Write Here, Write Now

Follow me here.

2009-05-08T08:21:00.001-07:00

www.EuroCheapo.com/blog

In remembrance of September 11th...

2008-09-11T08:17:00.000-07:00

There are two billowy clouds drifting up from the space where the World Trade Center towers used to stand.

This morning, relatives are reading the names of those who perished on September 11, 2001.

I remember that bright, picturesque morning. It was a normal day. I had spent the night at my then fiance's apartment. He left for work early and I sat at the wobbly wooden kitchen table, eating a bowl of soggy cereal. His apartment, in Lower Manhattan, made it easy to hear the first stirrings of trouble. And, then the screams that something was wrong.

Out the window, people had gathered in the middle of Canal Street, snapping photos of the black cloud forming in the skyline.

But, I ignored it. No one wanted to think it was planned. Until I got to work that day, at a cheerful women's magazine on Park Avenue, I didn't understand what had really happened. The towers fell and we all hugged and cried. We rushed frantically to get loved ones on the phone.

My phone rang in my cublicle. My father. His voice, strong and empowered. He was calm, telling me to call my fiance, to make sure I had a place to go. He said, "You'll get through this." He died just 10 months later, a week after I was married to my fiance, living on the Upper Eastside of New York City, still at my job at the magazine.

I've never really written about that day. But, I've told many people that my father got me through it. My fiance walked across the Williamsburg Bridge to a warehouse space where his brother and some friends had gathered in impromptu vigil. Later, he walked all the way back, so he could sleep next to me at my railroad apartment in Chelsea.

I only knew one guy who died that day. He was a 'sort of' friend from high school. You know the type. A nice, well-dressed kid from a good family in my homeroom period whom I rarely spoke to. I knew he had moved to New York, but we never connected here. He died that day. He was probably 25-years-old.

I don't know what that day felt like for those who were directly affected by the attacks. But, I do know about grief. And, time. Loss.

Today I am thankful to be here. I am thankful for my family and friends. And, as I look out my window, across the river, from a perch here in Brooklyn, I remember them all.

The book - almost done!

2008-08-28T13:07:00.000-07:00

I rarely write here anymore. And, I guess that's because I've been writing so much elsewhere.

Other than a story in the very last issue of Playgirl magazine, I'm also still freelancing for other publications.

And, I'm about to finish the book!!

I just returned from a self-imposed month-long writing retreat. I was sequestered in a cabin in the mountains of North Carolina. I wrote and revised nearly every day, give or take one or two afternoons of boating and swimming.

And, now I have a manuscript. It still needs a bit more work and I'll want my nearest and dearest to take first crack at it. But, I'm on schedule to start sending it out to agents and editors this autumn.

I showed up to the work. And, it did (almost always) show up for me.

Thanks for sticking by me.

Self's June issue

2008-05-28T14:49:00.000-07:00

So, I'm not really posting much to this blog anymore. I write almost exclusively for the blog on www.EuroCheapo.com.

All posts are here:

http://www.eurocheapo.com/blog/index.php?author_name=Meredith%20Franco

But, I do have something in Self's June issue. Liv Tyler's on the cover (looking gorgeous), so please check it out.

Check out my most recent blog posts.

2008-04-11T08:29:00.000-07:00

Hey all,

To see my most recent blog posts, please check in here:

www.eurocheapo.com/blog

I write under the name Meredith Franco.

Thanks for stopping by my blog.

A poem and an anniversary

2007-10-02T07:08:00.000-07:00

Many of you know that I haven't written poetry for awhile. Well, one day when my students were penning their own stuff this summer, I used the free time to write this. It's going to be published as part of the University of Michigan's 40th anniversary of the Residential College (where I got my BA in creative writing).

Waiting Room
by Meredith Franco Meyers

In the pale waiting room of
St. Joseph's Mercy Hospital,
My mother reads old copies of
Ladies' Home Journal

At times, she looks up at the wall clock.

I sip a fifty-cent hot cocoa,
finagled from the vending machine
down the hall when someone--
an Alzheimer's patient,
a relative consumed by grief maybe?--
forgot their change.

The air reminds me of the public pool
where mom took us as kids
when the wall thermometer at home
turned red from the heat and
the weather man talked of humidity
in a voice made of bottled sunshine

Mom's coffee cup, stained lipstick red
on one side
Me, hands crossed in my lap
Hot cocoa all gone

My brother, in pale gown,
down the hall
a heartbeat away.

The work continues...

2007-06-11T10:37:00.000-07:00

Since my last post, I graduated from New School's graduate writing program and finished my thesis. Three cheers.

I start a teaching job on June 25th at the Usdan Center on Long Island. It's a performing arts academy/camp. I'll be teaching four creative writing classes per day, to students ages 6-19. Yes, one of my students (if not more) is my brother's age.

In addition, check out SELF's June issue. I have a little piece in the front-of-book, page 37.

More to come...

Final Countdown

2007-04-11T08:04:00.000-07:00

The countdown is on. In 21 days, my thesis is due. It looks like I'll need to hand it in one more time with a set of rewrites before the May 2 deadline. My advisor, Helen Schulman, is reading the current draft now.

Tonight, as an addendum to my critical thesis, I'm meeting the author Kathryn Harrison (The Mother Knot and The Kiss) to discuss her memoirs. I'll be interviewing her in person first and then joining her for a talk at Columbia University. I have so many questions for her! I'm trying to narrow them down now. Note: If you haven't read The Kiss, you must. It's incredible. In fact, send me a note and I'll mail you a copy. I'd love to have friends to discuss it with.

Tomorrow I'm helping put together an anthology of the poetry produced at the workshop I taught this winter at the Brownsville Senior Center (Brooklyn). The anthology will be used to help the Brooklyn Public Library garner more grant money in order to host writing workshops such as the one I ran.

Then, Friday I have a job interview. Yes, there is life after the MFA! It's for a creative writing instructor position at the USDAN Center for Creative and Performing Arts. Check it out. Mariah Carey went there!

Structured Thought

2007-03-16T10:49:00.000-07:00

Structure. Ah, glorious structure. You can't raise a house without first putting the eaves in place. You can't bake a cake without the pan. So, as writers, how do we expect to construct books without ever really knowing where they are headed? Andre Breton would kick me for saying that.

I do not want my memoir to be boring. I do not want it to be self-absorbed. I think, more and more, that the book really is more about my father (Al) than about me, my painful daddy issues or about us as a duo. I do think the father/daughter relationship is central to the book, but not the main story. The main story is that a life was upended, interrupted, snipped at the umbilical cord before it ever had a chance to rewire itself and be fixed. Those of you who know me well know what I mean when I say this in terms of my father.

So, if the book is more about him, what is the structure of the book?

Let's play a game. You pick between #1, #2 and #3.

#1. The overarching structure has to do with Al's writing. His poetry pulls together each chapter or his notes/diary entries create an arc over the entire book. In this way, the novel may not be chronological, but the poetry and Al's work over the years will hold it together. This doesn't mean half the book will be taken up by his work, but that brief snippets will serve as stepping off points.

#2. Our father-daughter relationship serves as the structure for the book. The story is told chronologically, from my earliest, insubstantial memories of visiting him as a 5-year-old girl and continues on until I receive the news that he has died and I have to clean up after him.

#3. The Wild Card. I tell a finite story from August 2003 to about October 2003, the cleaning up of the apartment. Through the cleaning up and the following of me through a consistent present action (Meredith at the morgue, Meredith at the police station, Meredith at the apartment killing off flies), I make discoveries about my father, I reflect on the past (here's where the childhood stories pop up) and I pay tribute to the life he could have lived.

Pick one, or two, and let me know what you think.

I Guess Starbucks Isn't So Bad

2007-03-07T09:19:00.000-08:00

Just as I hit the "SEND" button on my latest post, a dear friend sent me the following: Free Coffee At Starbucks on March 15!

I bet Mary Kate and Ashley ask for seconds!

Starbucks, One Bad Metaphor and Some Annoying Teens

2007-03-07T09:02:00.000-08:00

I spent four hours at a Starbucks yesterday working on the memoir. It felt exhilarating to pick back up where I'd left off. If I learned anything over the past year at New School, it's that I need to import more story arc and linger more with the characters in the memoir. I'm starting to do that and I'm starting to see things take shape.

I'm still stuck on structure, but that will come later. For now, I'm getting the bones out and later, when I revise the manuscript, I'll set them in place and give them a full body from which to breathe. I'm cringing at that metaphor. You can too. It's god awful! Oh the horror!

The National Book Critics Circle Awards are being held tonight at New School. I'll be attending. I'm hopeful that Cormac McCarthy will show up and not send a minion in his place. I'm also psyched to see Daniel Mendelsen and Kiran Desai.

Oh, and by the way, beware of Starbucks come 3 o'clock. It's when all the annoying, loud teenagers descend upon it like leeches. I had to turn the volume up on my iPod and send scathing looks their way. Eventually, they finished eating their Subway sandwiches and left.

Leaving Room

2007-03-05T07:05:00.000-08:00

Today marks the (sort of) two-month countdown to my thesis deadline. Once complete, I will receive my MFA in fiction from The New School.

For the most part, I thought I could handle this very important term, but I have been struggling increasingly with reader feedback. It started in workshop last semester when I got a less than pleasing response about a piece that was dear to my heart.

Now, here I am in the thesis term, thinking I would complete a memoir per the requirement, but I've left that project by the side of the road in favor of a sprawling novel.

Why did I do this? I'm asking myself daily. It was mostly based on one reader's opinion. She felt the memoir lacked "story" and said, "I'm not sure who is going to care about this story other than you." She didn't mean to hurt me. It was a tough love talk and I had told her not to hold my hand. I spent the next two months after that talk crafting something entirely new--all but abandoning my previous memoir project for the more fictionalized account of something that happened to me.

How do you deal with feedback as a writer? What voices do you listen to?

Francine Prose said once that there are many people in the room with you when you write. Agents, publishers, friends, lovers...

And, it's hard to block them out or tell them to shut up.

When you finally do tell them all to leave the room, that's when the good writing happens.

But, it's when you tell yourself to leave the room when the magic occurs.

Inspired Writing

2007-02-16T09:16:00.000-08:00

Where do you do most of your writing? In front of a window? At a desk? On the couch? Curled up in bed?

Writers all have their own preferred method to the madness. I'm thinking a lot about inspiration. Where does it come from? What makes it stick?

Kent Haruf likes to write blind, literally. He pulls a ski cap over his face and works on a typewriter for days on end until he completes a first rough draft. Then, he goes back, without the cap, and makes changes and edits, finally retyping the new version on a computer.

Mary Gordon writes all of her novels longhand, in notebooks and with colorful pens she buys around the world.

John Irving still writes longhand too, waiting until a first draft feels well paced and then using up to six IBM Selectric typewriters to re-craft the tome.

Joyce Carol Oates goes jogging and envisions whole scenes of her novel as she rounds the Central Park reservoir.

Many writers were famously geared up after a good night's sleep.

Mary Shelley was inspired to write Frankenstein after having a dream in which she saw a "student of arts" standing over his unearthly creation.

Robert Louis Stevenson wrote and rewrote Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in ten weeks. His momentum, he has said, came from a single dream. He saw a man (Hyde) standing at a window, as yet unchanged. But, later in the dream, the man takes a powder in front of his "pursuers" and turns into another man entirely.

The plot for Stephen King's Misery arrived in a dream he had on a plane.

J.R. Moehringher posts photos of writers he admires above his desk to keep him afloat.

Walter Mosley says in an essay (Writers on Writing, The New York Times) that getting inspired is a lot like "gathering smoke". It is the smoke that initially gets the fire going, but the hard work and persistence that keep the flames alive.

Tough Love

2007-02-14T10:45:00.000-08:00

It's Valentine's Day and I'm giving myself some tough love.

Time to quit complaining and time to start appreciating. No more - it's too cold outside. I have writer's block. This is too hard. I'm too tired. No more.

No more I can't.
No more I don't want to.

Conversation hearts are always written with active verbs. Hug me. Kiss me. Be mine. No waffling. No ifs or buts. No standing around.

So, let's get on with it, shall we?

I'm dusting the sleet (yes, that is sleet outside in New York City!) off my boots and gettin' a move on it.

First stop? Guerrilla Lit Reading Series II. I'll be reading my work aloud on February 21st.

A EuroCheapo Blog

2007-02-13T14:00:00.000-08:00

This is a photo of my old stomping ground in London.

I've now started blogging about the old neighborhood and am covering UK news for an amazing site. Please visit often.

http://www.eurocheapo.com/blog/

Major Change

2007-02-09T07:28:00.000-08:00

What did you think you would be when you grew up? Does it surprise you to see where you are now, compared to what you thought you'd be as a child? I've just finished watching the British documentary, 49 Up, a film that interviews the same people at age 7, 14, 21, 28, 35, 42 and finally, 49.

Not surprising to most, I always thought I'd end up on the big screen. Ha! Fast forward to freshman year of college at the University of Michigan. A professor assigned a paper on the liberal arts. At two in the morning the night before it was due, I still hadn't started it. I began instead to write a short story.

Years on, I can't locate a copy of the short story and neither can my professor (now a good friend). All I recall is that the story was a farcical take on the university environment. Professor Masterson is in his office on a cold and snowy winter's night. He's being interrogated by a police officer. A student has thrown herself into the "fish bowl" (think the Louvre's inverted pyramid only spherical) at U of M, thus ending her life. In a suicide note, she claims she did it because she couldn't decide on a major.

My teacher asked me to stay after class. I thought I was in trouble. Instead, he congratulated me and said I should consider a writing life. A few weeks later, I changed my major from theater to creative writing.

"A butterfly doesn't live very long, but delights in opening and closing its wings, being beautiful for everyone, enjoying the sunshine. Perhaps there isn't any more to life than that, just being what you are, realizing that life goes on all around you and there are millions of other creatures that have to find their part as well." - paraphrased from 49Up

Go forth and enjoy the sunshine.

Second Guesses

2007-02-08T12:33:00.000-08:00

About six months ago, I spoke with Amy Benson, author of The Sparkling-Eyed Boy. Ms. Benson was the 2003 Bakeless Prize winner for non-fiction. The prize is given annually at the Bread Loaf Writer's Conference. Her memoir of love defies the narrative concepts of chronology and story arc.

Recently, I abandoned my own memoir project because it lacked arc, chronology, yada yada. I set aside about 50 pages of it, "to look at down the road, if I felt like writing essays" and the rest went into the recycle bin. Now, I'm second guessing that decision.

I'm thinking about the writers and books I admire. Amy Benson is certainly on the brain. Frederic Tuten, my teacher once again, comes to mind. They don't write your standard stuff.

What is it that I really want to write, then? I guess (there's that word again), in the end, I want to create something unique, something truthful, and something with meaning.

Ce n'est pas une pipe.

The Id and the Whale

2007-02-07T07:51:00.000-08:00

I'm doing a lot of research on the American Indians of the Southwest. In the second arc of my book, the protagonist visits an Indian reservation in a fictitious town called Spruce, Wyoming. And, well, I can't give away anymore here. You'll just have to read and buy the book someday!

Native Americans believe we are guided by the spirits of our ancestors and by animal totems. When I was younger, I read quite a bit about Native American philosophy and religion. I found that no matter how much I tried to ignore it, I seemed to have lots in common with the spirit of the whale. Our societal interpretation of the whale is big with blessing. She is bloated and beached.

But, in the Native American faith, the whale represents the record keeper. She is haunted at times by the images of the past. She must record each new day, each birth and death, and even the most humdrum of experiences. She glides through the ocean on the waves of history.

The idea is that time never stops for us. But, if we follow the whale, we can leave a mark for future generations.

I've heard people say that writing is a selfish profession, but looked at from the tradition of the whale, how could it be? The record keeper takes any assignment. She's the perfect reporter. She'll sweep up after closing hours. She does not think of fame or fortune. She simply tells the story.

So, with the spirit of the whale at my side (god, she's heavy!), I'm beginning to write today. Trusting. Gliding. Sweeping up.

Back in Session

2007-02-05T09:55:00.000-08:00

Call it writer's block. Call it procrastination. I've been away for a long, long while. Well, now I'm back. Back in the USA, back in my MFA program and back to the novel.

Each day brings a new-if only tiny-revelation about the writing life. There are the constant ups and downs of the profession, the days in which I can't even seem to craft one sentence. There are always the younger-than-me, more of-the-moment authors publishing acclaimed debuts. But, a wise man (my father) once said, "You'll only lose time if you look behind you just to see if you're winning the race."

We know writing is hugely rewarding and fulfilling, yet fraught with disappointment. Impersonal rejection letters pile up in file cabinets. Self doubt doesn't creep in, it does cartwheels. Yet, we trudge on. The work is in us even when we don't know where it may lead.

It takes years to finish a novel, so I'm told by my favorite writing friends and professors, and once it's fully realized, it takes more time to see it in bookstores. So, why bother?

Rereading a James Salter essay yesterday, I came across this gem: "At one time I thought frequently about death. It was when I was barely thirty and said to myself, 'More than a third of your life is gone!' Now, for a different reason, I have started to think about it again...Sometimes I think, when the time comes, what I might want to have with me. I can go without an expensive watch, without money or clothes, without a toothbrush, without having shaved, but can I go without certain books and, more than books, things I have written, not necessarily published?"

Write on.

Hot in the City

2006-07-05T03:15:00.000-07:00

So, I'm finally allowed to make it public knowledge that we are moving back to New York City in four weeks time.

My darling hubby is leaving his job at a major media company in order to pursue his dream of running and owning his own business. Stay tuned. In the meantime, please visit EuroCheapo.com often! This means I'll also be headed back to New School for my MFA in the fall.

In the meantime, it's hot as hell in London and as much as I sit here trying to work on my book and sort through all the stuff that needs to be moved home in the coming weeks, I just want to hold ice cubes to my forehead and watch snow-infused movies (I'm thinking The Shining minus the gore, Fargo or Smilla's Sense of Snow).

How do you stay cool? There are about two weeks every summer since I've lived in a big city when it's miserably hot. My body feels perpetually puffy and I sleep without so much as a sheet over my body. I eat loads of popsicles (or lollies, as they call them here) and make a mental note NEVER to schedule pregnancy so that I will end up near-labor during the summer months. It's when the city feels most dirty, the stink of urine peels off the sidewalk and attaches itself to you. When it's this hot, I love and hate city life. Kids run in sprinklers outside. We all head to the pub, not because it's air conditioned, but because we can all have a cold lager together and reflect on the incessant heat and Italy's amazing victory last night in the World Cup.

Yes, I will miss London, but I really look forward to being back in New York City too. And, August is just about the hottest month in NYC. Once a city girl, always a city girl.

Conversations with the Fat Girl

2006-04-25T01:44:00.000-07:00

I had the privilege to interview the author Liza Palmer yesterday. She just published her first novel, Conversations with the Fat Girl. We met up at a coffee shop in South Kensington and talked about many things - among them how long it takes her to write a book, what advice she would give other budding artists, how she feels about the market.

I can't give away too much since I'm supposed to be writing up her interview for a magazine story to be published in September, but I can say I was awed and inspired by how incredibly encouraging she was of other writers. She lacked that negative competition bug I see in so many of my compatriots. She actually wanted to end our interview so that she could ask me about my own work.

So, please consider picking up her novel at your local bookstore. You'll be supporting a good egg.

You Say Capote. I Say Capote.

2006-04-21T04:17:00.000-07:00

I am once again reading a book for the first time because I've heard way too much 'hype' about it. Am I the quintessential People magazine reader or what? I hope not.

After seeing the film Capote, I asked my husband (who has already read some TC) what he thought of the film's adaptation of the 'In Cold Blood' story. He was impressed. But he was less impressed when I divulged that I'd never actually read ICB. "You of all people..." he seemed to say.

Yes, it's a tome every good journalist-cum-novelist should read. Apparently (so the critics still say), it changed the way we look at the modern novel and memoir.

So, a few weeks ago while strolling through the Portobello Road market, I spotted a copy at a used book stand and bought it for 4 pounds (about 7 bucks). I know, not necessarily a cheap roadside purchase, but that's London for you.

I started the book two nights ago around 9 p.m., read until midnight (at which point I was at page 78) and continued reading yesterday evening until midnight. I am now at page 135 and can't get enough of this book.

When I finish, I'll let you know why.

Vienna to Budapest

2006-04-19T03:15:00.000-07:00

I just returned from a whirlwind tour of Vienna and Budapest. Maybe it was all the kaffee (Viennese coffee with chocolate, liqueur and whipped cream), hazelnut schnitten (wafer cookies) and sachertortes, but today I'm reflective.

Vienna is a beautiful city. There is certainly no denying that. The Hapsburg family really did it up. But, that's just it. It's almost TOO beautiful. I know, barf, right? But, hear me out.

Budapest had the grunge factor I sometimes admire in a place. It feels "lived" in. Maybe it reminded me more of New York. Who knows. Certainly, scaling the small mountain that leads to the old Hungarian Citadel and taking in the view from Budapest Castle at night is not what you'd call low-rate or ugly. But, the streets were more kicked up, the markets more alive with hagglers and gamblers. In Hero's Square, children rode bicycles and skateboarded in an empty manmade lake. On Andrassy Utca, which they call the Champs-Elyssees of Budapest, my husband and I strolled past old, run-down mansions.

And, the people just seemed more passionate. Here's an example. On our last day in Budapest, my husband and I took the underground train service from Hero's Square to the Danube. We purchased tickets from an automated booth. Even though you could press a button to read the directions in English, my husband felt it was more "legit" to order tickets from the machine in Hungarian. So there we stood reading long words with few vowels trying to determine whether we wanted ticket A or B. We chose ticket B.

Five stops later, we alighted from the train much to the delight of a transit worker checking tickets. We held up our tickets for inspection and she promptly took them out of our hands and explained we had purchased cheaper tickets than warranted our longer journey. The only option was to pay a fine of 2,500 Hungarian marks per person.

We asked if we could just pay the difference between the two tickets. You see, we hadn't understood the instructions on the machine.

She said, "It's in English too. You can read it in English."

Oh yeah, but we wanted to be 'legit'.

We had a long, drawn out argument in which the transit worker yelled Hungarian insults at my husband and he yelled back, "What was that?" or "You talking to me?" It was bad, people. Bad. Not one of our finer moments. Then, she scribbled something on a piece of paper and told us we would now have to pay 7,000 Hungarian marks per person.

My husband got red. He demanded to speak to her manager.

The transit worker thus threatened to call "polizia" because we weren't complying. My husband said, "Fine. Call Polizia." She phoned someone on a cell phone. My husband still thinks she was really just calling her grandma to say Happy Easter. Fifteen minutes later and the polizia still hadn't shown up.

"Where's the polizia?" my husband asked, "I don't see any polizia."

"They are coming," she gave him a scowl.

We sat on a bench underground. We waited.

Still no polizia.

My husband whispered, "She's trying to shake me down. I know it. Let's just run for it."

I declined his offer. We waited for about twenty more minutes until the transit worker's boss arrived and in a much more calm way explained the situation. We would need to pay a fine. That was the law. Since we were first offenders, he suggested we could pay just one fine of 2,500. So, we agreed. Better to get out of there and move on. We asked his colleague, our lovely transit worker, to provide us with a receipt. She filled it out for 14,000 Hungarian marks (the 7,000 per person she had so thoughtfully quoted us earlier).

"But, your boss just told us we only had to pay 2,500."

"No, no!" She rolled her eyes. "You pay two fines. One per person."

Another argument ensued. We called over her boss who was busily checking tickets as passengers arrived in the station. He yelled at her in Hungarian at which point she reluctantly crossed out the 14,000 and wrote 2,500. My husband handed her the cash. We ran up the stairs and out of there. As we retreated, she was still yelling at us in Hungarian.

So, this makes me think: should everything be beautiful and perfect? For hours later, we discussed our less-than-perfect transit experience. Until then, all Budapest natives we'd met were sweet, friendly and helpful. Should this taint our experience? No, it made it even more interesting and unique. Or maybe not. A few hours later, we spoke with some other tourists who said getting stopped by transit workers was par for the course. Oh well. We learned our lesson.

From a friend come the words of Alex Chee...

2006-04-10T06:23:00.000-07:00

A friend recently posted a comment here after I wrote about A Million Little Pieces. I feel inclined to republish what he sent. The words of the writer Alex Chee:

"There would seem to be plenty of object lessons in view for those interested in What Happens When You Lie In Nonfiction. And yet the problem continues. A reader of a memoir or a personal essay is typically interested in the struggle of the writer with the personal moral complexities of their situation. Their interest in the writer cannot survive a falsehood. Much more so in the case of journalism.

"I don't know the man, but the way I understand the story is that James Frey was someone who wrote a novel and had no success selling it, and so he called it a memoir and handed it over, and now he is in the place he is in. He admits in the Washington Post's coverage of this to trying to be 'badder' and 'tougher' than he was. Given that he was in rehab, I am in mind of how I have heard repeatedly from every recovered addict I know that addicts usually lie to cover up their self-loathing.

"It looks in one way like a fairly cynical act, to resubmit a rejected novel as a memoir. But there's also a good chance that Mr. Frey wasn't sufficiently real to himself when he resubmitted his book this way, and thus he wasn't in a place to understand that he could have an impact on people's lives: himself, his readers, his publisher and everyone who works for them. This inability to perceive oneself as real and capable of having an impact is referred to as a temporary narcissistic condition, in which someone, faced with a condition they imagine to be permanent, acts out narcissisticly. I see it in my writing students when they imagine that what they write will never be finished or published. If this was the case, then, it turned out he was wrong: it would get published. And there would be consequences.

"When my students in nonfiction ask me what they can invent, the answer I give them is that at best, they can invent the local color, at the edges---if you don't remember what someone was wearing, for example, or what was eaten. But the best nonfiction is written, to my mind, about, to quote Sarah Orne Jewett, 'That which stays a long time in the mind.' You're best off writing about the things you just can't forget, in personal essays. This would include the local color. It is a plain bad idea to invent conversations, much less events, though in both cases, a recollection of their approximate shape is allowable---everyone understands that memory is subjective. This isn't, however, a license to lie. It's also a good idea to remember that most living people reside uncomfortably in prose---they dislike being described and will take issue with it usually, even if the description is complimentary.

"What's interesting about the writing of nonfiction for me is the struggle with what is or what was---the struggle to understand the patterns that are present inside information, events, anecdotes. To lie about it is to engage in a kind of self-loathing that projects outward onto the material, and the chance to reach for any authenticity in what is there is lost, as the writer reaches instead for some mask for the material that they imagine is more interesting, more charming, than what they had. The chance to create an intelligent articulate complexity out of what might otherwise be the random chaos of your existence vanishes.

There's always a student of mine who insists the distinctions between fiction and nonfiction don't matter. I never agree. It's the end of your career and your reputation, for sure, but what's at the heart of that deathblow is the pact between a reader and a writer, a pact that fiction is an invention to fit the shape of a truth the writer guesses at, and that nonfiction is the shape of the truth the writer has found in his or her own presence, through research and memory. It doesn't matter that it's hard to work under these conditions. These are the conditions. Why should it be any different for you?"

Sunday afternoon thoughts...

2006-04-02T07:46:00.000-07:00

Just a few things...

I recently reread the most wonderful book and I wanted to recommend it. If you haven't read The Lover by Marguerite Duras, please consider picking up a copy. I read this mini-novel a long time ago, but sought it out again on a friend's recommendation.

After you've read it, let me know what you think.

Additionally, I cannot recommend Read It Swap It enough. I use this site for book exchanges all the time and love it. I'm sure there's a similar system in place in the U.S. too. I spend little to no money on books and I can swap the ones I don't feel like keeping for books on my wish list.

A Million Typical Reasons

2006-03-22T00:37:00.000-08:00

It's so me to only want to read a book after it has been scoured by the public and written up with giant waves of criticism in the press. Yes, I read James Frey's controversial novel, A Million Little Pieces a few weeks ago.

The thing is, it's a really good book. I couldn't put it down. And, if I ever had any inclination to become a drug addict or alcoholic, I certainly won't consider it now. Random House was right when they called it a "visceral" account. It is. I felt nauseuous, sad, angry, pained, happy, giddy and tense while reading this novel.

At a party a few nights after I finished reading what The Smoking Gun has referred to as "a million little lies", I couldn't help but talk about it. A Brit editor I know commented, "See, that's so American. All a Brit would care about is whether or not it's well written and a good story." He may have a point.

Yes, maybe I too wish Frey had labeled his tome "fiction" when clearly huge sections are fabricated. But, it is well written. Frey looks at language differently. He thrusts words into a new realm in order to facilitate the terrible roller coaster his main character finds himself a slave to.

Is that so wrong? I wonder.

The Right Now World

2006-03-21T04:56:00.000-08:00

A friend recently wrote to me saying, "Sometimes I think that I'm too many years too early or too many years too late." He was speaking in terms of his work and his insecurities about today's readers understanding it or wanting to buy it. He's a writer too. We talk often about our personal demons, triumphs and "what if's".

His latest letter struck an emotional chord. I think whether we're writers or not, many of us just feel like we don't click with this world. The politics don't match up with our ideals. The art and literature of the day isn't what we imagined. We continue to get older and the future we envisioned for ourselves at a younger age appears farther away.

What can we do about this? Why not change the "right now" world? Instead of brooding, why not write what we care about, paint something that could change minds, talk about our beliefs or share passion with the world at hand? Even if you don't have a microphone or a huge publishing house at your fingertips, you can still say something to an important audience.

We live in a world of information. Let's create the information that we crave.

Finally Showing Up

2006-03-20T07:42:00.000-08:00

I wrote my first post for this blog more than five months ago. I did not show up for this blog, but I'm showing up now!

Reasons why I haven't posted in awhile: I've been living in London, enjoying the ability to travel and I've been working on my own writing. I've also been helping the London affiliate of a terrific organization called Dress for Success.

This past weekend I traveled to Amsterdam and visited the Van Gogh Museum. The museum boasts a collection of over 200 paintings and more than 700 letters by Van Gogh (most of them written to his brother Theo and to the painter Paul Gauguin). What struck me more than ever was Van Gogh's very real and deeply felt self doubt over his talent as an artist. He really believed he was producing crap most of the time. And just as he began pushing himself as a painter, using brighter colors and choosing subjects that he cared about--he killed himself.

He truly was The Tortured Artist. Walking past canvases vivid with sunflowers and city landscapes, I couldn't help but think about how often the plight of the artist coincides with a writer's own journey. Often, we think we are total excrement and we abandon our pure, honest talent for things we feel might sell or be more marketable.

While Van Gogh was living in Paris, he began to paint cherry trees because he thought they would sell better than his other work. Alongside a vibrant, well observed depiction of his bedroom and those glorious sunflowers, the trees pale. They don't say anything other than to tell us Van Gogh was looking for immediate gratification--and that he felt the way many of us feel no matter what our profession. We're unsure of ourselves. We don't think we matter. We're not sure we'll make it.

I'm sure I'm not the first person to have these feelings while wandering the Van Gogh Museum, but I was genuinely moved and I think the experience will be with me for quite some time.

Showing Up To The Work

2005-10-05T08:30:00.000-07:00

I am very very afraid.

I have been writing since I was a little girl. I typed slowly on a small word processor in the basement at 345 Woodridge Road, Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. I turned 27 this week and the phrase "Shit or get off the pot" plays in my head constantly. While I may have written since childhood, I still have not published any of my fiction. I better do something about this writing shtick and soon.

So, I started this blog. I have a close friend from the New School MFA program who has used a blog as a sort of kick in the pants over the past year. He writes to create discipline in an otherwise unorganized writing day. He writes to tell his stories or those of his friends. He writes because he can't think of any other way of doing it on a particular day. For that, I respect him.

Last Christmas, I bought a coffee table book about the famous literary community at Elaine's Italian restaurant in New York. In it, proprietor Elaine relates that many times a struggling author would come into her bar, order a glass of wine and complain about writer's block. When asked by one author how he might combat this she replied, "Just write".

Frederic Tuten, a teacher at New School and author of Van Gogh's Bad Cafe and The Green Hour held Roy Lichtenstein in high esteem not only because of his artistic talent, but also because he was a wonderful friend to Tuten. In a Saturday morning class, Tuten told us that Lichtenstein consistently remarked, "Show up for your work and your work will show up for you".

I am showing up for my work now. Pretty please show up for me.