans of Red Bull. The Red Bull part came to a quick halt after I took a pregnancy test an hour before a reading in Denver and discovered that the queasy feeling in my stomach had nothing to do with nerves. After that, I couldn't have slept if I'd wanted to, though I soon developed a pretty serious case of Red Bull withdrawal. Someone took a picture of me signing books that night at The Tattered Cover, and I have to say, despite starting nine months of Red Bull-free living, in that picture, at least, I look very awake, and also very happy, but in a nervous, Oh-My-God kind of way. But this time around, I should be able guzzle all the caffeine and whatever-else-they-put-in-that-stuff I want, and I probably will guzzle a lot of it, though I'm even more excited about going on this tour than I was about going on the first one. I hope this doesn't come off as ingratiating, or like something I'm supposed to say ? it's really the truth. I'm more excited about going on this tour because I imagine I'll get to talk with readers who have already read at least one of my books, probably the first one. Last time, I went on tour to promote that book just days after it had come out, and since it was my first novel, only die hard, sure-we'll-go-to-a-reading-of-a-writer-we've-never-heard-of people came to the readings. And it was pretty fun to talk with them ? people who are interested in reading and writing in general are always nice to talk with, and I hope they show up this time around as well. But I'm guessing that there will also be more people in attendance who have read The Center of Everything, and I love hearing specific questions and comments about the book. I did get to meet readers of The Center of Everything at the readings I just gave in Kansas and Iowa, and I really enjoyed the experience. People will sometimes preface what they say with 'You must get sick of talking about this, but...' And really, I want to say, "Are you kidding? I spent ten years writing that book. I'll hear what you have to say about it until you're tired and ready to go home! I'll be running after you as you head for the door!" The other great thing about touring is I get to meet and hang out with a bunch of people who are fun, intellectually stimulating, or both: dedicated readers, booksellers, radio personalities, and author escorts tend to be pretty interesting people. In some ways, I'm really not cut out to be a full-time writer because I like being around people (well, people who are both nice and smart. Or at least funny.) so all the sudden interaction of a tour is like a blast of oxygen to me. During my regular, non-touring existence, which makes up ninety-nine percent of life as a writer, I spend a great deal of time by myself, working at the keyboard. I'm grateful for this time to work, but it can get a little dreary. (I do have friends, and a social life, but believe it or not, they do not all just want to sit around and dissect The Center of Everything all the time.) And I've got to be honest here ? the other great thing about touring is the amenities: I don't know about other publishers, but Hyperion springs for some seriously nice hotel rooms. When I'm traveling (and paying), I'm kind of a Red-Roof-Inn kind of girl, and that's not where Hyperion puts you. I get to go out to dinner. And lunch. And breakfast. I don't do dishes. I sometimes do laundry in the sink, with luxurious hotel bubble bath, but that's it. And the funny part is that in the middle of all of this pampering, someone will invariably come up to me and express sympathy for how tired and frazzled I must be. I'm sure I'll be excited to come home to my beautiful daughter, but I'll also come home to dishes, laundry, a lawn that needs to be mown, and another book that needs to be written, whether I feel like writing or not. It's a great day-to-day life, and I wouldn't want to exchange it, but when I think back to my stimulating and pampered days during the tour, 'frazzled' will not be the first word that comes to mind
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Guests
by Laura Moriarty, August 29, 2007 10:12 AM
My reading last night went pretty well, I think. My daughter ended up sitting quietly in the back row, in the lap of a friend who apparently has magical powers, or at least the ability to keep a three-year-old happy and quiet during an hour-long reading ? in my grateful opinion, the same thing. And the reading part itself went well, though I have to admit I see it as something to get through so I can get to the reward of the question and answer part. I think I like Q and A so much because the questions are, at least part of the time, unexpected; and because I have to answer them right then and there, I end up learning about my own process. Someone will ask me, "Where did this character come from?" I'll just start talking, because I have to, and sometimes I'll say something I didn't really know before I started talking. But sometimes I give an answer to a question and I later think 'Why did I say that? That's not true.' Last night, someone asked me how I feel about my writing as I'm doing it ? can I tell when a scene is really working, when something is really just taking off? I told her that I can never tell when a scene is working, and that I always think whatever I'm writing is terrible as I'm writing it, and that I always feel a complete lack of confidence with every word. And now I'm sitting here less than a full day later thinking, 'Why did I say that? That's not true.' If I really felt that little confidence, writing would be a pretty miserable experience, and I doubt I would have the emotional stamina to do it five days a week. Upon further reflection, I would say the closer truth is that when I'm writing a first draft, I'm thinking something like, 'This may or may not be good. I may end up being really happy with this, or I may end up hating it and wanting to delete it. But there's really no way I'll know unless I keep going, and I want to see where it leads.' And really, isn't that more or less what goes through most people's heads about the day in general when they get up in the morning? I didn't paint an entirely gloomy picture of my writing hours for the audience last night. I did tell them that when I'm writing, I often experience what someone-famous-with-a-name-I-can-never-remember called 'flow,' which is the state of being so immersed in a project that you not only lose track of time, you lose track of self, which can be, of course, a very nice vacation to go on. I think reading can take you on this vacation as well. But for me, it's really writing: I told the audience last night that my daily foray into the world and minds of my characters is probably the closest I'll get to successful meditation (I haven't been able to pull off the more traditional kind). I believe the guy who wrote about 'flow' (surely some of you well-read Powell's customers know the name of the guy I'm talking about) thought that this state was very good for the mind and the spirit, as good for you as meditation is supposed to be. And I believe he said it was the truest form of happiness. So I apologize for the lie last night: really, when I'm writing, I'm not miserable at
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Guests
by Laura Moriarty, August 28, 2007 10:21 AM
I have a reading tonight at seven, and I still haven't found a sitter for my three-year-old daughter. I'm starting to get a little nervous. The reading starts at seven, and it's noon now. I did get to work on this several days ago ? I've made about ten phone calls. My usual sitters have evening classes, dates, sorority chapter meetings. I've never had this much trouble before, and I'm wondering if this is like dating, or trying to play with a cat: show even a hint of desperation, and they don't want anything to do with you. Half an hour ago, I resorted to begging a friend to ask her thirteen-year-old daughter to play legos with Vivian in the children's room of the library while I give the reading in the next room. The thirteen-year-old is at school, of course. My friend said she would put a call in to her daughter's cell, and I would just have to wait to hear back. If it isn't already obvious, I am a single parent, as I have been since my daughter was fifteen months old. I had planned the parent part, but not the single part, and when the single part first went down, I was more than a little shocked to suddenly find myself in that category. Long before I was even pregnant, I wrote about a single mother in my first novel, The Center of Everything; in that book, I beset Tina with many of the same troubles I had seen real single mothers deal with when I was social worker. I know two-parent homes, especially ones with both parents working outside the home, also have to scramble for child care sometimes, but I think it's safe to say that in a single-parent home, the scrambling happens twice as often. When I was a social worker, I worked with women who had to quit jobs because they had to stay home with sick children, or because the jobs they were qualified for didn't offer adequate health insurance (whereas welfare did), or because they only broke even working full time because they were spending so much on childcare. Most of the women I worked with, and later, the single mother character I created in Tina, had my sympathy, encouragement, and respect. But I didn't think I was going to turn into one. For me, the truth sunk in slowly, and in stages. The initial severance package looked pretty good, but promises soon started to fall through. There would be no visits, no shared custody. There would be no child support. "Oh my God," I told my friend Kara one day. "I'm a single mom." It was the first time I used that phrase with real distaste. There was something so innately pathetic about it that I hadn't been able to hear before. Kara refused to let me wallow. "No you're not," she said. I think I remember she rolled her eyes. "How?" I demanded. "How am I not? I am single. I am a mom. Single. Mom. Single mom." There was that woeful phrase again. She shook her head. "You're just not," she said. "You've got a really good job." I have to admit: this was, and still is, true. If you're going to be the sole provider for a little person, working as a published novelist is a pretty good way to do it. I would like to be more comfortable and secure in the future, but I do not have Tina's acute financial worries. The car has never broken down, and if it did, I could get it fixed. I can afford (crappy!) health insurance and doctor visits. Even more importantly, I usually have a very flexible schedule. When I get a call from day care telling me Vivian isn't feeling well, I can simply stop writing and go get her. I do have deadlines ? mostly self-imposed ? but I can make up the work by putting in a long day later. I am also grateful that I can afford decent daycare. Before I was a single-parent, the idea of daycare made me nervous. I thought 'child warehouse,' and worried that I would be shirking my responsibility as a parent by leaving her care to someone else forty hours a week. So I had Viv at home the first fifteen months, and her father and I juggled caring for her. But after I became a single parent, I pretty much had to give day care a whirl (my friends broke this news to me during an intervention-style confrontation). And I have to say, I think it's worked out pretty well for both of us. She likes her teachers, and they teach her things I probably wouldn't have been able to teach her with just the two of us at home ? how to line up, how to share toys, what a mopped floor looks like... It's also been really good for me to have a reliable schedule of quiet time to work. It's made me a saner person and a saner mother. Once, when I was being interviewed for an article, the reporter really wanted a photo of me typing on my computer while holding my daughter. I wouldn't do it ? it's a cute idea, but it's inaccurate, and I think that kind of image just puts more pressure on parents to think they can do it all. I do not write with my three-year-old sitting on my lap. Sometimes when I go to readings, people say, "You have a three-year-old and you write novels? How do you do it?" I say, "Day care," and they sometimes look a little disenchanted, but really, that's how I do it. I'm in luck. My friend just called and said yes, her thirteen-year-old would be happy to play legos with Viv in the library during my reading. So Viv and I will happily get through another evening of our fortunate, patched-together life. But the adventure continues. My book tour ? twenty-something cities ? starts in a few weeks. I've got sitters lined up, but you never know. I imagine much scrambling in the future
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Guests
by Laura Moriarty, August 27, 2007 10:43 AM
I was very happy to learn I would be a guest blogger on Powells.com ? I would be happy to have pretty much anything to do with the venerable Powell's. While thinking about what I wanted to write about, I started looking at the entries of past guest writers, and I came across this lovely excerpt from Michelle Wildgen: "I found myself saying that literature, producing and consuming it, was an act of empathy, maybe one of the most empathetic acts possible, and that the world seems so short on empathy, on the simple ability to imagine a life outside our own towns and skins, that if anything we need more of it. It was an off-the-cuff response but I actually still believe it's true. It's like talking to as many people as you can, who see the world in as many different ways [as] possible." I suppose it's ironic that even though this quote is about reading and writing serving as ways to experience other perspectives, reading the quote itself held, for me, the comfort of having my own experience and opinion reinforced. I've been thinking a lot about empathy and literature lately: the reviews of my new novel, The Rest of Her Life, are trickling in, and though everyone seems pretty happy with the writing and the plot and the pacing, there have been just a few rumblings of discontent about the 'unlikable' protagonist, Leigh. I would be interested to know if other writers feel the need to defend a created character as if she were a loved one. I do think it's protectiveness I'm feeling, not defensiveness. I know I was astounded when I met readers of my first novel, The Center of Everything, who claimed to love the book and the easy-to-like young protagonist, Evelyn, but who would speak mercilessly about Evelyn's mother: words like 'selfish,' 'stupid,' and 'irresponsible' were often used in connection with Tina. But I love Tina just as much as I love Evelyn, and I can't help but think that readers who judge Tina so harshly really don't understand the book at all, at least not the one I intended to write. Yes, she makes some bad decisions. Yes, those bad decisions lead to temporary bouts of poverty and stints on welfare that her daughter finds humiliating. But Tina does get her act together eventually ? she does it slowly, and she takes several wrong turns along the way, but one wrong turn in particular leads her to finally gain the self-esteem she has lacked her whole life, and really, I think that lack is what led to all the wrong turns in the first place. She does all this while rearing two very willful children, who she loves unconditionally, even when they don't seem to love her. I wondered if some of the judgment of Tina was linked to her going on welfare, even temporarily ? there's a huge amount of stigma there. But the allegedly 'prickly' protagonist of my new novel is decidedly middle-class. Leigh, like Tina, grew up with a difficult family, but she is, in some ways, the opposite of Tina. She has lived her life very carefully, making sound decisions in marriage and career with the sole purpose of providing a better life for her children. And yet she is completely unaware of how, even in the safety of her remodeled Victorian, she might be fostering the same resentment in her daughter that she herself felt growing up. To me, the idea that she is unaware is an important distinction ? as one reader put it, Leigh is never intentionally cruel to anyone. The book follows what happens after Leigh's daughter accidentally runs over and kills a pedestrian, and so I had to do some legal research; I thought it was interesting how the law, when defining guilt, makes a distinction between negligent driving ? a not-so-serious offense ? and reckless driving ? a more serious offense ? based on whether the driver is aware of the hazard she creates. Both can cause equally tragic consequences, but in the eyes of the law, negligence ? which might be caused by ignorance, confusion, distraction ? doesn't deserve the same wrath. So I will say this in Leigh's defense ? she makes her mistakes with her daughter because she doesn't see herself making them. And when her mistakes are pointed out to her by so many people, she forces herself to take a good hard look at herself. Really, how many people can you say that about? She is insecure. But I have to say, if you are going to avoid spending time with anyone who is insecure, you are going to miss out on some really interesting people. By the end of the book, I don't think Leigh is any more flawed them I am, or most of the people I know and love. I empathize with her because of her history, but I respect her because she really does want to be a good mother, and she's open to change. Maybe I'm on the wrong track here, but the most notable common denominator between Leigh and Tina is that they are both mothers, and I think it's worth asking if this is why they are judged harshly. I'd be interested to know what readers
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