Falling Down, The Blog

Promoting Your Book: Make New Friends But Keep the Old

My somewhat unusual campaign of promoting Diana Lively is Falling Down grew out of at least three burdensome character flaws.  Not only am I afraid of phone calls to strangers, I’m equally fearful of small talk with people I don’t know.  The typical book tour involves large doses of both, since most writers have to book their own venues, and then, when they show up at a bookstore, they must introduce themselves to someone else they’ve never met, who is most often not the person they talked to on the phone.  This stranger will swiftly become the writer’s New Best Friend, offering sympathetic encouragement when not a single person shows up for a reading, or worse, when only one person does, and s/he is affronted that the author hasn’t written a different book, on a different subject, or in a different genre. 

Given my insecurities, combined with my one outrageous fortune – the wonderful people I already know who live in the many hometowns I’ve called my own -- I decided to skip the cold calls to bookstores and rely on my friends and family to join me in any event involving strangers and small talk. 

Wherein lies my third relevant character flaw, which may indeed be related to the aforementioned social anxieties: a zest for certain party beverages, and an unwholesome conviction that any social gathering worth its salt requires food and drink. 

I know such confessions aren’t likely to win me any wellness awards, and yet, most people I know seem to feel similarly. Given that my ideal readers will be at least somewhat like me, I figure the best way to attract them is by throwing a party or two, and then asking everyone I can to help me in this party-throwing effort   

Thus was born my Sheila’s-Clearinghouse-of-Friends-and-Family-Book-Release-Pyramid-Scheme, in which my loved ones host the get-together and I swoop in to hawk my product (which I hope the party-goers will read as soon as humanly possible).   The urgency has to do with a peculiar fact of the publishing world, in which bookstores may return inventory within three months of ordering it.  This is a slim window of time.

Hence my trips around the country, and my most recent voyage to Washington, D.C., where my dear friend Barbara Murphy gathered together forty women and three very cute men to eat food from the book, drink wine and hear me introduce the cast of characters from the novel. 

One of my college roommates drove over from Annapolis; another was in town from San Fransisco, a filmmaker named Rhian Miller who had in fact introduced me to Barbara’s sister in 1979.  I had just moved to Chicago and Charlotte was housesitting for Barb and Ken (yes, I did say Barb and Ken, and yes, they do know about the doll couple of the same name) who were off in Europe.   Five years before, Charlotte had rescued Rhian (another Air Force brat) from a tragically isolated senior year in a Maryland suburb, bringing her into the city to meet her family and friends.   After college, when I moved to a different city and was feeling rather tragically isolated myself, Rhian insisted I meet Charlotte Murphy, whose sister Barbara “she just knew” I would love.

Do you see how this pyramid scheme works?  Unlike the financial scam, this perpetual motion machine really does go on forever, for friendship is like Escher’s mirrors, infinitely refracting.  As my family’s friend, Craig Silverman said -- when I thanked him for the Bruce Springsteen tickets and an introduction to his best friend in the book trade – “What goes around, comes around.”      

Truer words were never spoken, for kindness is a renewable resource, maybe the only one.   

What a Girl Wants

My oh-so-lovely weekend started off at CJ's Landing, in Buckhead, a neighborhood in Atlanta where beautiful young men and women gather to drink.  It happens to be owned by my nephews, Jack and Stephen Hudnall, two of the best-read, most enlightened, and did-I-mention-they-look-like-Brad-Pitt?  Just taller, and maybe not quite so involved with Angelina.

Stef Dorfman started off the ceremonies with an amazing Rock 'n Soul, piece, called "Weak" which, if it wasn't written as a tribute to Diana Lively is Falling Down, should have been (listen to it here). The rest of the evening was a blur of book signings and the amazing experience of meeting readers who loved my book, who said they hadn't enjoyed a book like that in years.  I kept thinking, could my parents really  have bribed all these people to lie? After the party we went on to a private Atlanta club where I ordered steak, despite my constant intention to give it up, and looked up and down the table of revelers.  It felt like my wedding, except then, none of us had money, and now, some of my siblings (alright, everyone but me) does.  We had a glorious time and rolled home in a limosine way past my bedtime.

The next night, my fairy godbrother, Larry rented a fancy bus, not unlike the Magic Bus -- except in leatherette with TVs and coolers -- that we drove down to Phillips Arena to see the Boss.  If you know me at all, you know I'm crazy for that man, always have been.  No wedding is complete without a pre-nuptial agreement, a dispensation for the one person (the more unlikely the better) with whom one is allowed to have a one-night fling.  My loophole in 1976 was Springsteen and it still is.  As I said to my sister Cathy, from the second row seats Larry gave up, the man is WAY cuter when you're ten feet away.  Having heard he likes redheads, I was hoping the lights might glint on Cathy's hair, which is a way prettier red than mine, but whatever it was, I swear he was looking right at us as he sang "I'm On Fire." 

You aren't the only one, Brucie.

Now I'm in D.C. and looking forward to party in which I'll be reading Diana Lively is Falling Down to a visiting group of Ukrainian psychologists, doctors and social workers, as well as about fifty of my  friend Barbara's clearing-house-of-friends, many of whom I know from the years I spent weekending here when we lived in Charlottesville. 

Tonight I'm collecting a playlist of songs on my IPOD, which the well-regarded Happy Booker has kindly agreed to feature tomorrow on her site.  Check it out to see just how stuck-in-the-eighties I really am.   

What A Bloke Won’t Do to Get My Attention! Vile Husband Sighting # 1

When I saw the bit about Jude apologizing for his affair with the nanny, I had to ask, Jude Who?  (In fact I pride myself on my ignorance of all celebre-trivia, half believing that these stories are a conspiracy to distract us from the serious buggering we’re getting from the guys in charge right now.) 

Just then Mr. Law's handsome face flashed across my internet portal and I nearly cried. 

Why, you ask?

Because when they make the movie of Diana Lively is Falling Down, Jude Law has always been my choice for Humphrey, Diana’s eighteen year old son. Now it appears he’s more suited to the part of Ted, Diana's horrid husband.

So Jude, not to worry.  You’ve not only got Ted sewn up but you’ve also got a shot at winning my vile husband contest, which means your fiance will get a free signed copy of DIANA LIVELY IS FALLING DOWN, plus her chance to express to gentle readers just how much of a wanker you really are.  Unless of course, you secretly love the nanny but cannot marry her because she’s of the serving classes, in which case she would be the one to win the free copy of the book, but either way, consider this latest dalliance to be a win-win for your movie career, to say nothing of the pre-film buzz you’ll get from my website.   

Sheila's Clearinghouse of Friends and Family: We lose a little on every sale, but we make it up in volume.

The past weekend I visited my family’s hometown, the one we never had.   Being an Air Force family, and then an academic one, we moved constantly and thus looked to the Monadnock region of New Hampshire – where my grandmother had her summer house – as home. 

In fact, in some ways, wishes were horses and beggars did indeed ride. 

Between 1974 and 1981, six of my ten siblings had moved to Keene, following my brother Ranger and sister Tere.  Several years after this mass northward migration, we discovered an amazing and wonderful coincidence.   My father’s father’s family, the Currans, had, for generations, lived in North Adams, Massachusetts, but after a family reuinion there, we discovered that the original Curran settlers, three brothers deported from Ireland after their participation in the Sinn Fein revolution, are all buried in the Keene cemetary.

           For over twenty years now, we’ve spent every Christmas and many summers in Keene, and even after the three youngest (Mike, Cathy and Tom) moved to Atlanta, to help Cathy’s husband Larry and his partner Martin start a business, if you asked us where we were from, we’d tell you New Hampshire, which is, more or less, true, geneologically speaking.

            The summer of 1992 was unlike others:  my brother Tom, who had fallen in love and married a Keene native, had moved home to New Hampshire.  After four years of struggling with testicular cancer (Lance Armstrong’s illness) the doctors had told him there was nothing they could do.  The disease had won.  Tom knew it was his last summer, and he wanted to spend it in the place he loved, near his wife’s family, near my parents and Tere and Ranger and so many friends he’d made in college.  One afternoon, in late June, my sister dropped in to say hello.  When she pulled into the driveway, Tere saw a man crouched over the steering wheel of an unfamiliar car.  Knocking on the window to see if he was alright, Tere saw Tom Enos, a good friend of the family, who also happened to own one of the largest funeral homes in town.  He’d just spent an hour with Tom and his wife Chris, discussing arrangements, and it was only in the privacy of his car, trying to leave the driveway, that he’d broken down into tears.  “I never do this,” he apologized.  “But Tom’s different.”

            Tommy died on July 15^th, 1992, at the age of 33.  We were all with him when he took his last breath. Shortly afterward the skies opened up and cried along with us.  At six o’clock that evening, we were at my parents’ house in Dublin when one of the children interrupted dinner to tell us we needed to come outside.  The rain had stopped and the sun had broken through again.  Hovering above the Cheshire mountains was the most spectacular rainbow.  The phone rang.  My cousins in Atanta were calling to tell us that they’d just spotted the most beautiful rainbow.  My mom hung up, but calls came in one after the other that night, from all over the country, and everyone said the same thing.  Did we know they’d spotted an enormous, spectacular rainbow?

            July 15^th has always been, since that time, an auspicious day.  Not only does my family gather together and remember our brother, but often, we’ve had extraordinary blessings coincide with the date. 

*The night of that first rainbow, a family friend took me aside and gave me the phone number of his dear friend in Phoenix, where John and I were moving.  Carolyn Scarborough, Sam’s Arizona contact, became one of my closest friends out West, taking me under her wing.  She introduced me to her network of friends, and, then, when her own mother died in 1997, she was able to share her grief with someone who could comprehend its meaning. 

*When my sister and her husband's company was sold to Ford for millions of dollars, the sale date was July 15^th, 1999. 

*In 2002, on July 15^th, I emailed an essay on the power of mitzvah (doing good for others) to my growing list of readers.  That same day a call came in to my voice mail, from a woman I didn’t know, who told me she’d heard about me through a mutual friend. She had this strong sense we needed to meet.  Jane Mcpherson, who is not at all in the habit of stalking strangers, has become my Tallahassee sister, taking me under her wing, introducing me to most of the people I know here, as well as organizing my Tallahassee book benefit on July 8^th. 

*My contract to publish Diana Lively is Falling Down, promised April 19^th  of 2004, encountered a series of unexpected delays and did not actually arrive in the mail until it was fed-exed to me, arriving July 15^th.      

All this to say that celebrating my book release in Keene on the weekend of the15^th seemed not only fitting, but perfect timing.  My sister,Tere, two years older than I, lives on Spofford Lake.  She and her husband Bob threw a beautiful cocktail party in my honor, replete with gorgeous hors d’ouevres, plenty of booze and throngs of friends, family and friends-of-friends-and-family. 

I reconnected with the lovely network of people I knew, including Tommy’s college buddies, and signed books non-stop, which gave me a chance to talk to everyone one-on-one.  My father introduced me and I read a few pages, and before I knew it, the night was gone.

I was carried along on a cloud of good karma, created by the mitzvah of Tere and Bob’s act of kindness, and by our friends' and family’s great good fortune of affection and connection, which has nothing at all to do with money and everything to do with “paying it forward” before you’re sure of getting anything at all in return. 

Their Eyes Were Watching the Weather Channel, But Mine Were Watching God

Tallahassee is said to be in the path of Dennis, but this is not something I can fully comprehend.  Last night was my own perfect storm of anxiety, adrenalin, exultation and alcohol.  To celebrate the release of my book on July 5th, I (with more than a little help from my friends) threw a party in a huge historic mansion downtown to benefit two organizations that help women: Refuge House (an 8 county domestic violence shelter) and Healthy Start (a project devoted to preventing infant mortality among at-risk moms and their babies).  About one hundred and fifty people paid $20 to drink, eat and get a copy of Diana Lively is Falling Down.  It was my first signing and reading: I had no idea how to be a writer, but as they used to say in the women's movement, "Fake it 'till you make it." 

At one point I looked out at the audience, having lost my ego in an out-of-body blur, and saw my dear friend Jane Mcpherson, whose presence in Tallahassee has meant so much to me, who works with mothers who've lost their babies, and had been a driving force behind my doing this party, and I thought how lucky I am, so rich in friends, rich in family, and now, rich in left-over croissants and cheese dip, to say nothing of uncorked bottles of wine and unpaid bills-of-lading. 

Like a Guillotine, As Heavy, As Light

     Hearing the news about the bombings in London brought so many feelings to the fore, each of them jostling for room in my rattled psyche.  There was relief, that no one I knew was visiting, at least that I could think of.  There was shame, that I've allowed myself, for the last month, to get into a terrific panic over my first book coming out, in the face of real horror.  There was worry, as I realized that I do know people in England.  There is Nicki, there is Denise, there is the whole MacFarlane family in Oxford.   And there are all the people who were so nice to me when we lived there as a child, or when I lived there in the nineties, people I might not know, but who'd done nothing at all to deserve getting blown up on their way to work.

       I flipped on the TV to see a mangled double-decker bus, its signature red body splayed like a giant had stepped on it.  The bus was surrounded by bobbies in yellow mackintoshes.  Both the bus and the English bobby have always been images of safety and order, reminescent of illustrations in a million picture books.  Except on my screen, instead of Richard Scarry or Pat the Postman, we have the monsters of Maurice Sendak, invisible this time, except for the trail of debris they leave behind.

       I remember soon after nine-eleven, someone sent me a page from The Onion, in which the headlines said something like "GOD REPEATS DIRECTIONS: NO #&$ING KILLING.  I MEAN IT THIS TIME.  NO KILLING."   

The two books I read on my vacation, THE KITE RUNNER and UNDER THE BANNER OF HEAVEN seem especially pertinent today.  Though one was a novel about Afghanistan and the other a non-fiction account of a Fundamentalist Mormon sect in the American West, both offered examples of how absolute moral certainties can go terribly,  horribly wrong.  Krakauer's discussion of the murder of a woman and her infant by her own brothers-in-law, who believed God was directing them to cleanse the earth of her (because she disagreed with their interpretation of God's word) and Hosseini's rending tale of an Afghani family torn apart by the rise of the Taliban affected me deeply.  I'm left questioning the role of faith in the world.  In my novel, DIANA LIVELY IS FALLING DOWN, one of the protagonists experiences the exhilaration of belief after the emptiness of atheism, and this faith provides the propelling force for his actions thereafter.  When my brother died in 1992, I had a similar awakening, which I can only describe as a sense of wonder, accompanied by awe and a profound sense of mystery.  Such belief, it seems to me, can only be a positive thing, until I see it used to justify the taking of another's life. 

I'm reminded of a favorite Kafka quote, just a fragment that has stayed with me:

"Faith, like a guillotine, as heavy, as light."

I've always loved the way that simile captures the intense heady exhilaration of belief, and also its power to change everything in one irrevocable instant. But now I see something I never did before about the nature of the metaphor.  The guillotine, that instrument of the revolution, bloodied by hands so bent on enacting revenge that they lost sight of the humanity of their victims. 

Now I think this: it's great to experience the magic wonder of hoping in a larger Good, but we need to be careful that our own revelations don't blind us to the only certainty I can extract from any of this: Do Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do Unto You, and that means, No Killing, I'm Not F%#$-ing kidding."

Independence Day? Are you serious?

Diana Lively is Falling Down is officially for sale in bookstores tomorrow.  All Penguin releases come out on the 5^th of July this year of 2005.  When I first heard the date, I thought, “Oh no, we’ll miss the 4^th of July!”

            What was I thinking?

For the women I know, Independence Day is anything but. 

They will not be browsing their local bookstore, much less reclining.  All holidays require some sort of ritual observation thereof, which means food.   In case you missed the memo, food means cooking.  And hey, if we’re going to celebrate, let’s invite friends over! 

What may have started out as a vision of leisure in the back yard or at the beach, enjoyed with friends, becomes several frantic trips to the market punctuated by frantic dashes around the house cleaning and getting yourself and kids dressed in clothes that -- if they are not ironed -- are at least marginally clean.   Real independence day starts later.

Real independence comes when you’ve satisfied your own expectations of your multiple personalities (mother, wife, daughter, friend, philanthropist, altruist, bohemian, laid-back giver of all things, brilliant writer who manages to be all the aforesaid without asking for any time off of her other avocations...you get the picture.)  Real independence happens on a day just like July 5^th, when everyone is burnt out and just wants to spend time alone recovering from mass togetherness.  We might flip the channels and we might flip open a book and just retreat from all the pressure we put on ourselves to be such very good girls.

           So, for those of you out there who are alone on July 4^th, know this.  Much as you might crave a gathering to go to, much as you might feel you ought to be doing something involving fireworks and Fritos, know this.  There is a housewife/mother/writer soul who would be happy to change places with you, or better yet,  invite you over if she just knew you, especially if you’d offer to help with the dishes and let her enjoy the gathering she’s made with the best of intentions, knowing the work is finally done, the children are tucked in and the liberty of letting go is finally within her reach.

Chick Lit, A Modest Proposal

MORE magazine was kind enough to include Diana Lively is Falling Down in its Must Reads for the July/August issue, saying “Never underestimate the power of a good chick lit...”

I got so distracted I couldn’t absorb the rest of the review. 

Chick lit? I thought, having an oxymoronic reaction in which I was pleased to be considered young enough to still be in the chica stage, and simultaneously dissed because God forbid they think my book isn’t serious, or might possibly have me lumped in with all the formulaic chick lit that’s been produced to reproduce the wonderful successes of Bridget Jones’ Diary or Le Divorce.   

The trouble with labels is everyone gets lumped in together under the same reductive banner until the lowest-common-denominator prevails.  To wit, any number of ponderous, pretentious and unreadable tomes that drag the literary fiction label through the sludge.  If Melville only knew it, he might be clamoring for MOBY DICK to be regrouped with naval lit even if it means he’s got to rub shoulders with Tom Clancy rather than be buried alive in the torpor of self-indulgent uber-writer types whose names I won’t mention because even boorish writers have feelings I wouldn’t want to hurt.

To tell you the truth, I’d just as soon be lumped with women writers who write readable stories are entertaining and irreverent.    Chick lit may not include such important, earth-shattering subjects as those commonly found in male writers’ literature, but we lesser creatures have trouble understanding the weighty meaning of such mysteries as the talking turd in THE CORRECTIONS, the anguish of a bloke whose wife won’t give him a blow-job in RABBIT RUN or the sacred pleasures of the Baseball Hall of Fame in INDEPENDENCE DAY.  I guess my point is, I loved each of these books, not because they were literary or male but because I was able to suspend disbelief and enter the writer's fictional dream.  Great art entertains, first and foremost.  So whether it's chick lit or Dick Lit, I'll read it all day, as long as you don’ t make me take it too seriously.