“My, he is a fit bloke. I sure do fancy him, I do,” said the working class girl. It was a lovely day on the outskirts of London, and she did not realize the beautiful, beautiful ramifications this would have on all of her later life.
To celebrate the forthcoming release of my novel, I’m throwing two parties. First one is in Chicago, my home and native land. Second one is in San Francisco, which has a pretty great composting program. Please come to one! At both, I’ve asked friends to read. Both parties will be great, with many more and better reasons to come than just hearing me.
May 15th, in Chicago with readings from:
Russ Woods &
Jeannette Gomes &
Mason Jason &
Erica Dreisbach &
Matt Rowan
May 22nd, in San Francisco with readings from:
Casey Childers &
Sarah Griffin &
Nate Waggoner
What’s there to say about this book that wasn’t already covered by James Woods? Maybe just, “Me too! I thought it was great!”
And a quote:
The was the expression he used, the boys, and by the boys he meant the industrial workers, and he pointed with conviction out the window, into the world, but in fact in the wrong direction, for he was not pointing to where my mother laboured only a few blocks away as an industrial worker, and was one of the boys, so to speak, even though the majority were women in that factory, nor did he point to where my father worked as an industrial worker and was one of the boys a few stops away on the Underground. What he pointed to was at the Munch Museum at the end of the Finnmarkgata.
Hey look! There’s my name in that list!
To summarize the image: I’m reading as part of the Porthlight and Quiet Lightning collaboration. You should come check it out.
Monday April 15
The Verdi Club
2424 Mariposa St.
8pm • $15 advance/$20 door
Oh man, how long has it been since I was coldcocked by an awesome mystery novel.
Apparently, everyone but me has loved and respected Crumley for infinity. I grabbed this book randomly over at Bibliohead. This novel fills an interesting place in my knowledge of mystery novels, landing midway between the boozy California drive-arounds and the grotesque New York walk-arounds. There’s drugs and failed hippies!
We smoked his dope and drank my beer, watched the sun ride the wide open spaces of high blue sky, talked about wagon trains and trails, about what it might have been like, talked about the motorcycle shop he might open down in Santa Cruz, but we didn’t talk about Betty Sue Flowers and we didn’t get very hight.
I think of John Cheever’s short stories as waspy, American English perfection. But in Falconer, he lets his language loosen. His sentences degenerate into a really pleasing lyrical anarchy. Simple words, rolling structures. It was written later in his life, once he’d found sobriety, and I find it interesting that only then did he let himself hang all out. An example:
Then I hear the sound of your heels again – a little swifter now – as you open and close another drawer and then comes towards the door of the room where I wait, bringing with you the pleasures of the evening and the night and the life we have together. And I can remember wishing for dinner in an upstairs bedroom while you did the last thing before putting dinner on the table, while I heard you touch a china serving dish with a pot. This I remember.
Isn’t that “while I heard you” just perfect? It tweaks your sense of time, making it a moment lived and remember simultaneously.
Helpful note: This book isn’t about falcons or falconry, but instead about a prison name Falconer. This feels stupid to say, but I had known about this book for years without knowing its subject matter. (For a great book on falconry, however, checkout The Goshawk.)
I was so happy to get this in the mail yesterday that I couldn’t stand myself. I wanted to tell everyone I know that I was having feelings. I even couldn’t sleep last night, what with the feelings and what not. (!!! <—- a transcript of my thoughts.)
I submitted versions of this novel to 59 agents yielding 31 rejections and 28 voids who never replied. (Note: every single one of the non-repliers can go non-fuck themselves <3 <3 <3 <3.) I also submitted to 10 small press, only one of which never replied.
Cairn Press replied and after some back-and-forth they accepted it. So far, working with them has been great. And the book! It’s almost a real thing! I still feel like it could evaporate at any minute, and I think I’m having that worry only because I want the book to be publisher so very much.
And now, to search for typos once more.
I suppose they’re all slender?
This morning, I found myself wondering about the word ‘keepsake,’ whether it was old or new, whether it might have an unexpected first meaning. (Answer: origin 1790, no.) Interesting thing though: listed as a synonym was “bomboniere.” Strangely, bomboniere was not in the Mac iOS Dictionary-thingy that had listed it in the thesaurus. This blew my mind: an inconsistency between the dictionary and the thesaurus! What a topsy-turvy, future-shocking world we live in!
Googlin’ it for a bit, the word itself is kind of square. A bomboniere is that party favor you get at weddings sometimes with jordan almonds in it. But very few online dictionaries included the word. Which makes me wonder if the Wedding-Industrial Complex has recently forced ‘bomboniere’ (boom!) into the American lexicon. And just how did those nefarious wedding planners compromise the thesaurus before the dictionary? Word Terrorist Bastards.
PS I still love jordan almonds.
