tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6593800364019679502024-02-07T23:11:48.670-05:00D.H. Sayer's BlogD.H. Sayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08740559288528910497noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659380036401967950.post-45295630101708081042019-08-22T11:39:00.000-04:002022-12-26T08:41:54.122-05:00Top Ten Taylor Swift Songs (2019 Update)<br />
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On the eve of a new Taylor Swift album, I thought I would
make an updated list of my top ten Taylor songs. <a href="http://dhsayer.blogspot.com/2012/02/top-10-taylor-swift-songs.html" target="_blank">My last list</a> was made right
before <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Red</i>, which turned out to be
her best album, so it was a list that desperately needed updating. It’s crazy
to think how long I’ve been listening to Taylor . . . it was twelve years ago
and she’s been a part of my daily rotation ever since. I remember going to
Borders early in the morning to buy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fearless</i>
on release day. Counting down the minutes to midnight to buy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Red</i> on iTunes. Watching the DVD of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Speak Now</i> tour on Christmas day. It
seems like just the other day she made a song about being 15 and now she’s about
to turn 30. As long as she’s creating new music, I know I’m in. I have little
doubt she’ll continue to make music I find valuable, as evidenced by this list,
which contains songs from every era of her career. Here’s to another twelve
years and more, Taylor. And now the list:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>10. Today Was a Fairytale</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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As far as I’m concerned, this is the apotheosis of her
“storybook love” phase, even more than “Love Story,” which is a little too
fanciful to hit home. This is a more down-to-earth version of that youthful
sentiment, and we real fans will always chose down-to-earth Taylor over her
other personas.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>9. Holy Ground</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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The closest she got to something resembling the “indie band”
music she playfully derided in the lead single off <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Red</i>, showing off her ability to make different kinds of music in
her inimitably listenable style. (See also “I’m Only Me When I’m With You”)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>8. Delicate</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought this song was the best thing on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reputation</i> after one or two listens of the
album and I was so glad it turned into a massive hit. The song is (dare I say) really
delicate, a highwire act in terms of both Taylor’s voice (which is at her most
ethereal) and having the beats coming in at just the right time and intensity,
so as not to disrupt the fragile mood she sets at the beginning of the song.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>7. Shake It Off</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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The best lead single of any Taylor album by far. Instantly
infectious, it will continue to shake butts for decades to come.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>6. Last Kiss</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Still a masterclass in pop lyricism. “How you kissed me
when I was in the middle of saying something, there’s not a day I don’t miss
those rude interruptions”; “All that I know is I don’t know how to be something
you miss”<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">—she
wouldn’t top these lines until the number one song on this list.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b>5. Enchanted</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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If she has a “November Rain,” this is it. A nearly 6-minute
ode to that love-at-first-sight yearning, it features a stylistically shifting interlude
75% in that just amps up the emotion to another level. Grand and sweeping,
hopelessly romantic, a classic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>4. State of Grace</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Taylor lyrics cascading over a big arena rock sound is
something to behold. One of the best album openers of all time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>3. Our Song</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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The original. I’ll always have a fondness for this song, the
song that made me fall in love with her music, the song I listened to over and
over, my pop song “Infinite Jest.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>2. Begin Again</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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A perfectly written song. A perfect blend of story and
emotion. Every beat is delivered at just the right time in just the right way.
Deceptively simple, but powerful and hopeful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>1. All Too Well<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Her songwriting masterpiece. She takes you through a
relationship from beginning to end, using the most exquisite lines she’s ever
come up with. “You call me up again just to break me like a promise, so
casually cruel in the name of being honest.” Jaw-droppingly good. The song
feels big, important. It crescendos in a way that soars, delivering you to that
blissful place that all great songs take you. It’s amazing art, there’s no
other way to put it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />D.H. Sayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08740559288528910497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659380036401967950.post-90142895632462088012013-10-17T09:01:00.002-04:002023-12-10T07:30:04.882-05:00The Problem With How Movies Are Released And Its Relation To Why Movie Criticism Sucks These Days<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The New York Film Festival wrapped up
this past weekend, and it made me realize that the current model of film
distribution/presentation is at best antiquated and at worst totally stupid.<br />
<br />
Festivals like NYFF play a lot of so-called "art-house films" (an
anachronym if I've ever heard one; when's the last time you went to an
"art house"?) and the way these get released to the public hasn't
changed in decades: Play the festival circuit, then open in 4 theaters in
NYC/LA, then maybe open in a few multiplexes, then a few more if the numbers
are going in the right direction. Needless to say, unless the film is a hit,
most people in the country have to wait until the video release to see these
movies, which could happen a year or more after that initial festival screening.<br />
<br />
This is dumb.<br />
<br />
There are plenty of movies I'd like to see that were at NYFF, but I'll have to
wait months for them to be available. Why are movies like this? With what other
artistic medium are we prevented from experiencing the finished product for
such a long time? Imagine if a novel was released and only people in New York
City and LA could read it. Or if an album dropped and you could only listen to
it at a certain venue at a certain time. These scenarios are preposterous, but
for some reason are accepted when applied to film.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I propose a very simple idea: a movie gets one release date, and on this day it
is released simultaneously in theaters, on DVD and Blu-ray, and through VOD
services like iTunes. This is the omnipresent release strategy every other mainstream
artistic medium has adopted in the 21st century, and movies are lagging behind
with a severely outdated system.<br />
<br />
What are the plausible reasons for keeping movie distribution the way it is
now? Let's tackle each one:<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Movies cost so much that a lot of
hype has to be built up about its release in order to make its money
back."</b><br />
<br />
Ok, assuming this is true, is the "platform" strategy really the best
way for films to maximize its intake of money? One of the films I really wanted
to see at NYFF this year was THE WIND RISES. Disney (or Disney-owned Miramax) has been in charge of the
domestic distribution of all the Miyazaki films since PRINCESS MONONOKE and they’ve
always employed a platforming strategy (film festivals, limited release, bigger
release). What kind of lucre has this resulted in? Take a look….<br />
<br />
<u>Domestic grosses:</u><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">PRINCESS MONONOKE: 2.3 million<br />
SPIRITED AWAY: 9.9 mill<br />
HOWL’S MOVING CASTLE : 4.7 mill<br />
<br />
PONYO actually opened "wide" (927 theaters; SPIRITED AWAY topped out
at 714 at its widest) and unsurprisingly grossed the most at 15 million. These
are, frankly, piss-poor results. All this strategy has done is withhold the films
from Miyazaki fans while Disney desperately tries (and fails) to convince other
people to see something they don’t want to see. (Can you even think of another
product with a publicity strategy that does everything to entice uninterested
people <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">at the expense of its actual fans</i>?)
And I’m sorry but you can't tell me that making the movie available to everyone
in the US at once—in the form of $10 movie tickets, $20 Blu-rays, $7.99 VOD
rentals—wouldn't result in more money. Maybe in the past the platforming
strategy was necessary, but in our broadband connected world, this is not the
case anymore. The acceptance of online streaming and emphasis on consumer choice has fundamentally changed the way we watch TV, and it's time for the same change to be made for movies.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"Movies were meant to be seen in a
theater."</b><br />
<br />
This is another thing that was true once, but no longer. Once theaters switched
to digital projectors, they could no longer claim that they were offering a
unique experience, or even a "correct" one. Everyone's home set-up
now deals with the same pixels as movie theaters, with the same simulated
24fps. There is no more film being run through projectors with its dreamlike
shutter clicking away—a moot point anyway since most movies aren't being shot
on film. And consider this: The hot tech in movie theater video projection
these days is 4K, a resolution that will be standard in consumer TVs within 2
years. Home presentation of movies isn't only "just as good" as
theaters these days, it’s better. Besides, think about other media again. Does
the music industry demand people listen to new music in optimal conditions, to
preserve the “integrity” of the experience or whatever? No, they let people buy
it (or stream it) and listen to it however they want, whether it's on vinyl
coming out of gorgeous speakers, or hideously compressed mp3s coming out of $5
earbuds. Not only that, but everyone has accepted any of these options as
legitimate means of consumption. Only those afflicted with the most distasteful
snobbery would insist that someone who had only listened to an album in mp3
form hadn't actually listened to the album yet. And speaking of snobs, we come
to a final reason movie distribution is the way it is....<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">"It allows a bunch of people to
feel superior to others and write a bunch of meaningless reviews."</b><br />
<br />
This seems to be the only real reason the current system is in place. (This and
each individual festival's vested financial interest in keeping it going.) All
these advance screenings allow the press and those in major cities to feel
really special for a few months. Having attended a handful of advance
screenings, I know this feeling well. There’s no question that if I lived in
NYC, I’d have seen those films at NYFF. So, ultimately, I don't hold it against people
for doing something I'd partake in given the opportunity.<br />
<br />
That is, unless they write reviews immediately afterward.<br />
<br />
Reviews of art should be a good-faith interaction between reviewer and reader.
The sometimes elusive reason for writing is crystallized when writing a review;
it is abundantly clear you are writing for another person, because only a
"touched" person opines to nobody, to nothing but air. (Whereas in
other forms of writing this distinction is a bit hazier: one might say that
writing down the truth is eo ipso "of worth," regardless whether
anyone is reading it, cf. Hemingway's definition of good fiction being one true
sentence after another....But I seriously digress.)<br />
<br />
So when it comes to reviews of a movie that played at a film festival 24 hours
ago, it invites the question: who could these early reviews possibly be for?
When someone reviews a movie that 99% of the people <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">who want to see the movie</i> won't watch it for months, what's the
point? What good is writing a review of HER now? The truth is that that person is writing the review solely for other
film critics, trying to impress them and appear cool to everyone else. It's no
wonder that film critics these days seem more cloistered and snobby than ever.<br />
<br />
Of course, the critic can rebut that people will be able to track down his
review after they've seen the movie (in 4+ months). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My response to that is: If the audience for
your piece isn't going to read it for 4 months, why not write it 4 months from
now? I think we’d all agree that time spent on almost anything—especially
writing—makes that thing better. But the fact is your average movie critic
places a premium on being first to comment on something and to make some sort
of judgment, and this rush to add to the noise comes at the expense of
insightful, considered writing.<br />
<br />
A concrete example of this: I watched UPSTREAM COLOR on blu-ray, about five
months after its premiere at the Sundance film festival. I was struck by the
movie and wanted to write something that would contribute to the discussion. I
wrote an essayish thing that concentrated on something very narrow: <a href="http://dhsayer.blogspot.com/2013/05/upstream-color-kieslowskis-blue.html" target="_blank">The similarities it shared with Kieslowski’s BLUE.</a> Now, a quick Google search
reveals that I wasn’t the first one to notice these similarities. Ray Pride,
writing for Movie City News, <a href="http://moviecitynews.com/2013/01/sundance-review-upstream-color/" target="_blank">wrote about it right after he saw the movie at Sundance</a>. The thing is, he briefly mentioned it and moved on. My piece was
1,700 words and offered a far more detailed look.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Now maybe Mr. Pride didn’t have anything
else on the subject. If I had to guess, he was just citing all the allusions he
could remember as quickly as possible in order to be the first to do so, which
is something that all film critics do these days. But here we are, not even a
year removed from Sundance, and people looking for more information on this
particular connection don’t really care about a brief mention by someone just
trying to meet a deadline. My blog post is rightly at the top of the search
results on the subject.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I’m not even saying my piece is
particularly great. I’m not a film historian or anything. (This is not false
modesty; I thought the essay would be a lot better when I first began it but
quickly found that I lacked the in-depth knowledge required to make it truly
incisive.) But it is a hell of a lot more developed than Mr. Pride’s cursory
mention. Of course, I had many advantages that Mr. Pride didn’t: I was able to
see the movie more than once, revisit certain scenes, and use screencaps to
support my thesis. Having the Blu-ray as a reference was overwhelmingly useful when
sitting down to write a critical piece, and I found myself with the same benefits
typically afforded those who write critically about other art forms. I had the
movie available to me in the same way music critics have the album they’re
writing about on hand.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In a way, how silly is it that most
movie reviewers watch a movie exactly once and don’t go back over it at all
before writing their reviews? Imagine a music critic listening to an album
exactly one time, or a book reviewer not having the book around to either quote
from or double-check a reference. Put simply: how insightful can we expect film
critics to be after only one viewing?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Someone arguing this might point out that
critics have been operating this way since time immemorial. And some of them were
quite good. Pauline Kael—who notoriously refused to see a movie more than once—wrote
some of the best film criticism of all time, dropping insight that is still
valuable to read today. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And</i> she did
it on a weekly basis.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Well, I hate to break it to all you
contemporary film critics: None of you are Pauline Kael. She was a
one-of-a-kind genius, a brilliant writer who just happened to write film
criticism. </span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Kael should not be regarded as just
another critic with an innate ability shared with lots of other critics, but rather
as an outlier with the uncanny ability to be both perspicacious and
illuminating, all under a time crunch. Not everyone can do what she did, in
fact she might be the only one who could do what she did. Which is why most
critics would be better served waiting a few months and really thinking about a
review they will feel a lot more responsibility for, since many more people
will be reading it.<br />
<br />
The public discourse about film these days reeks of some kind of weird elitism.
Upon a worthwhile movie's release, there always seems to be a sharp division
between people who have already seen it months ago at some film festival or
during a limited release in NYC/LA and those who are getting the opportunity to
see it for the first time. For better or worse, any voice can be disseminated
as easily as the next, and those who see movies first have the opportunity to not
only drive the discussion but exhaust it as well, so that by the time a film is
available to 99% of the population, it feels stale and stripped of relevance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It’s because of this situation that film
is no longer a cultural touchstone. For something to be important to a culture,
it has to have the participation of the culture. It has to be readily available
to be experienced and discussed with other people. Without that wide
involvement with the general public, we are left with a small group of
self-styled arbiters of taste who do nothing but make facile judgments in an
attempt to seem cool to others in their group.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">This is a real shame because film
criticism is very important. Good criticism shows us the way to great art. The
passionate critics of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cahiers du
Cinema</i> made us see Hollywood stalwarts like Hitchcock and Ray in a new
light, and critics like Kael explicated the value of the Nouvelle Vague.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">With no genius critic in sight, I
suppose all we can do is implore the current crop of critics to take more
time to write their criticism, in the perhaps futile hope that they get better.
It would also help to change the mindset that has made writing about
movies nothing more than a way to advertise how cool one is. A lot of critics
just need to stop writing, stop talking, and stop thinking about movies
altogether. Of course, you won’t be able to tell this to the people who truly
love cinema. But it’s also easy to convince yourself you love movies when in reality all
you love is the feeling of talking before anyone else can get a word in.
If all you care about is when review embargoes are lifted, that's a good indication of where your true interest lies. Also, I would ask all the critics or wannabe critics who attended NYFF this question:
If every movie you saw was available to everyone in the country on that day,
either in the theater or on a Blu-ray disc or as a download, would you still have
seen it? If the answer is “no”—or even if there is the slightest hesitation on
your part—then I would say you should get really introspective for a minute and
be prepared to confront some truths about yourself you might not like.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
DHSD.H. Sayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08740559288528910497noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659380036401967950.post-21930280009323122612013-09-12T08:40:00.001-04:002022-09-12T03:18:07.640-04:00Some Things I Want To Say About David Foster Wallace<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a Sunday like any other. After
catching up on some morning chores, I started reading the local paper. It was
September 14, 2008. Despite the headlines about Sarah Palin and the escalating
financial crisis, I remember being in a good mood.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My girlfriend called. She was out and
about, driving around, and we chatted about this and that as I casually flipped
through the newspaper, skimming the articles. My girlfriend pulled up to a
drive-thru to get something to eat and asked if I wanted anything. I told her I
didn’t, and she said she’d call me back in a minute after she was done
ordering. I said “Ok” and we hung up, pleasantly enough.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned what little attention I had
back to the newspaper. It really was a lazy Sunday, the kind of day when it’s
hard to focus on anything.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I flipped to the obituaries. Gregory
Mcdonald, the writer of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fletch</i>, had
died a week earlier and for some reason was given prominent space in that day’s
paper. His obit took up half the page, above the fold, and there was even a
picture of him. Uninterested, I started to turn the page over. Right before the
page disappeared from view, three familiar words caught my eye: “David Foster
Wallace.” I stopped. I remember being momentarily confused as to why his name
was in my local paper, and I think it was a half second later when I realized
it was positioned below Mcdonald’s obituary, this realization hitting me while
I was reading the complete headline, which stated in bold typeface: “David
Foster Wallace, 46, Found Dead.”<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then my world went black.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is December of 2006. I’ve made the
delightful discovery that the 10th Anniversary Edition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Infinite Jest</i> is a mere $10, cover price. This leads to a
no-brainer decision: I’m going to buy this book for everyone I know for
Christmas. And just like that I’m going around to all the bookstores in the
area (back then there were multiple options) and cleaning them out of all their
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ</i>s. At a single Barnes & Noble,
I carry an armload of four up to the register. Lugging them back home, I put
them in stacks on my table, and the sight of all these <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ</i>s gives me great pleasure. I have serious doubts about whether
they’ll actually be read, but it amuses me to think that I’m distributing a
dangerous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">samizdat</i> that will sit on
people’s shelves, dormant but dangerous, ready to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting
reader someday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I buy a packet of smiley stickers and put
one on the cover of each book.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t pass out or anything like that. The
world went black because I had immediately shut my eyes. It was involuntary. I
did not consciously make a decision to close my eyes—it just happened. I had
never done anything like that before. In the past, I’d averted my eyes out of
embarrassment and anger, but never horror. I think it’s something people do,
though I’d never experienced it up until then. Days later, thinking about it, I
realized why people shut their eyes when they’ve just seen something horrible. I
think they’re trying to stop themselves from seeing what they’ve just seen. If
they close their eyes fast enough (the thinking goes), the light reflected from
whatever horrible thing they’ve just witnessed won’t reach their corneas, and
then it’ll be like the thing never happened. I think that’s what I was
attempting. I was trying to remain in a world where he was still alive—at least
as far as I knew—if only momentarily.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This attempt to insulate myself from the
truth failed utterly. Water built behind my eyelids and I felt a welling-up
inside me of something that started in my stomach and then enlarged like an
inflating balloon, and I felt it extend upward through my chest and into my
throat until finally I felt it at the back of my tongue, but it felt way too
large to exit my body and before I knew it I was gasping for air. In-between
taking big gulps of air, I was crying. Thinking about it later, I knew that I
was sobbing—crying so hard that it was hard to breathe. This was another thing
I’d never done before; I’d never been this physically affected by grief. This
push-and-pull continued for many minutes, my body wanting to expel so many
things at once while I gasped for enough air to keep breathing. It felt like
drowning without water.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere in this, I became aware that my
phone was ringing. It was my girlfriend. I answered it. The first thing she
heard was my sobs, and, instantly alarmed, she asked, frantically, what was
wrong. I told her that I had just read something…I think I put it as simply as
that: “I just read something.” It was obvious that it was bad, whatever it was.
She said What? I told her David Foster Wallace was dead. And saying it aloud like
that, of course I just broke down all over again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is early 2005. I want to get into reading
books. I’m not even sure why; I get in these moods sometimes. Anyways, I like
art. I’ve been watching a lot of movies and listening to a lot of music, and
now it just seems natural to get into reading books, specifically novels. It’s
not that I never read. I read occasionally, a novel here and there (mostly ones
that have been made into movies), but now I just really want to give them a
shot on their own terms or something. I want to be aware of what is going on in
the literary landscape, just like I am for movies and music.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem is I know nothing about
contemporary literature. So, as I often do, I turn to my friend, who is
inordinately more well-versed than me in all the art forms, but especially
literature. The guy devours books. He has books literally spilling out of his
room.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I ask him, what contemporary authors are
doing great stuff these days? I put it to him this way: “What author would you
run out and get their book if it came out today?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He considers it for a moment, then tells me
three names: Richard Powers, William T. Vollmann, and David Foster Wallace. I’ve
never heard of any of them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After doing a little Googling, Wallace
captures my attention the most. Powers and Vollmann are exceedingly prolific
and it’s hard to tell where to start with them. Wallace, on the other hand, has
only written two novels. And one of them, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Infinite
Jest</i>, is clearly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the one</i>. It’s
over a thousand pages. Even knowing nothing else about it, it looms over
everything else. It is an undeniable monster, beckoning to me during a time
when I found undeniability to be one of the most attractive qualities of good
art.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I circle around it a little, unsure whether
to take the plunge. I do a little more research. I become fascinated by the
fact that Wallace was only 34 when it was published. (He looks even younger in
the author photo.) I play coy with my intentions, asking my friend about it the
way you ask other people about your crush. I ask my friend one day, “What are
the chances you think I could finish <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Infinite
Jest</i>?” (“Does she say anything about me?”) He takes a second, then says the
odds are pretty good, once I get into it. (I know now he was lying; the odds of
completing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ </i>are pretty bad for a
person like I was at the time, viz. someone who didn’t read much. But the
alternative is telling someone to not even bother, and I know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I </i>would never say that to anyone.) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wait a couple more days, then decide on
the spur of the moment that I’m actually going to do it. I’m going to attempt
to read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Infinite Jest</i>. I’m so caught
up in the spirit of embarking on a new adventure that I don’t even want to wait
the couple days it would take Amazon to send it to me. Instead, I go right to
the nearest bookstore and buy an undiscounted, full-price copy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I start reading it that day. Over the course
of the next two months, the book never leaves my nightstand and I slowly but
surely make my way through it. It’s hard going at least initially, but I reach
some sort of hump and get over it and I find myself on the descending side of
this mountain of a book.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend asks me periodically how it’s going.
When I’m about 600 pages in, I tell him, You know, it doesn’t even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">matter</i> how Wallace ends it. He’s built
such an impressive object up to this point that the last 400 pages can be
gobbledygook and it’d still be the most impressive book I’ve ever read. It’s so
full and rich. Sure it might be over-stuffed but it’s one of those things that
is amazing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because</i> of its excesses.
You know, like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apocalypse Now</i>. (All
my references were movie-related at the time.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, the last 400 pages were just as
brilliant as the first 600, and many months later, after finding myself
constantly thinking about it, I had to admit to myself that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ</i> was definitely my favorite novel of
all time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I wish there were more audio clips of
him reading from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Infinite Jest</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She let me cry for a minute before gently saying,
“For a second I thought something had happened to your parents.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her comment pierced the grief-infused haze
that I’d been mired in and I immediately saw the situation through her eyes.
All she knew about David Foster Wallace was what I had told her about him. She
knew he was my favorite author, but that was basically it. She’d never read any
of his writing, and even if she had she wasn’t the type of person who put
artists on some kind of pedestal, and she certainly wouldn’t be moved to such a
display of grief as I was now evincing. She came from a tight-knit family and
keening was reserved for those with whom one shared blood. (Or at least for very
close friends.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I could not stop my flow of tears,
I saw that her (unspoken, merely implied…or rather, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">inferred </i>(by me)) position was basically correct; it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> a little ridiculous that I was
carrying on in such histrionic fashion about the passing of someone with whom I
had never exchanged even a single word. Only someone with a somewhat charmed
life—someone who’d never come within arm’s-length of true disaster, someone
with no direct knowledge of tragedy—could be so moved by the death of a
stranger.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I was that person, one of the lucky few
who had never known true loss. I’d never had death enter my life; everyone I
loved and cared about was alive and well. My family and friends—all alive and
hale and doing well, which is how it’d always been for as long as I could
remember. I’d never been shattered by the dreadful news of the passing of a
loved one, and my reaction to Wallace’s obituary bespoke not only how important
Wallace had been to me, but my emotional innocence as well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At my girlfriend’s words, I was confronted
with this other subjectivity here in the midst of my anguish, and I became
extremely self-conscious—something readers of Wallace know a thing or two
about. I saw the blubbering mess she was picturing and I immediately began
apologizing to her. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry, I know this is ridiculous.”
I’m still crying, I can’t help it. But I’m saying “sorry” whenever I can summon
up enough breath to do so.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She assured me that it was ok, that she knew
how important he was to me, but I heard the skepticism in her voice. How do I begin
to tell her that he was more than just some author I liked? How to describe for
her that intensely intimate voice of his that made you feel like you were close
friends? His stuff was completely devoid of the pretension and bullshit
flattery and condescension that infect almost everyone else’s writing, even
award-winning, universally respected writing. Reading his books made you feel
like an equal companion of his (though you were still in complete awe of his
intimidating mind).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Added to this, I had listened to enough
interviews to know that the mesmerizing voice he used in his books was really
just his default setting. He talked exactly like he wrote. Nobody else did
that. Even writers of the most gorgeous prose were usually reduced to hollow
shells of their writing when they were interviewed. They would pause awkwardly
and use stilted language and you would usually see them struggling to find the
right word before falling back on safe platitudes and general bromides about
writing or whatever they were talking about. Wallace might pause when faced
with a particularly tough question (they were all tough for him), but when he
opened his mouth out came fully formed and oftentimes revelatory ideas,
precisely articulated in an extraordinary string of sentences. You felt like you
were getting direct access to his brain when he talked, which was the same
feeling you got with his writing. Incredibly, he was able to recreate the
intimate voice of his writing in extemporaneous conversation. It just came
naturally to him. (I’m positive his first drafts were marvels, better than
everyone else’s fifteenth drafts.) So, to me, it was a simple formulation: To
love the writing was to love the author, to love his words was to love the man,
or so it seemed in Wallace’s case.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was why I was so affected by his
passing, but I couldn’t find a way to express this to my girlfriend, so I just
said “I’m sorry,” over and over again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></b><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I wish I wrote to him because it’s clear
now that there was a pretty good chance I would’ve gotten some sort of
response.</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s summer of 2007. With <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ</i> still inhabiting my mind, I decide to
tackle the rest of Wallace’s oeuvre. I’m going to read everything. The short
story collections, the essays, even his textbook-like thing on the subject of
infinity. All the in-print stuff is a given, but I also get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Signifying Rappers</i> for $6 on the Amazon
marketplace. I also want to read peripheral stuff like interviews and profiles,
so I buy the 1993 issue of The Review of Contemporary Fiction that features his
long interview with Larry McCaffery. I get curious about how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ</i> was presented to the world when it
first came out in 1996, so I buy a hardcover. (It has a tiny bit of iridescent
foil on the cover like a special edition comic book.) I see a pristine first
edition hardcover of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Broom of the
System</i> for sale, but decide $300 is too much to spend (Me in 2013: Argh).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I plow through the books all summer long,
I find myself becoming more and more enthralled. I start tracking down audio
interviews, video clips of him on Charlie Rose (I actually buy the DVD ($25)).
I listen to the Bookworm interviews over and over again, absolute treasures. I
listen to muddy recordings of readings and Q&As he did (one of which is so
staticky that he can barely be heard, but I still get through it once).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not enough, so I turn to the
internet and find uncollected short stories, book reviews, essays. Also print
interviews, profiles, analyses of his writing. I don’t want to read all this
stuff on my computer monitor so I use my roommate’s printer to create hard
copies. It takes multiple days and many hours to print out everything using the
good ole inkjet. My roommate shakes his head. “So you’ve decided to print out
the internet?” he asks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I end up with hundreds of printed pages. I
put it all into the biggest binder I can find and separate them by subject with
multi-colored tabs: Short Stories, Interviews, Nonfiction, etc. (A year later I
will add another tab: Tributes.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a blast reading that summer. The best
summer of reading I’ve ever had, and probably ever will.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I wish he did a Bookworm interview for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oblivion</i> (instead of doing that
shallower Connection interview).</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How did he die?” she asked. I looked down
at the crumpled newspaper in front of me—another involuntary action, crumpling
the newspaper into a ball (Get rid of the evidence, it never
happened)—flattened it out and read the rest of the obituary, even though it
was unnecessary because I was pretty sure I knew how it happened. “Found Dead”
is ambiguous and could mean many things: maybe something health-related (not
likely for a still youngish former athlete) or maybe something more lurid like
a homicide. But those possibilities are so out-there I didn’t even entertain
them. “Wallace’s wife found her husband had hanged himself,” I read to my
girlfriend, confirming what I already knew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the following days, much was made of the
occurrence of suicide in Wallace’s books, and it’s a point with which it’s hard
to argue. There is a lot of suicide in his books. And Wallace was never
particularly subtle about its inclusion. (He once wrote a story called “Suicide
as a Sort of Present.”) The morbid subject matter is always front and center,
never in the background, and it is sometimes a key plot element in his fiction.
And so of course that’s all everyone fixated on for a while.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I, on the other hand, in the first moments
after learning of his death, thought immediately of a story he did called
“Octet.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this story, Wallace sets up a series of
short scenarios he calls “Pop Quizzes” designed to “interrogate” the reader’s
reactions to various heartbreaking set-ups, usually involving a double-bind of
some sort. In one of the stories, a mother gives up custody of her child to her
vindictive but wealthy former husband so that the child will grow up provided
for and taken care of, and the text literally asks, right there on the page,
whether the reader thinks she’s a good mother or not. Another (longer) scenario
involves a man who’s on the outs with his dying father-in-law, but who decides
to bury any animosity he feels and give at least the appearance of being
present and supportive of his wife and her whole side of the family during this
ordeal, and this support extends to his father-in-law who—make no mistake about
it—detests his son-in-law just as fiercely if not even more than his son-in-law
does him, and by doing the “right thing” the man is placed in an extremely
uncomfortable and dishonest position by the end of the story when the old
father-in-law has passed and the man, who alone knows his true feelings, is now
expected to issue words of praise in the father-in-law’s name during some
intimate post-funeral service with the father-in-law’s entire family looking at
him expectantly. And the questions at the end of this “Pop Quiz” make clear the
alienation and helplessness and loneliness the man feels at being put in this
situation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About halfway through the story, Wallace
breaks some kind of fourth wall and starts talking to the reader. It’s set up
as another “Pop Quiz” (“You are, unfortunately, a fiction writer. You are
attempting a cycle of very short belletristic pieces…”), but it’s clear that
he’s talking about himself and “interrogating” you, the reader, directly. He
explains that he’s in a swivet because this piece of fiction he’s working
on—the thing you are reading now—just isn’t working. In fact it’s crumbling
before his very eyes. He had intended to write eight short pieces that
“demonstrate some sort of weird ambient sameness in different kinds of human
relationships, some nameless but inescapable ‘price’ that all human beings are
faced with having to pay at some point if they ever want truly ‘to be with’
another person instead of just using that person somehow” but that “five of the
eight pieces don’t work at all—meaning they don’t interrogate or palpate what
you want them to, plus are too contrived or too cartoonish or too annoying or
all three” and he had to throw them out. (The skeletal outlines of a couple of
these “failures” are described in a long footnote.) And now he’s faced with the
last resort of just coming right out and asking the reader if she feels
anything like what he feels, a feeling that he considers “urgent, truly urgent,
something almost worth shimmying up chimneys and shouting from roofs about.”
(In a footnote he acknowledges that this sounds pious and melodramatic.) And
he’s also worried that coming right out and addressing the reader like this is
going to look “pathetic and desperate” in the eyes of the reader and that he’ll
look like “just another manipulative pseudopomo bullshit artist who’s trying to
salvage a fiasco by dropping back to a meta-dimension and commenting on the
fiasco itself.” It’s framed as a hypothetical course of action, but in
actuality it’s one of those hypotheticals that are actually real propositions
(“Suppose I were to ask you out…”), and it’s clear that Wallace is trying to
see “whether other people deep inside experience things in anything like the
same way [he does].”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or rather, it’s clear that that’s what he
was trying to get at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i>. Back then, in
1999 when the story came out, all evidence points to people taking that story
as an amusing little bit of “S.O.P. metatext,” even though he expressly tells
you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in the story</i> that that is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> what he is trying to do. But,
y’know, nobody took him seriously because…well, irony, man.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, there always seemed to be some
unbridgeable gap between what Wallace intended to convey with his fiction and
what a lot of readers took away from it. For example, he said over and over
that he considered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ</i> to be a sad
book, and yet wave after wave of admirers extolled the book’s humor. Discussing
his book of stories <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brief Interviews With
Hideous Men</i> (in which “Octet” appears), he went so far to say that
“everybody thought [<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Infinite Jest</i>]
was very funny, which was of course nice, but it was also kind of frustrating,
and I designed this one so that nobody is going to escape the fact that this is
sad.” Taking that into account, there is a certain sadness in reading the blurbs
for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">BIWHM</i> that call the book “bitingly
funny” and “often funny,” with other critics proclaiming “it is fun, and often
very funny” and “outrageously funny” and that it’s “damn funny stuff,” etc. There
always seemed to be some misunderstanding or misinterpretation of his work,
even by those who praised them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is what I thought of moments after
learning he had died. He was a writer who always took sadness as his subject.
Always, even when people thought he was trying to be funny. But as sad and
horrifying as this is to admit, it was like you couldn’t really see what he was
saying until he killed himself. It was only then that you knew for sure that he
really wasn’t kidding around with what he was writing about. He wasn’t doing
that thing that so many other inferior writers do, trading on some general
sense of “sadness” that often gets turned into cloying sentimentality in an
attempt to extract a few tears from the reader, but only in the service of a
crowd-pleasing redemptive ending. Sadness is also commonly deployed to elevate
one’s opinion of the author: “Oh look how clever he is, pointing out all the
ways the world is shit.” Both methods flatter the reader’s idea of “oh, there’s
something wrong with the world, how sad,” and both end with the author and
reader going their separate ways, basically happy and content, leaving the book
behind, forgotten, as they go merrily on being consumers or well-adjusted
citizens or whatever. Basically, it’s really easy to pay lip service to an idea
of intrinsic human sadness and that’s why it’s really hard to take seriously sometimes.
But Wallace was utterly serious about it. When he was making every attempt to
get at an almost indefinable sadness in “Octet” and desperately querying the
reader about her take on it, he wasn’t playing games. He was truly trying to
describe a sadness he honestly felt. This wasn’t just some literary
construction for him. And it’s impolitic to say this, and the implications are
truly horrific, but we know he genuinely felt this sadness because he killed
himself. We later found out about his clinical depression, the previous suicide
attempts, the decades-long battle with his own biochemistry, but I know at the
moment I found out about his death, it appeared that he had finally succumbed
to the ineluctable sadness he had been trying to describe with nearly every
word he wrote. It pained me to think of how acutely he must have felt this
sadness, and it also shattered me to think of how his attempts to convey this
sadness he knew so intimately had often been misconstrued, even by his most
careful readers. As I sat there sobbing at news of his death, I felt all his
themes of sadness and loneliness crystallize and take the form of a sharp point
that proceeded to stab me in the heart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How
could his fans not know he was suicidal?</i> an outside observer might ask
today. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Considering all those stories
about suicide? How could you not realize he was dangerously depressed? After
all, he wrote a story called “The Depressed Person” that casually name-dropped
dozens of antidepressants. How could you not see it?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We didn’t see it. We had no idea. I don’t
know why. It’s not that we didn’t believe him when he wrote about the sadness…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> was something he enabled us to
recognize all too clearly. Perhaps conditioned by the way other writers
operate, we just didn’t think it was so firmly entrenched inside of him. Maybe
we figured his books were having the same palliative effect on him that they
were having on us. For those who loved his books, his prose perfectly limned
the despairing sadness that was an intrinsic part of life while at the same
time acting as a shield against it; by being so erudite, so insightful, so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good</i>, his books made us feel less alone
and better equipped to navigate our own “skull-sized kingdoms.” But apparently,
it was not enough for him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If we knew the ordeal he was going through,
I guarantee we would’ve done something. I can picture a large contingent of his
fans descending on his house in Claremont, putting themselves at his service,
trying to give him some measure of comfort, holding candlelight vigils outside
his home. I’m being 100% serious. Wallace fans are some of the most com-/passionate
people in the world. You think we would’ve just sat back and done nothing if we
knew he was in such constant pain? There’s no chance. We would’ve gone to California
based on nothing more than the slim hope that we could do something for him, repay
him in some small way for all he had given us. And there’s no doubt he would’ve
hated it, he would’ve fucking hated it, all of us showing up unannounced like
that. All that attention on him when he so eloquently made the case against
solipsism and the cult of “me-me-me.” God, he would’ve hated a crowd of adoring
and concerned fans outside his house. (Probably anyone would, actually.) But we
wouldn’t have been able to help ourselves. Of that I am sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I wish he had felt well enough to write
that piece on Obama and rhetoric.</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is 2010. I am in a bus terminal, waiting
for a friend due to arrive any minute. I’m passing the time by reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Understanding David Foster Wallace</i>,
recently rereleased by South Carolina Press in a new, updated edition.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sitting on one of those long benches. On
the other end of the bench is a guy around my age. He’s also reading a book.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the blue cover first. I look up and see
the unmistakable cinder block heft, and I recognize those all-too-familiar one
thousand, seventy-nine pages.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must admit, I’m more than a little
excited. It’s the first time I’ve seen an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ</i>
“out in the wild.” (I live in a rural area and I hear they’re usually
indigenous to NYC subways.) I don’t even consider not talking to the guy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I make that half-reaching gesture people use
to get someone’s attention and softly say, “Hey.” The guy looks up. I nod at
the book in his hands and grin. “Infinite Jest.” I hold up my own book,
cementing our solidarity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For his part, he doesn’t look too taken
aback. He asks to see my book and flips through it, gauging his own interest. I
look at his copy and notice the first bookmark (there are two, of course) is
about 150 pages in. I ask him if this is his first time reading it and he says
it is. I tell him it’s my favorite novel by far, gushing a little. He nods
soberly and hands back my book. I ask him how he’s enjoying it and he says he
likes it so far. He’s obviously not yet at the evangelical stage I am about
Wallace and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ</i>. He has not really
smiled during this interaction and I get the impression he’s one of those
people who takes himself way too seriously, but I don’t care because I’m just
happy to finally meet a random stranger who is reading the book.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend’s bus arrives and I see him
disembark. I gather my things and stand up. Before I leave, I say goodbye to
the guy and tell him that I hope he enjoys the rest of the book. The last image
I have is of him reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ</i> on that
bench. I wonder whether he finished it, and, if so, what his thoughts were.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Some
things I’ve hated about the last five years</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">: I hate how DFW has been used as
a punchline for stupid jokes or as a sort of shorthand for describing a certain
kind of highly self-aware writing but in a really reductive and usually sneery
way. I hate how people who haven’t read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ</i>
think it’s just some repetitive, too-clever-by-half, overly cerebral commentary
on addiction and entertainment and whatever. I’m mildly annoyed at how people
have glommed onto <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This Is Water</i> and
seem to know little else of Wallace’s work. I’m even more annoyed that people
stay away from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Infinite Jest</i> and that
other fans recommend reading “around it” or “building up to it.” (Would you
have someone listen to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dirty Work</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Steel Wheels</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Bigger Bang</i> before finally giving them <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Exile on Main St.</i>? Just give them the best stuff immediately, I
say.) I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hate</i> the jokes (“How do you
know someone’s read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Infinite Jest</i>?
Don’t worry, he’ll tell you”). I hate that he’s gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Some
things I’ve loved about the last five years</span></u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">: I love seeing all the stuff we
might never have been able to see: letters, manuscript pages, syllabi. I loved
getting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Pale King</i>, even if it
wasn’t quite in the form we would’ve liked. All the audio interviews that were
released because of the more widespread interest. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Every Love Story is a Ghost Story</i>. Infinite Summer. But mainly all
the posthumous writing. Though I will state what to me is the obvious: I would
trade every bit of Wallace’s writing we got post-’08 for him just to still be alive
and healthy again. And not necessarily because I want new work. Even if he
didn’t write another word, even if no more books were published, I think I’d
still derive some measure of comfort knowing that he was out in the world, just
living his life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard to know how to end something like
this. I have a strong suspicion these last few paragraphs will just trail off
at some point. I’d feel uncomfortable making some grand final statement like
“David Foster Wallace meant ______ to me, and always will” or something like
that. It’s hard to even encapsulate how important he and his works are to me in
under 6,000 words. A simple way of putting it is that he’s changed my life for
the better. That’s a zero-BS declaration. Just reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Infinite Jest</i> is like getting a solid liberal arts education. If
you look up every word you don’t know and wikipedia every reference or concept you
don’t understand, then Eggers is right: You will come out of it a better
person. I’m not particularly intelligent, but if I hadn’t read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ</i>, I would be a lot dumber than I am
now, that’s for sure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While it’s true that he’s fundamentally
changed the way I look at the world, some of the ways he’s affected my life
aren’t what you would call Profound or Earth-shattering. I don’t eat lobster
anymore. And I’ve turned into somewhat of an amateur SNOOT. Inspired by
Wallace’s passion for language, I’ve hit the books and now know much more about
grammar than I used to. I mean, take a gander at that paragraph <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">supra</i> where I’m writing about preparing to
tackle <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ.</i> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">You can see how my writing was infected with solecisms
and general carelessness before I read that book.</span> There are dangling participles (“After doing a little
Googling, Wallace captures my attention”), super casualisms (“Anyways”), careless
placement of modifiers (“Wallace, on the other hand, has only written two
novels”), noun-pronoun agreement problems (“What author would you run out and
get their book if it came out today?”), s-v a.p. (“but it’s one of those things
that is amazing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because</i> of its
excesses”), wrongness coupled with awkwardness (“who is inordinately more
well-versed than me in all the art forms”), etc. While this new-found awareness
can sometimes result in a kind of writerly paralysis, I like to think that
ultimately I’m better for it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were some things I wanted to talk
about earlier but wasn’t able to blend them into the piece in a natural way. I
wanted to say how grateful I was that I read the bulk of his work—especially <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IJ</i>—before 2008. Everyone reading his
stuff now for the first time probably can’t stop the alarm bells going off every
time suicide is mentioned, and I really don’t think that’s the ideal way to
read the books. I also wanted to talk a little about the weirdness of learning
about his death from a newspaper of all things, a local paper no less. This was
2008, not 1908. The internet was up and running. I guess everyone found out
Saturday night…it must have been reported by various outlets. How did I miss
it?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really don’t know how to end this. I will
say I’m constantly reminded of him. I’ll see an unusual word and remember that
I first encountered it in one of his books. Pynchon’s book comes out next week
and I only got into Pynchon because of him. Hardly a week goes by when he isn’t
mentioned in some book review or another. Nadal just won the U.S. Open, which
set off an explosion of associations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I’m done for now.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB0HccSZPs3PSnNSQ8aKs5NJpj6hwDDexqd1PcUlWh2AQJK6Tvo7gaXvskxC6w96lkAkb-pufW48w7_0meotWpearSgoDuT9KSgN2ITsDjbmj8-uKzcAbYchxBkDxhXK2apwQ1tVsQvdY/s1600/DFW.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB0HccSZPs3PSnNSQ8aKs5NJpj6hwDDexqd1PcUlWh2AQJK6Tvo7gaXvskxC6w96lkAkb-pufW48w7_0meotWpearSgoDuT9KSgN2ITsDjbmj8-uKzcAbYchxBkDxhXK2apwQ1tVsQvdY/s1600/DFW.JPG" height="320" width="251" /></a></div>
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D.H. Sayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08740559288528910497noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659380036401967950.post-38453586332022146872013-05-08T18:11:00.000-04:002023-03-11T00:27:54.059-05:00Just Like the Movies<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">NB: This will be an exercise in spontaneity. I’m
just going to jot all this out and not revise endlessly and hope it comes out
semi-coherent. I know I should probably do more blog entries, but I have a
propensity to work on massive pieces instead of a bunch of little ones. This
will be a littler one, I think. It’s also about movies, which I swore I was
going to go cold turkey on writing about, since I feel I write about them too
much. But hopefully it will be about enough other things to be interesting to
people who don’t care all that much about movies.</span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">A couple things piqued my
interest recently. One was the <a href="http://movies.nytimes.com/2013/05/03/movies/iron-man-3-with-robert-downey-jr.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0" target="_blank">review of Iron Man 3</a> I read in the NYTimes on Friday. The reviewer, Manohla Dargis, doesn’t
really review the movie so much as ruminate on its place in the world we
inhabit. Or, more accurately, she judges its appropriateness. For her, the
action scenes of the movie too readily recall the recent tragedy in Boston, and
the villains perpetrating acts of domestic terrorism are too similar to
real-life counterparts for the movie to work as the piece of pop escapism it so
clearly wants to be. (In all fairness to Ms. Dargis, the movie didn’t seem to
interest her much on a very basic level, so she had to find <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something</i> to write about.) One gets the sense that Ms. Dargis has
been offended on multiple levels; she starts out by complaining about the
excessive explosions and gunfire, then criticizes what she interprets as the
movie’s cavalier approach to the events of 9/11 (she mentions the infamous date no
fewer than six times in the review). This blasé attitude toward such a traumatic
event is borderline unconscionable to her. While Ms. Dargis doesn’t completely
abjure the use of “9/11 evocations” (or whatever) in movies, she just doesn’t
want the events used all willy-nilly, without thought or consideration. The
review seems to be a rallying cry of sorts: If a movie refers to 9/11, Ms.
Dargis propounds, the events that took place should be explored, addressed
directly and truthfully and significantly, and not just “exploited.” (There’s
actually a certain pathos to her plea, because what she’s really saying is “Why
can’t they just make good art?”)</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">Ms. Dargis also mentions something that I finally decided to look
up: A couple weeks ago <a href="http://www.deadline.com/2013/04/steven-soderbergh-state-of-cinema-address/" target="_blank">Steven Soderbergh gave a speech at the San Francisco International Film Festival</a> that has been generating a fair amount of buzz.
It’s basically a “State of the Union” address about the film industry. He
starts out by relating an anecdote about this guy he saw during a flight who
watched nothing but the action scenes of a bunch of movies, skipping ahead to
the “good” parts: the car chases, the climactic gunfight, etc. Mr. Soderbergh
is understandably disturbed at what he is witnessing, which is basically the
desecration of an art form he has dedicated most of his life to. He then
half-rues, half-accepts the current reality of Hollywood funding, which is that
they feel more comfortable bankrolling a $200 million movie with costumed
superheroes than they are funding a “mid-level” $35 million feature about real
human beings (viz. exactly the kind of movie Mr. Soderbergh makes). You can see
why Ms. Dargis brought this speech up, since her own points dovetail nicely
with Mr. Soderbergh’s (“Why can’t they just make good art?”).</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">I’m not without sympathy for the arguments of Mr. Soderbergh (it
really does seem that movies like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Being
John Malkovich</i>, for instance, would never get funded today) and Ms. Dargis (the
terrorist videos in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">IM3</i> had a chilling
and arguably unnecessary verisimilitude that was perhaps a little out of place),
and I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> think something’s been up
since 9/11. But I think they might both be missing the mark a little. Putting
aside the fact that terrorists and explosions and toppling structures and
falling bodies have been around in summer popcorn movies for a while now, way
before 9/11 (e.g. go ahead and Youtube the opening scenes of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Armageddon</i>), I don’t think the problem
lies in disturbing imagery or violent content in movies. The problem lies with
narrative and our relation to it.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">During and immediately after the events of 9/11, there was a
general consensus on what the day looked/felt like. You heard it over and over:
“It was like a movie.” That always struck me as odd. After all, nothing I saw
on TV that day looked like something from the movies I really love and respond
to, movies like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Dinner with Andre</i>
or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Annie Hall</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Before Sunrise.</i> I know that’s not what people were talking about,
but without adding a qualifier (“action movie,” “summer movie”) it did make crystal clear the benighted
level at which most people considered something to be “a movie.” (Experiment: After your next magical date, turn to the other person and
say the night was “just like a movie.” If the blank stare lasts longer than 5 seconds,
escape while you can.)</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">But so if after 9/11 we were stuck in a movie brought to life, it
seems important to ask what kind of movie. Well, the only type of movie where
that level of destruction and devastation occurs is the mega-blockbuster. We
weren’t in a quiet little chamber piece. This was a prototypical big-budget disaster
movie. And all mega-blockbusters have common elements: a dramatic opening
scene, clearly delineated heroes and villains, obstacles ultimately overcome
through perseverance and innate ability, and a final and all-encompassing
triumph over evil. And we quickly accepted that this was the story we were in,
largely because it offered solace when nothing else made much sense. If we were
in a narrative where the World Trade Center towers came down, so be it, but we
would see that the rest of the story unfolded as these kinds of stories always
do: with struggle, retribution, and eventual victory.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">There have not been a lot of good pieces of art that have directly
“taken on” the events of 9/11. I can think of only two. One, the movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">United 93</i>, is a pretty straight-forward
reenactment of what actually happened; the filmmakers realized that the truth
held more than enough power without adding anything to it. The second is Don
DeLillo’s novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Falling Man</i>. It’s
about a man and a woman who escape the towers on that fateful day and cross
paths in the subsequent weeks. One of the major points of the novel, delivered
with consummate subtlety and skill, is something I think we all realize but
find it hard to articulate: 9/11 imposed narrative on us, where before there
was none. There was not just the overarching narrative involving our fight
against the enemies of Freedom, but it also affected our quotidian narratives in
the small ways it impinged on our daily low-key existence. From that point on our
lives were inextricably wrapped up in a story not of our choosing. We were in
that movie where bad guys were out there, blowing stuff up, killing our fellow citizens.
A world where there were clearly defined good guys (us) and clearly defined bad
guys (them). This was our collective narrative, whether we liked it or not.
Some of us embraced it, but a fair number of us were deeply unsettled. And I
don’t think we were disturbed solely by our internal debate about the morality of war, or the
abuse of national power, or things like that. We were, on a deeper level,
really unsettled at living in a narrative that traditionally had ironclad
concepts of right and wrong, good and bad—a world where everything is black
and white, just like a summer movie. We were unsettled because we know the world
is never black and white, that things are never that simple. There are shades
of gray, ambiguities, confusion, uncertainties, doubt—all the things anathema
to a big-budget popcorn movie.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">Now, we know we are not in a movie, even if the post-9/11 world seems
like one (and some, scarily, have been convinced it is). Most of us know that
the last thing the world resembles is a straight narrative. That’s where Ms.
Dargis’s view starts to fall apart. It shouldn’t matter how many explosions are
in a movie or how many times 9/11 is supposedly evoked, we know it’s not
reality. And we know this not because there’s a guy with an iron suit flying
around, but rather because credits pop up, a story is told, and more credits
roll. This is not particularly faithful to how life is, particularly the
ultimate beginning and ultimate end parts. (Sure, we as individuals experience
beginnings and endings, but life goes on before and after, plus we don’t have
the luxury of analyzing how it went after we reach our ending, sitting in a
coffee shop with friends, teasing out themes, arguing about the plot.) Narrative
is faker than any fantastic alien a CGI artist can come up with. We impose it
on our selves, or other events do, if they’re big enough. But it is not how the
world works. In a way, that guy on the plane was watching something much closer
to reality than narrative features depict (for what is the 21st Century so far
but a series of contextless explosions?).</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";"></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New";">I’m not saying narrative is worthless. Nor am I advocating a
proliferation of non-narrative films. (Besides, even the most “non-narrative”
film has a beginning and ending and something inbetween, which ultimately
constitutes narrative, no matter how scrambled up it may seem when the lights
go down. (As Jean-Luc Godard is purported to say, “A story should have a
beginning, a middle, and an end, but not necessarily in that order.”)) And I’m
certainly not saying we should be the guy that just watches explosions. There are
ways for art to engage meaningfully with these big concerns that both Ms.
Dargis and Mr. Soderbergh seem to want movies to address, and something with a
strong narrative will most likely turn out to be the artwork that does it. But
we should probably stop expecting our art to be mimetic of the real world, or
regarding a kind of simulacrumness as some gold standard for art. To paraphrase
David Mamet, the goal of art shouldn’t be to recreate the conversation two
people had on a bus this morning, the goal should be to have them say something
better. Narrative is our chance to write, draw, film something better. Narrative
can be edifying, illuminating, vital, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">important</i>.
But it shouldn’t be mistaken for life, and vice versa. Our lives are our own,
and art resides outside, whether it’s an important cinematic masterpiece or
just a dumb summer superhero flick. In the end, it’s all escapism.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
DHSD.H. Sayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08740559288528910497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659380036401967950.post-69518142012011916072013-04-02T18:08:00.002-04:002021-12-08T12:09:36.377-05:00Carol DeChellis Hill: A Reintroduction<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJZj4_PRzKHQbm6iqNZa3e6ONK6jqcyypKxoAbi2pN9Qs19WO5ZYseMTo2XWn1SeO0mUOWY3Kd9epdBCXOCIBqLzDCVde_S4xwapEBshkMZHVuMVf6h-Kyd4reSTNPUXQknSTQC93Ils8/s1600/1970aaa.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJZj4_PRzKHQbm6iqNZa3e6ONK6jqcyypKxoAbi2pN9Qs19WO5ZYseMTo2XWn1SeO0mUOWY3Kd9epdBCXOCIBqLzDCVde_S4xwapEBshkMZHVuMVf6h-Kyd4reSTNPUXQknSTQC93Ils8/s320/1970aaa.jpg" width="215" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Carol DeChellis Hill circa 1970</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A
few weeks ago I was reading an <a href="http://a-certain-slant.blogspot.com/1997/02/a-supposedly-fun-thing-ill-never-do.html" target="_blank">old interview of my favorite author</a>, David
Foster Wallace. In the introduction, the interviewer, David Wiley, apprised readers who may
be unfamiliar with Wallace’s work of the sort of writer Wallace is by comparing
him to other similar writers. When it comes to Wallace, the list of his comparable
contemporaries gets to be drearily repetitive as the same names get mentioned
over and over (Vollmann, Powers, Franzen, etc.). So I was very surprised indeed
when Mr. Wiley invoked a name I had never heard before: Carol DeChellis
Hill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I did
a Google search and not a lot of information came up. Most of the search
results were used book vendors selling her books. After rooting around a
little, I pieced together that she had four or five novels, the first one
written over 40 years ago. I was intrigued enough to pick them up to see what
she was all about. Some of her books were out of print. A couple of them were available
new on Amazon but as weirdly expensive paperbacks. There were no ebook versions.
Using the Amazon marketplace and eBay, I picked up four of her books relatively
cheaply, a small investment for what I hoped would be a worthwhile discovery.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As
soon as her books started to arrive I dove in, and soon I began to get pretty
excited. She was a really good, sometimes brilliant, writer. I started to
devour her novels at a fast and steady clip. A couple of them I was convinced
were masterpieces.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As
I approached the last few pages of what I had initially ordered, I began really
scouring the Internet for more information about her. I’m the type of person
who loves reading about artists I admire. (Even if they are not traditionally
“interesting”; for instance, I’ve somehow read three Salinger biographies.
Three!) I love in-depth interviews, profiles, stuff like that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">So
I was a little discouraged when the internet offered hardly anything at all
about Carol DeChellis Hill. There was no Wikipedia entry, no website (official
or otherwise), no author’s page on a publisher’s site. There were none of the
standard social media outlets authors use for promotional purposes: no Twitter
account, no Facebook, no blog. Not only that, no old interviews came up, no
profiles…nothing. I couldn’t even tell for sure whether she was still alive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I
started tracking down all the miscellaneous writing she had done—the text for a
photography book, a novelization of a movie, little short stories squirreled
away in now defunct magazines—eager just to read more of her prose. While unearthing her more obscure work, I gradually came across stray bits of biographical information about her.
I knew I was going to write little reviews of all her books when I was done,
but at a certain point I realized I could supplement those mini capsule reviews with all the info I
had uncovered about her. Doing so would create a one-stop place for people who
newly discover her work to come and learn more about this unjustly
overlooked author. So, with that in mind, this is as much of Ms. Hill’s story as
I can piece together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Before we begin, I will point out that most of the information about Carol DeChellis Hill that can be found on the internet is <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">taken from
her short bio in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Contemporary-Novelists-Josh-Lauer/dp/1558624082/" target="_blank">Contemporary Novelists,7th edition</a></i>, a prohibitively expensive, 1000+ page compendium of author
bios published in 2000:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinTaaMkFCehI1YDraYTt6pzXXCr2CR19MMX_6GXz3uiQhovmBPJITTfkXbHPE52p14wqdxhC6wenr-vEzrVS2RCnAstRjkRDMqdQsdOYLG5jnxixJtaUugSSblcatQ9qbhgPVQDkuXoYs/s1600/Bio1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinTaaMkFCehI1YDraYTt6pzXXCr2CR19MMX_6GXz3uiQhovmBPJITTfkXbHPE52p14wqdxhC6wenr-vEzrVS2RCnAstRjkRDMqdQsdOYLG5jnxixJtaUugSSblcatQ9qbhgPVQDkuXoYs/s320/Bio1.jpg" width="262" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5j4ozyL2d4t0Djp8I6kZDslwaPPRED0YPBpr8t8N7Gi1s86cbtFcJP6RnqKHYIuqkDZI4aB9mvHZL6gMlIQHrHGtRUTiC0KTW9SaRiYDvpMfv7tTU_MTwxquNqgdBaxKdiMntbbzhtgo/s1600/Bio2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5j4ozyL2d4t0Djp8I6kZDslwaPPRED0YPBpr8t8N7Gi1s86cbtFcJP6RnqKHYIuqkDZI4aB9mvHZL6gMlIQHrHGtRUTiC0KTW9SaRiYDvpMfv7tTU_MTwxquNqgdBaxKdiMntbbzhtgo/s320/Bio2.jpg" width="262" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Early Life</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Carol DeChellis Hill was born Carol Sue DeChellis on January 20, 1942. (This is according to the <i>CN</i> bio, though there is compelling evidence she might've been born in 1939. See below.) She grew up in
Westfield, New Jersey, and graduated from Westfield High School where she participated in many organizations including the literary club, dance
club, and bridge club, as well as being involved with the school magazine. Her main interest, however, was
theater and acting. During her senior year she served as president of the
school’s theater troupe, the Mask and Mime Club, and she had a major role in
the fall play, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Roomful of Roses</i>.
She was voted “Class Actress” in the senior superlatives.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWVQhOfqG9GXlNSbpsh1xUx7CBumYXCuraSZUexFnVi6ewWKKTXcc7mIQy7IqJrAAe0PO4C2vWQIm86sq2waTflVNEdkPvb7ZuFJZyxG78mnEbbTfLExwa-8I5e4gCbAYT5kmJOsrEb8/s1600/1957a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWVQhOfqG9GXlNSbpsh1xUx7CBumYXCuraSZUexFnVi6ewWKKTXcc7mIQy7IqJrAAe0PO4C2vWQIm86sq2waTflVNEdkPvb7ZuFJZyxG78mnEbbTfLExwa-8I5e4gCbAYT5kmJOsrEb8/s320/1957a.jpg" width="178" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6iQRXpxLrdJygKEByhM6ZOLh7feB4YzMNlfb-zM5YviZeL2WNQOLi5dyvF8LIdvMkxUCFifwGQsA02peL-EV6kfnEyIC6Wt4OpvzY8eklF7pvBdDqUMvDLJP2xoHIdcEFSlGasGq6qZU/s1600/1957class+actress.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6iQRXpxLrdJygKEByhM6ZOLh7feB4YzMNlfb-zM5YviZeL2WNQOLi5dyvF8LIdvMkxUCFifwGQsA02peL-EV6kfnEyIC6Wt4OpvzY8eklF7pvBdDqUMvDLJP2xoHIdcEFSlGasGq6qZU/s320/1957class+actress.jpg" width="178" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKIMfne3jVuvSr9fQ7qcCLA8Mmpb7vNzyps_yX9sYi3xJDkGNJVnAdXXP0dYefvFlYgPSDU-270iYGSo9DoEX13tNIm0sHjx895FKG5vHBYGsmYzCZO_ga4zYKVx6bLnkpP4o0n95VXJg/s1600/1957theater1957aroomfulofroses.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKIMfne3jVuvSr9fQ7qcCLA8Mmpb7vNzyps_yX9sYi3xJDkGNJVnAdXXP0dYefvFlYgPSDU-270iYGSo9DoEX13tNIm0sHjx895FKG5vHBYGsmYzCZO_ga4zYKVx6bLnkpP4o0n95VXJg/s320/1957theater1957aroomfulofroses.jpg" width="314" /></a></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">After
graduating high school, she attended Chatham College (founded in 1869 as the Pennsylvania Female College) in Pittsburgh, where she received a
B.A. in history. She was very active in various communities and organizations. She was president of the Christian Association, a student counselor, member of the Chatham choir, and president of the Junior class. She was also an excellent student, perenially making the Dean's List.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">After college she moved to New York City, where she became the assistant publicity director for Crown Publishers. Throughout the '60s, she was active in a
couple different theater companies, including the <a href="http://classic.judson.org/judsonpoetstheater" target="_blank">Judson Poets’ Theatre</a>, which
became one of the first theaters that constituted what is now known as “Off Off
Broadway.” In 1967, the Workshop Theatre at New York University produced her
full-length play <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mother Loves</i> (which
unfortunately I’ve been unable to track down).<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Early Writings and First Novel<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOiOBltZBMKwuj3Qhvx4Ys0zhS81T9CmH1uKd8xfG9aLgbX53vvV3haErdyZfTKI_A0cGbzUDlgXbV_vUe3n-THvxcz_0sYSnQKpEj53VZO4vNkmhkzp9wKM_5gLgx9KH-jh79EnRrCI/s1600/1970b.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOiOBltZBMKwuj3Qhvx4Ys0zhS81T9CmH1uKd8xfG9aLgbX53vvV3haErdyZfTKI_A0cGbzUDlgXbV_vUe3n-THvxcz_0sYSnQKpEj53VZO4vNkmhkzp9wKM_5gLgx9KH-jh79EnRrCI/s320/1970b.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Carol DeChellis Hill circa 1970</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The earlist piece of writing by Hill that I can find is a letter she wrote to the editor of The Massachusetts Review in 1965 (Vol. VI No. 3) concerning Edward Albee's play <i>Who's Afraid of Virgina Woolf?</i></span><br />
<i></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The earliest long-form writing by Hill that I can find is an essay called “Theatre Without Ideas,” published in the journal <i>New Politics</i>, December 1965. (She is credited as Carol D. Hill.) It is a review of the play known as <i>Marat/Sade</i> by Peter Weiss. She is fairly critical of it; she writes that “[t]he play fails in dramatic terms primarily because Weiss has not created <i>character</i>” and that there is a “lack of originality in the ideas of the play itself.”</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBbbyrV85s7p90D2hNpzbYqEMr60m-EgIRFxDwrQflls9mSlcioGEMWwEvHV2vYxe594Ex47ORBk_msN0ZCblvWNBoaGFavI8BZMXzd5huFyDFIFMBVZ1Op2hQyeD9-POxEmg9Qx8mu_A/s1600/1.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBbbyrV85s7p90D2hNpzbYqEMr60m-EgIRFxDwrQflls9mSlcioGEMWwEvHV2vYxe594Ex47ORBk_msN0ZCblvWNBoaGFavI8BZMXzd5huFyDFIFMBVZ1Op2hQyeD9-POxEmg9Qx8mu_A/s320/1.png" width="192" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYmFGaG1kwAFA51Gl-G6_IZewRw9tV8Nm6hbqjvAUVcpmTOwwBC2W1sBCqqur3jBRkPnHrm8ZW-pM64A-2pVLFIfSV7b2eUXPKrzl8Xxi6BAfhRQtMiw4WYH_mcYDDoH_N8P8Nz2R948/s1600/2.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYmFGaG1kwAFA51Gl-G6_IZewRw9tV8Nm6hbqjvAUVcpmTOwwBC2W1sBCqqur3jBRkPnHrm8ZW-pM64A-2pVLFIfSV7b2eUXPKrzl8Xxi6BAfhRQtMiw4WYH_mcYDDoH_N8P8Nz2R948/s320/2.png" width="192" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJGhW0MfmHh2GuEhTWahDNnV4QC8QNzF6FW_1wXFCuSyYf74RAv3Vuzs7zn4uEZamEPR2rp4KYQMF8yod7040nSdsis01dZODbwB9JbFxYNIXN95I0XFwBpSQwbARjdfFlUudXbVAWl1E/s1600/3.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJGhW0MfmHh2GuEhTWahDNnV4QC8QNzF6FW_1wXFCuSyYf74RAv3Vuzs7zn4uEZamEPR2rp4KYQMF8yod7040nSdsis01dZODbwB9JbFxYNIXN95I0XFwBpSQwbARjdfFlUudXbVAWl1E/s320/3.png" width="192" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisbofxOHMNf9wIBMRajguGte2SUZTVgHibdbZA9F-9z3sx9-s6ZlcDN_hg9jiMuSdMr4Y27gQWNqB6s_TXRZp9XduZphoBkzVoVEi3SScGgRvgEcsj4crdgQs275pRTTzRw_81wRmkdpY/s1600/4.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisbofxOHMNf9wIBMRajguGte2SUZTVgHibdbZA9F-9z3sx9-s6ZlcDN_hg9jiMuSdMr4Y27gQWNqB6s_TXRZp9XduZphoBkzVoVEi3SScGgRvgEcsj4crdgQs275pRTTzRw_81wRmkdpY/s320/4.png" width="192" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh71Vwn5DPnMqeRxu5wN1I4VOibTm47y6OzA-ajFrVi71_G1Hx5OmIiNSuGvOqbl5dyIbjZwxCeKgeXJQWd5DSWPgcj_N6fIHHrGiktHKPixDFceVbNaDn0zYu0AYOxUIQ6LBepUVMOoZk/s1600/5.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh71Vwn5DPnMqeRxu5wN1I4VOibTm47y6OzA-ajFrVi71_G1Hx5OmIiNSuGvOqbl5dyIbjZwxCeKgeXJQWd5DSWPgcj_N6fIHHrGiktHKPixDFceVbNaDn0zYu0AYOxUIQ6LBepUVMOoZk/s320/5.png" width="192" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_uVPy50SsQl7D6suq06-S96tDOyyqAdfPXee4c-EYQ62Oy1J2hnAXyYqI1ybx3O9B2otU_1_0DJeXbdp9jxqSqFjW37SSgloTcKIz6M1A_vdvJ2IkkhFlZYR-i7LKMOBVEwU40YoyvA/s1600/6.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ_uVPy50SsQl7D6suq06-S96tDOyyqAdfPXee4c-EYQ62Oy1J2hnAXyYqI1ybx3O9B2otU_1_0DJeXbdp9jxqSqFjW37SSgloTcKIz6M1A_vdvJ2IkkhFlZYR-i7LKMOBVEwU40YoyvA/s320/6.png" width="192" /></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The earliest fiction by Hill that I can find is the short story “The
Shameless Shiksa,” published in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Playboy</i>
magazine, September 1969. (She is credited as C.D. Hill.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It is about a young Jewish teenager named David who
is working at his father’s fruit and vegetable counter in a New York City grocery store. He is
mesmerized by an attractive female customer who regularly comes in and shocks
everyone with her casual talk of subjects widely considered inappropriate
for discussion such as female orgasm and the mechanics of insemination. She
discusses these things in a matter-of-fact way (it is implied that her interest in these subjects is scholarly) and never in an overly salacious
manner (even when she is egged on by others), which makes everyone
in the store, especially the boy’s mother, look like prigs in comparison when
they are left mortified by what she is saying. David is also embarrassed by her frank discussion
of sexual matters, but he’s understandably fascinated by her as well and, predictably,
she takes over his fantasies. In the aftermath of a chance encounter with her
out in public, something happens that causes David to believe he has left
adolescence behind for good. But his pronouncement of “Now I am a man” is more
menacing than it is triumphant, as his coming of age isn’t facilitated by the
object of his affection so much as it seems to come at her expense.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">On
May 20, 1970, Random House published Hill’s first novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jeremiah 8:20</i>. According to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Contemporary
Novelists</i> bio, she was 28 years old at the time of publication. (Though she might've been 31, see below.) This 371-page
novel centers around a 39-year-old protagonist named Jeremiah Francis Scanlon.
He’s fat, balding, and socially maladroit. He lives in New York City and leads
an uneventful life working as a bookkeeper. He resides in a boarding house
filled with colorful characters, most of whom are indifferent to him when not
openly scornful. Deeply unsatisfied in an indefinable way, Francis, as he is
called most of the time, gets it in his head one day that the black community is
hoarding the answers to life’s big secrets, and he proceeds to get a tape
recorder and starts to surreptitiously record as many conversations between black
people as he can get away with. It is from this point that he embarks on a path
of discovery, both about the world at large and himself.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">While
the novel is written in the third person, about 80% of it is closely tied to Francis’s
POV, with plenty of descriptions of what he is thinking. They are the thoughts
of a not overly educated man, full of terms like “din’t” and “allus” (always), words
lacking terminal g’s (“cleanin”, “somethin”, etc.), and mindless repetitions:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Having nothing
to do when he got there, he rearranged the sachet his mother had insisted upon,
among his socks, and looked for his book of crossword puzzles. He lay there for
some hours, across and down, down and across, not caring really, whether he got
it right or not. That was why, he knew. Milda always won it because she cared.
He didn’t really. He woulda liked to beat her to it, but really he didn’t care.
He lay back on the bed, opening and closing the night table drawer that
contained his supply of butter cookies, and lay there munching in a vague and
absent way as he stared hopefully out into the street, hoping faintly that he
might see something there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jeremiah
8:20, </i>pg. 43</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Francis
is someone in whom exists a blend of naivety and idealism, a person who believes newspapers
never lie, cops possess unassailable probity, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Moby-Dick</i> is a true story<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>notions that people around him have no
problem disabusing him of. He is, in many ways, that familiar figure who treads
the line between charming naïf and blundering idiot. What makes him unique is
that there is no clear indication that he should be the recipient of either our
scorn or sympathy; readers will find their feelings about him change on an
almost page-by-page basis. He can be by turns frustrating, piteous, funny,
admirable, dull, and surprisingly insightful. He doesn’t exist mainly to prove an author’s tendentious point. In other
words, he is that which all authors strive to create: a real, three-dimensional
character.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">While
Francis’s voice is prevalent throughout, there are occasional moments when the
book shifts to an overarching view of events, and in these moments it is capable
of beautiful observation:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">ARE YOU SCARED?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There seemed to
be a strange stillness in the air after he said that and suddenly a waft of
salt air so pungent to his nostrils that it stilled any further query,
surrounded them. The fog rolled in obscuring the land with its wet heavy
blanket, dragging almost clumsily, so slow, so stumbling was its advance,
catching on each thing, then to lift suddenly, over a bush, like the perilous,
inconclusive things raised by children, in small gusts and ebbing queries,
answered occasionally through the distance by a lugubrious response, a tried
and agreed upon thing whose occasional sounding it was believed, ensured the
general safety. Real fog, however, the kind raised most persistently, would
distort even the most practiced sound.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jeremiah
8:20</i>, pgs. 270-271<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Jeremiah 8:20 </span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">is an ambitious
novel, whose goal seems to be nothing short of encapsulating America, and it
succeeds pretty well in doing so. Through Francis and the characters he
encounters, Hill explores myriad topics including politics, office drudgery, sexual repression, race
relations, war, and the age-old question of “How does one live?” The character
of Francis and the heavily slanted-POV style of the novel seem to anticipate
the characters and styles of novels published later in the ‘70s that are widely
regarded as modern classics. You see aspects of Francis and his concerns
mirrored in Bob Slocum (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Something
Happened </i>by Joseph Heller, 1974), Harry White (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Demon</i> by Hubert Selby, Jr., 1976), and Richard Nixon (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Public Burning</i> by Robert Coover,
1977). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There
is a building tension as the novel takes on theme after theme and loads them in
significant and thought-provoking ways. Most narratives that attempt to filter
everything (or at least everything <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">important
and vital</i>) through a single character seem to inexorably inch toward a
climax that involves either a nullifying apocalypse or a cleansing rebirth. It is a credit to the author's talent that the
ending of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jeremiah 8:20</i> feels like
both at the same time. The long and short of it is that this book is an amazing artistic achievement.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Below are four critical appreciations of <i>Jeremiah 8:20</i>, all of which elucidate the novel's merits much better than I ever could. First is a review by the late great John Leonard that appeared in <i>The New York Times </i>on May 21, 1970. Next is a review by Robert A. Gross from the May 11, 1970 issue of <i>Newsweek. </i>Third is a positive review (with some qualifications) written by Eugene Goodheart in the journal <i>Midstream</i> in October 1970. And last but certainly not least is a very perceptive appreciation written by the distinguished poet and professor Samuel W. Allen from the December 1970 issue of <i>The Crisis</i>.</span><br />
<i></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Early to Mid-‘70s</b></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiekYNNkDVLIdoiT-6w1IHYMrqpjsisPZwmUhnr2dvvAEU3jv2rHY7MBKPihGkb_UNuyH_HRzkFnHAQufI44ZVhGEzfyUtg1N2N-4OhLJWM2fOizXw2sE1of5ijn_t-7jk7mBaFPQ75UB4/s1600/1974A.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiekYNNkDVLIdoiT-6w1IHYMrqpjsisPZwmUhnr2dvvAEU3jv2rHY7MBKPihGkb_UNuyH_HRzkFnHAQufI44ZVhGEzfyUtg1N2N-4OhLJWM2fOizXw2sE1of5ijn_t-7jk7mBaFPQ75UB4/s320/1974A.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Carol DeChellis Hill circa 1974</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In 1973, Holt Rinehart published <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Subsistence
U.S.A.</i>, a book of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bruce_Davidson_(photographer)" target="_blank">Bruce Davidson</a> photographs with accompanying text by
Carol Hill. The book contains long interviews with people from all over the country living in some
kind of privation<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>sometimes voluntarily, sometimes not<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">—along with photographs of them.</span> Hill writes little introductory pieces before
each interview, describing the environment the person lives in (they interview people from
California to Maine and everywhere in between) and the situation the person finds
him or herself in. They interview hobos, hitchhikers, destitute families from down
south, and hippies trying to live off the land, creating an affecting portrait of the <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">perseverance</span> of American people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The short story “Gone” was published in the November 1974 issue of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Viva</i> magazine. While it is very short, it is well written and manages to be surprising while striking a
poignant chord that hums after the final word is read. I think it may be the
best 508-word short story I’ve read this side of Donald Barthelme.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In
1974, Random House published Hill’s second novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s Fall in Love</i>. The story is a postmodern murder mystery that
takes place in various locales around Europe. A pair of detectives are trying to
solve the murder of an old lady who collected erotic esoterica, from antique
dildos to 19th century erotic manuscripts. They eventually cross paths with a
$10,000-a-night high-class courtesan and her acquaintances, some of whom have
ties to Middle Eastern terrorist organizations. Eventually it is uncovered that
the murder is part of a string of other unsolved murders that have something to do with the location of priceless paintings the Nazis stole
and hid away during WWII.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
novel is as crazy and madcap as it sounds. It is also very entertaining and
pretty experimental. Hill drops in what appear to be real <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Times</i> articles, mixing truth into her fantastical
narrative with intriguing results. There are also excerpts from real hundred-year-old
erotic texts, statistics from modern sex studies and surveys, reproductions of paintings, and
old magazine ads.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Some
of the book is just flat-out funny, like when one of the characters decides
she’s going to write an erotic novel and enlists the help of her friends:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now everyone,” she called, clanking on a
glass, “pay careful attention. First we have to define terms. Now we need terms
for the male and terms for the female. The first question is, is the dirtiest
word dirtier than the euphemism, and which is better for arousal?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Certain words,” Anna said, “we know are
dirty, i.e., prurient. They are: spread, if you follow it with the legs; if you
follow it with peanut butter it’s okay; squat, usually, licked, usually.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Sucked?” someone asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh, that one,” Anna said, “depends on how
you use it,” and with that she leaned back, smoking a lollipop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now is penis better or dork better?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Dork?” Lola said. “Ugh, is that a word for
a penis?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes,” Anna said, “it rhymes with pork,
that’s what I don’t like about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Scratch dork,” Lola said. Anna agreed. They
sat for a while around the pool enjoying the cool breezes. Finally Rabbi
Fennerman said, “What about schlong?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Schlong?” Anna asked incredulously, “Don’t
you mean dong?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No, no schlong,” the rabbi insisted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I like that,” Anna said, writing it down,
and then she read the sentence out loud, “He put his schlong into…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Wait,” Lola said, “put is too aggressive,
try something more delicate, like place.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Place,” Anna said, considering it. She
looked around, taking a vote. Bacco nodded. So did Rabbi Fennerman. It seemed
that they agreed that place was the thing for schlong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anna started again. “I think we’re going to
write a very good pornographic novel. Now listen to what we have so far, “He
placed his schlong into…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No no no,” Bacco said, “place is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">too </i>polite, schlong has a very pushy
quality.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I think that’s an anti-Semitic remark,”
Rabbi Fennerman said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No,” Anna said, “I don’t like pushed his
schlong into.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Wait,” said Lola, “it’s not so aggressive
if you change what he’s pushing it into.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What do you mean?”<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> “Well, if you have him pushing his
schlong into her cunt, that’s very rough.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, what do you want it in, her ear?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No, some euphemism. How about pushing his
schlong into her velvet glove?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t like velvet glove,” Anna said, “it
sounds fuzzy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re right,” Lola said, sitting back and
thinking it over. “If anything is velvet it should be the schlong.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What about rose,” said Bacco.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Perfect,” said Anna, reading out loud, “He
pushed his velvet schlong into her rose…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No no, no,” Lola said, “you can’t say
that.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You can’t? Why not?” Anna asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You can’t because,” Lola said simply,
“people don’t go around pushing things into roses. At least certainly not
decent, honest, hard-working people.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, he’s got to do something to it,” Anna
said, “maybe pry. What about he pried open the rose?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That makes it sound like a tin can,” Bacco
said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Um.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was silence for a moment and then Lola
said, “Maybe the rose could do something to him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Like what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Embrace,” Bacco volunteered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Embrace?” Anna said questioningly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes, good, good,” Rabbi Fennerman said.
“The rose embraced his velvet schlong.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anna was busy scribbling it down and asked
him to repeat it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“ ‘The Rose and the Schlong.’ You know,
that’s not a bad title,” Bacco said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“ ‘The Rose and the Schlong.’ ” cried Anna,
“yes yes, it’s absolutely perfect.” And so they all agreed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s
Fall in Love</i>, pgs. 143, 146-47<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">With
its elements of terrorism, sex, politics, and outré characters, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s Fall in Love</i> reminds me of a
DeLillo novel, something like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Running Dog</i>,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Players</i>, or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mao II</i>. And like most DeLillo books, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s Fall in Love</i> crescendos to a literally incredible ending, one
involving characters miraculously surviving a plane crash and then having to
escape an aborted séance in a moated castle in the Alps while evading gunfire
and crocodiles. Overall, this is a solid and fascinating second novel.
Side note: The cover of the UK release might be my favorite book cover ever:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9TR2DGODTPn7pqZHa8JjYnQIsuPX0AJMVlCLqPxsIo3iaFprBhfas2YoIaL-WBDk1RrEFLzHNe5Lze31SuxpZblMajauA-DrSP1xBiNaqo4HDc0xJbnc7_pBSN2GEd2Rl6OpaAxt37M/s1600/5435195378.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9TR2DGODTPn7pqZHa8JjYnQIsuPX0AJMVlCLqPxsIo3iaFprBhfas2YoIaL-WBDk1RrEFLzHNe5Lze31SuxpZblMajauA-DrSP1xBiNaqo4HDc0xJbnc7_pBSN2GEd2Rl6OpaAxt37M/s320/5435195378.jpg" width="231" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Another
short story of Hill’s, “Only Sleep With the Husbands of Friends,” was in the June 1975 issue of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Viva</i>. [Note: Although the <i>CN </i>bio says there is a story called "Lovers" in the
April 1975 issue of <i>Viva</i>, there is no writing by Hill in that issue.] It is a highly erotic tale of a 30-year-old woman and her efforts to alternately resist and succumb to an Italian painter's charms.</span><br />
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<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">An Unmarried Woman<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In
1978, Avon released the novelization of the Paul Mazursky film, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/An_Unmarried_Woman" target="_blank">An Unmarried Woman</a></i>. Actually, it says it
was based on the screenplay, so Hill probably had not seen the movie before
writing the novel. (Note: This book, as far as I can tell, is the first thing
that credits her as “Carol DeChellis Hill” and not just “Carol Hill.”)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
book (and movie) is about a woman in her mid-30s named Erica who believes she has a
good marriage until her husband announces out of the blue that he’s leaving her
for a younger woman. With the help of her friends, she navigates the waters of
being newly single while trying to guide her precocious teenage daughter
through adolescence.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
movie is not talked about much these days (there is no Blu-ray, and the DVD is
out of print but available on Netflix streaming)
but it was popular with both audiences and critics at the time, earning
over $20 million at the box office and scoring three Oscar nominations including
Best Picture and Best Actress for Jill Clayburgh. It was also named best film of 1978 by Roger Ebert.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
novel is written in that slick, easy-to-read style of books that seem like they
were shipped directly to airport bookstores as soon as they got off the press. It is
designed to be finished in one or two sittings. It is competently written, but
something of a head-scratcher. I’d be interested to know the circumstances that
led Hill to take this project on.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There
are some key differences between the movie and book. The book has characters
in it that were either cut from the movie or never made it past the early
script phase. One of these characters is Erica’s mom, who doesn’t play a
significant role in the story but her short scenes make sense because of course you’d
call your mom if your marriage broke up. Another character that appears only in
the book is Erica’s boss, and his only purpose seems to be so Erica can ask him
for a raise because she’s worried about money now that her bread-winning husband is out of the picture (he
is a stock broker and they were one of those vaguely wealthy Manhattanite
families that populate virtually every movie that takes place in NYC). This is
another major difference between the two: in the movie, Erica seems to hardly care about money at all, acting like her financial situation will remain
unchanged even though she works as an underling at a not very upscale art gallery. My guess is
that while having the character worry about money is certainly more realistic,
it is not what Mazursky wanted the movie to be about, so he opted not to have
the character express any concern at all. In the book Erica finds
herself thinking about money every few pages in a very believable fashion.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Also,
Erica’s daughter is way more erratic in the book, prone to wild mood swings,
acting out more, etc. In the movie the daughter is a lot more placid and calm,
evincing “maturity” in almost every scene. Again, I think the book is more
realistic (the daughter is, after all, only 15 years old), but perhaps Mazursky liked the
unconventionality of having an imperturbable teen daughter in a movie about divorce,
especially since the girl they cast was clearly older than 15 and looked fairly
mature already.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
last big difference between the movie and book (besides the ending of the
movie, which would be difficult to duplicate in prose, especially airport-book
prose) is that Erica has some pretty strong disagreements with her friends in
the book, leading to hard feelings that persist for large chunks of the story,
and are in some cases never fully resolved. In the movie the friends are pretty much unconditionally
supportive of Erica, always there for her and always receptive to Erica’s
emotional needs. In the commentary to the movie, Mazursky talks about how Erica
and her friends were precursors to the characters in <i>Sex and the City</i>, and how
it was almost revolutionary back then to depict a group of women as genuine,
supportive friends and not conniving and back-stabbing and in constant
competition with one another. Not that the friends in Hill’s adaptation were
total bitches to each other, but there was a fair amount of contention
interlaced with their good times together. It could've been that Mazursky wiped
out any trace of ill will between the friends early on before they started shooting, or maybe it was a decision
made during filming, or maybe Hill was just taking liberties with the story, changing things as she saw fit.
I could see any of these being possibilities.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Writing Full Time<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHgYZMGmE0R2fi8M92afligSghQ5_wKztXDEdKNgnJeMxIhJQIWtJVu90bsJYfiGeTjX20UUzAHTwBYlTcMm0541v5DJGTgTCiFIl0xLYvGK901kQPA3UVSHaubs-bqfTBfkMZfAaRP88/s1600/1986.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHgYZMGmE0R2fi8M92afligSghQ5_wKztXDEdKNgnJeMxIhJQIWtJVu90bsJYfiGeTjX20UUzAHTwBYlTcMm0541v5DJGTgTCiFIl0xLYvGK901kQPA3UVSHaubs-bqfTBfkMZfAaRP88/s320/1986.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Carol DeChellis Hill circa 1985</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Hill worked as a
publicist and editor for many major publishers throughout the ‘70s. She attained her highest position in the publishing world when she became the vice president of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich in 1978. She was also the senior editor at that company and edited many bestsellers, including Barry Goldwater's memoirs and <i>The Only Investment Guide You'll Ever Need</i> by Andrew Tobias. (He thanks her in the acknowledgments of the new edition published in 2011.) In 1980,
she turned to writing full time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In March of 1985, Holt, Rinehart and Winston published
Hill’s fourth novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Eleven Million
Mile High Dancer</i>. (It was published in England in 1988 with the title <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Amanda and the Eleven Million Mile High
Dancer</i>.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfnCTsE8K02UPAPf9bmWWwcc1mFsdHw60RPp-J7e193zCc7xXDe9OVPOnj3LzY-D54bkxEWZmGhPkOXUtdazVnXtQGXexhWB-mZVEWchx8bizXW89OriycfTEJerM9KyPCJHlSRqANU6Y/s1600/cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfnCTsE8K02UPAPf9bmWWwcc1mFsdHw60RPp-J7e193zCc7xXDe9OVPOnj3LzY-D54bkxEWZmGhPkOXUtdazVnXtQGXexhWB-mZVEWchx8bizXW89OriycfTEJerM9KyPCJHlSRqANU6Y/s320/cover.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Amanda
Jaworski, the book’s protagonist, is NASA’s premier female astronaut and about
to be the first person to travel to Mars. Her specialty is
particle physics, but she is no stuffy scientist. Instead, she is the kind of free-wheeling genius who has no
problem gliding around her workplace on roller skates. She is a fiercely intelligent woman who also happens to fully embrace her femininity; she “liked strawberry sodas,
high-heeled shoes, men, lipstick, convertibles, long hair, bright toenail
polish, particle physics, quarks, entropy, speculations regarding the speed of
light, Darwinism, and archaeology.” It is undoubtedly these unusual qualities of hers
that attract the notice of two suitors: Bronco McCloud, a jet pilot oozing
machismo, and Donald Hotchkiss, a dashing aerodynamic engineer. She spends most
of her time with the more sensitive and giving Hotchkiss, but finds herself
wistfully thinking of the more adventurous possibilities that McCloud offers:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She thought that
for women, the likes of McCloud would hang them all. She knew she would give up
everything for the joys of McCloud’s love. True this was no idle passion; this
was no will-o-the-wisp thing without meaning. The meaning of this was this:
with McCloud and McCloud only could she give herself fully. Why this should be
she really didn’t know. But somewhere in his sweet momentariness, like the
pause of a butterfly on a flower, Amanda found herself. The staunch reliability
of Hotchkiss, Hotchkiss’s very depth, that he would rescue her if need be from
the jaws of death itself—this life-giving action was totally ignored by the
female heart. The female heart, she thought, if one approached it that way, was
giving hell to time. No future, no past, only the now, snatched at the heat of
passion, was the gentle sex’s way of saying fuck you to hands of time. Time,
time, time, the enemy, time ending the race, the dare, the choice; women more
than men, although all of them for sure, but women were timed: a time to bleed,
a time to stop, a time to bear children, a time to stop; aspects of femininity
were built so rigorously into a clock as to force an urgent stand against such
a terrible oppressor. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Now</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">only now—</i>what a way of getting even. She
didn’t understand it. She knew only this: it was a dangerous game and required
an elastic nature Amanda knew she did not have.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Eleven Million Mile High Dancer</i>, pg. 61<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In
other passages, her analytical assessments of female concerns give the whole
novel a feminist tinge:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She was thinking
about that. And wondering what she would find on Mars. She was also thinking
about women. She was thinking that despite all this emancipation business, men
still ruled the earth. In most countries, in most places, men ruled. And most
people in most countries thought that men had “the answers.” What bothered her
was that women thought they should defer to men, that men should have the
answers; or therefore, that women shouldn’t. She thought that women who acted
like they had the answers weren’t sure deep down. Why, she wondered, was it so
hard for women to be sure?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Eleven Million Mile High Dancer</i>, pg. 153<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYsR0MIzKtyPVB5MTV2OAFCRaqQiqqG3o2OblVKWZEDR-pX9RhW0Sl14QI7AB8x5ZHtSSBrUWO2f3n1utqrDGUuEqLaAue_CfUKiSmX9QSWoJdX3IyISvn0JbsRFOaW1aHTHg49Tg82sY/s1600/005.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYsR0MIzKtyPVB5MTV2OAFCRaqQiqqG3o2OblVKWZEDR-pX9RhW0Sl14QI7AB8x5ZHtSSBrUWO2f3n1utqrDGUuEqLaAue_CfUKiSmX9QSWoJdX3IyISvn0JbsRFOaW1aHTHg49Tg82sY/s320/005.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Letter included with advance copies</b><br />
<b>of <i>The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer</i></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But
soon there is hardly any time for introspection as the mechanics of the plot take
over and the story progresses at a dizzying pace. It all starts on the cusp of her journey
to Mars, when strange things start to occur. Her cat, Schrodinger, gains unnatural
intelligence, allowing him to read in multiple languages. Amanda is visited by
alien beings from millions of light years away. And unbeknownst to her, 10,000
Native Americans have disappeared without a trace in Texas. Soon Amanda<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>along
with Hotchkiss, a boy prodigy, and a trained chimp named 342<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span>finds herself on
a journey to Epsilon Eridani, a star 40 million light years away from Earth, in order to
retrieve her cat, who has been stolen by a seemingly omniscient being called
the GBC, or the Great Cosmic Brain. It is there she uncovers the existence of armies
of red and blue robots intent on destroying the human race at the behest of the
GBC, who turns out to have been the earth’s creator. She enlists the help of
the mysterious Rastus and an inchoate entity called the Ooze to help her return
to Earth and save it in the process. The story culminates, of course, with the
appearance of an eleven million mile high dancer. (In the acknowledgments, Hill
says she was inspired by a picture in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cosmic-Code-Quantum-Physics-Language/dp/0486485064" target="_blank">The Cosmic Code</a></i> by Heinz Pagel.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYdYXWR9HAOvkI13j-uDducnDYEwIPFt9kBgqyRB7jGb7hJMQVsQqrUNWqtA-NvLGEskkScuh17xo1DD6e7lclH0feGdP0v6IqiEoxmF1VvW3Znc0In7T-n8PSDLrfUj18bvhwRmGO_mQ/s1600/inspiration+eleven+million+mile.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYdYXWR9HAOvkI13j-uDducnDYEwIPFt9kBgqyRB7jGb7hJMQVsQqrUNWqtA-NvLGEskkScuh17xo1DD6e7lclH0feGdP0v6IqiEoxmF1VvW3Znc0In7T-n8PSDLrfUj18bvhwRmGO_mQ/s320/inspiration+eleven+million+mile.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Picture that inspired <i>The Eleven Million Mile High</i></b><br />
<b><i>Dancer</i>, from <i>The Cosmic Code</i> by Heinz Pagel</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Characters
and out-of-nowhere plot elements keep piling up in this science fantasy extravaganza.
It never devolves completely into farce, but a light, comedic tone is maintained
throughout, overlaid with a constant sense of wonder at the universe we live
in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In the mid-'80s, Hill wrote a couple book reviews for <i>The New York Times</i>, including one for Lorrie Moore’s first novel:</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
ANAGRAMS by Lorrie Moore. 225 pp. New York: Alfred
A. Knopf. $15.95. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
BY CAROL HILL<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
Published: November 2, 1986<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
IN Lorrie Moore's ''Anagrams,'' there's a fierce,
hot eye that makes you wonder whether you're going to be stranded in the
familiar desert of the modern imagination. But the book has a saving grace:
Benna Carpenter - who is either a poet, teacher, nightclub singer, aerobics
instructor or all of these - is appealing as the heroine of this extraordinary
and often hilarious first novel. She sees the irony of her situation,
describing her meetings with her imaginary friend, Eleanor, as ''The Great
White Wine'' - ''whiney white people getting together over white wine and
whining.'' <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
Benna's closest real friend is a musician, Gerard
Maines. Their apartments share a thin wall, and Gerard sits one night, dopey
with love, fully dressed in his dry bathtub, waiting for Benna to return,
yearning only for the sound of her toilet flushing. Gerard loves Benna, and she
kind of likes him. This is their first attempt to make love: ''We ended up in
my bed together, sort of, spastic and looped, doomed for failure, like two
senile inventors in an upstairs room, lonely as spoons. The whole business
finally seemed less an expres-sion of mutual attraction than a soft, noodly act
of existentialism.'' <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
Benna and Gerard eventually do become lovers, and
she sits in a rinky-dink cocktail lounge where he sings and plays piano and dreams
of becoming an opera star. Then Benna gets pregnant, the imaginary Eleanor
sleeps with Gerard, and Benna has an abortion. Miraculously, the relationship
between Benna and Gerard not only survives these events but becomes a deep,
close friendship. Throughout all of this we are treated to Benna's reflections,
which often take the form of quirky, fond musings on words: '' 'Have fun in
Tunis,' I'd say as he disappeared off to rehearsals. I liked to say Tunis. It
sounded obscene, like a rarely glimpsed body part.'' <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
Words roll around in Benna's mind like Life Savers
on a tongue. Beneath the sweet pleasure of play, however, we sense her need for
something else, some deeper articulation that will exorcise distance, bring her
love and keep her from death. Watching a flock of birds, she muses: ''From four
blocks away I could see that the flock had a kind of group-life, a recognizable
intelligence; no doubt in its random flutters there were patterns, but alone
any one of those black birds would not have known what was up. Alone, as people
live, they would crash their heads against walls.'' <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
To avoid hitting the wall, Benna falls in love with
Darrel, a black Vietnam veteran who is taking her poetry class. Race is
something Benna tries to avoid through her almost magical belief that whatever
separates us can be overcome if we find the right words. She assigns sestinas
to her poetry class, writing on the blackboard the end words ''race, white,
erotic, lost, need, love, leave.'' Darrel raises his hand and says that's seven
words, not six. Benna erases ''love,'' then changes her mind and erases
''white.'' <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
It is a loss in the novel that this particular
relationship is not developed further. It's unfortunate too that the changes of
place and point of view in the beginning chapters interrupt and confuse us, so
that we move away from the story. Some of the early chapters read almost as if
they were independent entities, and it may be that Ms. Moore's talents as a
short-story writer, revealed in her collection, ''Self-Help,'' tempted her in
that direction. These opening chapters are like a magnificent engine alone on
its track. We watch, waiting for the hookup, which we get only in the last
section of the book. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
Here we meet a wondrous 6-year-old, Georgianne
Michelle Carpenter, who is Benna's imaginary daughter. And it is here that so
much of the power and impact of the novel begin to make themselves felt. George
and Benna have a very good time: a sweet happiness flows between them as they
watch the news, take showers together on Saturday mornings to the tunes of
Broadway shows, dust the living room and revel in the intimacy of sickroom
caresses and goodnight kisses.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
Benna loves Georgianne intensely, and in this love,
which is sustained only by words, we discover how much this novel is about
language, about the power of sounds to slice through the darkness, and through
meaning to join us. It is a tribute to Lorrie Moore's talent that the reader
believes in Georgianne. UNEXPECTEDLY, Gerard dies, a brutal blow to Benna, who
makes one last, painful effort to connect by visiting her lost, hapless
brother, Louis. When she and Louis wind up watching a sitcom about a dog on
Christmas day in a dreary Queens apartment, Benna's humor erupts in a swift,
savage swipe: ''Her mind wandered. She thought of pets growing tired and
committing suicide, what notes they would leave: 'Dear Benna: It's all a crazy
game. Farewell, Max, Your Schnauzer.' ''
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br />
We think Benna may now have lost her real
connections in the world. But we're wrong. There are stronger ties still. There
are Benna's gifts, imagination and language - and there is the child,
Georgianne. Benna's love for this child - like ''Anagrams'' itself - is a
powerful example of how imagination can save us with temporary pleasures.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Henry James’ Midnight Song<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqkDXJvf56vs6dIWaU75erKcGWlrS2iJlZmixzo-Lohgtue10Lu4AZiB0xsGvuBxB6UK2jgYEbKGmdgMop8u7cwrEp1M33CpF-K3z0ZUiI_AJe48HgMixyUsBvwSQlbMXWEae-wv_AqoQ/s1600/1993.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqkDXJvf56vs6dIWaU75erKcGWlrS2iJlZmixzo-Lohgtue10Lu4AZiB0xsGvuBxB6UK2jgYEbKGmdgMop8u7cwrEp1M33CpF-K3z0ZUiI_AJe48HgMixyUsBvwSQlbMXWEae-wv_AqoQ/s320/1993.jpg" width="215" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Carol DeChellis Hill circa 1993</b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">On
August 31, 1993, Poseidon Press, an imprint of Simon and Schuster, published Hill’s
fifth novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Henry James’ Midnight Song</i>.
(She is credited as “Carol De Chellis Hill.”) It’s a murder mystery that takes place
mostly in Vienna around the turn of the 20th century, and it features an array
of real-life characters including Sigmund Freud, Henry James, and Edith Wharton,
along with lesser known historical figures like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Count_Alois_Lexa_von_Aehrenthal" target="_blank">Lexa von Aehrenthal</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hugo_von_Hofmannsthal" target="_blank">Hugo von Hofmannsthal</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It
is abundantly clear that Hill is well versed in this time period and the people
involved. It is this knowledge that allows her to mold the truth for her own
purposes in order to create a dazzling work of fiction. The book does not
demonstrate absolute fidelity to historical fact, nor should it. (In a
postmodern touch, a foreword claims that this is a “found text,” only lightly
edited, and warns the reader that there are many chronological inconsistencies in the
narrative. This unnamed scholar even goes so far as to point out some of the inaccuracies with footnotes.) In a work of fiction that uses historical figures,
the author needs to be nimble enough to know when to deviate from recorded
fact, lest the work turn into a collection of facts, which does not a novel
make (not a good one, at least).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">While
it’s true that readers bring along certain unavoidable preconceptions when they
encounter real-life figures on the page, Hill does not rely solely on these preconceptions to inform the characters. These are not stiff,
musty cutouts from the annals of history. Instead, Hill augments what we may
know about each individual (or think we know) with a strong authorial vision (and revision).
Henry James and Edith Wharton are developed as any newly introduced characters are in a well-written novel. After that first frisson of recognition, we quickly discover
them anew, as Hill does a great job in imbuing them with individual concerns,
hopes, and dreams (most important in early 20th century Vienna). It takes remarkably few pages for them to become alive to us, to become characters we care about. In this
way, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Henry James’ Midnight Song</i>
reminds me of Pynchon’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mason & Dixon</i>,
another novel that used numerous real-life events and characters. Pynchon also
resurrected his historical figures from safely embalmed history, vivifying them into
extraordinary literary creations while deviating a fair amount from established
fact. The lesson here seems to be that it’s easy to give writers artistic
license when you feel secure with their ability at the wheel. While <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Henry James’ Midnight Song</i> does not have
the intimidating bravura of the pseudo-18th century diction Pynchon created for
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mason & Dixon</i> (making <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Midnight Song</i> an easier and more
pleasing novel for most readers, undoubtedly why there were some
grand statements made about Hill’s achievement, such as the one made by Judith Caesar of the <i>Philadelphia
Inquirer</i>: “[<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Henry James’ Midnight
Song</i>] puts Carol DeChellis Hill among postmodern masters as Thomas
Pynchon, E.L. Doctorow, and Umberto Eco. She may even be better.”), there are
certainly affinities between the two novels, including the literary device
of telling stories within stories. (For what it’s worth, <i>Henry James’ Midnight Song</i> was released four years before <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mason & Dixon</i>.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">With
this novel, Hill confirms the breadth of the wide-ranging talent she evinced with her debut
novel 23 years prior. In some ways, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Henry
James’ Midnight Song</i> feels like an encapsulation of the themes of all her
previous major works. The book resonates with the sentiment expressed by one of the
characters in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jeremiah 8:20</i>, that literary works can somehow be truer than reality. The murder
mystery mirrors the basic plot structure of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s
Fall in Love</i>, and one of the epigraphs of that book is quoted by a
character in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Midnight Song</i> (“One can
only see what one observes, and one observes only things which are already in
the mind.” –Alphonse Bertillon, Founder, Bureau of Criminal Identification,
Paris Police Department). The feminist concerns of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer</i> are reflected in the characters’ rumination
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Midnight Song</i> about the differences
of male and female authorship of a novel, and there is open speculation
about how history might’ve been different if Hitler had been born female. (One
of the characters sees visions of the future Holocaust.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But the main thing that
unites Carol DeChellis Hill’s vastly different works is her voice, which is clear,
lucid, and perspicacious. One gets the impression that these novels needed to
be cared for by someone with the integrity to put aside ego and do whatever was
necessary for the book, adopt whatever voice was needed, do whatever research
the story required. As far as I can tell, they could not have had a much better
steward than Hill, who was able to construct lasting, resonant novels that overflow
with ideas and contain abundant pleasures for both the heart and mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Henry James’</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Midnight Song</i> came out in 1993, and
there hasn’t been another Carol DeChellis Hill book since.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Post-1993<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It
appears Norton handled the paperback release of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Henry James’ Midnight Song</i>, and also did a re-release of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s Fall in Love</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer</i> in
1996. On the back of those books, it says Hill was living in New York City and
teaching writing at New York University.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In the mid-'90s, <i>Victoria </i>magazine set up a "tea and conversation" with Hill and three other writers</span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> (Francine Prose, Judith Thurman, and Susan Minot). They discussed their work and writing process. Some of the conversation was printed in the September 1995 issue. Here are all of Hill's comments:</span></span><br />
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"Let me start by saying that I don't write from a quiet place within. I write from a miltary zone. A war zone all the way. With the exception of my first novel, my books have felt like wrestling an alligator.<br />
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I spent a long period of my life thinking there must be an easier way. I went out and bought a whole bunch of books called 'How to Write Novels.' I thought that maybe there was something I was missing. I went through the motions of trying to write in a very structured and studied way. I set my alarm clock. It didn't work. So I keep writing from my military zone.<br />
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For my last book I did a lot of research on Einstein, who ultimately didn't make it in as a character. Someone asked him what was the source of his creativity. He said, 'I get my best ideas anywhere among the three B's<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">—the Bath, the Bed, the Bus.'</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The three B's offer brooding time. Writers are not writing all the time. Often ideas are on the back burner, bubbling away. I had the original inspiration for 'Henry James' Midnight Song' twenty years before I wrote it. I read an uncharacteristic fragment of Edith Wharton's writing and I could feel a novel beginning. I took notes on subways and in the backs of cars and ignored them for years. When I went back to them it appeared that a murder had occurred in Sigmund Freud's study and that Edith Wharton and Henry James were suspects. I realized I had a novel I needed to write.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">'A writer,' as the Polish author Czeslow Milosz said, 'cannot be really one person. A writer is more like a house without any locked doors. With unknown guests who come and go. A writer must only hope that these spirits who inhabit him or her leave benign traces and trails.'</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I have a lot of thoughts that come up and I think, I'm not going to write that down. Writers spend a lot of time backing away from writing. But finally something comes up that is sufficiently powerful that you want to transform it. Then you realize, I am going to have to write this story in order to read it."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">(The article included a caricature of Hill drawn by Richard Ely, included here for completeness's sake:)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In
1997, she was on the panel of judges for the National Book Award. They gave the
award, somewhat controversially, to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cold Mountain</i>
by Charles Frazier. (DeLillo’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Underworld</i>,
one of the nominees, was widely expected to win. Also published that year was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mason & Dixon</i>, which was not
nominated.) The panel that year was headed by the author <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nicholas_Delbanco" target="_blank">Nicholas Delbanco</a>. I spotted a copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jeremiah 8:20</i> online that
Hill had inscribed to him, presumably before they, along with their fellow judges, were to start debating on whom
the award should go to. The vendor selling the book included a letter Hill
wrote to Delbanco. In a fascinating paragraph, she talks a little about the process of writing her first novel. She also gives her first
impressions of <i>The Puttermesser Papers</i>, the Cynthia Ozick novel that was nominated. (As a DeLillo fan, I’d have
loved to hear what she thought of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Underworld</i>.)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">According
to Amazon, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jeremiah 8:20</i> was
republished on March 27, 2001, by an organization called the Author’s Guild. It
is from their <a href="http://www.backinprint.com/" target="_blank">“backinprint.com program,”</a> a print-on-demand
service. According to their website, they specialize in making available again
notable out-of-print books in new paperback editions. It appears the author, or
someone representing the author, has to actively enlist their services to get a
book reprinted. This edition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jeremiah
8:20</i> is <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Jeremiah-8-20-Carol-Hill/dp/059516756X/" target="_blank">still available on Amazon</a>. [Note: I actually have a bunch of these, so if you've gotten this far and are interested in CDH, email me a mailing address at dhsayer84[at]gmail[dot]com and I'll send you a free copy.]</span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Miscellany</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Hill was interviewed by Don Swaim for his radio program <i>Book Beat</i> on April 24, 1985. The raw, unedited audio of this interview is <a href="https://media.library.ohio.edu/digital/collection/donswaim/id/6220/rec/1" target="_blank">available for download</a>. They start out discussing <i>The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer</i>, then Hill talks about how she became a writer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Some
of her papers are at Boston University, in the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center. They appear to have a <a href="http://hgar-srv3.bu.edu/collections/notable-figure?id=111374" target="_blank">4-page short story called “A Woman’s Story,” and material related to Let’s Fall in Love</a>, as well as <a href="http://hgar-srv3.bu.edu/collections/collection?id=122156" target="_blank">four drafts of <i>Henry James' Midnight Song</i> and something I've never heard of called <i>You Must Remember This...</i>.</a>
(Time to start planning a trip.) At least some of this material seems to be in the Natalie Robins collection.
Natalie Robins, an author, is married to Christopher Lehmann-Haupt, who was a
major contributor to the <i>New York Times</i> (now retired). Maybe Ms. Hill and Natalie Robins were/are friends
or acquaintances and the collection contains correspondence between them? (Note: Lehmann-Haupt
called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Henry James’ Midnight Song</i> “dazzling” and an “extravagantly
imagined new novel” but he did have major reservations about it in his <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1993/10/04/books/books-of-the-times-guilty-consciences-in-old-vienna.html" target="_blank"><i>New York Times</i> review</a>.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The archives of <i>The Westfield Leader</i>, the local paper of Hill's hometown, contain many items of interest. There is an engagement notice on May 23, 1963, which says she will be marrying Herbert Hill that summer (and thereby acquiring the "Hill" surname). In the August 29, 1963 edition, it states that Ms. DeChellis married Mr. Hill at her home in Westfield on August 23, 1963. Herbert Hill was the national labor director of the NAACP at the time, a position he held until 1977. He died in 2004, at the age of 80. Strangely there is no mention of Carol DeChellis Hill in his <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2004/08/21/us/herbert-hill-a-voice-against-discrimination-dies-at-80.html" target="_blank">obituary in the <i>New York Times</i></a>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In the July 16,
1970 edition of <i>The Westfield Leader</i> there is an article about the publication of her first novel, <i>Jeremiah 8:20</i>. It lists a few of the early accolades and favorable reviews the book received, and goes on to list some biographical facts about Hill. Note that the article states that she graduated from Westfield High
School, class of 1957. This is confirmed by the yearbook I found. If her DOB
from the bio in <i>Contemporary
Novelists </i>is correct, she was 15 years old when she graduated. While this is not outside the
realm of possibility, if she was the more conventional 18 years of age upon graduation her birth date would be three years before the bio states, in 1939, which would make her 74 today (if the date in <i>CN </i>is
in fact correct, she turned 71 this past January). She also mentions working on <i>Jeremiah 8:20</i> when she was 29 years old during the Don Swaim interview, which doesn't make sense if the <i>CN</i> bio is accurate (it claims she was 28 when the novel was published).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The
article states that she is still married to Herbert Hill. At some point they must have divorced (Herbert Hill's obituary mentions that he married a professor named Mary Lydon in 1977) and she later married Jerry Albert, whom she thanks in the acknowledgements of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Henry James’ Midnight Song.</i> (One can probably safely assume that he is the "Jerome Albert" credited as the photographer of her author photos on the hardcovers of <i>Let's Fall in Love</i> and <i>Henry James' Midnight Song</i>.)</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></b>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Final Thoughts<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My
excitement at discovering Carol DeChellis Hill’s work was quickly tempered by disappointment
at the fact that hardly anyone seems to know who she is. Her obscurity in the literary world is a downright shame considering that her debut novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jeremiah 8:20 </i>is not only one of the
best first novels of all time, it deserves to stand side by side with other
well regarded books of the same era. Her subsequent books are also very good, and burnish what has been a distinguished oeuvre.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And yet
there has not been another novel, or much word from her at all, in 20 years.
Has she been working on something all this time? She was clearly not a “book a
year” author, taking 7 or 8 years between her last couple books. But on that
schedule, we should still have had two new novels since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Henry James’ Midnight Song.</i> Did she have no more to say? Did her
inspiration fail to match her extraordinary talent? Or is she meticulously
preparing a grand final project? If so, her first novel in 20+ years would be a
major literary event, and a triumphant return of someone who should, if there’s
any justice, be regarded as one of the most significant American novelists of the last 50 years.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">DHS</span></div>
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D.H. Sayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08740559288528910497noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659380036401967950.post-76714639821122608092012-07-29T23:56:00.000-04:002013-06-04T12:33:59.778-04:00Short Story: Twisted Love<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Reluctantly, she knocked on the door.
She had been standing on the porch for many minutes, quietly and slowly freezing
in the chilled night air. Her knuckles stung as she rapped them against the
door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> There was no immediate answer, and her
insides swelled with hope. But then the door opened and Richard peered out at
her. Her heart sank, but she tried not to show it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard stood there for a second, regarding
her with an inscrutable expression, before saying, “Well, hello there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> She smiled, and between the cold and
her anguish, it almost hurt, the smile. It was a fissure that had opened across
her face, splitting it painfully. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words
came out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard leaned back inside, the top half
of his body disappearing behind the door. A light came on above her. She
squinted at it, like a person dazed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard straightened himself and
looked at her with a pleasant enough expression, though his smile wasn’t as big
or generous as it should have been, she thought. He put his hands in his
pockets and leaned against the doorjamb. Her heart was racing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard looked like he wanted to say
something but couldn’t find the words. He seemed more amused than frustrated by
his inability to speak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She started to explain again why she
was there, repeating what she had told him on the phone. Her words were
disjointed, tumbling out of her mouth all a-jumble. He started nodding in the
way of inattentive people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Are you cold?” Richard said suddenly.
Before she could say anything he reached out for her hands, which had been tucked
under her arms. He grasped them and pulled them toward him. She let him.
Richard brought them close to his face and made a show of inspecting them.
“Mmm, they look positively frostbitten,” he murmured. He rubbed her hands,
interlacing his fingers with hers and gently squeezing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She wanted to maintain eye contact
with him, but she couldn’t and instead looked down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Well, let’s get you inside,” Richard
said, the slightest hint of impatience in his voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He led her inside the house. In the
foyer, Richard offered to take her coat. She stretched one arm out and then the
other as he tugged the sleeves off. There was little in the way of incidental
contact between them as her coat was being removed, for which she was thankful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">They walked into the living room and
Richard told her to sit on the couch. She eased herself down, worried that he
would try to sit next to her. But he left the room without a word.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She stared straight ahead, still as
stone, transfixed by an ornate statuette on the mantelpiece across the room
that she wasn’t really looking at. She told herself she should leave, just get
up and go, in that reassuring manner that people have when telling themselves
they are free do something they know deep down is not an option.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard returned with two wine glasses
half-filled with crimson libation. He handed her one of them. She obediently
took it and brought it to her lap without taking a single sip. Oblivious to her
reluctance, Richard walked across the room, taking a healthy swig from his
glass. He sat down in an upholstered chair, and she felt a little more at ease.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But that modicum of comfort swiftly
vanished when many long moments passed in silence and she realized that Richard
had stationed himself in a spot where he was able to scrutinize her, which is
what he was doing, openly, with startling assurance. She nervously turned away
from his naked interest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard cleared his throat and said,
“So. How are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She started to tell him how things
were not so good, how she was in a bit of trouble and…. She trailed off when
she heard Richard chuckling softly. She shot him a glance, both quizzical and indicting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard held up his hands in mock
defense. “I’m sorry,” he said, smirking. “Just so you know, the correct
response to ‘How are you?’ is ‘I’m fine, how are you?’ That’s what you’re
supposed to say, even when things aren’t fine. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Especially</i> when things aren’t fine. You’ve always had that problem,
you know—taking the question at face value. One of the many things you never
picked up. There’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i> something
wrong. It doesn’t mean people really want to hear about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s also rude,” he added, “to let a proffered
drink sit idly in your hands. What you have there is a vintage ’65. I opened it
for this special occasion.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She tightened her lips guiltily and
took a few quick sips of the wine. Before she could tell him it was good, he
darted over to the couch, next to her. She reflexively tried to scoot away but
she was already flush against the armrest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard reached out and started to rub
her back. She managed not to flinch too much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“You look tired,” he murmured.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She shrugged her shoulders, a frozen
smile on her face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He continued to trace slow circles on
her back. “I can’t believe you’re finally here. After all this time,” he said.
His voice was hushed, almost a whisper. She half-turned away from him,
realizing too late that she was exposing even more of her back to him, which
allowed Richard to place both of his hands on her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She felt him shift on the couch,
bridging what little gap was between them. She instantly leapt up and took a
couple quick strides to the mantelpiece, feigning interest in the knick-knacks
that were on the shelf. She could see Richard in the mirror on the wall, and
she caught him rolling his eyes. But he remained on the couch, which was the
important thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She picked up a glass figurine and
started to ask him about it when she noticed that the couch was empty. She
swiveled around, frantic. Then she saw him lighting candles around the room. He
went from the coffee table to the glass stand next to the couch, leaving a
trail of small flames in his wake. He made his way over to the mantelpiece,
bringing the lighter up to the wick of the taper candle on the shelf. He
settled there, next to her, like newly perched crow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard gazed at her. She gave him a small,
timid smile, then looked away. She took a few steps away from him, and he
stayed where he was, allowing her to move farther away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard stared up at the ceiling
ruminatively. “You know, I used to think about how it’d play out. I thought about
it a lot, endlessly,” he said in a solemn voice. “I would envision it
happening, you coming here, how nervous we both would be, the initial
awkwardness. There would be a fair amount of talking around the matter, a lot
of beating around the bush, as it were. Are you familiar with that saying, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beating around the bush</i>? Do they say
that where you’re from? I never did find out where you’re from....”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She started to tell him but he stopped
her with a dismissive wave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I’m sorry, Favia,” he said. “I don’t
care. There was a time that I would’ve listened to you tell me all about where
you grew up, your childhood stories and all that, but I just can’t even pretend
to care right now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard drummed his fingers on the
shelf for a moment, then continued: “I had a theory, back in the day. I thought
that if I could somehow get you in my house—or, more specifically, get you in
my bedroom—something would happen. Even if you had no intention of anything
happening, even if you were sure that it’d be a simple friendly visit. You told
me so many times that you’d do that: stop in for a nice, friendly visit. And I
believed you for the longest time. But if you ever did, I was convinced that if
I could somehow get you in my bedroom, the setting and situation would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">force</i> something to happen. Like when you
put a pot of water on the stove…it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i>
boil over at some point. The components of you, me, and my bedroom would lead
to inevitable events. I was sure of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard furrowed his brow in
remembrance. “It’s like these dreams I used to have,” he said. “They were
awful. I would be zapped into a situation, without warning, without
explanation. I’d be me but someone else, in that weird, obscure way that makes
complete sense for the duration of the dream. The circumstances I was inserted
into were horrible. I’ve forgotten most of them, but I do remember one where I
was suddenly one of those old-time executioners. Like back in the Middle Ages.
During a public execution in the town square with all the townspeople gathered
around, the whole bit. There was this makeshift stage or platform so everyone
could see, and the condemned person had his hands bound behind him and was bent
over a block, his head hanging over a basket. And I had to kill him. It didn’t
matter that I had no idea what the man had done or what had led to my being
there. All I knew was that I had a huge axe in my hands and I was wearing a black
hood. The crowd urging me on. I had to do it. The situation called for it. It
made me realize that time and place dictates action more than anything. Not
your will, or desire, or sense of right and wrong. Put someone in a certain
situation and they are capable of doing anything.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She wanted desperately to leave. She
couldn’t stop trembling. Richard stood there, watching her. She put her hands
on the shelf and sagged forward. She found herself face to face with the statuette
she was inattentively staring at before. It was a sinister-looking gargoyle,
its eyes demonically slanted, its maw contorted with hideous intent. She felt
sick.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard moved closer to her, and she
felt his arms start to wrap around her. With a choked sob, she tried to ask him
a question, but her words came out in broken pieces, her voice trailed off into
silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But something must have gotten through.
She felt his hands halt their slow approach and slide away. Richard walked away
from her. She quickly wiped her eyes, smearing her eyeliner all over her face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard came up behind her. “Favia,”
he said softly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She turned around and her eyes were
immediately drawn to the stack of bills Richard was holding out to her. She
felt her spirits rise as she eagerly took the money from him. She briefly
luxuriated in the weight of it in her hands before stuffing it into her pocket.
She smiled at him gratefully.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Of course I was going to give you that,”
Richard said. “I’m happy to help you in any way I can.” He was not smiling; she
didn’t notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She was somehow able to reach out and
give his arm a pat. She then mumbled about needing to leave, assuring him that
she’d be back again sometime.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard made a sound like a sigh. “Ok
Favia, I understand. Always on the move. Always too busy, always calling and
hanging up.” He displayed his teeth. “But before you go, there’s a favor I want
to ask of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Before her heart could start to race
again, he said, “Look at me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She looked up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Just look at my face,” he directed,
not unkindly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She did. She looked right into Richard’s
eyes for the first time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“How do you think I look?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She started to say that he looked
great, how young he looked, how nice his eyes were, how he looked like he
always had….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard stopped her, turning her
toward the hanging mirror. “Let’s now look at you, and I’ll tell you what I
see.” After a moment’s inspection: “You look old, Favia.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She glanced at him, expecting to see a
jocular expression on his face, but instead his mouth was a tight, serious line
and his eyes reflected nothing but dark clouds. “Not older,” he clarified.
“Just old. It’s been, what, twenty years since we met? And now you look old and
I look the same…isn’t that strange?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She twitched nervously, started to
insist that she should be going….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Wait, please,” Richard said. “I just
need to tell you this one last thing, then you can go spend that money on your
troubles.” He went to the couch and motioned for her to take seat. She
reluctantly went to the couch, sitting as far away from him as possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard took a deep breath. A long
exhalation. “I wish I wasn’t your last option,” he muttered, barely audible, as
if he were talking to himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard looked up at her, and said,
louder, in the nature of a formal address: “Favia, you won’t understand what
I’m going to tell you. To be honest, you’ve never understood a single word that’s
come out of my mouth. But I need to tell you this, I need you to hear this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Twenty years ago, a short while
before I saw you for the first time, I discovered something. Something magical,
beyond the scope of explanation, not that you’d understand if it were….Suffice
it to say that it’s a concoction of sorts, made of constituent elements one
would not consider imbibing separately.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard looked into her blank eyes and
shook his head sadly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“There’s a drink, ok? When you drink
it, you stop aging. You are frozen at your current age.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard saw her subtly nudging her
pocket, checking to see if the money was still there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“When I met you, I hadn’t had it for
very long,” he continued. “Just long enough to know that it worked. And I was
just starting the process of deciding who to share it with. I knew I wanted to
share this amazing thing with someone special, someone I could imagine spending
eternity with. Then I saw you, like a vision….” His shoulders slumped. “Or
maybe you were simply just another pretty girl. In any event, I found you
attractive.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She automatically thanked him for the
compliment while eyeing the door. She wanted to leave. She wasn’t feeling well,
a little light-headed and woozy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard couldn’t stop himself from
letting out a short laugh. “Yes, and I’ve made that abundantly clear to you throughout
the years. But you seem to have a potion yourself that makes you immune to my
blandishments.” The twinkle in his eye was quickly extinguished and he became
somber again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“There were a couple times when you
seemed so close to coming over….I mean, why didn’t you? Don’t answer, I know
why. All those men, lavishing you with attention…but they’re gone now, aren’t
they? They’ve abandoned the old hag. But that’s not how you see yourself, is
it?” He looked at her with renewed curiosity. “I wonder how similar your experience
is to mine. That is: Can one’s conviction overpower reality? Can one believe in
something so much that it doesn’t matter what is actually happening?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard scoffed, his nostrils flaring
contemptuously. “Bah, it’s academic at this point,” he said. “And that’s not
exactly your strong suit, is it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She said nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Language is such a barrier for you,
isn’t it? I wish there was a way to know if you are below-average intelligence
even in your own country….” He was talking to himself again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Though her desire to leave had
intensified beyond all measure, she was feeling more and more sluggish, weighed
down by something unseen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Anyway,” Richard said, refocusing his
attention on her, “I know you haven’t asked but you might notice that I’m still
alone. It’s still just me, it always has been, all this time. Maybe now you
realize that finding someone was a much bigger decision for me than it is for most
people. This was a life-altering decision, for two people, made even more
momentous when the lives in question would last forever.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">He pondered quietly for a second. “Is
it going to be forever? Am I to never die? Nothing I’ve experienced in the last
twenty years leads me to believe that I will perish—not from so-called ‘natural
causes’ at least—but what happens when the planet ceases to exist? Or the whole
universe, even? A question not many face: Will I survive the end of the
universe? Have you even heard of ‘heat death’?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Her mouth felt like it was full of molasses,
her head full of rocks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I could still have you join me,”
Richard said quietly. “There’s no age limit. You just stop aging the first time
you take it, whatever age you might be.” His eyes were sad and full of regret.
“But this is a gift for the young. For someone older it would cease to be a
blessing. Even if you haven’t come to terms with it yet, you are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">old</i>, Favia. There’s no two ways about
it. And I’m not sure I could bear looking at you like this for eternity.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She couldn’t feel her arms or legs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“You might ask—well, not you but
someone else,” Richard said, “someone else might ask if there’s a catch to
making this thing I’ve discovered, something, say, that complicates the
creation of this magical elixir. And that person would be very acute indeed,
because there is in fact a catch. There’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i>
a catch. Are you following me? This is the last bit….”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">She was barely registering what he was
saying. It took everything she had to take one shallow, ragged breath after
another.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“There are two things,” he was saying.
“One: this potion, elixir, whatever you want to call it—it needs to be taken
every year. So I suppose it was misleading to say that one remains ageless
forever, more like you remain that way for exactly one year. Then you start
aging again, necessitating another draught of the concoction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“The other thing is that it requires
blood. A good-sized cup’s worth. There’s no way around it. And not just any
blood, but the blood of someone 25 years older than the biological age of the
imbiber. I’ll spare you the details of how I figured this out; it was basically
a lot of trial and error.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Her vision was gone. She could no
longer discern anything around her. Everything was either light or darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard’s voice droned on. “As far as
caveats go, this one could not be more perfect. My profession afforded me easy
access to the blood of elders…it was just a matter of siphoning off the
necessary amount every year. Not enough to draw attention to what was
happening. No one knew what was happening, not even the unwitting donors. I
don’t need to take so much that they die, you see. Just enough for a
healthy-sized drink.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A roar was building in her ears,
making it hard for her to hear anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I was let go from my job three weeks
ago,” Richard said. “A potential disaster. But I had a plan, a plan I’d been
formulating for a couple years now.” He looked over at her. “You never told me
your age, Favia. Sure, you told me different numbers now and then, but I could
never get a handle on it, you were always so cagey about it, like all women of
a certain age. But even by my most conservative estimates, I figure you must be
49, 50. Almost certainly older. Which makes you old enough.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Richard picked up her hand and rubbed
it. “I can see that what I slipped into your drink has been doing its job.
It’ll all be over soon. Now: could I have found an old, doddering geriatric,
devoid of faculties, to get what I needed? Or could I just get a similar job
elsewhere? Probably. But this will take care of two problems at once. See,
you’ve haunted me, Favia… all these years you’ve haunted me. I’ve waited twenty
years for you, hoping you’d come around. I haven’t shared my amazing gift with
anyone in all this time. There were times I considered it, some young thing would
appear who I thought I could potentially share my life with. But every time
that happened, I thought of you. And at a certain point, I realized I would
never stop thinking of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Tears were streaming down his face. “I
need you out of the picture, Favia. Only then will I be able to find someone
else. I need you to be gone. I need to be free of you,” he sobbed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It took a few minutes for Richard to
compose himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“In a way,” he
sniffled, “you’ll live on, just as I will. I plan to extract all I can and
preserve it, freeze it, so I won’t need any more for a couple decades, maybe.
We’ll live together. It’ll be nice.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">By this time, Favia was lost in her
own private oblivion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 279.15pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It was only after the deed was done
that Richard came to a horrible realization.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
D.H. Sayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08740559288528910497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659380036401967950.post-25817947545417767442012-01-10T23:29:00.007-05:002023-02-21T14:50:33.043-05:00Deadly Reflections: The Writing Process<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This week I’m excited to share with you a look at how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deadly Reflections</i> was made. Every project has its own unique process, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DR</i>’s was pretty interesting. Believe it or not, it first started out as a 156-page screenplay. I wrote it a few years ago when I was writing screenplays pretty regularly. Nothing ever came of it, but I thought the story was really cool and it always stayed in the back of my mind. So when I decided to turn my attention to writing novels, it was an easy decision to tell this story in my first full-length book and hopefully give it more of an audience than it had sitting in my drawer.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now, you might think that having a completed screenplay to work from would make things pretty easy. But this was not a case of simply retyping the story and changing a few words here and there. As you will see, screenplays are pretty sparsely written and don’t really have a lot to do with traditional prose. The script was a wonderful blueprint to have—the structure and characters were pretty much there—but ultimately it was more of a very detailed outline than anything else, and it was still a lot of hard work to write the book.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">STEP ONE: THE IDEA</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The very original germ of the idea came when I was working at a place with an all-glass façade. It was late at night and I was alone in the store. I thought I spotted, in the reflection on the glass, some movement in the lobby. But I hadn’t heard anyone come in. (This might sound very familiar. </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">) I walked over and, of course, no one was there. Now, any writer will tell you that the most common phrase running through her mind is “What If?” And naturally I thought “Well, I know I saw something in the glass…what if the thing I saw could only be seen as a reflection.” I think I even facetiously looked back at the glass to see if I could spot it again. I came up with the entire story that night.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">STEP TWO: THE OUTLINE</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4db4tisNsqzRXqzKsVmnDEGgsURJ79BOiekmoIuAk12dYwgvulqbf-Ym99kyaIdNl2owL2swv3_hNseBt3-8LpNN2CpbCNgqru9KCpSMZtWbwSwjv6k7xrLF6nyMTVBxBJwhQW1WZrRQ/s1600/Outline1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4db4tisNsqzRXqzKsVmnDEGgsURJ79BOiekmoIuAk12dYwgvulqbf-Ym99kyaIdNl2owL2swv3_hNseBt3-8LpNN2CpbCNgqru9KCpSMZtWbwSwjv6k7xrLF6nyMTVBxBJwhQW1WZrRQ/s320/Outline1.jpg" width="232" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgygLZIvE27MeLm2oFUjs_yFqifuS1ptk3ucuRJy8PxUoepRZv2LCOkhE1XrwPJUbEOg7AVutKyaAxoHTomREX2_6vkMT0kmh-QlrbN9PLHXJJIqDmTCrmbICJsXd38MnGel6IgKCu03KA/s1600/Outline2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgygLZIvE27MeLm2oFUjs_yFqifuS1ptk3ucuRJy8PxUoepRZv2LCOkhE1XrwPJUbEOg7AVutKyaAxoHTomREX2_6vkMT0kmh-QlrbN9PLHXJJIqDmTCrmbICJsXd38MnGel6IgKCu03KA/s320/Outline2.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">This is the first thing that was put down on paper. I don’t always make an outline, but I did for this one. As you can see, I didn’t know the title yet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also drew silly little doodles in the margins that don’t have anything to do with the story. Those fanged creatures aren’t supposed to be “mirror monsters”—all the monsters I sketch tend to look like that. The first part of the outline is a list of cool things that the monster can appear on. Then I started writing scenes of the story, and I checked them off as I wrote them in the screenplay. Looking at it now, I’m kind of amazed how much I had on day 1 that made it into the finished product.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">STEP THREE: THE SCREENPLAY</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">T</span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">o demonstrate the rest of the process, I’ll pick two scenes from the book and show you everything that was done on them. The two scenes are First Date (Chapter 9, location 982) and Finding the Box (Chapter 10, location 1250).</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">FIRST DATE<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ad10eNZ5IocDa1pjaFw7sxnACwOeeVt8D-tzxXEu5YBjelTquChCHXleH5v2Bllw9gkdfDryKNMoNqByG5g4TbUPGxnau7G03DhqpgkhnXTpwvl5Q1sl2GdrMfbQMc53R0Z5esQbEzM/s1600/First+Date+%2528screenplay%25291.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ad10eNZ5IocDa1pjaFw7sxnACwOeeVt8D-tzxXEu5YBjelTquChCHXleH5v2Bllw9gkdfDryKNMoNqByG5g4TbUPGxnau7G03DhqpgkhnXTpwvl5Q1sl2GdrMfbQMc53R0Z5esQbEzM/s320/First+Date+%2528screenplay%25291.jpg" width="232" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcU392XzANw6yt30qfsKYStP1n9dgncHHw0d4ioVO7-hq2ROihm9w07KGtCZsuUxkCZznjb4J_b-L1lQ63YIYmiJAfXTx4Beatbggt5TfIBV17MLf3cnTtRn6J3cYml5VNEyPuNVxcg5U/s1600/First+Date+%2528screenplay%25292.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcU392XzANw6yt30qfsKYStP1n9dgncHHw0d4ioVO7-hq2ROihm9w07KGtCZsuUxkCZznjb4J_b-L1lQ63YIYmiJAfXTx4Beatbggt5TfIBV17MLf3cnTtRn6J3cYml5VNEyPuNVxcg5U/s320/First+Date+%2528screenplay%25292.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">FINDING THE BOX</span></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpB8KpUy6uwrPvzr4f5wyVjBaqyWfXqx3PREviD7igiyGaa4Whn55olBTSArqoTXUFSw3pABhwhkEj8_XNjcveQyUN30HPv62SiDOpajwgLw-BaFQFYyyPYP5yZzp65yBuDVBAKEZ0xt4/s1600/Finding+the+box+%2528screenplay%25291.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpB8KpUy6uwrPvzr4f5wyVjBaqyWfXqx3PREviD7igiyGaa4Whn55olBTSArqoTXUFSw3pABhwhkEj8_XNjcveQyUN30HPv62SiDOpajwgLw-BaFQFYyyPYP5yZzp65yBuDVBAKEZ0xt4/s320/Finding+the+box+%2528screenplay%25291.jpg" width="232" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksmCiAQtkJYt1O5FV3tJZvA4EzWV4Ko_4FplnRGKOVnyiVDCJykpHprPntY_klbCbw7lj_FoXQE1i1y6pwVrN6gSET-5frKRXZ6LWriRqrrC3pwEpyz1uRu3gZieVUGVatpp3o31o5-g/s1600/Finding+the+box+%2528screenplay%25292.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgksmCiAQtkJYt1O5FV3tJZvA4EzWV4Ko_4FplnRGKOVnyiVDCJykpHprPntY_klbCbw7lj_FoXQE1i1y6pwVrN6gSET-5frKRXZ6LWriRqrrC3pwEpyz1uRu3gZieVUGVatpp3o31o5-g/s320/Finding+the+box+%2528screenplay%25292.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You can see how little the screenplay gives you, especially the First Date section. Movies are a visual medium and information can quickly be conveyed with short little shots. Books are different—you have to describe everything you want the reader to “see,” which requires more of a time commitment from both reader and author. Those who have finished <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deadly Reflections</i> know how much the First Date chapter in particular was expanded and—I think—enriched.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">STEP FOUR: THE HANDWRITTEN DRAFT</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">FIRST DATE</span></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8zsFNG1lwlTWj7VzjJVWGi-4RY_LNao6xHsckKliJhX595QB_M7z6cxfLzHlG7d3szS5M4__3DhDKc1An0wwaH0Zc0nRFqwdfLmzhnuyfxo9ibJ6uy6h93phyphenhyphenMdWBrESzFTqzzjGcAX8/s1600/First+Date+%2528draft%25291.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8zsFNG1lwlTWj7VzjJVWGi-4RY_LNao6xHsckKliJhX595QB_M7z6cxfLzHlG7d3szS5M4__3DhDKc1An0wwaH0Zc0nRFqwdfLmzhnuyfxo9ibJ6uy6h93phyphenhyphenMdWBrESzFTqzzjGcAX8/s320/First+Date+%2528draft%25291.jpg" width="232" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwokncjRoRRHSyQXyQ2Sl3SXqmwSIz_TBCmkkrLxlsKFcIM5XIQMfExXDI_G4ERCll4MPwNJRZKM2J9ObOhn5fdNLVN6HUXzmisEs0DaRyqQqlwkgBgUrEC9Uf1KRAMOc1gdQcA2TSNs/s1600/First+Date+%2528draft%25292.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwokncjRoRRHSyQXyQ2Sl3SXqmwSIz_TBCmkkrLxlsKFcIM5XIQMfExXDI_G4ERCll4MPwNJRZKM2J9ObOhn5fdNLVN6HUXzmisEs0DaRyqQqlwkgBgUrEC9Uf1KRAMOc1gdQcA2TSNs/s320/First+Date+%2528draft%25292.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmfJk3LougwAPLyMlf_wTGjBXteq_X51a3yt-UXlLViSjME8CGmcEMtFiKh7M5JGDVisel-Ww0rOnN_4w_sZ3ykPYkbuVzailvqOlfTAZkH3lzrnoZ0Hs-jm4U5S33O991GiASf7xqsy4/s1600/First+Date+%2528draft%25293.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmfJk3LougwAPLyMlf_wTGjBXteq_X51a3yt-UXlLViSjME8CGmcEMtFiKh7M5JGDVisel-Ww0rOnN_4w_sZ3ykPYkbuVzailvqOlfTAZkH3lzrnoZ0Hs-jm4U5S33O991GiASf7xqsy4/s320/First+Date+%2528draft%25293.jpg" width="232" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAx0wkAO8UGBThirQxpGzsLGn9dghxuXiaBE3RIwdk__KB0yQrkz4WVsljX1T07QbAMzqlPRzcHqhcMBzIzlgoTuzhbeYnzfvsb5Pr4JUKQ7YqnGjyJ-qoYzeFplfTi6kMLygQKwp2Hvk/s1600/First+Date+%2528draft%25294.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAx0wkAO8UGBThirQxpGzsLGn9dghxuXiaBE3RIwdk__KB0yQrkz4WVsljX1T07QbAMzqlPRzcHqhcMBzIzlgoTuzhbeYnzfvsb5Pr4JUKQ7YqnGjyJ-qoYzeFplfTi6kMLygQKwp2Hvk/s320/First+Date+%2528draft%25294.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUu5d84WJe7lKb9wSJtri_Oj90aFH6mPLLM9hwphcYRTCI_dr2RnjWRYXkes3qWrq2c66c1Lq936bpez6PNFBFhCl9L6Avd2Zseyi__rYC8X-8zNHu8KP7PZf1vYuN71fBRWPn228c5CY/s1600/First+Date+%2528draft%25296.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUu5d84WJe7lKb9wSJtri_Oj90aFH6mPLLM9hwphcYRTCI_dr2RnjWRYXkes3qWrq2c66c1Lq936bpez6PNFBFhCl9L6Avd2Zseyi__rYC8X-8zNHu8KP7PZf1vYuN71fBRWPn228c5CY/s320/First+Date+%2528draft%25296.jpg" width="232" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiutQzI5Pi3qIVB5dJy22rBA6JiVFCJovn1cZkf-alQZTnAcSliSWDHpdmMTftVyITFjCC4ft2rN6UOKLK0IBvNSofGj7pFcPZRtzpu8JKoGdeYvn5bX-YFfMCULMlOmXfh8L06XJj8VM/s1600/First+Date+%2528draft%25297.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiutQzI5Pi3qIVB5dJy22rBA6JiVFCJovn1cZkf-alQZTnAcSliSWDHpdmMTftVyITFjCC4ft2rN6UOKLK0IBvNSofGj7pFcPZRtzpu8JKoGdeYvn5bX-YFfMCULMlOmXfh8L06XJj8VM/s320/First+Date+%2528draft%25297.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVIvFotehlJQsmKoukT0PP6lrumcSZ7dDYoLLdorAIFBda72esf3K5tJBZVAtXqoimvZbYf6nc5P-kHEcLI0sFMUBUN0mB-DoyCAkdnuy1sfCf_quCWHPICZgWGdRsXTtqdMpnRTuLw4/s1600/First+Date+%2528draft%25298.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVIvFotehlJQsmKoukT0PP6lrumcSZ7dDYoLLdorAIFBda72esf3K5tJBZVAtXqoimvZbYf6nc5P-kHEcLI0sFMUBUN0mB-DoyCAkdnuy1sfCf_quCWHPICZgWGdRsXTtqdMpnRTuLw4/s320/First+Date+%2528draft%25298.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">FINDING THE BOX</span></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOcD2gGvzAVEmrJp56ZX-lCbg9XxqpBMnkjX56bCVnqIGPJq5N_g_W68tOqhI48a0pkWIgJoJYj6SUH-A7JM5jz6cUtufrm7ucuUB_u_fmT1TxBL0Flg5a2GgPYoz3bWZdKuZpI1LJoSk/s1600/Finding+the+box+%2528draft%25291.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOcD2gGvzAVEmrJp56ZX-lCbg9XxqpBMnkjX56bCVnqIGPJq5N_g_W68tOqhI48a0pkWIgJoJYj6SUH-A7JM5jz6cUtufrm7ucuUB_u_fmT1TxBL0Flg5a2GgPYoz3bWZdKuZpI1LJoSk/s320/Finding+the+box+%2528draft%25291.jpg" width="232" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFAYdU6LpFSv7FeFRdGxNFHN2RUQdf-zeLMjOGLPgOf6WyKLUe-7IJ8lGcXbh9cJomZsM7aomoIP131YaIj0lfpKeu_od4nyJo4gXVH2K-TXDyBri3Hi594e9XhtWq1TCEsGTETZ9j7m8/s1600/Finding+the+box+%2528draft%25292.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFAYdU6LpFSv7FeFRdGxNFHN2RUQdf-zeLMjOGLPgOf6WyKLUe-7IJ8lGcXbh9cJomZsM7aomoIP131YaIj0lfpKeu_od4nyJo4gXVH2K-TXDyBri3Hi594e9XhtWq1TCEsGTETZ9j7m8/s320/Finding+the+box+%2528draft%25292.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IAb4vT7M6sI0JmkysI62b88yJhxa__uaLqmqFGARnIQHSBWNT9cwkS7Z9wIDpAHUf_VDAPgI9Egi8hXAYsU5XuCtX0EfPCP50JhXbYXWnZRfuBWKIpL5mhBFdA2CzsXscNL5VS8z5Uw/s1600/Finding+the+box+%2528draft%25293.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IAb4vT7M6sI0JmkysI62b88yJhxa__uaLqmqFGARnIQHSBWNT9cwkS7Z9wIDpAHUf_VDAPgI9Egi8hXAYsU5XuCtX0EfPCP50JhXbYXWnZRfuBWKIpL5mhBFdA2CzsXscNL5VS8z5Uw/s320/Finding+the+box+%2528draft%25293.jpg" width="232" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwx_iC08hZKImvJPIwjFiMp8y3xh2KmpZjf_wJnlzaviJyFCt9vfTsMel16aCW4EnHn_3wNUvuY2CyVP9bHEFxZ4XhIx2BzQcw-mrFBC2Lp5f6aVYf3AKZLdy0PYC87pO5HCgq4UVmxCg/s1600/Finding+the+box+%2528draft%25294.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwx_iC08hZKImvJPIwjFiMp8y3xh2KmpZjf_wJnlzaviJyFCt9vfTsMel16aCW4EnHn_3wNUvuY2CyVP9bHEFxZ4XhIx2BzQcw-mrFBC2Lp5f6aVYf3AKZLdy0PYC87pO5HCgq4UVmxCg/s320/Finding+the+box+%2528draft%25294.jpg" width="232" /></a><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Yes, I have messy handwriting. And I tend to second-guess things almost as soon as they’re written, so there are a ton of cross-outs. When something is crossed out and circled it means I didn’t like it initially and then decided it was fine. I’m usually not one to just write and write and go for quantity and worry about fixing it later. I like things to be as perfect as possible before moving on, which results in pages that look like a tornado went through them.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">STEP FIVE: THE GALLEY PROOF</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>FIRST DATE</strong></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo7NUR-d077RwZvgYuzwKWPuRrMbGq8inSsJCC0mqzPGBMORxdbVrzRlRmnWvPyHEcUsLUyYd-IE1irSsghiZDXII-TnGOA-0gTg54wYa5-Fck6GvUjYG9xCn6cTLeOehIJfI6Vg0zylg/s1600/First+Date+%2528galley%25291.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo7NUR-d077RwZvgYuzwKWPuRrMbGq8inSsJCC0mqzPGBMORxdbVrzRlRmnWvPyHEcUsLUyYd-IE1irSsghiZDXII-TnGOA-0gTg54wYa5-Fck6GvUjYG9xCn6cTLeOehIJfI6Vg0zylg/s320/First+Date+%2528galley%25291.jpg" width="232" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkJBIneDtQilJmZvzSTwRMONivuG4ztbL1j0CHCRnogNTRIxBdhV8pMefcHhHq7BrQWezlfJUdzV5hZQ2JF0621wXbE7Wrj2ZwepNaVNPnqholIziZXdspsWa3vD58zxEGGnmzAtUT4M/s1600/First+Date+%2528galley%25292.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkJBIneDtQilJmZvzSTwRMONivuG4ztbL1j0CHCRnogNTRIxBdhV8pMefcHhHq7BrQWezlfJUdzV5hZQ2JF0621wXbE7Wrj2ZwepNaVNPnqholIziZXdspsWa3vD58zxEGGnmzAtUT4M/s320/First+Date+%2528galley%25292.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJG_J-CsSao9iJ1mSLBLZd54e9TcArZKEPelqCxdlQBG4iuroMUE_aaB3Yje6z6UuNKKZ8iekEETEFyst3wuCok_FT72mmopxiqPgoQl6_wCieOwQvEwMjM4h7nw62M6GzPjfbAB67oc/s1600/First+Date+%2528galley%25293.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJG_J-CsSao9iJ1mSLBLZd54e9TcArZKEPelqCxdlQBG4iuroMUE_aaB3Yje6z6UuNKKZ8iekEETEFyst3wuCok_FT72mmopxiqPgoQl6_wCieOwQvEwMjM4h7nw62M6GzPjfbAB67oc/s320/First+Date+%2528galley%25293.jpg" width="232" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmpK-hC0ZwVS0FRdUbptjDWJmjlYc_FD7d48lcXzE7WLBleDJp8e4rQDWmjDiTj3zU6q96WNKVm19LnaVfc26B4iXNCtqRe5k9jJc19qu1fgOyZhZ_cnnW9MEO8DwxzFXNAfhVulBUX0/s1600/First+Date+%2528galley%25295.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmpK-hC0ZwVS0FRdUbptjDWJmjlYc_FD7d48lcXzE7WLBleDJp8e4rQDWmjDiTj3zU6q96WNKVm19LnaVfc26B4iXNCtqRe5k9jJc19qu1fgOyZhZ_cnnW9MEO8DwxzFXNAfhVulBUX0/s320/First+Date+%2528galley%25295.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtNtvYZ_rx8uxM23IO70gjyclNt6ll1EZZfSngvb5Sob9WSoCRsne3xPZHB7LUI9dTKo8GgoI_mNjjmmsGq4EIQ9Gw6rqaB7OOnNuwagCHxjE1-DFU2AZib1J5X1-hNrWxh3deh3CXYk/s1600/First+Date+%2528galley%25296.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdtNtvYZ_rx8uxM23IO70gjyclNt6ll1EZZfSngvb5Sob9WSoCRsne3xPZHB7LUI9dTKo8GgoI_mNjjmmsGq4EIQ9Gw6rqaB7OOnNuwagCHxjE1-DFU2AZib1J5X1-hNrWxh3deh3CXYk/s320/First+Date+%2528galley%25296.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">FINDING THE BOX</span></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEwke_ess3VnPuD8y1e-XQvGY3f5khWh9N7eF-XgKohI1J2JVqUkooIV_DhbeUUO5tqW2MaVeD-At0KYOjwekmG4-iuR3xPAHy0EXjObAvi_Aw2U1bhZ0o-JlyFdCONEb8aWKOOS69Flk/s1600/Finding+the+box+%2528galley%25291.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEwke_ess3VnPuD8y1e-XQvGY3f5khWh9N7eF-XgKohI1J2JVqUkooIV_DhbeUUO5tqW2MaVeD-At0KYOjwekmG4-iuR3xPAHy0EXjObAvi_Aw2U1bhZ0o-JlyFdCONEb8aWKOOS69Flk/s320/Finding+the+box+%2528galley%25291.jpg" width="232" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvk1F2-9D73yecNQpdVYykEVNCKy-ftr8TV29l4-cBJHK4QsEMjGZUHrIznEO-AQPEmD582OnwY8mnto18tsNZUCfhq-rOeH_ljnvu802t_BSkix8aG5alRfNPiF2rd5k7eAPMQ4UkR44/s1600/Finding+the+box+%2528galley%25292.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvk1F2-9D73yecNQpdVYykEVNCKy-ftr8TV29l4-cBJHK4QsEMjGZUHrIznEO-AQPEmD582OnwY8mnto18tsNZUCfhq-rOeH_ljnvu802t_BSkix8aG5alRfNPiF2rd5k7eAPMQ4UkR44/s320/Finding+the+box+%2528galley%25292.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbuC-GSI7QIePorWhwyuu_rDt1M6q4Am-ZRkWkVWgN5Ai-MdnuYaE_0NMTLREP70R0T8btaC9nLFQu1H6E9Snf1uTuI5ug_md6EE8CpLpGSFyNQROFxNZVqm4pWekfUCnCgwdC340EuXQ/s1600/Finding+the+box+%2528galley%25293.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbuC-GSI7QIePorWhwyuu_rDt1M6q4Am-ZRkWkVWgN5Ai-MdnuYaE_0NMTLREP70R0T8btaC9nLFQu1H6E9Snf1uTuI5ug_md6EE8CpLpGSFyNQROFxNZVqm4pWekfUCnCgwdC340EuXQ/s320/Finding+the+box+%2528galley%25293.jpg" width="232" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE-E-tYRxuGFR2ph6DnAvivtco1cVcU9k9-oEVWSb1jp8W4Ft50X0Ctb9Z2MaoMux7WtPMG2rr4Z46mSxmXqMeaOYEnRir1mPo0OsN9GgFiQb7Lfi5JFMpkFXpRLJtVvK0MjyrKVimKEI/s1600/Finding+the+box+%2528galley%25294.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE-E-tYRxuGFR2ph6DnAvivtco1cVcU9k9-oEVWSb1jp8W4Ft50X0Ctb9Z2MaoMux7WtPMG2rr4Z46mSxmXqMeaOYEnRir1mPo0OsN9GgFiQb7Lfi5JFMpkFXpRLJtVvK0MjyrKVimKEI/s320/Finding+the+box+%2528galley%25294.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">An invisible draft occurs when I type the handwritten draft, making changes as I type. After it’s all entered into a word processor, I print out a hard copy of the whole thing and take a red pen to it, making corrections, fixing mistakes, improving the prose. It’s a fun part of the process for me because I get to read the whole thing as a mostly finished story and see if it works. At this point, the changes are mostly cosmetic. With that said, there were still over a thousand emendations in the galley proof.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">STEP SIX: THE BOOK</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I went right from corrected galley proof to publication, which I admit was not the best move. A few mistakes slipped through, mostly due to errors I made typing the red-mark corrections into the final document. With so many emendations in the galley proof, I should have printed out another hard copy and done another line edit. Luckily, Amazon has made it really easy and seamless to upload new, corrected editions of the book. I’m not saying there are no mistakes in it now, but hopefully they have been mostly weeded out.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I hope you enjoyed this look at the writing process of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deadly Reflections</i>. I’ll be sharing more stuff about the book with you in the near future, including an interview with the cover artist and “deleted scenes.”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Take care,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">DHS</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div>D.H. Sayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08740559288528910497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-659380036401967950.post-79865731737252590542012-01-05T01:48:00.011-05:002023-05-10T10:02:45.438-04:00My BookshelvesA<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">s we ease into the new year, I thought I’d share my bookshelves with you. Now, I’ve had a Kindle for the last 3 years. But for the other 24 years of my life, I read what are now known as DTBs or Physical Books. (I’m still not 100% sure whether “DTB” is an affectionate term or a pejorative one.) Since almost all of us have lived most of our lives with these tangible books (apologies to all the 3-year-olds reading this blog), we still have to own shelves to put them on. And if you’re like me and really love to read, you own a bunch of books and space becomes an issue. Well recently I acquired some shelves that not only hold all my books but allow me to arrange them as I’ve never had the chance to before. Check it out:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb9unnGXjYrNu8tXVKJW8zDFkutNcAN3bhMgtSJSyLmXqBtOaXFHrR7MJMkDiG6WCl2TaulrHmgZo1wF_mfgiwnuKAIRD3__wN-CgDgqRw3DvdZUlPQPNIsayBBo23edkUZRS_ijrD0so/s1600/Books1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb9unnGXjYrNu8tXVKJW8zDFkutNcAN3bhMgtSJSyLmXqBtOaXFHrR7MJMkDiG6WCl2TaulrHmgZo1wF_mfgiwnuKAIRD3__wN-CgDgqRw3DvdZUlPQPNIsayBBo23edkUZRS_ijrD0so/s320/Books1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKVmPyPT0wwar3VLMEeasa_jqzeG8flsLaKr5_r58y5UfsVk0Bl8w4sVjKktVQX1KgwrWdhrZGIv-PsCFR_4WjkJ3fycRNhCI8FYQGQ344J2LnnkiXvbGQ64i5vvuZQKSLblfqPxNDrUA/s1600/books2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKVmPyPT0wwar3VLMEeasa_jqzeG8flsLaKr5_r58y5UfsVk0Bl8w4sVjKktVQX1KgwrWdhrZGIv-PsCFR_4WjkJ3fycRNhCI8FYQGQ344J2LnnkiXvbGQ64i5vvuZQKSLblfqPxNDrUA/s320/books2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpK08z6x7A0fSa-9yFEhc_T6W690llQrmGN7pN-CQ3ttwIJ76TH5QUPeIHRW4m8gbFQPcgCbb9Bq02rSsehZAl4iP8Lhgcm6mtlxHZZqb5ASWoWD1C6wH9F7dl5AuWdj9DFvKW7p-17IY/s1600/books3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpK08z6x7A0fSa-9yFEhc_T6W690llQrmGN7pN-CQ3ttwIJ76TH5QUPeIHRW4m8gbFQPcgCbb9Bq02rSsehZAl4iP8Lhgcm6mtlxHZZqb5ASWoWD1C6wH9F7dl5AuWdj9DFvKW7p-17IY/s320/books3.JPG" width="241" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwjlLDLmP6RypzUc3CYI38bocWTkdTOe-uKhD_WlEaKSx_s-q3J_4CUeQ6rXPNtGRuFIk9rWvpdNvlKtlBGy_IPrgiyyUXpXkccmvDUPyWK4xrBL_4GZygz6pyCkl4x7p9eHo9YYsnQfo/s320/books4.JPG" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">Yes, they are former Borders bookshelves. Don't hate me.</span></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I used to own the bookshelves you typically see at places like Walmart, the ones that have really deep and tall shelves, requiring you to stack books behind one another. I hated that. I’ve always wanted shelves that were the perfect size for a paperback and allowed all the books to be seen, spines facing out. Which is exactly what these are. It allows me to get totally “High Fidelity” with how the books are ordered. </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGhKXRi3gPT9N6GCUjrVz67mZ7IZ_sFQOYK0nq01qd_Hh7_KQH6GUKDFEVn4NVMVHH2ZEmgS_51NUqmTFbiPtN7pphD9WLAJp0VEpDMseh0dy0NhbnK0MSgrqzGjWUNb5YYkYDaLBf7o/s1600/mamet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGhKXRi3gPT9N6GCUjrVz67mZ7IZ_sFQOYK0nq01qd_Hh7_KQH6GUKDFEVn4NVMVHH2ZEmgS_51NUqmTFbiPtN7pphD9WLAJp0VEpDMseh0dy0NhbnK0MSgrqzGjWUNb5YYkYDaLBf7o/s320/mamet.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">I love the Mamet :)</span></strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Actually, the order is pretty simple. Everything’s alphabetical by author, exactly like you’d find at a bookstore. (It’s kind of pathetic how happy this makes me. My books had previously been thrown together in a slapdash manner, and now everything’s wonderfully easy to find.) What’s slightly different from a bookstore’s order, however, is that within each author’s section, the books are placed in chronological order. So it goes from the author’s first book (if I have it) to her last (ditto), left to right. Oh, and the author’s novels come first, then short stories, then essays, etc. Autobiographies and interview books and stuff like that are last, generally. But if the author is more well-known for something other than novels (like plays for instance, like good ole Mamet <em>supra)</em> than that thing comes first. Got it? (Maybe it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> a more “High Fidelity”-type obsessive ordering than I thought…)</span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/AQvOnDlql5g?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I own a lot of fiction, which is my favorite kind of book. Novels pretty much fill 2 of the 3 bookcases. The third one is filled with graphic novels and books about movies—screenplays, film theory, filmmaker biographies, stuff like that. Those I haven’t really put in order yet. For the movie books, I’ll probably bunch the screenplays together and find some sort of way to arrange the rest of it. The graphic novels will eventually be alphabetical by either title or writer…still thinking about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">So while we’re talking DTBs, I’ll share some of the most cherished ones on my shelves…</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMp66Rmt8fvyALVfc6mEh-_YzwQdt8Ir3wxjat8gl1plw3Cs1kG4WRUQ6jTq7mfCAtkAk0LUtvgwOgvYfcUqZWUZwO7gZDyw2SJ_3X0t52BaC8R50NJKdtriqLCCoFX8XBO0UNb2l8V1k/s1600/infinitejest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMp66Rmt8fvyALVfc6mEh-_YzwQdt8Ir3wxjat8gl1plw3Cs1kG4WRUQ6jTq7mfCAtkAk0LUtvgwOgvYfcUqZWUZwO7gZDyw2SJ_3X0t52BaC8R50NJKdtriqLCCoFX8XBO0UNb2l8V1k/s320/infinitejest.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">This is an advance galley proof of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Infinite Jest</i> that I got on eBay last year for an obscene amount of $ (for me, at least). But I’ve wanted one for years, so I just had to get it. It’s one of my favorite books, and supposedly only about 1000 of these things exist. It’s also signed on the inside, with a little smiley face, which is just extra cool.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHEV2uwauUxcheflbwXRRN4GaGjCoFlE-rtaTBft_6TG9IgPWMMB_jMVRoM9NlrtTRfG_p2wA7Hl7THo_1SII-kO2MNsFncTYtKcB-fOVT2xWq_dvH0JtDqPqh3WEofAsAskyywjVcvqs/s1600/gaiman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHEV2uwauUxcheflbwXRRN4GaGjCoFlE-rtaTBft_6TG9IgPWMMB_jMVRoM9NlrtTRfG_p2wA7Hl7THo_1SII-kO2MNsFncTYtKcB-fOVT2xWq_dvH0JtDqPqh3WEofAsAskyywjVcvqs/s320/gaiman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Here is a signed first edition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Gods</i>. These were buried in the displays at bookstores upon the book’s release in 2000. Way back when I was 16, I went into a Barnes & Noble and snagged one and was totally psyched.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHmFtzt4xLMFv-EHiHtFFvUumKo4bHeXxGWOcoIZZ7hqg3kfxWPvHIk8IG1nTcvKRBcoMUvOK3VvlPeoqiELeWZH5hFAv7eRWYX1dnNMcq0Ib6aJLkTdWMhQFSAS4dvVdqIcMrSseqX_Q/s1600/Kael.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHmFtzt4xLMFv-EHiHtFFvUumKo4bHeXxGWOcoIZZ7hqg3kfxWPvHIk8IG1nTcvKRBcoMUvOK3VvlPeoqiELeWZH5hFAv7eRWYX1dnNMcq0Ib6aJLkTdWMhQFSAS4dvVdqIcMrSseqX_Q/s320/Kael.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">An out-of-print book by Pauline Kael—the best movie critic of all time. This massive volume contains a ton of her reviews, and I can spend hours just flipping through it. It’s quite baffling (and a shame) that this book is currently unavailable.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyuwdVF6xtPYo6itkz4y8byL7jpf4kYhQqKVhU2Xq4R5vkFxxTCnxzBBOCe-C0LGV2730coJJUSKxHVx7RRlmJjU5j4JB9EMrmmHFRUimt1QBVGIkwJvyFqgQyJU3JNAC5qkRNiPdmu-k/s1600/Lono.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyuwdVF6xtPYo6itkz4y8byL7jpf4kYhQqKVhU2Xq4R5vkFxxTCnxzBBOCe-C0LGV2730coJJUSKxHVx7RRlmJjU5j4JB9EMrmmHFRUimt1QBVGIkwJvyFqgQyJU3JNAC5qkRNiPdmu-k/s320/Lono.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">My 1st Edition Curse of Lono was a lot more impressive before Taschen published a handsome oversized edition for a reasonable $60 (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Curse-Lono-Hunter-S-Thompson/dp/3822848972/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1325745810&sr=8-1" target="_blank">$37.79 on Amazon</a>). I still love it though.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT9lnAXGBknpgOcms4ee8CmUmp86TPqQv9dUQ8a7nyXvUEzGyw0yD6U78W7S8bgClbE3tqYBUeRclxQ5rZMLFExd_0Tzl5716HIqubKrU9jAn9qo8-be3OoeguSQTYZPb0X2X48IHn1no/s320/OED1.JPG" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpnnpINwqjrWL6LDaG7-2kwqgmuwQtaGLUqtkKu_hNrx38gL3KjE3KRMpKIG7B6qrIK5kI8pJnEPwYrKU7-GYMZi9ZlbWWbS6udA5OBBa6PS6obCMAIlRxokgK4lBzq-LJyVWVGC61vsQ/s1600/OED2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpnnpINwqjrWL6LDaG7-2kwqgmuwQtaGLUqtkKu_hNrx38gL3KjE3KRMpKIG7B6qrIK5kI8pJnEPwYrKU7-GYMZi9ZlbWWbS6udA5OBBa6PS6obCMAIlRxokgK4lBzq-LJyVWVGC61vsQ/s320/OED2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This is my dictionary. I think a dictionary tells a lot about its owner. Personally, I’m an OED man. </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> This is the 2-volume Shorter OED, 5th Edition. Great, great resource for both writer and reader.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgodGHGTYmo6Frcb5zuuW_dQbdi9X5iUH_jWV_1GxD-D4pONfOoeKjIn_aq1wbx3elKdwaOgdtrqsz1e_hdybd8NEzJJlTslkVkijHy5ROWNo4ZfpgetqOGNoiIt8z0cjN21l_20EIJW20/s320/gatsby1.JPG" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQYfWAVW-UnzObB6atQjLiEb_HQJHUXjF49gxFoG9ipGvn-NcprbxkB1qoaa7B_7phpTGU7chB3RbPLGfiVEidOAvklWOiFS96lhgUcliztLkBtMIHGtJKpTFDUQ2vcT02_W1VZssFcNs/s1600/gatsby2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQYfWAVW-UnzObB6atQjLiEb_HQJHUXjF49gxFoG9ipGvn-NcprbxkB1qoaa7B_7phpTGU7chB3RbPLGfiVEidOAvklWOiFS96lhgUcliztLkBtMIHGtJKpTFDUQ2vcT02_W1VZssFcNs/s320/gatsby2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqeiz-xslrKGbRGJ0hficDV2tkVAVUo6Ti8IKqnyPNlwNqF56NGWvg9fiwxVpgUdKppOGdNenzPyLQSBqcUWbvtbZzDBn_lDvuphaOxsBsqCI3TNZyOEJKK6VOGMVjPyA2yZ3MmQJAms/s1600/gatsby3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqeiz-xslrKGbRGJ0hficDV2tkVAVUo6Ti8IKqnyPNlwNqF56NGWvg9fiwxVpgUdKppOGdNenzPyLQSBqcUWbvtbZzDBn_lDvuphaOxsBsqCI3TNZyOEJKK6VOGMVjPyA2yZ3MmQJAms/s320/gatsby3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This one I’d definitely try to save if there was a fire. It’s a facsimile of the manuscript of one of the greatest novels of all time: The Great Gatsby. Only 2000 of these puppies were made for what I believe was the 50th anniversary of the novel. I love stuff like this for the same reason I love making-of docs and director’s commentaries on DVDs—it shows you the process of how a work of art is crafted. This stately volume allows you to see Gatsby’s creation <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://twitter.com/#!/DHSayer/status/153673515550248960" target="_blank">ab ovo</a></i>. (</span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">) It is quite astounding to see the novel materialize on the page as Fitzgerald goes about the business of writing an American classic one beautifully handwritten word at a time. When I bought it, there were a bunch of them available in the Amazon marketplace. Now there’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/offer-listing/091097232X/ref=dp_olp_collectible?ie=UTF8&qid=1325745924&sr=1-2&condition=collectible" target="_blank">just one, going for 3 times what I paid for mine</a>. I have a feeling that when <a href="http://moviesmedia.ign.com/movies/image/article/121/1215232/the-great-gatsby-baz-luhrmann-project-20111220044718982_640w.jpg" target="_blank">Baz Luhrmann’s Gatsby movie</a> starring Leonardo DiCaprio comes out later this year, we probably won’t see these around anymore.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin: 1em 0px; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I hope you enjoyed this tour of my books. They are my most prized possessions and I really feel like they’re a big part of who I am in some way. Everything I’ve read has changed me for the better. I’m sure all you readers out there know what I mean. When I look at all these books, written by authors who have spent countless hours creating lasting and important works of art, I’m not only inspired but extremely honored to be—in my own small way—contributing to the venerable tradition of the written word.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 1em 0px; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And with that, I bid everyone goodnight.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 1em 0px; mso-add-space: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">DHS</span></div>D.H. Sayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08740559288528910497noreply@blogger.com0