Guests
by Mary Pols, June 27, 2008 10:47 AM
Last weekend a delightful bookseller in Seattle held Accidentally on Purpose, my memoir about getting pregnant after a one night stand, up next to Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love and told all her female shoppers, "If you liked this, you'll love this one, which I'm calling Screw, Grow, Love." I thought that was pretty funny. And I suppose both books are about a female journalist's "self-actualization" (my sister and I giggle when we use that term; we're from Maine, where the self is often too busy digging out snow or swatting mosquitoes to get actualized). Anyway, Entertainment Weekly gave Accidentally an A- and the New York Observer called it "charming and insightful," as well as some other lovely things. Check out my website for more info. I do book clubs. This is my last day blogging for Powell's so I'm going to leave you with an excerpt from my book's second chapter, in which I've just realized I'm probably pregnant from a one-night stand with an unemployed 29-year-old. It's 2003 and I'm a 39 year-old movie critic. ÷ ÷ ÷ When I became a woman of a certain age, that is, around 35, my female friends began floating the suggestion of single motherhood to me. "Have you ever thought about doing it on your own?" they'd say, a wine glass in one hand, their brows slightly furrowed with concern over my future. Their cell phones would be close by, because a night out with the girls when you are 35 or older typically means that back home, a husband is bumbling through baby-sitting duties and will almost certainly require coaching at some point... I didn't want to hear a sales pitch for single motherhood from a married woman. What did she know about it? Moreover, the question pissed me off, implying as it did that my romantic situation had been declared hopeless. I might think it was worth waiting for the right man, but my friends had clearly given up on that possibility. What they had ? the smart, loving, outdoorsy husbands, the houses, the cooing babies, the adorable toddlers, the winsome five year olds, the mini vans, the Christmas card postcards of perfection ? all of it was out of my reach... I knew they had my best interests at heart, but it seemed as though they were recommending I go climb Everest without an oxygen tank. It was obvious from observing them that motherhood was hard as hell. At my monthly book club, half the mothers in the room would be bursting into tears over sleep deprivation or some trauma involving a negligent nanny. The other half would be vague as to what it was we'd read; they'd blame their dulled memories on breast-feeding hormones. One friend with an infant couldn't cope with the strains of motherhood at all; she retreated into the garage and sat on the washing machine doing bong hits between diapers changes. And they all had husbands. With jobs. And nice houses. Why would I ever want to undertake this on my own? First I wanted a husband. With a job. And a nice house. Or even just a starter cottage with one bedroom. If I did get stuck listening to their sales pitch for sperm banks and/or Chinese orphans, I listened with a skeptical ear. Sure, their friend from graduate school had become a single mother and was as happy as a clam, but that was her, not me. I was barely making ends meet on my own. Journalism is not a profitable business, at least not for reporters and feature writers. I didn't see how I could support a baby. We tend to be united in fear, but divided in bravery. We look for excuses for why we can't do what someone else does. I suppose to these kindly women, I looked like a natural candidate for single motherhood, a semi-artsy, Bay Area resident who did yoga, voted left and wore jeans to work. But what they didn't know about me was that I was not interested in a non-traditional life. Beyond the financial constraints of doing it on my own, I longed for partnership with a wonderful man, marriage and then family. Somewhere in the bottom of a box in my closet I had a pair of photos I'd ripped out of the Washington Post Sunday magazine almost 20 years ago, photos of a dark haired model on a beach, wearing a slim-fitting, lace wedding dress, which I'd thought would be just the kind of dress I'd like to wear to my wedding. So when I said to April and Laura that I guessed that, if I were pregnant, I'd become a single mother, what I was really thinking was: Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what fool just uttered those
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Guests
by Mary Pols, June 26, 2008 9:30 AM
One of the greatest joys of being a mother has been introducing my son Dolan to reading. I'm in no rush for him to read my memoir about having him (I hope he waits until he's at least 15 before he looks at that one), but here's a list of some of our favorites. Some are out of print, but if you have a chance of finding them, it's probably at Powells. 1. The Tenth Good Thing about Barney by Judith Viorst: A little boy's beloved cat dies and he has to cope with Barney's absence. My sister Elizabeth gave us this one last year and I didn't pull it out until after we'd just lost one of our cats. Major tearjerker, but it puts great perspective on the loss of a pet. 2. The Tomten and the Fox by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Harald Wiberg: From a poem by Karl-Erik Forsslund. This is one I saved from my childhood, so our copy is covered with my earliest attempts at writing my name. The illustrations of life on a snowy Northern farm are hauntingly beautiful. 3. Owl Moon by Jane Yolen, illustrated by John Schoenherr: A little girl goes out "owling" with her father on a bright winter's night. Breathtaking in its brevity and wisdom, it's incredibly moving and inspiring. 4. The Dragon by Archibald Marshall, illustrated by Edward Ardizzone: Another wickedly funny story, featuring a series of princes being fed to a hungry dragon and a king who can scarcely be bothered to care. Far too edgy for today's squishy children's book market, this one cracks me up every time. 5. Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak: Obviously, a classic. What I love about this story of a naughty little boy is the rhythm of Sendak's prose. My own naughty little boy is entranced by Max and his wild things and even if I'm in a bad mood, by the time I'm done, I feel better. Must be all that teeth gnashing. 6. The Courtship, Merry Marriage, and Feast of Cock Robin illustrated by Barbara Cooney: My sister Elizabeth gave this to me when I was a toddler, and I loved it so much it never left my shelves. The text is all a weird, charming poem, and when I first read it aloud to Dolan, I wondered how he'd handle its dark themes (more death, and a bird's funeral). He seems to love it as much as I do. 7. The Tale of Benjamin Bunny by Beatrix Potter: Yeah, yeah, Peter Rabbit is great and all, but this little story has a much richer sense of humor. And gives us a close-up view of Mr. McGregor's hungry cat. 8. Caps for Sale, told and illustrated by Esphyr Slobodkina: When we first got this one I wasn't that into it; the illustrations didn't appeal to me. But again, it's all about rhythm, and this story has phenomenal rhythm. We act this one out together and it's so satisfying. Tsz, tsz, tsz. 9. Blueberries for Sal by Robert McCloskey: The truth is, since I'm from Maine, just about anything of McCloskey's could go on this list. But this Caldecott Honor book is my favorite of them all. The baby bear, mischievous Sal and her mother (who reminds me of my mother) combine for a perfect story, gorgeously illustrated in monochrome. 10. Sarah and Simon and No Red Paint by Edward Ardizzone: As an illustrator and writer, Ardizzone cranked out the books, mostly seafaring stories about ship's boy Tim. This one is land bound, and features a pair of siblings struggling to help their artist father finish his masterpiece. Gruff and sweet and very clever, all at the same time. 11. Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell Hoban, illustrated by Lillian Hoban: I started reading this classic to Dolan hoping it would encourage him to vary his own diet. Hasn't worked, but we love this imp of a badger and her sensible parents. 12. Lily's Purple Plastic Purse by Kevin Henkes: I'm not just about old books. This contemporary classic is a gem, but so are most of Henkes' stories (Lily features in several others). He's got a fantastic sense of humor and a gift for creating picture books that feel as complex as chapter books, without the length. Henkes never talks down, manages to appeal completely to my little boy, and brings a smile to my face every time I pick up one of his
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Guests
by Mary Pols, June 25, 2008 10:46 AM
When I set out on book tour last week I forced myself to bring only one book with me. I chose something big and fat and guaranteed to last, David Wroblewski's The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, which you have probably already heard of, since this week it vaulted onto the New York Times bestseller list. Also, right after it went on sale in early June, the NYT's Janet Maslin fell on it like a grey salt caramel dipped in chocolate. The quick synopsis is ? and I hate to use such a facile description for such a deep and beautiful book, but that's the nature of the business ? Hamlet with dogs, and a mute boy, in Wisconsin. My reading selection was motivated by more than reviews or bestseller status; David and I had met at the Booksellers Expo in late May, and we share an editor at Ecco/Harper Collins, Lee Boudreaux. He's just a lovely man and we bonded over how lucky we were to have Lee as our editor. (I'm pretty sure she could take a manuscript written by Tori Spelling and turn it into something great. She's that good.) So I was truly looking forward to David's book. I wasn't prepared to be flattened by it, though. And by that I mean, sniveling in my hotel bed, not sure I could drag myself up and out again. The whole conceit is masterful ? the Hamlet thing really works ? but I have to warn you in particular about the chapters written from the perspective of a dog named Almondine. They are sparse and unsentimental, but so effective that I can't think about this dog without crying. She's Black Beauty, she's Beautiful Joe, she's Old Yeller, Big Red. She's every reason we love animals. And then some. David gets inside her head in a way that seems so right and true that I started to suspect he has some special gift with animals. So read this book. And then maybe get a few others edited by Lee Boudreaux, who will probably be mortified by this post, because she's humble as well as hugely talented. Here's an incomplete list: 1. The Septembers of Shiraz by Dalia Sofer (novel) 2. I Love You, Beth Cooper by Larry Doyle (novel, in the process of being made into a movie) 3. Brief Encounters with Che Guevara: Stories by Ben Fountain (short stories) 4. Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld 5. Prague by Arthur Phillips (novel) And I know, it's gross, plugging yourself, but then there is me: Accidentally on Purpose
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Guests
by Mary Pols, June 24, 2008 9:27 AM
Going on book tour means a lot of time dropping by the mega-chains to sign stock, all of them a blur of sameness, cavernous spaces where books seem almost like afterthoughts to the business of selling lattes, magazines and movies we've already seen. But I've also been to many independent stores, among them the legends like Book Soup in Los Angeles and the sweet upstarts, like the charming Queen Anne Books in Seattle. In these places, I explored rather than searched, and felt myself growing almost physically rounder as I did so, filling with possibilities for the mind. Always, though, there were reminders of the realities of the business. I spent more than an hour in the magnificent children's section at Seattle's Elliott Bay Books, half listening to a grandmother reading books to her granddaughter. Based on their clothing and the woman's cell phone discussions of dinner reservations, they were far from a poor family. But as they were leaving, the girl asked if they could buy one of the books. "I'll get it somewhere else," the grandmother told her. "Somewhere cheaper." She's the kind of shopper who came to mind a few hours later when I heard that Cody's Books, one of the most important independent bookstores in the Bay Area ? where I live ? was closing its doors for good after 52 years in the business. Visiting Powell's this morning was a welcome tonic, then. It's the granddaddy and grandson of them all in a way: a place so thriving and sprawling it seems it has to have a future. I joined throngs of happily dazed shoppers who looked as if they were touring a Louvre where they were allowed, for a small fee, to take home the art. While I browsed, I thought about a quote from Dorothy Sayers that I'd picked up somewhere in my travels, most likely at the sweetly pretentious hipster hotel where I am staying in Portland, a block away from Powell's: "Books are like lobster shells, we surround ourselves with 'em, then we grow out of 'em and leave them behind, as evidence of our earlier stages of development." Now, Lord Peter Wimsey was one of my first great crushes (Busman's Holiday, when he and Harriet get married? Fabulous), so far be it for me to disrespect Sayer. I know she's right about them representing the earlier stages of our development. In bookstores I often visit books I don't need as some people might visit old friends (which means I can report that Powell's has a dazzling array of Arthur Ransome's Swallow and Amazon series). But the leaving behind part, I'm not that good at. Does having boxes of them in your garage rather than your apartment count? I looked for my own book, for its Tiffany blue cover, the one that I imagine the clever marketing team at HarperCollins thought would say 'Let me be tasteful and winning on your bedside table!' (I hope it at least bleats, 'Read me while you're at it.') I signed all the copies of Accidentally on Purpose Powell's had and wished it well. And then I went upstairs to see if I could find my dead father. If anyone had him, it would be Powell's. Edward Pols was a philosopher, a professor at Bowdoin College in Maine. He wrote dense philosophical studies, toiling over them as if they'd have an audience of millions, rather than the perhaps hundreds who would actually be able to make heads or tails of them. (I cannot count myself among those hundreds.) Under the shelves of Plato, Powell's had his book Radical Realism, published by Cornell University Press in 1992. Slim but daunting. Although I have this book at home in California, I still picked it up in Oregon and read the introduction, a recollection by my father of a simple moment from college that set him off on a course of thought that endured six decades later. He was there on that page, a lobster shell still too big for me to crawl out of, and I wiped furtive tears from my face. But I was thrilled to know that he is at Powell's, waiting for someone. I understand what Sayers was saying about us growing out of books as individuals. I just hope her words will never be applied to us as a society. And I wish that that woman at Elliott Bay had bought her granddaughter a damn book. Wasn't the selection worth that extra $4 to her? The setting? The chair she occupied for close to an hour? It is a privilege to be in a great bookstore, either in print or in
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Guests
by Mary Pols, June 23, 2008 9:03 AM
Q: The subtitle of your memoir is, "A One Night Stand, My Unplanned Parenthood and Loving the Best Mistake I Ever Made," which suggests that you are either a nut job, a hose bag, or at the very least, an over-sharer. Which is it? A: Wow, this is like being interviewed by Deborah Solomon. I'm definitely not a hose bag. The one night stand in question, the one that left me pregnant at 39, was the only time I'd had sex in an 11-month period. Q: Bummer. A: Tell me about it. It's not easy out there for 39 year-old single women. Anyway, I am sane, although I admit it still seems surreal when people ask, "What's your book about?" and I hear myself saying: "Err, having a baby after a one-night stand." I smile big, try not to seem slutty, and wonder what my father would think. Q: I'd be hiding under a rock somewhere. Not blathering about it in a book. A: For most of my pregnancy I figured I would want to be hiding under a rock. I assumed I'd be angry, broke, embroiled in hideous legal issues with the dad, and off my rocker with the stress of single motherhood. Instead, I've never been happier. Which is why I'm willing to overshare; I'm hoping that women who are in that place where I was, say, post-35, and fearful of their futures ? you know, where's my dreamboat? ? will find it helpful to see that someone who very much wanted the scenario of husband, house, dog, then baby, has actually found the non-traditional path to motherhood incredibly fulfilling. Accidentally on Purpose contains no helpful tips on potty training, but there may be guidance on such subjects as expectations, acceptance and love in there. Mixed in with comedy, tragedy, and sex. Q: You were a movie critic for eight years. Is this just a rip-off of Knocked Up? A: I was on the fifth draft of my manuscript when Knocked Up was released. And my son was already three years old, so no. I enjoyed that movie very much, although Superbad was both funnier and more profound. Also, I look nothing like Katherine Heigl and the father of my child doesn't look or act like Seth Rogen. Although he was only 29 and unemployed when he got me pregnant. Q: What's up with the Dad? Did he hop a Greyhound out of town? A: Matt lives about 15 minutes away from us. He's gainfully employed and totally responsible. He's over at our place for dinner usually three or four times a week. And from the beginning, we've co-parented our son. After I broke the news to him that I was pregnant, the first thing he said (once he was capable of speech) was, "Everyone wants a child." I'm still amazed by how accepting he was of this whole terrifying scenario. Q: Doesn't he despise you? This book... A: We're good. We've been through a lot together. The book is a snapshot of where we were. I'm a tough critic and I was hard on him. But we've both grown up a lot and we love each other. Not in "that" way, but in the way of family. Which is what we are. Q: Aw, shucks. Is there anything else you'd like to add? A: If you are in Portland, please take pity on a woman who is on a book tour the same month as David Sedaris and come to my reading tonight at Powell's on Hawthorne at 7:30 pm
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