December 29, 2008

Fakoir

Sweet old couple with Holocaust memoir outed as fakers:
Again, Oprah is just a sucker for a wildly implausible story about the damn Holocaust. All the way back in 1996, Herman and his lady had a gushy segment on Oprah's show, and their tale was deemed "the greatest love story ever told." Trouble is, the romance at the heart of Rosenblat's story (which was turned into the now-canceled memoir Angel at the Fence)--about a young man in a concentration camp who was thrown an apple a day (to keep Dr. Mengele away) by a young woman across the fence; later they met in Brooklyn and fell in love--turns out to be completely fake, and everyone's sad because why would these nice old people lie? And about something so terrible. Ah well. Oprah hasn't spoken out yet, but when she does... Oh lord help us. She has been jilted one too many times, this book-loving Patron Saint of Sad, Lonely, and/or Awful People.
We just love these amazingly miraculous life-affirming redemption stories. You know the ones where the woman waits a hundred years for her lover to come back from the war, or the one where the quadriplegic blind mountain climber is rescued from snowy hypothermic death by his preternaturally intelligent dog. But life--what a pain in the ass--just doesn't actually cough up the goods. No wait, maybe we want to read novels, but we don't like that they're such a patent crock. What we like is books that are secretly fake. Everyone's sad all right.

New Year's resolutions

Anyone who's patient enough to be my friend knows I can't stand the telephone. This year, my lovely neglected people, I promise to try harder to stay in touch. I'm going to indulge a little more in home cooking, and try more often to share the table with friends. We'll all be eating in a bit more, I'm assuming.

I figure it's been a strange and interesting year for Heather Mallick, who posted her resolutions at the Ceeb:
5.) I will stop buying embossed patent leather Italian Moro triangle totes and black buckled boots for a shiny life I do not in fact live.

Same goes for oversized clutch purses, ivory satin office separates and costume jewelry with grosgrain ribbon in the links. It's sad but factual: you don't have to dress up to write. Hairdressers have snaggle-tooth hair; fashion editors look pale, pimpled and wretched; it works for them.
So true. You need yoga pants, one of your husband's ming T-shirts, wool socks and a toothbrush. Though I wish I'd read this before I fell into Arnold Churgin the other day.

December 28, 2008

Happy holidays

Best wishes for the new year!

And a warming blip of Euro-prop from the excellent people at DeSmog:

December 22, 2008

Xmas Eve tubage

You can see me--if you look really hard--inside the Christmas Eve episode of Writer's Confessions on Bravo:
Writers' Confessions EP: 3/04 (E) 2007

Series that examines issues central to the complex craft of writing. This episode looks at acclaimed authors including William Boyd, Jonathan Safron Foer, Charlotte Gill, Nicole Krauss and Richard Ford as they discuss how writers get through the hard times, bouncing back-and-forth between ego and self-doubt, and the pros and cons of being a successful writer.
We're living without The Box of Irresistible Rays this year, which is a relief, because everybody knows there's no better incidence of writerly mortification that to witness oneself on TV.

December 24, 9:30 a.m. EST.

December 17, 2008

Pulp

Over at Q & Q today, a rundown of this cheeky bit of NYT rhetoric, an author's appeal for a wedge of that U.S. bailout cheddar:
Overcapacity has been something generally acknowledged across the writing industry for at least 10 years. In a 2002 essay in The New York Times, the onetime best-selling novelist and story writer Ann Beattie mourned the situation of the modern writer, living in a world where people are more interested in "being a writer" than in writing itself. "There are too many of us, and M.F.A. programs graduate more every year, causing publishers to suffer snow-blindness, which has resulted in everyone getting lost," she lamented. That Ann Beattie must now compete on Amazon with a self-published author named Ann Rothrock Beattie is proof of how enormous the blizzard has become.

So how would my big St. Bernard of a bailout dig the publishers out of their drifts? According to the industry tracker Bowker, about 275,000 new titles and editions are published in the United States each year. Let's say we want to eliminate half of them. Assuming it takes about two years to write your average book, we would offer book writers two years of salary at the writers' average annual income of $38,000 a year. Add it all up and you get a paltry $10.5 billion to dramatically reduce the book overcapacity.

Too many books, people? Quill says yes, and apart from rope and hanging oneself, I think I probably do, too. My sister used to work in a bookstore where employees wore out this acronym: STLR, or Straight-To-Landfill Release.

Think of the trees, one commenter says. Which got me to wondering: exactly how many trees does it take to make a book?

One ton of virgin free-sheet paper is made using the pulp and bark from 24 trees. 1 tree makes 16.67 reams of paper or 8,333 sheets. Say the average novel uses 320 pages or 80 sheets. And is printed at the bestseller threshold of 5,000 copies.

1 book = 48 trees.

December 13, 2008

30 below

No major plot thickening around here, except maybe a recent explosion in site traffic due to rampant worldwide Googling of a somewhat alarmingly named romantic device, the "Ladykiller vibrator."

Just returned from a week at the Banff Centre, where I made the acquaintance of two fantastic writers, David Chariandy and Ruth DyckFehderau, whose residencies coincided with mine. I walked to the Banff Springs Hotel and had a beer in the Rundle Lounge while staring out at the craggy, snowy view. I thought about how unreal this view is, and how staggeringly raw at the same time. I walked a lost Korean kid into town by way of the graveyard and we talked, misunderstanding each other the entire way. It was then that I started to get that unsettled, despairing feeling. The one that always arrives when I'm getting to the end of a draft.

Now, I'm back in Calgary, and are you fucking kidding me? No wonder nobody walks anywhere in this town. My eyelashes froze together this morning on the way to campus. I was also reminded that it is possible to suffer frostbite on one's ass.