Emma Straub's Blog, page 10

The New York Times Book Review, et al

This week was a busy one– not only did I drive to Oberlin and back, but I also did an interview with Gothamist and appeared on the back page of the New York Times Book Review.

Also, if you missed my Happy Ending appearance, you can listen to the entire show on WNYC. Technology! It's incredible. I'm about twenty-three minutes in, but you should listen to the whole thing, of course.

If you're in NYC and are free tomorrow night, do join me at WORD for a family-centric installment of Largehearted Lit. I'll be reading with my dad, as well as the brothers Grossman. You don't want to miss it.

Yours,

Emma

Tater Tots Are For Lovers (and so is Oberlin)

Yesterday morning, Mike and I drove to Oberlin College, my alma mater. I hadn't been back since I graduated nine years ago, and this was the very important first stop:

This is called a Buffalo Shistawouk. About this sandwich, Mike said, "That was good. Now I never have to eat one again." A fair assessment.

Then we went to find Dan Chaon, the temporary owner of an extremely awesome mustache AND a box of Cheerios.

Dan is so cool that he has signed Lynda Barry comics in his office. I mean, come on. That is stone-cold cool.

There were posters with my face on them all over campus. Also, someone is missing part of a Saab key, so if you see one, holler.

I gave Mike a tour, including a stop at Finney Chapel. This photo goes straight to Big Pete.

Dan introduced me.

I read.

Me + Dan + One Skinny Mustache

Me + the very, very cute Chelsey Johnson

Oberlin has some very, very fashionable students. This smart cookie bought his t-shirt from us in October of 2008, a month after we got married.

My handsome husband, on Wilder Bowl.

In a womb chair.

Oberlin, it was a blast. I won't let it go another nine years, I promise. The students asked wonderful questions, and laughed at all my jokes, and my dear friend Dan paid for dinner. What could be better? Totally worth driving back and forth.

Love and tator tots,

Emma

Happy Ending

Last night, I had the super, delicious pleasure of reading at the Happy Ending reading series at Joe's Pub. There was a dressing room! And I had a free glass of wine! Hoo boy am I easy to please.

Daniel Knox sang some lovely songs.

Then Andrew Autschul read from his novel. His 'risk' for the night was playing a CD from his high school band, DWI. Nice one.

Then I read a story about summer camp. My risk was reading a series of letters I wrote to my parents from summer camp in 1991, when I was 11. Spoiler: I wanted them to tape 90210, send me packages, and I didn't get the part I wanted in the Wizard of Oz.

Jon-Jon Goulian read (for the very first time!) from his memoir. My first reading had fewer scenes with penises, that's for sure. Brave boy!

No stage bathroom is complete without a photo of Mandy Moore: agree or disagree?

En route to Oberlin as we speak. Pics of tater tots to follow!

Love

Emma

My Crazy Week

The next week is a doozy. Please come throw bananas/bring an aluminum blanket for my weary shoulders.

Wednesday 5/4: Happy Ending at Joe's Pub!

Thursday 5/5: Oberlin College! My first trip back since graduation!

Tuesday, 5/10: Largehearted Lit at WORD! With my DAD!

Not to mention my book club, a dinner party, and two eight-hour drives! Oh, and finish my novel. I really need you, friends. Hope to see you soon.

Yours,

Emma

Sundays at Sunny's

There are an astonishing number of cool reading series in New York, but none of them is cooler than Sundays at Sunny's. Sunny's Bar is on the Red Hook waterfront, steps away from the best jewelry shop in Brooklyn and one of my favorite hamburgers. The bar is the best kind: dark and warm, with old photos lining the walls and the feeling that the whole place should be filled with rowdy guys with big, bushy beards.

Sunny's on a sunny afternoon.

I made some carrot cake whoopie pies for the crowd. Okay, fine, I ate two of them myself. What am I, a nun?

Mike, reflected above the bar.

Mary Gannett, the Empress of BookCourt.

Gotta love reading from behind the bar. I knew I went to bartending school for a reason.

Afterwards, we went to our friend Este's show. Pictured behind Este is her sponge wallpaper. You heard me.

We finished the day with some fried chicken at Peels. Success on a Sunday.

This week is a big one: on Wednesday, I'm reading at Happy Ending, and on Thursday, we're driving to Oberlin College, my alma mater. If you're in (either) neighborhood, please say hello.

Yours,

Emma

Things I Ate On/Around My Birthday

Perhaps some people celebrate in other ways–by watching nature videos, as my friend and fellow April 25th baby did, or by running around outside, or by drinking lots of beer–but I celebrate by eating. Lots and lots of eating. Here are some things I ate and some people I ate them with. The diet starts now.

Self-explanatory goodness.

Spring pea and mint ravioli, with lamb ragout.

Risotto with mushrooms. This was actually Mike's, but I stole my fair share.

Crab cakes.

Cotton candy. (Also pictured: chocolate souffle.)

The aforementioned souffle.

A popover.

My father, onion rings.

A very dark photo of a very delicious steak.

My cute mom, some champers.

My cute dad.

My cute husband in his cute pink tie.

Cute husband in pink tie photographing dark + delicious steak.

Peanut butter and chocolate mousse with salted caramel ice cream. Happy birthday indeed.

Please send any and all salad recipes my direction. Also, thoughts of juice-fasting, artery-unblocking, and things of that sort. Especially if they involve cheese.

Yours and 31,

Emma

Big Pete at the Center for Fiction

Last night, a good crowd gathered at the Center for Fiction to hear my dad talk about craft. Although he claimed only minutes before that he had no idea what he was going to say, Big Pete totally slayed it. We were all laughing and scribbling down notes and completely rapt the entire time.

My mother and Kristin from the Center for Fiction both had very cute shoes. This photo was taken in the elevator, which is not nearly as terrifying as it looks.

The author as a youth.

Big Pete gave the 8 Essential Rules of Fiction, of which there were actually 11. Here are the few I can reproduce spontaneously, because he's given these pieces of advice to me several times before. 1) Don't start two sentences in a row with the same word. Same goes for paragraphs. 2) Avoid being banal, if possible. Most of the other points were very long and involved and really, you should have been there, but come on–those are really good rules to follow.

After the talk, we Straubs strolled over to Grand Central for dinner. I would like this ceiling in my house, please.

The author and his wife. It's so strange how some people don't like it when you take pictures of them chewing.

For those who are late to this party, and have never read any of my father's books, don't deprive yourself. He is the greatest, and I'm very glad that he's mine. You should also follow him on Twitter. If you'd like to see us in action together, come to WORD for May's Largehearted Lit. We'll both be reading and then recounting the same embarrassing story from different points of view.

love

Emma

Rhinebeck is Wonderful, Even in the Rain

Yesterday afternoon, I coaxed a huge gaggle of wonderful people into my car, and we all drove up to Rhinebeck for my reading at Oblong Books + Music with Emily Mandel. It was rainy, but we had enough snacks to last for several days, and spirits were high.

We are up-and-coming novelists. It says so right there on the poster.

Emily and I listen to the very wonderful Suzanna Hermans introduce us.

Me, smiling at Emily.

The Oblongirl herself.

Stephanie, smizing.

The camera-shy novelist Owen King. If you've ever wondered what it's like to be a meerkat (and come on, who hasn't), you should really read Owen's story in this anthology he edited.

My pal Loyita, cute as a button.

Emily and her reading copy of The Singer's Gun, marked with every event she's done for the book. I am so doing this next time.

My very adorable mother and the legendary Bob Woods. We are an OLTL family, in case you're just tuning in.

Stephanie, Christine and Mike were all giggles at dinner.

During the Q + A, Emily taught the audience how to properly knot a scarf. Really. I mean, I'd listen to her, wouldn't you?

Just us chickens. I mean, up-and-coming novelists.

Afterward, Mike drove us home in the dark, horrible monsoon-ish rain. We all got home safe and sound, utterly charmed by the entire experience. Viva Rhinebeck! Viva Oblong! Three cheers for everyone involved.

Yours,

Emma

God Bless You, Ashley Van Buren

This warms my heart so much that I will probably blow up in about five minutes. Better share it with you now. The extremely lovely Ashley Van Buren just posted this on Twitter, in response to a question about how people use social media in their decision to buy books.

On Tuesday 12th April 2011, @avb said:

@Bookgirl96 Here's an example of how I use social media to make book choices. I noticed @emmastraub's "Other People We Married" came up a lot in a #FridayReads.@ErikaRobuck tweeted a link to an excerpt (which I believe was a Tumblr reblog from@HousingWorksBks). I read the excerpt and loved it. Saw that @HousingWorksBks' Tumblr linked to Emma Straub's Tumblr. Started following her Tumblr. Most of what she posted are things I love, so I felt an even stronger desire to read her book. Since I couldn't download her book on my Kindle, I went to her website and found it was only available at indie bookstores (she helpfully listed which ones). I bought a copy from@mcnallyjackson, who confirmed via Twitter they had it. A friend borrowed the book from me before I read it, so I went to Three Lives and Company and purchased a second copy. While there, I talked up the book to the store owner and manager telling them all about her social media campaign and how I came to find the book. They're now reading the book and say they will reco it to their customers.

Heavenly. Heavenly. Heavenly.

love

Emma

I'm a Total Prude

Over at The Paris Review Daily, it's James Salter month. Lots of wonderful people are writing about Salter, and why shouldn't they? The man writes the kind of sentences they make my brain want to explode. They've got flavor crystals, you know what I mean? And today they posted an essay by my friend Alexander Chee, who wrote about his time on porno shoots.

This got me thinking.

I am a total prude.

And it's hard to be a prude.  I don't mean that it's hard for me in my daily life (crossing the street), or in my personal life (sleeping with my husband), but when writing fiction, I have Major Prude Anxiety. People love to read about sex! I know this to be true. And yet I find it challenging to write all the way through a scene in which two people (or one person) are naked and thinking sexy thoughts without backing out the way I came, gently closing the door behind me. I can get it started, even take some clothes off and describe some nice foreplay, and then I'm out. Think of it this way: on one end of the spectrum, you have James Salter, and on the other end, five miles down the road, you have me.

One of my friends, the only female butcher at New York City's best butcher shop, greeted me thusly after reading my book of short stories: "You said 'boobs'!" This is a woman who cuts up animals for a living, who forms phallic sausage after phallic sausage, who has blood on her hands all day long. "I didn't know you knew the word 'boobs,'" she seemed to be saying, as though addressing a Mennonite nun. If fiction is one of the ways that we can experience other lives, then surely having a rompingly-good sex scene should be a part of that. I felt that I had let both her and her delicious sausages down.

I reread James Salter's "A Sport and a Pasttime" the same way I reread Norma Klein books as a pre-teen: trying to pace myself and not hurry towards the sexy bits. The book isn't just sexy, it's famously sexy, like "A Last Tango in Paris," or "Jules et Jim," and rightly so. The book tingles with sensuality, and I've starred passages in the margins, underlined entire paragraphs. Of course, Salter writes about the entire world with a lush tongue, not only the breath-taking sexual encounters. He writes about leaves and sidewalks and cafes and silence and somehow all of it begins to hum like a tuning fork. But it is the sex that people always talk about, the sex that makes booksellers raise an eyebrow when they recommend it.

Another friend of mine, a male writer who recently published a story about a girl having sex with a lobster, also remarked on my book's lack of sex. "You keep closing the door!" He admonished me. Which I suppose is true. Can I be the only writer alive who occasionally wants to give my characters some privacy? I don't show them going to the bathroom, either, unless it's to sit on the toilet and cry a little bit. But James Salter never closes the door, not even when one of the characters gets her period or has bad breath. If we are inside the relationship, Salter implies by including these scenes, then by all means, let's be inside it. The novel is brave and reckless, like people in love for the first time, noticing everything around them through the lens of their newly discovered parts. No one ever cares about the other's body odor, or imperfections.

What strikes me the most about Salter's sex scenes is the bravery, the nakedness not only of the character's bodies but of their actions. This goes here, that goes there. He is direct and unsqueamish. Take the word 'prick,' for example: Salter says it and it's just the right word, both playful and aggressive at once. I wonder if James Salter's friends go to him for sexual advice, or whether they're too cowed by his reputation to mention their own meager efforts. Maybe this is what my lesson should be: write the kind of the book that will make a lover have a new idea, that will make a friend blush.  It could start gradually, with a nipple pressing against the fabric of a shirt instead of an angular shoulderblade, or a bare bottom revealed underneath a short skirt. I'm working on it, James, I'm working on it.

Yours,

Emma