Perhaps the shocking burst of rain was an apt metaphor for the two brief years we’d been ensconced in, and saturated by, a lively stream of words. The way whole days of digging in to work felt like a deluge after which the world often shone. The way words became new again in the voice of a classmate, and how the dross would be purged by the workshop process, revealing the tender bones and pulse of a piece. A creative writing program had offered to many of us an ideal experience—and then it was over. Of course, a workshop-heavy curriculum can have debilitating effects as well: Participants can tire of their work’s being scrutinized in its infancy; differences in critical approaches can stifle discussion; and the compounded anxieties of the final semester can weigh on relationships, especially as solitary time to write becomes precious and staunchly defended. I’m sure the capacity for inducing this exhaustion informs our universities’ having limited the MFA track to two or three years. After a while we’re inundated and need to move out on our own. But writing programs don’t tend to teach the skill set required to work fruitfully—and joyfully—beyond their gilt walls.

The MFA experience does not necessarily prepare us to be writers in the world. Our time as students is set apart as a sacrosanct period during which we perform the very important work of honing and polishing our craft, but little guidance is given as to how we might preserve that sacred lifestyle (as well as the more profane, yet necessary, moments of criticism and editing) once outside the bubble. On the other hand, no one could have told us then that our devotions would flag and that distractions—such as earning a living and making our way in the world—would threaten to prevent us from writing altogether.

This is not to say that constant connection to a writing community is necessary, or even entirely healthy. Once I’d successfully cast off those workshops and conferences, a momentary sense of liberation washed over me. When my thesis crossed over into the hands of my advisers, I was immediately walloped by a profound exhaustion, and there was freedom in that fatigue. I needed a break from the intensity of the MFA experience—from workshops, and even from writing. The project I had immersed myself in for two years (at times a desperate, sinking immersion) had worn me out, and I required some time to let the omnipresent criticism, however sparkling or seductively constructive, settle within me. It was like recovery after a marathon, when my legs were ripped and clunky and I needed to cross-train for a while, to teach myself how to move again. But the respite from writing and talking about writing soon devolved into a drab routine. Instead of slowly starting over, I had let myself stiffen, and the loss of my teammates—and our shared field—made the process of resuming the race profoundly difficult.

Excuses abounded. At first, no amount of time seemed long enough to sit and work, and when I’d attempt to write in short spurts, the words danced only on the surface of ideas and questions. Sometimes language simply felt inert. I often had the sense that I was playing with plastic blocks rather than textured, living things. Some pleasure had seeped out of the project of making art with words—a joy that I have discovered came from sharing both my poetry and the process of writing it. While I can’t say this perception was common to all my peers, it seems that each of us has experienced an occasion—however extended—of craving community.

Digital rights will apparently be protected via Barnes & Noble’s proprietary DRM, but no word yet on the “competitive” royalty structure that will draw market share away from other self-publishing operations, most notably Amazon’s. According to B&N, PubIt! (no, I will not stop saying it) will make content available on the Nook, as well as PCs and the entire Mac Empire line (personal computers, the iPhone, the iPad, the iDon’tKnow, &c). Interesting times, meine Autoren!

With the proliferation of e-books, Internet platforms from which to launch them, and devices with which to read them, I think the next two to five years are going to be extraordinarily interesting. If you’d asked me a few months ago, I would have told you I expected the Kindle and the iPad to assume the majority of the market share and that they would squeeze the Nook out in a couple of years; with PubIt! (ha!) now on the scene, I’m not sure that’s true anymore. It will really depend on how many people associate the brick-and-mortar brand of Barnes & Noble with 1.) book sales (relatively easy) and 2.) e-book sales (not as easy, especially with Amazon currently monopolizing that market). Given the choice, I think most people will still choose to self-publish their e-books with Amazon, since the Kindle for iPad app allows them to enjoy the best of both worlds, whereas PubIt! (okay, I’ll stop now) only allows authors access to the iPad and the Nook.

What do you think, fair readers?

Below is an interview I conducted with Andrew Smith about his novel EDITH’S WAR (recently released on March 26 2010).

Andrew Smith tells how he wrote the book, his inspiration and the connections between Britain, Canada and Italy below:

1

EDITH’S WAR tells a little-known story about Italian internment in Britain during WWII. How did you first encounter this information (new to me), and decide it would make a good novel?

I knew I wanted to write about how WWII changed British society, how the war was the mechanism that caused people to examine the way society worked and to call into question many of the conventions that had existed for centuries. I was researching this at the Imperial War Museum in London when I stumbled across the story of Italian internment in UK. The addition of Italians to the book, who are generally viewed as easy-going and uninhibited, especially compared to the British, fulfilled a welcome contrast to the depiction of an uptight British population. Also the accounts of their internment by harmless Italian men were classic examples of the stupidity of war and also of the way normal standards can change and deteriorate during wartime. This wartime shift in morality in relation to how the British Italians were treated, so different to how they might have been treated in peacetime, appalled and fascinated me.

2

I greatly enjoyed your evocation of place in the book – Liverpool, Venice (I am from Warrington, a town near Liverpool). Why/how did you choose these cities in particular to tell the story?

As you know, Liverpool was one of the hardest hit cities in Britain during bombing by the Germans. Liverpudlians suffered greatly during WWII. It was also the port from which many “aliens” were shipped to Canada or Australia, including hundreds of British Italian men. And the juxtaposition of the easy-going hedonistic and sensual city of Venice with the somewhat stiff and proper character that the younger brother had become, made him seem even more inhibited. And I made Venice the original home of the Italian couple who had lived in Liverpool during the war as a device to move the plot along. And finally you tend to write about what you know. I grew up on Merseyside, in Huyton, not far from Warrington, in the 40s and 50s. And I also know Venice well having spent a lot of time there during the last twenty years.

3

What was the greatest struggle you faced in writing the book?

There are good struggles and bad struggles. It’s a huge struggle to write a novel like Edith’s War because I had to do so much research and then the struggle that all author’s face in developing characters, evolving a plot, etc. etc. But these are good struggles; I loved every minute of the research and writing stage. Then there is another huge struggle to get published. I tried long and hard to find an agent and a publisher and experienced many rejections along the way. This part of the process is excruciating and can be depressing if you start to take the rejections personally. One has to be strong, stick by the courage of your convictions, and realize that publishing is a business like any other.

4

Do you feel you are making a political point in writing this story? You decided to address the subject matter in the form of a novel. Why not non-fiction, or some other form?

If I’m making a political point it has to do with emphasizing the omnipresence and senselessness of war, and the fact that society seems unable to change in any significant way. I’ve written and published two non-fiction books, which I enjoyed writing, but I think it’s difficult to impose passion and a distinct point of view into non-fiction. I’m not saying it can’t be done, but I think it’s easier to do it more effectively in fiction. I wanted to state very clearly how humankind seems unable to avoid war (witness the presence of wars constantly throughout history), yet how senseless and unfair war always is. Even WWII, which might be seen as justified from the Allies’ perspective, has hundreds if not thousands of examples of inhumanity and unnecessary suffering imposed by all sides. The novel form allowed me to portray actual events and have the reader make no mistake that I viewed them as senseless and unnecessary. I also wanted to imply how difficult it is for any of us to change, on a personal level but also on a larger scale, as a society. A non-fiction book usually only tells the story, whereas a novel can show the effects of a story and be so much more emotive in the telling.

5

How are you enjoying the publishing process, having your first book released? If there’s one thing you could change about publishing a novel, what would it be?

It’s very rewarding to hold the finished product of so much work in one’s hands. But, to go back to my point about publishing being a business, I don’t think many authors are prepared for the dog-eat-dog commercial side of publishing. I’m fortunate because I was somewhat prepared by my work in publishing, I’m a book designer, but even I wasn’t ready for the alarming truths of how difficult it is to get one’s book noticed and into the bookstores. If there’s one thing I could change it would be that books are sold on their merit alone, and not because a publisher paid for a prominent position in a bookstore, or because the author has a TV show, or has won a literary prize, or one of the hundred other reasons a book gets noticed other than for the quality of writing or cleverness of plot, etc. But I’m sounding cynical. I’m really not, and I do still believe that if a book is good it’ll get the readership it deserves.

6

A good amount of the novel is set in and about Italy. Do you feel personally connected to Italy?

Not particularly, other than I’ve spent a lot of time there since I was in my twenties and have quite a few Italian friends whom I love, and I like Italy better than almost anywhere else.

7

Do you remember when you first wanted to be a writer?

Yes I do, because I started writing late in life. It was 1988 and I was forty-years-old, when I took my first creative writing course. Just previous to that I had taken a bus trip over the Himalayas from Kashmir to Ladakh in Northern India and written a magazine article about it, the first piece of writing I’d ever published. The article won an award for travel writing, which inspired me to write more. So I took some courses and started writing short fiction, which I love writing. I don’t know why it took me so long. I don’t think being a writer was presented as an option at the school I went to in Liverpool so I never thought of it. So I went to art school and became a graphic designer. I’ve been lucky to have found writing, and to have another profession that allows me time to write but also keeps the wolf from the door. Because, as we know, books rarely provide much of an income.

8

How important are family relations in telling a good story?

I think human relations of any kind are crucial to a good story. We all need something we can relate to and human relations provide a great deal that is familiar to us all. I suppose family relations are often the most intense and usually the most influential on our lives so they hold a certain gravitas that no other relations hold, they’re what forms us. So, while not necessary to a good story, family relations are certainly wonderful additions to a story.

9

What is your work schedule like when you’re writing?

Once I’ve done research and am into the writing stage I tend to get up fairly early in the morning and write solidly for four to six hours. Once I actually sit down and put fingers to keyboard the time usually flies by. But I’m as bad as most writers about starting, I’ll make a cup of tea I don’t really need or thumb through a magazine I’ve already read. I don’t know why many writers find it hard to actually start writing; maybe because it’s so intense, it’s hard work to write, and it’s rather tiring. Often when I eventually stop I’m fairly drained. But once I start I rarely look up, except to check research, until I just run out of steam some half-a-dozen hours later.

10

What are you working on right now? A departure, or something related to historical fiction across different times and places like EDITH’S WAR?

Some months ago, at a stage when Edith’s War was out of my hands with an editor, I wrote the first two chapters of a book set in contemporary London. Unlike Edith’s War it’ll be a straight single time period narrative. The story is about a paparazzi photographer who is down on his luck having lost his business and his wife. He’s a recovering alcoholic, estranged from his family, and broke. But he has a cache of photos of celebrities that might be worth a great deal. But because of his alcoholism and past indiscretions nobody wants to know. There’s a whole plot in my head about how an opportunity to get exclusive photos of a drugged-out music star falls in his lap. Actually it’s a ploy by the recording company to get publicity, etc. etc. The idea comes from a fascination I have with the symbiotic relationship that celebrities often have with the press. Princess Di being a prime example. I’m also interested in the whole phenomenon of celebrity, especially in our society with the proliferation of shows like American Idol and with people like Paris Hilton who have no talent or skill (they don’t even model) but who have become celebrities earning millions. I’m keen to get back to writing it, but first we have to get out there and sell Edith’s War.

Thank you for your time, Andrew. You can read more about EDITH’S WAR at http://www.edithswar.com/ and on Facebook here.

I’ll also be posting this interview on http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/ and a link from my website http://www.mattfullerty.com/.

Biography
Andrew Smith was born in Liverpool, England. He moved to Toronto, Canada in 1974 since when he’s worked in magazines and book publishing. Andrew Smith’s writing has been included in the Journey Prize Anthology, has been shortlisted for the CBC Literary Awards, and has garnered a Western Magazine Award for Travel Writing. He has published two non-fiction books: Highlights, an illustrated history of cannabis (co-author) and Strangers in the Garden, the secret lives of our favorite flowers. He’s enjoyed writing fiction since 1990, which, fortunately, is when he began.

Proust: mentally defective (according to Mr.Waugh).

Missed the initial installment of the 50 best author vs. author put-downs of all time? Catch up on the first 25 highly vitriolic remarks here.

And now, on with the jollity.

26. Marcel Proust, according to Evelyn Waugh (1948)

I am reading Proust for the first time. Very poor stuff. I think he was mentally defective.

27. William Faulkner, according to Ernest Hemingway

Have you ever heard of anyone who drank while he worked? You’re thinking of Faulkner. He does sometimes — and I can tell right in the middle of a page when he’s had his first one.

28. E.M. Forster’s Howards End, according to according to Katherine Mansfield (1915)

Putting my weakest books to the wall last night I came across a copy of ‘Howards End’ and had a look into it. Not good enough. E.M. Forster never gets any further than warming the teapot. He’s a rare fine hand at that. Feel this teapot. Is it not beautifully warm? Yes, but there ain’t going to be no tea.

And I can never be perfectly certain whether Helen was got with child by Leonard Bast or by his fatal forgotten umbrella. All things considered, I think it must have been the umbrella.

29. Voltaire, according to Charles Baudelaire (1864)

I grow bored in France — and the main reason is that everybody here resembles Voltaire…the king of nincompoops, the prince of the superficial, the anti-artist, the spokesman of janitresses, the Father Gigone of the editors of Siecle.

30. Charles Dickens, according to George Meredith

Not much of Dickens will live, because it has so little correspondence to life…If his novels are read at all in the future, people will wonder what we saw in them, save some possible element of fun meaningless to them.

31. Jane Austen, according to Mark Twain (1898)

I haven’t any right to criticize books, and I don’t do it except when I hate them. I often want to criticize Jane Austen, but her books madden me so that I can’t conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Every time I read ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ I want to dig her up and hit her over the skull with her own shin-bone.

32. Gustave Flaubert, according to George Moore (1888)

Flaubert bores me. What nonsense has been talked about him!

He is a bad novelist and a fool. The combination usually makes for great popularity in the US.

35. James Joyce’s Ulysses, according to Virginia Woolf (1922)

I dislike ‘Ulysses’ more and more — that is I think it more and more unimportant; and don’t even trouble conscientiously to make out its meanings. Thank God, I need not write about it.

36. William Shakespeare, according to George Bernard Shaw (1896)

With the exception of Homer, there is no eminent writer, not even Sir Walter Scott, whom I can despise so entirely as I despise Shakespeare when I measure my mind against his. The intensity of my impatience with him occasionally reaches such a pitch, that it would positively be a relief to me to dig him up and throw stones at him, knowing as I do how incapable he and his worshippers are of understanding any less obvious form of indignity.

37. Charles Lamb, according to Thomas Carlyle

Charles Lamb I sincerely believe to be in some considerable degree insane. A more pitiful, rickety, gasping, staggering, stammering tomfool I do not know. He is witty by denying truisms and abjuring good manners. His speech wriggles hither and thither with an incessant painful fluctuation; not an opinion in it or a fact or even a phrase that you can thank him for….

38. Edith Sitwell, according to Dylan Thomas (1934)

Isn’t she a poisonous thing of a woman, lying, concealing, flipping, plagiarising, misquoting, and being as clever a crooked literary publicist as ever.

39. James Jones, according to Ernest Hemingway (1951)

To me he is an enormously skillful f#*&-up and his book will do great damage to our country. Probably I should re-read it again to give you a truer answer. But I do not have to eat an entire bowl of scabs to know they are scabs…I hope he kills himself….

40. Sir Walter Scott, according to Mark Twain (1883)

Then comes Sir Walter Scott with his enchantments, and by his single might checks…progress, and even turns it back; sets the world in love with dreams and phantoms; with decayed and swinish forms of religion; with decayed and degraded systems of government; with the silliness and emptiness, sham grandeurs, sham gauds, and sham chivalries of a brainless and worthless long-vanished society. He did measureless harm; more real and lasting harm, perhaps, than any other individual that ever wrote.

41. Jane Austen, according to Ralph Waldo Emerson (1861)

I am at a loss to understand why people hold Miss Austen’s novels at so high a rate, which seem to me vulgar in tone, sterile in artistic invention, imprisoned in their wretched conventions of English society, without genius, wit, or knowledge of the world.

42. Robert Frost, according to James Dickey (1981)

If it were thought that anything I wrote was influenced by Robert Frost, I would take that particular work of mine, shred it, and flush it down the toilet, hoping not to clog the pipes….a more sententious, holding-forth old bore, who expected every hero-worshipping adenoidal little twerp of a student-poet to hang on his every word I never saw.

43. Tom Wolfe, according to John Irving (1999)

He doesn’t know how to write fiction, he can’t create a character, he can’t create a situation…You see people reading him on airplanes, the same people who are reading John Grisham, for Christ’s sake….I’m using the argument against him that he can’t write, that his sentences are bad, that it makes you wince. It’s like reading a bad newspaper or a bad piece in a magazine….You know, if you were a good skater, could you watch someone just fall down all the time? Could you do that? I can’t do that.

Harte is a liar, a thief, a swindler, a snob, a sot, a sponge, a coward, a Jeremy Diddler, he is brim full of treachery, and he conceals his Jewish birth as carefully as if he considered it a disgrace. How do I know? By the best of all evidence, personal observation.

45. Thomas Carlyle, according to Anthony Trollope (1850)

I have read — nay, I have bought! — Carlyle’s ‘Latter Day Pamphlets,’ and look on my eight shillings as very much thrown away. To me it appears that the grain of sense is so smothered up in a sack of the sheerest trash, that the former is valueless….I look on him as a man who was always in danger of going mad in literature and who has now done so.

46. Henry James, according to Arnold Bennett

It took me years to ascertain that Henry James’s work was giving me little pleasure….In each case I asked myself: ‘What the dickens is this novel about, and where does it think it’s going to?’ Question unanswerable! I gave up. Today I have no recollection whatever of any characters or any events in either novel.

47. James Fenimore Cooper, according to Mark Twain (1895)

Cooper’s art has some defects. In one place in ‘Deerslayer,’ and in the restricted space of two-thirds of a page, Cooper has scored 114 offences against literary art out of a possible 115. It breaks the record.

48. Gore Vidal, according to Martin Amis (1995)

Vidal gives the impression of believing that the entire heterosexual edifice — registry offices, ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ the disposable diaper — is just a sorry story of self-hypnosis and mass hysteria: a hoax, a racket, or sheer propaganda.

49. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, according to Edward Fitzgerald (1861)

She and her sex had better mind the kitchen and her children; and perhaps the poor; except in such things as little novels, they only devote themselves to what men do much better, leaving that which men do worse or not at all.

I did say at the start of this unending Marah that these snippets of snarkiness weren’t necessarily in order. I have, however, saved my absolute favorite for the end:

50. Tom Wolfe’s A Man in Full, according to Norman Mailer (1998)

The book has gas and runs out of gas, fills up again, goes dry. It is a 742-page work that reads as if it is fifteen hundred pages long….

At certain points, reading the work can even be said to resemble the act of making love to a three-hundred pound woman. Once she gets on top, it’s over. Fall in love, or be asphyxiated. So you read and you grab and you even find delight in some of these mounds of material. Yet all the while you resist — how you resist! — letting three hundred pounds take you over.

Now, that’s a non-clichéd review for you.

Rachel Roberts and Albert Finney in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. Photograph: Ronald Grant Archive

Alan Sillitoe was one of the stars of the Angry Young Men, but resisted classification throughout his prolific career. With his death last week, a strand of late 20th-century literature has come to an end.
Like many a writer who elbowed his way into public notice in the 1950s, Alan Sillitoe will probably be remembered for only a tiny fraction of his considerable output. Just as Kingsley Amis’s reputation, one suspects, will ultimately stand or fall on Lucky Jim (1954), so posterity will almost certainly end up judging Sillitoe’s long and combative career on the basis of its two opening salvoes – the novel Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1958) and the high-octane short story collection The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner (1959). The fault is not Sillitoe’s, who wrote at least half a dozen novels ripe to be compared with his groundbreaking debut. Rather, it lies in the nature of the literary stage – a stage where TS Eliot featured as a grand panjandrum and Iris Murdoch as a promising ingénue – on which he took his bow.

The 1950s, lest we forget, was an age of literary sensation, a time when books were “news” and yet – as nearly always happens when books are news – the newsworthiness had very little to do with the literature itself. It was the era of the Angry Young Man (Osborne, Amis, Wain), of more or less radical literary politicking (see Declaration, the 1957 collection of art manifestos edited by the young Tom Maschler), of that notoriously problematic entity “the working-class writer”, of aesthetic compacts forged between novelists and grittily realist film-makers, of a fascination – at any rate at its upper level – with the fast-dissolving popular culture described in Richard Hoggart’s The Uses of Literacy (1957).

Sillitoe operated on the inner flank of each of these movements – he was as angry, if not angrier, than John Osborne; his first two books were filmed, respectively, by Karel Reisz and Tony Richardson; the pre-war Nottingham backyards he wrote about bear natural resemblances to Richard Hoggart’s Hunslet – while always remaining, sometimes to the point of defiance, his own man. On the other hand, while his starring role in the new literary vanguard brought substantial rewards – Saturday Night was one of the first million-selling Pan paperbacks – his originality wasn’t always noticed by the critics, and the pigeonholing that characterised the early part of his career often got in the way of later attempts to extend his range.

Nowhere was this typecasting more flagrant than in Sillitoe’s instant classification as a “working-class writer”. Metropolitan journalists, summoned to pronounce on the new wave of northern novelists, many of them from comparatively humble backgrounds, tended to assume not only that they themselves were socially homogenous, but that their books reflected the same kind of backgrounds, anxieties and outlooks on life. In fact, there are at least half a dozen varieties of the 50s working-class, including the aspirational “lace-curtain working class” (Stan Barstow’s phrase) rising from foundry or production line to the solicitor’s office or the draughtsman’s shop; the provincial bohemians of Philip Callow’s Lawrence-inflected Common People (1958); the thrusting meritocrats of John Braine’s Room at the Top (1957).

As for the working-class novelist, broadly speaking the paladins of the 50s northern horde belonged to a distinctive social sub-group: first-generation grammar school boys, respectful of their origins but keen to explore the world beyond the horizon. One of the most characteristic scenes in an English novel written during the period 1954-64 is the spectacle of its hero standing proudly on the station platform as he waits for the next train to London.

Set against this upwardly mobile, meritocratic tide, Sillitoe was the outsider to end all outsiders, dyed-in-the-wool Midlands underclass, large parts of whose childhood were spent pushing a handcart containing his family’s possessions from one set of flyblown digs to another, whose earliest memories were of his mother yelling “Not on his head” as his illiterate father set about him with his fists, educated not at a grammar school but a secondary modern which disgorged its alumni at 14 to the Raleigh bicycle factory. Ted Hughes (with whom Sillitoe was friendly) once wrote in a letter to Christopher Reid that among the newcomers of the “Angry Decade”, he “had the best barbarian credentials, except for maybe Alan Sillitoe”.

All this gave Arthur Seaton, the moody, antinomian hero of Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, a distinctive status among the fictional protagonists of the Macmillan era. Unlike the “good” working-class characters of an earlier age, Arthur is an ambiguous figure: generous (when he has the money), affectionate towards women and incubating warm feelings towards the male friend he is quietly cuckolding, but untroubled by the moral implications of detaching a drunk from his wallet or plugging an air-rifle pellet into the cheek of a muck-raking neighbour.

The same ambiguity extends to the milieu in which Sillitoe frames him – the close, tightly knit badlands of back-street Nottingham, with its simmering resentments and neighbourhood quarrels that are always liable to end up in a mass brawl and a night in the cells. If nothing else, Saturday Night is a terrific antidote to the sentimentalising of working-class life, with its roaring fires and benignly shirt-sleeved patresfamilias, promoted by Orwell and the eternal decencies of the proletarian hearth observed by Hoggart. The Uses of Literacy, for example, insists that pre-war Hunslet offered “a good and comely life”, characterised by its “sacrifice, cooperation and neighbourliness”. Sillitoe thought differently. The Seatons either desert from military service or feign bad eyesight to get out of it, and sit through Churchill’s patriotic radio broadcasts with stoical indifference. There is a solidarity about them, but it is the solidarity of a rebel army, born not out of any generosity of spirit but from hate and fear.

To the middle-class critic – and the middle-class reader – Arthur’s surly self-centredness was a problem. Joe Lampton, the go-getting arriviste of Braine’s Room at the Top, may not have been a particularly pleasant character, but at least he had ambition. Sillitoe’s early work, it soon became clear, was about getting by and staying put, fighting against drift, bringing a compound of highly combustible inner resources to bear on the horrors of routine, taking refuge in daydreams: living till 90, as Arthur puts it, with a fresh piece of skirt every day. His “vitality” was his saving grace, but even this could sometimes seem horribly compromised. In John Fowles’s first novel, The Collector (1964), in which a jackpot-winning municipal clerk kidnaps an art student and keeps her prisoner in his cellar, Arthur features as a talismanic symbol of the contemporary class war. Left-leaning, CND-fancying Miranda ought theoretically to sympathise with this signifier of oppression and neglect. On the contrary, she detests him. “I think Saturday Night and Sunday Morning is disgusting,” she declares. “I think Arthur Seaton is disgusting, and I think the most disgusting thing of all is that Alan Sillitoe doesn’t show that he is disgusted by his young man.”

To Miranda, Arthur’s most blatant offence is his solipsism – “he doesn’t care about anything outside his own little life”. Worse, “because he is cheeky, hates his work and is successful with women, he is supposed to be vital”. If one of the era’s critical orthodoxies was that a writer ought not to keep his moral cards quite so close to his chest, then another was that the chief merit of Sillitoe’s early books lay in their documentary quality. At their heart, it was assumed, lurked a conventional social realism that was the literary equivalent of cinéma-vérité. All this is profoundly to underestimate the degree of sophistication that Sillitoe brought to his work and his determination to go beyond dramatised sociology into a world where the novelist of “ordinary life” had rarely set foot.

“The Match”, for example, perhaps the finest of the stories in The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner, is usually read as a straightforward piece of reportage, in which an embittered middle-aged man stamps home from a football game his side have lost, takes his disappointment out on his long-suffering wife and picks a quarrel that will end his marriage. Its abiding feature, though, is less its “realism” – although there is plenty of that – than the stealthiness of its psychology, the ominous prefigurations, a well-nigh determinist sense of individual destiny hanging in the air, and at the end a rather chilling attempt to weave Lennox’s fate into a wider pattern of ordinary lives ruined by bad temper and a failure to communicate. British readers admired “The Match”, (mostly) assuming that it was another utensil from the late 50s kitchen sink. Sillitoe’s French translators, on the other hand, marked him down as the heir to Camus.

In a memorable Desert Island Discs interview recorded a year or so ago, Sillitoe advanced the modest claim that all he had ever really wanted to do was to achieve enough success to enable him to, as he put it, “plod away”, writing a book a year and pleasing himself. This is exactly what he contrived to do: the bibliography of his post-1960s output runs to more than 60 items, including poetry, a shrewd and revealing autobiography (Life Without Armour, 1995) and the recent cold war travelogue, Gadfly in Russia. The novels of his maturity are a mixed bunch, differing wildly in subject-matter and approach and often bewildering fans of his early work. To his biographer Richard Bradford this is evidence of a wholesale dereliction of critical duty, in which reviewers who had misunderstood his first books either underrated his achievement or simply failed to comprehend what he was trying to do.

Certainly a trawl through some of his later fiction tends to support this view. A Start in Life (1970) retains some of the old Nottingham background while soon developing into a picaresque (Sillitoe maintained that his mentors were the Spanish novelists Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, Mateo Alemán and Francisco de Quevedo). It takes its hero, Michael Cullen, from the Midlands to a hustler’s life in Soho and concludes, amid a hail of bullets, as a skit on the idea of the existential hero. The Broken Chariot (1998), is another kind of skit, in which Sillitoe cunningly inverts the trajectory of his own early career, has an upper-class boy named Thurgarton-Strang break out of his West Country boarding-school and re-invent himself as the Seatonesque “Bert Gedling”, a boozy tail-chaser employed by the Nottingham Royal Ordnance factory and aspiring proletarian writer. Neither novel achieved the success it deserved.

Sillitoe was phlegmatic about this neglect, an attitude he brought to most aspects of his long and industrious career. He fitted into no niche, peddled no theories about the nature of his craft (“One either judges, or one writes, and I only care to do the latter,” he tersely informed a magazine symposium in 1978), succumbed to perilously few of the blandishments on offer to the successful modern practitioner (creative writing professorships, newspaper columns), and it is difficult not to believe that, with his death, a particular strand of late 20th-century English literature has ceased to exist.

In the 50 and a bit years since Saturday Night and Sunday Morning crash-landed on the weekend books pages, there have been plenty of novelists capable of seeing working-class life from the inside, but none of them was forged in quite the same kind of crucible as Sillitoe. Above all, there is the terrific air of individuation and quiddity brought to a part of the demographic that, with a few honourable exceptions, the pre-1950s novel had routinely ignored. “We all need to remember,” Hoggart once remarked, “every day and more and more, that in the last resort there is no such person as ‘the common man’.” The same can be said of the working-class novelist. Perhaps the greatest compliment one can pay Alan Sillitoe is to say that, in an age of movements and alliances, shared assumptions and mass thought – all the collectivist baggage that hangs around the writer’s neck like so many millstones – he represented no one but himself.

–

DJ Taylor
The Guardian, Saturday 1 May 2010 Article history

Consider this pithy commentary on the Great Bard’s work:

With the single exception of Homer, there is no eminent writer, not even Sir Walter Scott, whom I can despise so entirely as I despise Shakespeare….

But, of course, there must be SOME writers we can all agree on as truly great, right? Like Jane Austen. Or not:

Every time I read ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ I want to dig her up and hit her over the skull with her own shin-bone.

Robert Frost?

If it were thought that anything I wrote was influenced by Robert Frost, I would take that particular work of mine, shred it, and flush it down the toilet, hoping not to clog the pipes.

John Steinbeck, surely?

I can’t read ten pages of Steinbeck without throwing up.

Oh, dear.

But don’t think these pleasantries were penned in a frolicsome hour by dilettante book critics with an unslaked thirst for a bit of author-bashing.

The Shakespearean take-down was George Bernard Shaw, the Austen shin-bone basher was Mark Twain, the anti-Frost poet was James Dickey, and the quick!-bring-me-the-bucket-it’s-Steinbeck was James Gould Cozzens.

Yes, hell hath no fury like one author gleefully savaging another author’s work.

And, lucky for us, there’s plenty to be had where that came from.

Cast your eye on these, the 50 most memorable author vs. author put-downs (in no particular order; though if you’ve got a favorite, by all means, comment on it, below).

As to Hemingway, I read him for the first time in the early ‘forties, something about bells, balls and bulls, and loathed it.

2. Miguel Cervantes’ Don Quixote, according to Martin Amis (1986)

Reading Don Quixote can be compared to an indefinite visit from your most impossible senior relative, with all his pranks, dirty habits, unstoppable reminiscences, and terrible cronies. When the experience is over, and the old boy checks out at last (on page 846 — the prose wedged tight, with no breaks for dialogue), you will shed tears all right; not tears of relief or regret but tears of pride. You made it, despite all that ‘Don Quixote’ could do.

3. John Keats, according to Lord Byron (1820)

Here are Johnny Keats’s p@# a-bed poetry…There is such a trash of Keats and the like upon my tables, that I am ashamed to look at them.

4. Edgar Allan Poe, according to Henry James (1876)

An enthusiasm for Poe is the mark of a decidedly primitive stage of reflection.

5. John Updike, according to Gore Vidal (2008)

I can’t stand him. Nobody will think to ask because I’m supposedly jealous; but I out-sell him. I’m more popular than he is, and I don’t take him very seriously…oh, he comes on like the worker’s son, like a modern-day D.H. Lawrence, but he’s just another boring little middle-class boy hustling his way to the top if he can do it.

6. William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, according to Samuel Pepys (1662)

…we saw ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ which I had never seen before, nor shall ever again, for it is the most insipid ridiculous play that ever I saw in my life.

7. Edward Bulwer-Lytton, according to Nathaniel Hawthorne (1851)

Bulwer nauseates me; he is the very pimple of the age’s humbug. There is no hope of the public, so long as he retains an admirer, a reader, or a publisher.

8. Charles Dickens, according to Arnold Bennett (1898)

About a year ago, from idle curiosity, I picked up ‘The Old Curiosity Shop’, and of all the rotten vulgar un-literary writing…! Worse than George Eliot’s. If a novelist can’t write where is the beggar.

9. J.K. Rowling, according to Harold Bloom (2000)

How to read ‘Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone’? Why, very quickly, to begin with, and perhaps also to make an end. Why read it? Presumably, if you cannot be persuaded to read anything better, Rowling will have to do.

10. Oscar Wilde, according to Noel Coward (1946)

Am reading more of Oscar Wilde. What a tiresome, affected sod.

11. Fyodor Dostoevsky, according to Vladimir Nabokov

Dostoevky’s lack of taste, his monotonous dealings with persons suffering with pre-Freudian complexes, the way he has of wallowing in the tragic misadventures of human dignity — all this is difficult to admire.

12. John Milton’s Paradise Lost, according to Samuel Johnson

‘Paradise Lost’ is one of the books which the reader admires and lays down, and forgets to take up again. None ever wished it longer than it is.

13. Oliver Goldsmith’s The Vicar of Wakefield, according to Mark Twain (1897)

Also, to be fair, there is another word of praise due to this ship’s library: it contains no copy of ‘The Vicar of Wakefield’, that strange menagerie of complacent hypocrites and idiots, of theatrical cheap-john heroes and heroines, who are always showing off, of bad people who are not interesting, and good people who are fatiguing.

14. Ezra Pound, according to Conrad Aiken (1918)

For in point of style, or manner, or whatever, it is difficult to imagine anything much worse than the prose of Mr. Pound. It is ugliness and awkwardness incarnate. Did he always write so badly?

15. James Joyce’s Ulysses, according to George Bernard Shaw (1921)

I have read several fragments of ‘Ulysses’ in its serial form. It is a revolting record of a disgusting phase of civilisation; but it is a truthful one; and I should like to put a cordon around Dublin; round up every male person in it between the ages of 15 and 30; force them to read it; and ask them whether on reflection they could see anything amusing in all that foul mouthed, foul minded derision and obscenity.

16. George Bernard Shaw, according to Roger Scruton (1990)

Concerning no subject would he be deterred by the minor accident of complete ignorance from penning a definitive opinion.

17. Jane Austen, according to Charlotte Bronte (1848)

Why do you like Miss Austen so very much? I am puzzled on that point. What induced you to say that you would rather have written ‘Pride and Prejudice’…than any of the Waverly novels? I should hardly like to live with her ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses.

18. Goethe, according to Samuel Butler (1874)

I have been reading a translation of Goethe’s ‘Wilhelm Meister.’ Is it good? To me it seems perhaps the very worst book I ever read. No Englishman could have written such a book. I cannot remember a single good page or idea….Is it all a practical joke? If it really is Goethe’s ‘Wilhelm Meister’ that I have been reading, I am glad I have never taken the trouble to learn German.

19. John Steinbeck, according to James Gould Cozzens (1957)

I can’t read ten pages of Steinbeck without throwing up. I couldn’t read the proletariat crap that came out in the ’30s.

20. Herman Melville, according to D.H. Lawrence (1923)

Nobody can be more clownish, more clumsy and sententiously in bad taste, than Herman Melville, even in a great book like ‘Moby Dick’….One wearies of the grand serieux. There’s something false about it. And that’s Melville. Oh dear, when the solemn ass brays! brays! brays!

21. Jonathan Swift, according to Samuel Johnson (1791)

Swift has a higher reputation than he deserves…I doubt whether ‘The Tale of a Tub’ to be his; for he never owned it, and it is much above his usual manner.

22. Gertrude Stein, according to Wyndham Lewis (1927)

Gertrude Stein’s prose-song is a cold black suet-pudding. We can represent it as a cold suet-roll of fabulously reptilian length. Cut it at any point, it is the same thing; the same heavy, sticky, opaque mass all through and all along.

23. Emile Zola, according to Anatole France (1911)

His work is evil, and he is one of those unhappy beings of whom one can say that it would be better had he never been born.

24. J.D.Salinger, according to Mary McCarthy (1962)

I don’t like Salinger, not at all. That last thing isn’t a novel anyway, whatever it is. I don’t like it. Not at all. It suffers from this terrible sort of metropolitan sentimentality and it’s so narcissistic. And to me, also, it seemed so false, so calculated. Combining the plain man with an absolutely megalomaniac egotism. I simply can’t stand it.

25. Mark Twain, according to William Faulkner (1922)

A hack writer who would not have been considered fourth rate in Europe, who tricked out a few of the old proven sure fire literary skeletons with sufficient local color to intrigue the superficial and the lazy.

University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa
Black Warrior Review

University of Alaska, Fairbanks
Permafrost 


American University, Washington, D.C.
Folio

University of Arizona, Tucson
Sonora Review 


Arizona State University, Tempe
Hayden’s Ferry Review 


Ashland University, Ohio
River Teeth

University of Baltimore
Passager Journal

Boise State University, Idaho
cold-drill
The Idaho Review

Bowling Green State University, Ohio
Mid-American Review

Brooklyn College, CUNY
The Brooklyn Review

Butler University, Indianapolis
Booth

University of California, Irvine
Faultline

University of California, Riverside,
Palm Desert Graduate Center
The Coachella Review

California College of the Arts, San Francisco
Eleven Eleven

California Institute of the Arts, Valencia
Black Clock
Sprawl

California State University, Fresno
The Normal School

California State University, Long Beach
RipRap

California State University, San Bernardino
Pacific Review

University of Central Florida, Orlando
The Cypress Dome
The Florida Review

Chapman University, Orange, California
Elephant Tree

Chatham University, Pittsburgh
The Fourth River

City College of New York, CUNY
Fiction
Global City Review
Promethean

Colorado State University, Fort Collins
Colorado Review
The Freestone

Columbia College, Chicago
F Magazine
Hair Trigger

Columbia University, New York City
Columbia

Cornell University, Ithaca, New York
EPOCH

Eastern Kentucky University, Richmond
Aurora
Jelly Bucket

Eastern Washington University, Spokane
Willow Springs

Emerson College, Boston
Ploughshares
Redivider

Fairfield University, Connecticut
Dogwood

Fairleigh Dickinson University,
Madison, New Jersey
The Literary Review

University of Florida, Gainesville
Subtropics

Florida Atlantic University, Boca Raton
Coastlines

Florida International University, Miami
Gulf Stream Magazine

Florida State University, Tallahassee
The Kudzu Review
The Southeast Review

George Mason University, Fairfax, Virginia
Phoebe

So to Speak

Georgia College & State University,
Milledgeville
Arts & Letters
Flannery O’Connor Review

Georgia State University, Atlanta
Five Points
New South

Goddard College, Plainfield, Vermont,
and Port Townsend, Washington
Pitkin Review

Hamline University
Water-Stone Review

Hollins University, Roanoke, Virginia
The Hollins Critic

University of Houston, Texas
Gulf Coast

Hunter College, CUNY
The Olivetree Review

University of Idaho, Moscow
Fugue

University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign
Ninth Letter

Indiana University, Bloomington
Indiana Review

University of Iowa, Iowa City
The Iowa Review

Iowa State University, Ames
Flyway

Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore
and Washington, D.C.
The Hopkins Review

University of Kansas, Lawrence
Cottonwood

Lindenwood University, St. Charles, Missouri
Untamed Ink

Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge
Exquisite Corpse

New Delta Review
The Southern Review

Manhattanville College, Purchase, New York
Inkwell

University of Massachusetts, Amherst
CRATE

jubilat
The Massachusetts Review

University of Massachusetts, Boston
Breakwater Review

University of Memphis
The Pinch

Mills College, Oakland
580 Split

University of Minnesota, Minneapolis
Dislocate

Minnesota State University, Mankato
Blue Earth Review

Minnesota State University, Moorhead
Red Weather

University of Mississippi, Oxford
The Yalobusha Review

University of Missouri, Columbia
Center
The Missouri Review

University of Missouri, Kansas City
New Letters

University of Missouri, Saint Louis
Natural Bridge

University of Montana, Missoula
CutBank

Murray State University, Kentucky
New Madrid

Naropa University, Jack Kerouac School
of Disembodied Poetics, Boulder, Colorado
Bombay Gin
not enough night

University of Nebraska, Lincoln (PhD)
Prairie Schooner

University of Nevada, Las Vegas
Interim

University of New Hampshire, Durham
Barnstorm

University of New Mexico, Albuquerque
Blue Mesa Review

New Mexico State University, Las Cruces
Puerto del Sol

University of New Orleans
Bayou

The New School University, New York City
LIT

New York University, New York City
Washington Square Review

University of North Carolina, Greensboro
The Greensboro Review
storySouth

University of North Carolina, Wilmington
Ecotone

North Carolina State University, Raleigh
Free Verse

Northeast Ohio Universities Consortium (NEOMFA)
Luna Negra
Penguin Review
Rubbertop Review
Whiskey Island Magazine

Northern Michigan University, Marquette
Passages North

University of North Texas, Denton
American Literary Review
North Texas Review

University of Notre Dame, Indiana
The Bend
Notre Dame Review
Re:Visions

Ohio State University, Columbus
The Journal

University of Oregon, Eugene
Northwest Review

Oregon State University, Corvallis
Prism

Otis College of Art and Design, Los Angeles
OR

Pacific Lutheran University’s
Rainier Writing Workshop, Tacoma
A River & Sound Review

Pacific University, Forest Grove, Oregon
Silk Road

University of Pittsburgh
Collision

Hot Metal Bridge
No 


Portland State University, Oregon
Oregon Literary Review
Pathos Lit Mag
The Portland Review

Purdue University, West Lafayette, Louisiana
Sycamore Review

Queens College, CUNY
Ozone Park

Roosevelt University, Chicago
Oyez Review

Rosemont College, Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania
Parlor 


Rutgers University, Camden, New Jersey
StoryQuarterly

Saint Mary’s College of California, Moraga
Mary

San Diego State University
Fiction International
Poetry International

University of San Francisco
Switchback

San Francisco State University
Fourteen Hills
Transfer

San Jose State University, California
Reed Magazine

Sarah Lawrence College, Bronxville, New York
Lumina

Seattle Pacific University

Image

University of South Carolina
Yemassee

Southern Connecticut State University,
New Haven
Connecticut Review
Noctua Review

Southern Illinois University, Carbondale
Crab Orchard Review

University of Southern Maine, Portland
Words and Images

Southern New Hampshire University, Manchester
Amoskeag

University of South Florida, Tampa
Saw Palm

Spalding University, Louisville
The Louisville Review

Stony Brook Southampton, SUNY
The Southampton Review

Syracuse University, New York
Salt Hill

University of Texas, El Paso
Rio Grande Review

University of Texas, James A. Michener
Center for Writers, Austin
Bat City Review

University of Texas-Pan American, Edinburg
gallery

Texas State University, San Marcos
Front Porch

University of Utah, Salt Lake City
Quarterly West
Western Humanities Review

Vanderbilt University, Nashville
The Vanderbilt Review

Vermont College of Fine Arts, Montpelier
Hunger Mountain

University of Virginia, Charlottesville
Meridian

Virginia Commonwealth University, Richmond
Blackbird

Virginia Polytechnic Institute
and State University, Blacksburg
The New River

Western Connecticut State University, Danbury
Black & White
Connecticut Review
Sentence

Western Michigan University, Kalamazoo
Third Coast

University of Washington, Seattle
The Seattle Review

West Virginia University, Morgantown
The Loop

Whidbey Writers Workshop, Freeland, Washington
Soundings Review

Wichita State University, Kansas
Mikrokosmos

University of Wisconsin, Madison
The Madison Review

Now then: in the publishing world, there are very often scenarios in which what would otherwise be a great idea is actually a terrible idea due to one or two crucial detail(s). As part of your (and, frankly, my) continued education in this industry, I present to you the following examples:

Good Idea: Venting to your friend, spouse, significant other, &c about a negative review of your book.
Bad Idea: Venting to Twitter, Facebook, the Internet at large, &c about a negative review of your book.

Good Idea: Following an agent’s guidelines when submitting your novel.
Bad Idea: Following an agent to his or her office/car/home to submit your novel.

Good Idea: Reading industry blogs to improve your writing and querying.
Bad Idea: Reading industry blogs instead of writing or querying.

Good Idea: Selling yourself in order to promote your novel.
Bad Idea: Literally selling yourself in order to promote your novel.

Good Idea: Setting aside a specified block of time to write each day.
Bad Idea: Setting aside your family, friends, and day job to write each day. (May lead to the above scenario.)

Feel free to create your own good idea/bad idea in the comments!

–

Pimp My Blog, 4 February 2010

writer’s apprenticeship — or perhaps, the writer’s lot — is this miserable trifecta: uncertainty, rejection, disappointment. In the 20 years that I’ve been publishing books, I have fared better than most. I sold my first novel while still in graduate school and published six more books, pretty much one every three years, like clockwork. I have made my living as a writer, living off my advances while supplementing my income by teaching and writing for newspapers and magazines.

As smooth as this trajectory might seem, however, my internal life as a writer has been a constant battle with the small, whispering voice (well, sometimes it shouts) that tells me I can’t do it. This time, the voice taunts me, you will fall flat on your face. Every single piece of writing I have ever completed — whether a novel, a memoir, an essay, short story or review — has begun as a wrestling match between hopelessness and something else, some other quality that all writers, if they are to keep going, must possess.

Call it stubbornness, stamina, a take-no-prisoners determination, but a writer at work reminds me of nothing so much as a terrier with a bone: gnawing, biting, chewing, until finally there is nothing left to do but fall away.

I have taught in MFA programs for many years now, and I begin my first class of each semester by looking around the workshop table at my students’ eager faces and then telling them they are pursuing a degree that will entitle them to nothing. I don’t do this to be sadistic or because I want to be an unpopular professor; I tell them this because it’s the truth. They are embarking on a life in which apprenticeship doesn’t mean a cushy summer internship in an air-conditioned office but rather a solitary, poverty-inducing, soul-scorching voyage whose destination is unknown and unknowable.

If they were enrolled in medical school, in all likelihood they would wind up doctors. If in law school, better than even odds, they’d become lawyers. But writing school guarantees them little other than debt.

Rereading Solotaroff’s essay, as I did recently, I found that he was writing of a time that now seems quaint, almost innocent. By the 1980s, he bemoaned, the expectations young writers had of their future lives had “been formed by the mass marketing and subsidization of culture and by the creative writing industry. Their career models are not, say, Henry Miller or William Faulkner, but John Irving or Ann Beattie.”

With the exception of Irving, most of the writers referenced by Solotaroff (Beattie, Bobbie Ann Mason, Joan Chase, Douglas Unger, Lynne Sharon Schwartz, Alan Hewat) would draw blank looks from my students, and the creative writing industry of the mid-1980s now seems like a few mom-and-pop shops scattered on a highway lined with strip malls and mega-stores. Today’s young writers don’t peruse the dusty shelves of previous generations. Instead, they are besotted with the latest success stories: The 18-year-old who receives a million dollars for his first novel; the blogger who stumbles into a book deal; the graduate student who sets out to write a bestselling thriller — and did.

The 5,000 students graduating each year from creative writing programs (not to mention the thousands more who attend literary festivals and conferences) do not include insecurity, rejection and disappointment in their plans. I see it in their faces: the almost evangelical belief in the possibility of the instant score. And why not? They are, after all, the product of a moment that doesn’t reward persistence, that doesn’t see the value in delaying recognition, that doesn’t trust in the process but only the outcome. As an acquaintance recently said to me: “So many crappy novels get published. Why not mine?”

The emphasis is on publishing, not on creating. On being a writer, not on writing itself. The publishing industry — always the nerdy distant cousin of the rest of media — has the same blockbuster-or-bust mentality of television networks and movie studios. There now exist only two possibilities: immediate and large-scale success, or none at all. There is no time to write in the cold, much less for 10 years.

I recently had the honor of acting as guest editor for the anthology “Best New American Voices 2010,” the latest volume in a long-running annual series that contains some of the finest writing culled from students in graduate programs and conferences. Joshua Ferris, Nam Le, Julie Orringer and Maile Meloy are just a few of the writers published in previous editions, but now the series is coming to an end. Presumably, it wasn’t selling, and its publisher could no longer justify bringing it out. Important and serious and just plain good books, the kind that require years spent in the trough of false starts and discarded pages — these books need to be written far away from this culture of mega-hits, and yet that culture is so pervasive that one wonders how a young writer is meant to be strong enough to face it down.

The new bottom line

At the risk of sounding like I’m writing from my rocking chair, things were different when I started. My first three books sold, in combination, fewer than 15,000 copies in hardcover. My editor at the time told me there were 4,000 serious readers in America, and if I reached them, I was doing a good job. As naïve as this may sound, it never occurred to me that my modest sales record might one day spell the end of my career. I felt cared for, respected. I continued to be published, and eventually, my sales improved. I wrote a bestselling memoir, appeared on “The Oprah Winfrey Show” and published a subsequent novel that found a pretty wide readership. My timing has been good thus far — and lucky.

But in the last several years, I’ve watched friends and colleagues suddenly find themselves without publishers after having brought out many books. Writers now use words like “track” and “mid-list” and “brand” and “platform.” They tweet and blog and make Facebook friends in the time they used to spend writing. Authors who stumble can find themselves quickly in dire straits. How, under these conditions, can a writer take the risks required to create something original and resonant and true?

Perhaps there is a clue to be found near the end of Solotaroff’s essay: “Writing itself, if not misunderstood and abused, becomes a way of empowering the writing self. It converts anger and disappointment into deliberate and durable aggression, the writer’s main source of energy. It converts sorrow and self-pity into empathy, the writer’s main means of relating to otherness. Similarly, his wounded innocence turns into irony, his silliness into wit, his guilt into judgment, his oddness into originality, his perverseness into his stinger.”

The writer who has experienced this even for a moment becomes hooked on it and is willing to withstand the rest. Insecurity, rejection and disappointment are a price to pay, but those of us who have served our time in the frozen tundra will tell you that we’d do it all over again if we had to. And we do. Each time we sit down to create something, we are risking our whole selves. But when the result is the transformation of anger, disappointment, sorrow, self-pity, guilt, perverseness and wounded innocence into something deep and concrete and abiding — that is a personal and artistic triumph well worth the long and solitary trip.

–

Shapiro’s new book, “Devotion: A Memoir,” is just out. She will read at Vroman’s Bookstore in Pasadena on Feb. 24 and Diesel Books in Brentwood on Feb. 26.

–

LA Times, February 07, 2010, By Dani Shapiro

This surprised me greatly given the number of entrants (5000 in the General Fiction category).

For more details, the Award eventually results in 6 round-trip all expenses flights to Seattle, and a Grand Prize – you guessed it – a book deal.

The book deal is with Penguin, is worth $15,000 as an advance (against future royalties), and naturally would receive the Amazon promotional treatment – basically, like winning three prizes in one!

May B & N get in the same game!

To click out my entry – my novel set in New Orleans – please click here.

The following article from The New York Times deals with the role of female killers and art, particularly in light of the recent shootings by Amy Bishop, a professor at the University of Alabama.

–
When Ezra Pound declared in 1934 that “artists are the antennae of the race,” and Marshall McLuhan 30 years later called them people “of integral awareness,” both were using modern terms to update the ancient belief that works of the imagination might actually require a talent not only for invention but for attunement — for picking up signals already in the air. This is why the most forceful narratives and dramas seem less made up than distilled. They clarify events and experiences taken directly from the actual world.
Thus, the Jazz Age is better known through the fiction of F. Scott Fitzgerald, who captured its energies in real time, than through any number of retrospective studies. And the alienated teenager, that fixture of modern American life, didn’t fully exist until J. D. Salinger, with his faultless ear and attentive eye, coaxed him into being.

But every now and then, it seems, a gap is exposed. Events occur; art offers no guidance. The powers of imagination and attunement falter. Artists suffer a collective loss of awareness. “The culture” emits signals, but they are picked up only fitfully or are missed altogether.

Consider the case of Amy Bishop, the neuroscientist arrested for shooting six colleagues, killing three, at a department meeting at the University of Alabama in Huntsville. Rampages of this sort have become familiar. But with rare exceptions they have been the preserve of men: lonely, alienated psycho killers with arsenals of high-powered weapons and feverishly composed manifestos.

With remarkable suddenness Dr. Bishop has disrupted the pattern. When she reportedly discharged her 9-millimeter handgun, she also punctured longstanding assumptions, or illusions, about women and violence — particularly as a fuller picture of her past begins to emerge, much of it indicating a possible record of previous violent episodes, including the shooting death of her brother in 1986, and her suspected role in assembling a pipe bomb mailed to a faculty member at the Harvard Medical School in 1994, when Dr. Bishop was studying there.

Amy Bishop (Bob Gathany/Huntsville Times, via Associated Press)

It is not news that so-called senseless acts often unfold along the coordinates of an inner logic. This is what makes criminal violence so attractive a topic for artists and thinkers. The Western literary tradition, from Shakespeare to Dostoevsky, teems with pathologically violent men. Norman Mailer and Truman Capote wrote nonfiction masterpieces about them. They dominate the novels of Don DeLillo and Robert Stone, not to mention films by Sam Peckinpah, Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese.
But the landscape of unprovoked but premeditated female violence remains strangely unexplored. Women who kill are “relegated to an ‘exceptional case’ status that rests upon some exceptional, or untoward killing circumstance: the battered wife who kills her abusive husband; the postpartum psychotic mother who kills her newborn infant,” Candice Skrapec, a professor of criminology, noted in “The Female Serial Killer,” an essay included in the anthology “Moving Targets: Women, Murder and Representation” (1994).
Ms. Skrapec was writing at a time when Hollywood seemed preoccupied with women who commit crimes — in productions like “The Burning Bed,” the 1984 television film in which a battered wife finally sets her sleeping husband aflame, and “Thelma & Louise” (1991), in which a pair of women go on a outlaw spree after one of them is threatened with rape.
Both are essentially exculpatory parables of empowerment, anchored in feminist ideology. Their heroines originate as victims, pushed to criminal excesses by injustices done to them. The true aggressors are the men who mistreat and objectify them. So too with “Monster” (2003), in which Charlize Theron, in a virtuosic instance of empathy (and cosmetic makeover) re-enacted the story of Aileen Wuornos, a real-life prostitute who, after years of sexual abuse, began murdering her clients.
A decade or two ago this all made sense. The underworld of domestic abuse and sexual violence was coming freshly to light. And social arrangements were undergoing abrupt revision. The woman who achieved hard-won success in the workplace might well find herself, like the lonely stalker played by Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction” (1987), tormented by the perfect-seeming family of the married man with whom she enjoys a weekend fling.
Much has changed since then, but the topic of women and violence — especially as represented by women — remains more or less in a time warp, bound by the themes of sexual and domestic trauma, just as male depictions of female violence are locked in the noir demimonde of fantasy, the slinky femmes fatales once played by Barbara Stanwyck and Lana Turner more or less duplicated by Kathleen Turner and Sharon Stone.
Put it another way. It is not hard to imagine Mr. DeLillo or Mr. Scorsese mapping the interior circuitry of Timothy McVeigh; Seung-Hui Cho, the Virginia Tech killer; or Bruce E. Ivins, the Army biodefense expert who, the F.B.I. concluded last week, committed anthrax terror in the aftermath of 9/11 — the paranoia, the lethal mix of fantasy and ruthless plotting. But what artist might do justice to Dr. Bishop and her complex story, as its details have so far been reported: the privileged upbringing; her stable marriage to a uxorious husband, who was also her collaborator on scientific inventions; their four children, some of whose homework Dr. Bishop is monitoring from her jail cell? And what of the accounts given by associates and neighbors of her personal qualities — assertive, bristling with sharp opinions, vocal on the subject of her brilliance, harboring fierce resentments?
The uncomfortable fact is that for all her singularity, Dr. Bishop also provides an index to the evolved status of women in 21st-century America. The number of female neurobiologists may still be small, but girls often outdo boys in the classroom, including in the sciences. (Mattel recently announced a new addition, Computer Engineer Barbie, to its line of popular dolls.) A Harvard Ph.D. remains a rare credential for women (as well as for men), but women now make up the majority of undergraduates at many prestigious colleges. And the tenure struggle said to have lighted Dr. Bishop’s short fuse reflects the anxieties of many other women who now outnumber men in the work force and have become, in thousands of cases, their family’s principal or only breadwinner.
These conditions have been developing for some years now. But the most advanced narratives of female violence seem uninterested in them. There is, for example, Marina Abramovic, a pioneer of performance art who will be honored in a major retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art in March, with 35 artists re-enacting five of her works. Ms. Abramovic, born in what was then Belgrade, Yugoslavia, first became a force in 1973 at the Edinburgh Festival, where she furiously stabbed a knife between her splayed fingers, bloodying 10 blades and tape recording the noises she made as she wounded herself. In 2002 Ms. Abramovic was still at it, exhibiting herself for 12 days in a downtown Manhattan installation, wordlessly moving among three raised platforms connected to the floor by ladders whose rungs were fashioned from large knives, their gleaming blades turned up.
There is also Karen Finley, whose avant-garde explorations of sexual violence put her in the middle of the federal arts-financing wars two decades ago. She is back onstage in “The Jackie Look.” Outfitted in bouffant and pearls, in imitation of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, Ms. Finley stands at a lectern and delivers a monologue on the female body — at one point shedding copious tears — and on the indignities ritually inflicted on public women (Michelle Obama no less than Mrs. Onassis).
All this is stimulating in its way, but it feels curiously outmoded. Although Ms. Abramovic and Ms. Finley are both charismatic presences, their antennae seem to have rusted. They persist in registering the dimmed signals of a bygone time.
For this reason, perhaps, the most useful glosses on Dr. Bishop may come from the world of popular, even pulpish, art — for instance, crowd-pleasing movies like “Black Widow,” “Blue Steel,” “The Silence of the Lambs,” Quentin Tarantino’s “Kill Bill” or even “Lost,” the ABC series. In all of them the hypothetical notion of empowerment gives way to the exercise of literal power. So too in crime novels written by women who specialize in the disordered or deranged mind. Genre art has its own limitations. But its strength is that it seeks to reanimate archetypes and is indifferent to ideological fashion.
“Everything is about power,” Patricia Cornwell, whose best-selling Scarpetta series is thick with forensic detail, maintained in an e-mail message, when asked what she made of the Bishop case. “The more women appropriate power, the more their behavior will mimic that of other powerful people.” Also: “Firearms are the great equalizer. You don’t have to be 6 foot 2 and weigh 200 pounds to kill a room full of people.”
Chelsea Cain, the author of a crime series that reverses the formula of “The Silence of the Lambs,” pitting a male detective against a female serial killer, suggested that Dr. Bishop is the latest version of an ancient figure, “the mother lioness that kills to protect herself and her family against perceived threats.”
In fact two middle-aged classics of genre literature eerily prefigure aspects of the Bishop case. In William March’s 1954 novel “The Bad Seed,” later adapted for both stage and film, an 8-year-old girl viciously murders a classmate but is protected by her mother, only to kill again. This parallels the allegations in Dr. Bishop’s case, at least according to the resurfaced police report on the death of her brother nearly a quarter-century ago.
No genre writer had sharper antennae than Shirley Jackson, whose gothic classic, “We Have Always Lived in the Castle,” first published in 1962, was reissued last fall. Its narrator is an 18-year-old multiple murderess who lives with her devoted sister and fantasizes about killing again. She is “socially maladroit, highly self-conscious, and disdainful of others,” Joyce Carol Oates wrote in a penetrating essay recently in The New York Review of Books. “She is ‘special.’ ” Words that ring ominously in the context of Dr. Bishop.
Ms. Oates, of course, has examined violence as thoroughly as any living American writer. When I asked her what she made of the case, she drew an implicit comparison between Dr. Bishop and Shirley Jackson’s narrator: “She is a sociopath and has been enabled through her life by individuals around her who shielded her from punishment.”
Ms. Oates’s feminist credentials are in good order. But her assessment comes from beyond the realm of predigested doctrine. It echoes the blunt assertion made by Ms. Cornwell: “People kill because they can. Women can be just as violent as men.”
–
Sam Tanenhaus, The New York Times, February 24, 2010

Why did Tony Blair, in his ten years as Prime Minister, do exactly what the White House wanted on so many occasions? That’s the juicy question buried in the depths of Roman Polanski’s “The Ghost Writer,” an extraordinarily precise and well-made political thriller—the best thing Polanski has done since the seventies, when he brought out the incomparable “Chinatown” and the very fine “Tess.” A few blogging goons have kneecapped the movie for not providing enough thrills, but that’s the wrong critical direction to go in. The director of “Repulsion,” “Rosemary’s Baby,” and “Macbeth” long ago put away his knives. “The Ghost Writer” offers not the blood and terror of Polanski’s early work but the steady pleasures of high intelligence and unmatchable craftsmanship—bristling, hyper-articulate dialogue (the stabs are verbal, and they hurt) and a stunning over-all design that has been color-coördinated to the point of aesthetic mania. Working with the British writer Robert Harris, whose 2007 novel, “The Ghost,” serves as the basis of the movie, Polanski fed the political material—troubling stuff about rendition and C.I.A. collaboration—into the mazy convolutions of a neo-Hitchcock story. He presents the entire movie from the restricted point of view of a likable young man, a hard-drinking, cash-poor writer (Ewan McGregor), who has been hired to finish the memoirs of Adam Lang (Pierce Brosnan), a former Prime Minister clearly modelled on Blair. The writer, who is known in the credits as “the Ghost” (he is never named—the P.M. calls him “man”), is not the first to work at this job. The previous ghostwriter has been found dead on a beach in Martha’s Vineyard, near the house of Lang’s publisher, where the P.M. and his entourage have gathered to work on the book. The Ghost is in trouble from the beginning, and he knows it, but he needs money and self-respect, and he forges on.

The picture is set mostly in the United States, but Polanski, of course, can’t work here, so he used the drab German North Sea coast as a double for the Vineyard in winter. The publisher’s mansion has the island’s requisite gray shingles, yet it’s not some gracious Victorian affair. Instead, it’s a giant modernist shoebox, with generous interior spaces and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on dunes and a dark ocean. The interiors are all chic designer cement walls and flat or sharply angled surfaces; there’s not a curve anywhere, and hardly a cushion. This punitive luxury was created, as a set (by Albrecht Konrad), at Babelsberg studio, in Berlin, and the views through the windows are either projections or digital reconstructions. Looking through those portals, you appear to be seeing a movie of some sort, a tone poem in gray that refuses to reveal its mysteries. The skies are ashen, the rain never stops, and the writer, when he goes out on a bicycle for some air, gets blinded by the wet. For us, this mock-American landscape is a fascinating bad dream, half familiar, half strange. The cinematographer, Pawel Edelman, turns the constant downpour and gloom into a beautiful, slate-colored curtain—or perhaps I should say shroud. Polanski wants an atmosphere of daunting indefiniteness, a subdued but enveloping field of lies and secrecy, impenetrable to the Ghost, who is lost among power players far too clever for him. I don’t know when I’ve seen menace rendered with such delicate but persistent force.

The P.M.’s manuscript is also gray—maddeningly bland and opaque, a veil of debonair evasion. As the Ghost tries to bring it to life, allegations appear in the press that Lang, when he was P.M., illegally turned over captured terror suspects to the C.I.A. for rendition and torture; a former minister from Lang’s cabinet even insists that his old boss should be tried by the International Criminal Court, in The Hague. Suddenly, the house is besieged by antiwar protesters. Playing a powerful man in exile, repudiated and hated by his own party and by many of his countrymen, Pierce Brosnan gives the strongest performance of his rather lazy career. He doesn’t imitate Blair; he offers his own interpretation of a public man’s impersonally brisk and hardened charm—the smile is reflexive, dazzling, and savage. Lang tells stories about his youth with hearty indifference to their phoniness—even in retreat, he’s a calculating pol, playing the angles, manipulating his eager amanuensis. And, when Lang is criticized or challenged in any way, Brosnan’s charm dissolves into fury; he catches the defensive self-righteousness of power, a leader’s disbelief that anyone might be seeing through him. Brosnan is matched by the wonderful English actress Olivia Williams, as Ruth, Lang’s brilliant wife and longtime political adviser. Ruth has lost her husband’s love—and, more important, his ear—and is taking it hard. Slender and tense, with short dark hair, Williams pulls her legs up under her chin as she sits in the discomforting house. (Her Ruth is so angular and hard-edged that she actually seems to belong in this place, where it’s impossible to hide.) Williams’s gaze could sear the fat off a lamb shank, and her line delivery is withering, yet Ruth is badly wounded, and Williams makes her sympathetic—she’s one of the rare actresses who seem more intelligent and beautiful as they get angrier. Polanski observes the character quirks, the long-standing relations strained by the worsening disgrace of Lang’s situation—there’s something, we see, in the frayed connection of husband and wife that could be more significant than hurt feelings. Tom Wilkinson and Eli Wallach (as a very old, entirely sane hermit living on the beach) make strong appearances, too. The only flaw in the ensemble is Kim Cattrall, who, as Lang’s assistant and mistress, can’t stop smirking (Cattrall lets us know that something dirty is going on). The movie is organically structured—nothing is overstressed, but nothing is wasted, either. The banal manuscript, for instance, assumes an almost totemic power as it’s read, handled, edited, rewritten. It contains secrets finally discovered, decoded.

Life for the Ghost takes a dangerous turn when he finds evidence that Lang is lying about many things, and becomes even more dangerous when Ruth climbs into bed with him. Ewan McGregor’s career got off track in “Star Wars” foolishness, but this movie may put him back in good roles, where he belongs. He’s such a charming actor—avid, bright-eyed, yet slightly acid and self-deprecating, too. His writer, initially no more than a sleepless, overworked hack, grows tired of being a ghost; he wants to be palpable, a man, and he asks questions of powerful people that could get him killed. Polanski takes care that the Ghost’s story is never rushed, mauled, or artificially heightened—the usual style of thrillers now (see “Shutter Island” and every week’s buddy-buddy cop movie for the latest examples). Polanski respects physical plausibility and the passage of time; he wants our belief in his improbable tale, just as Hitchcock did. There may be nothing formally inventive in this kind of classical technique, but, in the hands of a master, it’s smooth and satisfying, and I suggest, dear reader, that you gaze upon it, because it’s all but gone in today’s moviemaking world. Here it works its old magic. You understand, at every instant, what the Ghost feels and knows, and you fear for him. There’s not much violence in the movie, but your scalp tightens anyway.

“The Ghost Writer” plays off the British public’s disillusion with Tony Blair and the recurring complaints about Blair’s alleged collaboration with the C.I.A. Yet, when Lang is cornered by the Ghost, the P.M. speaks with impressive conviction. In effect, he defends the use of torture; he takes the Cheneyesque hard line, ridiculing liberals who want safety and, at the same time, the luxury of high-mindedness. The answer to the question of why he’s so acquiescent to the Americans is worked out in thriller (rather than policy) terms. It’s the kind of supposition that may strike viewers, here and in Britain, as frivolous, or just plain wrong, but it’s a fine piece of mischief—suggestive, wounding to Blair, and, as a fiction, emotionally gratifying in the way of le Carré’s conspiracy plots.

Brosnan’s performance is so forceful in the climactic scene with the Ghost that I don’t think you could easily say where Polanski’s own feelings about rendition lie. But I would guess that he’s split in his personal sympathies—he’s both the man accused of crimes and the Ghost longing to assert his full humanity. Polanski edited the movie while in jail and then under house arrest in Switzerland; the movie’s narrative of an exiled man trapped in a house overtook his own disordered life. He concludes “The Ghost Writer” with a twin flourish: first, a virtuoso travelling shot of an explosive note slowly but inexorably passed through many hands at a social occasion until it reaches its destination, and then a final shot of Lang’s manuscript, the fluttering pages now forlornly scattered about a London street. As in the famous last sequence of “Chinatown,” Polanski is close to despair, but his rejuvenation as a film director is a sign of hope.

–
David Denby, The New Yorker, 8 March 2010

Dictionaries have been removed from classrooms in southern California schools after a parent complained about a child reading the definition for “oral sex”.

Merriam Webster’s 10th edition, which has been used for the past few years in fourth and fifth grade classrooms (for children aged nine to 10) in Menifee Union school district, has been pulled from shelves over fears that the “sexually graphic” entry is “just not age appropriate”, according to the area’s local paper.

The dictionary’s online definition of the term is “oral stimulation of the genitals”. “It’s hard to sit and read the dictionary, but we’ll be looking to find other things of a graphic nature,” district spokeswoman Betti Cadmus told the paper.

While some parents have praised the move – “[it's] a prestigious dictionary that’s used in the Riverside County spelling bee, but I also imagine there are words in there of concern,” said Randy Freeman – others have raised concerns. “It is not such a bad thing for a kid to have the wherewithal to go and look up a word he may have even heard on the playground,” father Jason Rogers told local press. “You have to draw the line somewhere. What are they going to do next, pull encyclopaedias because they list parts of the human anatomy like the penis and vagina?”

A panel is now reviewing whether the Menifee ban will be made permanent. The Merriam Webster dictionary joins an illustrious set of books that have been banned or challenged in the US, including Nobel prize winner Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon, which last year was suspended from and then reinstated to the curriculum at a Michigan school after complaints from parents about its coverage of graphic sex and violence, and titles by Khaled Hosseini and Philip Pullman, included in the American Library Association’s list of books that inspired most complaints last year.

–

Alison Flood, The Guardian, Monday 25 January

Illustration by Jill Calder

On the first anniversary of the American novelist’s death, a new short story by Julian Barnes.
–

‘I thought that went very well,” Jane said, patting her handbag as the train doors closed with a pneumatic thump. Their carriage was nearly empty, its air warm and stale.

Alice knew to treat the remark as a question seeking reassurance. “You were certainly on good form.”

“Oh, I had a nice room for a change. It always helps.”

“They liked that story of yours about Graham Greene.”

“They usually do,” Jane replied with a slight air of complacency.

“I’ve always meant to ask you, is it true?”

“You know, I never worry about that any more. It fills a slot.”

When had they first met? Neither could quite remember. It must have been nearly forty years ago, during that time of interchangeable parties: the same white wine, the same hysterical noise level, the same publishers’ speeches. Perhaps it had been at a PEN do, or when they’d been shortlisted for the same literary prize. Or maybe during that long, drunken summer when Alice had been sleeping with Jane’s agent, for reasons she could no longer recall or, even at the time, justify.

“In a way, it’s a relief we’re not famous.”

“Is it?” Jane looked puzzled, and a little dismayed, as if she thought they were.

“Well, I imagine we’d have readers coming to see us time and again. They’d expect some new anecdotes. I don’t think either of us has told a new story in years.”

“Actually, we do have people coming to see us again and again. Just fewer than . . . if we were famous. Anyway, I think they like hearing the same stories. When we’re on stage we’re not literature, we’re sitcom. You have to have catchphrases.”

“Like your Graham Greene story.”

“I think of that as a bit more than a . . . catchphrase, Alice.”

“Don’t prickle, dear. It doesn’t suit.” Alice couldn’t help noticing the sheen of sweat on her friend’s face. All from the effort of getting from taxi to platform, then platform to train. And why did women carrying rather more poundage than was wise think floral prints were the answer? Bravado rarely worked with clothes, in Alice’s opinion – at least, after a certain age.

When they had become friends, both were freshly married and freshly published. They had watched over each other’s children, sympathised through divorces, recommended each other’s books as Christmas reading. Each privately liked the other’s work a little less than they said, but then, they also liked everyone else’s work a little less than they said, so hypocrisy didn’t come into it. Jane was embarrassed when Alice referred to herself as an artist rather than a writer, and thought her books strove to appear more highbrow than they were; Alice found Jane’s work rather formless, and at times bleatingly autobiographical. Each had had a little more success than they had anticipated, but less, looking back, than they thought they deserved. Mike Nichols had taken an option on Alice’s Triple Sec, but eventually pulled out; some journeyman from telly had come in and made it crassly sexual. Not that Alice put it like this; she would say, with a faint smile, that the adaptation had “skimped on the book’s withholdingness”, a phrase some found baffling. Jane, for her part, had been second favourite for the Booker with The Primrose Path, had spent a fortune on a frock, rehearsed her speech with Alice, and then lost out to some fashionable Antipodean.

“Who did you hear it from, just out of interest?”

“What?”

“The Graham Greene story.”

“Oh, that chap . . . you know, that chap who used to publish us both.”

“Jim?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Jane, how can you possibly forget Jim’s name?”

“Well, I just did.” The train blasted through some village halt, too fast to catch the signboard. Why did Alice need to be so stern? She wasn’t exactly spotless herself. “By the way, did you ever sleep with him?”

Alice frowned slightly. “You know, to be perfectly honest, I can’t remember. Did you?”

“I can’t either. But I suppose if you did, then I probably did as well.”

“Doesn’t that make me sound a bit of a tart?”

“I don’t know. I thought it made me sound more of a tart.” Jane laughed, to cover the uncertainty.

“Do you think it’s good or bad – that fact that we can’t remember?”

Jane felt back on stage, facing a question she was unprepared for. So she did what she would have done there, and referred the matter back to Alice: the team leader, head girl, moral authority.

“What do you think?”

“Good, definitely.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I think it best to have a zen approach to that sort of thing.”

Sometimes, Alice’s poise could make her rather too oblique for ordinary mortals. “Are you saying it’s Buddhist to forget who you slept with?”

“It could be.”

“I thought Buddhism was about things coming round again in different lives?”

“Well that would explain why we slept with so many pigs.”

They looked at one another companionably. They made a good team. When they were first asked to literary festivals, they soon realised it would be more fun to appear as a double act. Together they had played Hay and Edinburgh, Charleston and King’s Lynn, Dartington and Dublin; even Adelaide and Toronto. They travelled together, saving their publishers the cost of minders. Onstage, they finished one other’s sentences, covered up each other’s gaffes, were satirically punitive with male interviewers who tried to patronise them, and urged signing queues to buy the other one’s book. The British Council had sent them on a few trips until Jane, less than entirely sober, had made some unambassadorial remarks in Munich.

“What’s the worst thing anyone’s done to you?”

“Are we still talking bed?”

“Mmm.”

“Jane, what a question.”

“Well, we’re bound to be asked it sooner or later. The way everything’s going.”

“I’ve never been raped, if that’s what you’re asking. At least,” Alice went on reflectively, “not what the courts would call rape.”

“So?”

When Alice didn’t answer, Jane said: “I’ll look at the landscape while you’re thinking.” She gazed, with vague benignity, at trees, fields, hedgerows, livestock. She had always been a town person, and her interest in the countryside was largely pragmatic: a flock of sheep only signified roast lamb.

“It’s not something . . . obvious. But I’d say it was Simon.”

“Simon as in the novelist or as in the publisher or as in Simon but you don’t know him?”

“Simon the novelist. It was not long after I was divorced. He phoned up and suggested coming round. Said he’d bring a bottle of wine. Which he did. When it became pretty clear that he wasn’t going to get what he’d come for, he corked up the rest of it and took the bottle home.”

“What was it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, was it champagne?”

Alice thought for a moment. “It can’t have been champagne because you can’t get the cork back into the bottle. Do you mean was it French or Italian or white or red?”

Jane could tell from the tone that Alice was riled. “I don’t know what I meant actually. That’s bad.”

“What’s bad? Not remembering what you meant?”

“No, putting the cork back in the bottle. Really bad.” She left an ex-actress’s pause. “I suppose it might have been symbolic.”

Alice giggled, and Jane could tell the moment had only been a hiccup.

Encouraged, she put on her sitcom voice. “Got to laugh after a bit, haven’t you?”

“I suppose so,” replied Alice. “It’s either that or get religion.”

Jane might have let the moment pass. But Alice’s reference to Buddhism had given her courage, and besides, what are friends for? Even so, she looked out of the window to confess. “Actually, I’ve got it if you want to know. A little anyway.”

“Really? Since when? Or rather, why?”

“A year or two. It sort of makes sense of things. Makes it all feel less . . . hopeless.” Jane stroked her handbag, as if it too needed consolation.

Alice was surprised. In her world view, everything was hopeless, but you just had to get on with it. And there wasn’t much point changing what you believed at this late stage of the game. She considered whether to answer seriously or lightly, and decided on the latter.

“As long as your god allows drinking and smoking and fornication.”

“Oh, he’s very keen on all of those.”

“How about blasphemy? I always think that the key test. When it comes to a god.”

“He’s indifferent. He sort of rises above it.”

“Then I approve.”

“That’s what he does. Approves.”

“Makes a change. For a god, I mean. Mostly they disapprove.”

“I don’t think I’d want a god who disapproved. Get enough of that in life anyway. Mercy and forgiveness and understanding, that’s what we need. Plus the notion of some overall plan.”

“Did he find you or you find him, if that makes sense as a question?”

“Perfect sense,” replied Jane. “I suppose you could say it was mutual.”

“That sounds . . . comfy.”

“Yes, most people don’t think a god ought to be comfy.”

“What’s that line? Something like: ‘God will forgive me, it’s his job’?”

“Quite right too. I think we’ve overcomplicated God down the ages.”

The sandwich trolley came past, and Jane ordered tea without milk. From her handbag she took a slice of lemon in a plastic box, and a miniature of cognac from the hotel minibar. She liked to play a little unacknowledged game with her publishers: the better her room, the less she pillaged. Last night she had slept well, so contented herself with only the cognac and whisky. But once, in Cheltenham, after a poor audience and a lumpy mattress, she was in such a rage that she’d taken everything: the alcohol, the peanuts, the chocolate, the bottle opener, even the ice tray.

The trolley clattered away. Alice found herself regretting the days of proper restaurant cars with silver service and white-jacketed waiters skilled at delivering vegetables with clasped fork and spoon while outside the landscape lurched. Life, she thought, was mostly about the gradual loss of pleasure. She and Jane had given up sex at about the same time. She was no longer interested in drink; Jane had stopped caring about food – or at least its quality. Alice gardened; Jane did crosswords, occasionally saving time by filling in answers which couldn’t possibly be right.

Jane was glad Alice never rebuked her for taking a drink earlier than some. She felt a rush of affection for this poised, unmessy friend who always made sure that they caught their train.

“That was a nice young man who interviewed us,” said Alice. “Properly respectful.”

“He was to you. But he did that thing to me.”

“What thing?”

“Didn’t you notice?” Jane gave a sigh of self-pity. “When he mentioned all those books that my latest reminded him of. And you can’t very well say you haven’t read some of them or you’ll look like an ignoramus. So you go along with it and then everyone assumes that’s where you got your ideas from.”

Alice thought this unduly paranoid. “They weren’t thinking that, Jane. More likely they were writing him down as a show-off. And they loved it when he mentioned Moby-Dick and you put your head on one side and said: ‘Is that the one with the whale?’”

“Yes.”

“Jane, you’re not telling me you haven’t read Moby-Dick?”

“Did it look as if I hadn’t?”

“No, not at all.”

“Good. Well, I wasn’t exactly lying. I saw the film. Gregory Peck. Was it good?”

“The film?”

“No, the book, silly.”

“Since you ask, I haven’t read it either.”

“Alice you’re such a friend, you know.”

“Do you read those young men everyone’s going on about?”

“Which ones?”

“The ones everyone’s going on about.”

“No. I think they’ve got quite enough readers already, don’t you?”

Their own sales were holding up, just about. A couple of thousand in hardback, twenty or so in paper. They still had a certain name-recognition. Alice wrote a weekly column about life’s uncertainties and misfortunes, though Jane thought it could be improved by more references to Alice’s own life and fewer to Epictetus. Jane was still in demand when radio programmes needed someone to fill the Social Policy/Woman/Non-Professional/Humour slot; though one producer had firmly added “BIM” to her contact details, meaning “Best in Morning”.

Jane wanted to keep the mood going. “What about the young women everyone’s going on about?”

“I suppose I pretend a little more to have read them than with the boys.”

“So do I. Is that bad?”

“No, I think it’s sisterly.”

Jane flinched as a great wind-blast from a train going in the opposite direction suddenly rocked them. Why on earth did they put the tracks so close together? And instantly her head was full of helicopter news-footage: carriages jack-knifed – they always used that verb, making it sound the more violent – trains strewn at the bottom of embankments, flashing lights, stretcher crews, and in the background, one carriage mounting another like mating metal. Quickly her mind ran on to plane crashes, mass slaughter, cancer, the strangling of old ladies who lived alone, and the probable absence of immortality. The God who Approved of Things was powerless against such visions. She tipped the last of the cognac into her tea. She must get Alice to distract her.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, timid as a first-timer in a book-signing queue.

“Actually, I was wondering if you’d ever been jealous of me.”

“Why were you wondering that?”

“I don’t know. Just one of those stray thoughts that arrive.”

“Good. Because it’s hardly kind.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Well, if I admit I’ve been jealous of you, that makes me a mean-spirited friend. And if I say I haven’t, it sounds as if I’m so smug I can’t find anything in your life or your books worthy of jealousy.”

“Jane, I’m sorry. Put like that – I’m a bitch. Apologies.”

“Accepted. But since you ask . . .”

“Are you sure I want to hear this now?” Strange how there were still times when she underestimated Jane.

“. . . I don’t know if ‘jealous’ is the right word. But I was envious as hell about the Mike Nichols thing – until it went away. And I was pretty furious when you slept with my husband, but that was anger not jealousy, I think.”

“I suppose that was tactless of me. But he was your ex-husband by then. And back in those days everyone slept with everyone, didn’t they?” Beneath such worldliness, Alice felt pressing irritation. This again? It wasn’t as if they hadn’t discussed it to death at the time. And afterwards. And Jane had written that bloody novel about it claiming that “David” was just about to return to “Jill” when “Angela” intervened. What it didn’t say in the novel was that it was two years, not two months, on, and by that time “David” was fucking half of west London as well as “Angela”.

“It was tactless of you to tell me.”

“Yes. I suppose I hoped you’d make me stop. I needed someone to make me stop. I was a mess at the time, wasn’t I?” And they’d discussed that too. Why did some people forget what they needed to remember, and remember what was best forgotten?

“Are you sure that was the reason?”

Alice took a breath. She was damned if she was going to carry on apologising for the rest of her life. “No, I can’t really remember what the reason was at the time. I’m just guessing. Post hoc,“ she added, as if that made it more authoritative, and closed the matter. But Jane wasn’t so easily put off.

“I wonder if Derek did it because he wanted to make me jealous.”

Now Alice was feeling properly cross. “Well, thank you for that. I thought he did it because he couldn’ t resist the many charms I had to offer in those days.”

Jane remembered how much decolletage Alice used to show. Nowadays it was all well-cut trouser suits with a cashmere sweater and a silk scarf knotted around the tortoise neck. Back then it had been more like someone holding up a fruit bowl in your direction. Yes, men were simple beings, and Derek was simpler than most, so maybe it was all really about a cunning bra.

Not entirely changing the subject, she found herself asking: “Are you going to write your memoirs, by the way?”

Alice shook her head. “Too depressing.”

“Remembering all that stuff?”

“No, not the remembering – or the making up. The publishing, the putting it out there. I can just about live with the fact that a distinctly finite number of people want to read my novels. But imagine writing your autobiography, trying to summarise all you’ve known and seen and felt and learnt and suffered in your fifty-odd years . . .”

“Fifty!”

“I only start counting at sixteen, didn’t you know? Before that I wasn’t sentient, let alone responsible for what I was.”

Perhaps that was the secret of Alice’s admirable, indefatigable poise. Every few years she drew a line under what had gone before and declined further responsibility. As with Derek. “Go on.”

“. . . only to find that there was no one extra out there wanting to know. Or perhaps even fewer people.”

“You could put lots of sex in it. They like the idea of old . . .”

“Biddies?” Alice raised an eyebrow. “Bats?”

“. . . bats like us coming clean about sex. Old men look boastful when they remember their conquests. Old women come across as brave.”

“Be that as it may, you’ve got to have slept with someone famous.” Derek could never be accused of fame. Nor could Simon the novelist, let alone one’s own publisher. “Either that or you’ve got to have done something peculiarly disgusting.”

Jane thought her friend was being disingenuous. “Isn’t John Updike famous?”

“He only twinkled at me.”

“Alice! I saw you with my own eyes perched on his knee.”

Alice gave a tight smile. She could remember it all quite clearly: someone’s flat in Little Venice, the usual faces, a Byrds LP playing, a background smell of dope, the famous visiting writer, her own sudden forwardness. “I perched, as you put it, on his knee. And he twinkled at me. End of story.”

“But you told me . . .”

“No I didn’t.”

“But you let me understand . . .”

“Well, one has one’s pride.”

“You mean?”

“I mean he said he had an early start the next day. Paris, Copenhagen, wherever. Book tour. You know.”

“The headache excuse.”

“Precisely.”

“Well,” said Jane, trying to hide a sudden surge of jauntiness, “I’ve always believed that writers get more out of things going wrong than things going right. It’s the only profession in which failure can be put to good use.”

“I don’t think ‘failure’ exactly describes my moment with John Updike.”

“Of course not, darling.”

“And you are, if you don’t mind my saying so, coming on a little like a self-help book.” Or like you sound on Woman’s Hour, brightly telling others how to live.

“Am I?”

“The point is, even if personal failure can be properly transformed into art, it still leaves you where you were when you started.”

“And where’s that?”

“Not having slept with John Updike.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m jealous of him twinkling at you.”

“You’re a friend,” Alice replied, but her tone betrayed her.

They fell silent. Some large station went by.

“Was that Swindon?” Jane asked, to make it sound as if they weren’t quarrelling.

“Probably.”

“Do you think we have many readers in Swindon?” Oh, come on, Alice, don’t get huffy on me. Or rather, don’t let’s get huffy on one another.

“What do you think?”

Jane didn’t know what to think. She was half in a panic. She reached for a sudden fact. “It’s the largest town in England without a university.”

“How do you know that?” Alice asked, trying to make it sound as if she was envious.

“Oh, it’s just the sort of thing I know. I expect I got it from Moby-Dick.”

They laughed contentedly, complicitly. Silence fell. After a while they passed Reading, and each gave the other credit for not pointing out the Gaol or going on about Oscar Wilde. Jane went to the loo, or perhaps to consult the minibar in her handbag. Alice found herself wondering if it were better to take life seriously or lightly. Or was that a false antithesis, merely a way of feeling superior? Jane, it seemed to her, was a person who took life lightly, until it went wrong, when she reached for serious solutions like God. Better to take life seriously, and reach for light solutions. Satire, for instance; or suicide. Why did people hold so fast to life, that thing they were given without being consulted? All lives were failures, in Alice’s reading of the world, and Jane’s platitude about turning failure into art was fluffy fantasy. Anyone who understood art knew that it never achieved what its maker dreamed for it. Art always fell short, and the artist, far from rescuing something from the disaster of life, was thereby condemned to be a double failure.

When Jane returned, Alice was busy folding up the sections of newspaper she would keep to read over the boiled egg she often had on a Sunday night. This was vanity rather than principled abstinence. Their mothers would have worn a girdle or corset, but their mothers were long dead, and their girdles and corsets with them. Jane had always been overweight – that was one of the things Derek had complained about; and his habit of criticising his ex-wife either before or shortly after he and Alice went to bed together had been one of her reasons for finishing with him. It wasn’t sisterliness, more disapproval of a lack of class in the man.

Subsequently, Jane had got quite a bit larger, what with her drinking and a taste for things like buns at tea-time. Buns! There really were a few things women should grow out of. Even if petty vices proved crowd-pleasing when coyly confessed into a microphone. And as for Moby-Dick, it had been perfectly clear to all and sundry that Jane had never read a word of it. Still, that was the constant advantage of appearing with Jane – it made her, Alice, look better: lucid, sober, well-read, slim. How long would it be before Jane published a novel about an overweight writer with a drink problem who finds a god to approve of her? Bitch, Alice thought to herself. You really could do with the scourge of one of those old punitive religions. Stoical atheism is too morally neutral for you.

Guilt made her hug Jane a little longer as they neared the head of the taxi queue at Paddington.

“Are you going to the Authors of the Year party at Hatchards?”

“I was an Author of the Year last year. This year I’m a Forgotten Author.”

“Now, don’t get maudlin, Jane. But since you’re not going, I shan’t either.”

Alice said this firmly, while aware that she might later change her mind.

“So where are we off to next?”

“Is it Edinburgh?”

“Could be. That’s your taxi.”

“Bye, partner. You’re the best.”

“So are you.”

They kissed again.

Later, over her boiled egg Alice found her mind drifting from the cultural pages to Derek. Yes, he had been an oaf, but one with such an appetite for her that it had all seemed not worth questioning. And at the time Jane hadn’t seemed to care; only later had she started to become resentful. Alice wondered if this was something to do with Jane, or the nature of time; but she failed to reach a conclusion, and went back to the newspaper.

Jane, meanwhile, in another part of London, was watching television, and picking up her cheese on toast with her fingers, not caring where the crumbs fell. Her hand occasionally slipped a little on the wine glass. Some female Euro-politician on the News reminded her of Alice, and she thought about their long friendship, and how, when they were on stage together, Alice always played the senior partner, and she always acquiesced. Was this because she had a subservient nature, or because she thought it made her, Jane, come across as nicer? Unlike Alice, she never minded owning up to weaknesses. So maybe it was time to admit the gaps in her reading. She could start in Edinburgh. That was a trip to look forward to. She imagined these jaunts of theirs going on into the future until . . . what? The television screen was replaced by an image of herself dropping dead on a near-empty train coming back from somewhere. What did they do when that happened? Stop the train – at Swindon, say – and take the body off, or just prop her up in her seat as if she was asleep or drunk and continue on to London? There must be a protocol written down somewhere. But how could they give a place of death if she was on a moving train at the time? And what would Alice do, if her body was taken off? Would she loyally accompany her dead friend, or find some high-minded argument for staying on the train? It suddenly seemed very important to be reassured that Alice wouldn’t abandon her. She looked across at the telephone, wondering what Alice was doing at that moment. But then she imagined the small, disapproving silence before Alice answered her question, a silence which would somehow imply that her friend was needy, self-dramatising and overweight. Jane sighed, reached for the remote, and changed channels.

From poetry to lengthy prose, creative writing can be a great way to express yourself. Of course, even the best students and writers can use a few tips, a little inspiration and a whole lot of help getting their work out there. These blogs offer all of that and more. From blogs that focus on writers still trying to make it in the publishing world to those providing updates from best selling authors, you’ll find all kinds of information geared towards improving and informing your creative writing.

General

These blogs cover a wide range of issues for students of the written word.

1. Writer Unboxed: Learn both about the creative and business sides of fiction writing from this great blog.
2. Backstory: Ever wonder where writers get their inspiration? You’ll find loads of posts that record just that and you can contribute your own stories as well.
3. Write Anything: Check out this multi-author blog to find writing challenges, inspiration and shared writing.
4. Inkygirl: Daily Diversions for Writers: This blogger not only posts about using the Internet to improve your writing but posts her own comics frequently as well.
5. Women on Writing: Get information on writing geared just towards female writers out there.
6. Cute Writing: Here you’ll find posts on writing, blogging and publishing and many articles focus on ways to make your work more efficient.
7. Write to Done: If you enjoy the blog Zen Habits, you’ll appreciate this blog by the same author. This site focuses on simple, effective ways to write more, better.
8. The Urban Muse: Freelance writer Susan Johnston provides tips and tidbits for other working writers out there.
9. Writing Forward: From grammar tips to ideas for improving your creative writing, check out the helpful posts on this site.
10. Writer’s Write: This blog is a great place to find information about writers, books and the publishing world.
11. Creative Writing Corner: Connect with your creative side through the posts on this blog.
12. Creative Writing Contests: Want to challenge your creative skills? This blog can direct you to the great number of writing competitions out there.

Aspiring Authors

These bloggers are writing on the ‘net and off, still waiting to get their best work published.

13. The Desperate Writer: This writer and cosmetologist shares her stories on this blog, both personal and creative.
14. Incurable Disease of Writing: Blogger Missy is getting her degree in creative writing and posts about her experiences on this site.
15. Emerging Writers Network: If you’re just getting started in your writing career, check out this site to learn about the ins and outs of writing and about other writers working towards success.
16. Ficticity: Check out this site to find posted stories, writing tips and even a few book reviews.
17. Authors’ Blogs: This isn’t just one blog, but a collection of numerous aspiring writers sites, so you can take your pick of reading material.
18. Plot Monkeys: These four bloggers talk about everything from their everyday lives to the books they love.
19. Maternal Spark: Moms who love to write or create on the side

Published Authors

Get some advice, inspiration and motivation from these authors doing what they love and getting paid for it.

20. The Orwell Diaries: Most writers are familiar with the work of George Orwell. Here you’ll find regular postings from his personal diaries.
21. Tom Conoby’s Writing Blog: This blogger shares his thoughts on books he reads, his own writing and much more.
22. John Baker’s Blog: This working writer shares his passions– reading and writing– on this site.
23. The Man In Black: Young mystery writer Jason Pinter shares his thoughts on just about everything on this blog.
24. Neil Gaiman’s Journal: This well-known writer has published a large number of books, several of which have been made into major motion pictures. Check out his blog for more about what he’s working on right now.
25. Wil Wheaton in Exile: Readers of this blog might recognize his name from his days on Star Trek: The Next Generation but these days this actor spends more of this time writing books and posting on his blog.
26. A Writer’s Life: Love the TV series Monk? Learn more about the writer behind the books the series is based on from this blog.
27. The Paperback Writer: With several published books under her belt, this blogger shares her writing tips as well as information about her personal life.
28. Pocket Full of Words: Novelist Holly Lisle shares her experiences as a writer on her blog.
29. Beyond the Beyond: Bruce Sterling has written numerous science fiction novels and now shares his thoughts on science and technology on his WIRED blog.
30. Contrary Brin: Scientist and author David Brin maintains this site where readers can talk about issues from his books or just about anything else.
31. Scott Berkun: This author teaches creative thinking, writes books and give public talks. Read about his writing adventures and otherwise here.

Improving Your Craft

Get some tips on becoming a better writer from these blogs.

32. Becoming a Writer Seriously: Aspiring writers can find all kinds of helpful advice and guidance on this blog.
33. WordSwimmer: Learn to understand the writing process a little better with a little help from blogger Bruce Black. There are loads of interviews with authors as well as suggestions on improving your writing.
34. Time to Write: Blogger Jurgen Wolff wants to strike a creative spark in writers of all kinds by providing tips and inspiration here.
35. Flogging the Quill: Check out this blog to learn more about the craft of creative storytelling.
36. Six Sentences: What can you write in six sentences? Share your attempt at this writing exercise on this blog.
37. Luc Reid: From tips on finding time to practice writing to information about the publishing industry, you’ll find loads of helpful posts on this blog.
38. The Writing Show: While more podcast than true blog, this site is a good place for writers to get answers to their questions and get help finding inspiration.
39. Men With Pens: Whether you’re a writer freelancing or just writing for fun, you’ll find tips on how to do it better on this blog.
40. Write a Better Novel: Make sure whatever you’re writing will get the attention it deserves when time comes to get it published. This blog provides all kinds of information on creating a better novel, no matter the subject.
41. Write Better: Here you’ll find a wide range of writing tips to get your creative writing in top shape.
42. Clear Writing with Mr. Clarity: Learn to get to the point and write clearly and concisely whether you’re writing a letter at work or working on a book.
43. Mike’s Writing Workshop: This blogger is all about posting things that can help writers get better and get inspired.
44. Kim’s Craft Blog: Learn about writing fiction, memoirs and other creative writing from this writer who teaches courses at The Cambridge Center for Adult Education.

Grammar and Editing

You may have the best ideas but that doesn’t mean much if you can’t write them well. These blogs will help you tune up your writing so it’s publish-worthy.

45. GrammarBlog: Laugh at the grammar and spelling errors of others while getting tips on improving your own skills on this blog.
46. Evil Editor: This editor might be evil, but the tips provided on this blog can really help you refine your stories.
47. Blue Pencil Editing: This blog is both a good resource for working editors and and writers in search of a little guidance.
48. Editing and Proofreading Hints and Tips: Get simple tips on improving your editing process from this blog.
49. Headsup: the blog: Here you’ll find posts about the sometimes frustrating world of editing and learn what not to do.
50. Grammarphobia: This site offers readers the chance to ask their own grammar and language questions and get answers.
51. Apostrophe Abuse: Think you know how to use the apostrophe? This blog might teach you otherwise.
52. Daily Writing Tips: Get some daily advice on how to improve the basics of your writing.
53. ProWriting Tips: This blog is home to numerous grammar and writing tips.
54. The Engine Room: JD, a copy editor, runs this blog all about language use that can help you get a handle on your usage.
55. Cheryl Norman, Grammar Cop: If you’ve got some questions about grammar that need answering, visit this blog.
56. English4Today: Get a handle on the English language through the guidance of blogger Anthony Hughes.

Getting Published

The ultimate goal for many students and professionals working on creative writing is to get work published. This blogs can help you learn about the business, get your work out there, or even publish it yourself.

57. Ask Allison: Ask your questions about breaking publishing and gets answers from this helpful blogger.
58. Guide to Literary Agents: Get some tips on where and how to find a literary agent to represent your work when the time comes.
59. Beacon Literary Services: Emerging writers and those with a little experience under their belts alike can take advantage of the publishing advice offered here.
60. Questions and Quandaries: This Writers Digest blog answers a wide variety of questions about publishing.
61. Writer Beware Blogs: While you may be desperate to get your work out there make sure you protect yourself from scams. The information in this blog can help you stay safe.
62. The Swivet: Colleen Lindsay is a literary agent and you can read her reactions to recent publications and if you meet her requirements even submit your own work.
63. The Rejecter: This blogger isn’t a literary agent but an assistant to one, the person you’ll have to go through to get your work published, and she posts all about her work on this blog.
64. Booksquare: This blog works to dissect the publishing industry so you can learn it inside and out.
65. Pubrants: Literary agent Kristen blogs about everything publishing from queries to working with writers.
66. Nathan Bransford Literary Agent: Want to know more about literary agents and the publishing world? Check out this blog.
67. Practicing Writing: This blog posts plenty on writing advice as well as the latest publishing opportunities.
68. Bob Baker’s Full-Time Author Blog: Thinking of making the leap to being a full-time writer? This blog can be a great resource on publishing your own book to set the stage.
69. Future Perfect Publishing: Explore all the possibilities for publishing that are out there through the help of this blog by Tom Masters.

Genre Focused

These creative writing blogs focus on one particular type of writing, such as mysteries, romance and fantasy.

70. Storytellers Unplugged: This multi-author blog is contributed to by writers, editors and publishers and can give you a great background on writing in a wide range of genres.
71. Gibberish: Science fiction and fantasy writer Jayme Lynn Blaschke posts about his writing and more on this site.
72. SF Signal: From books to movies, you can keep abreast of all the goings on in world of science fiction through this blog.
73. SF and Fantasy Novelists: Here you’ll find loads of information on writers working in the science fiction genre.
74. Reading, Raving and Ranting: If you’re interested in historical fiction you can read about Susan Higginbotham’s experience writing about fourteenth-century England.
75. Myth and Mystery: Novelist and contributor to the New York Times Rick Riordan is a mystery writer and you can read about his latest work on this site.
76. Type M for Murder: Learn a little bit about murder mysteries from this multi-author blog.
77. Crime Fiction Dossier: If crime fiction is your thing, you’ll learn loads from this blog by David Montgomery.
78. Jungle Red: Six mystery writers contribute to this blog that talks about writing, life, love and much more.
79. Romancing the Blog: This blog is home to numerous romance novelists who post on just about everything.

Fiction Writing

Most creative writing falls into the category of fiction, so learn more about writing great novels and stories from these blogs.

80. Advanced Fiction Writing: Written by the “mad professor” of fiction writing, this blog is geared towards inspiring you and getting you writing.
81. Writing Fiction: Here you’ll find a lively discussion about writing and publishing novels and short fiction.
82. Killer Fiction: With five published authors contributing to this blog, you’ll get loads of tips and posts on writing.
83. Ginny’s Fiction Writing Blog: Ginny Wiehardt posts about fiction writing in this About.com blog.
84. Becoming a Fiction Writer: This blogger is following her dream of becoming a fiction writer.
85. Blog Fiction: If you plan on taking to the net with your writing, this blogger can give you all kinds of tips on doing it right.
86. Fiction Writers Review: The writers who run this blog are all about reviewing books but they also discuss what works and what makes truly great fiction.
87. Angela Booth’s Writing Blog: Whether you’re writing fiction or just freelancing, you’ll find helpful writing tips on this blog.
88. Fiction Writing: The Passionate Journey: You won’t become a great writer overnight. This blog can help you start and keep going along your journey to writing success.
89. Fiction Scribe: From grammar errors to book tours, this blog talks about a wide range of issues affecting fiction writers.

Poetry

If verse is more your thing, pay these helpful blogs a visit.

90. Avoiding the Muse: Doctor, blogger and author C. Dale Young maintains this blog as well as teaching an MFA program on writing.
91. Poetry Hut Blog: Keep up to date on the latest happenings in the poetry world with this blog.
92. Poet with a Day Job: Does the title of this blog remind you of yourself? Read this blogger’s posts on writing, reading and everyday life here.
93. 1,000 Black Lines: Posts on this blog are a single line long, some of which record daily events and others that read like lines of poetry.
94. The Best American Poetry: Learn about some of the best poetry out there through this blog.
95. harriet: The Poetry Foundation maintains this blog, which posts about happenings in the poetry world and speaks directly to you, the poet.
96. Poems at the Poetry Showcase: Contribute your poetry to this blog, or read the postings of others.
97. Poets.org: The American Academy of Poets lets you know about great poetry that’s out there through their blog.
98. Poetry and Poets in Rags: This blogger is both a salesman and a poet.
99. Silliman’s Blog: Here you’ll find informative posts on contemporary poets and their work.
100. Poets Who Blog: This blog is a great resource for poets, with writing contests, posts about work and more.

–

www.bestcollegesonline.com

Quick, rescue teddy!

The all-white, overwhelmingly male selection of authors chosen by Australia Post delivers a very distorted picture of our literature.

I see that Australia Post has issued a new set of themed stamps honouring some of the nation’s most popular and celebrated writers.

The “Australian Legends of the Written Word” series from Australia Post features Peter Carey, Thomas Keneally, Colleen McCullough, Tim Winton, Bryce Courtenay and David Malouf. I don’t have a problem with any of the authors listed: they certainly are popular and celebrated. But doesn’t it seem just a little bit myopic in a white-male-Anglo-Saxonish manner? Only Malouf and McCullough would fall anywhere outside the net.

Who set the tone and selected the authors honoured here? It would be mealy-mouthed to criticise anyone included on that list; they’re all writers worthy of the honour. But, at the start of the night, a few more authors should have been added to give the stamp collection a more comprehensive and realistic vision of the current Australian literary landscape. Where are Kate Grenville, Elizabeth Jolly, Helen Garner? These women are popular, award-winning authors whose work has been published and praised overseas. Grenville, for example, has been translated into 13 languages and is a winner of the Orange prize. Why doesn’t she get a stamp? It’s not about political correctness at all, it’s about getting it right.

As well as the gender disparity, the list does nothing to indicate the cultural depth of Australian writing today. Christos Tsiolkas, a Greek-Australian author, might feel hard done by not to be included, but I guess he is not safe enough as an author. His writing is controversial, his characters often unpleasant, and his stories reveal the materialistic ennui of contemporary urban life and the social dislocation experienced by many minority groups. But here’s the thing: his recent novel The Slap has probably been the most talked about book published in Australia in the past year.

And are there no indigenous authors worthy of a literary guernsey either? Alexis Wright? Sally Morgan? What, exactly, was the criteria for eligibility? I have these horrific images of a group of white men sitting around like Bruces in the philosophy department, going through the names of contemporary authors.

I then wondered if the criteria for eligibility was related to film adaptations. Did each author need to have at least one feature film (or mini-series) adaptation to their name? Actually, no, that can’t be right, because Grenville, Garner and Tsiolkas have had their fiction turned to film.

What sort of message does this send out to the young kids of Australia? That almost all of Australia’s great writers are white men? That is demonstrably wrong and decidedly insulting. Whoever commissioned these stamps and selected the authors should be given a short lecture in contemporary Australian literary history instead of logging on to IMDB to get their facts.

–

Evan Maloney, The Guardian, Friday 22 January 2010

Some of you may have wondered, in the process of querying various agents, when and whether it’s appropriate to mention any awards you might have won for your writing. Since I don’t have time for an awesome flowchart, I’ll just give you a few general “Do”s and “Don’t”s:

Do:

· Mention any significant awards you’ve won for your writing (anything from placing in contests judged at conferences to Pushcart Prizes). Obviously if you’ve won a National Book Critics Circle Award, a Pulitzer Prize, a Hugo, an Edgar, &c, list it. (Although quite honestly, if you have, you probably already have representation.)

· Mention any significant awards you’ve won for things outside your writing so long as they’re relevant to your topic. (E.g., if you’re writing a medical memoir, mentioning your professional qualifications and awards is not only germane, it’s expected.)

· Mention any previous publications you have, excluding self-published work or work published in a magazine or anthology for which you make editorial decisions. Try to stick to short stories (mentioning where your poetry or journalism has appeared might be helpful if they’re really well-known markets, but otherwise, it’s just superfluous). Note: if you’re submitting non-fiction, any non-fiction or journalistic credits you’ve got are fair game.

Don’t:

· Mention any writing awards that are not a big deal. This includes that ninth-place award you got in your hometown (population: 200) newspaper for your short story about a cat and a dog who become bros despite the biological and social forces working against them.

· Mention any writing awards you won as a child (unless you are still a child or that award is a big deal; see above). No one cares that you got a “Most Thoughtful Essay” award in fourth grade for your three-paragraph treatise on Betsy Ross.

· Try to trick the agent. (Fun fact: everyone in the industry knows that anyone with $50 can nominate themselves for a Pulitzer. Telling us you’re nominated won’t fool us.)

· Mention where you earned your undergraduate or graduate degree(s), except maybe an MFA, and even then, be judicious. Agents are interested in your book, not the school(s) you attended. (This is not the case if your professional credentials are part of your platform; see above.)

In short: if you’ve won an award or otherwise earned some kind of recognition that you believe sets you apart from 90% of the crowd, include it. Otherwise, don’t put it in your query; when push comes to shove (and it will, gentle authors), agents and editors only care about your novel and your willingness to promote it (in that order). No more, no less.

In 1991, a book editor at Random House pulled from the heaps of unsolicited manuscripts a novel about a murder that roils a Baltimore suburb. Written by a first-time author and mother named Mary Cahill, “Carpool” was published to fanfare. Ms. Cahill was interviewed on the “Today” show. “Carpool” was a best seller.

That was the last time Random House, the largest publisher in the U.S., remembers publishing anything found in a slush pile. Today, Random House and most of its major counterparts refuse to accept unsolicited material.

JUDITH GUEST

Associated Press

When Minnesota mom Ms. Guest sent out “Ordinary People” in 1975, it was refused by the first publisher. Another wrote, “While the book has some satiric bite, overall the level of writing does not sustain interest and we will have to decline it.” It became a best seller and a movie.

Getting plucked from the slush pile was always a long shot—in large part, editors and Hollywood development executives say, because most unsolicited material has gone unsolicited for good reason. But it did happen for some: Philip Roth, Anne Frank, Judith Guest. And so to legions of would-be novelists, journalists and screenwriters—not to mention “D-girls” and “manuscripts girls” from Hollywood to New York who held the hope that finding a gem might catapult them from entry level to expense account—the slush pile represented The Dream.

Now, slush is dead, or close to extinction. Film and television producers won’t read anything not certified by an agent because producers are afraid of being accused of stealing ideas and material. Most book publishers have stopped accepting book proposals that are not submitted by agents. Magazines say they can scarcely afford the manpower to cull through the piles looking for the Next Big Thing.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. The Web was supposed to be a great democratizer of media. Anyone with a Flip and Final Cut Pro could be a filmmaker; anyone with a blog a memoirist. But rather than empowering unknown artists, the Web is often considered by talent-seeking executives to be an unnavigable morass.

It used to be that you could bang out a screenplay on your typewriter, then mail it in to a studio with a self-addressed stamped envelope and a prayer. Studios already were reluctant to read because of plagiarism concerns, but they became even more skittish in 1990 when humorist Art Buchwald sued Paramount, alleging that the studio stole an idea from him and turned it into the Eddie Murphy vehicle, “Coming to America.” (Mr. Buchwald received an undisclosed settlement from Paramount.)

Fending off plagiarism lawsuits has become an increasing headache for publishers and studios. “It’s become the cultural version of malpractice,” says Kurt Andersen, the novelist and host of public radio’s “Studio 360.”

Some producers make it easy: They just refuse to deal with new writers at all. Mike Clements, president of Good Humor, the production company founded by Tom Werner (“The Cosby Show”), has a personal policy against reading any sample or script that is not sent to him by an agent. “I make the occasional exception for a friend, or for my aunt,” he says. “I just make them sign a release first.”

Lisa Haney

Staying Out of the Slush Pile: Do’s and Don’ts

• Find an agent who’s hungry—a nd “monetize.” “Anyone who wants to break in should read Variety and Hollywood Reporter and see which assistants have just been promoted to agents…anyone can teach a three-act structure. What I want students to get in the mind set of is ‘How do we write something with the purpose of monetizing it?’” —Ryan Saul, literary agent, APA, and screenwriting instructor

• Don’t be a barista waiting for someone to stumble upon your genius. “Our editors travel, they get around. They look at writer’s conferences, at MFA programs. They look at magazine articles and at blogs. That’s what editors do, they sniff things out from so many different sources.” —Carol Schneider, Random House Publishing Group

• Find another way in Slush pile finds “are the rare exception that give people hope. If we found one writer a year that sent things in randomly, that would be a lot…agents are necessary gatekeepers but it’s nice if there is an alternative entry…there are subversive ways to get your stuff read—you just have to be dedicated. A writer I know wasn’t able to get treatments read so he started rendering them as comic books.” —David Granger, editor in chief, Esquire

• Contests! “I’m always wary to recommend to writers that they go to competitions too much because there are fees and they can end up spending a lot of money. But the ones that do get industry attention are really fantastic opportunities to network and to make important relationships.” —Hannah Minghella, president of production, Sony Animation Studios, formerly in development at Miramax

• And buck up. In 1957, Tom Wolfe interviewed James Michener, a former slush pile reader and the author of “Tales of the South Pacific.” Mr. Wolfe asked him if he had worried, upon submitting the Pulitzer Prize-winning tome to publishers, about competition lurking in the slush piles. “If you’ve ever read a slush pile,” said Mr. Michener, “you’d know I had nothing to worry about,” Mr. Wolfe says. “He knew how much garbage there was out there.”

As writers try to find an agent—a feat harder than ever to accomplish in the wake of agency consolidations and layoffs—the slush pile has been transferred from the floor of the editor’s office to the attaché cases of representatives who can broker introductions to publishing, TV and film executives. The result is a shift in taste-making power onto such agents, managers and attorneys. Theirs are now often the first eyes to make a call on what material will land on bookshelves, television sets and movie screen.

Still, discoveries do happen at agencies, including the biggest publishing franchise since “Harry Potter”—even though it basically took a mistake to come together. In 2003, an unknown writer named Stephenie Meyer sent a letter to the Writers House agency asking if someone might be interested in reading a 130,000-word manuscript about teenage vampires. The letter should have been thrown out: an assistant whose job, in part, was to weed through the more than 100 such letters each month, didn’t realize that agents mostly expected young adult fiction to weigh in at 40,000 to 60,000 words. She contacted Ms. Meyer and ultimately asked that she send her manuscript.

The manuscript was passed on to an agent, Jodi Reamer. She liked what she read, a novel called “Twilight.” She signed Ms. Meyer, and sold the book to Little, Brown. The most recent sequel in the series, “Breaking Dawn,” sold 1.3 million copies the day it went on sale in August 2008. The latest film grossed more than $288 million in the U.S.

At William Morris Endeavor Entertainment, Adriana Alberghetti only reads scripts sent to her by producers, managers and lawyers whose taste she knows and trusts. The agent says she receives 30 unsolicited e-mails a day from writers and people she doesn’t know who are pushing unknown writers, and she hits “delete” without opening. These days, she is taking on few “baby writers,” she says, adding that risks she would have taken five years ago she won’t today. “I’ll take very few shots on a new voice. It’s tough out there right now,” she says.

Book publishers say it is now too expensive to pay employees to read slush that rarely is worthy of publication. At Simon & Schuster, an automated telephone greeting instructs aspiring writers: “Simon & Schuster requires submissions to come to us via a literary agent due to the large volume of submissions we receive each day. Agents are listed in ‘Literary Marketplace,’ a reference work published by R.R. Bowker that can be found in most libraries.” Company spokesman Adam Rothberg says the death of the publisher’s slush pile accelerated after the terror attacks of 9/11 by fear of anthrax in the mail room.

A primary aim of the slush pile used to be to discover unpublished voices. But today, writing talent isn’t necessarily enough. It helps to have a big-media affiliation, or be effective on TV. “We are being more selective in taking on clients because the publishers are demanding much more from the authors than ever before,” says Laurence J. Kirshbaum, former CEO of Time Warner Book Group and now an agent. “From a publisher’s standpoint, the marketing considerations, especially on non-fiction, now often outweigh the editorial ones.”

Getting an opportunity in Hollywood as a writer once required little more than affiliation with elite institutions like the Harvard Lampoon, the humor magazine which spawned writers for “The Simpsons” and a host of others. The Web was supposed to dismantle such barriers. And to be sure, the Web has provided a path for some writers who use it well.

Scott Belsky, a 29-year-old Web entrepreneur whose sites include “The 99 Percent,” wanted to write a book on how to succeed in the creative industries. To secure representation, he approached agents with data on his Web traffic, samples of reader comments posted on the site, and the number of times various posts had been blogged about, tweeted and retweeted on social-networking site Twitter. This data convinced Jim Levine at Levine Greenberg Literary Agency to take on Mr. Belsky as a client. Mr. Levine used the information to land him a book deal. “Making Ideas Happen” will be published in April by Portfolio, a division of Penguin Group.

“These days, you need to deliver not just the manuscript but the audience,” says Mr. Levine. “More and more, the mantra in publishing is ‘Ask not what your publisher can do for you, ask what you can do for your publisher.’”

But relationships still trump everything. Consider the path of one television series, “Sons of Tucson,” set to debut on Fox in March. The show, a sitcom about kids who hire a ne’er-do-well to stand in as their father after their real dad is sent to prison, was created and co-written by neophytes—a rare event.

Tommy Dewey and Greg Bratman worked hard to get their big break, but because Mr. Dewey had done some acting, he was able to sign with a manager. The manager introduced them to a producer, Harvey Myman, who helped them develop a pilot script and got them a meeting with Fox, which ordered a pilot, then the series.

“Sons of Tucson” shows that unknowns can still make it—if they make some connections. “You really do rely on other people to be the arbiters of what may and may not work,” says Marcus Wiley, a Fox TV executive. “If I was an agent submitting to an executive, I’m going to be calling that executive next week for something else. So the chances of me claiming plagiarism are slim,” he adds. “This keeps both sides honest.”

PHILIP ROTH

Associated Press

In 1958, Mr. Roth was an unknown who had barely been published when a short story called “The Conversion of the Jews” was plucked out of a heap at the Paris Review—by Rose Styron, wife of William. The next year it was published as part of “Goodbye, Columbus.”

Despite the refrain that most everything sent to the slush pile is garbage, publishing executives confess to a nagging insecurity of missing something big. “Harry Potter” was submitted to 12 publishers (by an agent), all of whom rejected it. A year later, Bloomsbury published it in the U.K.

In 2008. HarperCollins launched Authonomy.com, a Web slush pile. Writers can upload their manuscripts, readers vote for their favorites, and HarperCollins editors read the five highest-rated manuscripts each month. About 10,000 manuscripts have been loaded so far and HarperCollins has bought four.

The first, “The Reaper,” came out in July and sold moderately well. Last November, the publisher released another Authonomy offering, a young adult book called “Fairytale of New York,” which has sold over 100,000 copies and is a best seller in Britain. HarperCollins also launched a similar platform for teen writers called “InkPop.”

One slush stalwart—the Paris Review— has college interns and graduate students in the magazine’s Tribeca loft-office read the 1,000 unsolicited works submitted each month. Each short story is read by at least two people. If one likes it and the other doesn’t, it is read by a third. Any submission that receives two “Ps” for “pass” as opposed to “R” for “reject” is read by an editor.

“We take the democratic ideal represented by the slush pile seriously,” says managing editor Caitlin Roper.

The literary journal publishes one piece from the slush pile each year. That leaves each unsolicited submission a .008% chance of rising to the top of the pile.

–

Write to Katherine Rosman at katherine.rosman@wsj.com

Like most authors, James Patterson started out with one book, released in 1976, that he struggled to get published. It sold about 10,000 copies, a modest, if respectable, showing for a first novel. Last year, an estimated 14 million copies of his books in 38 different languages found their way onto beach blankets, airplanes and nightstands around the world. Patterson may lack the name recognition of a Stephen King, a John Grisham or a Dan Brown, but he outsells them all. Really, it’s not even close. (According to Nielsen BookScan, Grisham’s, King’s and Brown’s combined U.S. sales in recent years still don’t match Patterson’s.) This is partly because Patterson is so prolific: with the help of his stable of co-authors, he published nine original hardcover books in 2009 and will publish at least nine more in 2010.

There are many different ways to catalog Patterson’s staggering success. Here are just a few: Since 2006, one out of every 17 novels bought in the United States was written by James Patterson. He is listed in the latest edition of “Guinness World Records,” published last fall, as the author with the most New York Times best sellers, 45, but that number is already out of date: he now has 51 — 35 of which went to No. 1.

Patterson and his publisher, Little, Brown & Co., a division of the Hachette Book Group, have an unconventional relationship. In addition to his two editors, Patterson has three full-time Hachette employees (plus assistants) devoted exclusively to him: a so-called brand manager who shepherds Patterson’s adult books through the production process, a marketing director for his young-adult titles and a sales manager for all his books. Despite this support staff and his prodigious output, Patterson is intimately involved in the publication of his books. A former ad executive — Patterson ran J. Walter Thompson’s North American branch before becoming a full-time writer in 1996 — he handles all of his own advertising and closely monitors just about every other step of the publication process, from the design of his jackets to the timing of his books’ release to their placement in stores. “Jim is at the very least co-publisher of his own books,” Michael Pietsch, Patterson’s editor and the publisher of Little, Brown, told me.

A couple of months ago, I sat in on one of Patterson’s regular meetings with Little, Brown to discuss the marketing and publicity for his coming titles. The meeting was held not, as you might expect, at the publisher’s offices in Midtown Manhattan but in the living room of Patterson’s Palm Beach home, a canary yellow Spanish-style house on a small island in Lake Worth. Patterson’s wife, Sue, a tall, athletic-looking blonde whom he met at J. Walter Thompson, served coffee and gooey chocolate-chip cookies to the guests: Pietsch; Megan Tingley, the publisher of Little, Brown’s young-readers books; and David Young, the C.E.O. of Hachette.

Pietsch and Tingley showed mock-ups of covers and presented ideas they had been working on. From the plush, caramel-colored couch facing them, Patterson, who is a trim 62 with a habitual slouch and laconic manner well suited to his dry sense of humor, acted as creative director, a familiar role from his years in advertising. At one point, the conversation turned to the next installment in Patterson’s Michael Bennett series, which revolves around a Manhattan homicide detective and widower with 10 multiracial adopted children (“Cheaper by the Dozen” meets “Die Hard,” as Patterson describes it). Pietsch mentioned a possible promotional line, “New York Has a New Hero.” Patterson instantly amended it: “Finally, New York Has a Hero.”

A number of former Little, Brown employees who attended these sorts of meetings with Patterson in the 1990s and early 2000s described him to me as low-key but intimidating, more cutthroat adman than retiring writer — a kind of real-life Don Draper. Unsatisfied with publishing’s informal approach to marketing meetings, Patterson had expected corporate-style presentations, complete with comprehensive market-share data and sales trends. “A lot of authors are just grateful to be published,” Holly Parmelee, Patterson’s publicist from 1992 to 2002, told me several weeks earlier. “Not Jim. His attitude was that we were in business together, and he wanted us both to succeed, but it was not going to be fun and games.”

But that was when Patterson was still making a name for himself and fighting for his publisher’s full attention. Now that he is the world’s bestselling author and Little, Brown’s most prized possession, Patterson seemed agreeable, easygoing. Even when he shot down an idea, like Pietsch’s suggestion that Patterson promote the new Michael Bennett book with a day of events in all five boroughs, he did so gently: “I just don’t want for it to be like one of those things when an athlete goes through and shakes four hands.” Halfway through the meeting, Patterson suggested that they take a short break to listen to some songs from a musical he’s developing based on his romance novel “Sundays at Tiffany’s.”

When the meeting was over, Patterson and his wife drove everyone to lunch in their matching Mercedes sedans. On our way to the restaurant, they took us past their future home, an oceanfront mansion in Palm Beach that they bought last year for $17.4 million and are now in the midst of renovating. “There’s my little cottage,” Patterson said as the 20,000-square-foot house came into view.

ACCORDING TO FORBES magazine, Patterson earned Hachette about $500 million over the last two years. Hachette disputes the accuracy of these numbers but wouldn’t provide me with different ones. Regardless, it seems safe to assume that Patterson, who puts out more best sellers in any given year than many publishing houses, is responsible for a meaningful portion of the company’s annual revenues. “I like to say that Jim is the rock on which we build this company,” David Young told me in his office one recent morning.

Like movie studios, publishing houses have long built their businesses on top of blockbusters. But never in the history of publishing has the blockbuster been so big. Thirty years ago, the industry defined a “hit” novel as a book that sold a couple of hundred thousand copies in hardcover. Today a book isn’t considered a blockbuster unless it sells at least one million copies.

The story of the blockbuster’s explosion is, paradoxically, bound up with that of publishing’s recent troubles. They each began with the wave of consolidation that swept through the industry in the 1980s. Unsatisfied with publishing’s small margins, the new conglomerates that now owned the various publishing houses pressed for bigger best sellers and larger profits. Mass-market fiction had historically been a paperback business, but publishers now put more energy and resources into selling these same books as hardcovers, with their vastly more favorable profit margins. At the same time, large stores like Barnes & Noble and Borders were elbowing out independent booksellers. Their growing dominance of the market gave them the leverage to demand wholesale discounts and charge hefty sums for favorable store placement, forcing publishers to sell still more books. Big-box stores like Costco accelerated the trend by stocking large quantities of books by a small group of authors and offering steep discounts on them. Under pressure from both their parent companies and booksellers, publishers became less and less willing to gamble on undiscovered talent and more inclined to hoard their resources for their most bankable authors. The effect was self-fulfilling. The few books that publishers invested heavily in sold; most of the rest didn’t. And the blockbuster became even bigger.

Patterson has been a beneficiary of the industry’s shifting economics, but he was also a catalyst for change at Little, Brown and in the world of publishing in general. When Patterson published his breakout book, “Along Came a Spider,” in 1993, Little, Brown was still a largely literary house, whose more commercial authors included the historian William Manchester, biographer of Winston Churchill. Patterson’s success in the subsequent years encouraged Little, Brown to fully embrace mass-market fiction. But more than that, Patterson almost single-handedly created a template for the modern blockbuster author.

There were, of course, blockbuster authors before Patterson, among them Mario Puzo, James Michener and Danielle Steel. But never had authors been marketed essentially as consumer goods, paving the way for a small group of writers, from Charlaine Harris to Malcolm Gladwell, to dominate best-seller lists — often with several titles at a time — in the same way that brands like Skippy and Grey Poupon dominate supermarket shelves. “Until the last 15 years or so, the thought that you could mass-merchandise authors had always been resisted,” says Larry Kirshbaum, former C.E.O. of the Time Warner Book Group, which owned Little, Brown until 2006. “Jim was at the forefront of changing that.”

The lesson was not easily learned. Publishing is an inherently conservative business. Patterson repeatedly challenged industry convention, sometimes over the objections of his own publisher. When Little, Brown was preparing to release “Along Came a Spider,” Patterson tried to persuade his publisher that the best way to get the book onto best-seller lists was to advertise aggressively on television. Little, Brown initially balked. Bookstores typically base their stocking decisions on the sales of an author’s previous books, and Patterson’s had not done particularly well. This was going to be the first of several novels about an African-American homicide detective in Washington, D.C., named Alex Cross; the prevailing wisdom was that the audience for a series built around a recurring character needed to be nurtured gradually. What’s more, large-scale TV advertising was rare in publishing, not only because of the prohibitive cost but also for cultural reasons. The thinking was that selling a book as if it were a lawn-care product could very well backfire by turning off potential readers.

Patterson wrote, produced and paid for a commercial himself. It opened with a spider dropping down the screen and closed with a voice-over: “You can stop waiting for the next ‘Silence of the Lambs.’ ” Once Little, Brown saw the ad, it agreed to share the cost of rolling it out over the course of several weeks in three particularly strong thriller markets — New York, Chicago and Washington. “Along Came a Spider” made its debut at No. 9 on the New York Times hardcover best-seller list, ensuring it favorable placement near the entrance of bookstores, probably the single biggest driver of book sales. It rose to No. 2 in paperback and remains Patterson’s most successful book, with more than five million copies in print.

It’s not hard to understand the popularity of “Along Came a Spider.” It’s a police procedural with an uncomplicated yet ever-twisting plot, some sex, betrayal and plenty of violence. The book’s hero, Cross, is smart and tough, yet sensitive and vulnerable. He has a Ph.D. in forensic psychology from Johns Hopkins, lost his wife in a drive-by shooting — leaving him to raise his two children alone — plays Gershwin on a beat-up baby-grand piano and volunteers at the soup kitchen of his local parish. Still, hundreds of suspenseful, fast-paced novels are published each year; few become successful, let alone blockbusters. It’s entirely possible, even quite likely, that without those ads, “Along Came a Spider ” never would have made the best-seller list, and that James Patterson would now be just another thriller writer.

Patterson quickly turned Alex Cross into a booming franchise, encouraging Little, Brown to unify the series with a single jacket style — shiny, with big type and bold, colorful lettering — and titles drawn from nursery rhymes (“Kiss the Girls,” “Pop Goes the Weasel,” “The Big Bad Wolf”), with their foreboding sense of innocence interrupted. “Jim was sensitive to the fact that books carry a kind of elitist persona, and he wanted his books to be enticing to people who might not have done so well in school and were inclined to look at books as a headache,” Kirshbaum says. “He wanted his jackets to say, ‘Buy me, read me, have fun — this isn’t “Moby Dick.” ’ ”

Patterson built his fan following methodically. Instead of simply going to the biggest book-buying markets, he focused his early tours and advertising efforts on cities where his books were selling best: like a politician aspiring to higher office, he was shoring up his base. From there, he began reaching out to a wider audience, often through unconventional means. When sales figures showed that he and John Grisham were running nearly neck and neck on the East Coast but that Grisham had a big lead out West, Patterson set his second thriller series, “The Women’s Murder Club,” about a group of women who solve murder mysteries, in San Francisco.

No sooner had Patterson established himself in the thriller market than he started moving into new genres. Kirshbaum didn’t initially like the idea; he was worried that Patterson would confuse his thriller fans. Patterson’s first nonthriller, “Miracle on the 17th Green,” published in 1996, did very well. That same year, Patterson wanted to try publishing more than one book despite Little, Brown’s view that he would cannibalize his own audience. In addition to “Miracle on the 17th Green,” Patterson published “Hide and Seek” and “Jack and Jill,” each of which was a best seller. From there, Patterson gradually added more titles each year. Not only did more books mean more sales, they also meant greater visibility, ensuring that Patterson’s name would almost always be at the front of bookstores, with the rest of the new releases. Patterson encountered similar resistance when he introduced the idea of using co-authors, which Little, Brown warned would dilute his brand. Once again, the books were best sellers. “Eventually, I stopped fighting him and went along for the ride,” Kirshbaum says.

Patterson’s vision of a limitless empire forced Little, Brown to reorder its priorities. Publishers have finite resources, and the demands of publishing Patterson were extraordinary even for a blockbuster author. Some Little, Brown editors worried that other books were suffering as a result. “To have one writer really start needing, and even demanding, the lion’s share of energy and attention was difficult,” Sarah Crichton, Little, Brown’s publisher from 1996 to 2001, told me. “There were times when some of us resented that. When Jim felt that resentment, he roared back. And he was too powerful to ignore.”

Crichton says she was continually surprised by the success of Patterson’s books. To her, they lacked the nuance and originality of other blockbuster genre writers like Stephen King or Dean Koontz. “Jim felt his ambitions weren’t being taken seriously enough,” Crichton says. “And in retrospect, he was probably right.”

WHEN I VISITED Patterson one day in Florida this fall, his wife met me at the door in tennis whites. Patterson soon followed in a white polo shirt, pleated blue trousers and boat shoes. He stopped in the kitchen to pour himself a glass of orange Fanta and led me upstairs to his home office, an airy, uncluttered wood-paneled room overlooking a lap pool — Sue, who is 10 years his junior, was an all-American swimmer at the University of Wisconsin in the late 1970s — and the Intracoastal Waterway.

Patterson’s bookshelves are evenly divided between thrillers — books by Michael Connelly and Jeffrey Deaver — and more highbrow, literary fare like Philip Roth, John Cheever and Denis Johnson. When I asked him what he was reading now, Patterson mentioned “Wolf Hall,” by Hilary Mantel, the winner of the 2009 Man Booker Prize, and “The Power Broker,” Robert Caro’s doorstop biography of Robert Moses. “My favorite books are very dense ones,” Patterson told me. “I love ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude,’ and I’m a big James Joyce fan — well, at least until ‘Finnegans Wake.’ He kind of lost me there.”

There is no computer in Patterson’s office; he writes in longhand on a legal pad and gives the pages to his assistant to type up. Hanging above the round wooden table where he works is a photograph of President Clinton taken during the Monica Lewinsky scandal walking down the steps of Marine One with a copy of Patterson’s “When the Wind Blows” tucked under his arm. (Patterson’s popularity in Washington is apparently bipartisan: the wall of one of his downstairs bathrooms is plastered with fan mail from both George Bushes.) Neatly arranged on an adjacent L-shaped desk were 23 stacks of paper of varying heights, Patterson’s works in progress.

Patterson grew up in Newburgh, N.Y., the son of a tough man who overcame a difficult childhood. Raised in the local poorhouse by a single mother, Patterson’s father earned a scholarship to Hamilton College and dreamed of becoming a writer or a diplomat but wound up selling insurance. “He didn’t have a father, and I don’t think he knew how to do it,” Patterson told me. (When his father retired, he wrote a novel and showed it to Patterson, already an established author. Patterson gave him the same advice he gives all first-time novelists: Write another one.)

Patterson discovered books late for a man who now makes a fortune writing them. Right after his senior year in high school, his family moved to a suburb of Boston, and Patterson got a job working nights and weekends as an aide at McLean Hospital in Belmont. With nothing else to do on his overnight shifts, he guzzled coffee and read.

At first, Patterson’s literary taste ran toward the highbrow — Jerzy Kosinski, Jean Genet, Evan S. Connell. “I was a snob,” he says. After graduating from Manhattan College in 1969, Patterson was given a free ride to Vanderbilt University’s graduate program in English literature but dropped out after just one year. “I had found two things that I loved, reading and writing,” he told me. “If I became a college professor, I knew I was going to wind up killing them both off.”

Instead, Patterson moved to New York and got a job as a junior copywriter at J. Walter Thompson. He also started reading commercial books like “The Exorcist” and “The Day of the Jackal.” “I always felt I could write a reasonable literary novel, but not a great one,” he says. “Then I thought, I can do this. I understand it, and I like it.” Patterson set up a typewriter on the kitchen table of his small apartment on 100th Street and Manhattan Avenue and wrote after work every night and on weekends. The result was his first novel, “The Thomas Berryman Number.”

More than a dozen publishers rejected Patterson’s manuscript before his agent, whom Patterson found in a newspaper article, finally sold it to Little, Brown for $8,500. “I remember going up to Boston — Little, Brown was still in Boston then — and walking into this library with a huge fireplace,” Patterson recalls of his first visit to his publisher. “On the bookshelves were all of these other Little, Brown books, ‘Catcher in the Rye,’ ‘The French Lieutenant’s Woman,’ ‘The Executioner’s Song.’ I’m thinking, They’re going to publish me? This is so cool.”

“The Thomas Berryman Number” is the story of a newspaperman in Nashville who is assigned to cover the assassination of a local politician and ends up on the trail of his murderer, a professional killer from the Texas panhandle named Thomas Berryman. The action bounces around a lot, ricocheting between Berryman’s various murders, the newspaperman’s reporting and his subsequent effort to turn his articles on the case into a book. “Berryman” bears none of the hallmarks of Patterson’s later thrillers. It’s more brooding and stylized, more classically noir. The bad guy — Berryman — is not a sadist or a psychopathic serial killer; he’s a hired gun. There is no real good guy, other than the reporter and narrator. At its best, the prose can call to mind Raymond Chandler. Here’s Berryman in the book’s opening pages, about to hitch a ride out of Texas with a man he would soon kill: “Thomas Berryman shaded his sunglasses so he could see the approaching car better. A finely made coil of brown dust followed it like a streamer. Buzzards crossed its path, heading east toward Wichita Falls.”

The book won a prestigious Edgar Award for a first novel from the Mystery Writers of America. No doubt, some of those who praised it at the time would now say Patterson has failed to live up to its literary promise. That’s not how Patterson sees it. “It’s more convoluted, more bleak — more of the sort of thing that some people will find praiseworthy,” he says of “The Thomas Berryman Number.” “The sentences are superior to a lot of the stuff I write now, but the story isn’t as good. I’m less interested in sentences now and more interested in stories.”

After “The Thomas Berryman Number,” Patterson wrote several more books for a number of different publishers that were neither successful nor critically acclaimed. In 1980, he tried his hand at the “demonic child” genre — memorably popularized by the film “Rosemary’s Baby”— with the horror novel “Virgin” (which was later retitled and published as “Cradle and All”). In 1987, the year the movie “Wall Street” was released, he published a Wall Street thriller called “Black Market.”

Patterson is unsentimental about his early, somewhat clumsy attempts at popular fiction. “That’s an absolutely horrifying book,” he says of his 1977 novel, “Season of the Machete,” the story of a sadistic husband-and-wife team who carry out a series of gory machete murders on a Caribbean island. “I actually tell people not to read it.”

Several weeks later, I witnessed this firsthand at one of Patterson’s signings. When a woman handed him a copy of the book to autograph, he groaned. “Not my best work,” Patterson said. “It’s scaring me half to death,” the woman answered. “Don’t read it,” Patterson replied.

WHAT IS PERHAPS most remarkable about the Patterson empire is the sheer volume of books it produces. The nine hardcovers a year are really only the beginning. Nearly all of those books are published a second and third time, first as traditional paperbacks, then as pocket-size, mass-market paperbacks. “Scarcely a week goes by when we aren’t publishing something by James Patterson,” Young told me, only half-joking.

This summer, Patterson will begin his fourth thriller series, “Private,” which centers on a detective agency with branches all over the world. In addition, he does frequent thriller one-offs, including an annual summer beach read, usually set at or near a resort.

The thriller genre is generally not for the squeamish, but Patterson’s tend to be especially graphic, and the violence often involves sociopathic sexual perversion and attractive young women. For instance, the villain in his second Alex Cross novel, “Kiss the Girls,” is a psychopath who kidnaps, rapes and tortures college girls in an underground bunker; at one point, he even feeds a live snake into the anus of one of his victims.

As long as there has been mass-market fiction, it has had its detractors. In the late Victorian era, the English poet and cultural critic Matthew Arnold denounced “the tawdry novels which flare in the bookshelves of our railway stations, and which seem designed . . . for people with a low standard of life.” Yet even within the maligned genre, Patterson has some especially nasty critics. The Washington Post’s thriller reviewer, Patrick Anderson, called “Kiss the Girls” “sick, sexist, sadistic and subliterate.” Stephen King has described Patterson as “a terrible writer.”

Patterson has written in just about every genre — science fiction, fantasy, romance, “women’s weepies,” graphic novels, Christmas-themed books. He dabbles in nonfiction as well. In 2008, he published “Against Medical Advice,” a book written from the perspective of the son of a friend who suffers from Tourette’s syndrome, and last year, he took on the supposed murder of the child pharaoh King Tut.

Patterson’s fastest-growing franchise is his young-adult books. He published his first Y.A. title, “Maximum Ride: The Angel Experiment,” in 2005, not long after the languishing genre was jump-started by blockbusters like “Harry Potter” and “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” Last month, he introduced his third Y.A. series, “Witch and Wizard,” a dystopian fantasy about a teenage brother and sister who wake up to discover that they are living in a totalitarian regime and that they have supernatural powers that have made them enemies of the state. Despite some negative prepublication reviews, the book was critic-proof, making its debut at No. 1 on the Times best-seller list for children’s chapter books.

Each of Patterson’s series has its own fan base, but there are also plenty of people who read everything he writes. His books all share stylistic similarities. They are light on atmospherics and heavy on action, conveyed by simple, colloquial sentences. “I don’t believe in showing off,” Patterson says of his writing. “Showing off can get in the way of a good story.”

Patterson’s chapters are very short, which creates a lot of half-blank pages; his books are, in a very literal sense, page-turners. He avoids description, back story and scene setting whenever possible, preferring to hurl readers into the action and establish his characters with a minimum of telegraphic details. The first chapter of “The Swimsuit,” a recent thriller with a villain who abducts women for pornographic snuff films, opens with the kidnapping of a supermodel on a beach in Hawaii:

“Kim McDaniels was barefooted and wearing a blue-and-white-striped Juicy Couture minidress when she was awoken by a thump against her hip, a bruising thump. She opened her eyes in the blackness, as questions broke the surface of her mind.

“Where was she? What the hell was going on?”

TO MAINTAIN HIS frenetic pace of production, Patterson now uses co-authors for nearly all of his books. He is part executive producer, part head writer, setting out the vision for each book or series and then ensuring that his writers stay the course. This kind of collaboration is second nature to Patterson from his advertising days, and it’s certainly common in other creative industries, including television. But writing a novel is not the same thing as coming up with jokes for David Letterman or plotting an episode of “24.” Books, at least in their traditional conception, are the product of one person’s imagination and sensibility, rendered in a singular, unreproducible style and voice. Some novelists have tried using co-authors, usually with limited success. Certainly none have taken collaboration to the level Patterson has, with his five regular co-authors, each one specializing in a different Patterson series or genre. “Duke Ellington said, ‘I need an orchestra, otherwise I wouldn’t know how my music sounds,’ ” Pietsch told me when I asked him about Patterson’s use of collaborators. “Jim created a process and a team that can help him hear how his music sounds.”

The way it usually works, Patterson will write a detailed outline — sometimes as long as 50 pages, triple-spaced — and one of his co-authors will draft the chapters for him to read, revise and, when necessary, rewrite. When he’s first starting to work with a new collaborator, a book will typically require numerous drafts. Over time, the process invariably becomes more efficient. Patterson pays his co-authors out of his own pocket. On the adult side, his collaborators work directly and exclusively with Patterson. On the Y.A. side, they sometimes work with Patterson’s young-adult editor, who decides when pages are ready to be passed along to Patterson.

Some Patterson fans have complained in online forums that his co-written books feel too “cookie cutter” and lack the “roller coaster” feel of his previous work, but his sales certainly haven’t suffered. In at least one instance, Patterson took on a co-author in an effort to boost sales: last year, after noticing he wasn’t selling in Scandinavia, he invited Sweden’s best-selling crime writer, Liza Marklund, to collaborate with him on an international thriller. Their novel, “The Postcard Killers,” is just being published in Sweden and will be out in the U.S. this summer.

For the most part, though, Patterson draws his co-authors from the vast sea of struggling writers. A few weeks after visiting Patterson, I had lunch with one of his collaborators, Michael Ledwidge, in Manhattan. An amiable 39-year-old redhead in a black leather jacket and jeans, Ledwidge told me he grew up in a large, working-class Irish family in the Bronx. He wanted to be a cop, but when he applied in 1993, the Police Academy was oversubscribed. So he worked as a doorman and started writing a heist novel on the side. When Ledwidge learned that he and James Patterson shared an alma mater, Manhattan College, he delivered his half-finished manuscript to Patterson one morning at J. Walter Thompson. That night, his phone rang.

“It must be James Patterson,” Ledwidge joked to his wife.

It was. Patterson helped Ledwidge get his first book published and his writing career started. A few books later, Ledwidge had garnered some critical acclaim but not much commercial success. In 2003, Patterson suggested that they collaborate on “Step on a Crack,” his first Michael Bennett novel. Ledwidge leapt at the opportunity. The book went straight to No. 1 on the Times best-seller list. One book quickly led to another. In 2005, Ledwidge quit his day job as a cable-splicer at Verizon, left the Bronx for Connecticut and became a full-time co-author for James Patterson.

Ledwidge told me that he and Patterson have an easy working relationship, that Patterson playfully teases him when he writes a scene that Patterson doesn’t like and praises him when he’s pleased with something. I asked Ledwidge if he missed writing his own books. “Honestly? ” he asked. “Not at all. This is much more fun.”

ONE NIGHT IN Florida, Patterson and I met his wife and their 11-year-old son, Jack, for dinner at the Palm Beach Grill. When the maître d’ noticed Patterson entering the restaurant, she told him his table was ready. A well-dressed, white-haired woman quickly spun around.

“Are you James Patterson?” she asked excitedly.

“Yes,” Patterson answered.

“I just read your last one. What was it called?”

Patterson hesitated, unsure which book she was talking about.

“It was brutal!” she woman continued.

“ ‘The Swimsuit’?” Patterson ventured.

“Yeah,” the woman said. “Boy, was it brutal! I liked it, but it was brutal!”

After dinner, Sue and Jack went home, and Patterson and I had another glass of wine and continued talking. Patterson told me that Jack, who had been working on his laptop for most of the meal, only recently started to like reading. It required a deliberate effort on Patterson’s part. Beginning a few summers ago, Patterson told Jack he didn’t have to do any chores; he just had to read for an hour or so every day. The first summer Jack resisted. The second summer he didn’t complain. Last summer, he no longer needed any prodding. Patterson ticked off some of the books Jack had recently read and enjoyed — “To Kill a Mockingbird,” “A Wrinkle in Time” and “Huckleberry Finn” — with obvious pride.

Patterson told me that Jack’s initial reluctance to read helped inspire him to move into the Y.A. genre. He wanted to write books for preteens and teenagers that would be fun and easy to read. The young-adult realm was, in one sense, a big leap for an author known for violent thrillers. At the same time, it was a natural fit for Patterson, whose unadorned prose and fast-paced plots are well suited to reluctant readers. Promoting literacy among children has since become a pet cause for him; he has his own Web site, ReadKiddoRead.com, aimed at helping parents choose books for their children. “There are millions of kids who have never read a book that they liked, and that is a national disgrace,” Patterson said. “What I’m trying to do is at least wake up several thousand of them.”

Later, our conversation turned to Patterson’s critics. “Thousands of people don’t like what I do,” Patterson told me, shrugging off his detractors. “Fortunately, millions do.” For all of his commercial success, though, Patterson seemed bothered by the fact that he has not been given his due — that unlike King or even Grisham, who have managed to transcend their genres, he continues to be dismissed as an airport author or, worse, a marketing genius who has cynically maneuvered his way to best-sellerdom by writing remedial novels that pander to the public’s basest instincts. “Caricature assassination,” Patterson called it.

Patterson said too much has been made of his marketing savvy. (A few years ago, a professor at Harvard Business School went so far as to do a case study on him.) To Patterson, the explanation for his success is less complicated. Whether he’s writing about a serial killer, a love affair between a doctor and poet in Martha’s Vineyard or a middle-aged ad executive who miraculously becomes an exceptional putter and joins the senior golf tour, his books are accessible and engaging. “A brand is just a connection between something and a bunch of people,” Patterson told me. “Crest toothpaste: I always used it, it tastes O.K., so I don’t have any particular reason to switch. Here the connection is that James Patterson writes books that bubble along with heroes I can get interested in. That’s it.”

Patterson considers himself as an entertainer, not a man of letters. Still, he bristles when he hears one of his books described as a guilty pleasure: “Why should anyone feel guilty about reading a book?” Patterson said that what he does — coming up with stories that will resonate with a lot of people and rendering them in a readable style — is no different from what King, Grisham and other popular authors do. “I have a saying,” Patterson told me. “If you want to write for yourself, get a diary. If you want to write for a few friends, get a blog. But if you want to write for a lot of people, think about them a little bit. What do they like? What are their needs? A lot of people in this country go through their days numb. They need to be entertained. They need to feel something.”

Shortly before we left the restaurant, Patterson brought up “The Swimsuit” again. “I like ‘The Swimsuit,’ ” he said. “It’s nasty, but I like it. But I think I went a little farther than I needed to. I’m going to tone it down for the paperback.”

Patterson noticed a look of surprise on my face; it’s not every day that an author decides to rewrite one of his books. “Look,” he said, “if you’re writing ‘Crime and Punishment’ or ‘Remembrance of Things Past,’ then you can sit back and go: ‘This is it, this is the book. This is high art. I’m the man, you’re not. The end.’ But I’m not the man, and this is not high art.”

Whatever ambivalence once existed toward Patterson inside Little, Brown has long since been replaced by unequivocal enthusiasm and gratitude. Pietsch, who succeeded Crichton as publisher, says Patterson belongs in the same class as Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. “Every novel of Jim’s is master class in terms of plotting, pace and striking the right balance between action and emotional content,” Pietsch told me. “I have never read a writer who I think is better at keeping your eye moving forward and your heart moving forward.”

Thanks in part to Patterson, Little, Brown’s identity has changed considerably since he first visited the publisher’s former offices in a town house on Beacon Hill in Boston. In addition to Patterson, it is now home to such thriving commercial novelists as Michael Connelly and Stephenie Meyer, author of the wildly popular “Twilight” vampire series, as well as consistent best sellers like Malcolm Gladwell and David Sedaris. In 2008, a year in which many of its competitors were laying off employees and shutting down imprints, Little, Brown gave out Christmas bonuses.

In September, Little, Brown hosted an anniversary dinner in Patterson’s honor — “20 Years of Publishing James Patterson” — in a private room at Daniel, one of the most expensive restaurants in Manhattan. (Patterson left Little, Brown after “The Thomas Berryman Number” but returned in 1989, a few years before “Along Came a Spider,” with a book called “The Midnight Club.”) It wasn’t the sort of party you see often in the world of publishing, particularly now, with much of the industry in free fall. In addition to a meal of crabmeat salad, beef tenderloin and warm madeleines, the 45 guests were given party favors: bottles of red wine with labels that read “Vintage Patterson.”

Days earlier, Hachette Book Group and Patterson’s representative, the Washington lawyer Robert Barnett, hammered out the terms of a new 17-book deal. (Forbes reported that the contract is worth at least $150 million, though Little, Brown and Patterson dispute the number.) “Don’t you need to be home writing?” I joked with Patterson. He told me matter-of-factly that he’d already started 11 of the 17 books, and even finished more than a few of them.

Some toasts accompanied the dinner. Pietsch talked about the conflicting mythology surrounding who actually discovered Patterson. (“Not only did I know the editor who discovered James Patterson, I once ate a hamburger cooked on his grill.”) Patterson’s young-adult editor, Andrea Spooner, recounted her campaign to persuade her father, an English professor, that Patterson was a worthy writer. (“ ‘It’s worth noting, Daddy, that Dickens was one of the most popular and successful storytellers of his time, too!’ ”) When Young told the crowd that Patterson “contributes significantly” to five of Hachette’s six publishing groups, Patterson interjected: “What am I missing?”

“FaithWords,” Young replied, referring to the company’s religious imprint.

“I can do that,” Patterson said.

Patterson was the last to speak. The only man in the room without a tie, he wore a black T-shirt beneath his dark suit. “I’m sorry my good friend Stephen King couldn’t be here,” he began. “It must be bingo night in Bangor.”

Patterson then proceeded to tell one of his favorite stories about his mother’s father, who drove a frozen-foods truck in Upstate New York. During the summer, Patterson said, he would occasionally get up at 4 in the morning to ride along with him. As they drove over a mountain toward his first delivery, Patterson’s grandfather, an irrepressibly joyful man, would be singing at the top of his lungs. “One day he said to me: ‘Jim, I don’t care what you do when you grow up. I don’t care if you drive a truck like I do, or if you become the president. Just remember that when you go over the mountain to work in the morning, you’ve got to be singing,’ ” Patterson went on. “Well, I am.”

It’s no surprise that Patterson loves what he does. What’s not to love? He plays golf most mornings on Donald Trump’s Palm Beach course and spends the rest of the day working on guaranteed best sellers for which he is paid millions.

But the image of Patterson as a carefree man lucky enough to make money doing what he loves is a bit misleading. Patterson is nothing if not relentlessly ambitious. At J. Walter Thompson, he rose from the lowly station of junior copywriter to become the youngest creative director in the firm’s history — along the way dreaming up such ad slogans as “I’m a Toys ‘R’ Us kid” — and then the C.E.O. of the company’s North American operations. And as Patterson is the first to admit, he didn’t even like working in advertising. It goes without saying that writing was never just a hobby for him.

Patterson’s current preoccupation is Hollywood. Despite some attempts, including two Alex Cross films (both starring Morgan Freeman), which Patterson doesn’t think much of, some made-for-TV movies, a failed ABC series and a lot of books that were optioned but never developed, there still hasn’t been a blockbuster film or hit TV show based on one of his novels.

A few years ago, Patterson hired a former colleague from J. Walter Thompson, Steve Bowen, to oversee the development of his various movie and television projects. In 2007, they signed a deal with Avi Arad, the producer of the “Spider-Man” and “X-Men” films, to make a movie based on Patterson’s “Maximum Ride” young-adult series. In addition to trying to make sure that Patterson is more involved in the development process, Patterson and Bowen plan to produce some projects themselves. They have already raised the financing for a new Alex Cross movie that Patterson is helping to write.

When I met Bowen, a good-looking ex-Marine with a trimmed, graying beard, for coffee in Manhattan several weeks after the dinner at Daniel, he told me that part of his challenge is to change Hollywood’s perception of Patterson. He cited Clint Eastwood, whose name was once synonymous with “Dirty Harry” and spaghetti westerns, as a model for the sort of image transformation they are aiming to pull off. “Jim’s been wrongly stereotyped out there as the master of slash and gash,” Bowen said. “What people don’t fully understand is that there’s a unique talent and storytelling ability that has allowed him to do what he’s done in the book world. He just knows what’s going to grab people. The man has a golden gut.”

IN THE MID-1960S, Jacqueline Susann, the author of “Valley of the Dolls” (30 million copies sold), famously demonstrated — via hundreds of bookstore signings — that even blockbuster books are built one reader at a time. When Patterson was still making his name, he, too, barnstormed the country, signing books late into the night and exhausting publicists. These days, though, Patterson doesn’t do many bookstore events. He certainly doesn’t need the publicity, and he would rather be home with Sue and Jack. But on a Monday night in mid-November, he turned up at a car-dealership-size Barnes & Noble in a strip mall on Route 17 in Paramus, N.J., to promote his latest Alex Cross novel, “I, Alex Cross.”

This is Patterson’s 16th Cross book. Since “Along Came a Spider,” Cross has been through a lot. He has had several jobs and a number of ill-fated relationships; he has chased down numerous serial killers, a Russian mobster and a cult of goths; and has even written his own novel based on his late uncle’s investigation of a series of lynchings in Mississippi in the early 1900s.

Patterson came straight from the Newark airport, arriving early to sign the store’s “I, Alex Cross” stock in a back room. “We haven’t seen you in years,” said Dennis Wurst, a Barnes & Noble manager of author promotions who stopped by to say hello.

“How’s business?” Patterson asked.

“It helps when you write an Alex Cross book,” Wurst answered.

A month before, Barnes & Noble was caught in the crossfire of a preholiday pricing war between Wal-Mart and Amazon, with Wal-Mart dropping its prices on several hardcover blockbusters, including “I, Alex Cross,” to $8.99, more than 50 percent off the retail price. The battle set off a panic inside an already-anxious publishing industry: such deep discounting may help move merchandise, but along with trends like the proliferation of e-readers that instantly deliver many blockbusters for $9.99 or less, it further devalues books. The days of $25 hardcovers are surely numbered. Without those revenues, publishers will be even more reluctant to devote shrinking resources to new, unproven authors, which will, in turn, limit the range of books being published.

Whatever the future of publishing may hold, Patterson’s place in it seems secure. By the time he was introduced at the Paramus store, in excess of 300 people — more women than men, but fairly evenly divided, with a handful of children as well — had crowded into the bookstore’s large event space to see him. Stragglers were looking vainly for a spot on the wall to lean up against. Patterson, dressed casually in a sweater and slacks, delivered some brief remarks, took a handful of questions and then got down to the main event — signing books. To avoid a crush of people at the signing table, the staff divided the audience into several groups by letter. They were told that Patterson would autograph any of his books purchased in the Paramus store and one additional title from their own Patterson collection, but that he would not personalize any copies.

The system quickly broke down. Patterson was soon adding names and short inscriptions to books. He bantered easily with his fans as he wrote. Many asked about Jack; more than one wanted to know if he had brought any pictures.

“I skipped work to be here,” one woman said as her husband snapped a picture of her with Patterson.

“That’s always a good thing,” Patterson said.

“Well, I’m a police officer, so I guess that’s bad,” the woman replied.

“I won’t tell,” Patterson said.

There is something unique about the relationship between readers and their favorite authors, a sense of emotional intimacy that doesn’t exist, say, between sports fans and athletes. Patterson’s fans can read him virtually all year. They aren’t just addicted to his books; they see him as a constant companion, a part of their lives. One woman asked Patterson to sign a book for her grandmother, who passed away a few days earlier. “We used to read your books together, and I want to put it in her casket with her,” she said. Another told Patterson that he got her reading again after a recent stroke. A truck driver said that he had never read any of Patterson’s books but that he had listened to every single one of them on the road: “I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

Still another woman gestured at her elderly mother, whom she was pushing in a wheelchair: “She just had heart surgery. You make her happy, and that makes me happy.”

“And that makes me happy,” Patterson said.

After an hour of signing books without interruption, Patterson seemed to be doing fine. “We’re really cooking along here,” he told his publicist. A half-hour later, though, Patterson was starting to tire. “This is getting out of hand,” he said.

After almost two hours, a voice finally came over the loudspeaker: “Will all remaining groups please report to the James Patterson signing area.” Patterson signed his last books, posed for a few photographs with some of the store’s employees and got ready to go. “That was a fairly respectable crowd,” he said as we walked to the escalator.

On our way out, Patterson picked up on a theme he raised with me weeks earlier, during our conversation about his detractors. “This goes to the notion we were talking about in Florida, about my critics — people who call themselves open-minded but then make judgments about what I write,” he said. “Well, these people like it. They’re happy. So what’s the big deal?”

–

For those not in the know, the MFA is a one- to three-year terminal art degree (the majority take two years to complete). By “terminal” I mean that you’re qualified to teach college with said degree (until a few years ago it was also the highest degree in the field, but the growing popularity of the creative writing Ph.D. has muddied the waters somewhat). The degree can generally only be earned in fiction, poetry, playwriting, or screenwriting, with the former two being the most common disciplines. Many Very Fancy Writers™ these days do, in fact, hold MFAs from some very prestigious programs (the University of Iowa, the University of Michigan, Columbia, Cornell, Brown, the University of Texas, &c).

So the main question: do you need an MFA to be taken seriously as a writer?

The very short (and, I hope, obvious) answer: no. No one is handicapped in this industry by not having an MFA, and the actual degree itself will probably do very little in the way of securing representation or book deals for most writers. The long(er) answer is as follows, in patented Bullet-O-Vision™:

· While the physical degree may not be tremendously useful in terms of getting you an agent and a six-figure advance, your writing will likely improve tremendously as a result of taking two or so years to do nothing but read, write, and workshop fiction. If your prose is currently promising but purple, the kind of immersive study found in an MFA program could polish your writing to Very Fancy Writer-level lustre (complete with British spelling!).

· Additionally, the network of professors, mentors, visiting agents, and classmates you’d be likely to form in an MFA program can be of huge help down the line. Your professor or classmate might refer you to his or her agent; a visiting agent might take special interest in your novel-in-progress; you may end up making friends with several future agents and editors. You get the idea.

· And now, the caveats: active participation in an MFA program will almost certainly improve your writing, but most (if not all) programs are geared toward literary fiction. If you’re writing young adult/children’s fiction or genre fiction of any kind, the degree won’t really give you the opportunity to do substantial work in those areas.

· Mentioning your MFA in a query letter to an agent probably won’t impress them, unless it’s from a top-tier program like Iowa or Columbia (and possibly not even then). There is simply more supply than demand when it comes to MFA graduates, and to be honest, agents are interested in your novels, not your alma maters.

· While not all graduates of MFA programs go on to teach, the degree often includes a teaching element and assumes, to some extent, an interest in academia or an academic career. If you have no such aspirations, you might want to think twice before applying.

· Finally, even though the economy seems to be recovering somewhat from the recession, it’s still a very tough employment market out there. If you’ve currently got a good job, it might not be the best time to give it up to pursue graduate studies. True, there are several part-time and low-residency MFA options out there, but those are often unfunded, meaning you would be paying the school for your degree and not the other way around.

So, basically, my view is: if you’re doing literary work, you think you might want to teach college, and you don’t already have a decent job, go for the MFA. Otherwise, you might want to think twice. No one needs a license to be an author, and if you’re considering pursuing the degree purely for some perceived recognition or sense of legitimacy as a writer, you might want to find a new line of work.

But none of those opponents were as tough as his new target promises to be. Now 60, Amis has picked a fight with the grey power of Britain’s ageing population, calling for euthanasia “booths” on street corners where they can terminate their lives with “a martini and a medal”.

The author of Time’s Arrow and London Fields said in an interview at the weekend that he believes Britain faces a “civil war” between young and old, as a “silver ­tsunami” of increasingly ageing people puts pressure on society.

“They’ll be a population of demented very old people, like an invasion of terrible immigrants, stinking out the restaurants and cafes and shops,” he said. “I can imagine a sort of civil war between the old and the young in 10 or 15 years’ time.

“There should be a booth on every ­corner where you could get a martini and a medal,” he added.

His comments were immediately condemned as “glib” and “offensive” by anti-euthanasia groups and those caring for the elderly and infirm. Supporters of assisted suicide, meanwhile, insisted that a dignified and compassionate end should be on offer to those who are dying.

Alistair Thompson, from the Care Not Killing Alliance, said Amis’s views were “very worrying”. “We are extremely disappointed that people are advocating death booths for the elderly and the disabled. How on earth can we pretend to be a civilised society if people are giving the oxygen of publicity to such proposals?

“What are these death booths? Are they going to be a kind of superloo where you put in a couple of quid and get a lethal cocktail?”

The Alzheimer’s Society said there were 700,000 people with dementia in the UK and the figures were set to rise. “It is understandable that people in the early stages of dementia may reflect on the subject of euthanasia,” said Andrew Ketteringham, of the Alzheimer’s Society. “However, glib and offensive comments about ‘euthanasia booths’ and ‘demented old people’ only serve to alienate those dealing with this devastating condition and sidestep the hugely important question of how we can best support those affected to live well and maintain their dignity.”

Amis, whose forthcoming novel, The Pregnant Widow, is due to be released shortly, stood by his comments, made in an interview in the Sunday Times.

He told the Guardian: “What we need to recognise is that certain lives fall into the negative, where pain hugely dwarfs those remaining pleasures that you may be left with. Geriatric science has been allowed to take over and, really, decency roars for some sort of correction.” He said his comments were meant to be “satirical”, rather than “glib”.

His stance on euthanasia had hardened since the deaths of his stepfather, Lord Kilmarnock, the former SDP peer and writer, in March aged 81, and his friend Dame Iris Murdoch, the novelist, in 1999, aged 79, two years after her husband revealed that she was suffering from Alzheimer’s.

“I increasingly feel that religion is so deep in our constitution and in our minds and that is something we should just peel off,” he said. “Of course euthanasia is open to abuse, in that the typical grey death will be that of an old relative whose family gets rid of for one reason or another, and they’ll say ‘he asked me to do it’, or ‘he wanted to die’, Amis said. “That’s what we will have to look out for. Nonetheless, it is something we have to make some progress on.”

Answering critics who said his comments were “offensive’ to older people, Amis, a grandfather, said: “Well, I’m not a million miles away from that myself.”

He added: “I had a friend who was desperately ill and she wanted to go to Switzerland, to Dignitas, but she was defeated by bureaucracy at this end. And, I think it is existentially more terrifying to feel that life is something you can’t get out of.

“Frankly, I can’t think of any reason for prolonging life once the mind goes. You are without dignity then.”

In his interview, Amis said his step­father had died “very horribly”. “He always thought he was going to get better. But he didn’t get better and I think the denial of death is a great curse.”

He said Iris Murdoch, whom he had known for a very long time , was “a friend, I loved her. She was wonderful. I remember talking to her just as it started happening, and she said, ‘I’ve entered a dark place’. That famous quote. Awareness of loss is gone, the track is gone. You don’t know the day you’ve spent watching Teletubbies; it just vanished.”

The pro-euthanasia pressure group Dignity in Dying said: “Like all too many people in the UK, Martin Amis has witnessed the bad death of a loved one.” But, it added: “Dignity in Dying’s campaign for a change in the law is not about the introduction of ‘euthanasia booths’, nor is it in anticipation of a ‘silver tsunami’. Our campaign is about allowing dying adults who have mental capacity a compassionate choice to end their suffering, subject to strict legal safeguards.”

–

Caroline Davies, Sunday 24 January 2010

The umpteenth return of the Return (of Sherlock Holmes) and the popular success of Avatar are apt reminders that we’re a storytelling species with a dominant narrative gene somewhere in our DNA. We simply cannot get enough of What Happened Next?

Avatar, for all its counter-cultural, eco-friendly credentials, is a product of the Hollywood machine, but Holmes and Watson come from somewhere else: the golden age of British magazine fiction that has never been – indeed, could never be – repeated.

As Selina Hastings writes in her excellent new biography of Somerset Maugham, another classic storyteller: “In the 1890s the literary market was rapidly expanding, focused on a large, educated middle class, with dozens of new magazines and periodicals launched every year and more than 400 publishing houses in London alone.” (The parallels with the 1990s and the new media boom are striking). This was the age that threw up Treasure Island, The Jungle Book, Peter Pan, The Wind in the Willows, The Railway Children, the Jeeves and Wooster series and finally, in the 1920s, the queen of crime herself, Agatha Christie, and her Poirot and Miss Marple series.

Every one of these has been rendered cinematically for a mass audience on several occasions. We like stories, and especially when they are accompanied by appealing, strong and identifiable characters who can be interpreted by stars.

The postwar era, roughly 1950 to 2000, was far poorer in this genre, for several reasons. The novel became postmodern; in popular mass-market fiction, perhaps only James Bond qualifies as an heir to Captain Hook, Toad of Toad Hall and Hercule Poirot, and Fleming was always more than a touch Edwardian in his instincts (in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, for instance). Popular magazines were dead or dying; film and TV had not yet begun to fill the gap (as they are beginning to do now; HBO’s House, for example, bears a big, and fully acknowledged, debt to Sherlock Holmes). A hundred years or so after Conan Doyle, your ambitious genre writer is as likely to be working in film and TV as fiction or magazines.

In more recent times, the only fictional character to rival Holmes has been Harry Potter, who exhibits several quite distinct Edwardian traits (he’s a strange orphan boy who is sent off to come of age in a public school). The more I write this blog, the more I wonder why no one has written on this theme before. Perhaps they have: the interconnections are certainly intriguing, and they all have to do with the growth of the print media at the turn of the 20th century.

The only really distinguished example of a writer consciously creating a strong identifiable character who can inhabit a series of books is John le Carré’s George Smiley. No surprise to find BBC Radio 4 serialising all the Smiley books in the coming year. For the rest, the climate is no longer propitious to serial fiction, though I see that the rejuvenated Lady magazine, under Rachel Johnson, has begun to explore the possibilities of popular genre fiction with the launch of Jessica Ruston’s serial. In the art of the story, there are only so many ways to skin a cat.

–

Robert McCrum, The Guardian, Monday 25 January

The author of Ragtime, The Book of Daniel and Homer and Langley talks to Sarah Crown.

On a quiet Harlem backstreet at the end of a row of stately brownstones is a grassed-over sliver of land, home to a handful of plane trees, a couple of flowertubs and a garden bench or two. A sign on the railings gives its name as the Collyer Brothers Park. It stands on the lot of what was once the home of Homer and Langley ­Collyer, well-born, educated, affluent brothers who slowly but surely turned their backs on polite society, shuttering their windows and giving themselves over to a shadow-life of squirrelling. After their deaths in 1947 (Langley under a landslide of rubbish; Homer, blind and paralysed, from starvation), their house was broken open: the 130 tons of junk discovered within saw them posthumously ordained as America’s most notorious pack-rats.

It’s a term of which EL Doctorow ­disapproves. His latest novel, Homer and Langley, takes the brothers’ legend and moulds it, shifting their house into the heart of Manhattan and allotting them an extra 30 years’ life; he prefers, he says, to think of them as “aggregators. Sort of like Google”. The verminous association is symptomatic, he believes, of the way in which the brothers’ characters have been traduced over the years; something that’s still going on to this day. It was the spectacle of their reputation being hauled over the coals once more that led to their story, which had simmered in his head for years, offering itself as a subject. “My books start almost before I realise it,” he says, leaning forward in the study chair of his unfussy mid-town apartment. “Once in a while, some accident causes an idea to rise to the surface and say: ‘now’. I’ve known about the brothers for years, of course; I wasn’t the only teenager of the time whose mother looked into his room and said ‘My God, it’s the Collyers’!’ But a few years back, I saw a piece in the New York Times saying locals were objecting to having the park named after them. I thought, they’re still disturbing people, 50 years after they’re dead! They’ve become folklore. This is something to think about.”

Doctorow didn’t undertake any research for the book, preferring to fish back through his memories of the Collyers’ story and expand on them, drawing the mythic elements out. “I didn’t want to know, terribly, what the clinical details were,” he says. “I found myself writing this line: ‘I’m Homer, the blind brother’” – the novel’s plangent opening sentence. “I had the voice; I was off. And I learned as I went along. I realised at a certain point that I was writing a kind of road novel, with these two guys talking to each other as characters on the road do, not just for the length of a trip, but for the whole of their lives.”

The analogy is a potent one. In the novel, Doctorow sets the Collyers off down two parallel paths. One waltzes them through the American century, where they meet representatives of its tribes (immigrants and refugees; veterans, jazz musicians and mafia hoods; hippies and bureaucrats) and take part in its seminal moments – selling off copper guttering for the war effort, painting bas-relief portraits of the moon landing. The other passes through their house, which comes to embody a continent-in-miniature on which the brothers enact a symbolic colonisation. Airy and open at first, it slowly silts up with the detritus of US consumerism (“artifacts”, as Homer puts it, “from our American life”) and, in the form of the newspapers which Langley collects daily, the nation’s stories.

But the analogy has a wider application. The pliancy of the road novel, its easy subjectivity and whimsical, intuitive relationships with the events it encounters, stands as a metaphor for Doctorow’s own flexible association with real-world history. Perhaps surprisingly, given the New York ­setting of so many of his novels, he says he lacks a geographical pole. “New York isn’t a setting to me: it’s life, it’s volatile, it changes from generation to generation. It didn’t confer a literary identity on me the way, say, the Mississippi did Faulkner. With Ragtime” – his novel of the jazz era – “I stumbled on the idea that a period of time was as good a constructive principle as a sense of place.” But while figures from his country’s past rise up as landmarks in his novels, they’re portrayed either provisionally or downright fancifully. Abraham Lincoln in his civil-war epic The March, Jewish mobster Dutch Schultz in Billy Bathgate (which snagged him the National Book Critics Circle award and the PEN/Faulkner award), Harry Houdini in Ragtime – all make their appearances entirely in the service of the story. He’s been criticised for this free-and-easy treatment of historical figures by, among others, John Updike, who said of Ragtime that it “smacked of playing with helpless dead puppets”. But Doctorow is unapologetic. Indeed, it’s hard to see how he could repent of an approach which led directly to the intoxicating unreliability of his best-known work, The Book of Daniel. His barely fictionalised account of the trial and execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg (Paul and Rochelle Isaacson, in Doctorow’s version), told in a furious crackle by their son, Daniel, located him in the pantheon of great arbiters of 20th-century American life alongside the likes of Philip Roth and Saul Bellow (although he has yet to achieve the same recognition). The novel caused the cultural critic Fredric Jameson to label him “the epic poet of the disappearance of the American radical past”, and saw Barack Obama name him as his favourite author, after Shakespeare. This technical fluidity extends from the quirks of his characters into the pattern of his prose; he is master of the run-on sentence. “They’re one of my sins. I like commas. I detest semi-colons – I don’t think they belong in a story. And I gave up quotation marks long ago. I found I didn’t need them, they were fly-specks on the page. If you’re doing it right,” he says, “the reader will know who’s talking.”

Edgar Lawrence Doctorow was born in the Bronx in 1931. His parents, children of Russian-Jewish immigrants, nailed their new world colours to the mast by naming him after his father’s favourite American author, Edgar ­Allan Poe. “It wasn’t until just before my mother died that I asked her about it,” he grins. “I said ‘Did you and dad realise you named me after an alcoholic, drug-addicted, delusional paranoiac with strong necrophiliac tendencies?’ She said ‘Edgar, that’s not funny.’” His decision to publish under his initials wasn’t a rejection of the name, but was rather his own attempt to follow in the footsteps of the authors he admired. “DH Lawrence, WH Auden, TS Eliot,” he offers. “Erm . . . W Shakespeare. F Dostoevsky . . . “

Although his first years were played out against the backdrop of the US’s great depression, Doctorow recalls his childhood as “a good time. There was no money, but the house was filled with music and books.” His father owned a music shop on Sixth Avenue (it cameos in Homer and Langley, when Langley finds there “a virtual musicologist, with recordings of swing orchestras and crooners and songstresses that no other store had”). And the young Doctorow haunted the public library and read indisciminately, “everything from comic books to Dostoevsky. I remember seeing The Idiot on the library shelf and thinking, that’s for me.” Education came via the Bronx High School of Science, “theoretically for children who were gifted at science and math. I fled down the hall to the literary magazine, who were my first publishers: a piece of Kafka-inspired animalogical self-defamation called ‘The Beetle’. They later put it on their website, which I thought was a cruel thing to do.”

From there, he went to Kenyon College in Ohio. “People come out of the mid-west and go to the Ivy League. I kind of reversed the direction.” It turned out to have been a smart choice; Doctorow studied under the poet and critic John Crowe Ransom, and became heavily involved in the theatre, where he stepped out alongside Paul Newman, a senior during Doctorow’s freshman year. “I began to get some decent roles after he left.” It was during his English drama MA at Columbia that he met his wife, Helen. “My thesis was supposed to be a play, but I never wrote it; I was drafted into the army.” On his return, he rattled through a series of jobs before landing work as a reader for a motion picture company. It was, he believes, a useful apprenticeship. “And there were moments of real excitement: the company had optioned Saul Bellow’s Henderson the Rain King while he was writing it, and I got to read about 150 pages before it was published. I urged them to buy it, but of course they didn’t.”

Doctorow’s stint on the fringes of the film industry coincided with the western’s stranglehold on Hollywood, a circumstance which inadvertently inspired his first novel, Welcome to Hard Times. “It was making me ill, reading one lousy western after another,” he remembers. “So I wrote a parody in a fit of rage, showed it to the story editor, and he said: ‘This is good, you want to make a novel out of this.’ I crossed out the title, wrote ‘Chapter One’, and went from there.” The novel, published when he was 28, edged from satire into serious enterprise while he was writing it. “I got interested in the idea of making something real from a disreputable genre. But it didn’t teach me much about writing, or myself.”

His second novel, Big As Life, a now-out-of-print foray into science fiction which he calls “the worst thing I’ve ever done”, came out while he was simultaneously pursuing a hopscotch career through publishing. “I bounced from being a reader to working for New American Library – in those days a worthy mass-market publisher – and from there to the Dial Press, where I was made editor-in-chief.” His roster included Norman Mailer and James Baldwin; while Baldwin was a highwire act, turning in manuscripts then absconding to Paris to avoid his copy editors, Mailer was a dream to edit, “not the bombastic public figure at all. He listened, he was courteous.” It wasn’t until later that they had their inevitable fight. “Mailer was president of International PEN, and during Reagan’s presidency, he secretly invited the secretary of state, George Schultz, to a conference. I found out, and knocked out an op-ed piece protesting the move, which seemed to me to be an insult.” They didn’t speak again until Mailer got in touch to say he admired Billy Bathgate. At that point, Doctorow chuckles, “there was a rapprochement”.

He was proud of his work at Dial, but when he began The Book of Daniel, something had to give. “It was a book that demanded my complete attention. When I was about a third of the way through, I had lunch with the literary agent Don Congden and mentioned that I was unhappy. He knew of a visiting post at the University of California, Irvine, and asked if I would be ­interested. So my wife and I sat down and consulted the I Ching. It was the 60s! It said: ‘You will cross a great water’. And Helen said: ‘That’s the ­Mississippi. Let’s go.’”

The idea for the novel came to Doctorow in the late 60s, when Viet­nam and the civil rights movement had the country in uproar. “Out of the ­campuses came something called the new left, and I began to wonder how it compared with the old left of the 30s. It occured to me that I could tell the story of this country’s life over a 30-year period by dealing with its dissidents. And I realised that the Rosenbergs could be the fulcrum. Everything snapped together.”

The pieces were in place, but the story wouldn’t quite come – until a moment of genesis as mythic, in its way, as the one Doctorow was trying to conjure. “I was writing in the third person, and it wasn’t working. I had this terrible moment when I threw 150 pages across the room and said ‘If I can make this story dull, I don’t have any business writing.’ So I put a new sheet in the typewriter and began to write almost in mockery of my own ambition. It turned out to be page one. Having Daniel tell the story was a way of being intimate with everything that happened without understanding it. That was my position as the writer.”

Though Doctorow fans may ­champion the generosity of his semi-autobiographical novel World’s Fair, or Ragtime‘s wordy antics, The Book of Daniel is now widely held up as his greatest work. Yet since it emerged that Julius Rosenberg, in all probability, did spy for the USSR, Doctorow has been asked over and over: would he write the same book again? Of course, he says. ­”People who haven’t read it assume it’s a simple-minded defence of the Rosenbergs. It’s not. The book doesn’t draw conclusions about their guilt: it wasn’t about them, it was about what happened to them. It was about the state of this country’s mind.” Is the book’s anger Daniel’s, or his? He ponders the question. “Suffering isn’t a moral ­endowment. People don’t always do well under duress, and it seemed to me to be truer to a fellow in that situation to make him angry. That’s why I did it. But that’s the ­constant question: how much of the book is you?”

It’s a question anyone reading Doctorow eventually finds themselves asking. Travel through his novels and you begin to see that certain landscapes are repeated, and a repertory company of stock characters – the charming, impractical father; the senile grandmother; the mother who is capable, handsome, disenchanted – emerges. “That never occured to me,” Doctorow laughs. “I guess there is that rough archetype of the parental relationship, but I was steeped in the belief that the author’s life is a distraction: the test of a book’s quality is not if it reflects my life, but if it reflects yours.” World’s Fair, his sweetest, straightest story of a young boy, Edgar, growing up in the Bronx “began autobiographically, but even when you use material from your own life explicitly, you still have to make the composition.”

Though characters resurface, stylistically Doctorow is a nomad, leaping from the formal prose of his 19th-century New York novel The Waterworks, to the jazz ­cadences of Ragtime, to Homer Collyer’s wry, melancholy reflections. “I don’t have a style, but the books do. Each demands its own method of presentation, and I like that. My theory about why Hemingway killed himself is that he heard his own voice; that he reached the point where he couldn’t write without feeling he was repeating himself. That’s the worst thing that can happen to a writer. A new reader shouldn’t be able to find you in your work, though someone who’s read more may begin to.”

–

Sarah Crown, The Guardian, Saturday 23 January 2010

The teaser trailer for the sequel has just been released – can it cut it in the big city?

You decide!

Smile ladies!

Cheese!

PS The less said about their mother turning 35 the better.

The Trailer for the new film by the gang that brought you Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill and Love, Actually. The film is called The Boat that Rocked in the UK and Pirate Radio in the US. Why exactly? Can the Brits not handle the idea of pirates? Do boats rock in the US at all? “Search me,” as the Brits would say, and if you’re reading this in the States, “Go Figure”!

The Trailer for the new film by the gang that brought you Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill and Love, Actually. The film is called The Boat that Rocked in the UK and Pirate Radio in the US. Why exactly? Can the Brits not handle the idea of pirates? Do boats rock in the US at all? “Search me,” as the Brits would say, and if you’re reading this in the States, “Go Figure”!

Dear England, how I love you,
I will never leave your side.
No other land is calling me…
‘With thee I will abide’.

Your towns are steeped in history
From centuries long gone by.
Cathedrals grand and beautiful
Reach high towards the sky.

All nature wakes from early dawn
In England in the spring,
When tiny lambs demure are born
And choirs of children sing.

Such splendour shines in summer
Emerald leaves adorn each tree,
Sweet roses of all colours bloom
with imposing dignity.

Sad memories of a battle fought
Some seventy years ago
Live on within the minds of men
As the British archives show.

O Queen and Country so beloved
Great poets exalt your name…
Distinguished seat of learning
A majestic hall of fame.

I walk along your peaceful shores
My heart is filled with pride,
And with tears of joy I sign a pledge
‘With thee I shall abide’.

Joyce Hemsley

–

Thank you, Joyce!

You can see the original poem here.

Dear England, how I love you,
I will never leave your side.
No other land is calling me…
‘With thee I will abide’.

Your towns are steeped in history
From centuries long gone by.
Cathedrals grand and beautiful
Reach high towards the sky.

All nature wakes from early dawn
In England in the spring,
When tiny lambs demure are born
And choirs of children sing.

Such splendour shines in summer
Emerald leaves adorn each tree,
Sweet roses of all colours bloom
with imposing dignity.

Sad memories of a battle fought
Some seventy years ago
Live on within the minds of men
As the British archives show.

O Queen and Country so beloved
Great poets exalt your name…
Distinguished seat of learning
A majestic hall of fame.

I walk along your peaceful shores
My heart is filled with pride,
And with tears of joy I sign a pledge
‘With thee I shall abide’.

Joyce Hemsley

–

Thank you, Joyce!

You can see the original poem here.

At that time, if all is well, I receive the holy grail of Permanent Resident Status – a 10-year card instead of the conditional 2-year card! But that’s all in the future…

For now, I’m happy to make it through Stage 1 of the Green Card good times. If you have any questions about the process, feel free to ask them in the Comments to this post. I can at least convey my experience to you, which may be helpful.

Cheers, America!

At that time, if all is well, I receive the holy grail of Permanent Resident Status – a 10-year card instead of the conditional 2-year card! But that’s all in the future…

For now, I’m happy to make it through Stage 1 of the Green Card good times. If you have any questions about the process, feel free to ask them in the Comments to this post. I can at least convey my experience to you, which may be helpful.

Cheers, America!

Aside from his best known poem For The Fallen (1914), most notably the fourth stanza which adorns numerous war memorials, Binyon published work on Botticelli and Blake among others. He returned to the British Museum following the war. His Collected Poems was published in 1931.

For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Aside from his best known poem For The Fallen (1914), most notably the fourth stanza which adorns numerous war memorials, Binyon published work on Botticelli and Blake among others. He returned to the British Museum following the war. His Collected Poems was published in 1931.

For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Lois Maxwell as Miss Moneypenny & Roger Moore as James Bond 007

In the spirit of what is most definitely Bond season, we have more news from the slick, Brit spy and his creator Ian Fleming.

Ian Fleming’s true inspiration for M’s no nonsense secretary Miss Moneypenny has been revealed as society hostess and bright young thing of the 1920s, Loelia Ponsonby.

The wife of the 2nd duke of Westminster, Ponsonby was said to be a close friend of the 007 author after meeting just before the 2nd World War.

The link between the two was made public after correspondence between the pair came to light. It was the impersonal, flirtatious manner of the letters, which mirrored the exchanges between Bond and Miss Moneypenny.

In the original novels he gave the Duchess’ name to the secertary before changing it to Miss Moneypenny in On Her Majesty’s Service. This all occurred long before the celebrated film franchise kicked off.

The letters, which are to be auctioned at Christies in London, contain playful exchanges such as, ‘shall I come and wake you with a kiss’ and ‘I shall sleep outside (I said outside) your door and live on Luft and Liebe (air and love)’. Although the letters may suggest otherwise it is thought the two never actaully had a relationship, much like Bond and Moneypenny.

For the diary:
The collection of letters go under the hammer at Christies on 13 November. Visit the site here.

2008 also marks the centenary of the birth of the world’s most famous spy novelist. Click below to watch a clip of Fleming talks about his fictitious hero:

–

Dean Samways October 23, 2008 The Scribbler

Lois Maxwell as Miss Moneypenny & Roger Moore as James Bond 007

In the spirit of what is most definitely Bond season, we have more news from the slick, Brit spy and his creator Ian Fleming.

Ian Fleming’s true inspiration for M’s no nonsense secretary Miss Moneypenny has been revealed as society hostess and bright young thing of the 1920s, Loelia Ponsonby.

The wife of the 2nd duke of Westminster, Ponsonby was said to be a close friend of the 007 author after meeting just before the 2nd World War.

The link between the two was made public after correspondence between the pair came to light. It was the impersonal, flirtatious manner of the letters, which mirrored the exchanges between Bond and Miss Moneypenny.

In the original novels he gave the Duchess’ name to the secertary before changing it to Miss Moneypenny in On Her Majesty’s Service. This all occurred long before the celebrated film franchise kicked off.

The letters, which are to be auctioned at Christies in London, contain playful exchanges such as, ‘shall I come and wake you with a kiss’ and ‘I shall sleep outside (I said outside) your door and live on Luft and Liebe (air and love)’. Although the letters may suggest otherwise it is thought the two never actaully had a relationship, much like Bond and Moneypenny.

For the diary:
The collection of letters go under the hammer at Christies on 13 November. Visit the site here.

2008 also marks the centenary of the birth of the world’s most famous spy novelist. Click below to watch a clip of Fleming talks about his fictitious hero:

–

Dean Samways October 23, 2008 The Scribbler