by Joan Frank
December 2017
"Please don't worry about asking—you should. One should always do what they can for their career."
That's what Elizabeth Strout told me two years ago when I wondered—apologetically—whether she might blurb my then-new novel. Elizabeth had to decline that time, pleading work of her own. But she'd previously given a lovely blurb to an earlier story collection of mine.
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September 2017
I once asked a hugely-admired, much-awarded, serious literary writer, who's been a kind and generous friend to me, how she was feeling following an extensive book tour.
"Fragile," she answered.
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February 2016
It's happened to most writers by the time they're hip-deep in the game.
Some personal catastrophe, instant and absolute as a meteor crushing your house – something that reads like an insurance policy exemption.
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June 2015
In an essay for American Theater magazine, playwright Craig Lucas (Prelude to a Kiss) described finding himself, some years ago, in the middle of a kind of personal renaissance, having just received a wonderful award.
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November 2014
A year ago I drove to a pretty town up north, to speak to a group of seniors. Their association's monthly event featured a catered lunch, door prizes, and an author as speaker: this time, me.
They were mostly widows, some quite old—reminding me, depressingly, of the accuracy of actuarial tables. Some appeared vibrant and fit, curious, mischievous. (These latter, I sensed, were the ones who'd live longest.) Others seemed vague and infirm; still others indifferent and glum.
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October 2014
We all tune in, almost around the clock, to the aural avalanche.
Advisories, instruction, rules. Pointers, scoldings, sermons. Warnings, prayers. Parables. Jokes.
They seem to spawn: articles and essays about how to write, what to write, when and where to write, for whom, even why to write.
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Several years ago an e-mail appeared on my computer screen from a friend whose name I was glad to see. Call her Faith. She lives on the other side of the country: a sober, kind person, accomplished and smart (I'll omit details for camouflage's sake). I opened her message, tantalizingly entitled “An Odd Thing.”
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One typical, sunny Saturday, I slipped into my local community co-op for fresh produce and supplies.
This store, run by idealistic kids with pale, sweet faces and blue or chartreuse hair and many decorative piercings and tattoos, had declared Saturday, Tuesday, and Thursday to be Senior Discount days. For the occasion I carried my little Senior Discount card in my wallet. Loaded up with the usual complement of fruit, vitamins, popcorn, salad dressing, almonds, Sleepytime tea and wheat bagels, I cheerfully dumped the entire lot before the cashier, a pleasant-faced man with glasses and a long silver ponytail.
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On the occasion of the release of a new novel of mine, a writing student e-mailed to ask:
"Just wondering—if you have you done any readings so far, how have people interacted with you? I'm curious about authors' book signings or readings. Have you had any strange or funny experiences?"
I stared at her words. Strange or funny experiences. How could I answer in a way that wouldn't appall her?
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Francine Prose once complained that too few literary characters have to use the toilet now and again. It irritated her in a craft-monitoring way. She wondered why writers don't more often choose to deal with real human rhythms, while evoking otherwise grittily-authentic worlds. Prose was suggesting that this sort of omission, while discreet, flattens the dimensionality of an art form that wants nothing to do with discretion.
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Something strange happened when I sent out a handful of respectful queries, some months ago, to writers I knew—and to some I didn't—hoping they'd consider blurbing a new novel of mine.
The novel will be my fifth work of literary fiction. I also review literary fiction every month for a major west coast newspaper. I've won grants and awards—I await verdicts, as a nominee, for many others. Do these elements count? Enhance anything?
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Plenty of writers make a point of exempting themselves (perhaps recusing is the better word) from reviewing other writers’ work. I understand this.
They (the self-recused) can’t expunge the painful awareness of how long it takes to make a book; how much of their own internal organs were invested in their books (along with all the glass shards); how hopelessly personal, therefore vulnerable to outsider assessment, the project will always be.
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Going into production with a small press can feel, at the beginning, like a mail-order marriage—an intimate relationship that has suddenly fallen out of the sky.
I’ve spent some time on this mat—four books of fiction by four small publishers—and learned by doing. Small presses, to me, are the last of a breed of literary heroes, stepping forward where larger houses absconded.
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