Write About Now

Summer Reading

I've written before about the peculiarities of my summer reading situation, so I won't bore you with the details here. Suffice to say, this year I made a log sheet to record whatever I started reading, with a space for noting the date when I finished. Since June 1, I have read the following:

How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read, by Pierre Bayard (which I'm reviewing for Comment)
The Restless Sleep: Inside New York City's Cold Case Squad, by Stacy Horn (research)
Presbyterian Creeds, by Jack Rogers
The Viceroy of Ouidah, by Bruce Chatwin
Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee
The Third Policeman, by Flann O'Brien
Dr. Fischer of Geneva, or The Bomb Party, by Graham Greene
The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald (yes, for the first time -- no more bragging about not having read it)
Small World, by David Lodge
The Praying Mantises, by Hubert Monteithet

The only one of these books I brought with me on the road for the past two months was Stacy Horn's. The rest I've scavenged here and there at bookstores along the way, from Waco to Seattle. Everything on the list has fascinated me in one way or another. Lodge was, as always, delightful (Bayard quotes him, which is what prompted me to snatch the book from my wife, who originally picked it out). The Third Policeman was recommended by my friend Jeff Baldwin, who'd just finished it, and is well worth reading. I finally broke down and read Gatsby after overhearing a conversation about it that I couldn't very well participate in, not knowing anything about the book. I've always been happy to admit to not having read it -- when you've read Ulysses, you feel like you've earned the right not to have read a lot of other famous stuff -- and I even thought this lacunae might prove useful if I ever found myself playing Humiliation, a game introduced by one of Lodge's characters and described by Bayard. But now I'll have to find another "classic everyone but me has read."

Biggest revelation? Chatwin. I'm reading In Patagonia now.

A Friend's Book

It's nice to spot a friend's book when you step into a random bookstore -- in this case 3rd Street Books in McMinnville, OR -- especially when it's face out.

The Calvin Haul

You can't attend the Calvin Festival without taking home some books. After declaring that I never stand in line for an autograph, I stood in line to have Michael Chabon sign my copy of The Yiddish Policeman's Union. Stacy Barton is an author I published in Relief #2, so it was a pleasure to pick up her excellent collection of short stories (which my friend Anthony bought at Calvin two years ago). I read Danny Gospel in manuscript and loved it all over again when I heard David read. Lisa Samson gave me a copy of Embrace Me after we had dinner together with Claudia Burney and Chip MacGregor -- she even wrote some nice things inside. After hearing Scott Cairns read, I went straight to the Eighth Day Books booth and bought all four of the books he'd read from: Short Trip to the Edge, Love's Immensity, Recovered Body, and Compass of Affection. I could have come home with many more, but a man has to know his limitations.

The Art of Fiction

One of the first books they put in my hands in creative writing was John Gardner's The Art of Fiction, subtitled Notes on Craft for Young Writers. That subtitle gives young writers an awful lot of credit. I was still rummaging around with nuts and bolts, while Gardner was tuning engines. The more I learned, the more The Art of Fiction made sense, and today it's one of my favorite books on the subject, one of the few worth re-reading. So imagine my joy last weekend when I stumbled across a copy in hardback.

I picked it up for just $7, which is less than either of my two paperback copies cost. Before this, not realizing there even was a hardback, I'd never thought to search. Now I'm wondering whether On Becoming a Novelist and On Moral Fiction are available in hardback, too.

The Office

I have some cousins who can sleep anywhere, and I've always envied that. Me, I need a bed. When it comes to writing, I'm the same way. I have friends who can happily jot sentences wherever they happen to be, but me, I need a desk.

In fact, I need more than a desk. I need an office. But until now I've never really had one. Sure, I've staked out a few square feet in the domestic sphere, converting spare bedrooms, empty corners, and at one point the kitchen table into writing space. This is hardly ideal, though. Inspired by my artist friends, I've always dreamed of finding a dedicated studio. Back in August, I began a half-hearted search, and now I've got bamboo floors underfoot, exposed ductwork overhead, and David Bowie playing on the stereo.

I have an office, in other words.

In the photo, you can see the desk, chair, and filing cabinet that used to be shoehorned into my "study" in the apartment. The bookcases are at the other end of the room, and more will soon join them. Laurie will set up her stuff on the opposite wall, and we'll have a big table (my massive old desk from corporate days) in the center of the room for extra work space. My window has an appropriately garret-like view of the back alley.

All that's left now is to drive the four hours to IKEA for more shelves, chairs, and lamps. That's the paradox of living in the middle of nowhere: real estate is affordable, but there's nothing to put in it!

Reflections on a Year of Relief

The fourth issue of Relief Journal just arrived on my doorstep, which means I've been at this thing for a year now. Actually, it's been a bit longer than that, but we've put out a year's worth of journals. Starting with Issue 5, Alan Ackmann is joining the staff as my co-editor, which is -- if you'll pardon the pun -- a relief, since he's an excellent writer with great connections and taste. You can read an example of his work in Relief #4, a superb little story called "Swimmers into Cleanness Leaping."

So, what have I learned so far as a fiction editor? I'll try to distill the experience into a few simple observations. Here goes:

The Killer Who Crowded My Personal Space

If there's one place in the bookstore I'm afraid to go, it's the True Crime section, a well-known haunt for crazies. So it took me a few minutes to build up my nerve. On the first pass, a greasy-haired kid in ripped jeans stood flipping through a book about the Mafia. I passed on by, pretending to head for the reference shelf. The local Barnes & Noble devotes three segments of shelving to books about serial killers, forensic science, and so forth -- half of them authored by Ann Rule -- and three narrow shelves just doesn't allow for enough personal space when you're browsing. In True Crime, you don't want anybody crowding you.

Go to the literature stacks and everything's pristinely shelved, a model of symmetry. That's because no one's digging through them. True Crime looked like it had been pawed, maybe even fondled. Gaps opened up in the shelves, books slumped sideways. I could imagine some suspicious loiterer lingering over each title, licking his finger before turning every page. Ripperology was well represented, and it seems half the pathologists in the United States have authored books about high tech crime-fighting. No Best Reporting, though.

Why Novels Are Better Than Movies

You're being sniffy, I told myself. And defensive. Standing up for the novel when nobody's attacking it. He didn't say movies are better than books, he just said his dream was to become a filmmaker, and everyone's entitled to a dream. But for some reason I felt the need to point out just how impotent a director is in comparison to a novelist.

"With film," I said, "you have to rely on so many people. A novelist has absolute control. He writes the script, casts the roles, performs the parts and dresses the sets. He controls the camera. He doesn't answer to producers because he doesn't need a budget. No one looks over his shoulder and second-guesses. The director has to work through others to achieve his art, which means he's a manager as well as a creative. The novelist is free to sink or swim on his own merit."

When Your Alley Becomes A Runway

We found a teenaged girl sprawled on the pavement in the alley behind our building. Her shoulder dug into a brick wall and an impossibly long leg -- pale and bare -- extended straight out. The other was bent, like she'd slipped, and it must have been a terrible slip the way her body was twisted around. I stopped in my tracks, but Laurie kept going.

"This is a popular spot for them," she said over her shoulder. "I've been running into them all summer."

Them? Who were they? I peered into the doorway beside the girl and sure enough there were several others standing around, conferring with one another in whispers. I gazed again at the girl on the ground, and she looked more dazed than hurt. Eerily thin, too, with a pallor than glowed in the shadowy doorway. Ah, I thought. Drugs.

Shouldn't we do something? Laurie kept moving and, indifferent Samaritan that I am, so did I. As we neared our car, though, I stole a glance sideways to see if the girl had managed to get up. That's when I noticed the people with her in more detail. Two women in their mid-thirties. One of them held a piece of what looked like shiny foil, and the other hefted something black and menacing in her hands. A camera. Then it dawned on me. The contorted, heroin-thin girl on the pavement wasn't a junkie. She was a model.