Welcome to Diane’s Blog!
I’ll use this spot to chart what I enjoy and endorse, as we attempt to live a life of style in a culture of business and writing and art.
And I hope you join me; share your own stories, insights and ideas about living a creatively expressive life.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Is “Nerves†an emotion? No matter. Mine are standing on end. If one more person says, This is a once in a lifetime moment! You only have a first novel launch once! I’ll just deck ‘em.
And this thing of being the center of attention. Good grief. Why do you think I chose a career where I could hold the spotlight on someone else?
We’re planning a launch party – I’m okay with some of it – the celebration of the book is a good thing. And the chance to share, with so many who made it possible, the solid sailing of this ship, is something I can get behind. I’ll get to shine a light on a few of the folks who should be credited – and that will please me very much.
Frank has just written a lovely little piece that the women's website WowOwow requested, as the first of their essays by celebrity 'husbands'. He points out the fact that at an event, I’m just fine as long as you give me a job to do. Play quiet cocktail-party piano in the background, is what I used to be asked to do at party after party–unpaid entertainment, okay, but it’s what I felt happiest doing, so everyone won. But passing the food, filling the glasses, cleaning the kitchen floor – all of those things I’d gladly do instead of standing at the center of the room, smiling, like a happy, confident center of attention.
So—come Wednesday night, when our office is filled with parrot tulips and we embellished the shirts of the wait-staff with our signature William Morris flowers, pulled directly from the beautiful cover of "The Season of Second Chances", and there are even tulip cookies to sweeten the fare; when the glasses are filled with Proseco and our 907 orange and fennel Vodka, and our wonderful, inventive caterer, Andrea Giardino, has cooked up delicious treats (that promise to be nothing like the things Teddy would have made), I might be just be found playing cocktail piano back in the corner – and maybe then – I’ll be in my real comfort zone.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The reviews (or idea of reviews), both good and bad, continue to make me shiver. I’ve just had one that essentially positioned The Season of Second Chances somewhere “between Jane Eyre and Bridget Jonesâ€. And, given those two options, I suppose I would rather be somewhere in the middle.
The academic reviewer seemed to enjoy the book, though it appeared to me that she felt uncomfortable in liking it as much as she did. Some of her discomfort seemed to stem from the fact that all in The Season of Second Chances does not come to a bad end, as she suggests we’d find in “real literature†– like Madam Bovary, or in the fates of the heroines of Joy’s (and my) beloved Henry James. The idea, apparently being, that “bad ends†are the mark of real life – and/or authentic art.
There was a piece in the NY Times yesterday about a UK prize for Women Writers. In the text, the Orange Prize’s Chief Judge, Daisy Goodwin, complains about the dismal, discouraging and distressing themes that mark all of the manuscripts up for consideration of this award. The explanation, as given by another of the judges, is that the writers, anxious to separate their work from that of Chick-Lit, at least in the eyes of critics and academics, now feel compelled to create stories that are so dark and so very depressing, one can hardly find a reason for reading on. Goodwin says that she feels like slitting her wrists.
I’ve just been on the website for the Orange Prize, and it took six “click-throughs†to get to any text that suggested (no less announced) the literal fact that this award is only open to women. And the first place I found its note, was in a comment from the Chair of Judges herself, Daisy Goodwin, as she accepted the position of chairing the prize: “I’m very honoured to be chairing a female judging panel. Too often the term 'women's fiction' is used pejoratively as if there was something wrong with the books that women write and read. As I am addicted to reading I am really looking forward to the next six months and finding some great new books that will appeal to everybody.†That’s it, as they say – that’s all she wrote. What does she think about the fact that ‘women’s fiction’ is used pejoratively? Where does this come from? What can we do about it? What are the consequences? And what does she think offering a prize for women writers – as opposed to what -- real writers (?) is likely to do to that position of “Women’s Literature�
And so, the suggestion in my review that “real†literature might be known by its intent to show real life in all its grittiness and disappointment, struck home. I felt suitably chastened but even more concerned. I appreciate the fact that Chick-Lit is stuffed to the brim with Birkin bags and Jimmy Choos; and that this is, indeed, different in both intent and value from Bovary or Daisy Miller – even with the details of their dresses, and their dances and the candies from Schenectady, noted so freely. I appreciate the idea that most genre fiction, whether Raymond Chandler or Elmore Leonard, or Candace Bushnell or Dashiell Hammett, or Stephanie Meyer, is intended for a kind of disposable consumption. The Burger King of literature. But I don’t think that what we are so often calling “Women’s Literature†is Chick-Lit or genre lit. And it seems I’m not the only one grappling with this.
We all know lives that end well and phases in lives that end in joy or victory. And don’t we also find, in so much of the literature we love, the witty and ironic takes on triumph or disaster? What about Nabokov or Joseph Heller? Where would Holden Caufield be without wit? And we’re still talking about him. And what about the issues dismissed as “domesticâ€? In Far From the Madding Crowd, Bathsheba and Gabriel Oak are together at last. “Whenever you look up, there I shall be – And whenever I look up -- there will be youâ€. Framed in the homespun detail of the farm, tables set for holidays and harvest, surrounded by the mis-firings of nothing more weighty than love and partnerships, used as metaphors for a New Age, in contrast to the natural Old. But there is hardly today, across academe, a nose turned up, rejecting Hardy as a lightweight bit of “women’s litâ€.
The development of Joy’s house reflects the opening of her life, as she can, at last, relax within her own authentic brand of comfort. And nowhere have we equated anything but personal discovery, authentic expression and an appreciation for beauty to the advancement of her home. The reviewer’s discomfort with that expression is part of the very discomfort and limitation I saw in Joy before the walls of her defenses began to crumble. The word ‘domestic’ is offered with a whiff of disapproval in this review. And Joy’s own denunciation of things domestic, of things of mere beauty, ornament, decoration or adornment is exactly in line with what the reviewer discourages here. The damning of the theme as Women’s Literature, bordering on Chick-Lit.
As I mentioned in my "Eye Entry 'It's Home'", there is a piece in The Season of Second Chances that speaks to this disassociation of academics and feminists from Style. “You’re not afraid of these things on the page†Bernadette says to Joy, referring to the style of Henry James, “Why are you so afraid of them in life?â€
But I think that we can see that there is, indeed, a fear of it “on the pageâ€. Women writers who, in text after text, find themselves beginning books with devastating scenes of violence or loss, so base that the rest of their book cannot possibly be misunderstood as ‘merely’ Women’s Lit or Chick Lit, are falling into a reactionary position that cannot begin to show us the fully expressed condition of women in the world today – which was, surely, the original intent of what I believe to be a well meaning, though misguided, prize – Orange or otherwise.
This is where, I suppose, the ghetto that is called “Women’s Literature†begins to spring to life in its most dangerous form, as we diminish the very things that were relegated to women, no matter how life-enhancing they might be (and, quite likely because they might be ‘life enhancing’). It is characteristic of the oppressed to most value the things long disallowed and held only for the ‘oppressors’, while discrediting their own gifts or worth. I would have hoped we’d be a little farther along by now.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Today Evelyn and Leah, who, here at MEIER, hold the lion’s share of online outreach for our books in their strong and capable hands, reminded me that we need to be in touch with the Bloggers who so generously held their reviews of The Season of Second Chances until Launch Date. It’s almost upon us.
The outreach has been kind of incredible. Evelyn spearheaded it – finding folks who love books, or appreciate the work and regeneration of renovating a home, or who just delight in home design – with a handful of folks who were simply basking in a kind of luxurious, hands-on-generally-chic-style. She read them and got to know them and let them know that she appreciated their work and their point of view.
When you begin to talk about Internet, Social Media, Outreach and Bloggers – it all seems kind of theoretical at best, and shallow, technological and cold, at worst. But this has been an awakening for me. When we talk, here at MEIER, about the human metabolism of consumers, and the fact that the Internet does little to change that, we’re reminding ourselves of the human equation and it grounds our work. It reminds us that people still behave like – people.
This outreach, as we’ve done for The Season of Second Chances, turns out to be just another way of touching people. In this case, people very much like me. And, as it happens, people much like Leah and Evelyn.
We decided that the Bloggers were being so generous in their responses, that we should include, with the books that we sent, handwritten notes – here in the era of cyber-transmitting. In fact, it brings up something Wendy Goodman noted in her piece about our office in New York Magazine– that in the face of high-technology, our response here at MEIER has been to go Edwardian – with our behavior (the writing of books, the design of our office, the fact of our shared lunches and steady conversation and values). And many of the Bloggers have reacted to just that. Handwritten notes by the author. Who’d have thought? Well – actually – I think – many of them would have done the same. And that’s the point.
It’s not that we’re Luddites. Quite the opposite. Harish Rao, here at MEIER, probably knows as much about Internet Outreach as anyone in America right now. Ben and David Goodwin are not far behind. And Evelyn just attended the South by Southwest conference and found that we are far ahead of the rest of the publishing industry in our outreach and understanding of how to slice and dice the kind of narrow channels we need to fish in to get results.
But once you get through the ‘how’ and the ‘why’ – on the other end of the equation, there are people. Very nice people – who, if you’ve done your job right, appreciate what you have to share.
And, in our case, what we have to share is rather emotional and warm and supportive and real. It’s the opposite of the shallow and cold response you think you’ll get when the word Internet falls from your lips.
So – today, eight days from publication, we are opening the gates to the new friends we’ve made, and the connections we hope to keep up through the years – with the books that will follow and the ideas we have for how to celebrate and express ourselves authentically and beautifully – one project at a time. Imagine standing at the door and saying, Welcome!
Sunday, March 21, 2010
We’ve had a week that has made me believe Spring might actually come. It has delivered bright, almost blinding sunshine, blue skies and the kind of breeze that makes people on the street take off their jackets just to feel that sweet, sharp air against their skin. As Frank and I drove along Riverside Drive yesterday, I saw a man – tubby and white as a fish’s tummy, naked but for a pair of wrinkled short shorts, lying on the brownish, scrubby grass --- optimistically inviting a vicious sunburn.
For more than a year I’ve rather doubted the possibility that this Spring would arrive, as Spring 2010 meant that The Season of Second Chances would see the light of day. I guess it just seemed too much to hope for. It’s not that I think life never pays off. For heaven’s sake, I’ve had some of the greatest good fortune possible. Just luck -- in all forms – from the parents I was handed, to the talents they bestowed or encouraged or supported or paid for, to the friends and the health and the love and the times and the places we’ve landed, I am aware that I am nothing, if not fortunate. But this – the solid and safe landing of my book -- I’m just not sure. I’m a little afraid to hope – if you know what I mean.
Like you, I’ll bet, I’ve seen the most auspicious events fall through, due to nothing but bad luck. Our good friend, John Colapinto, launched his brilliant, funny, first novel, About the Author, just days before 911. Not the best environment for satire. Or retail.
But I’ve also seen a novel of Frank’s land on The Best Sellers List the week it arrived in the stores – so why am I choosing to expect the worst? And why, when I have a reputation for even-temper in the face of disaster, am I being so damned neurotic? I remember that a good friend, at the birth of her first child, was heard to scream to the staff in the delivery room – “Don’t touch me – just leave it in there!†I never felt closer to her than I do at this moment.
