Here’s the thing I’m feeling iffy about. Madras is a nonprofit, and the website explains that all net proceeds from books sales are donated to a charity of the author’s choosing. Now, I come to you as a woman who has spent the better part of her life trying to be of service — giving away my 8th grade field trip spending money to a homeless man in D.C., volunteering in high school, college & after, and ultimately settling into a career as a nonprofit fundraiser & manager. I am all about supporting nonprofits of all shapes and sizes. BUT, I don’t understand why the writers can’t make a little money off their writing?

Now, I don’t know what exactly Madras means by “net proceeds” — maybe they have built in some compensation to the writer — but it seems to me that writers can raise their voices and use their work to support nonprofits, without sacrificing themselves. We need to be able to leverage our art to get money from those who really have it to spare, rather than just giving up what little we might earn.

And this isn’t the first I’ve heard of this… the Poetic Arts Performance Project here in Philly that aims to “use our poetic gifts and those of artists from around the country and globe to help other charitable organizations in the Philadelphia area.” That’s commendable… and yet, I often wonder about arts organizations (which are hobbled to begin with) trying to help other organizations. Why can’t it be enough to raise up the arts, to focus on raising up the arts, and let the art have the powerful social effect that art can have. Keep what little money you might make and put it back into your own organization, so you can spread more art, whether that’s through publishing more stories that won’t find a home any other way, or putting on kick ass readings & educational events. I wonder… do these organizations think that they need to bribe potential patrons with the promise of a tax write off? Do they think it somehow makes it okay to pay for art by not really paying for art by giving to something “more worthy”?  Honestly, I suspect these organizations recognize that they aren’t going to get rich off their books and events, and they altruistically believe that what little they raise can make a difference to another struggling organization. And they may be right.

But I’m not convinced… I’m not sure that doing this doesn’t just reinforce the idea of writing as folly, hobby, something readers can & should get for free… unless its by someone a major publishing house has told them they should pay for.  I know that no one goes into writing for money… but why must writers always be hobbyists, why must we exhaust ourselves at full-time jobs so that we can pay the bills, so that we can live, so that we can write. Why can’t we try to get a least a little compensation for all the hours, heartache, tears, and papercuts we endure as artists.

Everyone else does it. I know its hard for some of us to understand that people who are scientists, engineers, and technologists are really passionate artists in the work they do. Only they make medicines and machines, and they don’t give them away for free just because they loved the process of creating and because they are so impressed with what they made. Hells no. If that was the case, everyone would have a car, a computer, and an iPod.

Maybe that’s over-simplified. And maybe not. All I know is when I buy a book or go to an event, when I’m really impressed by a writer, I feel great knowing that writer is going to get a little compensation for a job well done. A writer who needs that money to keep doing the best damn job she can. Making art. Putting it out there, in people’s faces, saying I am worth something. I am valuable. Listen to me.

When I was in graduate school, a fellow poet asked if I would mind being interviewed for a critical paper addressing Sylvia Plath’s continuing influence on contemporary women poets. I immediately agreed—partly because my ego requires that I accept any and all opportunities to be quoted, and partly because, although I knew I felt a kinship with Plath, I wasn’t (I’m still not) exactly sure why. Although I’ve read both The Colossus and Ariel, Plath’s prose—namely The Bell Jar—was what stuck with me most. And not because I ever struggled with a similar mental instability, but because when I first read it (and here is my embarrassing confession of the day) I was so jealous of the “novel’s” writer heroine. (And I use “” because it is such a thinly veiled autobiography). She was winning prestigious awards, scoring prestigious internships, and just generally gaining in writerly prestige. Sure, she was descending into a mire of depression, but did I mention all the prestige?

Yeah…. I was pretty misguided right after college. But on the other hand, my “jealousy” was also kind of motivating. I remember thinking that if Sylvia Plath was writing about being rejected by an esteemed writing course, then that must mean that anyone could be rejected. And if Sylvia Plath was struggling to deal with life in New York, then maybe it wasn’t so bad that I didn’t go to college there. When I wasn’t jealous, I identified with the protagonist’s struggles to figure out how she fit into the world as a woman—get married, act proper & polite, or take job “befitting” a woman, as a secretary or stenographer. Like I said, I was just out of college, so I was asking myself all the same “what do I want to be when I grow up” questions. (The older I get, I find I’m still asking myself these questions, I just answer from a different vantage point.)

So, anyway, my experience of Sylvia was always very me-centric—and had surprisingly little do with her actual poetry. But I guess that’s not all that surprising, unfortunately. First of all, Sylvia became such an icon for women writers (and women?) that, as a woman, she could be your icon just by knowing her story—and not her writing. She struggled with depression—and of course she did (or so, angsty young feminists might say): she was married, raising children, and trying to live up to 1950s upper-middle-class expectations of women—all while also trying to be an artist. Woe! Her death echoed as a cry for help among all us. Give us liberty or give us death! Hoorah! But I don’t think that’s what she intended, and I don’t think that’s what she would have wanted. Would anyone want to be famous because they were in pain? It’s kind of cruel actually. When you’re depressed, you sometimes think that the world would be better off without you. By aggrandizing Sylvia’s death, I wonder if, in a way, we reinforce that point? Would she be less important if she hadn’t died? Would we have gotten the point if we couldn’t superimpose her life story onto her art?

Ah… I’m being cynical. Because then I think about the work. And I think the reason why the poems are so brilliant and why they resonate with so many women is not because we can read her life story in them (although we can), but because, as much of herself as she put into each poem, Sylvia always allowed enough room for the reader to put herself in as well. The poems are at once deeply personal and deeply mysterious. Her images are dark, slippery, haunting, visceral, and at times completely elusive. I have to chuckle when people talk about Sylvia as “confessional” because, honestly, (here comes another potentially damning confession) sometimes I just don’t “get it.” I wonder how it’s possible to confess anything in language weighted with so much metaphor and allusion. Sometimes it’s the political references, sometimes the abstraction of images. Sometimes, I just feel a little lost.

But here’s the thing: I once had a mentor who said that people need to worry less about “getting” it and more about feeling it. And that’s never a problem with Sylvia. As I said, I’m re-reading Ariel (actually reading the Restored Edition, and no matter how opaque some of the poems) I’m always feeling it: anger, frustration, irony, rapture, awe, humor. I’m feeling it. Each poem is a barrage of emotion—Sylvia’s and mine—so artfully, imaginatively rendered.

Considering that amazing artistry, along with the political and personal context of her poems, the question of why talk about Plath is replaced by the question of why not talk about her more? Or, perhaps, why not about her work more? So, this Thursday, I’m looking forward to talking about Sylvia Plath – not in a National Enquirer/Paris Hilton sort of way; I’m looking forward to really digging into her poems, poking around the places that I don’t “get” but that I really really feel, and figuring out how they work, why they work, and what I can learn from her.

The first time I read this was almost 10 years ago at the urging of the Little Mister (long before he was the Little Mister), who had read it at the urging of his good friend and college roommate Uncle John.

The first sentence definitely gave me pause:

I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice–not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.

It’s a rather daunting opener, especially for a recovering Catholic, religiously ambivalent college student, as I was at the time. The last thing I wanted was to be preached at by some peice of Christian propoganda masquerading as a regular ole novel. (I hadn’t yet read any John Irving, so for all I knew he was the Christians’ answer to L. Ron Hubbard.) Alas, I read on, and I’m so glad I did. I loved it. It immediately became my favorite book.

Last week, I decided to re-read it, to see if it still held up to my self-induced hype. I wasn’t really surprised to find that it did.

I remembered the first 100-150 pages being slow. In fact, I’d tried to re-read it a few times over the past 9 or 10 years and just hadn’t been able to plow through the beginning. But this is John Irving. His novels are expansive — and Owen Meany is one of the broadest (at least of those I’ve read). The novel’s fodder includes at least four religions, a small town’s history, the Vietnam War, and the Iran-Contra affair — to name a few of its biggest elements. There’s questionable parentage, there’s martyrdom, there’s Irving’s characteristic inclusion of some odd and uncomfortable sexuality… there’s ALOT going on. So, sometimes the base-building for all of that requires a bit of patience from the reader… but the reason I allow it, and even applaud it, is that all of that foundation pays off in the end. Irving chooses every detail, every word with precision — and although there are many words, many many details, none are wasteful or unnecessary.

The thing about this book that gets me every time is how it makes me feel when I’m finished. I’m more than satisfied. I feel changed. Despite that first sentence, the book is not Christian propoganda. But it is a close consideration of faith, hope, belief. Owen Meany believes he is an instrument of God. He believes he knows when he’s going to die, and how, and his unwavering faith in God gives him the “knowledge” that his death is going to be important and heroic. Although noone really believes Owen, they respect and admire him. Despite his diminutive size, Owen is an extraordinarily charismatic and commanding presence. But, despite the Christ-Owen connections that are drawn throughout the novel, Owen is neither inhuman nor infallible. There are several times in the book when I just didn’t *understand* why or how Owen could do what he’s doing. He’s smarter than that. He’s got more at stake, he should know better, I would think to myself. Or else he would just act in a way that was mean, just plain mean. But Owen’s a kid. And kid’s do stupid things. They make mistakes. And that’s what makes Owen so real.

But ultimately, this isn’t a story about Owen Meany. It’s about Johnny Wheelwright, Owen’s best friend and the novel’s narrator, who unlike Owen doesn’t believe in much of anything. Johnny lacks any real religious, ethical, or moral conviction. In one of the book’s most hilarious and important passages, Johnny is cast (by Owen, no less) as Joseph in the Episcopal Church’s annual Christmas pageant. And Johnny says of himself, “I am only a Joseph. It’s all I’ve ever been and all I ever will be.” Meaning, he is a bystander. He is not a major player. He doesn’t make the important decisions, but he goes along with what happens, with those decisions that are made for him. Whether you take issue with this view of the Biblical Joseph, it shouldn’t really matter. The point is that Johnny is vanilla. He is everyman. He is critical of Americans and American policy, but despite spending a great many years in Canada, he’s as American as they come. He’s a devout Anglican, but he’s still as faithless as ever. He believes in one thing: Owen Meany. He believes in Owen’s miracle and that miracle gives him faith, or so he says, in God.

For me, that’s the real meat of the book. What is faith? What does it mean to have faith? This book demands of its reader that you believe miracles are possible. That’s what Owen demands of his friends. But just as its hard for us to suspend our disbelief, it is near impossible for Owen’s friends to believe that he’s not a little crazy. Until he proves them wrong. Then they believe, then they are faithful… and I wonder, how valid is that faith if it is only based on having some proof? But we are all Johnny Wheelwrights — all waiting for some proof. Otherwise, why would be so worried about whether or not there are remains of Jesus in some cave somewhere? Why would we be so concerned about Jesus’ secrets? Why would the Da Vinci Code still be selling like hotcakes? We all want something tangible. And we’re usually willing to take what we can get. And we’ll stand around with our thumbs hooked into our belts, staring mutely off into nowhere, till we get it.

And what about Owen? What makes Owen’s faith so strong? Visions, dreams and stories that he’s held onto since he was a boy. Owen believes he’s going to be a hero. He doesn’t have any tangible proof — and so his faith seems stronger. But does that make faith easier — believing your pre-ordained for greatness? Or is that the story that a physically unfortunate boy needs to believe? And does it matter, either way, if that belief leads a person to lead a life of purpose with great conviction?

Either way, when I finish this book, I am reminded of the importance of faith, of the need to hope for miracles — and of how difficult both of those are to really achieve. The first time I read it, I just came away feeling moved. Reading it a second time revealed these layers of questions. Ultimately, I believe that what Owen Meany teaches is that is less important what you believe, but that you believe something — and that you live your life as if it has a consequence beyond yourself. It is a lesson that so many of us could stand to have repeated.

…so, I have to comment here on how much I love the idea behind his new blog, Stalking the Bard. I, too, embrace the most unoriginal sentiment of loving all things Shakespeare. In fact, when I visited Stratford-upon-Avon during the brief time I lived in England during college, I was so overcome that I gobbled up every ridiculous Shakespearean souvenir I could get my credit-enabled hands on: quill pen, journal with quotes in the corners, socks with the Bard’s little blue head embroidered all over them. (As an aside: Those socks were worth every penny — since I still have them & still wear them fairly regularly, yet they remain hole-free. If you’re ever in Stratford looking for something fun and Bardy, go for the socks, you won’t regret it.)

Anyway, Scott’s goal is to see every Shakespeare play performed live, at least once in his life. I’ve seen at least a few plays in my time:

It’s funny, making this list, I realize I haven’t seen as many plays as I thought I had (at least not that I can clearly remember from my adult life…) I feel like I’ve seen other plays, but I’m not sure if I saw them in grade school or high school and just can’t remember clearly… or if my brain is muddied by the various on-screen representations from the likes of Branagh, Gibson, Zeffirelli, Luhrmann, etc. etc.

Either way, Scott’s project sounds like so much fun, I’m tempted to copy him. But, I won’t. Instead, I just wanted to throw my support behind the noble effort.

I finished 2006 by struggling for way too long with Mary Gaitskill’s Veronica, which wasn’t because the book was particularly difficult or dense. I just couldn’t quite get into it. So, to kickstart 2007, I decided to go with a book that would be kinda like candy: Holidays on Ice, by David Sedaris. I’d read a few of Sedaris’ stories before, and I expected these holiday essays to be quick enough, funny enough, and timely enough (I started reading on New Year’s Day) to move me through the short little volume.

I was right… mostly. The stories are pretty funny. In fact, the first story, “SantaLand Diaries,” was freakin’ hilarious. In it, Sedaris describes a holiday season spent working as an elf at Macy’s. He describes shepherding families through the maze leading up to Santa — tricking them into getting out of line to chase after celebrities, pushing children into corner’s to puke, and even finding a mother telling her son to pee up on a fake tree. I found it interesting that here you’ve got this brilliant writer, who now commands upwards of $50 a pop for live readings, dressed in a goofy elfin outfit and going by the name of “Crumpet.” You gotta do what you gotta do. Meanwhile, the people going through the lines are shameless about the way they treat the elves, Santa, and even their own kids. Sedaris describes kids screaming & crying with fear in front the big guy in the red suit and parents chiding them, forcing smiles for the all-important photo. All too real. And kind of sad, and that’s what makes it so damn funny.

The rest of the essays, however… not so much. Each was good for a chuckle hear and there, but none had quite sting of reality as the first. Some may have been better if Sedaris hadn’t gone so far out. For instance, the second peice, entitled “Season’s Greetings to Our Friends and Family!!!”, is in the form of a mock holiday letter from the Dunbar family. The Mother Dunbar’s suburban housewife rattle is at first very familiar. I could just hear some friend of the family going on and on and on about how great everything is, only to slowly unfold how shitty everything really is. But this just went way to far… ending with a baby being killed, Mother Dunbar going on trial, and a plea to the letter reader to show up at a specic day and time to provide character testimony. It was humorous, sort of, but the whole thing felt like it went on way too long. There was too much build up, too many details, for a fairly unrealistic payoff. Considering most of Sedaris’ essays derive from finding humor in the pain of reality, I thought this unreality paled in comparison. I’d rather see something believable ridiculous, something that actually happened. What’s more, the Christmas letter format didn’t seem make much sense either… who would write such a long letter?? If you really needed character witnesses, you wouldn’t send them a Season’s Greeting letter just days before the trial date… yes yes suspension of disbelief… but why? As a writer, I’ve often been cautioned that the way I get into a story, the initial inspiring impulse, isn’t always the most lasting. To me, this read as though Sedaris was initially struck with the idea of the letter, in which everything that was supposed to be wonderful has gone awry; but he came out with a much longer story that didn’t suit — or need — that format.

On the whole, Holidays on Ice was quick, light, and enjoyable. At its worst it made me smile and at its best it had me doubled over. From what I’ve heard from other’s who’ve read more of Sedaris’ work, this isn’t his best. And I’d believe, but it was definitely good for a little post-holiday refreshment.

Harry, 13, from Leicestershire … emailed BBC Newsround and said: “It sounds interesting, but a bit sinister.”

Um… Harry, I know you’re 13 & all… but get with the program: If the rumors are true, this book is going to make sinister look like Disneyland.

Seriously, Rowling keeps killing people — playing fast and loose with our readerly emotions. As much as I shudder to even think it, I’m not sure Harry Potter’s going to survive book 7. Even still, I’m almost giddy with anticipation.

I met Harry Potter in the summer of 2000, after I graduated from college. I decided to see what all this Potter buzz was about. At that point, the first four books were out — all released within 2 years of each other. I finished all four in a few weeks and was totally hooked. But Rowling is like those drug dealers who give you the first few hits for free until you have no choice left but to pay. She started to hold back. Not another book till 2003… then 2005… now when??? Of course, I blame the movies for the slowing the book process… but I imagine it also gets harder when you start killing people. And important people. People who are loved. If she’s going to do what I fear she’s going to do, we may never see this book. In Stranger Than Fiction, Kay Eiffel (Emma Thompson) couldn’t finish her novel because she was wrecked from killing so many characters. We could be waiting a long long time for the Deathly Hallows.

But, even though there’s still no release date, Amazon didn’t waste anyntime coming up with this spiffy little place holder cover. Thank you, J.K. & Amazon. This should satisfy my Potter fix for at least another month or so.

On Saturday afternoon, the Little Mister and I found ourselves in a Borders, where I was intrigued to see this interesting cover, 501 Must-Read Books, in with the cheapie remainder books up near the registers. 544 pages of reviews and recommendations. A bargain at only $9.99. But there’s a catch. Apparently, if you’re going to devote your time to being well-read and seeking out the most important books, you need to steer clear of poetry. It’s not worth your time. According to this reference, there are 8 types of books you should read: Children’s fiction, Classic fiction, History, Memoirs, Modern fiction, Science fiction, Thrillers, and Travel. That’s it.

Or maybe after making room for the most important science fiction, thrillers, and travel books, there was no room for The Canterbury Tales, the Sonnets of Shakespeare, or Leaves of Grass. (Which is not to say that there aren’t very worthy thrillers or travel books, but, I mean, c’mon!)

I’m at least relieved to realize that this book doesn’t have a very wide reach. Other than the Borders remainder bin, I could only find it available online at this one Finish website (beware the link, it crashed my Firefox). As far as I can tell, you can’t even get it from Amazon. Now, I don’t normally revel in any book having a limited circulation. But in this case, I think it serves them right. No poetry!?! What were they thinking?

Some folks may be familiar with PoetryClass, an old blog that I’ve kinda abandoned. This blog won’t be quite as thematically focused, but I’m sure to climb up on my soapbox every once in a while.

Otherwise, you can expect event notices and reviews, news about where and what I’m publishing, and general ramblings about what I’m doing, reading, listening to, watching. You should also keep your eyes out for photographic examples of my domestic prowess, including my knitting and baking exploits. Woohoo. Hold onto your hair!