Not to be a downer, but . . . .

I laughed so hard at this!



And thanks to my buddy J. W. for passing it along via facebook!

#BuyThisBook: World faiths collide in Charlotte Gordon's "The Woman Who Named God"

Wracking your tryptofan and powdered sugar addled brain for gift ideas? We asked our publishing peers and peeps to help us recommend a book every day from Black Friday to Christmas Eve!

The Woman Who Named God: Abraham's Dilemma and the Birth of Three Faiths by Charlotte Gordon
Recommended by Joni Rodgers (bestselling author, parochial school survivor, religion history nerd)
Perfect for anyone who loved The Red Tent.

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At the root of all three monotheistic faiths (and a whole lot of violent conflict) is the oft repeated but catastrophically misunderstood story of Abraham, Sarah and Hagar: three all-too-human people in a disastrous love triangle. To understand the story's world-shattering impact, we have to go to that time and place. PW says The Woman Who Named God is "provocative...Gordon gives new power to a woman often left in the shadows. Focusing on Hagar's vision of God in the desert, Gordon argues that Hagar is a prophet and a mystic who names God El-Roi, or 'the God of my seeing'...provides glimpses of the power of Hagar's story for modern religions."

Tomorrow author Charlotte Gordon visits BoxOcto to talk about research and storytelling.

Buy This Book: ROOM by Emma Donoghue

I read a lot of books and share many recommendations to people I think will enjoy them, but occasionally I come across a book so powerful, such a game-changer, that I pester everyone I know to read it. I think the last one that really got me to this degree was Kathryn Stockett's The Help. This year, the book drug I'm pushing is Room by Emma Donoghue.

Why was I so blown away? First off, there's the narrator, five-year-old Jack, who has never been outside of the single room he shares with Ma, a room he believes to be the entire world. All other places, people, animals are make believe, or as he calls it "on TV."

Jack and his Ma share a beautiful bond, a relationship that fills the reader with admiration for a mother making the very best of the worst situation imaginable. For even filtered through Jack's innocence, the reader gradually comes to understand that this unimaginably brave young mother is not trapped in Room by choice,

To share more would be to lessen the impact of discovery, which is what makes the book so extraordinary that I have no doubt it will stay with me forever. Discover it for yourself. I can't imagine you'll be sorry.

Jack's voice is one of the pure triumphs of the novel... Donoghue rearranges language to evoke the sweetness of a child's learning without making him coy or overly darling.... This is a truly memorable novel, one that can be read through myriad lenses - psychological, sociological, political. It presents an utterly unique way to talk about love, all the while giving us a fresh, expansive eye on the world in which we live."

- Aimee Bender, New York Times Book Review

"Powerful.... Seen entirely through Jack's eyes and childlike perceptions, the developments in this novel--there are enough plot twists to provide a dramatic arc of breathtaking suspense--are astonishing.... Donoghue brilliantly portrays the psyche of a child raised in captivity...will keep readers rapt." - Publishers Weekly

#BuyThisBook: Ken Harmon's "The Fat Man" is high camp holiday noir

Wracking your tryptofan and powdered sugar addled brain for gift ideas? We asked our publishing peers and peeps to help us recommend a book every day from Black Friday to Christmas Eve!

The Fat Man: A Tale of North Pole Noir by Ken Harmon
Recommended by Stephanie Manas, Dutton PR diva

"A hard-boiled satire, a send-up of all the great noir novels and films, mashed up with all the Christmas legends we know and love. The title is a play on the classic Dashiell Hammett novel The Thin Man, and the book is full of not only elves and Santa Claus but Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and every beloved holiday character in between. Even the murder victim gets his eye shot out by a Red Ryder BB Gun, owned of course by Ralphie from A Christmas Story."

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'Twas the night before... (or "darkest hour just before") A holiday excerpt from Ellen Rogers' "Kasey to the Rescue"

Ellen Rogers' memoir, Kasey to the Rescue: The Remarkable Story of a Monkey and a Miracle, tells the story of her family's difficult journey after her son Ned is left paralyzed from the neck down after a car accident. The surprising superhero in the book is Kasey, a 25 year old capuchin monkey trained by Helping Hands: Monkey Helpers for the Disabled. 


Buy this book for: Anyone who needs a reminder to be thankful for life's small miracles. It's not YA, but will appeal to youthies with a cast of (other than mom and monkey) teens and twenty-somethings. 


We decorated Ned’s hospital room with a tiny tree and Christmas decorations and piled his gifts around it. Little things like CDs and T-shirts. He couldn’t make use of much else. Happy faces firmly in place, we went to Ned’s room on Christmas Eve, pretending everything was merry and bright, but ghosts of Christmas past filled the room. Our family traditions were all about food and fun, games on TV, a festive round of house-to-house visits with our friends. We always ended the day reading “’Twas the Night Before Christmas,” and I got everyone involved, reading each line and pointing to one of the kids to supply the last word. By the time they were out of elementary school, they all knew it by heart, so most of the confusion and fun happened when one or another of them got caught texting or dozing off and then there’d be no end of razzing.

Jake spent the evening with us at the hospital, then went off to visit friends. Megan and Ron went home, and the girls trudged up to bed. Standing in the silent living room–turned–hospital bivouac, I decided I wasn’t about to let go of our small, important tradition.

“Girls! Get out of bed.”

Sleepy groans could be heard overhead.

“Come on! We have to do ‘The Night Before Christmas,’” I insisted. “We’ll conference Jake and Megan in on the phone.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Maddie harrumphed on her way down the stairs. “Mom, it’s too late. I’m tired.”

“We’re doing it anyway,” I grimly informed them. “It’ll be fun.”

Jake and Megan were less than thrilled to be interrupted while doing whatever people do at eleven o’clock on Christmas Eve, but I forged ahead, dragging everyone with me line by line.

“Twas the night before...”

“Christmas,” someone said as if it were a wake.

“And all through the...”

There was a long silence, a noticeable hole in the voices. Again that realization of foreverness swept over me, and now it was starting to sink in with the rest of the family. I’d been living with it for a while, but the kids weren’t used to it yet. Seeing Ned away from home on Christmas Eve—-so dependent, so helpless, in that sterile white setting—-had brought the painful reality into full, unobstructed view.

Your life will never be the same, Judy had said, but tradition allows us to pretend there’s something unchangeable in a world that spins out of control. This little ritual left over from their childhood may have seemed silly and simple to my kids, but without that anchor, I didn’t know where we might drift—-or drift apart.

On Christmas morning, I went to the hospital.

“They want a discharge plan right after the holidays,” I said. “As if a person gets to decide these things. It’s all about insurance really. And what the doctor says.”

“Which is what?” asked Ned.

“He wants you to go around the corner to Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital. He decided you need more rehab before you go home.” I was grateful for that. It lifted the burden of having to say it myself. “It’s not a defeat,” I told Ned. “Just a detour.”

“You should probably get back,” he said.

I nodded and touched his cheek. As I left his room, I glanced back in time to see him pick up his right hand to wave goodbye.

“Ned!” I rushed back to his bed. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“I’ve been visualizing those arm curls,” he grinned. “All of a sudden, I actually brought up my arm. Watch. I think I can do it again.”

And up it came. I crowed and clapped my hands together.

“Wonderful! Do it again, do it again.”

But he couldn’t. It went away completely after that, and I was the only person who’d seen it. We were both simultaneously thrilled and disappointed. The roller coaster ride continued.

“One step forward, two steps back,” I sighed.

“Yeah, but then there’s another step forward,” Ned reminded me.

I squeezed his arm. “Merry Christmas, Ned.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom.”

From KASEY TO THE RESCUE: The Remarkable Story of a Monkey and a Miracle by Ellen Rogers. Copyright (c) 2010. Published by Hyperion. Available wherever books are sold. All Rights Reserved.

When to Play Possum

There's never a dull moment when you have terriers. At dark-thirty this morning, the fuzzy one got up earlier than her partner-in-crime and managed to take a young possum by surprise. At the sound of her frantic I've-got-a-varmint-Mom barking, I ran and grabbed a flashlight and checked out the small, curled body.

Zippy (shown here contemplating her awesomeness) along with her newly-awakened pal, lost interest immediately, because their terrier instincts only prompt them to throttle and shake to death fleeing prey. When it comes to eating what they kill, they take a pass and opt for dog food.

I felt bad about the murder, especially when I noticed the victim was still breathing. Was it suffering, neck broken? Would I need to get the Shovel O' Doom to bring this story to its sad but seemingly inevitable conclusion?

And then I remembered we were dealing with a possum... a small furry critter, with rather dim-witted but generally well-meaning natural enemies, such as the type of "friends" and relatives who tell the emerging writer that getting published is impossible, that you have to know somebody, that success takes qualities which, it is implied, you lack, such as brilliance or persistence or luck. Instinctively driven to throttle any ambition on the move, they don't exactly mean to destroy you. They simply can't think their way past their knee-jerk naysaying habit.

If you and your ego run from them, you're dead. But if you lie very still, scarcely breathing a word of your excitement over your new story or the agent request you received on a contest entry, they'll lose interest and move on.

Keep your mouth shut and do your thing, in the face of human terriers. Then, when you finally succeed, you'll get to listen to them proudly woofing: "I always knew you had it in you!"

Note from the Author: No animals were harmed in the making of this metaphor. All creatures, canine and opossinine (or whatever the heck the term is) lived to fight another day. In other words, the minutes the dogs went inside, the shrewd little guy got up and scooted to safety.

Coming next March to a theater near you: Michael Connelly's "The Lincoln Lawyer"

Spoiler alert: It ends with Colleen and Joni going out for overpriced gellato and agreeing that it wasn't as good as the book...

Tis the season to #BuyReadLove! (Watch this space for holiday book deals and recommendations)

I don't know about you, but I've had a great reading year, and I'll be passing some of my favorites along to people I love this Christmas. I've also asked friends and colleagues in the publishing biz to let me know what great books they're giving and recommending this year, so keep an eye on BoxOcto if you're at a loss for gift ideas. Every day from Black Friday through Christmas Eve, we'll suggest at least one book that would make a great gift for a particular reader/writer in your life. (You might even spot a few you absolutely have to nab for yourself.)

Shout out to our fellow authors, PR folk, editors, agents, and booksellers: We'd love to have you stop by and briefly plug books to give as gifts. "Buy This Book For..." posts should include, title, author, person for whom the book is perfect (postman who always rings twice, jolly thriller junkie, grrrl next door, Uncle Elbow Patch, book club buddy, myself but we'll pretend it's from Santa, or whatever) and 75-100 words about the book. Email your recommendations to boxocto(a)gmail.com.

Stay frosty and have a great week!

Encore: Good Grief! Revision in Five Stages

Within a single hour this week, I received a batch of edits for one manuscript and a revision letter for another, which interrupted yet another set of revisions. Whew!

As overwhelming as it can be, I took heart, remembering this 2009 post I wrote for BtO. Thought it would be worth reposting because every writer who ever finishes and sends out a manuscript is likely to get gobsmacked by revisions. It's only those who learn to handle it who go on to be pros.

----------------------------


As I wend my way through a particularly challenging batch of revisions, I was brought to mind of the Kubler-Ross model on the stages of grief, which is all too apt in chronicling the reactions of your average working writer.

1. Denial - Surely, the editor doesn't mean my masterpiece! This must have gone out to the wrong author by mistake.

2. Anger - What the (insert strongest, vilest expletive that comes to mind)? Who do those stupid hacks think they are, screwing with me like this? Are they @#$! blind? (Ranting continues, either in the form of silent fuming or a epic hissy fit. If you're very lucky, no phone calls or e-mails to the involved parties originate during this stage and your loved ones have learned to ignore you at this point.)

3. Bargaining - If I change just this one little thing, that'll make it sort of okay, right? You surely didn't mean to imply I have to rewrite the whole, entire...

Oh, no you didn't.

4. Depression - I clearly suck, and everyone else has just been too kind to tell me. Or maybe they're all winking and laughing behind my back. There are septic slugs with more talent, deranged dabblers who smell of old potatoes who write better. I am vile, useless... (reaches for Help Wanted section of paper and checks out listing for fast food clerks.) Writer's block ensues, sometimes for long periods when writers get stuck in this stage.

5. Acceptance. Oh, all right. I guess I'm going to have to do it, so I must as well dig in and make a decent effort. Hey, wait a minute. These changes really do make the story better, and you know, it's getting good here. I'm getting waaay into this again! (Remainder of world peels away as writer falls back in love with his/her own story.)

I'm not sure if it helps knowing we go through these stages, but at least I'm getting a good laugh - at myself and my process.

"Nobody is going to give you a thing:" Excellent advice from Dear Sugar

Whether or not you've seen this "Dear Sugar" post, it's worth revisiting, particularly if you're a woman. It's Dear Sugar's advice to a 26-year-old writer struggling with her identity, her gender and her art. Every time I read it, when I get to the end, I want to stand up and cheer. I also want to give a shout out to my friends in VIDA: Women in Literary Arts. If you're a writer and a woman, and particularly if you write about your "lady life experiences," both of these sites are worth a look. I only wish they'd existed back when I was 26. And regarding the "vagina as metaphor" concerns of the original questioner? Maybe she should take a cue from playwright Eve Ensler. Imagine if Ensler had felt even the slightest bit delicate about her Vagina Monologues. Would the show be the worldwide sensation it is now? Would colleges around the country perform it every February to raise money to provide safe havens for the victims of sex slavery, genital mutilation, and domestic violence?

Sometimes great work cuts.

Via Red Room: The polka dotted history of one author's favorite character name

This week Red Room is encouraging authors to blog about favorite character names, and I happen to have a great one, so I thought I'd cross post.

The summer I was twelve, I went through a serious Michener phase, and my favorite book by far was his sweeping epic Hawaii. The religious themes particularly resonated with me; I'd gone to super strict parochial school since first grade, and it was really beginning to rub me the wrong way. So I was particularly moved and enlightened by the part about the "farm of bitterness" in which the starched evangelist, Abner Hale wins the selfless hand of beautiful, brave Jerusha Bromley, who accompanies him on his mission to the islands and emerges as the true example of what Christianity is supposed to be (if only Christians would give it a try) before she dies in the measles epidemic brought to the natives by their generous benefactors.

I subsequently saw Julie Andrews as Jerusha in the movie version of Hawaii, which homed in on the same segment of the book, and I decided right then and there: "Someday I will have a daughter. And her name will be Jerusha!"

Of course, I forgot about it over the years, but when I was pregnant with my daughter, my husband and I were driving through the hinterlands of Montana, and we passed a fishing access marked with a green forest service sign: JERUSHA GULCH. A bolt from the blue! A sign from God! My own Jerusha was born a few months later, beautiful and brave -- with the added advantage of measles vaccine.

When Jerusha was twelve, she informed me that her goal was to someday build a time machine, return to that fishing access circa 1989 and replace the sign with one that says: HEY, YOU HIPPIES! NAME YOUR KID SOMETHING NORMAL!

She has to pronounce it for people twice, three times, spell it out. Teachers would roll call her "Joshua" every year on the first day of school. It's different, which made it hard for her to love until she learned to love everything else about herself that makes her unique. At 21, she's grown into it. Last year, she traveled alone to Cambodia to join a Habitat for Humanity project in Phnom Penh. I tucked a copy of "Hawaii" in her duffle bag before she left.

Trending much? Another small press scores a big award (but can they handle it?)

To be totally candid, I was more intrigued by last night's "Top Chef Just Desserts" finale than I was by the National Book Awards ceremony. I glanced at the twittering just enough to know that speakers were predictably verbose, Patti Smith was predictably fabulous, and another small press scored another big award when Jaimy Gordon's Lord of Misrule routed the big name fiction nominees.

It's a trending topic. Little engines that could.

The 2009 Pulitzer went to Paul Harding's Tinkers. And more recently, Johanna Skibsrud's The Sentimentalists took the prestigious Scotiabank Giller Prize, having sold a grand 400 copies after it's release by teensy Gaspereau Press.

But here's a bit of a conundrum, as reported in The National:

An independent publishing house well known for its lovingly and painstakingly designed books, it is definitely a case of quality over quantity for the Novia Scotia-based publisher, which pressed a mere 2,000 extra copies of The Sentimentalists after it was longlisted for the annual prize. And with previous winners having gone on to sell tens of thousands of extra copies each as a result, Gaspereau Press's inability to publish more than 1,000 copies a week could prove to be a bit of a problem. Determined to keep its integrity intact, Gaspereau has also revealed it had turned down offers from several bigger publishers to help cope with rising demand for the book.

My initial reaction is that this small press is screwing their little author. Big time. Limping out with a thousand copies a week, they were killing what could be the greatest opportunity of her career. (I'm reminded of a friend whose novel was being vetted by Oprah's book club in the late '90s. The tiny lit press who published it turned up their nose at such a crassly commercial idea, declined to print the required number of copies, flat out refused to provide the 300 free copies for the Oprah studio audience, and rejected a big publisher's offer to step in and capitalize what would effectively be the corporate startup of this author's brand.)

But on second thought, I get where Gaspereau is coming from, and it does rub me the wrong way that a big publisher should sweep in and make boocoo bucks off a book for which they were unwilling to take the slightest risk. It trains them to headhunt authors from small presses instead of actually investing in old school author/editor partnerships.

So what may we extrapolate from all this?
1. Small presses rock. They are the future of fiction that doesn't involve vampires and the last hope for us so-called "midlist" authors who've been dumped on the Island of Misfit Toys by the big publishers who launched our careers.

2. Big presses still hold the key to distribution. But I see ebooks as an opportunity to change that. At the very least, The Sentimentalists should have been immediately available on Kindle and Nook. The catch is training readers of road-less-traveled fiction to seek it out in digital platforms when the vast, vast majority of ebooks available now are self-published, unedited, amateur schnauzer crap.

The happy ending for Skibsrud is that Gaspereau was blasted with harsh criticism for their constipated take on literary integrity at the expense of the writer, and they sold Canadian paperback rights to Douglas & McIntyre. She was quoted as being "really pleased" with the deal (Canadian for "elated"), and 30K copies are scheduled to ship tomorrow. Where there's life, there's hope.

Bajo, Edwige and the Luchadors

Thanks, Joni, for interviewing David Bajo. I think Panopticon is a mesmerizing novel about several kinds of borderland. In addition to its real substance (which is clear in the interview) and its brilliantly turning eyes on the world we live in, the novel abounds in pop cultural references.

Which leads me to this confession: While working to bring Panopticon into print (I was its editor), I found myself dipping into the adventures of Blue Demon and Santo. Great fun.

And, of course, I used the book as an excuse to watch old Edwige Fenech gallos (Italian bedroom farces from the days when a mainstream movie-maker could first show bare breasts with impunity).

And then there were the "thrillers". I wanted to screen The Case of the Bloody Iris [nudity alert] on a silent loop in our booth at Book Expo this spring, but I figured I'd be run out of the Javits Center.

If I'd had a booth at Frankfurt, though....