Warren Adler's Blog, page 7
January 3, 2018
Rae Meadows
As a child, I wasn’t a big reader and I never imagined myself a writer. In college, kids slept overnight outside the English department to get coveted spots in fiction workshops. I never even considered it. Writing fiction seemed opaque and scary to me. But it was in college that I began to read, really read. There were books that moved me closer to thinking about writing: Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio, Frederick Exley’s A Fan’s Notes.
In my twenties I floundered. I ran off to Prague. I worked at a seedy hotel in Paris, I sold men’s clothes in Anchorage. In San Francisco I worked in marketing for various clothing companies, unhappy. But all the while I was seriously reading, and one night my boyfriend asked, “If you could be anything what would you be?” Without thinking about it I said, “A writer.”
And that was it. What I had not recognized in myself became clear. I’m grateful to have found my thing—I know not everyone does. I don’t always love to write, but there is nothing in the world like the feeling of having written.
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January 2, 2018
My Salute to Librarians
From the moment I entered the hushed, sacred precinct of the Brownsville Children’s Library in Brownsville, Brooklyn, back in the mid-1930s, I have been a passionate advocate of the public library.
My most profoundly joyous memory is walking through the crowded, noisy, aroma-filled atmosphere of Sutter Avenue, between rows of pushcarts selling anything edible and wearable, on my way to that vine-covered magic castle of books. It was like crossing a moat from the reality of a contemporary world of struggle and strife, to a paradise of storytelling, which opened infinite possibilities and aspirations in a young boy confronting a strange and scary future.
Most delectable was the homeward journey, back over the same route, but this time heavy with the anticipation of reading the books I was carrying in my arms. I lived with the illusion of stamped library cards piling up, until I had read every book in the library designated for my age group. I think I got pretty close.
That love affair with libraries inspired a lifetime of heavy patronage in every part of the country I have lived. In my twelve-year stay in Jackson Hole, WY, I helped shepherd our lovely little library from a log cabin, into what is now one of the best modern libraries in the Midwest. I was enormously proud to serve as its president.
It was a real battle to create a modern library in Jackson Hole. The entrenched political hierarchy was against change, and it took an extraordinary amount of time and creative energy to convince those who held the purse strings that a library was no longer merely a place for books, but a community asset, a meeting place, and an intellectual center.
I have always been madly in love with librarians, a noble profession of dedication of the highest order. In my long career as an author, librarians have been integral to my writing process. They have provided assistance in research and additional support. Even something as basic as a Google search, while an essential tool for an author, is not as enjoyable and effective as working alongside a knowledgeable librarian.
Librarians also offer the public a fantastic filter and provide them with books that are the most meaningful to both the community as a whole, and to those dedicated readers, regardless of income, for whom the pursuit of entertainment, insight, and knowledge through books, is as essential as the air we breathe.
These extraordinarily dedicated librarians have faced enormous challenges of funding and priority resetting in the face of monumental change. But this is nothing new for public libraries. They have always confronted challenges, including disinterested knuckle-headed politicians who do not understand the inherent value of these indispensable institutions.
As a kind of commercial adjunct to public libraries, there were once convenient neighborhood lending libraries found mainly inside stores selling greeting cards, stationery, and other paper products. They carried books chosen mostly from bestseller lists, and rented them out to avid readers at a modest day rate.
My mother was addicted to such lending habits, and spent hours after her household chores reading. I would often find her, nose in a book, on a living room chair, deeply engrossed in such works of the imagination.
I applaud and celebrate reading fiction for pleasure, especially because of its importance as an activity in fostering an aware and civilized society. Authors, particularly novelists, are being economically squeezed as never before in our history. Believe me, it hurts to acknowledge this. In addition, there are too few filtering agents to assess the avalanche of novels coming into the pipeline. The traditional and respected evaluators of quality, like librarians, have largely disappeared, leaving behind a crowded turf of reviewers with varied sensitivities, tastes, and abilities who are trying valiantly to fill in the gaps.
While many of these reviewers are quite discerning, they are too fractionalized to offer a cohesive voice that can help propel an author towards the ultimate goal of discovery and, of course, book sales. Add to this obstacle a diminishing cadre of dedicated long form readers of literature, books that do not fit into any genre, the NOVEL. Note the caps.
Of course, I am oversimplifying. The novel is an art form, and the clichéd image of the starving artist applies. To many authors, writing novels is their oxygen, but even the act of creation implies the impulse of finding willing adherents, meaning readers.
Librarians serve as prime filters of edifying reading material for the people they serve. Taxpayers fund them to purchase the books for the people they serve. The public library is the one truly bright spot for writers who brave the trials and tribulations of the industry. When authors are forced to give their works away for nothing in the fierce battle for recognition, there is no economic benefit to the writer. Only purveyors get a most precious commodity, i.e. a name in their databank, and a potential consumer for other products they offer on sale.
The author’s fiercest ally in the battle for human enlightenment is the librarian. I salute them all.
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December 29, 2017
Warren Adler’s 10 Resolutions for 2018
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December 27, 2017
T.J. Brearton
I got a good dose of movies and books as a kid, things that fueled my creative urge. I’ve written to entertain myself, to share consciousness, to keep from going crazy, to protest social inequality — all sorts of reasons — but I’ve learned that my desire to make a career out of writing has also been about validation.
Does that sound cynical? I’ve made writing a career to prove to myself and others that I could do it. Maybe I need to see a shrink about that, okay, but I think it’s fair to say that, at least in part, making a living from art is something which serves an illusory sense of self seeking to affirm the importance of its existence. Where do you go from there?
Today, I’m still writing. But now I write to prove to myself that I’m sticking with it despite any fluctuations in external outcome, and to hell with my ego. I’m here to do the work, and the rest will take care of itself.
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December 26, 2017
READ THE GLOWING REVIEWS OF THE ITALIAN STAGE ADAPTATION OF “THE WAR OF THE ROSES”
Comical and cruel. The War of the Roses conquers and entertains
Teatro Eliseo staged “The War of the Roses”
Eliseo Theater. Applause to the interpreters of “La guerra dei Roses”
“The War of the Roses,” the novel relives at the Elysium in Rome
AT THE ÉLYSÉE “LA GUERRA DEI ROSES”, FROM PASSION TO ANGER WITH IRONY
Ambra on stage with “The War of the Roses”: when they remain rubble
Ambra Angiolini: «My Roses war resembles me a lot»
The greatness of love is expressed in this comedy through its end
War of the Roses by Warren Adler with Ambra Angiolini
Theater: Ambra Angiolini in Borgomanero with “La guerra dei Roses”
The War of the Roses – Manzoni Theater
The War of the Roses, Manzoni Theater
At the Manzoni Theater in Milan, the War of the Roses breaks out
Ambra Angiolini and Matteo Cremon in “La Guerra dei Roses”
The Roses War, Ambra Angiolini Entertains and Splits Everything
The War of the Roses at the Manzoni Theater
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December 20, 2017
Sarah Porter
Words held incantatory power when I was a child, and it was a power wielded primarily by adults. They could express any stance, any emotion, using words unknown to me; they could win any argument. I can still remember the shock of hearing identify for the first time, and reminiscent. The revelation—that a few quick syllables could contain so much significance—was almost painful. My own emotions and perceptions seemed much too vast to fit inside the small words I had on hand; I was a living secret, not because I wanted to be, but because I was untranslatable.
Books, though, never demanded that I communicate what I knew. Instead they understood everything I could not say, whispered my heart back to me and transmuted it into dizzying images. I felt a limitless relief and gratitude for the acceptance books offered me. If I was a secret, they were the kingdom of secrets, where I was finally at home. They were a refuge for everything within me that the world couldn’t recognize and didn’t want.
That kingdom is constantly expanding, though many of its neighborhood have fallen into decay. And since it has always been my home, it only seems right for me to help in its construction. I write down the stories that tell my heart, and that might provide sanctuary for others. Each book I write is a hut at the city’s edge, and even if the roof leaks, strangers still sometimes sleep on the floor.
http://www.sarahporterbooks.com/
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December 13, 2017
Talia Carner
Stories find me, pull me, and don’t let me go until I have explored them through 100,000 words (or more). That is what happened after I was caught in the 1993 uprising of the Russian parliament against Boris Yeltsin, where I taught women entrepreneurial skills. Their valiant struggle to gain a foothold in a strange, new world was awesome. On November 3rd, 1993, at 2:48 PM I sat down to tell the story of both their outcries and triumphs—and launched a new career. That maiden effort resulted, 20 years later, in my 4th novel, Hotel Moscow.
Writing for me is like being in a dream: I live it, I see the sights, inhale smells, and hear the sounds. I can’t stop to make a phone call and get back to my dream…
I think in multi-layered plots, where characters and events are subject to the forces that shape our lives—psychological, geographical, political, religious or economic. Characters come to populate my head already facing some specific issues that often are also affected by the way physical landscapes either confine or free them. While I am not in any of my novels, I need not invent the emotions I bring, be it the power of motherhood, the pain of a traumatic childhood, the quest for personal growth, the anguish of filial responsibility, the joy of love, or the struggle against social norms.
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December 6, 2017
Lydia Kang
I’m a physician by trade. For most of my life, I was really good at science, and that’s what I did. I didn’t give myself permission to write until only very recently, after I’d been a doctor for fifteen years. Now? I can’t stop.
When I encounter an idea that proves to be unforgettable, I get this feeling. You know how it felt the first time you saw your first hummingbird? Or heard some music that made you cry for its sheer beauty? Or perhaps you finally glimpsed, in person, a work of art that you’d only ever seen in a book? Your breath catches and your heart thrums. Something special is happening, it says.
That’s how I feel when I get a book idea. And I do everything I can to bottle that incandescent sensation, flesh it out with words and paragraphs, until it’s a whole book that encapsulates that feeling of discovery. And then I can’t wait to share it with the world.
This is why I write.
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November 29, 2017
Kimberly Belle
I’m not one of those writers who penned her first novel in crayon. Sure, I’ve always been a voracious reader, but actually being the one to think up all those words? The idea terrified me. Beyond the shaky economics of the profession, writing is a humbling, unnerving, uncomfortable thing. Sending one of my stories out into the world felt like rolling over and showing the softest, most vulnerable part of my underbelly. It took me many years to build up the nerve.
But the universe has a wonderful way of pushing you in the right direction, even when you are not quite ready for it. For me, the impetus was losing my job. I was almost forty at the time and suddenly hyper-aware of all those stories I’d kept locked up inside, all those years I’d wasted being scared. Instead of polishing up my resume, I pulled up a blank document and began typing.
Four books later, writing still terrifies me. Every day feels like a confrontation with my own inadequacies. But there are magical moments, too—moments when the words flow from my mind to my fingers in exactly the right order, when a sentence or a paragraph or a scene hits the page in just the right tone, when I let go of my doubts and fears and allow the story to tell itself. Those are the moments that keep me coming back to my laptop, story after story.
Kimberly Belle is the USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of three novels: The Last Breath, The Ones We Trust, and The Marriage Lie. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree from Agnes Scott College and has worked in marketing and fundraising for various nonprofits, both at home and abroad. She divides her time between Atlanta and Amsterdam.
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November 22, 2017
Natalie Meg Evans
I have written all my life. When she died, my mother had my first ‘novel’ tucked in her purse — three pages about a robin who left home to find food for his family and never came back. I was four when I wrote it and I can only imagine that a diet of traditional, Germanic fairy tales left their imprint. I’m still wowed when I see my novels translated into other languages as my upbringing was the antithesis of ‘international’: A tiny village in Leicestershire, in the English Midlands, beside the River Soar. We inhabited an old house with no heating, virtually no television and my first trip abroad was when I was fourteen. It was to Paris, a place which burned itself into me. Novels one and two are set there.
My storytelling style is rooted in my childhood. The flickering, black-and-white TV was rammed between bookshelves. I was a child who needed to read. At school, I moved on from Grimm’s Tales to the classics which still fuel the character-filled novels I write. The setting of The Milliner’s Secret, my second novel and the toughest to write, is German-occupied Paris where the protagonist, Coralie de Lirac, makes hats. Being a successful milliner and raising herself out of poverty initially drives her. Darker things follow; an enemy lover, and safeguarding her child and the friends who join the Resistance, or who are Jewish. The novel’s resolution took me by surprise and made me cry. I hadn’t seen it coming. I live inside my books. I finish them, take a rest to replenish, then start again.
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