Women Writers Rule!

There was a period of time when I allowed myself only to read women writers. I devoured Virginia Woolf, E. Annie Proulx, Amy Hempel, and Toni Morrison. I was reading (and still do) a lot of the astute, original, and, in an eggheady kind of way–loopy–writing of Lydia Davis. For some reason, I felt some sexist part of me gravitated to male writers.

I like that I forced myself to consciously choose women writers; I’m somewhat disappointed that I had never assessed my choices. Does the gender of a writer make a difference to you?

Flavorwire published a slideshow of their favorite female writers, including Sarah Vowell (pictured above), who (whom?) I adore. She’s a regular contributor to This American Life, of course, but I like the fact that book-length essays allow her the room to showcase her wide-ranging knowledge and her wry voice. Flavorwire’s lovefest for Vowell:

7. Sarah Vowell

Why we love her: Vowell validates our inner history geek. She was also the voice of Violet in The Incredibles.

Best known for: Assassination Vacation; The Partly Cloudy Patriot; Take the Cannoli

The line that made us fall for her: “Once I knew my dead presidents and I had become insufferable, I started to censor myself. There were a lot of get-togethers with friends where I didn’t hear half of what was being said because I was sitting there, silently chiding myself, Don’t bring up McKinley. Don’t bring up McKinley.”

Vowell is one-of-a-kind smart. Self-effacing, with one of those hard-to-believe life stories (she makes growing up in Montana as hilarious as David Sedaris makes growing up in South Carolina), Vowell is only one on this list of remarkable women writers. I’m a big fan of the fiction of Barbara Kingsolver and Aimee Bender, who also grace the list.

Filed under: literature, women, amy hempel, book, female, fiction, literature, lydia davis, sarah vowell, toni morrison, women, writing

On the Joy and Heartbreak of Nick Flynn

I just finished reading Nick Flynn’s memoir, Another Bullshit Night in Suck City. It’s poetic and genre-bending and satisfying and incredibly revealing–almost to the point of not wanting to know more. You’re reading about the alcoholic descent and endless grappling of Flynn as he tries to make sense of his mother’s suicide and his father’s absence; the wrecked relationships and alcohol abuse along the way are cringe-worthy, like the ubiquitous car crash you can’t take your eyes off. It’s one of those books that you hold in your hands, pages dwindling, as you find yourself battling the sadness that comes with a good book coming to an end.

At its core Suck City is the story of Flynn’s absent father, a man who was absent for the first part of Flynn’s life. Flynn Sr. went from success as an automobile salesman to a bank robber and self-styled a beatnik. The two men, despite living in Boston most of their lives, seem to circle each other (intentional or not) without meeting. Flynn’s job as a counselor at The Pine Street Inn, the area’s largest homeless shelter, brings him face-to-face with his father, who seeks a place to stay. This summary, however, does not do justice to the beauty of this memoir.

Most memoirs seem to dwell in maudlin melodrama or shocking details. While there are some revealing facts (Flynn’s attempts at coke or heroin, for example), this is a story of a non-existent, yet longed-for, father-son relationship.

In one of the most experimental and surreal passages, Flynn gives us a psychedelic play/dream sequence in which King Lear meets Santa Claus and the facts of Flynn’s family. Other things of beauty are Flynn’s descriptions of a mountain of donated clothes, a litany of phrases drunks utter, and a momentary reprieve in his childhood when he watched the World Cup with his brother and his suicidal mother. That knack for brutal honesty comes in handy as Flynn quietly draws into his life.

I wish I could put Nick Flynn‘s Another Bullshit Night in Suck City in the hands of all those people reading the Twilight books. Why can’t books worth reading find their way onto the best-seller lists instead of crap about vampires and werewolves?

Filed under: boston, homelessness, literature, writing, another bullshit night in suck city, boston, father, homelessness, nick flynn, pine street inn, poet, santa lear, son

A Gaggle of Literary Rock Stars

Parade out the literary superstars. Ready, set, go.

Gary Shteyngart’s over-the-top book trailer for his new novel, Super Sad True Love Story, features Jeffrey Eugenides, Edmund White, Mary Gaitskill, Jay McInerney, and…wait for it…wait for it…

James Franco?

Shteyngart’s not the most convincing comic actor (a little annoying actually), but it is fun to see all the literary rock stars (and James Franco) gathered in one video. And there’s funny bit about how to carry yourself at a Paris Review cocktail party.

One of my friends called me and another friend “nerds” this past weekend, because we were debating books. We then proceeded to debate whether we were nerds or dorks or both. I hope the fact that I’m enamored by all the folks in this video (the only thing that would make it better would be if Denis Johnson were in it, too–like a true dork, I asked him for his photo at AWP one year) doesn’t prove her true.

Filed under: celebrity, literature, david ebershoff, edmund white, gary shtenygart, james franco, jay mcinerney, jeffrey eugenides, mary gaitskill, super sad true love story

Sad But True: Libraries in Malls

Prisilla Gluckman reads to her four-year-old son Oscar Gluckman at Bookmarks, a Dallas Public Library Branch at NorthPark Center mall in Dallas.

I’m back from a whirlwind summer trip to the Midwest for a family wedding and a week in Ptown for a writing fellowship. Hope you’re enjoying the langourous days of summer. It’s hot as hell in Boston.

In the Sad But True Files: a Dallas public library moved into a shopping mall two years ago, and found that it circulates “as many items as branches eight times its size.” Seems as if the librarians have increased usage of the public library by locating it to a hub of commerce. An informal tally of U.S. public libraries in shopping malls puts the number at about two dozen branches.

Good or bad thing? Or both?

The cynic in me sees it as part of the trend toward devaluing literature and reading. Why draw a line between art and commerce? Oprah’s Book Club may be another study in ambivalence: How can it be bad for publishing and literature if Oprah sells all those books?

After all, who needs to make a separate stop at the library when you can pick up a jalapeno cheese pretzel and a sweater on sale at Abercrombie and Fitch at the same time?

Filed under: consumerism, libraries, literature, book, consumerism, dallas, library, literature, mall, oprah's book club

Parents, Give Your Kids Books

I was one of those kids, raised in small-town Iowa, baffled by adolescence and most definitely oblivious to affairs outside the United States. Yet I was always surrounded by books.

My mom, a teacher and school counselor, is as much of a bookworm as I am: Filipino American authors, pulpy romances, child psychology texts disguised as children’s books. Her choices were idiosyncratic and a bit haphazard (we didn’t have that much money), but they strike me now as multitudinous and wide-ranging. Her books were a source of endless possibility.

As an adult and someone intimately connected to literature in my life work, I know that access to these books shaped me in unconscious ways.

Outside the house, one memory I have is of visiting the Council Bluffs Public Library with my mother sometime in middle school and picking up The Stranger. Junior high! The language in The Stranger was simple, the plot a real thriller with something sinister that I couldn’t put my thumb on, and I was captivated. I knew nothing of Camus’ existentialism at that age, but I know that my mom’s trips to the library were the foundation for a great love of the very act of reading and of thinking about my life through literature.

Now there’s proof that book owners make smarter kids. Perhaps one of the most obvious theories ever to be given its own research study, the conclusions summed up by Laura Miller in Salon reiterate that more books in a household exponentially increases the chances of smart kids. Books, it seems–more than education or income–are a real predictor of your kid’s intelligence.

If my mom had chosen to invest in an Atari or a Nintendo set instead of books (which I definitely nagged her about), where would I be now?

Filed under: consumerism, intelligence, literature, best, books, bookworm, childcare, family, intelligence, iowa, kids, laura miller, libraries, library, literature, parenting, research, salon, smart, study, tips