What Are You Doing For Thanksgiving?

What are you doing for Thanksgiving? That’s the question everybody starts asking around this time. We all have images of the “perfect” Thanksgiving dinner in our heads. You know, the traditional one with everybody in the family gathered around a bountiful table, with grandpa at the head carving the turkey. Some of us will duplicate that image, some of us will join friends at a church hall or a restaurant or a community center. No matter where we eat it or whom we eat it with, Thanksgiving dinners always seem special.

The first Thanksgiving I spent without a large family around me was when I was in graduate school, newly divorced, and living with my small son in a dinky apartment with a kitchen the size of a phone booth. I couldn’t stand the thought of how dismal the day would be without some other people around, so I called the university and asked the dean of student affairs to choose some students who were far from home and send them to me. Four people showed up, a young woman and three guys, all of them tentative and wary. I put them to work peeling potatoes and snapping green beans and figuring out how to get all of us seated at my teeny dining table. In no time, the guys were on the floor playing cars with my little boy and the girl and I were standing in clouds of steam and yakking as if we were  family. It was a great meal, they took leftovers back to their dorms, and my little boy and I had a happy Thanksgiving.

Several years later, when our housing situation had improved a lot, Bob and Cloy Shannon, my across-the-street neighbors, invited us every year to Thanksgiving dinner at their ranch outside Houston. No house, just a flat ranch with a few bobbing oil-pumps and a one-room mobile home for bathroom breaks and washing kids’ sticky hands. About a hundred people would turn up with insulated hampers holding turkeys and casseroles and desserts, and the whole thing got laid out on planks laid across bales of hay. Fires would be burning, some for warmth because it was danged cold out there, and some for grilling venison or boiling pots of gumbo. Pink-cheeked children ran around in gleeful freedom, and there was always a tractor-pulled hayride. We ate on paper plates, there wasn’t a thing traditional about any of it, and it was terrific.

I’ve shared a lot of other family’s Thanksgivings, every one with a different tradition, and enjoyed them all. This year I’ve been invited to share Thanksgiving dinner with a friend’s family. I think we’ll be around fourteen people, in all. My contribution will be roasted creamed onions and whole cranberry sauce flavored with a clove-studded tangerine and cinnamon sticks. The cranberry sauce is something I have to have every Thanksgiving, no matter what. Other people think of cranberry sauce as just a little dollop next to the turkey, but to me it’s the main event. I just eat the other stuff so I can have cranberry sauce. As for the creamed onions, they’re something I’ve never made before. I don’t even particularly like creamed onions, but I saw this recipe online and the woman who posted it claims that roasting the onions and putting a little wine in the sauce transports them to something out of the ordinary. We’ll see. If they bomb, there’ll be plenty of other good things. The main thing is that about a dozen nice people will gather around a Thanksgiving table and create a memory.

I hope your Thanksgiving dinner is enjoyable in every way.

You Got What Pierced???

Just when I think I’ve cleared away all my prejudices and stereotypes, I run into another one. Yesterday was an example of how a long-held misconception can get turned around in a minute.

I wanted to get my ears pierced again. Well, not my ears, but my ear lobes. It would be the third time. The first time, decades ago, I went to a place that used a gun to shoot studs in. One stud was shot in at a weird angle, so for years afterward I painfully repierced that lobe every time I put an earring in it. Several years ago, I stopped wearing earrings, let the holes close, and then had them pierced again, also with a gun. In a few days, my ear lobes swelled up like red balloons so I took the studs out and let them heal again.

I’ve missed wearing earrings, but the clip-on kind drive me crazy and I’m now gun shy when it comes to piercing. So I googled “medical ear piercing” and drew up a local tattoo place. The information on the site was impressive, and so were all the licenses and certificates. It made sense too, that a tattoo artist would use a needle and would be especially careful about bacteria and cleanliness. I have to admit that some of the photos of things people have had pierced was a bit disconcerting, but hey, if they want a ring in that thing, it’s okay with me.

I’d always imagined a tattoo establishment as a little seedy, the kind of place where drunken sailors on shore leave got “Mom” tattooed on their arms, or rebellious teens got tattoos of whatever would annoy their parents most. The place I went to wasn’t anything like that. It felt somewhat like a dentist’s office, with a central hall with offices on each side where tattoo artists and piercers worked. The walls were lined with paintings from different cultures, and bookshelves held anthropology and art books. I hadn’t expected books.

My appointment was with a young woman with a small diamond in her lower lip. I filled out a standard medical form and waited while she pierced a woman’s nose. While I waited, I could hear conversations from other rooms where young people with art-covered arms and legs chatted. I’m not sure what I’d expected to find in a place where people go to get skin tattooed and different body parts pierced, but it wasn’t these courteous, well spoken, well read people. The young woman who did my work told me she had been fascinated since childhood with the way different cultures define beauty. She’s now a college student studying cultural anthropology. I hadn’t expected that, either.

The piercing was done expertly and with careful attention to antisepsis. I left with needle-pierced ear lobes into which little hoops of surgical-grade titanium had been threaded. I also left with a humbled realization that I have a lot to learn about my fellow human beings. I hope none of them hold the same stereotypical misconceptions about me that I hold about some of them.

Writing Awards, Sort Of

I’m taking an unofficial, strictly for myself poll. It’s in two parts, one part for book buyers and one for authors.

Here’s the book buyers question: If you’re in a bookstore and you’ve narrowed down your choices to two books, how much are you influenced by words like “Winner of the 2008 Ruby Slipper Award” or “Runner-Up in the 2007 Sky Rain Award”? I’m not talking about established awards like the Edgars, Pulitzers, Agathas, National Book Awards, or Booker, but awards from organizations you’ve never heard of. Do those awards make you assume the book has been compared to all other books in its genre and judged by a panel of qualified judges? Even if you know better and suspect the judges were qualified only by reason of breathing, would you still choose the award-winning book over the other?

Now the question for authors: When you receive one of the flood of invitations from obscure literary groups who have created writers’ awards, what do you do? The invitations always remind you that winners can affix a sticker saying “Award Winner!” on their book. They remind you that you can add to your credits that you won the Blah-Blah Award, and that your sales will increase because of it. All you have to do to be in the running is to send the specified number of copies of your published book, manuscript, ebook, or POD book along with a fee in the hundred dollar range for each title, and you too could be a winner.

Do you immediately send the money and the required books and consider it a savvy marketing strategy? Or do you toss, delete, shred, or otherwise get rid of the invitation because it seems crass, misleading, and a tad dishonest to even consider entering a contest that is basically some group’s money-making scheme?

Now the really big question: If you knew for a fact that readers always buy an “award-winning” book, even if the “award” is of dubious provenance, would you hold your hose and enter all those contests? In the world of book marketing, does honesty matter? I think I just answered my own question, but I’d still like to hear other people’s views on spurious writing awards.

Is American Literature Insular?

A Nobel committee member has said that American literature tends to be “insular,” and I think the statement has some merit. Not that we don’t have excellent American novelists. We do, and I could name many of them, but when I compare American novelists with those of other countries I have to admit there’s a subtle difference, and the difference is often not in our favor.

The difference is in the use of language. American novelists tend to approach language in a servile way, fearfully, hat in our hands, not wanting to break any of its rules. Our stories are carefully constructed within the boundaries of proper syntax, correct grammar, rules-keeping punctuation. And just as language itself determines what we can write about — if a word for an emotion or color or experience doesn’t exist, we can’t tell about it — how we use language determines its impact on readers. Authors from other countries, at least the good ones, use language to surprise, rattle, engage readers.  American writers are more apt to stay so carefully within the boundaries of syntactical rules that the writing takes on a sameness and predictability.

Take this passage from Per Petterson’s To Siberia, for example: “When the street is empty again I walk towards the door, but Jesper bends over the sink where the milk bottles stand in water with only their necks sticking up and takes out a half liter bottle. A ray of light falls through the window, it drips and sparkles, he pulls down the cap and takes a long gulp, like a man in the Sahara.” An American writer — or copyeditor — would probably make several sentences out of that passage, and rearrange the syntax. Same information, but the words would plod along without requiring any involvement from the reader.

These aren’t differences wrought by translation, but by a prissiness we have brought to our use of language, a fear of breaking some rule we learned in high school. American novelists are afraid of objective pronouns. We’re afraid of dangling participles and sentences that end in prepositions. We’re afraid of sentences in which more than one verb tense is used, afraid of commas which aren’t placed in some rigid order according to rules that nobody knows. And if we’re not fearful enough, some copyeditor will fear for us. Too often, rules that are appropriate for journalism or nonfiction are applied to fiction, and the result is a stultifying sameness to sentence structure.

There are notable exceptions, past and present, like Faulkner, Gaines, Gurganus, Morrison. But I wonder if we would have more exceptions if we were not so obsessed with hewing to the laws of language rather than rising to its inherent spirit.

National Book Store Day

National Book Store Day is coming up on November 7, and at the suggestion of David Hagberg (Burned, The Expediter, Dance With the Dragon, etc, etc), Sarasota writers will be hanging out at Circle Books, our local independent bookstore, to show our appreciation for all the things booksellers do for us. No matter how many books are sold online, or how many books are read on Kindle, book stores remain the primary link between books and book lovers. If you have a local bookstore you love, you know how the people there have come to know your preferences in authors and genres, and how they suggest great books you might never have read without their recommendation.

If you’re an author, think about following David Hagberg’s lead and organize local authors in a showing of support for your own bookstores. If you’re a lover of books, mark your calendar and stop by your favorite store on November 7 and tell the booksellers how much you appreciate them. Who knows, you might run into one of your favorite authors there.

New Rules For Blog Reviewers

The new FTC guidelines about bloggers and tweeters who recommend books would be funny if it didn’t raise the possibility of a lot of confusion and inadvertent law-breaking. According to the new rules, bloggers who review free copies of books they’ve been given by an author or publisher must disclose the book as merchandise received. If publishers send free review copies to bloggers, either directly or through a middleman, they must disclose the distribution and monitor the subsequent conduct of the “endorsers” who received them.

The FTC isn’t claiming these new guidelines are laws, they’re calling them “guides.” However, they can fine a violator of the new guidelines as much as $11,000 per infraction. They offer bloggers wiggle-room by saying that if reviewers donate the free copy after reviewing it, they don’t have to disclose they ever got it, since it doesn’t represent “lasting compensation.” But many free review copies end up on eBay, so the sales could become a sticky issue.

The whole thing is pretty silly, and probably completely unenforceable. I don’t get free review copies of books, but if a friend passes along a book to me and I like it so much that I write a recommendation on my blog, I could theoretically get in trouble with the FTC if I don’t make sure that I pass the book along to somebody else. Books flow through my hands pretty regularly, so I probably don’t run much chance of being busted for nondisclosure of a free book I’ve reviewed. But if the guidelines are enforced, online reviewers may find themselves having to keep records and account for the source and final disposition of books they recommend.

The FTC doesn’t have enough staff to monitor every blogger and tweeter who recommends a book, so the whole thing will probably fall into a crack and be forgotten. But it raises some interesting issues. What’s your take on the idea of bloggers who review books having to report free copies as compensation?

Talking Computers Are Just Plain Weird

Of all the creepy things in the world, talking to a computerized voice has to be one of the creepiest. Over the past week, I’ve had several conversations with Verizon’s robo-spokeswoman, and every time I’ve felt as if I were playing a role in a weird horror movie where a big-headed doll was speaking to me. Verizon has chosen a woman’s voice to simulate a conversation with subscribers who, let’s say, might call to say that Verizon workmen had cut their FIOS cable for the second time in four days.

The chatty female Verizon voice does not give her name, but I have named her Vira. Vira begins by explaining all the other ways I might reach Verizon, such as going to the web. If she were human, I would explain that those other ways are impossible, since Verizon’s workmen have cut the cable that provides TV, phone, and internet service. She asks if I’m calling about the number of the phone which I hold in my hand. Vira must have caller ID. If she were human, she would know by this time that I’m using a cellphone to call her because Verizon’s workmen have cut my cable. Again. For the second time in four days. But Vira is a computer, so I merely say, “No.” I know from experience that saying anything other than “No” or “Yes” causes Vira to get agitated and say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that.” Then she repeats the question.

After I’ve answered more of Vira’s questions, she says, “Okay, I’ve got your records.” That’s when I imagine her head spinning and her eyes growing very large and malevolent because having a computerized voice say “Okay, I’ve got your records” is just plain weird. Vira is a talking computer and I wish she’d just shut up and connect me to a repair person who could take my address and give me some idea of a day when somebody might come lay a third cable to my house. But she doesn’t, and nobody comes, and so I call several more times and speak to Vira again. And again. After a while I begin to imagine a hint of shame creeping into Vira’s voice, as if she realizes how ludicrous the whole thing is. I wonder if Vira once hoped for something more for herself. Running a race car, maybe, or doing complex math problems.

On my last call, Vira and I went through all the standard Q and A, but after she said, “Okay, I’ve got your records,” she let a long pause go by. Then, with almost a sob in her voice, she said, “From looking at your records, I think it would be best if you spoke to a technician.” I imagined a tear of defeat rolling down her cheek, but I did not feel sorry for her.

Latest Books Read

BROKEN FOR YOU was a debut novel for Stephanie Kallos, but I read it after I’d finished her second, which was SING THEM HOME. From some review of the second book, I’d got the mistaken notion that it was a continuation of Broken For You. It isn’t, not even remotely. Both books are delightful, each one complete in itself. The only common denominator is that both books present idyllic communities in which people find and share their unique talents and perspectives as they grow into themselves. Kallos blends ghosts with the living, and almost fairy-tale improbables with grim reality. Somehow, it all works. I look forward to more of her work.

THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO is the first in a mystery trilogy by Swedish journalist Stieg Larsson. It introduces Mikael Blomkvist, a financial journalist, and Lisbeth Salander, a tattooed and body-pierced young woman so adept at illegally hacking into computers, so savagely ruthless in revenge, and so lacking in warmth that it would seem she has no redeeming qualities. And yet it is Lisbeth who works her way into your heart, and in the end almost breaks it. Larsson, who died in 2004 just after finishing the trilogy, wrote with a white-hot contempt for men who debase women, with some disturbing statistics about abuse in Sweden. Millions of his books have sold around the world, and have probably inspired revenge in women who have suffered at the hands of sadists. I have a feeling Larsson would consider that high tribute.

In Defense of Dull Knives

All my life, I’ve heard people say that a dull knife will cut you worse than a sharp knife. I know that isn’t true because I’ve always had dull knives and none of them has ever cut me. My favorite dull knife has been with me since my first marriage. At that time, knife sharpeners came around every few months in trucks that played jingling tunes to alert women to bring out their dull knives. Too bad there weren’t marriage-sharpeners — but I digress. The point is that my trusty old knife has been professionally sharpened only once or twice in its lifetime, and that was a long time ago.

It’s a good knife, with a one-piece length of steel that runs all the way through a wooden handle with brass studs. About ten inches long, I’ve used it for almost everything. It has cut through chicken bones, whacked garlic cloves, chopped onions, sliced carrots, you name it. In the last year, the handle has gotten a little loose, so I quit putting it in the dishwasher. I also started looking for a replacement, and found that I had a knife that chefs consider a treasure. I guess that’s why it has lasted so long and why no other knife has ever felt right in my hand.

Last week I plunked down an obscene amount of money for a knife that was as close to my old one as I could find. I have to admit it’s a lot sharper. Tomatoes take one look at it and practically fall into neat slices before they’re touched. Celery has never sounded so crisp when the blade goes through it. It is one sharp dude.

The old knife is still my first love, but I don’t want to completely destroy its wooden handle so it stays most of the time in its slot in the knife rack on the kitchen counter. So far, I have band-aids on three fingers. They keep slipping off and the cuts start bleeding again so now I’m carrying spare band-aids in my pockets. I suppose in time I’ll remember that the new knife blade is really, really sharp and stop cutting myself, but I may be wearing band-aids on every finger before I do. I’ll be glad when it loses a little of its sharp edge.

I read somewhere that Mikimoto, the cultured pearl king, once held a requiem for the needles that had been broken stringing his pearls. I understand that. I feel the same affection and gratitude for my old dull knife.

Slogging Through the Writer’s Jungle

Every time I start a new Dixie Hemingway book, I proceed in the same halting, tentative way throughout what I call Act I, roughly the first third of the book. I make false starts and begin anew. I change characters and locations. I throw out chapters and write new ones. I always feel like I’m swinging a machete to create a path through a dangerous jungle, hacking down thick vines that obscure my vision, hyper-alert to constrictor plots that can squeeze the life out of my story or slavering character beasts poised to pounce on it and devour it. I write myself letters from my characters in which they explain themselves to me. I have them write letters to one another, revealing the deepest, most personal secrets that drive them. If their communication with one another doesn’t spark some anger or fear or envy or something that I think they can sustain to the end of the story, I bring in new characters and start over.

I don’t feel safe until I’ve written the crucial last scene of Act I, when I finally know my characters well enough to know what they’ll do when push comes to shove in Act II. When I get to that point, I change obsessions. I dream about them. I wake up in the night and scrawl ideas. I go around during the day speaking their dialogue. My desk piles up with papers, post-its, miscellaneous stuff that I won’t notice until the last sentence of Act III is written.

With every book, it’s always the same thing. Everything new, everything the same. You’d think it would have changed with time and experience, but it hasn’t. The only thing I can say has changed is that when I first started writing I was pretty sure I would suffocate under the weight of my own words before I ever got a story written. Now I know that if I keep hacking away, I’ll eventually see daylight. A credible story will emerge. I’ll write “The End” and feel satisfied.

So if anybody is looking for me, I’m here in the writing jungle with my machete. Are you in here too?