Yearly Archives: 2009

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Breakfast think tank with Dan Ariely, croissants, door prizes

No, I did not win any of the door prizes. Particularly not the coveted free ice skating lessons that drew a murmur of excitement from the business breakfast crowd in the Omni’s conference room. We were there this morning to launch this year’s Virginia Festival of the Book with scrambled eggs and a presentation by Dan Ariely, the Duke/MIT professor and author of Predictably Irrational: The Hidden Forces That Shape Our Decisions. After sympathetically noting the conflict of interest between a 7:30AM meeting on March 18 and an alcohol-fueled Irish holiday on March 17, Ariely gave a talk similar to this one in which he unraveled the mysteries of behavioral economics, aka the science behind buying a $4 cup of coffee or preferring specialty beer.

Last fall Fortune Magazine described Ariely as one of “10 new gurus you should know.” They like him because he applies statistical science to consumer behavior and helps companies save money on things like insurance claims and clothing returns. I like him because he’s one of the few men who realize that jeans qualify as business pants and because he’s a riveting speaker.

Whenever I encounter someone of above-normal intelligence, my first thought is always, “Let’s get this guy to Washington ASAP. He and Obama need to do lunch.” I imagine the first half of these meetings of the minds will be devoted to discussing how clever a matchmaker I am; the second half to policy decisions. And sure enough, Ariely has sage advice for the president. When asked about the outrageous AIG bonuses, Ariely said that he’s against capping bonuses in the future; instead, the CEOs should get nothing. They’re likely to do a better job for zero dollars than for $500,000. He said it’s like when you ask someone to help you move furniture for an hour. The friend volunteers out of the goodness of his heart, but the minute you offer to pay him some paltry amount like $5 (the equivalent of half a million for Mr. AIG), it’s demotivating. The person thinks, “My time is worth at least $20 an hour.” When market forces enter into the equation, the social incentive vanishes. Which is why I pay everybody in pizza. Speaking of which, if we paid the IRS in pizza instead of dollars, people would be more likely to cheat on their taxes. The further removed the commodity is from actual money, Ariely says, the more likely we are to justify fudging the numbers (or slices in this case).

By the way, I have been up learning interesting things for four hours, so I think that buys me precisely six hours of naptime and watching television on the internet.

Personal regrets from past book festivals

The following luminaries were in Charlottesville on March 24, 2004, for that year’s Virginia Festival of the Book: Michael Chabon, Edward P. Jones, Clyde Edgerton, and Michael Ondaatje. Did anyone who reads this blog see them in person? Did anyone buy them a drink, or if they don’t drink, a club soda? Did anyone gush nonsensically to Chabon about The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay or to Jones about The Known World like I would have done? Did anyone spray them with joyous spittle while welcoming them to Charlottesville’s Omni Hotel? And did any of you girls high-five Lois Lowry in 1997 and then tell her at length about your first menstrual periods?! I can only hope you did. Meanwhile I will try to make up for lost time when VABook 2009 starts tomorrow.

The Amazing Fact Generator is the new I Ching

Or Magic 8-Ball or what-have-you. This morning I asked Mental Floss’s Amazing Fact Generator, “Can I afford to go to graduate school in New York City?” It responded, “The University of Wyoming opened its doors before Wyoming became a state.”

Me: Clearly you mean that I should go even though I can’t afford it because soon after graduating with an MFA I will be a bestselling novelist?

AFG: “O’Hare airport is named after Al Capone’s laywer’s son, Lt. Cmdr. Butch O’Hare.”

Me: Now you’re just toying with me. That fact doesn’t even qualify as amazing.

AFG: “Since 2002, Henry Kissinger has avoided visiting both France and Spain—and for good reason. If he does, he might just be hauled into court. Apparently, Kissinger is still wanted for questioning in relation to French deaths resulting from the American-led war in Vietnam, and Spanish deaths that occurred during America’s military opposition in Chile.”

Me: This seems to insinuate that my credit card debt will preclude a student loan, and I resent you for mentioning it.

AFG: “In 1946, Ed Waldmire, Jr., revolutionized the meat-on-a-stick world when he debuted the Cozy Dog—the first corn dog on a stick. At first, he wanted to call his creation the ‘Crusty Cur,’ but his wife convinced him that people wouldn’t want to eat something described as ‘crusty.'”

Me: Assholes like you are what’s running the web into the ground.

Dereliction of literary duty

Not only did I publish zero books this year, thereby contributing nothing to the Virginia literary economy, but I have also been shirking my blogging duties for the Virginia Festival of the Book 2009. “What a punk!” says Michael Dirda. “She should be fired!” says Rita Dove. “I’m going to teach her a lesson!” says John Grisham. “I am totally okay with that!” says Wistar Murray.

Yesterday I finally assembled my “Book Bag” thanks to an ingenious tool on the VFB website that lets you create a personal calendar of book events. I always get a little trigger-happy with the Book Bag and end up cyber-committing to readings that conflict with work, meal-times, my personal taste, and each other. If the Virginia Festival of the Book had a VIP gift lounge like the Sundance Film Festival’s, I would be in there loading up on Ugg boots and snowboard bindings and Mariah Carey CDs just because they were free. But fortunately for my legions of fans, my Book Bag also contains events that I will 100% definitely attend (unless it’s raining or I’m sleepy). I present them here in chronological order:

Business Breakfast: Predictably Irrational with Dan Ariely (At the ungodly hour of 7:30AM! But there will be donuts. And I’m going to wear my only pair of business-style pants, loved by my husband because they give me the appearance of making a salary.)

Doctors Who Write (Dad, you’re my date. Heads-up. I am also expecting dinner and drinks afterward.)

What Are You Driving At? Cars, Culture, and an Impending Crisis (I’m hoping this event’s moderators will focus on fixing my muffler, which is in critical condition.)

Lifting Depression: Have Important Clues Been in Our Hands All Along? (Yes, if you substitute “Prozac” for “Clues” and “My” for “Our” and “Off And On Since 1994” for “All Along.” Then you’d have to go back and change “Have” to “Has” in order to get the verb to agree with the subject. I guess you might as well just start the sentence over.)

The Late-Night Story Slam (This event combines three of my favorite things: drinking, narrative, and heckling. I mean “audience participation.”)

So Many Books. . . The Pleasures of Reading (I’m looking for recommendations to replace Frank Herbert’s Dune, my book club’s latest pick, chosen after five bottles of wine.)

The Oceans (I would be there if I could be in multiple places at once – like the great white shark, my arch nemesis.)

Book Review Superstars (Does the fact that I don’t think the word “superstars” in this context is hyperbole make me a dork?)

Regular and Decaf: One Friend with Schizophrenia, One Friend with Bipolar (I’m not trying to belittle the importance of mental illness education, but where there’s coffee there’s usually pastries.)

Annual Book Fair at the Omni (Last year I was given a lot of promotional items, chiefly candy, and met an author who said that the black race would disappear within 20 years. I was so disturbed by this pronouncement that I spent an hour Googling him and his book – to no avail because after our encounter I’d promptly forgotten his name and the name of his book. I actually don’t think he was invited to the festival or to the Omni; he was just a man with a bizarre idea and a fold-out table.)

Agents Roundtable (It can’t hurt.)

Authors’ Reception (The party to end all parties! Except it only lasts until 8pm.)

Truth, Justice, and the American Way: An Evening with John Grisham and Stephen L. Carter (I will be there unless Grisham’s restraining order goes through.)

Virginia Arts of the Book Center: Open House (I will be there if I haven’t been up all night partying with Grisham and company. My buddy Kristin is moderating. I will try not to heckle her like the story slam people.)

Francois Coty: The Perfume Magnate (I will say “That’s funny because MY perfume is a BOY MAGNET” and we will all cackle in French accents.)

Rome 1960: The Olympics that Changed the World (But only because I’m a huge Jerry West fan. And because I coached the 1960 USA Rollerblading team.)

Equal opportunity bullying on the mean streets of Charlottesville

Yesterday I was jogging past the parking lot of the auto body shop, imagining all the different car accidents responsible for the wreckage, when I was approached by a pair of nine-year-old girls carrying Fiddlesticks. I’m not usually intimidated by nine-year-olds, but these girls decided to pick on me because they perceived me – wrongly! – to be old and daydreamy and significantly out of shape. One of the girls – the ringleader – gave me a nefarious look and started pretending her mini lacrosse stick was an electric guitar. She shouted all the chords at the top of her lungs, bullying me with her stupid, made-up song while we passed on the sidewalk. It’s like she was mocking my musicianship, except I was wearing running shoes and she was carrying sports equipment and I couldn’t ascertain any connection between what the three of us were doing and the way in which I was being taunted. But I felt like I was under attack and I was frightened, so I quickly jogged away. But the two girls took a shortcut across a field and intercepted me on the next block where they resumed aggressively playing their lacrosse stick guitar at me and laughing and I was forced to flee and hide out in a nearby CVS until I was sure they were gone.

But as clearly disturbing as this incident was, I’m sort of proud that young female, and not just male, bullies are now picking on the weak and defenseless in Charlottesville. As a young girl I never would have had the balls to confront an elegant, athletic, mature woman on the street and try to take her down a notch in some inexplicable fashion. I feel like feminism has come a long way in America when delinquent girls can be loud and rude and intrepid and gang up on strangers who have wandered into their neighborhoods in the name of physical fitness and who then go home and cry from fear and confusion after accepting the girls’ weird abuse, when that used to be the exclusive purview of troubled young men.

Keep up the good work, my young sisters! I fully support you in your equal opportunity bullying. My only suggestion would be to develop a more coherent system of attack so you don’t leave your victims feeling like they missed the point. But maybe you’re waging psychological warfare, in which case, wow.

Sickness. Couch. Links. Confusion.

I am a creature of routine occupying a body of convention living a life of habit. So when I got exciting news this week that seems to portend my world changing drastically this summer (holy crap I was admitted to an MFA program!), I immediately got the flu. It was my body’s way of saying, “Don’t go changing on me.” And not only am I receiving conflicting signals from my ambitious brain and my curmudgeonly immune system, I am further confused by the rejection letters slowly piling up from other MFA programs. Maybe I got into the one program that didn’t read my application. Oh well – sucks for them. I’m still going. A green light is a green light even when you can see a collision on the horizon. Thank you, dear benefactors!

In other news:

I give you the Halloween costume of the future! (The future being 2009.)

Tom Perotta talks Tracy Flick: “Especially with Palin, I don’t feel as if Tracy Flick was the best comparison. I just think people are made uncomfortable by ambitious women.”

Romantic comedies might be as harmful to the developing psyche as violent video games and cheese from a can.

Are poets held to lower standards today?

What war on drugs? I don’t remember fighting a war on drugs.

I’m the last person to be wrapped up in the WTF Blanket.

A new book asks why women get short shrift when it comes to writing the next Great American Novel. (Thanks to DD for the link.)

[Elaine Showalter] has insisted that themes central to women’s lives — marriage, motherhood, the tension between family and individual aspirations — constitute subject matter as “serious” and significant as traditionally masculine motifs like war and travel. Yet she rejects the preference of many feminist literary scholars for emphasizing “culture importance rather than aesthetic distinction” . . .

This website is to sociologists what PhotoshopDisasters is to designers.

Judith Warner writes about the pitfalls of mindfulness and Anna Fricke writes about not getting the baby drunk (both from NY Times blogs).

My alma mater is looking for a new mascot. Remember that artichokes, banana slugs, and “The Fighting Quaker” have already been done.

Jonathan Ames is taking on TV and James Franco is taking on books. And I live on the moon and moon rocks live on my couch!

I’m waiting for a quiet, sad moment to read this New Yorker piece about David Foster Wallace and his unfinished novel.

[Wallace’s] goal had been to show readers how to live a fulfilled, meaningful life. “Fiction’s about what it is to be a fucking human being,” he once said. Good writing should help readers to “become less alone inside.”

Garrison Keillor learns a lesson from an unread writer.

And thanks to Edward Upward, I have decided not to take a sabbatical after all. You go off to the woods for a year and it puts you under terrible pressure to write “Moby Dick” or something worthy of having had an entire year in which to write, and the longer you work at this masterpiece the shabbier it looks, the whale turns into a guppy, and at the end of the year you have torn up almost everything you wrote and you are filled with self-loathing and bitter regret.

I’m just happy more good looking people seem to be choosing the literary profession over acting, modeling, or working at Hooters. Makes readings feel more like the talent portion of a beauty contest. Vive les letters!

Hating to write is not so unusual in the writing business

In a recent Guardian interview with Colm Toibin (a 2008 VA Festival of the Book participant), the Booker-shortlisted author says, “I write with a sort of grim determination to deal with things that are hidden and difficult and this means, I think, that pleasure is out of the question.” Writing is “never fun,” according to Toibin, but it’s necessary.

The interview reminded me of something Dorothy Parker once told me: “I hate writing, I love having written.” Sometimes writing is what you have to do in order to get the monkey off your back. And sometimes you have to adopt another, more vicious monkey like a drinking problem in order to get the first monkey off your back. And either way you’re probably going to turn out an unpublished loser.

Speaking of writing quotes, Opium Magazine is collecting them as part of its Network of Writers Experiment. You have until 5 o’clock today to beat the following quote by “pr,” an HTML GIANT commenter: “If you are not getting ass fucked nightly by aliens, you will never be as good as Hemingway.”

The VA Festival of the Book contains more human interest stories than the Oscars

We all know that John Grisham used to practice law, but did we know that Harley Jane Kozak, a VA Festival of the Book Crime Wave headliner, was the beautiful Buckman wife serenaded by Rick Moranis in Parenthood? You remember – “Nathan, we’re trying so hard to keep these kids off drugs.” I loved her in that movie. She was also in both Arachnophobia and When Harry Met Sally. But in the past five years she’s published four novels. It was about time she got a real job!

Ms. Kozak probably hates it when people remind her of her sordid past as a stunning and critically acclaimed Hollywood actress, but I’m not in this blogging game to make friends. Speaking of which, if I tried to collaborate on a blog with my five best friends like Harley does in The Lipstick Chronicles, I would surely lose my marbles. If writing was a team sport, I would be playing third string in the d-league of a junior college. And I’d probably have to pay for my own uniform. And my name would be misspelled in the roster. Go on, you say? And I’d spend most games hanging out by the vending machine waiting for candy to fall out. But here in this circumscribed writing world where every day I play myself for the championship title, my pitching arm is strong and I’m chewing Big League Gum and I’m going to knock that other girl’s teeth out if she dares to step between me and home plate. Score: zero, zero. Winner: me!

Maybe Harley will let me be her ballgirl. I can at least bring her a bottle of Gatorade when she reads on March 21st.

Notes from a Dominican travel diary

I survived my travels (the tropical travels that I neither deserved nor paid for). But surviving them gives me hope that I am four planes and five Xanax closer to conquering my fear of flying. Our suitcases full of dirty clothes are apparently still sitting on the runway in the Dominican Republic, but I don’t even care. I will buy a new toothbrush. My luggage can stay in Punta Cana and soak up the sun and tip its handlers indefinitely because our lives have again been spared. And all without anyone acknowledging just how close we came. Except for my mother whose “Call me as soon as you land safely” text was waiting for me in Virginia and whose “But all the other doctors’ wives get Valium!” is a common refrain on long trips.

The agony of flying was a peak experience, but the honeymoon was pretty good too. I had no idea that Johnny Castle, Baby Houseman, and all of Johnny’s Dirty Dancing coworkers were alive and well and still being suggestive with their bodies on a Caribbean island decades after their triumph in America’s Catskills. In fact, this IMDB plot synopsis of the movie does a better job of summarizing my trip than I ever could:

It is the summer of 1963 and Baby and her family are to attend the holiday resort in America’s beautiful Catskill Mountains. But when they arrive Baby is almost immediately swept off her feet by the sexy and talented Johnny Castle. When her father forbids her to have anything to do with the hunky resort dance instructor and his pals, she finds herself falling madly in love with him and learning how to dance the passionate Latin dances that Johnny loves. Like the beginning of the 60’s signaled the ending of an era of innocence for the U.S.A., it also signals the ending of Baby’s innocence and the awakening of her feelings as a young woman.

Keep in mind that I was not playing the part of Baby in this scenario. I was playing the part of the complacent, elitist married woman who rolled her eyes every night when her beach resort’s nubile entertainment staff started shaking their Dominican hips on the mainstage for the tourists. No, this old lady did not participate in the “Fun Club” or in its after-hours activities at Mangu Disco where perhaps a few foreigners were specially chosen to merengue with the less discerning resort employees. This old lady and her equally crotchety husband wore SPF 70 sunblock every day and went to bed as soon as the band started up and found the unlimited rum drinks a bit too “Pixie Stickish.” They were also confused about how they were supposed to perform on the “Party Boat” (strip and dance on the bow or be the private, inconspicuous couple that the other passengers forget in Open Water?) and about how they could possibly finish reading their serious novels with the techno music blaring from the swim-up bar speakers.

No, in this scenario we were definitely the reluctant, forbidding, Dr. Houseman-type abortion givers, not the fun-loving, Penny Johnson-type abortion givees. In a way it’s sort of sad to leave my provocative dancing, unwanted pregnancy days behind me (kidding, Mom!), but at the same time it’s awesome to have a husband who is willing to complain when the music gets so loud that his wife can’t finish her book or when the Canadians drink so much rum that there’s nothing left with which to disinfect a papercut.

I am experiencing the usual emotions: excitement, terror

Tomorrow we fly to the land that gave us Junot Diaz, Mario Vargas Llosa, and Julia Alvarez. At least they have all written about the Dominican Republic. Everything I know about the world south of the border I have learned from novels. I’m expecting a lot of old, winged men falling from the sky and that sort of thing. I’m also expecting a Lost-type scenario, or more probably, death by plane crash. But before death, pina colada!

I will not be blogging about my trip, but here are some literary links to tide you over until my plane lands softly, angelically on Virginia tarmac next week:

The Times writes about how the Times broke Wallace Stegner’s heart.

Colin Robertson of the London Review of Books weighs in on the publishing crisis. (Thanks to MW for the link.)

Trailer for the movie adaptation of Larry Doyle’s I Love You Beth Cooper starring Hayden Panettiere as Beth Cooper.

Zadie Smith writes about race, being both genuine and multiple, language, and Obama in the New York Review of Books. (Thanks to AP for the link.)

Also, these jerks stole my gig, restaurant servers are conspiratorial about dessert, and the most bizarre experiments of all time.