Grace Reading Series

Happy Halloween you all. It is all craziness here before the parade in Park Slope and the children are screaming and so am I. My landlord claims to have 28 kids (he's 75) and I think evidence of this is showing up, as it tends to, on a holiday: lots of little sugared up voices screaming "grandpa" outside, but only for about 5 minutes because I can hear them being hustled into a minivan. He must be this sort of appartional, mythic figure to them. Anyway: I saw Nichelle and Rachel Kramer Bussel and crew at the writerly new abode of Shari Goldhagen and Will Leitch this weekend and Nichelle promises there will be a pic of my crazy blue nails up over there in Nichelle land, but maybe it might happen on her genius Cleavage Day feature (I think Shari is featured from last week--so lovely!) In any case, more love from Brooklyn's favorite road warrior. --Eliz.

Lisa says:

Albuquerque is pleasantly deserted. The weather is perfect -- soft sunlight and sixty degrees under a big sky -- and I wonder why more people don’t live here. My tourmate Vicky and I walk from the Hotel Blue -- which sounds chi-chi but is smoky and rundown and has free cookies and a concierge fond of talking about his head injuries -- to Old Town, a touristy selection of Indian jewelry in the oldest adobe buildings in the city. I have Frito pie and pretend I’m just traveling around the Southwest aimlessly, instead of flying there to hock my literary wares.

I have attached myself to Vicky, who’s written a lovely book about the fictional friendship between Rudyard Kipling and a young boy, because she has not only my mother’s clipped salt and pepper haircut but her nurturing air as well. My tourmates can expense everything, whereas I’m paying out of pocket for this misadventure, so I’ve spent these two weeks trying to stay in crummy motels near the palaces at which my tourmates stay, but there’s something egalitarian about Abuquerque, and we can all stay in the same weird accommodations.

The reading is at a winery, somewhere in Albuquerque. I have a hard time locating myself in car-culture cities. The Hotel Blue shuttles us there -- free of charge -- and we hold our breath as we approach: We have had only one successful evening, which has only slightly repaired our bruised egos, and none of us are sure we can sustain another no-show. But there are actual human beings in attendance, including a lovely fellow named Steve, designer of the First Fiction website, who’s flown over from Phoenix to hear us read. A few folks from the UNM MFA program come, including their director, Sharon Oard Warner, who tells me that one student was assigned to review my book. The student nods at me and says, “I read the whole thing.”

“Thanks,” I say, though I realize she has not paid the whole thing any compliments. It doesn’t matter: if people say they read and liked my book, I usually think they’re placating me, anyway, unless they give me concrete details, or talk about how they rooted for someone they also despised. That’s the biggest compliment, I guess. The girl does tell me that she was so happy that the book had a happy ending, and this confuses me. It has a happy ending? It has a tragic ending, and a realistic one: a
prediction of where low-income Americans will end up.

For the most part, I have stopped reading reviews, but every once in a while I take a peak. One says it has a disappointing redemptive ending (how is working at Wal-Mart redemptive?) and another says, “Ms. Davis need a bit of help with plotting.” Is this blogger offering the help? Sometimes I think these reviews are so audacious, but on the other hand, what makes someone an expert in today’s information-saturated society? I mean, I’m a teacher, for crying out loud. The only thing I know is how little I know: that’s what I learned in college.

The whole process of publishing -- of submitting your literary baby to the world to be judged -- seems bizarre to me at this point. Why is that part of the process so key? Why isn’t writing a novel enough? Let me know if you have the answer. I remain thoroughly confused.

--LISA SELIN DAVIS