Colonial Mischief

I'm not sure whether anyone else is afflicted, like I am, with nostalgia for the era in early last century when white colonizers indulged in lives of adventure and misbehavior that could only happen far from home. Exotic displacement carries a promise of romance, conflict and loss. A promise that Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh, Karen Blixen, W. Somerset Maughan, E.M. Forster, and Marguerite Duras, among others, wrote into their books.

Paul Bowles, a favorite, was a late master. "The Sheltering Sky" and most of his short stories either end badly or at least not entirely well. The differences too insurmountable for a happy ever after. "The Sheltering Sky," like many of the novels of the authors above, was made into a movie. Sadly, a bad one.

Good or bad, I could always put myself in the landscape of Africa, the Indian Subcontinent or South East Asia, obviously free from the sin of xenophobia. I would not treat natives as intrinsically dangerous, invisible or disposable since I'd land in the scene with a big dose of anachronistic political correctness.

Fast forward to today's global marketplace, when every city is easily reachable after a plane ride or with a text, and we have yet to become one big homogenous family. Colonial mischief--privileged white people far from home behaving badly (political what?)--still happens.

I'm no critic or scholar and not many names come to mind who have continued the tradition into modern days. I think I like Francesca Marciano because "Rules of the Wild" updated the theme and brought it back. John Burdett does that with his mysteries set in Thailand, and while not many farang walk his books, it is a farang sensitivity that propels them.

Lawrence Osborne has lived in this neighborhood a long time but I'm just getting to know him. After reading "The Ballad of a Small Player," Mr. Osborne's last, a reviewer in The New York Times lamented having found another writer he could not put down and whose oeuvre he'd now be forced to read. The curse is contagious.

Set in Macau and Hong Kong, "The Ballad" follows a Brit in flight from the law who spends his fortune in the casinos while mildly romancing, or letting his wounds be tended to by a young local woman with little to say and which immediately brought to mind the main couple in "The Quiet American," time and lack of war notwithstanding. Western men like their Asian girls young and silent. Nothing has changed, and this is not a great endorsement for this book, which captivates because of atmosphere and language, but left me wanting in the western male evolutionary department.

If I hadn't bought his earlier novel, "The Forgiven," in tandem with "Ballad," however, I may have missed one of the best books I've ever had the pleasure to read. Set in Morocco, Paul Bowles's adopted home, "The Forgiven" is a jewel of misunderstandings, the unspoken, the silence that divides the white 'conquerors' (them with the power to buy and restore into luxury abandoned mountain towns to entertain the "Vanity Fair" set in lavish, weekend long orgies) and the impoverished locals (resentful witnesses to their temporary masters' excess.)

The story opens up like a delicate but poisonous flower and its suspense keeps you hooked to the very last word. I loved it.

And, of course, I hated it. One, because a story this good has yet to occur to me. Two, because I resent Mr. Osborne for having the life that has given him the hues for this illuminated miniature's delicate palette.

I, too, have no choice but to seek out and read all his other books. And if any of you, my five readers, needs a plus one to accompany you to the new "VF" party in the Maldives, I'm already packed.

And Now A Word For My Friends....

First time I witnessed the power of Louise Ure's words was during a read aloud of a writing class exercise more than a decade ago. She had produced a paragraph about not being able to grow flowers and something about loving Australia and missing her friends there. Whatever she said, however she said it, she had the rest of the class in thrall and made all other exercises banal. Forgettable. I have no idea what mine was about, yet all these years after the fact I still recall the essence of hers. It was that powerful.

In the time that has passed, Louise has published three mysteries: "Forcing Amaryllis" was her lyrical and wonderful debut. "The Fault Tree" features a blind protagonist who at some point flies a plane (a bit of the novel that Louise researched with a phone call to none other than the legendary Ray Charles - a blind licensed pilot himself. How cool is that!) "The Fault Tree," by the way, won the Shamus Award. "Liars Anonymous," which came out in 2009, was, unfortunately, her last. They are all available online.

All three mysteries, good to read just because of the riveting plots, showcase Louise's own sense of prose. The pages drip with Tucson heat. I highly recommend them. And my fingers are crossed that Louise's time away from writing is nothing but a well deserved break.

Three must reads

Buy this book

Guy Bommarito was Executive Creative Director at the company that facilitated my sabbatical last year. In fact, both of our sabbaticals were facilitated at the same time. He put his time to use wisely and the result is "Creative Bones" - a must read for anybody with or without a creative bone in their bodies.

A liberal arts student as well as an agency creative will learn from reading Guy's book. Lots of good sense approach to the creative process. But this would mean limiting the book's reach. A biologist, train conductor, big shot executive, receptionist, physician, barista, wine maker, accountant, home maker, web developer and every CEO will benefit from applying Guy's easy principles to work. Or to life.

Or else just read it for the pleasure of hearing Guy think and the easy way words flow from his pen. Or his mac.

Oh, and "Creative Bones" is available on Amazon.com.



Lastly, here is a bit of advance notice, a 'coming soon to that Amazon.com always near you.' Another friend, Buddy Mapel, has a book coming out this month: "The Quail Runner." A Southwestern mystery that will give Tony Hillerman a run for his money. I will announce and share my thoughts as soon as it's out. I know it will be good.

If you've been reading my posts, you know I keep score. Thus far, all my comparisons end, in the parlance of the current world cup, with all the people I admire, and now a number of my friends, scoring a goal or more, me nil.

Oh well. Still working to find a way to even this out. Any time now...

The Business of Writing

In the time that has passed since my last blog (too much, probably,) I have continued to submit to agents (almost thirty have received a query plus miscellaneous addenda, as required) and added to my rejection list, making my current total six. The great ratio is only due to my sending most queries just last week. In a month or so, the delta will shrink. I will, of course, continue querying. And will continue to obsess about first impressions (is the letter catchy enough? and how about my first line, paragraph, page, chapter?)

To perfect and improve on the art of catching an agent's eye, a myriad of options are available to the novice writer. Once you are past the 'how to stop procrastinating' and 'creative writing for dummies' workshops and seminars, and your novel is finished and you want to get the baby to market, then this other anxiety begins. At first, I felt this anxiety might affect only the bad beginner. The author manqué, with neither a good story or a good storytelling style. A person like me who needs all the help she can get to stop herself from digressing on the weather in the opening paragraph. No matter how dark and stormy the night really was...

An agent, we are told, may become more favorably inclined to agent us should we come accoutered with a platform. Platform is another word for a following, your own customer base. If you don't have a platform, help comes in the way of "Blog your way to a book deal" (is that what I'm doing?) or "Promote yourself through social media." All of which belies the prior paragraph--query letter could suck and your first line disappoint, but if you can prove that you have thousands of potential buyers, someone will be representing you tout de suite. So now I have a Twitter account (haven't tweeted yet,) post pictures on Instagram and regale my twelve Facebook friends with occasional likes on their posts. I must do better.

In addition, since it is assumed that a great majority of us will not find representation, much less a publisher, the siren song of self publishing keeps pushing us to a land with little time to write, given how much original self-promotion we must generate if we want to obtain any public presence without the backing of a major house, and in the absence of a book review in any of the literary magazines people actually read. Or, for the sake of clarity here, that I have actually heard of.

Add to that all the self-help contributions in the areas of "One hundred ways to make money out of your writing" and the image of the writing life that plays in front of my eyes is one of toil and tribulation. Of hard long hours stretching a marketing muscle I was born without, and complementing my income by practicing an art I have no talent for: teaching, or contributing ditties to ads and technical jargon to the back of smart phone boxes, never forgetting to tweet my latest deep thought. While all the while the 1% in our demographic, the writers agented and published in New York, can claim offhandedly not to have a social presence, to actually dislike a social presence with emeritus disdain.

A few extraordinary authors have mastered the self-publishing, self-promotion world and are making good money. I salute them. I will probably join them. But I will not have the discipline to continually promote sales and keep writing. With me, it will have to be one or the other. Lacking a miraculous development to transform me into mega-selling, blockbuster movie deal authorship, I've come to terms, happily, with the idea of keeping my day job, which I love and provides a good life. And hope for publication and some income from books to expand the good life with the occasional luxury. And to continue to take care of this writing itch I've been scratching for decades.

An itch and scratch I'm happy to share with the four of you who read my blog.

No More Dilly Dallying

"Fringe Benefits" is out there.

For those of you (all of you, really), new to this blog, let me tell you that I used most of last year's sabbatical writing a novel, then editing the novel, then trying to figure out how to sell the novel.

This week, after months of beating myself up for not having written a better book, I went back to it, re-read it, made a few adjustments and, you know what, ended up quite happy with myself. It is not "War and Peace," but it's quite a readable book. I happen to enjoy it. (But, of course, I wrote it.)

No, I'm not yet close to authors I admire. And, Yes, I have written a book in a style I do not read. I can't explain why, other than I had a story to tell about this HR lady who sleeps around and makes mistakes as her agency is getting sold and resold... Wonder where I got the idea?

This week I started sending it to editors, for their consideration, hoping that one of them might want to represent me and get the book sold. Four queries have gone out.

Sample Query

One rejection came back quickly.

In preparation for many more rejections to come, I will research the self-publishing thing. Many recommend it. I had signed up for a conference in February that should have taught me all about it. But I, who never get sick, was sick as a dog for the duration of the event. I learned nothing.

In the meantime, I am officially launching this blog that I have been writing, thus far, mostly for myself. If interested in my thoughts, scroll down and see what's already here--8 posts I started entering in November.

Going forward, I'll report on my progress, and will share my thoughts on anything that comes to mind--mostly my literary jealousies.

And, when Alana and Tess come back from Argentina, I'll have them help me clean up the design.

Francesca Marciano

In 1993 I went to Africa. Near Cape Agulhas I met a White South African man who was exactly my age, whose life had run a course parallel to mine. In Windhoek I met a black Namibian, also exactly my age, whose life had run a course parallel to mine. Mostly, the coincidences could be summed up with -- average/ordinary childhoods, rebellious teens, political twenties, politically disappointed early thirties, with a present desire for middle class conformity. With such simple parameters, I could have found hundreds, if not thousands, of soul mates.

I wish I could draw the same comparison with Francesca Marciano.

After living in the US for a while, I believe she might have gone to Kenya a bit before I traveled to the southern cone of the continent. But she stayed longer, and also wrote and published her first book, "Rules of the Wild," mature, elegant, feminine, romantic, deeply rooted in Kenya and a great success. I wrote, in sophomoric style, the story of my trip, called it "At A Great Distance," and couldn't get it published either as a whole or as individual travel stories. Not a great loss.

I have spoken earlier about other attempts at writing that didn't go anywhere (other than against a wall--scroll down if you don't know what I'm talking about.)

After "Rules of the Wild," Ms. Marciano published "Casa Rosa" and "The End of Manners." And has recently finished a collection of stories, "The Other Language," mostly about people living in a language not their own.

On April 15, our "parallel" lives intersected at a literary luncheon at Book Passage, in Corte Madera. I was placed directly to her left.

I didn't tell her any of the above. We chatted. No idea what about. I can tell you she is very kind and generous of her time and stories.

I'd signed up for the lunch on the strength of her first book, which I read when it came out and still remember vividly. After the lunch I read, rather, I devoured her second, "Casa Rosa." This could be the story of the woman in "Rules of the Wild" before Africa. The narrative spans from the second world war and the woman's grand parents, to her parents, later to end with two sisters that could have been my contemporaries, in a story full of the personal and political upheavals that anyone of my generation, in Europe, will recognize with a touch of nostalgia and regret.

Parallels again? I have no idea whether "Casa Rosa" is autobiographical. But I can't help going there. Perhaps because it gives me ideas. Perhaps because it reinforces my desire to see myself as an author.

But, since I've been keeping score from the moment I started this blog, lets point out that Francesca Marciano has written 4 books, all in English, and a number of screen plays, all in Italian. I, who was born in Spain, not far from Italy and not many years after her, who, like her, have traveled to Africa, and live in the US and pretend to write in English, I have 0 published books to my name, 0 screen plays.

I can't wait to change the score.

The Company I Do Not Keep

In March I've attended a record number of readings - four. I am selective and see only writers I've read or would like to read. All months should have these many choices.



It started with Mohsin Hamid, author of "The Reluctant Fundamentalist," a really nice read, and now pushing his latest, "How To Get Filthy Rich In Rising Asia"--a tour de force in its scope, style and brevity. He explained the reduced word count as his attempt to cater to the short attention span of his fellow Pakistani citizens. His books' brevity, however, stands in high contrast to the author's in person longwinded-ness. His intro lasted forty-five minutes. Not a single answer was brief, all the words he didn't print coming out to complement and color what's in the book, to give it a place in space and in time. History and geography. Some people left. I didn't mind. I welcomed the incongruence.







Then came Chris Pavone, whose first novel, "The Expats," I loved, introducing his second one, "The Accident," which I liked. As Mr. Hamid, he declared himself a poor reader and just talked. I thanked them both for the wise decision and enjoyed learning about the personal journeys that took them to write what they have. Mr. Pavone, coming from a publishing background, spoke at length about the business and declared not understanding why anyone would want to self-publish--a path I question myself (not having yet really researched it,) though Mr. Pavone's certainty against it may stem from being married to the COO of a major publishing house. I should be so lucky.





I took the ferry to the city to see Nicole Mones present (power point and old movies, oh yeah!) her latest, "Night In Shanghai," about American black jazz musicians in Shanghai on the eve of the Japanese invasion. I haven't finished it yet. I love everything that takes me back to Shanghai. I love the history behind her story. The novel, as is, feels a little forced, but who am I to say? Ye Shanghai!

Regardless, I can't wait to read Ms. Mones "Lost In Translation" and "The Last Chinese Chef,"novels that shed light on other areas of the rich Chinese culture and history. And her website has good Chinese food recipes and restaurant recommendations.



Lastly, I attended Teju Cole's reading of his latest, "Every Day Is For The Thief," which is actually his first, just now published in the U.S. after his second, "Open City," out here first, received a number of awards. I have read, and was in awe of "Open City." I haven't gotten to "Every Day Is For The Thief" yet. My night stand is piled a bit too high at the moment. I liked Mr. Cole. Engaging in person, I learned that he is very active on Twitter (the next day he would speak at Twitter's HQ) so immediately upon returning home I became a follower. Which doesn't mean I have read a single one of his tweets yet. Who has the time?

All of these books, btw, are far superior to the one I've written. Should I be so lucky to reach publication, and should you ever find my "Fringe Benefits" on a bookstore aisle next to any of them, I'd recommend you choose them first, for intellectual satisfaction. And save mine for the beach.

Chick Lit

Google the words and you'll get all the Bridget Jones variations, Sophie Kinsella's and Jennifer Weiner's extensive oeuvre, with some Emily Griffin, Candace Bushnell, and a few others. You will also find plenty of controversy over the term to represent a genre that should more accurately be known as women's commercial fiction. You say tomato...

I can't pretend to know about the controversy or even have an opinion about it. I do understand the issue is mostly one of respect and parity with other genres and with male fiction. But without deep knowledge, I won't attempt to take a side.

While the samples are uneven and I have yet to read the pinnacles of the genre (the original "Bridget Jones' Diary" and "The Devil Wears Prada"), this is the bullet point list of my impressions, in no particular order:

• There's the good and the bland; the sexy and the juvenile; there's the unmentionable
• Scenes start when a character opens a door and end when another one closes it. Are there no editors in the genre?
• Other than flashbacks, narrative style is linear
• The lady protagonist has a propensity to "gasp"
• Often times she finds men's expressions "unreadable"
• Same word that comes to mind after 3 pages of the latest Bridget Jones, the second Prada Devil
• Predictable also comes to mind
• And I still would call a select few enjoyable
• Mostly, I don't read this stuff
• However, this is what I've written, my book, all of the above
• I do watch this stuff (repeatedly, with way more enjoyment than the books)- when it's made into a movie

Could I be any more transparent?

In the meantime, I continue to torture myself by attending the readings of authors in whose company I'll never be. Hopefully, I'll be too busy turning my book into an HBO special.

Fifty Shades - Part 1 - Sex

In my elevator pitch, I presented "Fringe Benefits" as a sexy romp and had the gall to compare it to "Fifty Shades of Grey" at a time when (1) I had not read "Fifty Shades," and (2) my draft did not contain a single sex scene. It did have sex off camera. But the actual doing of it was all implied. Modesty? Not really. Mostly fear of crafting something of the cringe-inducing kind. Perhaps because every time I got my characters in the sack, the simple act of writing about it made me cringe.

Thus I turned to "Fifty Shades," partly out of curiosity, partly to see if I could make good on the comparison.

"Fifty Shades" has an Anna (short for Anastasia). So do I. Anastasia gets involved with a wealthy man with a kinky streak. So does my Anna. Other than that, my Anna, forty-two, sleeps around. Anastasia, twenty-one, is a virgin (the gifted kind who doesn’t gag.)

Once Anastasia gives in to multimillionaire Christian Grey's advances, the sex starts. At this point, I put my metaphorical elbows to the table, fingers to the forehead, ready to absorb and learn.

I learned three things.

One - If you want to call a book sexy, there needs to be some sex. A lesson I can work with.

Two - If you remind your readers of how they are supposed to feel and repeat at infinitum "he's so hot," "oh my," "holy crap," "holy shit," and all other kinds of holy, your interruptions of sophomoric glee will short circuit any incipient titillating effects.

Lesson: Avoid.

Three - Call your sex BDSM, and make sure others mention your book in relation to BDSM. Never mind that:

• While the sex involves a tie, some rope, handcuffs, butt plugs, a flogger and the accidental [and plot turn generating] cane, you won't find BDSM beyond what you've seen on prime time TV. 
• Any hard core BDSM happens off camera and off page. (I guess we all have our cringe thresholds.)
• Anastasia (who repeatedly murmurs “I do as I’m told,”) never signs Christian's way-too-long contract, refuses to fully participate in the BDSM experience, and effectively ‘cures’ him of the less palatable side effects of his perversity. 
• And poor self-described sadist Christian Grey practices only by consent, never in public and breaks to pieces every time she goes "ouch!"

Lesson: After spicing up my "Fringe Benefits" draft with a sprinkling of hanky-panky that doesn't stray too far from goings on at most suburban master bedrooms, keep promoting it as a 'Fifty Shades of Open Enrollment wannabe' in an egregious attempt to call up sales through misdirection. 

Well. At least I have the sex figured out now.

Comps

The idea that to sell a book an author needs to present a list of comparable works has bugged me since I first heard about it in November. It shouldn't be such a hard thing to do. Unless wholly original, one should be able to say that "you hold in your hands a mystery/romance/thriller/literary novel in the style of..., with a dash of..."

I have not discovered a new genre, thus "Fringe Benefits" should have company. Why is it then so hard to find a comp that I can live with?

Besides what I showed in my jazzed up "elevator pitch," this is what I have written: A story about a woman (Anna) in a career (Human Resources) with romantic attachments (mostly at work) as she evolves through emotional, sexual and professional misadventures. With this premise, I could have produced a mystery, a romance, a thriller, a literary novel or anything else. Instead, all I wanted to write was an easy to read, at times funny at times serious story, using as pillars my years as an HR professional at a small marketing agency that underwent multiple acquisitions.

I'm not exactly sure why yet, but the combo of my goals seems to point to chic lit. I myself went there first. As soon as the question "what are your comps?" was asked, I said Bridget Jones and Fifty Shades. Bridget Jones is a successful movie franchise and Fifty Shades has sold better than Shakespeare. Momentarily, I was quite happy with myself.

But before claiming membership to a group, I should at least read its Bylaws. In the weeks that followed, I have given myself the assignment of either corroborating my selections, or coming up with better ones. I have read since the whole "Fifty Shades" trilogy, and piled up my night stand with Jennifer Weiner's "Good in Bed," Diane Johnson's "Le Divorce," and Madeleine Wickham/Sophie Kinsella's "Sleeping Arrangements" and "Remember Me." I also bought Barbara Rose Brooker's "The Viagra Diaries." And browsed at my local Barnes & Noble through the last Bridget Jones and the follow up to "The Devil Wears Prada."

As I start to go through my pile, I'm getting depressed. And highly confused.

Stay tuned.