Irene Ziegler's Blog, page 14
January 24, 2011
The Great ASHES TO WATER Florida Library Tour: Dunedin Public Library
Dad woke with a cold this morning, so if you're on the way down from the cold, cold north, could you pick up some zinc lozenges and a pint of whiskey? 'Preciate it.
Yesterday, on The Great ASHES TO WATER Florida Library Tour, I stopped in Dunedin. Dunedin is in Pinellas County. That probably means something only if you live in Pinellas County, but you never know when it might show up in a crossword puzzle. Just this morning, Daytona Beach and Ocala were clue-and-answer in the NYTimes, so...yeah.
At the Dunedin Library, I gave a 1.5 hour workshop on "Writing Diaglogue That Brings Characters to Life.' A good crowd showed up; I have Elizabeth White to thank for that. (THANKS, Liz!)
I asked each participant why he or she was there, and most were aspiring writers. A few had written an e-Book or two, one had published three childrens' books, another had just published what she called a "little" short story.
A "little" short story.
Why do some writers diminish their accomplishments? Is it because the word "writer" should be reserved for the Faulkners or Pattersons of the world, who write "big" or commercially successful works? Maybe some writers fear they will be thought egotistic if they say, "I'm a writer." Maybe they don't believe it themselves.
If you write, you are a writer. If you have published a short story, it is not a small accomplishment or a "little" work. You are allowed to be proud in public. And if someone thinks less of you because you're proud of what you've created, whose problem do you suspect that is? I'm not saying you should be a braggart, or blow your publication out of proportion, but please don't call your work "little." All work is important, and deserves acknowledgment. The short story writer who inspired this lecture says she gets that now, by the way. I'm glad. My work here is done.
In Dunedin, we talked about the functions of dialogue. In case you're interested, they are (among others) to move the story forward, to reveal character and relationships, to involve the reader (through the use of subtext), to change the pace, and to entertain. An hour and a half went by quickly. I like to think a good time was had by all. They didn't chase me to my car with pitchforks and torches, at any rate.
Then I got a lot of questions that had to do with getting an agent. Which tells me that I need to put together a program on "How to Get an Agent." The first thing I will say is, "First, get an editor."
I'd like to give a shout out to my Richmond friend Toni, who asked her in-laws to come to the program. Not only did they come, they bought two books as well! I'm very grateful.
Then I stuffed myself into the Miata and drove north to Tarpon Springs, famous for their sponge docks. The docks aren't made of sponge; the divers harvest sponge and bring them to the docks where they are...oh never mind. I had lunch and coffee with my college roommate Beth who says I am a terrible driver. Our dialogue when something like this:
I don't EVER want to hear you say that I am a terrible driver again, because you almost got me killed back there!
I did not.
You did, too.
Did not.
Did TOO!
Pretty scintillating stuff, eh? That's because I'm a real writer.
And I extend my sincere best wishes to you and your important work.
Yesterday, on The Great ASHES TO WATER Florida Library Tour, I stopped in Dunedin. Dunedin is in Pinellas County. That probably means something only if you live in Pinellas County, but you never know when it might show up in a crossword puzzle. Just this morning, Daytona Beach and Ocala were clue-and-answer in the NYTimes, so...yeah.
At the Dunedin Library, I gave a 1.5 hour workshop on "Writing Diaglogue That Brings Characters to Life.' A good crowd showed up; I have Elizabeth White to thank for that. (THANKS, Liz!)
I asked each participant why he or she was there, and most were aspiring writers. A few had written an e-Book or two, one had published three childrens' books, another had just published what she called a "little" short story.
A "little" short story.
Why do some writers diminish their accomplishments? Is it because the word "writer" should be reserved for the Faulkners or Pattersons of the world, who write "big" or commercially successful works? Maybe some writers fear they will be thought egotistic if they say, "I'm a writer." Maybe they don't believe it themselves.
If you write, you are a writer. If you have published a short story, it is not a small accomplishment or a "little" work. You are allowed to be proud in public. And if someone thinks less of you because you're proud of what you've created, whose problem do you suspect that is? I'm not saying you should be a braggart, or blow your publication out of proportion, but please don't call your work "little." All work is important, and deserves acknowledgment. The short story writer who inspired this lecture says she gets that now, by the way. I'm glad. My work here is done.
In Dunedin, we talked about the functions of dialogue. In case you're interested, they are (among others) to move the story forward, to reveal character and relationships, to involve the reader (through the use of subtext), to change the pace, and to entertain. An hour and a half went by quickly. I like to think a good time was had by all. They didn't chase me to my car with pitchforks and torches, at any rate.
Then I got a lot of questions that had to do with getting an agent. Which tells me that I need to put together a program on "How to Get an Agent." The first thing I will say is, "First, get an editor."
I'd like to give a shout out to my Richmond friend Toni, who asked her in-laws to come to the program. Not only did they come, they bought two books as well! I'm very grateful.
Then I stuffed myself into the Miata and drove north to Tarpon Springs, famous for their sponge docks. The docks aren't made of sponge; the divers harvest sponge and bring them to the docks where they are...oh never mind. I had lunch and coffee with my college roommate Beth who says I am a terrible driver. Our dialogue when something like this:
I don't EVER want to hear you say that I am a terrible driver again, because you almost got me killed back there!
I did not.
You did, too.
Did not.
Did TOO!
Pretty scintillating stuff, eh? That's because I'm a real writer.
And I extend my sincere best wishes to you and your important work.
January 23, 2011
The Great ASHES TO WATER Florida Library Tour: Leesburg
The Great ASHES TO WATER Florida Library Tour is motoring its way though the sunshine state, and I don't know why everyone doesn't move to Florida for the month of January. The weather is so darned sensible. None of this below zero business, no frozen pipes or outerwear that makes you look like the Michelin Tire Man. Why don't you pack the car right now and drive on down? You can stay with my parents. You don't even have to call first. They love surprises.
From January 20 until Feb. 2, I will be driving all over Florida, talking about Florida Fiction to library patrons who have been promised Carl Hiassen, but (surprise!) will get me instead. Who doesn't enjoy a good switcheroo every now and again? I'm pretty sure they'll be pretty happy to buy a book from someone they never heard of, don't you?
My sister loaned me her car, a Miata. It's great if you are under five feet and like the feeling of being sucked along the highway on a skateboard. My sister drives a Porsche, now. It's basically the same car only quieter, and if hit, will crumble like a coffee can instead of a sardine tin. I am very grateful for the loan of the Miata. I would have to rent a car otherwise, and to make up the expense, would have to sell more books than I have wedged in the miniscule trunk. Thank you, Karen.
My first stop on the Great ASHES TO WATER Florida Library Tour (herein GATWFLT) was Leesburg, FL. If you hold up your right hand, palm facing out, Leesburg is at the base of the thumb. Oh wait. That's Michigan. Never mind.
Leesburg is a beautiful town in Lake County, central Florida. There are plenty of reasons you should move there and live out the rest of your days in the shadow of majestic live oaks, but the best one could well be the library. Carol Anderson and her staff obviously love being the heartbeat of the community and are, as far as I'm concerned, hospitality central as well.
When I arrived, Carol escorted me to the TV studio where Tom Wilcox, my library interviewer was waiting. We talked for 30 minutes about Ashes to Water, and the interview will be broadcast next week. Then Carol took me, Tom and Linda to lunch, and when I ordered three dirty martinis they didn't even blink.
Kidding. They blinked a lot.
Kidding. I didn't order martinis. But I think I will next time, just to see what happens.
Then I met Tiffany Roach. Tiffany writes a column for the Lake & Sumter County Style Magazine. I read her article in Healthy Living, about being the mother of 4-year old triplets, and a 2-year old singlet. I would have stabbed myself in the neck with a fork about 3 years ago, but Tiffany is inspiring. We shared some laughs as she interviewed me for the magazine. After, Heather the photographer took me to Venetian Gardens for a picture. It ended up being a lot of pictures, but Heather was having so much fun, I couldn't complain, not even when she asked me to take off my pantyhose because she wanted my bare feet in the picture; not even when she asked me to stand in the marsh water because she wanted me to look like I was wading through the reeds. Hey, you can't interfere with an artist's vision. You go, Heather! Can't wait to see the results.
About 16 library patrons showed up (a GREAT house!) and I talked about my journey as a writer, and how to turn autobiographical material into fiction. Then I answered questions and sold enough books to pay for my airplane ticket, which thrills me to no end. Carol had everyone fill out evaluations forms, and later told me that I got high marks. THANK YOU, LEESBURG!
A friend from my grade school days showed up and flipped me out, mostly because he's aged better than me and that is so incredibly rude. But he bought a book, so I forgive him. Thank you, Jim. I'm honored you drove all that way to say hello.
I have pictures but forgot my uploady thingy, so I'll add them later.
Uploady thingy. Yep, that's what we call it down here. In Florida. Where it's warm.
My parents would love to have you. Seriously.
From January 20 until Feb. 2, I will be driving all over Florida, talking about Florida Fiction to library patrons who have been promised Carl Hiassen, but (surprise!) will get me instead. Who doesn't enjoy a good switcheroo every now and again? I'm pretty sure they'll be pretty happy to buy a book from someone they never heard of, don't you?
My sister loaned me her car, a Miata. It's great if you are under five feet and like the feeling of being sucked along the highway on a skateboard. My sister drives a Porsche, now. It's basically the same car only quieter, and if hit, will crumble like a coffee can instead of a sardine tin. I am very grateful for the loan of the Miata. I would have to rent a car otherwise, and to make up the expense, would have to sell more books than I have wedged in the miniscule trunk. Thank you, Karen.
My first stop on the Great ASHES TO WATER Florida Library Tour (herein GATWFLT) was Leesburg, FL. If you hold up your right hand, palm facing out, Leesburg is at the base of the thumb. Oh wait. That's Michigan. Never mind.
Leesburg is a beautiful town in Lake County, central Florida. There are plenty of reasons you should move there and live out the rest of your days in the shadow of majestic live oaks, but the best one could well be the library. Carol Anderson and her staff obviously love being the heartbeat of the community and are, as far as I'm concerned, hospitality central as well.
When I arrived, Carol escorted me to the TV studio where Tom Wilcox, my library interviewer was waiting. We talked for 30 minutes about Ashes to Water, and the interview will be broadcast next week. Then Carol took me, Tom and Linda to lunch, and when I ordered three dirty martinis they didn't even blink.
Kidding. They blinked a lot.
Kidding. I didn't order martinis. But I think I will next time, just to see what happens.
Then I met Tiffany Roach. Tiffany writes a column for the Lake & Sumter County Style Magazine. I read her article in Healthy Living, about being the mother of 4-year old triplets, and a 2-year old singlet. I would have stabbed myself in the neck with a fork about 3 years ago, but Tiffany is inspiring. We shared some laughs as she interviewed me for the magazine. After, Heather the photographer took me to Venetian Gardens for a picture. It ended up being a lot of pictures, but Heather was having so much fun, I couldn't complain, not even when she asked me to take off my pantyhose because she wanted my bare feet in the picture; not even when she asked me to stand in the marsh water because she wanted me to look like I was wading through the reeds. Hey, you can't interfere with an artist's vision. You go, Heather! Can't wait to see the results.
About 16 library patrons showed up (a GREAT house!) and I talked about my journey as a writer, and how to turn autobiographical material into fiction. Then I answered questions and sold enough books to pay for my airplane ticket, which thrills me to no end. Carol had everyone fill out evaluations forms, and later told me that I got high marks. THANK YOU, LEESBURG!
A friend from my grade school days showed up and flipped me out, mostly because he's aged better than me and that is so incredibly rude. But he bought a book, so I forgive him. Thank you, Jim. I'm honored you drove all that way to say hello.
I have pictures but forgot my uploady thingy, so I'll add them later.
Uploady thingy. Yep, that's what we call it down here. In Florida. Where it's warm.
My parents would love to have you. Seriously.
December 7, 2010
My Dog and My Birthday.
My dog died yesterday. Today is my birthday. I'd like to pretend neither of things happened, but they did. Life ends, and life goes on.
I'm better today than I was yesterday, and tomorrow I'll be better than today. I gotta hand it to Facebook, though. Who wouldn't be cheered by all those wonderful birthday wishes? I've never felt so connected to people I care about. It almost makes me wish every day was my birthday.
But, yeah. My dog. Maya. She was hit on the road. My fault. I couldn't keep her in the yard. Not even the wireless fence was effective. The prongs on the collar have to make contact with skin to work, but her winter coat is so thick the collar was useless. She liked to sleep outside because she was part wolf, and preferred the cold to the house. She liked to run in the woods. When she didn't come to the door yesterday morning for food, I had a bad feeling. I didn't think she wandered as far as the road, but...Still, I shoulda coulda woulda.
My wonderful neighbor buried her for me. Thank you, wonderful neighbor. Thank you, wonderful Facebook friends.
I'm going to spend the night with friends in Montpelier tonight. With Graham away until late December, I thought it might feel better to step away for a bit. Maybe have a glass of wine. Or a piece of cake. It's my birthday.
Tomorrow will be better.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
I'm better today than I was yesterday, and tomorrow I'll be better than today. I gotta hand it to Facebook, though. Who wouldn't be cheered by all those wonderful birthday wishes? I've never felt so connected to people I care about. It almost makes me wish every day was my birthday.
But, yeah. My dog. Maya. She was hit on the road. My fault. I couldn't keep her in the yard. Not even the wireless fence was effective. The prongs on the collar have to make contact with skin to work, but her winter coat is so thick the collar was useless. She liked to sleep outside because she was part wolf, and preferred the cold to the house. She liked to run in the woods. When she didn't come to the door yesterday morning for food, I had a bad feeling. I didn't think she wandered as far as the road, but...Still, I shoulda coulda woulda.
My wonderful neighbor buried her for me. Thank you, wonderful neighbor. Thank you, wonderful Facebook friends.
I'm going to spend the night with friends in Montpelier tonight. With Graham away until late December, I thought it might feel better to step away for a bit. Maybe have a glass of wine. Or a piece of cake. It's my birthday.
Tomorrow will be better.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
December 5, 2010
In Which a Little Girl in Grocery Store Really Hacks Me Off
I keep thinking about this little girl in the grocery store. She really hacked me off. I feel ridiculous now, but at the time, I wanted to squash her like a bug, because that's how she made me feel.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
I know, I know. A grown-up isn't supposed to feel such animosity toward a little kid. But ohhhh, she burned me. What happened was, I paid for my groceries, and as I was walking out of the store, passed a family at another register as their groceries were being bagged—a mom, a dad, and two little girls, one about 8 (the one I wanted to slug), and another girl about 6. I saw lots of candy going into a bag and caught the eight year-old's eye.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
"Wow, is that candy for you? You're a lucky duck—"
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
But before I could even finish, she brays, "I'm not allowed to talk to STRAAAAANGERS!"
This was no simple exchange of information. This was an accusation. I'm very sorry to say, the little rug rat rendered me speechless. I felt, like, THIS big.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "But Irene, it's good her parents and Patch the Pony have instilled "Nay, nay, from stangers stay away." But c'mon. Her parents were RIGHT THERE, fer cryin out loud, and it's not like I was wearing a raincoat and no pants. I was just trying to, well, you know. Make a connection. Share a moment. Bridge the isolation gap with a little back-and-forth. Instead, what do I get? A slap in the face. That will teach me.
Walking to the car, I couldn't shake it off. I felt snubbed, insulted, dissed, not only because I am not a perv—
("I am NOT an ELEPHANT! I am a MAAAAN!)
—but also because I let an eight year-old get the last word. Now, many hours later, it finally comes to me what I should have said. When she said, "I'm not allowed to talk to STRAAAAAANGERS!", what I should have said was—
"Well, you just DID, so I guess no candy for YOU!"
Little twerp. I hope she gets lots of cavities and her teeth fall out.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
I know, I know. A grown-up isn't supposed to feel such animosity toward a little kid. But ohhhh, she burned me. What happened was, I paid for my groceries, and as I was walking out of the store, passed a family at another register as their groceries were being bagged—a mom, a dad, and two little girls, one about 8 (the one I wanted to slug), and another girl about 6. I saw lots of candy going into a bag and caught the eight year-old's eye.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
"Wow, is that candy for you? You're a lucky duck—"
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
But before I could even finish, she brays, "I'm not allowed to talk to STRAAAAANGERS!"
This was no simple exchange of information. This was an accusation. I'm very sorry to say, the little rug rat rendered me speechless. I felt, like, THIS big.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "But Irene, it's good her parents and Patch the Pony have instilled "Nay, nay, from stangers stay away." But c'mon. Her parents were RIGHT THERE, fer cryin out loud, and it's not like I was wearing a raincoat and no pants. I was just trying to, well, you know. Make a connection. Share a moment. Bridge the isolation gap with a little back-and-forth. Instead, what do I get? A slap in the face. That will teach me.
Walking to the car, I couldn't shake it off. I felt snubbed, insulted, dissed, not only because I am not a perv—
("I am NOT an ELEPHANT! I am a MAAAAN!)
—but also because I let an eight year-old get the last word. Now, many hours later, it finally comes to me what I should have said. When she said, "I'm not allowed to talk to STRAAAAAANGERS!", what I should have said was—
"Well, you just DID, so I guess no candy for YOU!"
Little twerp. I hope she gets lots of cavities and her teeth fall out.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
November 15, 2010
Dancing on the Widow Walk
On Saturday, The Mister left for six weeks. He's one of four crewing aboard a sailboat racing from the Canary Islands (off the coast of Morocco) to St. Lucia in the Caribbean. Others aboard Summer Song include Sam, the captain, Sam's wife, Alex (first mate, appropriately enough), Graham's nephew, Will, (aka Galley Slave and G) and my husband, Graham, who for some reason, will answer to the name of Powder Monkey.At 59, Graham is the oldest by a good 25 years, and the least experienced, although he has spent many an hour on the Chesapeake Bay aboard his own Hunter 34, and is no stranger to a 79 know squall. But the ARC race isn't on the Chespeake Bay. It's on the Atlantic Ocean. The deep part. Blue water.
There be Dragons here.
I body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {heiget asked how I feel about this. I feel great! Those of you with a bucket list know the joy of realizing a lifelong pipe dream. By the way, what's a pipe dream and why is it called that? Anyway, yes, the trip is dangerous. (What isn't?) It will require endurance and courage. But I would no more interfere with his plan than he would object to me performing in a play Off-Broadway (which is a long held pipe dream of my own). As you might expect, they have safety and communication equipment out the ying yang so I expect to hear from him every few days, when he's not, say, climbing a mast with a knife in his teeth, or delivering gun powder to others defending the vessel from dragons.
239 boats from 26 countries will race. Summer Song, a Sandler 34, is the smallest. Graham says smaller boats go slower, so he doesn't expect to win the race. That's probably not the point, anyway. For me, it would be, but for Graham, it's all about the experience. If you'd like to follow along as Summer Song races toward the Caribbean, the captain's blog is an excellent way to do it. Sam and Alex have been at sea for several weeks already, and arrived in the islands a week early. They made good time coming down the coasts of France and Spain. Graham arrived last night (he called) and will spend the next few days taking some brush-up courses, learning things that would scare the bejesus out of me. But Graham is fond of saying, "The difference between an adventure and an ordeal is attitude."
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16pHow do I feel?
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px
Not envious. Where attitude is concerned, I fall under the ordeal category. But I'm very happy for Graham, who gets to be inside something that will bind him to the others on board forever, and not incidentally, make him a better sailor.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
How do I feel?
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
Excited. Anxious. Proud. I'll get lonely, sure, but I have a list of my own, and when he comes back, I'll roast a beast in his honor. In the meantime, I dance on the widow walk and play my pipe of dreams to the wind that fills his sails.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
November 10, 2010
How to Get Your Free Copy of RULES OF THE LAKE
RULES OF THE LAKE is the prequel to ASHES TO WATER. For a free copy, here's all you have to do:
1. Google the name of your public library. Find the "contact us" link, or the "Ask a Librarian" link, and request they acquire Ashes to Water. Ask them to contact you when it comes in.
2. When the book comes in, check it out, read it, and write a short review.
3. Post your review online, either Goodreads, Amazon, B&N, or your blog.
4. Send me the URL of your review and your address.
And in return,
5. I will send you a free copy of Rules of the Lake, even if the review was negative. I hereby promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. If you are a book blogger, I will publicize your review on this site, FaceBook, and Twitter, with a link to your website.
You win, I win, and libraries win! You don't have to buy anything, or do anything except request the acquisition.
You have questions, don't you? I knew it, because I have STP, and can read your mind. You're thinking:
But, Irene. What if I ask my library to acquire Ashes to Water and they say no?Obviously, you weren't convincing enough. I suggest you put a quiver in your voice as you whisper, "It's for my Aunt Louise who doesn't have much longer to live." If that doesn't work, try yelling.
But, Irene. Can't I just borrow ASHES TO WATER from someone else?Sure. And from you, I'll just borrow the book I was going to send you for free, and we're square.
But, Irene. I don't have a library card.I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.
But, Irene. I don't want to post my review online.Oh, okay. Then I'll send you a book, but I won't put any postage on it.
But, Irene. I don't want a free copy of Rules of the Lake. I want a free copy of Ashes to Water.What do I look like, a bookstore?
But, Irene. You're using me.And you're using me. Feels good, doesn't it?
Are you in?
@font-face { font-family: "Calibri";}@font-face { font-family: "Cambria";}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }
1. Google the name of your public library. Find the "contact us" link, or the "Ask a Librarian" link, and request they acquire Ashes to Water. Ask them to contact you when it comes in.
2. When the book comes in, check it out, read it, and write a short review.
3. Post your review online, either Goodreads, Amazon, B&N, or your blog.
4. Send me the URL of your review and your address.
And in return,
5. I will send you a free copy of Rules of the Lake, even if the review was negative. I hereby promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. If you are a book blogger, I will publicize your review on this site, FaceBook, and Twitter, with a link to your website.
You win, I win, and libraries win! You don't have to buy anything, or do anything except request the acquisition.
You have questions, don't you? I knew it, because I have STP, and can read your mind. You're thinking:
But, Irene. What if I ask my library to acquire Ashes to Water and they say no?Obviously, you weren't convincing enough. I suggest you put a quiver in your voice as you whisper, "It's for my Aunt Louise who doesn't have much longer to live." If that doesn't work, try yelling.
But, Irene. Can't I just borrow ASHES TO WATER from someone else?Sure. And from you, I'll just borrow the book I was going to send you for free, and we're square.
But, Irene. I don't have a library card.I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.
But, Irene. I don't want to post my review online.Oh, okay. Then I'll send you a book, but I won't put any postage on it.
But, Irene. I don't want a free copy of Rules of the Lake. I want a free copy of Ashes to Water.What do I look like, a bookstore?
But, Irene. You're using me.And you're using me. Feels good, doesn't it?
Are you in?
@font-face { font-family: "Calibri";}@font-face { font-family: "Cambria";}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }
Dear BookBloggers,
To thoseof you who have reviewed Ashes to Water, thank you so much for your time andfor posting your thoughtful comments on your blog sites. You guys ROCK. Withoutyou, unknown writers like me would have no hope of finding a readership. Youare doing a very good thing. Keep it up.
To thoseof you who have not reviewed Ashes of Water, I hope you will consider it. A fewof you have contacted me with requests for a free book. "Please send me yourbook," you said, "and I will review it for you." I would LOVE to do that. AndIf I had books to send, I would, but I have to buy my books and cannot affordto send you one for free. And it's a shame, because I need reviews.
You see,Ashes to Water was not reviewed by Publisher'sWeekly, Booklist, The Library Journal or Kirkus. I'm not going to go into why my book was not reviewed by Publisher's Weekly, Booklist, The LibraryJournal or Kirkus because that would fall into the category of PublisherRage, and once that bottle gets uncorked, there's no re-stuffing that badgenie. Besides, my SocialMedia coach says I'm not allowed to spew venom whileblogging; something about it being damaging to my online relationships, not tomention the fact that it ages me in dog years. I've been damaging relationshipsall my life, but the premature aging thing? That got my attention.
So back to you, dear book bloggers. Listen, I have thisidea. It involves libraries, you, and free books. The best part? Everyone getswhat they want.
First,the library: There are 122,101 libraries in the USA. Visualize it. That's a lot of libraries. Now, according to Worldcat.org, onlytwenty-eight of them have acquired Ashesto Water. You are correct in thinking that is not a lot. And honestly, I think I can do better.
So, that's where you come in. If you are willing to do the following, I will send you,free of charge, the prequel to Ashes toWater. It's called Rules of the Lake,and it introduces the character of Annie Bartlett. You can check out thereviews on this website.
Here's all you do to get your free book:
1. Google the name of your public library. Find the "contact us" link, or the "Ask a Librarian" link,and request they acquire Ashes to Waterby yours truly. Ask them to contact you when it comes in.
2. When the book comes in, check it out, read it, and review it.3. Post your review on your blog, on Goodreads (or its equivalent) and oneother online book site.4. Send me the URLs of the reivews, and your address.
And inreturn, 5. I will publicize your reviews on this site, on FaceBook and Twitter, with alink to your website.
6. And Iwill send you a free copy of Rules of theLake, even if the review was negative. I hereby promise. Cross my heart,hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.
What doyou think? You win, I win, and libraries win! You don't have to buy anything, ordo anything different than what you do already. Plus, you get a free book toreview or give away as you see fit.
Please leave a comment below and tell me what you think of this offer. I'llmonitor the library acquisition number weekly, and as it climbs, and keep youinformed of our progress. I think it will be a lot of fun! And if it's a greatsuccess, I'll give you all the credit. If it's a big flop, I'll take the blameand go back to blaming my publisher for all my problems.
No, I won't.
I love mypublisher.
But Ilove book bloggers more.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
November 8, 2010
My Friend, M.
I've been thinking about my friend, M. She's a one-time best-selling novelist, just turned 72. She's alone, not in good health, and doesn't have enough money saved to keep the cat fed. Her tiny house, worth little in this economy, has a bad roof. She has one friend whom she counts on in emergencies. She has a sister, but they don't speak.
M's last novel, a feel good story about resilient southern women, was released to small fanfare about seven years ago. Since then, she has been battling alcoholism, a poorly functioning respiratory system, and is becoming increasingly isolated. She was teaching at a local community college for awhile, but I get the impression she was not popular. Nor is she beloved by the locals. She talks about moving sometimes, but doesn't have anywhere to go. It seems she has burned every bridge she built.
She called me a couple weeks ago. She sounded pretty good, but whenever I asked about her health or circumstances, she made some macabre joke, then asked me how my book was selling. Her best selling novel came out in 1993. The Book of the Month Club picked it up, and that lifted sales of her previous books, which were also decent. Subsequent books have sold in the fair-to-middling range. When I told her Ashes to Water was not reviewed by anyone who mattered and was, therefore, dead in the water, she took proper umbrage and cursed the fates on my behalf. We shared complaints about the publishing industry and spat a few tacks. Then she told me she quit drinking.
I was heartened. The last time M visited, she came to see me perform the role of Sr. Aloysius in Doubt, a play she greatly admired. M had been an actress, and still gets residual checks for her role in the movie, My Fair Lady. She's one of the maids in the chorus. (She said she got the gig because she knew the musical had been based on Pygmalion.) When I watch the movie, I see in her young, heart-shaped face the funny, whip-smart woman I wish I'd known way back when. The night she came to see me in Doubt was a disaster. Falling-down drunk before she even got inside the theater, she was removed eight minutes into act one, which I witnessed from the stage. What followed was a series of events I won't go into here, but parking lots and policemen were involved. She didn't remember anything the next day. She was upset with herself, but even more upset about having missed the play.
I talked with M again the other day, and she told me she was still sober, and had found a therapist she liked. (She never likes her therapists.) She said she was going to write another book because she needed money. "I don't know if I can do it," she said. She was afraid she'd lost her momentum, the habit, not to mention the necessary braincells. I thought it was very brave of her. Here she is, attempting to put the brakes on a serious downward slide by writing a book! (The only thing scarier would be turning to acting.) Even if she completes this book, there is no guarantee it will be published. I don't know if her agent still represents her, or if her readers are still out there. But you have to love that she's clear-headed and driven, albeit not so much by the need to create, but by the need to eat.
My husband is a roofing contractor, so I know where I can get some left-over shingles. In January, maybe I can get G to drive down there with me, and get her roof squared away. She's going to need a clean, well lighted place in which to write. She's going to need encouragement.
She's going to need me.
M's last novel, a feel good story about resilient southern women, was released to small fanfare about seven years ago. Since then, she has been battling alcoholism, a poorly functioning respiratory system, and is becoming increasingly isolated. She was teaching at a local community college for awhile, but I get the impression she was not popular. Nor is she beloved by the locals. She talks about moving sometimes, but doesn't have anywhere to go. It seems she has burned every bridge she built.
She called me a couple weeks ago. She sounded pretty good, but whenever I asked about her health or circumstances, she made some macabre joke, then asked me how my book was selling. Her best selling novel came out in 1993. The Book of the Month Club picked it up, and that lifted sales of her previous books, which were also decent. Subsequent books have sold in the fair-to-middling range. When I told her Ashes to Water was not reviewed by anyone who mattered and was, therefore, dead in the water, she took proper umbrage and cursed the fates on my behalf. We shared complaints about the publishing industry and spat a few tacks. Then she told me she quit drinking.
I was heartened. The last time M visited, she came to see me perform the role of Sr. Aloysius in Doubt, a play she greatly admired. M had been an actress, and still gets residual checks for her role in the movie, My Fair Lady. She's one of the maids in the chorus. (She said she got the gig because she knew the musical had been based on Pygmalion.) When I watch the movie, I see in her young, heart-shaped face the funny, whip-smart woman I wish I'd known way back when. The night she came to see me in Doubt was a disaster. Falling-down drunk before she even got inside the theater, she was removed eight minutes into act one, which I witnessed from the stage. What followed was a series of events I won't go into here, but parking lots and policemen were involved. She didn't remember anything the next day. She was upset with herself, but even more upset about having missed the play.
I talked with M again the other day, and she told me she was still sober, and had found a therapist she liked. (She never likes her therapists.) She said she was going to write another book because she needed money. "I don't know if I can do it," she said. She was afraid she'd lost her momentum, the habit, not to mention the necessary braincells. I thought it was very brave of her. Here she is, attempting to put the brakes on a serious downward slide by writing a book! (The only thing scarier would be turning to acting.) Even if she completes this book, there is no guarantee it will be published. I don't know if her agent still represents her, or if her readers are still out there. But you have to love that she's clear-headed and driven, albeit not so much by the need to create, but by the need to eat.
My husband is a roofing contractor, so I know where I can get some left-over shingles. In January, maybe I can get G to drive down there with me, and get her roof squared away. She's going to need a clean, well lighted place in which to write. She's going to need encouragement.
She's going to need me.
November 3, 2010
In Which Chilean Wine Makes Me Sneeze
Two nights ago, I was drinking a lovely glass of Chilean Carmera (from the Colchagua Valley, in case you happen to have your world atlas opened to page 108) and started sneezing like a ridiculous person, a rapid series of high-pitched snicks. I thought I was getting sick, oh la.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
And last night, I'm cozied up with The Mister and a recorded episode of Masterpiece Mystery (okay, it was Project Runway, and okay, it was the dog), savoring a glass of Chilean Penalolen, and again with the sneezing. I was all "What's with the sneezing?"I've concluded that I'm allergic to Chilean wine. Kill me now.
The Mister went to Chili a couple years ago and fell in love with the fruits of their vine, hence our small cache. I looked closely at the label: "In the mouth, the structure of the velvety tannins is overwhelmed by a voluptuous texture, offering a precise architecture and a long, bright finish where the fruit pairs with spicy chocolate and tobacco."
Spicy chocolate and tobacco! No wonder I'm sneezing! I can't think of a more unappetizing pairing since Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt.
My father is probably having the last laugh right now. My sisters and I like to make fun of the plonk he brings along when visiting. From the Winn Dixie, it comes in a bottle resembling a clay jug with a convenient screw-off cap. Dad savors a single glass of plonk at 5:00 each evening while sitting on the porch. A closer look at the label reveals its constitution:"In the mouth, the ethyl-laced fumes compete with the sandpaper texture for dominance, suggesting an unsupervised fermentation, possibly by a person named Jasper, who undoubtedly dropped his spicy chocolate cigarette into the vat."
I can hear him now. "At least my wine doesn't make me sneeze like a ridiculous person."
Good point. But it probably does explain why he doesn't have any hair.
October 27, 2010
In Which Kristin Hersh Calls Our Book Club and is Dark and Blue and Sweet
I'd never heard of Kristin Hersh, or her art rock band,Throwing Muses, which she formed at age 14. I know, I know, I'm about as hip as a walker. My Book and Cake Club picked her memoir, Rat Girl as our October read. (BTW, if you don't belong to a book club where everyone brings cake, you're in the wrong book club.) Hersh's email address is printed in the back of her book, so Noah Scalin emailed and asked her if she'd like to "attend." Noah has been a fan for a long time; he saw her band play at a club in Richmond when he was too young to be there. I imagine that struck a chord (no pun intended) with Kristin, who for six years was too young herself to be in the clubs she played. She answered Noah right away and said sure. We met on Oct. 24, and Kristin Hersh participated via speakerphone. I love people who love to laugh, and Kristin loves to laugh. Notoriously shy, she commented on her recent experiences at "literary events," where people often ask her very personal questions. "I go with it," she said, but as she says in the introduction, "I'm not interested in self-expression—I don't want people to listen to my songs so that they'll care about me." And I don't think she wrote this book so people would care about her, either. Rather, she has shared with bone white honesty what is was like to be 18, freakishly talented and walking a line between sanity and stability, adventure and responsibility, ambition and integrity, music and motherhood.
Initially approached by a ghost writer who apparently felt comfortable enough to suggest that he "move in" as part of his research, Kristin stopped returning his calls and decided to write her story herself, using her 1985 diary as the starting point. "I kept a diary because someone told me I should," she said. "It was like homework to me." The book includes passages from her diary as well song lyrics which inform the memoir, and offer glimpses into her creative process.
What surprised me about his memoir is how "sweet" it is. "I wanted it to be sweet," Kristin said. Indeed, "dark and blue and sweet" is a recurring theme, and listening to her talk about Betty Hutton, with whom she had a remarkable college friendship in the mid-80s, her voice takes on those colors. "I feel a little guilty about Betty," she says of the years they were not in touch. (For those of you who don't know, Hutton was a Hollywood star who hit her stride in the 60s, playing Annie Oakley in the MGM movie. Hutton was in her 60s when she attended Kristin's gigs, and gave advice on connecting with an audience.) Hersh paints other characters with equally heartfelt strokes: her parents, whom we might expect to be neglectful or oblivious are instead loving and sweet. Her therapist (Dr. SevenSyllables), whom we might expect to be detached or cluelessly cerebral, is instead empathetic and hip. He "gets" her, and perhaps more importantly, guides her through a pregnancy without drugs. Hersh describes no petty behavior among her band members, although I'm sure there must have been some. These things don't interest Kristin, even as they were undoubtedly of interest to her editor at Penguin.
"She wrote in the margins, EXPLAIN! in big red letters. But I didn't want to write about the boring stuff. I wanted to write about the stuff that interested me." For four years, she wrote from 2:00 am until dawn (insomnia seemed another creative stimulant), then rewrote, erased it all, and rewrote again. "I hate it when people ask me 'what are you working on next?' It took me four years to write this one!"
Following a car crash which left her crumpled on the side of a road, Hersh developed a condition that sounds like synesthesia. As she described it: "I would hear ambient noise as music which sounded like me playing next door." Imagine the everyday background noise in your life arranging itself into the building blocks of songs, sometimes wild or twisted up, other times electrified and flitchy. And that's her music: surprising, haunting, sometimes loud, always compelling.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
She also suffers from bi-polar disorder. It's onset, at 18, helped bring about a sort of "Art as Danger" lifestyle, in which Hersh found herself homeless, self-destructive and so creatively alive she almost combusted. Add to this mix an unplanned pregnancy, and you might expect a boiling cauldron of sadness and regret. But this memoir doesn't go where you think it will, doesn't ask what you expect it to answer. Neither depressing or triumphant, it is a glimpse into one woman's creative process by way of the most remarkable year in her life (arguably) as recorded in her diary and music. The memoir doesn't try to make a statement; Hersh sees only concerned with making music. And she puts her money where her mouth is: she found the nonprofit Coalition of Artists and Stakeholders (www.cash-music.com) in which she records and releases music without the aid of a record company. She is entirely listener-funded and makes her music available, free of charge and free to be shared, via CreativeCommons.org.You can download acoustic songs that complement her memoir at www.kristinhersh.com/seasonsessions.
The book is impressionistic. Hersh leaves out as much as she includes, which fascinated me. She never tells us who the father of her child is, for instance (indeed she makes little reference to having sex at all), and I felt that the question was beside the point. But we wanted to ask, more out of a sense of connection than curiosity. But we didn't ask, and she didn't offer. Rat Girl is not about romance, after all. It is about passion. "Passion for sound, reptiles, old ladies, guitars, a car, water, weather, friends, colors, chords, children, a band, fish, light and shadow."
Passion that is dark and blue and sweet.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
In Which Kristen Hersh Calls Our Book Club and is Dark and Blue and Sweet
I'd never heard of Kristin Hersh, or her art rock band,Throwing Muses, which she formed at age 14. I know, I know, I'm about as hip as a walker. My Book and Cake Club picked her memoir, Rat Girl as our October read. (BTW, if you don't belong to a book club where everyone brings cake, you're in the wrong book club.) Hersh's email address is printed in the back of her book, so Noah Scalin emailed and asked her if she'd like to "attend." Noah has been a fan for a long time; he saw her band play at a club in Richmond when he was too young to be there. I imagine that struck a chord (no pun intended) with Kristin, who for six years was too young herself to be in the clubs she played. She answered Noah right away and said sure. We met on Oct. 24, and Kristin Hersh participated via speakerphone. I love people who love to laugh, and Kristin loves to laugh. Notoriously shy, she commented on her recent experiences at "literary events," where people often ask her very personal questions. "I go with it," she said, but as she says in the introduction, "I'm not interested in self-expression—I don't want people to listen to my songs so that they'll care about me." And I don't think she wrote this book so people would care about her, either. Rather, she has shared with bone white honesty what is was like to be 18, freakishly talented and walking a line between sanity and stability, adventure and responsibility, ambition and integrity, music and motherhood.
Initially approached by a ghost writer who apparently felt comfortable enough to suggest that he "move in" as part of his research, Kristin stopped returning his calls and decided to write her story herself, using her 1985 diary as the starting point. "I kept a diary because someone told me I should," she said. "It was like homework to me." The book includes passages from her diary as well song lyrics which inform the memoir, and offer glimpses into her creative process.
What surprised me about his memoir is how "sweet" it is. "I wanted it to be sweet," Kristin said. Indeed, "dark and blue and sweet" is a recurring theme, and listening to her talk about Betty Hutton, with whom she had a remarkable college friendship in the mid-80s, her voice takes on those colors. "I feel a little guilty about Betty," she says of the years they were not in touch. (For those of you who don't know, Hutton was a Hollywood star who hit her stride in the 60s, playing Annie Oakley in the MGM movie. Hutton was in her 60s when she attended Kristin's gigs, and gave advice on connecting with an audience.) Hersh paints other characters with equally heartfelt strokes: her parents, whom we might expect to be neglectful or oblivious are instead loving and sweet. Her therapist (Dr. SevenSyllables), whom we might expect to be detached or cluelessly cerebral, is instead empathetic and hip. He "gets" her, and perhaps more importantly, guides her through a pregnancy without drugs. Hersh describes no petty behavior among her band members, although I'm sure there must have been some. These things don't interest Kristin, even as they were undoubtedly of interest to her editor at Penguin.
"She wrote in the margins, EXPLAIN! in big red letters. But I didn't want to write about the boring stuff. I wanted to write about the stuff that interested me." For four years, she wrote from 2:00 am until dawn (insomnia seemed another creative stimulant), then rewrote, erased it all, and rewrote again. "I hate it when people ask me 'what are you working on next?' It took me four years to write this one!"
Following a car crash which left her crumpled on the side of a road, Hersh developed a condition that sounds like synesthesia. As she described it: "I would hear ambient noise as music which sounded like me playing next door." Imagine the everyday background noise in your life arranging itself into the building blocks of songs, sometimes wild or twisted up, other times electrified and flitchy. And that's her music: surprising, haunting, sometimes loud, always compelling.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
She also suffers from bi-polar disorder. It's onset, at 18, helped bring about a sort of "Art as Danger" lifestyle, in which Hersh found herself homeless, self-destructive and so creatively alive she almost combusted. Add to this mix an unplanned pregnancy, and you might expect a boiling cauldron of sadness and regret. But this memoir doesn't go where you think it will, doesn't ask what you expect it to answer. Neither depressing or triumphant, it is a glimpse into one woman's creative process by way of the most remarkable year in her life (arguably) as recorded in her diary and music. The memoir doesn't try to make a statement; Hersh sees only concerned with making music. And she puts her money where her mouth is: she found the nonprofit Coalition of Artists and Stakeholders (www.cash-music.com) in which she records and releases music without the aid of a record company. She is entirely listener-funded and makes her music available, free of charge and free to be shared, via CreativeCommons.org.You can download acoustic songs that complement her memoir at www.kristinhersh.com/seasonsessions.
The book is impressionistic. Hersh leaves out as much as she includes, which fascinated me. She never tells us who the father of her child is, for instance (indeed she makes little reference to having sex at all), and I felt that the question was beside the point. But we wanted to ask, more out of a sense of connection than curiosity. But we didn't ask, and she didn't offer. Rat Girl is not about romance, after all. It is about passion. "Passion for sound, reptiles, old ladies, guitars, a car, water, weather, friends, colors, chords, children, a band, fish, light and shadow."
Passion that is dark and blue and sweet.
body {font-family:helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:12px;}a.stbar.chicklet img {border:0;height:16px;width:16px;margin-right:3px;vertical-align:middle;}a.stbar.chicklet {height:16px;line-height:16px;}
