tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76712495948201307352024-03-19T07:39:00.541-04:00the cockeyed pessimistMarty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.comBlogger141125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-90872122440332672942020-04-22T14:54:00.000-04:002020-04-22T14:54:27.153-04:00Corona Dreams by Eleanor Lerman<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlbTJsvRBZnwJZGivQGtynKpPWcK4IZ-AOCjgfCMydpX6Mcv8kamPwLT-NCDBCCkQzDU17Wiua96Kz9ieCXC6Ymt_zLLHlzGOWxe40sVdFpijoAythhdaIOYZZuLWnxULnBqKgDbXx_XXE/s1600/eleanor-lerman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="459" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlbTJsvRBZnwJZGivQGtynKpPWcK4IZ-AOCjgfCMydpX6Mcv8kamPwLT-NCDBCCkQzDU17Wiua96Kz9ieCXC6Ymt_zLLHlzGOWxe40sVdFpijoAythhdaIOYZZuLWnxULnBqKgDbXx_XXE/s200/eleanor-lerman.jpg" width="153" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Everyone I know is having bad dreams. One friend says that in her sleep, an enormous car is trying to break down the front door of her house. It backs up and speeds forward again and again, its engine growling angrily because it can't get in—at least, not yet. A neighbor tells me that she spends her dream time rummaging through imaginary drawers, trying to find enough forgotten money to hire an exterminator to rid her house of bugs (Apparently, her fears trend towards the literal.) Someone else, so traumatized by her nightmares, can barely whisper to me that even by the morning light, she can’t shake the exhaustion of being chased all night by a murderer who shouts that she can't escape him because he knows her name and her address. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I’m dreaming, too, but my midnights bring me images that are less threatening than they are full of yearning for a lost world that I fear I will be prevented from every embracing again. Often, in my travels through dreamland, I find myself standing in an empty apartment, a place I have never been before. I walk across the floor, stepping carefully because the light is dim and I can’t see very well. Finally, I reach a sliding glass door, and after I pull it open I am standing on a balcony looking out at a heartbreakingly beautiful scene: before me is playland world, brightened by a golden sun riding high in a pure blue sky tented above a merry-go-round, a rollercoaster, cotton candy booths and a tilt-a-whirl. Parents and children are strolling around here, holding hands, enjoying the mild weather, being happy, being alive and well. And in the middle of my imaginary playland, resting on his stomach and smiling a smile of great joy, is a huge, plastic blow-up replica of a creature born to glide through great, chilly currents but who is now only swaying gently in the soft breezes. I would know him anywhere, that giant from the deep. He is an old friend, a welcome vision, and he brings me to tears because I think, in the dream, that I will never be able to enter that wonderful, sunlit world again and say hello to my beloved Nessie. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">From now on, that dream tells me, I will only be able to stand at the edge of the darkness, looking out at the bright, happy world where the Loch Ness monster is protecting everyone from harm. That must sound absurd, so I suppose I’d better explain why the sight of even a facsimile of a supposedly extinct aquatic plesiosaur who swam the ancient seas about sixty-six million years ago is, to me, a symbol of strength and safe haven. And of defiance, as well. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">When I was a teenager, I lived in a chaotic and often frightening household. My stepsister was descending into the violent depths of schizophrenia, which my father and stepmother would neither recognize nor admit (they kept telling people that she ate too much sugar, which made her “irritable”), and my stepmother and I did not get along. In fact, as in dark fairytales, there was real animosity between us. One afternoon, while I was in the library, searching through books about how to cast spells that would banish evil people (listen, I was maybe fourteen and I was so desperate to get rid of my stepmother that I would have tried anything), I opened a book about mythic creatures and saw a black-and-white photo of what was said to be the Loch Ness monster. The picture showed his lozenge-shaped head atop a long, graceful neck that arched up from beneath an expanse of roiling water. The photo, of course, is a fake, but fifty-four years ago, in an old library building in the dying beach town where I lived, that photo was as real to me as my own breath. I loved the idea that there was a monster alive in the world, a great, silent being who kept his own counsel and harmed no one. Maybe he was far away, swimming through the depths of an ancient Scottish loch, but I knew that I <i>knew</i> him, and he knew me. I tore the page out of the book (my stepmother kept telling me that I was a bad person so what was it to me, to do this bad thing—stealing a page from a borrowed book?), took it home, and taped it to the wall above my bed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And so a new front opened up in the ongoing war between my stepmother and me. She hated the picture and told me to take it down. I would not. She screamed at me that it was sacrilegious, and even though I didn’t think she really know what that meant, I remember telling her that was fine with me. Sacrilegious was something to aim for. Let God be angry: I didn’t care. I wanted Him to know I was angry, too. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">That fight went on for four long years. Sometimes my stepmother would take the photo down herself, but I had already bought another book that had the photo in it, so I would just go back to the library, copy the page on the Xerox machine, bring it home, and tape it back up again. I left the picture behind when I finally left home at the age of eighteen, but by then the Loch Ness monster had served his purpose for me: he had been <i>my</i> monster, my you-don’t-control-me guardian, my screw-you to all the bad people who didn’t care about me and all the bad things that might happen to a young girl who had to live in a dangerous and unhappy world. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Over the years, I’ve happened on that photo again from time to time, like when it’s included in an article about how it was faked and by whom. I’m always happy to see Nessie and totally disinterested in all the evidence that proves he doesn’t exist. To me, he does, and he has since that long-ago day when I first brought him home to watch over me. I guess that’s why it is so sad and disturbing to find that all through these long, virus-haunted nights, my dreams tell me that the Loch Ness monster is lost to me. He lives in a world that has vanished overnight, a place where people are happy, where they can walk around freely, in the sunshine—and they’re not wearing Latex gloves and surgical masks. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But in my heart, I don’t believe that all is lost. I know there really are monsters alive in this world who burn with unspeakably evil intentions: some of them wear the skin of human beings and some of them want to tear us apart from the inside. They are absolutely to be feared, and I fear them. But I also fear the monstrosity of passing time that ages us and sends us to bed with nightmares of illness and infirmity even when there is no pandemic. In those cruel dreams, we become the kind of old, cursed outcasts who wander dead roads answering the questions of jackal-headed sub-gods and hump-backed witches, trying to find our way home. But as it turns out, home is the new prison. How, I wonder, will I ever escape? And when? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Lately, I’ve been trying to remind myself that I escaped once before. Maybe I was physically a lot stronger then, when I was younger, but I can make up for that because I’m a lot more cunning now—at least, I believe that I am. I can wage more subtle battles these days, even if they are just with myself and my own anxieties. And I want that happy world back, that blue sky and sunshine out there beyond the dark and empty place I’ve come from, even if that bright world is something that I’ve totally made up. I am determined to get there even if I have to put on a damn mask and disposable gloves and take the infected subway to some library, somewhere, where I can find that same photograph of the Loch Ness monster and hang it on my wall again. Of course, now, I could much more easily and safely download the picture from Internet, but the day will surely come when even a short journey to meet an old friend won’t be quite so dangerous anymore. Then I will be able to let Nessie go again, without regret. Let him return to his deep waters, his mysterious home in a far-away land. And I will continue on my road and you will continue on yours. This is me waving to you before I walk off into the future, which will certainly contain more monsters. The trick is to outlive the bad ones who want to eat you and embrace the good ones when they swim your way.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUF5Dyv2Fo94cMuHNN7TgZzpGb57AlRjbK9eyrC0JPQrRjmi1MzZ0TTDwPvvin38zeT0HIrc53-dL3FATrFcSzEPZwFyQYoQEVYXZvhOp5ciGMnlvuiHE9gt8XfPPpgNb9pBuz2RAnMGe/s1600/9781579625757.MAIN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1037" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUF5Dyv2Fo94cMuHNN7TgZzpGb57AlRjbK9eyrC0JPQrRjmi1MzZ0TTDwPvvin38zeT0HIrc53-dL3FATrFcSzEPZwFyQYoQEVYXZvhOp5ciGMnlvuiHE9gt8XfPPpgNb9pBuz2RAnMGe/s200/9781579625757.MAIN.jpg" width="129" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Eleanor Lerman is the author of numerous award-winning collections of poetry, short stories and novels. She is a National Book Award finalist, the recipient of the 2006 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize from the Academy of American Poets, and was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship as well as fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts for poetry and the New York Foundation for the Arts for fiction. In 2016 her novel, <i>Radiomen</i>, was awarded the John W. Campbell Prize for the Best Book of Science Fiction. Her most recent novel, <i>Satellite Street, </i>was a finalist for the 2019 Montaigne Medal.</span></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com191tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-76827279549506424362019-12-18T09:17:00.001-05:002019-12-18T09:17:56.729-05:00Chapter 1 Is Not For Parents by Eric Wat<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">At the book launch of my novel SWIM in August, I wasn’t going to read Chapter 1. Nope, not with my parents there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I’ve been told by other writers, maybe even at least one writing teacher, that the first pages of a book need to grab the reader’s attention readily. Pack these pages with titillating contents. In the case of SWIM, the protagonist wakes up from a drug binge after a long night of meth-hazy sex only to find out his mother has died. Chapter 1 is for agents, publishers, and those readers who still wander bookstores and sample passages from new books, as unabashedly as Costco shoppers forage finger food on a Sunday morning. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Chapter 1 is not for parents.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A writer-friend once told me that her mentor advised her to write as if her parents were dead. Parents, I guess, are the ultimate panopticon in your head. I hadn’t done that for SWIM. (Killing off one parent as a premise for the novel is bad juju enough, I thought.) Instead, I wrote the first draft as if my book would never be published. It helped to think that so I could write about sex and drugs explicitly. I still like to think I had walked a fine balance between provocative and prurient. Sometimes, though, I was jolted by other people’s appetite for the subject. During the revision phase, for instance, my publisher suggested there was too much nipple in one chapter. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">My first reaction was, I’ve been holding back on the nipple! (Well, here it is again.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I don’t think of myself as an effective purveyor of sex, even though, in my scant publication history before SWIM, two of my short stories had found a home in erotica anthologies. It’s not so much that I gravitate towards sex, as sex is all around me. The meth epidemic in the gay community wouldn’t spread like wildfire if the drug wasn’t linked to sex. I was writing a story about a meth addict, so if sex wasn’t going to be front and center, it was center-adjacent. Touching elbows on one of those flimsy armrests between two coach seats on a plane kind of adjacent.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">As I was awaiting the publication of SWIM, I started a new writing project, what I’m calling a community memoir of the AIDS movement in the Asian American communities in Los Angeles in roughly the first decade of the epidemic. For it, I interviewed over 30 activists and survivors. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I was more than a casual observer of those times. I was a teenager at the beginning of the epidemic, a budding gay man just figuring out his sexual attractions. AIDS scared the shit out of me. Sex education managed to be both boring and alarming. But the message was clear: If I had sex with another man, I probably would catch the virus and die. In college, a time of exploration for most, my fear stunted any potential intimacy. I sublimated all that sexual energy into school and activism in the early 1990s, including being a volunteer for the Asian Pacific AIDS Intervention Team, the local AIDS service organization where I had met many of the activists I interviewed for this project.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Hearing their stories reminded me of my reticence to sex. AIDS activists had had to shout louder than what polite company would allow because their messages were falling on deaf and homophobic ears. They had to provoke, often with explicit images. Nice public health messages weren’t going to get people to practice safe sex. A poster of an erect penis the length of the city bus finally got people talking.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Think the iconic “Silence = Death” or the series of posters that played on George H.W. Bush’s words “Read My Lips” by artist Gran Fury. Or Marlon Riggs’ unapologetically documentary “Tongues Untied” about Black gay men. Or the words of poets and playwrights, like Essex Hemphill, Michael Callen, and Larry Kramer. Think Robert Mapplethorpe’s photographs. (Yes, even the orchids.) Consistent with the queer movement of that time (“We’re queer. We’re here”), these artists shoved their images and words in people’s faces, telling them the straight world is the one who had to “get used to it.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It was no different in the Asian American communities. You couldn’t be thin-skinned when you had to talk about sex - not just any sex, but gay sex – in immigrant communities that were supposed to be averse to its discussion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In Los Angeles, these AIDS activists came up with a social marketing campaign in 1992 called “Love Your Asian Body,” which includes a series of images of Asian men touching, kissing, and straddling each other, wearing nothing or close to nothing. At a time when the gay community was inundated with white male bodies, this campaign was the first time my young eyes saw images of people like me, feeling proud and having fun, in charge of their sexuality. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Part of destigmatizing AIDS was to destigmatize sex. No more demonstrations of putting a condom on a banana. It might have been funny, but it was never sexy. Instead, we talked about sadomasochism, bondage, roleplay, and other kinks, like thirty-seven different ways to make a man squeal with his nipples. (Seriously, what else is a nipple on a man good for?)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The message was clear: You don’t deserve to be sick, to be denied services, or to die, no matter who you choose to have sex with, or how you like your sex, from vanilla to hardcore. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The AIDS epidemic was a formative era for me as a writer, too. As I comb through these stories for my current project, I realize now that I do not write about explicit sex to titillate the reader. I write about sex this way so I can be seen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I’m doing another reading at a local bookstore in November, and once again, I can’t read Chapter 1. This time, it’s not my parents who are holding me back. The reading area is adjacent to the children’s books section, elbow-to-elbow adjacent. Parents are so fragile, and the bookstore has guidelines. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Fine, no nipples. Some stuff is better under the book covers.</span><br />
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/SWIM-Eric-C-Wat/dp/1579625746" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="497" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuFuGlf-uhItcHQHAsXuy-D4mHuT79-FWQ17Wk9QY3D9QRyb4VqXoDwqI60ndqUOLNdxQGRJ6B3gVUyMDP5I_bommCN1hDu3d4qZU9Iemp8X8H7YHnV8GoAOGTls-c30ruvpnuDfutUcVo/s320/9781579625900_FC.jpg" width="207" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Eric Wat has been active in struggles for LGBT, immigrant, and workers' rights for more than two decades. His short stories and essays have appeared in various anthologies and journals. His debut novel <i>SWIM</i> is available through <a href="https://www.amazon.com/SWIM-Eric-C-Wat/dp/1579625746" target="_blank">Amazon</a> or <a href="https://thepermanentpress.com/" target="_blank">The Permanent Press</a>. He lives and writes in Los Angeles.</span><br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com96tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-17183044886530030212019-11-18T13:57:00.003-05:002019-11-18T15:36:20.129-05:00Travels with Leonard by Eleanor Lerman<span style="font-size: large;">By the time I got to high school in 1966 I was out of my mind. My mother had died; my father had gotten married again, choosing a woman who became the quintessential evil stepmother; and I had a schizophrenic stepsister who drew giant evil eyes on the living room walls. My father's reaction to the madness of our family life was to walk into the room where my stepmother, my stepsister, and I were all screaming at each other and say, "Now, now, let's all go watch Wheel of Fortune and everything will be okay." Perhaps that's where I learned that telling a story was a way to save my own life, but I think I know who really taught me that lesson. It was Leonard Cohen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Before I found his work though, I started running around in the Village. I knew all the hidden gay bars, and all the straight hippie dives, and I started writing about my life as a fourteen-year-old in these now long-lost places. I remember handing in a sheaf of poems to my high school English teacher and he said something to the effect that while my work was good enough, I couldn't read any of it to the class because it would scare them. They were all nice kids living nice, normal lives and they didn't need to hear about my not-so-secret life in the sex-drugs-and-rock-n-roll counterculture.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now, believe me, I was gratified to be a certifiably scary person. Why not? I was angry and out of control and my developing idea of becoming a writer seemed such an impossibility that I was ready to tear up the world. Poetry had taken hold of me but I had no idea of what I was doing and I didn't think anyone could help me. I had no intention of going to college because I was unteachable, unruly, ready to become a runaway, to fling myself into the nearest void and never return. And then one day, around the time I was sixteen, this happened:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">TRAVEL</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">by Leonard Cohen</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Loving you, flesh to flesh, I often thought</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Of traveling penniless to some mud throne</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Where a master might instruct me how to plot</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My life away from pain, to love alone</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In the bruiseless embrace of stone and lake.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Lost in the fields of your hair I was never lost</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Enough to lose a way I had to take; </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Breathless beside your body I could not exhaust</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The will that forbid me to contract, vow,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Or promise, and often while you slept</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I looked in awe beyond your beauty.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now I know why many men have stopped and wept</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Half-way between the loves they leave and seek,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And wondered if travel leads them anywhere-- </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Horizons keep the soft line of your check,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The windy sky's a locket for your hair.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the poem that saved me from becoming a lost soul because it taught me the art, discipline, and technical skills I needed to begin learning how to write poems that were something more than just stabbing at a piece of paper and describing how angry and crazed I felt. It's been something like fifty years since I first read "Travel" and I have never achieved anything as nearly as wonderful and perfect as this poem, which may be why I go back to it year after year, even in the years that I'm writing more fiction than poetry. It's my touchstone, my secret, my saving grace. Whenever I'm sitting on my purple couch -- my version of a writer's office -- with my laptop open, thinking, <i>I don't know how to do this anymore, it's too hard, I have no ideas, and what makes me think I'm really a writer, anyway?</i> -- I pull my decades-old copy of The Spice Box of Earth from my bookshelf and read this poem. Sometimes I read it out loud to myself. It always makes me feel better. It reminds me of the crazy, sad, angry girl I was -- the one still inside me that needs to be soothed -- and how she thought, <i>now I know how to save myself.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I first read "Travel" on a bus. I had bought The Spice Box of Earth in a drugstore in the half-deserted beach town where we lived when I was a teenager. The book was in the kind of spinning book rack they used to have in pharmacies and dime stores, and it caught my eye because I knew Leonard Cohen from “Suzanne,” a song of his that I’d heard on the radio. I thought Cohen was a singer and had no idea that he was also a poet. So I bought the book and took the bus home. By the time I got off at my stop, my life had changed. Up until that moment, I had thought poetry was incomprehensible nonsense written by dead old men and women in bonnets. But Cohen’s poem, “Travel,” which was one of the poems in the Spice Box collection, was like a message to me, a revelation and a how-to manual all wrapped up together. Because it was written in the kind of every-day language I heard in songs—maybe not in the way people actually spoke to each other, but certainly, in the way they sang on the FM radio stations I listened to in those days, and at night, when my headphones carried the music directly into my brain. I was saturated with music when I was a teenager, but after I read “Travel,” I was saturated with Leonard Cohen’s poetry, as well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Oh, that poem is so full of love and longing and grief. Underneath all my savage anger, I was still just a kid, full of longing and greatly in need of love. Each word of Cohen’s poem resonated with me. But “Travel” is not simply a path for a lonely teenager to follow into a life of writing. It stands by itself as the creation of a master of words, a man who knew how to infuse three stanzas with perfectly chosen words that create atmosphere and deep feeling. Think about “the bruiseless embrace of stone and lake,” and you can hear rushing water in a cold stream and then think about how you might float among stones in a lake and not be harmed but rather embraced by water and sky as you “plot [your] life away.” Who hasn’t, at one point or another, wanted to give themselves up and drift away? (And isn’t that the perfect antidote to wanting to hurl yourself into the dark, never to return?) However, the real master class offered by this poem is in the last lines. Read the first three…</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Now I know why many men have stopped and wept</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Half-way between the loves they leave and seek,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And wondered if travel leads them anywhere–“</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">…and then note how Cohen suddenly veers off in another direction, as if he’s been interrupted by his own musings, his own prayer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Horizons keep the soft line of your cheek,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The windy sky’s a locket for your hair.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It’s in that sudden change of direction, that unexpected turn from a despairing thought about lost love and wondering if travel leads anywhere—meaning, does life itself lead anywhere we want to go?—to a gentle, forgiving reminder that the sky and the wind can remember the consolation of love, even when you feel you can’t, that taught me the importance of learning how to end a poem. It can’t just fade away, it has to catch you, it has to leave you with a feeling that you absolutely know what the poet was feeling when he wrote it and what he wanted you to feel, too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So that’s how I learned to write. Or maybe what I should say is, that’s how I began to yearn to write. It’s because I thought I understood that one poem—the feeling that made it, the artistry that completed it, the technique that tied it all together—that I wanted to follow Leonard Cohen on his travels. Follow the words he left behind like breadcrumbs. That one poem showed me how I could start my own travels through my life—and more importantly, my life as a writer—I began to calm down, to focus my wild thoughts and begin to rein in my wild ways. It took years and years, and the process of balancing my feeling of being an outsider (outside of whatever that nice, normal life my teacher alluded to years ago actually is) with taking some joy in the fact that as I get older and older, I get better and better at my work.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Leonard Cohen is gone now but I’m still following the trail. I lose my way a lot (really, a lot), but I just have to go back to The Spice Box of Earth to look for the courage to sit down again on the purple couch, look off into the windy sky, and keep trying to travel on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Eleanor Lerman is the author of numerous award-winning collections of poetry, short stories and novels. She is a National Book Award finalist, the recipient of the 2006 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize from the Academy of American Poets, and was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship as well as fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts for poetry and the New York Foundation for the Arts for fiction. In 2016 her novel, <i>Radiomen</i>, was awarded the John W. Campbell Prize for the Best Book of Science Fiction. Her most recent novel, <i>The Stargazer's Embassy</i>, received an American Fiction Award from American Book Fest in 2018.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Don't miss Eleanor's latest book <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Satellite-Street-Eleanor-Lerman/dp/1579625754" target="_blank">Satellite Street</a></i>, available on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Satellite-Street-Eleanor-Lerman/dp/1579625754" target="_blank">Amazon</a>.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com114tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-91705948495046269232019-10-15T15:54:00.000-04:002019-11-18T15:15:18.026-05:00The Complexity of Historical Truths by Reiner Prochaska<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“History is written by the victors.” While we cannot
attribute this aphorism to a specific source with any degree of certainty (some
claim it was Churchill, others swear it was Machiavelli), we may take comfort
in the fact that <i>historical fiction</i> can be written by the vanquished.
That’s what I decided to do twelve years ago when I began my research for <i>Captives</i>,
the novel that was originally a screenplay titled, <i>Court of Honor</i>, and
then <i>The Tears of Valour</i> when Nextpix optioned the script in 2008.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I have always had a fascination with history. Growing up in
postwar Germany, it seemed impossible not to be obsessed with it. My father had
served as a teenaged soldier in World War II, fighting alongside White Russian
Cossacks in Yugoslavia and blowing up Soviet tanks in Vienna. His stories intrigued
me, but they seemed accounts of a vague and distant historical past. I was a
teenager myself when I finally did the math. I was born in 1961. Sixteen years
after the end of World War II. Only six years after Germany had become a
sovereign nation again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I was fortunate to grow up in the peace and prosperity of
the postwar economic boom. Aside from the Mercedes-Benz plant in the
neighboring Sindelfingen, most of the industry in my hometown was American.
IBM. Hewlett-Packard. My father was the command post-sergeant-major at the local
German Army post. Through his job, we were friends with American and French
military families who were stationed throughout the greater Stuttgart region. They
were our military allies. We bowled, barbecued, and went on Volksmarches
together. The idea of being at war with these people would have seemed utterly
absurd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But then we spent the entire tenth-grade history class at my
<i>Realschule</i> learning about the Third Reich, the Second World War and, of
course, the Holocaust. My high school class was required to see Joachim Fest’s <i>Hitler—Eine
Karriere </i>at the movies. We visited a former concentration camp in France.
Gradually I began to understand why I saw the German flag fly only at my
father’s army post. Why our national anthem was heard only before national
soccer games and during medal ceremonies at the Olympic Games. My generation
bore the guilt and the shame our fathers and grandfathers had brought on our
heads. We were responsible for the millions who had perished in thousands of
camps across Europe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">We had waged war on peaceful nations and murdered innocent
people in gas chambers while the rest of the world suffered our injustices
until it bravely fought back and—after defeating us—generously helped us
rebuild our country and welcomed us back into the global community as a trading
partner and an ally. The United States, in particular, deserved our gratitude
because only the Marshall Plan and American investments had made our <i>Wirtschaftswunder</i>—the
economic miracle—possible. It would be decades before I began to realize that
the truth was more complicated than that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">When I immigrated to the United States in 1990, I was
excited about moving to a country that, in my mind, represented freedom and
liberal values. Of course, I had learned about slavery, the annihilation of the
native population, and the civil rights struggles of African Americans in the
20<sup>th</sup> century. But it seemed as though America had learned from its
mistakes and rectified those tragic injustices. I have always felt welcome
here. Aside from, once in a New Jersey bar, being asked if I was a Nazi, I have
never been forced to defend my nationality or my homeland. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Then, in 2006, I happened to meet a woman who was a
Frederick, Maryland, native while we both worked as models for a drawing class
at the community college. While trying to hold a particularly awkward pose, we
chatted to pass the time. Suddenly she asked me if I knew that there had been a
camp for German POWs in town during the war. I admitted that I did not. She
told me that her father had shared a story with her about one of the POWs’
committing suicide. That was the extent of our conversation about this topic.
But I couldn’t forget it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">For weeks I thought about it, trying to find a reason why
someone who had survived the battles of Europe and North Africa—and reached the
safety of a POW camp in a sleepy Western Maryland town—would take his own life.
I decided to explore this mystery of local German American history and if the story was compelling enough, write a screenplay to tell it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I began by reading Dr. Arnold Krammer’s <i>Nazi Prisoners of
War in America</i>, which provided me with a wealth of facts—some fascinating
and others disturbing. I learned that almost 400,000 German prisoners had been
incarcerated in roughly 700 camps across the entire United States between 1942
and 1946. Many of them provided the agricultural labor force necessary to do
the work American farmers serving in the U.S. military overseas could not
perform themselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But I also discovered that many American camp commanders
allowed the German POWs to run the camps themselves. Frequently, the Nazis
quickly established themselves as the self-appointed executive and judicial
forces. Evidently, their American masters often preferred Nazi efficiency to
the relative lack of order in the liberal camps. Frequently, when
liberal-minded prisoners rejected the pressure from the Nazis in the camp, the
former would be penalized. In extreme cases, they were executed, and the
killings would be made to look like suicides.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But there were other, more disturbing surprises. For
example, the business relationship between the United States and Germany—well
into the war—added another level of historical complexity. Both Ford and
General Motors-owned plants in Germany that manufactured the cars and trucks
that transported German soldiers to their various fronts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Du Pont and Standard Oil of New Jersey (current-day Exxon) freely
shared their research with I.G. Farben, the German cartel that produced the
poisons for the gas chambers. In June of 1940, the Auschwitz concentration camp
began to produce artificial rubber from coal using proprietary patents granted
by Standard Oil. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Investigative journalist Edwin Black’s <i>IBM and the
Holocaust</i> paints another damning picture of a powerful American
corporation. The book documents the pivotal role IBM’s technology played in
helping facilitate Nazi genocide through the generation and tabulation of punch
cards based on national census data. A revised 2002 edition of Black’s book
includes further evidence that IBM New York created a special subsidiary in
Poland called Watson Business Machines, which operated a punch card printing
shop near the Warsaw Ghetto.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Mr. Black also sheds light on the American influence of the eugenics
movement in Germany. After the movement had been well established in the United
States, American eugenicists began sharing their work with scientists and
medical professionals in Germany. The Rockefeller Foundation helped develop and
fund various German eugenics programs—including one that Josef Mengele
participated in before he embarked on his career at Auschwitz. American
educator, eugenicists, and sociologist Harry Laughlin considered it a source of
pride that his Model Eugenic Sterilization Laws had been implemented in the
1935 Nuremberg racial hygiene laws.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Ironically, Nuremberg, the medieval city that had been the
picturesque backdrop for Nazi rallies, hosted the court in which Nazis were
tried, after the war, for their crimes before an Allied tribunal. Some of them
were convicted and sentenced. But the U.S. Joint Intelligence Objectives Agency
brought more than 1,600 German scientists—some of whom were Nazis and had used
slave labor during the war—to the United States to help America win the space
race against the Soviets (who, themselves, had forcibly recruited over 2,200
German scientists and their families). Wernher von Braun’s V-2 rocket, which
had rained down death on London, eventually evolved into the Saturn V rocket
that took American astronauts to the moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Most of these facts did not make their way into my novel.
Those that did serve as historical background rather than pivotal plot devices.
But they gave me insights I would not have imagined. However, it was not just
the realization that, while an estimated 400,000 American soldiers gave their
lives, a small number of American industrialists grew their fortunes by doing
business with the enemy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">What I do finally understand is that history can help us avoid
repeating mistakes. History should be a vehicle for communication and truth—not
guilt or shame. And, yes—for forgiveness. In our age of political correctness
and heightened sensitivity, let’s find a civil and constructive way to be
honest. Talk about World War II. Korea. Vietnam. Slavery. Talk about it and write
about it. Don’t dismantle Confederate statues. Put up a plaque that educates
readers about the person commemorated in that statue—the good and the bad. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">My 91-year-old father tells me that he wakes up every
morning around 6am and relives the guilt of killing a Russian tank commander
with his bazooka. He knows that Russian soldier had a mother and father. Maybe
a wife and children. Seventy-five years later, my father still cannot forgive
himself for the acts of war he was forced to commit as a teenaged boy. In
listening to his story and talking to him about it, I can provide the therapy his
generation never had any access to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Let’s learn from history. And let’s pay close attention to
current events because they will become history. Let’s make sure we create the
kind of history our children won’t be ashamed of.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">***</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">REINER PROCHASKA is an author, actor, and playwright, whose plays have been produced regionally and published internationally. His latest novel, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Captives-Reiner-Prochaska/dp/1579625762" target="_blank">Captives</a></i> is available on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Captives-Reiner-Prochaska/dp/1579625762" target="_blank">Amazon</a>.</span></div>
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-78051369030007049722019-03-26T13:36:00.003-04:002019-11-18T15:18:01.700-05:00OVER A CARDBOARD SEA by Khanh Ha<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: large;">It always came to me as an image, staying and never dying, until it blossomed into ideas for a novel.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I grew up in Hue, Vietnam, imbued with a culture full of magical realism. <span lang="EN-CA">As a child, I had an indelible belief in animism. An unseen presence dwelling in an odd-looking rock by the roadside where people placed a bowl of rice grains and a stick of incense long gone cold. That child lived in Hue, the former ancient capital of Vietnam, living in its mysterious atmosphere, half real, half magic. I used to walk home under the shade of the Indian almond trees, the poon trees. At the base of these old trees, I would pass a shrine. If I went with my grandmother, she would push my head down. “Don’t stare at it,” Grandmother said. “That’s disrespect to the genies.” Those anthropomorphic images sown in a child’s mind began to morph into fertile ideas when I became a teen and wrote out those childhood memories in short stories.</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit , serif;"> </span>But I was in love with the written words when I was much younger, between eight and nine, making up stories in chapbooks.<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"> </span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">In each of them </span>was a make-believe world. It may be a paper moon sailing over a cardboard sea, but to me it was believable.<span lang="EN-CA"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The image could be a man wearing a cangue on the way to an execution ground.<b> </b>This bandit was to be beheaded for his crime while the onlookers, some being his relatives with children, watched in muted fascination and horror. Gazing at the photograph, I imagined a boy<span style="font-family: "bodoni mt" , "serif";">—</span>his son<span style="font-family: "bodoni mt" , "serif";">—</span>who was witnessing the decapitation of his father by the hand of the executioner. I pictured him and his mother as they collected the body without the head which the government would display at the entrance of the village his father had looted. I thought what if the boy later set out to steal the head so he could give his father an honorable burial. What if he got his hand on the executioner’s sabre and used it to kill the man who betrayed his father for a large bounty.<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"> </span><span lang="EN-CA">However, it really started with a story within my family. My grandfather was one of the last mandarins of the Hue Imperial Court, circa 1930. At that time the Vietnamese communists were coming into power. They condemned any person a traitor, who worked either for the French or the Hue Imperial Court. So my grandfather was a traitor in their eye. One day news came to him that a communist gathering was to be held in one of the remote villages from Hue. He set out to that village with his bodyguards to punish the communists. Unfortunately, news leaked out about his trip. He was ambushed on the road</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "bodoni mt" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">—</span><span lang="EN-CA">his bodyguards were killed</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "bodoni mt" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">—</span><span lang="EN-CA">and he was beheaded. The communists threw his body into a river. My grandmother hired a sorcerer to look for his headless body. Eventually, the sorcerer found it. They were able to identify his body based on the ivory name tablet in his tunic. My grandmother hired someone to make a fake head out of a coconut shell wrapped in gilded paper and buried my grandfather on the Ngu Binh Mountain. The beheading of Grandfather surfaced again while I was looking at the decapitation photograph. That was how i</span>t became an inspiration for my debut novel “Flesh” and <span lang="EN-CA">I wrote about the decapitation scene in its first chapter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Sometimes it came to me <span lang="EN-CA">in the image of a girl dressed in the school’s uniform</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "bodoni mt" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">—</span><span lang="EN-CA">white shirt and knee-high navy-blue skirt</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "bodoni mt" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">—</span><span lang="EN-CA">standing under a tamarind tree outside her all-girl school. I’d ride home from school every day on a motorcycle and pass by her school. We’d steal glances at each other, and every day I’d count every traffic light before I reached her school. In the sound of traffic, the noises of which we both became familiar with, one passed by with a sidelong glance, and the other was left with nothing but a smile remembered. I wrote out that adolescent memory in “The Demon Who Peddled Longing” when the boy happened to run into the girl on the white horse, and I made the romance happen for them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In both “Flesh” and “The Demon Who Peddled Longing,” my main characters set out as young men to avenge a family member’s death.<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span>This <span lang="EN-CA">common dark thread began with a child’s memory. My late father was the chairman of an anti-communist, anti-dictatorial political party in Vietnam. </span>His party, Dai Viet (Viet Nation-State), was pledged to the restoration of national prestige and the unification of the two nations. <span lang="EN-CA">He was betrayed by a party member and was imprisoned by the First Republic of Vietnam for his anti-dictatorial stance. I often wondered what he would do if one day he were to meet his traitor face to face. So I put my protagonists in both “Flesh” and “The Demon Who Peddled Longing” through this predicament.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-CA">It could be an image of a <i>xích lô</i></span><i><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "bodoni mt" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">—</span></i><span lang="EN-CA">a Vietnamese pedicab</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "bodoni mt" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">—</span><span lang="EN-CA">that passed by my house in Saigon and stopped when an American passenger got out. He was big and tall and the <i>phu xích lô</i></span><i><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "bodoni mt" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">—</span></i><span lang="EN-CA">the pedicab coolie</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "bodoni mt" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">—</span><span lang="EN-CA">was all bones with toothpick legs. He was taking the fare from the American and before I knew it, he started coughing up gobs of blood. He reeled like he was dancing then fell flat on his back. The American chased his bill before the wind blew it away. The police came and pulled the coolie’s body to the curbside and put a poncho over him. After that it rained</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "bodoni mt" , "serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">—</span><span lang="EN-CA">monsoon rain. Lucky for him he wasn’t washed away by the time his friends came to claim the body. The poor man had TB. I fictionalized that experience in one of my novels.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Then the war came to my hometown during the Tet Offensive.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">At My Lai the American soldiers murdered the Vietnamese civilians; but during Tet in Hue, the Viet Cong massacred the Vietnamese<span style="font-family: "bodoni mt" , "serif";">—</span>their own people. Here you heard only of My Lai. The American public was more interested in a war crime committed by one American infantry platoon than in the Hue massacre.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">My father wasn’t home with us. The VC executed people like him. My mother kept the joss sticks burning on the altar every day and thanked the Buddha for sparing my father’s life. The VC came into Hue with the names of those they wanted to kill. Few were spared. They executed government officials, political party officials, block leaders, intellectuals, teachers, even priests, and monks. But they killed a lot of people out of personal hate and vendetta.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Every night we heard gunshots. Much later we found out that those were fired by the communists during their execution, and the playground of our high school was used as a mass grave. They massacred at least a few thousand people. It took people months to search, to dig the mass graves. Mass graves in the schoolyards, in the parks of the inner city. Mass graves in the jungle creek beds, in the coastal salt flats. People shot to death, clubbed to death with pick handles, buried alive with elbows tied behind them. The communists said they executed only the reactionaries, those who worked for the South Vietnam government. But I saw many bodies of women and children. Shot in the head, bashed in the head. Did they deserve to die? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">After the VC withdrew from Hue, graves were identified, and folks came to dig for bodies. The odor from the rotten bodies hung for days over the neighborhood. Smelled like dead rats but with a fish stink. My mother burned incense in the house to kill that odor. Like many people who lived inside the Citadel, we had fled, seeking refuge somewhere else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">When we came back to our house inside the Citadel, one side of the house had caved in. It must have been hit by artillery shells or helicopter gunships. Ammunition shells were all over the yard. Do you know what I saw on one side of our chest of drawers? An inscription: <i>Miami, FLA. Mom, Dad, and apple pie</i>. The American troops had boarded down in our house during the house-to-house combat against the VC.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But it’s always an image. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">An image I came upon in an old Vietnamese magazine article written about a centenarian eunuch of the Imperial Court of Hue. He had died in 1968. The writer had interviewed the eunuch’s adopted daughter. At the end of the article was a small halftone photograph of her. The story had lodged deep in my brain. Months later I realized that it wasn’t the story that was haunting me―it was the face in the photograph. I pictured her. Dawn or dusk, you could see mottled-brown sandpipers running along the seashore, legs twinkling, looking for food. Twilight falling. I followed their tracks, like twiggy skeletons strewn across the marbled sand until they ended under the frothing waves. One delicate bird stood at the water’s edge and gave out a cry. I often think of her as that sandpiper standing at the edge of the sea, its cry lost in the sound of waves. Then her image grew and I wrote a novel about her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">It could be something else that would light up an image. Like a canal languidly flowing through the thick china fir grove that, from such a distance, was a mass of smoky green. In the grove’s dark shade, the air reeked of the pine cones’ scent and red squirrels and fox squirrels leaped from tree to tree. I remembered all that. Even the tiny chirps of crickets in the grass, the red wild strawberries like drops of blood in their patches, the late January wind damp to the bones coming from the sea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Or when you are going down the foredune and there’s a tang of fish odor, a damp smell of kelp in the air. Fishing nets are piled up above the high-tide mark and beneath them lie the ocean litter of seaweed, soggy sticks, bits of crabs’ claws. High tide is coming in, tinkling softly through the orphaned seashells studding the sand. You stop when something scurries out from under the mass of wet nets. A rat. You follow its trail and see that the bad rat is out looking for birds’ eggs, those that nested above the high-tide line. A buoy clangs. A desolate sound guiding fishermen ashore.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Those images never go away and I wrote out short stories and brought them together into a novel. But the image that eventually blossomed into “Mrs. Rossi’s Dream” came from a film in which a woman spirit medium in her trance-induced walk led an American woman to a grave where she found her son’s remains. By then I have lived in the United States for many years and in me lived on that image for many years more before I felt ready to put them down in words. While writing it, I felt like a baby trying to learn my way on this planet Earth, its fascinating habitats,<b> </b>its people who are a puzzling race full of vice, greed, violence and yet full of love and forgiveness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">On the morning I finished the first draft, I walked outside and stood on the doorstep and saw our flame tree covered in red. Then the cicadas began to sing.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="text-align: center; text-indent: 48px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> * * *</span></span></b><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Khanh Ha is the author of the highly acclaimed novel <i>Mrs. Rossi's Dream, </i>which The Permanent Press is excited to release this April. He also is the author of <i>Flesh</i> and <i>The Demon Who Peddled Longing</i>. He is a seven-time Pushcart nominee, a Best Indie Lit New England nominee, a twice finalist of THE WILLIAM FAULKNER-WISDOM CREATIVE WRITING AWARD, the recipient of SAND HILLS PRIZE FOR BEST FICTION, and Greensboro Review's ROBERT WATSON LITERARY PRIZE IN FICTION. <i>The Demon Who Peddled Longing </i>was honored by Shelf Unbound as a Notable Indie Book. </span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com108tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-47571068097464518782018-08-02T16:54:00.002-04:002018-08-02T16:54:48.087-04:00A FINAL WORD, concerning the death of Judith Appelbaum<br />
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was with a heavy heart
that I read, in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York
Times, </i>of Judith </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">Appelbaum’s death on July 25th at the age of 78. At the same time I felt bathed by recalled fondness for the
boost she gave </span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>The Permanent</i> <i>Press</i></span><span style="font-size: large;"> titles when we began publishing 38
years ago, while Judy served as the managing editor of </span><i><span style="font-size: large;">Publishers Weekly</span></i><span style="font-size: large;">.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her dedication to advancing
the cause of quality writing was was well summed up by her closing lines in an
interview she gave in 1998:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYC9wLvhSRDhYpLUpq8kPjaZZ0_sD1mXA8XS88OyZ-xEN9DDk2q6YFmPIj6TZUmmHP7Bhy21IXclkb_7qmdkUn-ZkeYk-vW_3wl_BWzXyJp_nBbAg2BmT5QuPByd2e5KzB868BU_QICtu/s1600/applebaum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="601" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYC9wLvhSRDhYpLUpq8kPjaZZ0_sD1mXA8XS88OyZ-xEN9DDk2q6YFmPIj6TZUmmHP7Bhy21IXclkb_7qmdkUn-ZkeYk-vW_3wl_BWzXyJp_nBbAg2BmT5QuPByd2e5KzB868BU_QICtu/s200/applebaum.jpg" width="169" /></a><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I love to see writers expand our range of
understanding, knowledge,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>even happiness.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Publishing has always struck me as a </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">way</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">to change the world.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We’ve all lost a champion, too soon, too soon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But her memory still lives on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’d welcome any of your comments to this posting and your recollections
of this very special person.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Martin Shepard, co-publisher, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Permanent Press</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com429tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-63306168135574431162018-06-26T16:35:00.000-04:002018-06-27T13:03:24.376-04:00READ Carefully, Book Lovers by Joan Baum<span style="font-size: large;">Joan Baum is a recovering academic from the City University of New York, who spent 25 years teaching literature and writing. Joan has a long career as a critic and reviewer, writing for, among others, WNYC, Newsday, The Christian Science Monitor, MIT's Technology Review, Hadassah Magazine and writing on subjects in her dissertation field, the major English Romantic poets. She covers all areas of cultural history but particularly enjoys books at the nexus of the humanities and the sciences.<br /><br />With an eye on reviewing fiction and nonfiction that has regional resonance for Connecticut or Long Island – books written by local authors or books set in the area – Joan considers the timeliness and significance of recently published work: what these books have to say to a broad group of readers today and how they say it in a distinctive or unique manner, taking into account style and structure as well as subject matter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEt8PcQqQEatJdX5erqvdIYt5wBQ5T0agL9ZYYlcMYo-SoXOnUx7KhXw1M8WuZcVQu6qatbtIZ3LLVwGKVMokIytQH-f-ko0NG7KvnS55yRuAJG0PmwI_Cw0xKCvTJ_4DzRaKZWZGUNduS/s1600/Joan+Baum+blog.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEt8PcQqQEatJdX5erqvdIYt5wBQ5T0agL9ZYYlcMYo-SoXOnUx7KhXw1M8WuZcVQu6qatbtIZ3LLVwGKVMokIytQH-f-ko0NG7KvnS55yRuAJG0PmwI_Cw0xKCvTJ_4DzRaKZWZGUNduS/s200/Joan+Baum+blog.jpg" /></a>✱ ✱ ✱</span></div>
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It was a front-page article in The New York Times on Sunday, June 3rd: "Listen Carefully, Book Lovers: Top Authors Are Skipping Print." Listen, indeed. The theme of the piece is that audiobooks are such a fast-growing phenomenon that authors are by-passing their own publishers who have audiobook divisions to deal directly with companies such as Audible, owned by Amazon, because the money's too good. Yeah, but they love literature, the authors say. And yeah, audiobooks are democratic and humane, considering the number of folks who for various physical reasons cannot read easily, and the number of people who enjoy listening to books in cars, in gyms and on trips. <br /><br />The article noted the financial and psychological rewards for authors going straight to audio ‒ a greater number of readers immediately and a greater pay back in making multi-book deals, though for sure the reputed $15-$45 cost of buying an audiobook is certain to go up, given the likelihood of forced subscriptions. (A side note not pursued is the article's report of a diminution of sales of ebooks!)<br /><br />The article also noted the kinds of books lending themselves to audio success: nonfiction, popular novels, science fiction and self-help guides. But …<br /><br />What about those who love serious fiction? Well, yes, there are those short stories that get read by actors on public radio, but those are classics or standards, and the dramatic readings are broadcasts from literary events, not new publications. What about "book lovers" of serious new novels? What’s in audiobooks for them?<br /><br />Not much.<br /><br />I can think of nothing more insulting to a reader ‒ or listener – or literary author! – of having a recorded voice determine how to respond to sustained complexity in a novel – to irony, paradox, ambiguity, pacing, tone. When interpretation is kidnapped by an actor who has decided how to present dialogue, monologue, point of view, taking away a reader's imaginative response and engagement, that is the end of one of the most intimate relationships in the civilized world. Audiobooks of serious fiction are an affront to the cognitive values already under threat from an ever-extending quick-fix electronic world – reflection, analysis, reconsideration.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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You can catch Joan's most recent book reviews on WSHU, an NPR member station, where she recently covered The Permanent Press's new African thriller The Uttermost Parts of the Earth by Frederic Hunter. Do pass this piece on to other book lovers you know, and feel free to comment on this post and our others. Also feel free to share your thoughts with us by contacting our co-publisher Marty at <a href="mailto:shepard@thepermanentpress.com">shepard@thepermanentpress.com</a>, and Joan herself at <a href="mailto:joanbaum29@gmail.com">joanbaum29@gmail.com</a>.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com170tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-79442930978621711302018-05-16T16:48:00.000-04:002018-05-16T16:16:30.806-04:00HOW MOLDY PAPERBACKS DEFINED MY MIND by Chris Knopf<br />
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<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">My
reading habit was mostly self-inflicted, though heavily influenced by my
father's collection of boyhood books, notably the works of Edgar Rice Burroughs,
Zane Grey, Tom Swift and lots of other popular action writers of the early 20th
century now lost in obscurity. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZGlEZovnLCpQJ-aq6ApVEKfyCyQfb2ofPvPjRIegQVZ8BhKrCcBhreGKFzr7W4DEyqDiXJtS9L8GcEWJHhNN-NZwXcXDJrtui9UKIiRNzUUELLg-xCfwI2sKRLZ89ssFDU1NxpsHVaRYo/s1600/Chris+Knopf-new.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="432" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZGlEZovnLCpQJ-aq6ApVEKfyCyQfb2ofPvPjRIegQVZ8BhKrCcBhreGKFzr7W4DEyqDiXJtS9L8GcEWJHhNN-NZwXcXDJrtui9UKIiRNzUUELLg-xCfwI2sKRLZ89ssFDU1NxpsHVaRYo/s200/Chris+Knopf-new.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> But the mystery addiction
is all my mother's fault. She didn't know the term, but she was an avid
Cozy freak, in love with Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, P.D. James, Martha
Grimes (not technically a Brit) and any other female British writer she
could find in the local library. And male, for that matter, especially
John Creasy. While stretching the definition, she also dug Eric Ambler,
Graham Greene and Ian Fleming. And she had a serious thing for Earl
Stanley Gardner, creator of the Perry Mason series, who's all but forgotten
these days, even though he was one of the most successful (and prolific)
crime writers of all time. I think a mild crush on Raymond Burr (not
knowing and likely not caring that he was gay) helped that along.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> Hundreds of these books
flowed through my house when I was growing up, usually tattered mass paperbacks
that got passed around my extended family of mystery-loving grandmothers,
aunts and great uncles. The production quality of those books was
minimal, as they were considered essentially pulp trash, so to this day I tend
to associate the smell of moldy paper with action and suspense. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I was allowed to read
anyone but Mickey Spillane, who my mother rightly determined was gratuitously
violent. I thought it was also too much sex, suggested by the cover art,
which I was disappointed to learn to be a flagrant bait and switch when finally
getting my hands on a copy of <em>I, The Jury</em>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> When I
was getting my masters in creative writing at Antioch in London, we had an exhausting reading list of </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">20</span><sup style="text-indent: 0.5in;">th</sup><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">
century literary heroes, which I loved, though it got a bit weighty.</span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">So I took </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;">The
Maltese Falcon</span></i><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> out of the local library, hoping for some light
reading.</span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">Instead, I realized I’d just
read one of the greatest heroes of Western literature.</span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">Scheme foiled, life-long addiction to mysteries
entrenched.</span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">We know
that Hammett read Hemingway, since every one did at the time, and you can see
plenty of Hemingway’s muscular minimalism in Hammett’s prose.</span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">I suspect, however, that Hemingway also read
Hammett.</span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">Maybe someone out there knows
for certain, but the great early 20</span><sup style="text-indent: 0.5in;">th</sup><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> century American anti-hero,
the tough, cynical, but ultimately moral, even idealistic, Sam Spade bears more
than a faint resemblance to Hemingway’s protagonists, more so as the author
matured.</span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Humphrey
Bogart bridges it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His Harry Morgan
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To Have and Have Not</i> was an easy
transition from his Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe roles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The debate over what constitutes literature
and genre fiction rages on, but to me, at the very top of the work, it’s all of
a piece.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">✱ ✱ ✱</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is the latest blog from Chris discussing the literary world, be it reading, writing, or publishing. He’s had a successful career as a wordsmith, starting with a career
in advertising and moving on to write a string of highly successful mysteries.
His most recent Sam Acquillo mystery <i>Tango Down</i> is available on Amazon. Chris
has won innumerable awards and has had dozens of rights sales around the world,
including audio sales to Blackstone Audiobooks. Do pass this on to others you
know, post comments on the Cockeyed Pessimist website, and feel free to share
your thoughts with Chris via View my Blog The Cockeyed Pessimist, or email
Chris directly <a href="mailto:cknopf@thepermanentpress.com">cknopf@thepermanentpress.com</a> or Martin Shepard at
<a href="mailto:shepard@thepermanentpress.com">shepard@thepermanentpress.com</a>.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com244tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-92069185318922220852018-04-06T15:25:00.001-04:002018-04-06T15:25:04.378-04:00THOUGHTS ON COPY EDITING by Chris Knopf<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Every published author will tell you that a great copy
editor is a gift from God, and have horror stories about those more in Satan’s
camp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve had both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that I’m busy with the editorial process,
the importance of great copy editing has become even more apparent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXIPeT6i5oUdrtnnFhbcye5_BJAtjfK1pizj-Ub6zlfj53mM9pNhkigHJMH5RZSf5rORWr9-pPuyZzmvWN1mAOLLs3jt-dSUXJ0U4kobeaycfiSMIHuwxzr0ZmZo9SnnInisUgkbQs2VMi/s1600/Chris+Knopf-new.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="432" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXIPeT6i5oUdrtnnFhbcye5_BJAtjfK1pizj-Ub6zlfj53mM9pNhkigHJMH5RZSf5rORWr9-pPuyZzmvWN1mAOLLs3jt-dSUXJ0U4kobeaycfiSMIHuwxzr0ZmZo9SnnInisUgkbQs2VMi/s200/Chris+Knopf-new.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">There’s a big range of capabilities different copy editors
bring to their roles. Some are basically proofreaders, who concentrate on
typos, spelling, punctuation, format screw-ups, like a bad break in the middle
of a sentence, things that are objectively incorrect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But beyond that, there’s a lot of room for thoughtful interpretation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Especially for things
like commas, colons, semi-colons, quote marks, dashes, and so on. These can
have a big impact on style and meaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The copy editor has to understand the author’s intent, their distinctive
voice, to know how to properly suggest how these guideposts should be arranged.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Great copy editors also delve into grammar, usage, syntax,
continuity, fact checking, historical accuracy, repetitive or poor word choice,
character consistency, even unintended pejoratives <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– many of the things developmental editors also
attend to. This means they have to have a good understanding of the author’s
voice and style, not only to catch and correct tiny errors, but to maintain a
clear understanding of the storyline itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">A gestalt on the work as a whole.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This is where copy editing
is a fine art.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not their job to
rewrite an author’s work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, rewriting
a sentence usually guarantees it’s in the copy editor’s style, not that of the author’s. Though sometimes the author doesn’t hear her own voice. She knows what she
wants to say, and might think she is saying it, but it doesn’t always come out
that way. The copy editor can help by questioning the author’s intent. “Did you
mean for the reader to think x or y?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A not-so-good copy editor is either someone who just misses
too many goof-ups, or worse, one who conforms to strict definitions of formal
rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was in advertising, I sent
some copy to a bigwig for approval. After
checking for technical accuracy, he turned it over to his admin, who was a
former English teacher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got it back all marked up with a red
pen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She took out all my contractions,
re-attached the split infinitives, and after making sure there were no
incomplete sentences, ganged them up into long paragraphs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus taking all the life out of the
prose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I thanked her for her help, and sent her a huge stack of
long-form brochures asking her to apply her magic, and never heard from her
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My favorite copy editors either come from journalism or advertising.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those professions teach you how to keep the
writing from straying too far from acceptable standards, but also that style
must be a flexible thing, who appreciate the whole and do not distort the
author’s voice by fussing over irrelevant particulars, or imposing rules that
were first established in the eighteenth century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I work with a lot of beta readers who I ask to ignore typos
and misspellings, hoping to keep their attention on the greater work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is easy for me, since I’m the world’s
worst proofreader. And utterly dependent
on great copy editors, who are the lifeguards in the narrative stream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">✱ ✱ ✱</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-family: times, times new roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is the newest of the blogs Chris has been posting sharing his thoughts about the art of writing with other writers—be they published or unpublished—that might be helpful. He’s had a successful career as a wordsmith, starting with a career in advertising and moving on to write a string of highly successful mysteries. His most recent Sam Acquillo mystery <i>Tango Down</i> is available on Amazon. Chris has won innumerable awards and has had dozens of rights sales around the world, including audio sales to Blackstone Audiobooks. Do pass this on to others you know, post comments on the Cockeyed Pessimist website, and feel free to share your thoughts with Chris via View my Blog The Cockeyed Pessimist, or email Chris directly <a href="mailto:cknopf@thepermanentpress.com">cknopf@thepermanentpress.com</a> or Martin Shepard at <a href="mailto:shepard@thepermanentpress.com">shepard@thepermanentpress.com</a>. </span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com97tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-4622647306251599852018-01-17T14:30:00.000-05:002018-01-22T16:15:04.459-05:00NO OBITS NECESSARY FOR THE LIFE OF THE MIND by Chris Knopf<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;">These are times when optimism is about as easy to sustain as the suspension of disbelief watching a superhero movie. I consume way too much of the media fury, so I won't add to it here. Rather, I’d like to address one small slice of the public debate, at least among those who are literate enough to ask: Are we moving into a post-literate society?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;">No. And here's why.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3sTfyxbH6_VAst4rIgOrrgg2QHQGjMWYehuM9KDS6rADO1WHO-KKMLexdzEAqI0NRhoctjYvIk0MA9jtYDi3-JKYuKrrZOc24jJgopOhL_hJpmzHivRZ96bsOTrIE8MBCk0K2gEjrQLfP/s1600/Chris+Knopf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="250" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3sTfyxbH6_VAst4rIgOrrgg2QHQGjMWYehuM9KDS6rADO1WHO-KKMLexdzEAqI0NRhoctjYvIk0MA9jtYDi3-JKYuKrrZOc24jJgopOhL_hJpmzHivRZ96bsOTrIE8MBCk0K2gEjrQLfP/s200/Chris+Knopf.jpg" width="156" /></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Just as there's a natural distribution of good looks, intelligence and athletic grace across the population, there's a percentage of people who like to read, absorb information and artistic expression, and formulate their own opinions from the swelter of competing views. Let's assume that the qualities described above are encouraged, for some, by spending four years in college. This means the percentage of the thoughtful and inquisitive is larger than ever: In 1940, only about five percent of the country had graduated from college. Now it’s over a third.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;"> You’ll hear people say "Kids don’t read anymore." Tell them that books sales, in particular physical books, are growing, and much of that growth is being driven by young readers. It's true that the number of brick and mortar bookstores has declined, but that's because of Amazon and other online sources. It's a matter of distribution, not consumption, and for the purpose of my thesis here, somewhat misleading. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Journalism is another institution that is supposedly dying on the vine, and for sure, the print media is under huge duress. Though for every daily newspaper that goes under there are hundreds, if not thousands, of fresh news outlets appearing online. You may rightly assert that many, or most, are poorly managed and edited, and filled with uncurated dreck. That still leaves so much worthy and enriching information, and commentary, that you'd never be able to absorb it all. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;">You can make a strong case that the cretin in the White House has caused an upsurge in media consumption, however polarized individual outlets have become. Trust in the media favored by Democrats has actually improved in recent times. I submit that this is because people are paying more attention, that they're <i>reading more</i>. I also believe that responsible journalism, in an era of propaganda and phony news, is trying harder to keep their facts straight and their commentary thoughtfully nuanced. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;">A good friend of mine has a theory of the human mind: "People have a tendency to extrapolate current circumstances indefinitely into the future." Even the scantest understanding of the past ought to unburden you of this fallacy. We are, no doubt, going through some monumental changes, occurring at an unprecedented pace. This is much of the problem, since rapid change makes it feel like everything is going to hell in a handbasket. The originators of Chaos Theory, a scientific paradigm that explains the behavior of complex systems, say that nature moves from order to disorder in irregular, but relentless, cycles. They call the state between these cycles "phase transition," when things become the most chaotic. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is where we're living today. It’s not a post-literate society, it's a society making a painful adjustment to the Information Age, finding their way through the torrent of books, articles and essays, along with posts, Tweets, online rants and blogs, just like this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;">If you believe civilization is worth preserving, you have to believe that wisdom and critical thinking are essential ingredients in that preservation. Thought in isolation from information is valuable, but closed-ended. You can only go so far on your own. I maintain that the richest source of revelation and enrichment are books. Whatever form they take, physical or electronic, books will save us from annihilation, from the foolishness – economic, military, environmental, cultural – that is also an irredeemable component of the human experience. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Don't despair. Publishers are publishing, readers are reading. Thus, thinkers keep thinking. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>* * *</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="background-color: black; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I encourage you to share this blog with others who may enjoy it. I particularly welcome your comments on this cockeyed pessimist site. Chris Knopf's eighth Sam Acquillo mystery, <i>Tango Down</i>, is now available for purchase. You can also reach Chris by email at <a href="mailto:cknopf@thepermanentpress.com">cknopf@thepermanentpress.com</a>, and follow The Permanent Press on Facebook and Twitter for updates on all our titles! </span></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com570tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-10463197843675502402017-11-20T16:51:00.000-05:002017-11-21T22:30:24.522-05:00BILL'S BLOG by Bill McCauley<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This past November ninth Judy and I did what we've been
doing for decades now: celebrating my birthday by visiting my son Marc and his
wife Stella who live just outside Seattle, and getting together with some of
our writers for a meal who also live in the area. This led into a spirited discussion
about writing with William (Bill) McCauley, a very gifted writer and world
traveler whose fiction we'd published
three times to excellent reviews—<b><i>Need</i></b> (the <i>Seattle Times</i> review said "his
evocation of place is masterful and provides a level of engagement reminiscent
of Hawthorne or Melville"), <b><i>The Turning Over</i></b>, his second novel,
set in Sierra Leone, involved Western aid workers and native workers and won high
praise in <i>Library Journal,</i>and his short
story collection <b><i>Adulteries, Hot Tubs, and Such Like Matters</i></b>—set
in Suburban America—was hailed in<i>
Booklist </i>as "biting and insightful stories about well-to-do middle-agers,
bored with their lives, who engage in
empty shenanigans." Obviously my admiration for Bill is immense. And to pass
those twelve hours of travel I brought along the world-famed Swedish novelist
Henning Mankell's <b><i>Sidetracked</i></b>. So much for my introduction to Bill's Blog. Needless to say it was a novel
I abhorred. <i>—Marty
Shepard</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUs_WxsbtiXhFZIEwIMm37tTKFW2MN-uGzE46BN7iD4YmVvI9BQ5Vkvg8pehEP0Jq8xITaglHQw3folOirD1Zm63QAp4ivrzkMZYBHgn23vPsGHdGiaaJCqCKk7AcqtEIv2MCVqUijqofV/s1600/WMcCauley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="941" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUs_WxsbtiXhFZIEwIMm37tTKFW2MN-uGzE46BN7iD4YmVvI9BQ5Vkvg8pehEP0Jq8xITaglHQw3folOirD1Zm63QAp4ivrzkMZYBHgn23vPsGHdGiaaJCqCKk7AcqtEIv2MCVqUijqofV/s320/WMcCauley.jpg" width="306" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">When Marty and I were talking about books a few days ago he told
me he'd recently read a Henning Mankell novel and was disappointed. He asked me
if I'd read any of Mankell's books. I said I'd read only one and I came away
from it feeling betrayed by the reviewer blurbs. Reading the book was akin to
what I feel when I have unwisely devoured some fast-food treat like a Big Mac,
fries, and a Coke. It may fill my belly, but it will not satisfy me. This is
because there is nothing new in it. Everyone knows what to expect from a Big
Mac and fries. In an analogous way the Mankell book filled my time and gave me
no satisfaction at all. Having read the blurbs, I anticipated an enjoyable read
and ended up annoyed with myself for not cutting my losses at page 25 and tossing
the book into the Goodwill bin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I make no judgement about the <i>worth</i> of the Mankell book. A book is worth what the reader thinks
it's worth. Obviously, my opinion on Mankell's writing is out of sync with many
thousands of his loyal readers. I didn't like it because it did not meet my
standard for a good readable book. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">We all have standards, though we don't often express them,
and when we do we don't express them well. What are yours? Can you generalize
your standards in a sentence? I can. I keep it simple; it is the same standard
I use to evaluate art. For me the quality of a book starts and ends with the
question of whether it offers me the discovery of something new (Merriam-Webster:<span style="background-color: black;"> "</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; letter-spacing: 0.6pt;"><span style="background-color: black;">to obtain
sight or knowledge of for the first time")</span></span><span style="background-color: black;">. </span>Perhaps this is another way
of saying it must be interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">From my perspective, the topic of a book or its genre are not
of first importance. The next book that captures my admiration might be a
novel, or a collection of short stories, or book of poems, or an anthropological
book on human origins, or a book on cosmology, or a military history, or a book
on any number of other topics, in any number of genres. What I don't want is to
give my time to any book that says something in a way that I've seen many times,
that is didactic, that is careless or ugly in its use of language, or is populated
by two-dimensional cliché expressions and characters. I want originality in
material and in manner of presentation. I believe that when the writer strives
for originality she necessarily discovers and offers discoveries to readers;
and in not being original, the writer forecloses the possibility of discovering
and offering discoveries to readers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">"Discovery" is a very general term. In that sense I mean discovery
has many aspects. Often, I find one aspect of discovery in a book but not other
aspects that I value. When that happens, I am nonetheless likely to finish it because
the value of the one ongoing experience of discovery is enough for me to enjoy
the book. For example, I recently read <i>This
Kind of War,</i> by T. R. Fehrenbach. I heartily recommend it, though the
writer's underlying politics are too conservative for me, the intellectual
setting is outdated (it was written in the early 60s), it is loaded with mid-20<sup>th</sup>
Century racial clichés, and the writing is often in mediocre military-history
style. Nonetheless, I liked it very much and think it a worthwhile read, because
it brilliantly characterizes the difficulties of fighting a war of movement (a
modern war) in mountainous North Korea. This is new information for a lot of
people and should be thoroughly understood by those advocating a war against
North Korea. The insights (discoveries) provided by the author were original
and clearly developed. The book is a tidy history of the Korean War.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Another example of a book in which readers are likely to find
rich veins of discovery is Vladimir Nabokov’s <i>Pale Fire, </i>which I read this year.<i> </i>Whereas the Fehrenbach book offered me one aspect of significant
discovery (why fighting a land war in North Korea is a bad idea), <i>Pale Fire</i> offers many aspects of
discovery. In this it exemplifies the genius of Nabokov. I've read several of
his books and in none have I found any single weakness. In his books, discoveries
abound, on every page from first to last. Plot? No one is more original. Humor?
I experienced numerous laugh-out-loud moments. Poetic language? So subtle and
lush I stopped and reread sentences and paragraphs to re-experience the thrill
of the first reading. Originality? He seems never to repeat himself in any book
or from book to book, and never to use any character as a template for others. His
characters are as original and as alive as Shakespeare's. Dialogue? Always in
character, never unfitting or unlikely, and always leading the reader into yet
another discovery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Poems and short stories are typically built around a single
discovery. O. Henry made a living on this. John Updike is known for the one-line "zingers," each a revelation (discovery) for the reader, with which he ends his
short stories. Ditto John Cheever. A poem without discovery for the reader is reduced
to an exercise in word play.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In the most felicitous case, as the writer composes he is
discovering. While I cannot say how other writers work I can say that I never
end up with the words and thoughts I put down first. Never. I throw away far
more pages of stuff than end up in a manuscript. It is in the act of writing that
I discover what I want to say; it is in the act of developing characters that I
discover who the characters are. When I follow that motif of composition – exploring
by writing and making changes until I cannot find another change that makes an
improvement –
I continuously feel an aesthetic lift that accompanies discovery, because I am
writing stuff that says more than the words alone express. The writer hopes the
reader makes his or her own discoveries. The most enduring literature
consistently involves the reader in this way. To the extent this happens, the
writer is successful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">For many years I've believed this. It is what sustains me
when I am defeated by my cliché characters or a plot line that embarrasses me
and defeats every attempted change. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This brings me full circle to Mankell's book. I discovered
nothing in it that wasn't on the surface of the words, which is simple word
play.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I am curious to hear from you about which popular
writers you believe are incredibly overrated, and the reasons you would put
forward for your dismissals of them. The media is always concerned with
Best-Seller lists, and contrarian that I sometimes am, I'd like to see a
listing of other unworthy Best-Sellers for another blog. My email address is <a href="mailto:shepard@thepermanentpress.com/">shepard@thepermanentpress.com</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>—Marty</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com305tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-15946914190897258182017-09-27T17:11:00.001-04:002017-09-27T17:11:29.156-04:00FIRST THE TAO, THEN ZEN, AND THEN A PARODY by Martin Shepard<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">My grandparents all came from Russia. Some had religious ties, others were atheists, but all were pacifists. When it came down to my father and mother’s affiliations and those of their generation, all were agnostic at best and none of their children (my cousins, or anyone in our extended family) had any religious education at all, for which I am eternally grateful, since it’s enabled me to avoid tribalism, be it nationalism, racial, or religious.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLdUkBayz_ddWb5XYa8100fmk8vnICeblOG4JfmlWJWBeWcSf9yVC2oJWr1oZLfr5KT01IPR21CtF5McxqewJgeKFh2g4HnNPtD66-T7pVmCJMdSRAhWMs2liY4kpSPDQ0Kp8rqTYLSyfv/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="249" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLdUkBayz_ddWb5XYa8100fmk8vnICeblOG4JfmlWJWBeWcSf9yVC2oJWr1oZLfr5KT01IPR21CtF5McxqewJgeKFh2g4HnNPtD66-T7pVmCJMdSRAhWMs2liY4kpSPDQ0Kp8rqTYLSyfv/s200/1.jpg" width="136" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">My favorite book is not fiction which we largely publish, Nor even memoirs It is Stephen Mitchell’s translation of La-tzu’s the Tao Te Ching—81 short poetic statements about the Way things are. The front flap talks about at the basic predicament of being alive; about wisdom in action and imparts a balance and perspective that leads to a serene and generous spirit. I read it repeatedly in my 30’s and have gone back to again. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">It is the most widely read translated book in world literature after the Bible. Yet few of my friends and contemporaries have ever read it, But if there were one book I would recommend to one and all to read, it wouldn’t be a anything from one of the mega publishers or smaller ones like us, but this engrossing and timeless work.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">So what spurred me to write this blog now? Coming across an article written 12 years ago called Zen Judaism. And it was funny. And we can all enjoy something that can foster laughter.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> * * *</span></div>
<div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">ZEN JUDAISM</span></b></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* If there is no self,</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> whose arthritis is this? </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* Be here now. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Be someplace else later. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Is that so complicated? </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">* Drink tea and nourish life. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> With the first sip... joy. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> With the second... satisfaction. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> With the third, peace. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> With the fourth, a danish. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">* Wherever you go, there you are. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Your luggage is another story. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* Accept misfortune as a blessing. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Do not wish for perfect health </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> or a life without problems. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> What would you talk about? </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* The journey of a thousand miles </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> begins with a single "oy." </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* There is no escaping karma. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> In a previous life, you never called, </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> you never wrote, you never visited. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> And whose fault was that? </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* Zen is not easy. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> It takes effort to attain nothingness. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> And then what do you have? </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Bupkes.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">* The Tao does not speak. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> The Tao does not blame. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> The Tao does not take sides. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> The Tao demands nothing of others. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> The Tao is not Jewish. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">* Breathe in. Breathe out. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Breathe in. Breathe out. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Forget this and attaining Enlightenment </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> will be the least of your problems. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* Let your mind be as a floating cloud. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Let your stillness be as the wooded glen. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> And sit up straight. You'll never meet the </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Buddha with such rounded shoulders.</span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* Be patient and achieve all things. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Be impatient and achieve all things faster. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">* To Find the Buddha, look within. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Deep inside you are ten thousand flowers. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Each flower blossoms ten thousand times.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Each blossom has ten thousand petals. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> You might want to see a specialist. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* To practice Zen and the art of Jewish </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> motorcycle maintenance, do the following: </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> get rid of the motorcycle. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> What were you thinking? </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* Be aware of your body. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Be aware of your perceptions. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Keep in mind that not every physical </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> sensation is a symptom of a terminal illness. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* The Torah says,"Love thy neighbor as</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> thyself." </span><span style="font-size: large;">The Buddha says there is no "self." </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> So, maybe you are off the hook. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">* The Buddha taught that one should practice</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> loving kindness to all sentient beings. Still, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> would </span><span style="font-size: large;">it kill you to find a nice sentient being </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> who happens to </span><span style="font-size: large;">be Jewish? </span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">* Though only your skin, sinews, and bones</span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> remain, though your blood and flesh </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> dry up and wither </span><span style="font-size: large;">away, </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> yet shall you meditate and not stir until </span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> you have attained full Enlightenment. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> But, first, a little nosh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: center;"> * </span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: center;">*</span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: center;">
</span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: center;">*</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I encourage you to share this blog with others who may enjoy it. I particularly welcome your comments on this cockeyed pessimist site. You can also reach me by email (shepard@thepermanentpress.com), and follow The Permanent Press on Facebook and Twitter for updates on all our titles! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: center;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Marty</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com119tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-82715048797896332712017-08-16T16:17:00.000-04:002017-08-16T16:17:23.236-04:00THE TWENTY YEAR ITCH by Howard Owen<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Howard Owen is surely the best known and widely read author in Richmond and also well known throughout the state of Virginia. His 16th novel, (and fourth Willie Black Mystery), <i>The Devil’s Triangle</i> debuted last month. Another achievement is that he has never had a bad review.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> His 17th mystery,<i> Annie’s Bones</i>, will be published by us in April, 2018.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> This is the story of his journey.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">THE TWENTY YEAR ITCH</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">By Howard Owen</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> My professional/public life has tended to run in 20-year cycles.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2imLkFo4XHKiayOTiyw6pdnZw8rtgOxthVKQ1c3H8P9NF_YuKGQD54kt8xoUgZcFXzt0i5H6Em0aGM4-C2oFTwdvV6vJIgu5uCIH1XK-CInABJ8Niu9fjqnzPD5Qd3ZwoKAP0BCarrQz/s1600/Howard+Owen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="416" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2imLkFo4XHKiayOTiyw6pdnZw8rtgOxthVKQ1c3H8P9NF_YuKGQD54kt8xoUgZcFXzt0i5H6Em0aGM4-C2oFTwdvV6vJIgu5uCIH1XK-CInABJ8Niu9fjqnzPD5Qd3ZwoKAP0BCarrQz/s320/Howard+Owen.JPG" width="208" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> In my early 20s, I became a sports writer because the idea of getting paid to go to ballgames and write about them seemed to me to be a pleasant way to spend my adult life. Maybe I wouldn’t change the world, but, like a diligent physician, I would do no harm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Then, just before I turned 40, I started my first novel, because I had managed to get promoted away from using the main talent I thought I brought to journalism: writing. I needed to write. That first novel, <i>Littlejohn</i>, was bought by The Permanent Press after a dozen large publishers had turned it down. Martin and Judith Shepard’s judgment was rewarded when the book got great reviews and word-of-mouth support from independent booksellers, and Random House purchased it from them/me and republished it the next year. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> That made writing novels in my free time (I was still working as a newspaper editor) easier, because I was fairly confident someone would publish my work. Over the next 20 years, I wrote nine literary novels, some for The Permanent Press, some for Harper Collins and Random House.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> Then about the time I turned 60, still working as a newspaper editor, another fork in the road appeared, and, like Yogi Berra advised, I took it.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> A friend, Tom De Haven, an outstanding novelist who teaches creative writing at Virginia Commonwealth University, asked me to write a detective noir short story for a collection that would become <i>Richmond Noir</i>, one of a series of noir collections published by Akashic Books.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> I had never written a mystery anything. I didn’t even read that many mysteries, but I’m always game to write something that people might read, so I gave it a try. That short story, “<i>The Thirteenth Floor</i>,” was the birth of Willie Black, a night police reporter for the Richmond daily newspaper who drinks too much, smokes too much and marries too much, a man with a good heart and bad habits.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> I knew right away that Willie’s first-person voice was something I could use in a novel or two. Even before <i>Richmond Noir </i>came out, I was working on the first Willie Black mystery. That first one, <i>Oregon Hill</i>, won the Dashiell Hammett Prize for best crime literature in the U.S. and Canada. The fifth one, <i>Grace</i>, is a finalist for the Silver Falchion Award for Best Fiction Adult Mystery. The sixth one, <i>The Devil’s Triangle</i>, with a starred Publishers Weekly review, came out in July. I’m polishing the seventh one now. The first six have all been published by The Permanent Press as will, I’m hoping, the seventh.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> What have I learned? Basically, writing is writing. I found that the things that carried me in literary fiction—a good plot, intriguing characters, quality writing—worked just as well in mysteries. And when I needed professional advice (What kind of gun should the bad guy use? What’s it like at an execution? What’s the procedure between the arrest and the trial?), there was always an expert, either in person or online, who could tell me what I needed to know. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> The important thing is simply to have a good story and write it well. Genre doesn’t matter. The bonus, with mysteries, is that you have a protagonist and a setting already. If you have a likeable, compelling protagonist, you can use him or her over and over. And the setting doesn’t usually change. All you need is another story, and the world is full of stories. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> With literary fiction, I had to invent a new world every time out. With the mysteries, I always have Willie (he’s 10 years younger than me, so I can ride him for years to come), and I always have Richmond, a city with a history, with a wealth of nooks and crannies that you don’t find in most cities. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> The down side, if there is one, is that the characters have to stay real and fresh. Willie can’t be fully redeemed, although he tries to be good. There’s not much of a market for Detective Blanc. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> So, I’m seven novels into that third phase right now.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Twenty. Forty. Sixty. Can’t wait to see what 80 brings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> We urge you to pass Howard’s blog on to others and to also to post your remarks on this cockeyed pessimist website and also on Howard’s site howardowenbooks.com. </span><span style="font-size: large;">The Willie Black series and his other books can be ordered on Amazon or on our website, thepermanentpress.com. We encourage you to leave your comments on this page, and follow us on Facebook and Twitter!</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-41431629477830982492017-07-03T11:20:00.000-04:002017-07-26T15:43:18.794-04:00MIGHT DONALD TRUMP HAVE ALZHEIMER'S? by Martin Shepard<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Besides being a publisher I’m still a licensed physician who—decades ago—had a practice in psychiatry. And it’s occurred to me that nobody has raised the possibility that our 71-year-old president is showing symptoms of suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. But if you go online, you will see that Donald Trump is increasingly displaying every symptom of this disease.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: center;">Up until now many people have witnessed Trump’s sensitivity to criticism, outbursts of anger, dissimulation and illogical changes of policy both domestically and internationally. In the past he’s shown these traits which have turned many Americans against him, but at this point it seems more likely we’ve missed the boat here, and that his growing intemperance is likely a result of an incurable and rapidly advancing illness.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUQq5k7KCUhczOd7VdGTeD79QixxrpR2g_HlmWNk3IvPnD4yGwWJcy7OJHOzdR27epd7-heBYGA_Cy1864CYkDztHZfJA7nYaeRX6P-f3zmg61U5VHv4gmhQN0r944ptsAjA-OpYAR8vC/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="343" data-original-width="220" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUQq5k7KCUhczOd7VdGTeD79QixxrpR2g_HlmWNk3IvPnD4yGwWJcy7OJHOzdR27epd7-heBYGA_Cy1864CYkDztHZfJA7nYaeRX6P-f3zmg61U5VHv4gmhQN0r944ptsAjA-OpYAR8vC/s200/1.jpg" width="127" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">For instance, people who suffer from dementia display “sundowners syndrome”—where their symptoms increase during the night, which is when Donald Trump sends out his most incendiary messages. Other common symptoms of someone suffering from Alzheimer’s is agitation, usually resulting from fear, confusion, fatigue, and feeling overwhelmed from trying to make sense of a world that no longer makes sense. Spelling and word choice errors are likely to be affected and continuously increase in Trump’s tweets. Unprovoked mood swings are still another sign of dementia—going from calm to rage for no apparent reason.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">If so we, as a nation, are at even greater risk if our president is suffering from this incurable disease. I would hope that there is a Praetorian guard surrounding the President, far less delusional, who might prevent Trump from pressing the nuclear button. But who is to say?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I know that Donald Trump will never release his tax returns. But will he or his more rational staff allow the President to be examined by reputable physicians whose specialty is dementia? One thing is certain: it will require many individuals and organizations to demand such an examination be done.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">My hope is that you will not only comment on this blog but pass it on to others as well—including your elected lawmakers be they Republicans or Democrats, and to media sources including radio, magazines, and newspapers large and small alike. And please comment on this Cockeyed Pessimist blog, tell us what you are doing, and send out your own blogs as well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Urgency is called for on this one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Marty </span> </div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com115tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-37809554393480673522017-05-31T17:19:00.000-04:002017-05-31T17:19:26.988-04:00MONSTERS AND MEMORY by Eleanor Lerman<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I’ve
been a great admirer of Eleanor Lerman as a writer, poet, blogger and brave
soul who has overcome serious illness without complaint, and who can turn
adversity into lyrical memoir, such as this current blog. There is incredible
honesty in her work and it’s been a privilege to have published her and count
her as a good friend. I think you will be equally impressed by this piece. <i>—Martin
Shepard</i> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Monsters and Memory</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">by Eleanor Lerman</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In
1970, when I was eighteen, I answered a want ad in the <i>Village Voice </i>that said, “Person needed to sweep up in harpsichord
workshop.” I figured I could do that job; after all, I had grand ideas about
being a writer and scorned the alternate path of going to college or getting a
“real” job which, at that time, would have meant putting on a demure dress and typing
letters in an insurance office. (Well, that’s how I pictured a girl’s life in
those years and what my typing course in high school had prepared me for.) So, I
took the A train from my parents’ house in Far Rockaway to the Village, got off
at Sheridan Square, walked down to 161 Charles Street near the Hudson River
and—not that I knew it then—found the place that would change my life forever. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVJH2fDr9BH9_yZ5zW47QYw8oCCDiJM4QCZbCagWfzFQdhR_WDVQxCmc_tRJN51t1MsNP6wrtKmFCOF-pDNM9yl6oE2xvi7QrqHjR1E7DCB50TVRKJX6VJZ7ofbKKjXvKgdqTEGuDuMSVD/s1600/Eleanor+Lerman+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVJH2fDr9BH9_yZ5zW47QYw8oCCDiJM4QCZbCagWfzFQdhR_WDVQxCmc_tRJN51t1MsNP6wrtKmFCOF-pDNM9yl6oE2xvi7QrqHjR1E7DCB50TVRKJX6VJZ7ofbKKjXvKgdqTEGuDuMSVD/s320/Eleanor+Lerman+photo.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">That day, Michael Zuckermann hired
me to work at Zuckermann Harpsichords and also gave me the keys to a tiny
apartment upstairs so I became not only his employee but also his neighbor and
eventually, his friend. Yes, I swept the floors but I also made harpsichord kit
parts. I drilled pin boards, spun wire into coils, affixed tongues into the
plastic jacks that help pluck the harpsichords’ strings. By the time I was
nineteen I was managing the place so Michael could be free to pursue his real
passion: making movies that starred his girlfriend, Rosalie, running naked down
Charles Street at night as a tape-recorded recitation of “She Sells Sea Shells”
played in the background. The reason for this eludes me now, but I’m sure it
all made sense at the time.</span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Michael once told me that he hired me
because I had a soulful look, which meant I had achieved exactly the look I was
going for: long hair, kohl-rimmed eyes, rags and glitter. Sort of half Cher,
half Egyptian tomb painting. What better qualifications could anyone have for
working in a harpsichord kit factory at that time, in those years, in that
place?</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">So, Charles Street and Charles Lane
behind it, along with the harpsichord workshop and all the people I met through
that place—including a movie producer who lived in a carriage house on the Lane
along with art historian wife—shaped who I was and who I am. I didn’t realize
it then, of course, but I know it now. I was an angry, resentful,
unsophisticated and uneducated kid with a dead mother and a fractured family so
I didn’t know how to really relate to any of the people I met, but I did know
how to watch them from somewhere deep inside myself. The people whose circle
parted just a little to let me in—movie stars, Great American Writers,
once-famous musicians suddenly and famously down-and-out, comedians on the
rise, but mostly the writers, all men, all extraordinarily talented—filled me
with jealousy (I wanted to be them), with rage (I hated the idea that I
believed I <i>couldn’t</i> be them, though
they were all extremely kind and encouraging to me), and even, once in a while,
inspiration (what the hell, if some of these acting-out-all-the-time and
raging-drunk types could write books, then why not me, too?). Anyway. When I
was 36, I moved away from the Village and all things Zuckermann. There were a
lot of reasons, including the fact that I thought I was failing as a writer (I
had published two books of poetry but couldn’t find anyone to buy a novel I’d
written) and so it was time to give up and try to live a normal life. That
didn’t work out because I am not a normal person—at least, not the demure dress
and typing kind of person who I thought I was sentencing myself to become by
leaving the Village, moving to Queens, and getting a more conventional job. So,
years got lost, bad decisions got made, etc., etc. Lots of time passed. Lots.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But actually, all that is prelude to what I really want to write about here, so let’s start by my saying that now, as it turns out, I am not quite the failure I thought I was. I am still not where I want to be as a writer but, at the age of 65, I have finally learned a few things about how to do my job better, be more discerning about the angels and oddities walking through the front door. And one of the things I’ve learned about my job is that different people who do the same thing do it differently. Some people who write stories start with developing their characters, some start by working out the plot, some just begin with a particular sentence and follow where it leads them. For me, stories start with a place. In my last novel, The Stargazer’s Embassy, Greenwich Village was an important setting for a good part of what happens. In a book I’ve just begun working on, the story began to reveal itself to me when I was riding on the Long Island Railroad and through the window, glimpsed a winding, lonely looking street that seemed to lead off to nowhere. I was on the train because, after a sudden and near-fatal illness, I was in the process of recovery, which involved traveling to a physical therapy facility some distance from the small Long Island beach town where I live. So, day after day, on the train, that deserted street with a fence on the corner and an empty lot lined by tall cattails, began to exercise a kind of pull on me. It was autumn; the sky was gray and mackerel-striped. The wind pushed around the clouds above the street and blew sand across the weedy lot. In my mind, that glimpse of scenery became a place called Satellite Street and it became mine.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">So, back home, sitting on my purple
couch, in my imagination I began to walk down Satellite Street and what I found
there was a woman with short-term memory problems and her friend, falling into
dementia, who can only remember experiences from long ago. There are a lot of
things I intend for these women to do, but one important task is to make a
brief visit to the Village because I want them to help me say good-bye one last
and final time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Maybe it’s because as we—as I—get
older, the longing for people and places in the past grows stronger, as if by
going back to those years we could cast off all the bad choices, the disasters,
the illnesses and grief that came to visit afterwards. But for me, I know that
I have to find another way to live and to write that is not constantly
referencing the past. My life was pretty scary for a while but it’s much better
now, and I have to find a way to work from that better place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In my new story, a woman named Mara
develops a mild obsession with the movie <i>Godzilla</i>—the
old one, from 1956, with Raymond Burr. Mara thinks, at first, that her
obsession stems from an affinity she feels with Godzilla’s atomic rage: she’s
been very sick (who can she represent here, hmmm?), she’s lost her job, is
living on Satellite Street in a middle-of-nowhere area surrounded by marshy
inlets and highways to better places. She’s also very angry about the turn her
life has taken and so she’d like to stomp out a few cities herself, smash up
some skyscrapers and blast away an army of puny soldiers with her radioactive
breath. But what she’s going to find out is something quite different: that
while it takes a monster’s strength to survive this life, it also may require a
monster’s heart—full of wandering atoms and stardust and ancient memories about
human creation—to stomp on into the future. Wounded, maybe, but still breathing
fire.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">So, on I go. On we go. I recently
received an email from someone I’ve never met, telling me that he’s a friend of
Wallace Zuckermann, the original owner of Zuckermann Harpsichords and the older
brother of my boss/friend Michael Zuckermann. Michael passed away many years
ago but Wallace, who I didn’t know well, and whose real name, apparently, is
Wolfgang, is an elderly fellow now, living in Paris in near poverty. (I know, that
sounds like a novel all by itself.) The person who wrote to me is trying to get
some folks together to find a way to chronicle Wolfgang/Wallace’s life (he was
born in Germany, became an American soldier, created the harpsichord kit
business and wrote a volume of bizarre, erotic fairytales which he once sent me
and I am now trying to find among my books) and I told him I would help, if I
can. Such an odd time to receive a communique from my Zuckermann-addled past
but maybe it’s just the right time, as well.
Maybe it will help me say good-bye in my story, knowing that the girl
with the kohl-rimmed eyes still gets to live a little longer, roam around her
old haunts for a while longer and then go to sleep. Like Godzilla, she can
drowse under the sea until roused again to stalk a new world. Angry. Happy
enough. Certainly strong enough. Finally free.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">Eleanor Lerman is the author of </span></i><span style="font-size: large;">Radiomen <i>(The Permanent Press, 2015) and </i>The
Stargazer’s Embassy,</span></span><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> which will be
published by Mayapple Press in July.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com47tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-7270572284794379952017-05-17T17:06:00.002-04:002017-05-17T17:06:51.824-04:00MAKING IT HAPPEN by Kathleen Novak<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Kathleen Novak has written two novels for The Permanent Press The first, <i>Do Not Find Me </i>(February 2016) received wonderful reviews and
excellent sales. Her second, <i>Rare Birds </i>will
be published near the end of June.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Living in Minnesota, we’ve asked her to describe how she
approaches marketing and this is well worth reading. Every author we publish
has written an interesting book, but success depends on having a solid
marketing plan, and Kathleen’s approach is a very successful one. What follows
is her blog, MAKING IT HAPPEN.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">∗ ∗ ∗</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">A bag of tricks is it?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> And a game smoothies play?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">If you’re good with a
deck of cards or rolling the bones – that helps?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">If you can tell jokes
and be a chum <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">and make an impression
– that helps?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> from <i>Honey and Salt </i>by Carl Sandberg<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I quote one of my favorite poems to begin the discussion on
promoting our books. It does often seem like a game smoothies play. And I’ll
say that after a year of doing readings and book clubs that telling a joke and
being a chum do help. Everyone wants to laugh, even at a literary reading.
Maybe especially at a literary reading!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkAADJyb7r2OA7HKxckSGjmOOJ3vbNojsMbX1NyIYOp73Zzrpeln5V13uG3ysSG8FvkzCukiJYfMnqVKr1ezH73PV9nZB089yGWuv8IngDBn71X-9R_G_Ct293YIJ9tshlqJ_VUgojYEUS/s1600/Kathleen+Novak+2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkAADJyb7r2OA7HKxckSGjmOOJ3vbNojsMbX1NyIYOp73Zzrpeln5V13uG3ysSG8FvkzCukiJYfMnqVKr1ezH73PV9nZB089yGWuv8IngDBn71X-9R_G_Ct293YIJ9tshlqJ_VUgojYEUS/s200/Kathleen+Novak+2017.jpg" width="152" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I believe that those of us who publish a book in today’s
environment need to face the reality of promoting our own work. To make
something happen we have to augment what the publisher does and take action on
our own behalf. That’s where “the bag of tricks” comes in. I’ve gathered ideas
and advice, observed other authors and added my own discipline to the mix. I
make a plan, give myself deadlines and keep adding to the plan as events evolve. The following list is not the </span><span style="font-size: large;">be-all. But it helped me on my debut novel, </span><i style="font-size: x-large;">Do Not Find Me,</i><span style="font-size: large;"> and I am now doing all
this again for my second novel, </span><i style="font-size: x-large;">Rare
Birds.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Here’s what I suggest:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> 1. </span></o:p><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: -0.25in;">Schedule a book launch party and invite everyone
you know or think you know. Have something to eat and drink and sell your
books.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> 2. </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: -0.25in;">Use TPP’s preview copies where they will help
you the most. Send them out with a personalized letter to local publications,
media outlets, large and important bookstores, even library systems in your
area.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> 3. </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: -0.25in;">Put up an engaging website. I recommend photos
or graphics, excerpts, links, etc.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"> 4.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Volunteer to do book clubs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"> 5.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Ask friends, family and other colleagues to host
readings – salons, as one of my friends calls them – either in their homes or
at their neighborhood library. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"> 6.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Use social media to announce events and keep
people interested. (I had the idea to pull in music clips and quotes too, but
chickened out on the first novel. Maybe I’ll be more bold this time around.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"> 7.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Go to an inexpensive printer and make business
cards with your book’s cover on one side and your contact info/web address on
the other. I hand these out generously. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"> 8.<span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Let regional book store owners know you’re
interested in doing readings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Much of this does not come easily for me. I love to write. I
want to be in my corner with papers strewn about, not asking book store owners
to maybe, if you don’t mind, please carry my book. I bombed on at least half of
my outreach. But then I scored on the other half. Some stores carried the book,
newspapers reviewed the book; based on the reviews, I got contacted by
organizations and did events. I was a state book award finalist. I feel like my
efforts worked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Luck is also an element, of course. That’s where “rolling
the bones” comes in. But by doing all the above, we can certainly deal
ourselves into the game. What helps make something happen? To quote Sandberg,
they all help.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">∗ ∗ ∗</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Information about Kathleen and her two books can be found on her website, <a href="https://www.kathleennovak.com/">https://www.kathleennovak.com/</a>, and her books can be ordered on Amazon or on our website, <a href="http://thepermanentpress.com/">thepermanentpress.com</a>. We encourage you to leave your comments on this page, and follow us on Facebook and Twitter! Happy reading (and writing)!</span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-50263528223554324072017-05-02T17:18:00.003-04:002017-05-02T17:18:51.964-04:00WRITING RULE ONE: NOBODY KNOWS FOR SURE by Chris Knopf<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I hate so-called rules of writing, even though I gobble them up like hot hors d’oeuvres off a silver platter. Hemingway’s, Vonnegut’s, Elmore Leonard’s, Stephen King’s, E.B. White’s, Anne Lamott’s – I’ve read them all. If I had to recommend one, Anne Lamott’s <i>Bird By Bird</i> is a joy. I never found myself quibbling with her advice, which is not only compelling in substance, but loaded with charm and wise humor. I feel Strunk and White’s Elements of Style is also essential, though I just can’t abide the prohibition against starting a sentence with “however." Nevertheless, they provide wise counsel, delivered both in form and content. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigkQUXmZYVTFbcoDAlkTwJWSB2FG9di-2tnkev66Zo24RJ-vuIPChohcVTJnihIHvHJ9hB81-Ikzpz84B9MtOKA9z17NvXAOeHafMKvNboQqG7nLYKLn4g0UOBaczws8Lj_72-uLpDsvZa/s1600/Chris-Knopf+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigkQUXmZYVTFbcoDAlkTwJWSB2FG9di-2tnkev66Zo24RJ-vuIPChohcVTJnihIHvHJ9hB81-Ikzpz84B9MtOKA9z17NvXAOeHafMKvNboQqG7nLYKLn4g0UOBaczws8Lj_72-uLpDsvZa/s1600/Chris-Knopf+1.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Everyone raves about Stephen King’s <i>On Writing</i>, but it’s really just a memoir masquerading as an instruction manual. I can offer an abridged version: <i>Be Born With Hypergraphia</i> by Stephen King. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Marty Shepard and I share a deep regard for Elmore Leonard, but his rule against starting a book with weather is ridiculous. I set one of my novels in the beach town of Southampton during the winter. How long should I wait to tell the reader that it’s snowing outside Jackie Swaitkowski’s window? I also think the word “suddenly” is very useful if used sparingly. As with “all hell breaks loose." After Leonard condemned this expression, you hardly ever read it. So go ahead, if called for. The competition has been suppressed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Vonnegut heaped derision on the semicolon, saying “they are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing.” On the other hand, Dr. Lewis Thomas, a brilliant essayist sadly overlooked these days, wrote “with a semicolon you get a pleasant little feeling of expectancy; there is more to come; to read on; it will get clearer.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Most of what Hemingway reportedly wrote about writing was written by someone else. So much so that a book just came out titled, Hemingway Didn’t Say That. I still think his imitators are worth paying attention to, since the misattributions are useful (check out my prior Cockeyed Pessimist blog post.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I’ve listened to hours of writing instruction over decades, leading me to believe most of it is a double-edged sword. It can help you avoid doing dumb things, but if you slavishly adhere to the prescriptions, you’re likely to choke off your creativity, your own special take on the pursuit. However, being a frequent imitator myself, I naturally made up my own ten rules of writing. Though I prefer to call them guidelines. Mostly to be ignored, since at the end of the day, the only rule is there are no rules. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">1.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Never write drunk.</b> Like a conversation in a bar, it all seems so brilliant at the time. You’ll regret it in the morning </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">2.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Write when you feel like hell.</b> You’d be amazed at what you can create with a fuzzy head. You can always throw it out the next day (see above).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">3.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Ignore advice. </b>It’s worthless. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">4.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Listen to good advice. </b>It’s priceless. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">5.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Know the difference.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">6.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Get a comfortable chair.</b> You’ll be spending a lot of time in it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">7.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Be filled with uncertainty,</b> free-floating anxiety and existential fear. If you don’t know what this means, ask a successful writer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">8.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Kill your beloveds.</b> Cut when you have to, no matter how painful. Better you than some whip-smart editor half your age. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">9.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Write for yourself.</b> If you care what other people think, you’ll write what nobody cares about.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">10.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> <b>Read.</b> You’re not the first person to do this. You can learn from the ones who figured it out, even if they had no idea what they were doing at the time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> * * * </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This is the third bi-monthly blog Chris has been posting, sharing his thoughts about the art of writing with other writers—be they published or unpublished—that might be helpful. He’s had a successful career as a wordsmith, starting with a career in advertising and moving on to write a string of highly successful mysteries. His 15th, <i>Tango Down</i>, comes out in November. Chris has won innumerable awards and has had dozens of rights sales around the world, including audio sales to Blackstone Audiobooks. Do pass this on to others you know, post comments on the Cockeyed Pessimist website, and feel free to share your thoughts with Chris via View my Blog The Cockeyed Pessimist, or email Chris directly <a href="mailto:ChrisK@mintz-hoke.com" target="_blank">ChrisK@mintz-hoke.com</a> or Martin Shepard at <a href="mailto:shepard@thepermanentpress.com" target="_blank">shepard@thepermanentpress.com</a>. </span><br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-75979036305899407642017-04-18T16:30:00.000-04:002017-04-18T16:30:39.989-04:00WHAT MADISON AVENUE CAN TEACH YOU ABOUT WRITING BETTER DIALOGUE by Chris Knopf<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I’d already spent about thirty years in ad agencies writing copy before my first novel was published. I’m often asked if copywriting benefited my fiction, and I always say yes, in every way possible. This is particularly true as it relates to dialogue. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And even more true for writing mysteries and thrillers, inhabited as they usually are by tough guys, crack pots and regular joes. It’s hard to convince your reader of gritty realism when your characters talk like 19th century elocutionists. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Writing to a fixed increment of time is another important discipline copywriters have to master. A TV commercial (we call them spots) is usually thirty seconds. Radio usually sixty. Of the two forms, I think radio is the best exercise for fiction writers. TV spots are little movies, fictions for sure, but as in the big movie business, the visual elements often dominate. In radio, words matter, and like a book, there’re usually no visual aids. Radio, like fiction, relies on manipulating the theatre of the mind, using language to engage and seduce the audience into buying an artificial reality. Unlike fiction, however, you need to tell your whole message in sixty seconds, or less. This teaches you how to prune, condense and telegraph your story, which almost always makes for a more energetic mystery or thriller. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">We’re taught in advertising to keep our copy conversational, to write the way people speak. Which is usually in sentence fragments. Sometimes only one word. Honestly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Grammatically iffy. But highly readable. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Speech is far more economical than written exposition. Even the most voluble blowhard will tend to drop unnecessary verbiage, frequently skipping things like pronouns to get right to the action verbs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Watcha’ doing there, Joe?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Catchin’ fish. You?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This example also points to another reality of spoken English. We often drop the ‘g’s’ off gerunds and other ‘ing’ words. Even the well-educated and erudite will do this, only more sparingly (e.g. Barack Obama). Also, we nearly always use contractions whenever available. Few things will mess up conversational speech more than using “do not” or “cannot” when “don’t” or “can’t” will do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">(Just don’t overdo it. Informality can’t sound ignorant.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">There’s a place for monologue in advertising and fiction, but when two or more people are speaking, there’s little in the way of long dissertation. Rather, they tend to pass phrases back and forth like a pair of tennis players. Especially in great crime fiction (e.g. Elmore Leonard).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">When writing radio and TV commercials, you’re not only drafting copy, you’re casting potential talent, framing out the type of people you’ll need to fulfill the spot’s objectives. So you need to literally hear your characters’ voices in your head. Which leads to seeing them in your mind’s eye. And placing them in a context – eating breakfast, driving a car, leaping off a cliff into a pool of water. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And before you know it, you have a novel on your hands.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Published by permission of <i>Now Write! Mysteries</i>.<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Chris Knopf’s 14th thriller, <i>Back Lash</i>, came out last year, and his 15th , <i>Tango Down</i> will be published in November. This is the second in a series of bi-weekly posts concerning the art of writing that should appeal to both published and unpublished writers alike. We welcome your comments on this site, and we hope you share this post everywhere and with everyone you can. You can also reach us by email at shepard@thepermanentpress.com or at ChrisK@mintz-hoke.com.</span></span><br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-44194336251225715952017-04-05T17:31:00.002-04:002017-04-05T17:31:43.325-04:00WRITER WRITES ABOUT PEOPLE WRITING By Chris Knopf<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Somebody once said — I used to think it was Ernest Hemingway, but now I'm not sure — "Writers are people who write."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This was the sort of seemingly moronic minimalism that got the big guy in a lot of trouble. The political climate within the arts and academia in recent decades has been hostile to Hemingway's legacy, especially since he's rightly perceived to be a tad misogynistic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">That Ezra Pound was an out-and-out Nazi sympathizer — as were Charles Lindberg and Joseph Kennedy, father of Jack — and F. Scott Fitzgerald, T.S. Eliot and James Joyce all had wives who were actually committed to mental hospitals, with barely a whiff of censure, I guess is beside the point. Though it does raise questions of intellectual honesty. But I think no writer of the modern period was more able to summarize gigantic truths, especially when writing or talking about the writer's life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Part of the problem with the quote above is it usually leaves out the next sentence, which was, paraphrased, "People who aren't writers are those who only talk about writing." This gets at the main reason why most people who have both the talent and aspiration to write betray their potential. They don't write enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">There are a few reasons why they don't write enough, though the most common is fear that what they write won't be any good. Worse, it will incite derision, ridicule or disinterest. So, they are inhibited from starting the actual act of composing thoughts on paper (these days, monitors.) They console themselves by spending a lot of time and energy thinking about writing, under the rationale that they are simply formulating the big ideas in their heads, which will, once properly constructed, fall effortlessly through their fingers and onto the page. This is a fallacy, of course. For a couple reasons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Writing is, in great part, a type of thinking. It takes inchoate feelings and inarticulate thoughts and expresses them in a transferable form. Words make thoughts and feelings concrete, but also, the very act of forming structure inspires thought. Sometimes, there really is no idea until the words start to form. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Ergo, the only way to know if you really have a thought worth communicating is to put it into words. You have to actually write it down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The other reason is more practical. You have to practice the trade. You can no more become a good writer by thinking about writing than you can become John Coltrane by imagining yourself playing the sax. Professional writers are obsessed by things like sentence structure, word count, punctuation, literary voice, style consistency and concentration. Just like world famous woodworkers are obsessed with things like router bits, bench dogs, chip out and finishing oils. You can't write a book or make a Chippendale highboy thinking only about the grand vision. They're both products of millions of little visions manifest in little acts of craft. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And it really doesn't matter what form you're writing in. Your heart may be committed to poetry, but your brain gets almost the same benefit from writing billboards. To extend the music analogy, a familiarity with Bach gives a jazz musician a killer advantage. It's the practice that counts, and the knowledge and experience that comes from practicing within a variety of formats and protocols. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Hemingway also said that "Writing is rewriting." This is also a simple statement pregnant with complex meaning. Many failed writers who write too little do so because they think they're supposed to hone and perfectly render every little piece of description or exposition as it's written. Very bad approach. Much better to disgorge everything you can onto the page, to get yourself into a chatty monologue with your presumed reader, and just let it go wherever it's going to go. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The next day, it might be all for naught. The work might be unsalvageable. But probably, there is something there. Now, with an objectivity developed over time, you start to rewrite. You lop off big chunks of unworkable babble — often the first things you wrote down — and start to shape the words into something more elegantly and originally expressed — or, just as important — something persuasively, clearly expressed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">None of this is possible if you aren't writing. You've got to pile up your own mother lode in order to refine the gems. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Hemingway, that wordy guy, also said that he strove to write something that "was true."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">True, in the sense that it was as close to real as humanly possible. Honest to his mind, and not contrived. But also true in the sense of a picture hanging true on the wall. In the sense of your aim being true. Even, balanced, harmonious, artfully composed. He believed that both definitions of the word true were mutually generative. Honesty encourages symmetry and vice versa. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">To quote the last line in <i>The Sun Also Rises</i>, "isn't it pretty to think so."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Originally from <i>How I Got Published: Famous Authors Tell You In Their Own Words</i><b style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Chris Knopf’s 14<sup>th</sup> thriller, <i>Back Lash, </i>came out last year, and his 15<sup>th</sup>, <i>Tango Down</i> will be published in November. He’s had multiple sub-rights sales for all of his titles, has won several awards (including the Nero Award) and is also co-publisher at The Permanent Press.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is the first of two postings he has addressed to writers that should sharpen the skills of many who would like to be published and already published writers interested in polishing their craft.</span> <span style="font-size: large;">We urge all of you to send this blog to everyone you know, and we welcome your comments. You can also reach us by email at shepard@thepermanentpress.com or at ChrisK@mintz-hoke.com. Happy writing!</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-45038904384284544672017-03-22T14:26:00.000-04:002017-04-04T11:05:04.664-04:00HARPOONING DONALD TRUMP<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">How would I describe Tom LeClair’s latest blog? As part of an important democratic movement to rid ourselves of an illiterate President (he has said he doesn’t read books), a con-artist, a man with a thin skin, a compulsive liar, ill-tempered, and in the service of fellow millionaires and billionaires. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Bram Stoker wrote <i>Dracula</i> in 1897 in which he described how this blood-sucking vampire was finally eliminated by driving a sword through the fiend’s heart while he slept in his coffin during the day. This is not a plan of action I would recommend today, though Donald poses a far greater threat to us than Dracula. It’s easy to acknowledge he had been a great television showman in the Barnum and Bailey tradition, and it seems to me the only civilized way to rid ourselves of him is by verbally pricking him countless times—like letting the hot air out of a Thanksgiving Day float.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And so I take particular pleasure in publishing Tom LeClair’s contribution to exposing this dreadful creature whose ratings are now the lowest in American history—down to 37% after three months in office.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Marty</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; text-align: center;"> <b>∗ ∗ ∗</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">HARPOONING DONALD TRUMP</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">by Tom LeClair</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In which the author interviews himself</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXng4YLTlrpD2u2Qp8idtPaU-4vUJWIOnf3XchgLusXpWgqxygEib8ojxBQ7gbzgSQ1tIVsi_RcQoO24C7h9AQ_16z_Lb9fNH5AbRuZ7GV_Op9hO0r2_u66K174JFoBNbtpN4YsraxtorQ/s1600/Tom+LeClair+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXng4YLTlrpD2u2Qp8idtPaU-4vUJWIOnf3XchgLusXpWgqxygEib8ojxBQ7gbzgSQ1tIVsi_RcQoO24C7h9AQ_16z_Lb9fNH5AbRuZ7GV_Op9hO0r2_u66K174JFoBNbtpN4YsraxtorQ/s200/Tom+LeClair+pic.jpg" width="134" /></a><b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">From a novel about Lincoln and his law partner to essays about Donald Trump and his literary opponents—that’s quite a jump.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Not really. William “Billy” Herndon of <i>Lincoln’s Billy</i> was a highly literary man who spent 20 years of his life trying to publish unsavory truths about Saint Abraham. The “research” for <i>Harpooning Donald Trump: A Novelist’s Essays</i> was much easier, and I didn’t have to invent anything because Trump and his politics and his crooked friends are unsavory through and through. The challenge was finding new ways to understand and discuss Trump. My decades as a literature professor helped me out with that—from Homer’s <i>Iliad</i> to Coover’s <i>The Public Burning</i>, Pope’s <i>The Dunciad</i> and Melville’s<i> Moby-Dick</i>. But the book would never have been written if I hadn’t spent most of November and December holding signs in front of Trump Tower.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">You’ve said you went every day. Why?</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I’m a writer. The only things I could write after Trump’s election were my protest signs. From the very first one, RAGE TRUMPS HATE, which played off the usual ones I was seeing, I suppose I was seeking some creative outlet for my anger and disgust. The protest became a kind of contest: my imagination in writing signs versus Trump’s ignorance, his hateful clichés and dog whistles. So I tried to write inventive signs that responded to his actions, particularly his appointments of people like Scott Pruitt at the EPA and Betsy DeVos for Education. Of course, I was going to lose because Trump has what my Jesuit teachers called “invincible ignorance.” After more than a month of displaying signs, I started to write the essays in the book.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">What did you hope to achieve as a solitary protester on the street?</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">During November and December, there was a series of mass protests, usually on weekends. I wanted to be in front of Trump Tower on weekdays and weekends to demonstrate with my modest example that Trump’s election was not normal politics, that this fact needed to be expressed day in and day out to the thousands of people who passed by the Tower. If I was sufficiently enraged to stand in the cold for six hours, I hoped my example would inspire citizens to stay angry, refuse to normalize the demagogue, resist in whatever way they could. My purposes changed some as I understood my demographic. Many of the passersby were foreign tourists. I wanted them to know that Trump and his Tower did not represent America or, at least, the best of America. The Tower was Babel, a construct of pride and greed. Out on the street, I hoped to use the social media that helped Trump get elected against him. I invited people to take photos of my signs and post them on Facebook and Instagram—and thus extend the protest of a solitary enraged old man.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Maybe the N.S.A. could answer that with some kind of universal image scanning for my signs. They did get me interviewed by television networks, radio stations, and print journalists—almost all of them from outside the United States. Japanese national TV interviewed me twice, even showed the covers of a couple of my books including <i>Lincoln’s Billy</i>. It’s possible my spoken words reached more people than my written words ever did. That’s kind of discouraging for a writer, but I’m still happy to be speaking with you about the written words in this book, which wouldn’t exist without the experience of protesting on the street.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">So how is this book of essays different?</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I rarely had long conversations with people on Fifth Avenue. The essays give me a chance to explain why I was protesting and how to understand Trump the man and phenomenon in more profound ways than daily news reports give us. Probably the central essay in <i>Harpooning</i> is the one entitled “Donald Trump Won’t Read This” where I apply the insights of the anthropologist Walter Ong to Trump. In his book <i>Orality and Literacy</i>, Ong contrasts the cognitive processes of preliterate humans and those of literate humans. Literacy created what we now call “thinking”—linguistic precision and logical analysis. Before literacy, cognition was through story-telling and bombastic display. Trump admits that he does not read. He therefore does not “think” as literate persons do. He reacts, he blurts and blusters, he uses the oral language of a third-grader, he lies as if his words disappeared into thin air. You can see him as the insult-obsessed Achilles in Homer’s <i>Iliad</i>, a poem about pre-literate warriors that was composed before writing. In this essay, I contrast Trump’s mind and language with the discourse of President Obama, who continued to be a reader despite the pressures of the White House.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Why do you feel this essay about literacy is “central”?</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">A working title of the collection was “Literature Against Trump.” Literature is literacy on steroids, the highest achievement of literacy. By its very nature, literature offers an alternative to the vacant mind and vapid expression of Trump. But not just an alternative. Literature can also be a weapon, a harpoon as my title has it. Since Trump’s election, journalists have written about the value of dystopian novels such as <i>1984</i>. My interests are in what that harpooner Captain Ahab calls “the little lower layer”—literary works that provide psychological, historical, even anthropological insights that help us understand and, perhaps, undermine the demagogue. Historians and other scholars can place Trump in appropriate cultural contexts. Literature is a weapon because it elicits emotional responses. You might call it “demi-goguery,” half demagogic, half rigorous thought.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Do you think of yourself as Ahab?</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">No, because Melville “harpoons” the monomaniac Ahab at the end of <i>Moby-Dick</i>. I know this is not a popular recommendation, but try reading <i>Moby-Dick</i> as a political novel, and you will have a new understanding of and fear of Ahab’s—and Trump’s—aggressive narcissism that now threatens our ship of state. For a more recent and remarkably prescient novel read Robert Coover’s <i>The Public Burning</i> to learn how demagogues use the scapegoating sacrifice of “un-American” others to satisfy the masses. My argument is encapsulated in my epigraph from William Carlos Williams: “It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.” If you step back a bit from the daily news cycle, if you see Trump through the eyes and words of profound imaginative writers I think you will understand his ignorance and his threat in new and deep and useful ways. Not just understand but feel.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">You’ve published six novels. Why don’t you write a harpooning novel?</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Homer, Melville, Coover, and other recent writers I mention in the book—they are tough acts to follow for an old man. But I have written a tale about Uncle Sam and Donald Trump, two angry old white men, as an appendix to the essays. It’s a small sequel of sorts to Coover’s magical realism novel that describes an unusual way in which Uncle Sam “incarnates” the power of the presidency in each new office-holder. One reader called my fiction a “scabrous satire.” That’s fairly accurate. Consider this a “trigger warning.” Or is it a solicitation?</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Have you taken some heat for this fiction?</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Yes, but some readers don’t see that it’s ultimately somewhat sympathetic to Trump. While writing the essays, I wasn’t able to understand how he became the enraged person he turned into as an adult, so I invented a plausible cause. Trump tells Uncle Sam of a childhood “wound” that explains—for Sam—Trump’s treatment of women, but Sam misses the larger effects of the wound—Trump’s fragile ego and his need to assert his power in ways both sexual and not. If Trump weren’t such a danger to the Republic and its citizens, I’d feel sorry for him because he is pretty obviously acting out obsessions and compulsions over which he has little control, the reason he is so often depicted as a child.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Are you still protesting at Trump Tower?</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I took some time off to write the essays, but now I’ll be back a few days a week signing and selling my books, completing the loop from displaying signs to offering extended semiotic commentary on the target of those first signs. I think of the book as everything I couldn’t fit on pieces of cardboard. I’m looking forward to being back, interacting with citizens and tourists, hoping that one day Donald will come down and engage this Ancient Mariner. One of the many cops around the Tower asked me what I’d do if Trump showed up. I told the cop I’d say, “I don’t talk with liars,” and I’d turn my back on him, just as one of my signs says: TURN YOUR BACK ON TRUMP. The weather should be warmer now than when I began, but I still hope Trump will do something so stupid that he will have to resign and I can go back to writing.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">So you’re still outraged? What outrages you the most?</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">As a former professor, I think I’m most outraged by his willful and smug ignorance. He’s every teacher’s recalcitrant dunce. I believe this ignorance is the root of his amorality, his treatment of women, his lying, his fraudulence. Trump’s ignorance is his harpoon, and he holds it dear. In the realm of policy, I’m most outraged by his environmental policies and appointees, the three men—polluting Pruitt, Exxon Rex, and numb-nuts Perry—that I call the “Fossil Fools.” Some of the damage Trump’s other policies will do may be repaired in four years, but his effect on the air and water will be difficult to repair. The British poet Alexander Pope wrote an epic satire called <i>The Dunciad</i> in which he called his time “the Age of Lead.” I fear that under Trump and his climate-denying dunces we will become the United States of Flint. <i>Harpooning Donald Trump</i> is dedicated to my two granddaughters. I’m enraged on their behalf, on behalf of a future polluted literally and figuratively by the First Fool and his family of greedheads.</span><br />
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<b style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">I ASK ALL OF YOU</b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> to send this blog on to everyone you know, both here and abroad. I particularly welcome your comments on this cockeyed pessimist site. You can also reach me by email (shepard@thepermanentpress.com), or reach Tom LeClair by email (leclaite@ucmail.uc.edu). Let us all spread the word in every way we can, given the perilous days ahead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Marty</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-5658219287295808832017-02-25T09:16:00.000-05:002017-08-16T16:22:23.984-04:00AN ANTIDOTE FOR DESPAIR<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjljz43skSGIWljufuXDLK8tb5kjvj6C6hB_KoVdXZkbUlFdIak-MOd3vzQ3N7k9nV-weck0LWPx1dS6P5AnwaFr98UjdxhsWNTLdzWm1zfWldhdMsmX90mCvmZoxWbDYbdeuoGZtrPdED6/s1600/Emily%2527s+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjljz43skSGIWljufuXDLK8tb5kjvj6C6hB_KoVdXZkbUlFdIak-MOd3vzQ3N7k9nV-weck0LWPx1dS6P5AnwaFr98UjdxhsWNTLdzWm1zfWldhdMsmX90mCvmZoxWbDYbdeuoGZtrPdED6/s200/Emily%2527s+photo.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“In times of political turmoil, books can become more relevant than they ever have. Frederic Hunter’s new novel, <i>Love in the Time of Apartheid<b>,</b> </i>paints a grim picture of what racism and dictatorships can do on a personal level. Hunter’s discussion of the sixties in South Africa seems closer than ever when put into perspective with our own tumultuous climate. To see two individuals kept apart because society dictates that they are from two very different worlds is devastating but very much a reality for Petra and Gat, Hunter’s main characters. Today in the aftermath of our political campaigns, we have seen opposing viewpoints break apart families, tear apart relationships, and irrevocably damage the personal lives of others. It is no different for Petra and Gat. They go so far as to try to out-run the oppression and the violence that surrounds them, only to be stopped by the overreaching hand of Petra’s father, who heads the Bureau of State Security. It is their love for each other and their personal moral compasses that rescue them. We can only hope that in the wake of our political uproar that something as good as the love Petra and Gat share comes out of it.” <i>—Emily Montaglione, Managing Editor</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> * * *</span></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhry_ujTgdLci9OifrMhR4dUsoSMOz9fCHplRIJQDP1I2CLpZ7Ond6lHPb3klmnCRfS0qZjBGzT-nfQsGxgyNR4WfoMys0V8uagDwkRtyZwL3eCVMiCXTvoIjv6avvWAxbhySzYLQKgFDaH/s1600/Marty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhry_ujTgdLci9OifrMhR4dUsoSMOz9fCHplRIJQDP1I2CLpZ7Ond6lHPb3klmnCRfS0qZjBGzT-nfQsGxgyNR4WfoMys0V8uagDwkRtyZwL3eCVMiCXTvoIjv6avvWAxbhySzYLQKgFDaH/s200/Marty.jpg" width="142" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“I share Emily’s concerns but have less faith that things will work out given our recent elections where two very unpopular candidates faced one another. In the end, like the actor Viggo Mortensen and many others, I decided to avoid voting for Trump or Hillary, refusing to choose between two flawed major candidates, instead, writing in Judy Shepard’s name on the New York ballot. Nor do I see any relief in sight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But I do cast a similar vote for the reading of books for there is artfulness out there in the literary world. While a strong majority of politicians are bought and sold by lobbyists, no one has yet been able to stop us from reading quality fiction or non-fiction, which removes us from the bickering and heat that runs rife in our political system. A good book can take us into a ‘better world’ without leaving us enraged by things we clearly haven’t the ability to fix right now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Politically I would say America got what it deserved this time around. Now is surely the time to say ‘God Save America,’’ for Americans and their candidates do not seem capable of bringing back wisdom. But a good book can surely bring back a sense if comity and convey a different perspective when it comes to seeing how different our lives might be. <i>—Martin Shepard</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>co-publisher</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">WHICH BRINGS US TO <i>Love in the Time of Apartheid</i> which was widely praised in the following <i>Kirkus Review </i>that appeared on September 15 and will be published at the end of November.<br />
<br />“A quasi-political thriller and love story set in 1960's Africa. Gat, aka Adriaan Gautier, has been given instructions by his Belgian superiors in the Congo: "disappear." With $2,000 American and a forged passport, he flees to South Africa to reinvent himself and shrug off the demons that haunt him from his soldiering in Prime Minster Patrice Lumumba's new Congo. The lonely Gat eyes an 18-year-old beauty from an Afrikaner and English family, and he begins a promising courtship. But Petra is the daughter of a racist Cape Town police colonel, and Gat abhors apartheid. Gat, who is guilt-ridden and fighting nightmares of murder, helps Pet see beyond her family's prejudices. When a black woman is struck by a car, however, Pet's rushed conversion to fervent good Samaritan-ism may be a bit too convenient. The lovers skip town and marry, but Pet's enraged father won't let them go easily. This novel's hodgepodge of subplots—hiding spies, thwarted romance, systemic racism—ultimately coalesces. Hunter (<i>The Girl Ran Away, 2014</i>, etc.), a former Africa Correspondent of the Christian Science Monitor, ably captures South Africa. Plain prose and dialogue keep the pace motoring, and the simply told espionage storyline may appeal to Ian Fleming fans. There is daring, intrigue, and an ugly current of racism, but make no mistake, this is a love story at its core. Austere and well-told; an unlikely mix of espionage, apartheid, and love on the run.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Or this blurb from Joan Baum, NPR reviewer, who will likely expand her review after publication.<br />
<br /> “With a nod to Gabriel Garcia Marquez's <i>Love in the Time of Cholera</i>, Frederic Hunter beautifully explores the subtle and sensual power of love as a counter force to the diseases of racism and war. Though set in South Africa, with nightmare flashbacks to the Congo when Lumumba was assassinated, the suspenseful narrative resonates with deeply moving timeliness.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Click the link below for Fred Hunter’s <i>Love in the Time of Apartheid</i>. May you pass it on to others. </span></div>
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<a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B9O8k0gNhgKVdHpRcXZQaXZxQXM/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank">Love in the time of Apartheid </a></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-53908000250467167382017-02-02T17:14:00.001-05:002017-08-16T16:20:27.527-04:00A SOCIOPATH IN THE WHITE HOUSE? by Jacob M. Appel, MD JD<div class="MsoNormal">
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<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">by Jacob M. Appel MD JD</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">As both a practicing psychiatrist and the author of the forthcoming <i>The Mask of Sanity</i>,<i> </i>a novel that features a high functioning sociopath, I find myself asked with increasing frequency about the mental health of our incoming President. Readers inquire: <i>Is Donald Trump mentally ill? What is his diagnosis? Could he truly be a sociopath and what does this bode for our country?</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> Even if I were able to answer these questions—and my sense is that you do not need a fancy medical degree to answer the first two—I <i>may</i> not. Since 1973, section 7.3 of the American Psychiatric Association’s code of ethics, colloquially known as the “Goldwater rule,” has prohibited headshrinkers like myself from offering “a professional opinion” about “an individual who is in the light of public attention...unless he or she has conducted an examination” of that person “and has been granted proper authorization for such a statement.” So I am prohibited from commenting on Mr. Trump’s mental health based upon his public behavior—at the risk of losing my hospital privileges or even my medical license. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> Similarly, I’d be remiss to claim that Charles Manson or the “Son of Sam” suffers from mental illnesses, as I have never evaluated either of them personally. In the early 1990s, the APA adopted a more lax approach regarding deceased historical figures, so I am at liberty to suggest that the Roman Emperor, Caligula, was troubled, and to offer general comments on the mental health of Joan of Arc and Vincent Van Gogh. But Fred Trump’s pride and joy is clearly off limits. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The “Goldwater rule” arose out of a specific set of disturbing historical circumstances. In the lead up to the 1964 Presidential election, a magazine called <i>Fact</i> published an issue on “The Unconscious of a Conservative” that focused on the psychological makeup and alleged pathology of Republican candidate Barry Goldwater. The magazine’s editor, Ralph Ginzburg, included a survey of psychiatrists in which 1,189 out of 2,417 respondents declared the conservative Arizona senator unfit for the nation’s highest office. Some of the comments published alongside the survey proved damning, even by modern standards. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">One anonymous critic wrote: “I believe Goldwater to be suffering from a chronic psychosis.” Another observed: “I believe Goldwater has the same pathological makeup as Hitler, Castro, Stalin, and other known schizophrenic leaders.” And a third: “A megalomaniacal, grandiose omnipotence appears to pervade Mr. Goldwater’s personality giving further evidence of his denial and lack of recognition of his own feelings of insecurity and ineffectiveness.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Understandably, a backlash arose—both inside and outside the professional. Bioethicist Jonathan Moreno makes a persuasive case that much of this handwringing among shrinks stemmed from fears that “amateurish psychological assessments and poor political prognostication” threatened the credibility of psychoanalytic psychiatrists. Rather than an anomaly, concern over attacks on Goldwater followed similar reactions to A.A. Brill’s diagnosis of Abraham Lincoln as “a manic schizoid personality” and preceded William Bullit’s controversial “necro-analysis” of Woodrow Wilson. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">During the recent presidential campaign, a number of leading psychiatrists and psychologists—myself included—called for the repeal of the “Goldwater rule.” (APA President Maria Oquendo has led an impassioned public defense.) Other thought leaders in mental health have circumvented the rule by offering “image” assessments without formal clinical diagnoses, an approach noted forensic psychiatrist Paul Appelbaum derided in the <i>New York Times</i> as “splitting hairs.” As I have argued elsewhere, the cases where the “Goldwater rule” proves most harmful are not those involving politicians or celebrities, but criminal prosecutions of deranged spree killers like Gabrielle Giffords shooter Jared Loughner and Aurora movie theater gunman James Holmes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> In many of these cases, psychiatrists could offer a likely diagnosis based on public documents and courtroom “performances,” diagnoses that might help the American people understand these tragedies and could lead to both to more appropriate punishments and better prevention. (Certainly, these killers should never walk the streets again, but many belong in psychiatric facilities, rather than prisons.) Instead, the experts most fit to comment are unable to do so, ceding the public forum to uninformed talking heads. In contrast, whether the political process truly suffers because I cannot comment publicly upon my congressperson’s sanity is not so readily apparent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> What is rather clear in hindsight is that the late Barry Goldwater was not mentally ill. While I disagree with many of the five-term senator’s political stances, nothing in his conduct over more than four decades in the public eye—including as a military pilot during World War II—suggests anything other than a noble, well-adjusted servant of the commonweal. As a liberal myself, I fear one of the repeated canards of the American Left is the claim that political conservatives are mentally ill, rather than merely misguided or wrong. From painting Ronald Reagan as a madman in 1980 to questioning John McCain’s temperament in 2008, the myth of the “crazy” right-winger has become a consistent theme in progressive politics. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">It is the meme that cried wolf. (As far as I know, the only major party candidate who suffered from a mental illness between 1945 and 2016 was 1972 Vice Presidential choice Thomas Eagleton of Missouri, a fine United States Senator who had undergone shock treatment for depression, and who was rapidly pushed off the Democratic ticket by George McGovern when this became known.) Only through the lens of the current political situation does the damage done by those false claims against earlier Republicans become fully clear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Up to a certain point, of course, all presidents—and many successful people—have narcissistic and antisocial traits. A bit of narcissism helps a psychiatrist get through medical school; a dose of sociopathy helps Presidents send American soldiers overseas to risk their lives. But traits are not the same as pathologies. Nobody wants a psychiatrist who does all the talking or a trigger-happy leader for the Free World.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This might be a good moment to make an observation that is not a popular view in liberal circles where I travel, nor presumably in conservative ones either: By both international and historical standards, the differences between Barack Obama and Mitt Romney, in terms of policies and values, were rather small. So too of Bush and Gore, even Reagan and Mondale. All of these men believed in certain fundamental norms—norms that are outliers in a world where half of the global population lives without basic civil liberties or political rights. Among these common norms are the belief that if you lose the election, the other side gets to assume office. No tanks or martial law involved. And that if you disagree with your opponents, you are welcome to denounce them on television or the Internet—but not to poison them with polonium. And, most important, that leaders of the other political party are opponents, or rivals, but not enemies. None of these men ever conflated the elected officials seated across the aisle with the foreign operatives across the Bering Sea. These are enormous commonalities, ones that dwarf any differences regarding tax policy or abortion rights or the wisdom of the War in Iraq <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Certainly, the policy differences between the parties will affect the lives of ordinary Americans in countless, meaningful ways. That is why we have elections: For voters to determine the direction of these policies. But the shared values of our recent political leaders in both parties far outweigh their disagreements. Anybody who scoffs at the importance of these shared beliefs should spend a few weeks in Eritrea or Equatorial Guinea—or read a history of the Weimar Republic. When someone challenges these common values, as Mr. Trump has arguably done, both sides need to step back from the brink and acknowledge their importance. As Grandpa Vanderhof observes in the Kaufman and Hart comedy, <i>You Can’t Take it With You</i>, “Got all worked up about whether Cleveland or Blaine was going to be elected President—seemed awful important at the time, but who cares now?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The Goldwater rule prevents me from answering the question: <i>Is Donald Trump a high functioning narcissistic sociopath?</i> I must allow readers to evaluate that matter on their own. What I can say is that high functioning sociopaths are dangerous. Highly so. They are often unable to accept criticism and incapable of adjusting their conduct to circumstances. Great presidents are rarely judged by their Supreme Court appointments or infrastructure programs, but by their responses to cataclysmic challenges like Pearl Harbor, Soviet warheads in Cuba, or 9-11. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> Had a high functioning narcissistic sociopath been president during the Cuban Missile Crisis, we would all likely be dead. Food for thought. (I highly recommend that book on Weimar, by the way, for the next fool who declares, “Mike Pence would be worse.”) Alas, I cannot comment on Mr. Trump’s mental health—either to bury it or to praise it. But if I were a reader, I might ask myself what distinguishes Mr. Trump from Bernie Madoff or Martin Shkreli other than circumstance?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">When George W. Bush was first elected president, I used to joke that the great thing about America is that even the son of a President can grow up to be President. But I never doubted that George W. Bush was sane or rational or genuinely believed he was serving the public good. Maybe the question we should be asking ourselves is not, Is the President a high functioning sociopath? A better question might be: How did we ever reach the point where anyone might even have to ask whether the President is a high functioning sociopath? Once you’ve asked that question, does it really matter whether the clinical answer is yes or no?</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-30620787406831866202017-01-20T18:28:00.003-05:002017-01-20T21:39:43.144-05:00AN INTELLECTUAL FAILURE OF MASSIVE PROPORTIONS<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 20pt; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">from Chris Knopf </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The political establishment, in which I include government officials, party apparatchiks, consultants, and commentators, is acting like a wounded elephant, after running headlong into a tree—dazed and confused, and lumbering around wondering what the heck just happened.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> In the ad agency business, when the buying behavior of potential customers is directly counter to all the predictions of planning and research, we euphemistically call this a “disconnect”. Our clients tend to use other words, like “you’re fired.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">What we have in the political world is a disconnect of massive, historic proportions. I consider it a total, systemic <i>intellectual</i> failure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">By intellectuals, I don’t just mean PhD.s or other brainy sorts in various walks of life. I mean anyone who has an active mind, kept enlivened by lifetime learning and intelligent discourse. If you could find one of these folks who thought a year ago that Trump would be elected president, or Sanders would emerge as a tight second for the Democratic nomination, you’d call them intelligent, but sadly misguided. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And yet here we are. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Doubtless thousands if not millions of dollars were spent in recent years on pollsters and opinion researchers that should have revealed what we now know to be demonstrably true: a huge percentage of voters <i>hate</i> the political establishment, and are in such emotional pain, they’d vote for anyone who said the American system is rigged against them, no matter how it was said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">My experience with market research tells me two things: all that money was spent asking the wrong questions, or the researchers totally misunderstood the answers they got. A third possibility is that the people interviewed gave false testimony. This happens all the time, which brought us New Coke, and why even gifted pollsters like Nate Silver can get it terribly wrong. Only the deep heart of the respondents knows what they’ll actually do at the moment of decision. In this case, in the voting booth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I think that’s part of the explanation, but I’m inclined to believe experts <i>heard </i>what people were saying, but didn’t truly <i>understand</i> what they were hearing. Any researcher will tell you that data means nothing unless properly interpreted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This misunderstanding worked its way from the information gatherers to the information disseminators—journalists and other commentators—who stirred in their own biases and vested (intellectual) interests, resulting in a national frame of mind that was diametrically opposed to what was actually going on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Confirmation bias is the scourge of the digital society. We have so much information flooding our brains, unreliably curated, that we naturally embrace those bits that conform to our view of the world. This extends to the media we gravitate to, which I’d include regular face-to-face conversations, as our social lives become more and more tribal—economically, ideologically, intellectually. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">So it should come as no surprise that the information gatherers, who mostly come from one social class (relatively well off) would unconsciously process the agony of another social class (working people in both parties facing declining circumstances) through their personal filters, however earnestly they believe in their own objectivity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> I’m reminded of the scene in The Big Short when Steve Carell’s character went to Florida and met a stripper who had something like five sub-prime mortgages. It was a great Gestalt moment. Economic catastrophe was about to land on our heads and almost no one anywhere would see it coming. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> I didn’t see it coming either. Neither did I think for a second that Donald Trump or Bernie Sanders would be realistic candidates (for the record, I <i>hoped </i>Bernie would prevail). Though I had one moment at the beginning of the campaign listening to an NPR talk show, where a caller from Kentucky wondered about the media fuss over Jeb Bush when everyone he knew was excited about Trump. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> I wonder if there was a researcher moderating a focus group of middle-class people in Kentucky, or Michigan, or Connecticut, who heard everyone say that the American system had failed them, that they were frightened and angry, and fired up to do something about it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">And if the moderator said to herself, uh-oh, these people are going to vote their hearts. And nobody’s paying attention.</span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-55852827922728894712016-12-20T17:11:00.000-05:002016-12-20T17:11:11.279-05:00CIVILLY DISOBEDIENT <div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">
<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">We’ve had the privilege of publishing two novels by Tom LeClair, The first, <i>Passing Off </i>appeared in 1997, nearly twenty years ago, which garnered excellent reviews: The Nation saying that “it is like reading a Ken Follet thriller with a basketball overlay. Elegant writing!” while the Washington Post review concluded that “LeClair has written a book that is literate, lively and entertaining.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">We published his second book, <i>Lincoln’s Billy</i> in 2015, and it remains among my favorite novels of all time, with The Daily Beast having this to say (I paraphrase), “The man who tells his own sad tale as Lincoln’s Billy is William Herndon. He was Lincoln’s law partner before Lincoln ran for public office who failed to publish his long, version of Lincoln, so Tom LeClair has stepped in to write this 176 page bawdy expose of young Lincoln, a tough, sinewy historical novel. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">So ends my introduction to Tom, who has long been a social critic and activist as he explains that</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">“the crowds of protesters at Trump Tower have thinned in the weeks since the election and how his rage propels him to stay at his lonely post on Fifth Avenue, standing vigil at Trump Tower” To which I add that this blog is fascinating, ironic, funny, and caustic, and will be running until early January, as our last blog for 2016 .</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiDCfFRe2YynfBbs0hcpVWpgIDGQ8eO1MN3idZRosLK1o6XHow4JywcmtdF4iEYZ68k6-W91H4QuPdFT6F3rK-002EUfH2LcFHoFp05wKjCcMYUt8V-ytYzVJs0JfxtCX6-N1F5zV8ByOG/s1600/T-Forum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiDCfFRe2YynfBbs0hcpVWpgIDGQ8eO1MN3idZRosLK1o6XHow4JywcmtdF4iEYZ68k6-W91H4QuPdFT6F3rK-002EUfH2LcFHoFp05wKjCcMYUt8V-ytYzVJs0JfxtCX6-N1F5zV8ByOG/s200/T-Forum.jpg" width="134" /></a><span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">“The thousands who marched on Trump Tower in New York right after the election have returned to their hives and lives. Groups in the low double figures sometimes gather nearby at night. I’m the day shift, every day. It feels like the third shift because I’m usually a solitary watchman on Fifth Avenue across the street from the Tower. You can walk the sidewalk in front of the building if you agree to be searched by the police, but they would never let me stroll with my protest sign. You can also go into the Tower if you put your bag through an X-ray machine. I fold my sign into my bag and enter to use the Tower’s underground marble toilet. Down there in the bowels of the ziggurat, I think of Trump way up in his penthouse and a line by the novelist William Gass: ‘I want to rise so high that when I shit I won’t miss anybody.’</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">“Pedestrian movement several blocks in any direction from Ground Trump is curtailed and controlled by the waist-high barriers with metal bars you see at New York City parades. All the varieties of police swarm the area: Secret Service, a SWAT team outside the Tower’s front doors, traffic police in yellow vests, community affairs police in bright blue jackets, regular officers with their low-slung duty belts, undercover cops (I assume), and what my contacts, the blue jackets, call the “white shirts,” the lieutenants and inspectors. Many of the blue jackets in charge of pedestrians are women, Latino, or black, and some nod at my protest signs or even shake my hand when I arrive for duty. I think of them as secret sharers of the sidewalk. The white shirts are mostly white guys like me, and they don’t like me protesting the orange whale Trump on his block, their block.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">“There is a protesters pen constructed of those metal barriers down the Avenue from the Tower. That’s where the after-work groups of 10 or 20 are confined, shouting out their chants without disturbing those who live in the building. I reject the cage. I take my stand smack in front of what I heard one black cop call the “Black House” so passers-by can take photos of my signs and the “TRUMP TOWER” sign behind and above me. I ask scores of smartphone users every day to post their photos online. Thousands walk past me in a day, and many may read my sign, but the solitary protester can now really multiply his semiotic impression through social media.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">“I’ll stand at my post for some hours, and then a white shirt will come by and tell his blue jackets to move me. Once I conversed directly with a tidy whitey. He said, ‘You have to move.’ I said, ‘I’m not impeding pedestrian traffic.’ He said, ‘You have to move if you’re on the sidewalk.’ I happened to be standing right at the curb, so I stepped back onto the street, where I was protected by a barrier from traffic. The officer walked off, took out his phone, and I got a visit from the blue jackets who told me to move because they really didn’t want to arrest me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">“Speech is free if you’re in the cage or in motion. So I walk, as one blue jacket suggested,’ like a turtle; up and down the block because I can’t be arrested—I thought of the root meaning of arrest—if I keep moving. I stand still when people ask to photograph my sign, when I’m out of sight of the blue jackets, and when they go into one of their vans to get warm. But ‘going to and fro on the earth,’ as Satan tells God, doesn’t give the same impression as standing firm, hands behind my back, a sign hanging from my neck—posing as a lone heroic resister against the depredations to come. I’m not stopping any tanks, like that guy in Tiananmen Square, and I don’t want to end up, like Bartleby, in prison, but being solitary is advantageous. One day a woman with a sign stood next to me, and the blues converged to explain that since protesters were now two—a veritable demonstration!—we had to go into the cage.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">“My first sign, RAGE TRUMPS HATE, was just ambiguous enough to get me interviewed by print journalists from Canada, England, Argentina, and France. And taped by TV channels in Russia, Japan, Sweden, and Kurdistan (whose reporter was amazed that an American knew who the Kurds were). Fox News and CNN are in the media pen right behind my post, but they never point their cameras my way. Like me, the lip-glossed and hair-fiddling talking heads want the Tower at their backs. With plenty of time to think, I imagine new visual memes: ‘Turn Your Back On Trump’ or ‘Take Photo, Post Tower On Its Head.’ When the lights go on to illuminate the TV reporters, pedestrians stop to gawk at them and impede other pedestrians. That’s when I realize police enforcement of the ‘stay in motion’ rule is arbitrary and selective, for officers don’t disperse the crowd of gawkers, valued New York tourists. But if three or four people stop at the same time to take photos of my sign, I’m told to move along by some among the blue jackets. They always cite ‘higher ups,’ and I wonder from just how high up the order descends. I like to think the petty occupant of the penthouse wants to cancel sidewalk mockery as he hopes to cancel Saturday Night Live.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">“Invariably, the interviewers’ first question of me is not what I have against the outlier-elect but why I would be standing by myself holding a hand-lettered sign. I don’t try to change anyone’s mind. But if I’m sufficiently enraged to stand alone out in the cold every day, maybe I’ll inspire my fellow citizens to stay angry. NEW THREE R’S: RAGE, REJECT, RESIST. As another of my signs says, NEVER SETTLE WITH THIS FRAUD. Since it’s mostly visitors who walk Fifth Avenue, I also address them: TOURISTS: TRUMP TOWER IS NOT AMERICA. IT’S BABEL. I have some accompanying patter: ‘Free tour, Tower of Babel, coming down soon.’ I want visitors to take home or send home the impression that Trump and his tower of arrogance do not represent America. Of course, I know that’s a lie like one of Trump’s, for greed and hate such as his, founded and expanded this land to the California gold Trump loves. But despite my country’s distant and very recent past, I want foreign tourists to know America remains a republic of equal rights and free speech (as long as it’s in motion).</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">“Some passers-by ask to be photographed with my sign and me. My data is anecdotal, but I’d say Canadians are per capita, my chief huggers. Maybe no fences do make good neighbors. Europeans with their excellent English pat me on the back and extend their sympathies. On weekends, Latino parents want to photograph their children beneath my sign. To them, I extend my apologies. Chinese tourists, of which there are many on Fifth Avenue, stop, puzzle out my signs (GILD IVANKA, GELD DONALD) and ask permission before snapping. Maybe they think I will get in trouble if dissent is photographed. I suppose the security cameras overhead are recording all the activity so some future anthropologist may modify my anecdotal data. And when facial recognition gets powerful enough, I can scan Facebook and other social media to check if my photographers have indeed posted my impression as they promised.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">“I don’t get many insults, perhaps because my block on Fifth Avenue with its Prada and Tiffany’s attracts few visitors from the Benighted States of America. Although I know the passers-by have little time to prepare a witty rejoinder to my signs, I’m still continually surprised at how dull the Trumpsters are. Maybe they’re just being charitable when they offer advice: ‘Get a job’ or ‘Get over it.’ I thank them and tell them that I have a job, protecting their First Amendment rights and that ‘it’—the profiteering and hate—is just getting started. Some in ‘Make America Great’ caps are curious. They ask, ‘How much you getting paid?’ for they assume that a man Trump’s age must be as guilt-ridden as he. Or they ask, ‘What country you from?’ for they know no native-born American would insult a president, at least one not born in Kenya. Moderates plead, ‘Give him a chance.’ I refer them to Charles Blow’s essay in The New York Times on the subject of just get along with the monster and show them one of my signs: I GAVE TRUMP A CHANCE, AND HE GAVE US RACE-BAITERS AND IMMIGRANT HATERS. Then I tell polite pleaders that I may decide to give Trump another chance because I pity their populist loser of the popular vote.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">I hope all of you reading Tom’s blog will respond to it by commenting on this website and pass it along for others to read. You can also contact Tom LeClair directly by ema</span><span style="background-color: black;">il:</span></span><span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white; font-size: large;"><a href="mailto:%20leclaite@ucmail.uc.edu" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> leclaite@ucmail.uc.edu</a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">This is a time when we are encouraged to buy Christmas gifts, watch endless TV ads selling Christmas gifts, spend a couple of bucks for a Hallmark card and envelope. This commercialization of Christmas gets tedious after a while. And while I’m certainly not against this holiday, I do think LeClair’s blog adds a balance at this time and this particular year, before the President-elect takes office. May you consider this as an electronic holiday card from us to you.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: black;">Martin Shepard, signing off.</span></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7671249594820130735.post-65805012163424424842016-12-12T18:01:00.002-05:002016-12-12T18:02:23.864-05:00BRILLIANT NEW VOICES FROM SOUTH ASIA<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Co-publisher Chris Knopf takes over this week’s Cockeyed Pessimist blog with a short and eloquent piece about two novels that first appeared in India, from writers who will appear in 2017—Saikat Majumdar’s <i>Play House</i>, which we’re publishing in April, and Kaushik Barua’s <i>No Direction Rome</i>, due in November, and has already been sold to Blackstone Audiobooks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZUBI_nlTA1ZfUJrVJg1F0LQR2xKBVMbAW0h5TsXrMpUBksI27UEpviiv2CD-0h6s7TpocOcNy4Uk1h6ocvbLdBErvgGM64NffZLL6xBVhNo7m4W8W9Lt0bAt91Yv57krWDq2G99Qzu4JX/s1600/Chris+Knopf-new.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZUBI_nlTA1ZfUJrVJg1F0LQR2xKBVMbAW0h5TsXrMpUBksI27UEpviiv2CD-0h6s7TpocOcNy4Uk1h6ocvbLdBErvgGM64NffZLL6xBVhNo7m4W8W9Lt0bAt91Yv57krWDq2G99Qzu4JX/s200/Chris+Knopf-new.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span>Comparing a writer’s work with another writer, particularly one highly regarded, is tricky business. On the one hand, you’re paying a compliment by saying “His prose is rich and evocative, even Faulknerian.” On the other, you might be saying, “This guy spent too much time reading Faulkner in college, and it shows.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> We are blessed to be publishing in 2107 works by two authors from India, Play House, by Saikat Majumdar and No Direction Rome, by Kaushik Barua. Both are entirely original works, and interestingly, very distinctive from each other. Saikat’s book is lushly composed and sensuous, meaning it provokes all of one's senses – eyes, ears, sight, touch and smell. With starkly drawn characters, written with careful attention to detail. Yet also paced like a suspense novel, that had me enthralled throughout. Told from the point of view of a young boy, Saikat expresses the fear and wonder children experience living in the confusing adult world while allowing readers access to the realities beyond a child’s understanding. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">As to associations, I was initially reminded of Justine, the first in Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet. Though Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient, D.H. Lawrence, Joyce, Faulkner and Gabriel García Márquez also came to mind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">If Saikat renewed my love for sumptuous prose, Kaushik’s work took me back to 1980’s New York City, and Jay McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City. The hero of No Direction Rome is also a young man adrift in a teeming metropolis, not knowing what to do with himself, seemingly attached to nothing, yet observing everything. Where McInerney pulled off a risky second-person narrative, Kaushik delivers a crisp stream of consciousness that moves seamlessly from quip to commentary, to startling profundity. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Though approaching the art of the novel from opposite directions, these books share an abundance of creativity, thoughtfulness, and gimlet-eyed perception. I also found both to be remarkably mature </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">works, in the mastery of difficult narrative techniques, and in the kind of awareness of the world you’d expect to from, older writers. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Both originally published in India to wide critical praise, we’re pleased to introduce, Saikat Majumdar and Kaushik Barua to lovers of brilliant literature here in America and beyond. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Please share
this blog with others and comment directly to myself and Chris below. You can
also email Chris your comments directly at ChrisK@mintz-hoke.com <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Next week we’ll be featuring a lengthy blog by author Tom
LeClair entitled:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="text-transform: uppercase;">CIVILLY DISOBEDIENT:<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="letter-spacing: .4pt;">WHY I’M STANDING VIGIL AT TRUMP TOWER</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">To be alerted for future postings, send email to shepard@thepermanentpress.com</div>Marty Shepardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07646940651220807381noreply@blogger.com13