Sunday in St. Paul

Yesterday's read at the Swedenborgian Church went well, though the turnout wasn't what the organizers from Common Good Books had hoped for. It was a sunny day, the kind of day that St. Paulians wait months for (we do the same in Seattle). So it was understandable that less people wanted to spend a Sunday afternoon indoors. Still, it went well. The staff from Common Good were wonderful and made the talk go so smoothly. The only disappointment was that Garrison Keillor was not able to make it in due to a delayed flight, but he more than made up for it by passing on to Sue (the bookstore rep) that he LOVED the book, thought it was a personal, moving story. That's all I need!

It's snowing right now, dampening my plans to use today for a walking tour of downtown St. Paul (my only completely free day). It sure is pretty, though. Had a great dinner with Don, the grandson of Elmer Jackson's cousin, last night. It's so surreal to me, that not only would I be able to connect with the family of one of the lynched men, but that we would be become friends. Who'd have thought? Crazy world.

Dodging Stars

So I'd gotten notice from my publicist that I was to be scheduled on a program called "Showcase Minnesota" in Minneapolis to discuss my book this coming Tuesday. That in and of itself is exciting for all the right reasons. The added bonus, was that I was to be sharing time with Aaron Eckhart, the dashing star of "Thank You for Smoking", and new film called "Bill" and the upcoming "Dark Knight". Added to the bonus, today I looked at the show's site and saw that as well as Mr. Eckhart, George Clooney and Rene Zelleweger were also appearing. I nearly fell out of my seat. Beside the whole starstruck, whiplash reaction, I'm completely in awe of Mr. Clooney as a social activist and would have loved to have shared a few like-minded thoughts on his work related to Darfur (not to say that I'd have even had the opportunity). Alas--as I had feared--I'd been bumped, from Tuesday to Wednesday. Man. Opportunity to meet a person you truly admire, that one person that you only dream that one day you'll shake his hand, yanked away like a prize you never really won. The plus side: If I DO appear on Wednesday as planned, I'll be sharing the time with Jodie Foster and Abigail Breslin, so that could also be very cool. And it's probably better all around since I may have been a complete mess knowing that I was in the same building as George.

Every Time You Hear a Bell...

An angel has to adjust his halo, polish it, check in the mirror to see that it's facing the front...and then he can get his wings.

Actually, the picture is a Shiba Inu (not me, I'm human, but I do own 2 Shibas and even though they are far from angelic, they're pretty sweet). I'm beginning to grow concerned about a few mentions regarding my book and the perception that I might have written about my experiences in a self-focused sort of way. Did I already blog about this? Maybe. At any rate, it's disconcerting to me that my desire to describe my emotions in detail throughout the search for Elmer Jackson's descendants, my meeting with them, and so forth would be anything other than what it was: elation at the prospect of healing and a vision of reconcilation coming to fruition. I don't think that I'm anyone's hero, but I will allow myself the gift of a slight pat on the back for following through with this journey that was far from easy. My hope, in writing about it, was to show that confronting one's demons, seeking closure and sharing the fascinating story of a man whose identity had been cast in a horrible postcard of his murder was a worthwhile path. I write in metaphors and am (perhaps, too often) blunt in my assessment of lessons in life's experiences. I'm a teacher, so maybe that's a natural tendency.

I have no halo to polish, I don't congratulate myself too often unless I'm reaching closer to my goal weight, I've made a great cheesecake (maybe those two things contrast too much with one another) or my sons show another sign that they're on pathways to becoming healthy, functional, happy young men. In cases like those, I think I'm entitled.

Blech!

These mushrooms were growing outside my classroom some weeks ago and when I saw them, I thought they looked so "fairy talish" that I had to snap a photo of them. A friend later told me that if I'd taken bite out of one, I'd have lived my own fairy tale for a couple hours. As if.

I'm mired in such a nasty cold right now, I have zero energy. I forced myself to go to the gym the other day and spent more time in the sauna than on the weights, which was probably best. Skipped yesterday and will try and get in today, even though I feel like my head is underwater. I annouced to my students that they should keep anti-bacterialized and there was a near stampede to the germ-killing-gel dispenser on the wall. I only wish I could just go home and sleep, but Shayne has entered a booth in the Home and Garden show (locally); we need to set it up tonight and staff it tomorrow. So, I have to pretend to know all about the plants that he's selling and smile and gladhand everyone, which is fine because I assume I'll know some folks.

The office assistant here at school told me she just finished my book last night, then looked at me in a wistful, sympathetic way. She said she loved the book, thought was timely and important and only when I explained to her that I was "okay", that I have come through all those stories just fine, did she exhale. It's hard to explain to people. When I write about the angst in those chapters, the emotions and reactions are real, but they are through the eyes of my childhood self (or what I remember I was feeling at that time). I have the safety of looking back through adult eyes now, and the fact that I know I could lay out flat the men who hurt me in my youth (both if I met them today and if I were to magically transport my adult self to 1980--wouldn't that be great?) helps immensely. Feels safe.

10 Days and Counting

In just over a week I'll be off to Minnesota to begin what is, essentially, my book tour. It's exciting, the best news being that Garrison Keillor is flying in to host the event for his store, Common Good Books. I'm still soaking that one in. Amazing.

I'm coming down with a cold and feel like my body's been drained of its blood and replenished with tar. My head is in a fog and I have no energy and the worst thing is that there is no way for me to take a day off or crawl into bed and sleep it off. Open house tonight at school, prepping for travel (not to mention we're still having a kitchen remodel going, so I can't very well sleep with construction going on in the house). My friend just got back from Cancun and two other friends are off to Puerto Vallarta, so my jealousy is raging. I'm confident that my turn in the tropics will come...

Hooray For Literate Friends!

I had a wonderful friend (and amazing writer) come to my defense after having read a particularly acidic review of my book. "I hate that she mocked your efforts to atone for your great-grandfather's crime," she said. "What would she have you do? Do the research and then say, 'That was then and this is now'?" She also noted that the reviewer (whose own writing, according to several people who contacted me, was clunky) just didn't seem to "get" the prose. I'm understanding that not even all reviewers liked "No Country for Old Men" (not to compare my writing to the genius of that film by any means) and I'm learning to toughen my skin. I think that the most difficult bit of negativity I've read is in the questioning of my motives for searching for the descendants of the lynchings and, consequently, writing about that experience. I've heard on a couple of occasions that it all sounds self-serving and stemming from a need to put the spotlight on myself. I guess I have to just say that sure, I have benefitted--emotionally, spritually--from the experience. But who would relish putting the spotlight on the things I've discussed? It's not been easy, nor does it continue to be. When I write about my search, I try to be honest, descriptive about my feelings, both good and bad so that the reader can understand what's happening. It's not to pat myself on the back (though, it is the worst thing in the world to proud of one's accomplishments?). And the complaints about my "need to show my writing skills": That's a strange one. I guess I should take that as a compliment. I don't feel the need to "dumb down" language in writing. If it's truly unclear, I'd definitely rework it. If it causes the reader to think, to imagine, the make connections that aren't completely spelled out, I think it's great.

Ramblings aside--I put the handles on our new cabinets yesterday. Beautiful. Handles on doors are great!

Jumbalaya Amid Autographs

This past Saturday I had my very first reading for my book, "The Lyncher in Me" at Elliott Bay Book Company in Pioneer Square. I used to spend entire afternoons browsing the shelves of Elliott Bay, back in the days when I lived in the city. Even before that time, I would trek from the suburbs, downtown to spend the day shopping and sightseeing and would inevitably end up there. What a wonderful bookstore. Never in all my life would I ever have imagined that I'd be there talking about a book of my own.

There was a great turnout, helped in part by a terrific article in the Seattle Times the day before, I'm sure. For the most part, though, I benefitted from a great many friends (and family) who gave me their time and attention. Incredible. It didn't really hit me until afterward just how cool that was, that people would give up their Saturday night to come and hear me read from a book that I sometimes feel they've heard about ad nauseum for so long. True friends.

A moment of potential embarassment for my mother--when I was reading a passage and had forgotten a very sensitive section about her (a funny one, I think) that I stopped me so quickly when I got to it you could practically hear tire screechings. I juggled through it, everyone got a big laugh (sympathetic, I think) and she managed to see the humor in it, too, however mortified she was.

I got wind of an LA Times review that is supposedly coming out this week. My stomach is in knots again. The Star Tribune of Minneapolis gave a very complimentary review in advance of my tour and, again, I was so humbled to read what a stranger thought of the book and, I guess, my life.

A Face For Radio

So, I had my first radio interview on KUOW, the Seattle NPR affiliate. It was great--the host, Megan Sukys, was wonderful about making me feel comfortable (as much as I could in a studio, with a microphone practically against my teeth). I'd had a bit of an idea of how the interview would go. We'd discuss my book, my experience with the journey of discovery, how it's impacted me in my life, etc. I made some notes, but in the end I was worried about being too attached to them. I stumbled here and there and the wonder of editing in the end managed to piece it altogether in coherent way. And that blemish that managed to spring up just a day or two before the interview didn't matter at all.

I spoke with the representative for readings at Elliott Bay Books about this Saturday's reading. She was very excited about having me there and was so complimentary of the book. I'm a bit nervous, of course, but am pumped for a great evening talking about the story. Having friends and family will certainly help a lot.

The best thing about yesterday though was reconnecting with an old friend. Throughout this, I managed to hook up with a buddy of mine who I'd known way back in 6th grade. It's been nearly 30 years since we'd seen each other. As it turns out, he and his wife are looking into adoption--something I know quite a bit about. He's a great guy and we both and are looking forward to staying in touch.

A Life Not Lived At All

So, in the last week, I've read about 2 memoirs--one published years ago, another just about to hit shelves--in which the writers have apparently fabricated the entire stories. I'm not talking about a little pinch here and there, embellishing a detail or two, I'm talking entire lives fictionalized and sold as fact. More than "A Million Little Pieces", the first one, "Misha: A Memoire of the Holocaust Years" was pure fantasy, as was the almost released, "Love and Consequences", in which the autor wrote of a life growing up white in a black foster home, selling drugs for gangs in East LA. As I think about all the efforts I took in making sure my facts were verifiable or, if memories, accruate to the point that they could be recalled by others or at least reasonable, it makes me wonder how these writers ever imagined they could get away with it? Besides just duping the reading public, they've really lied to themselves. In the case of Misha Defonseca, over time, the years of lying began to seep into her own understanding of reality. In her advancing years, she actually began to have a hard time separating fact from fiction, however outrageous it was. Having been through the publishing process, I feel for the publisher to an extent. My editor was very clear with me about my responsibilities as a memoirist, making sure my facts were just that and, if they were sensitive, making sure that there was nothing that could be actionable in court. In the case of my father's criminal past, I know that at least that much is verifiable. For my personal stories, they have to go on faith in most cases, as many things really aren't verifiable. In the case of family memories, I can only imagine if an editor got into the mess of interviewing dozens of people, trying to get a clear story that matched the one their author wrote. My copyeditor did a great deal of fact checking on my final manuscript, but it was more about checking dates, quotes, business and geographical names, etc. I think that's where their responsibility ends, really. It's bad business for memoir writers!

Today could very well be the end of the race for the democratic ticket. In so many ways, I hope it is. I adore and respect both candidates and the last thing I want is for either one of them to embarrass themselves any further than has already been done. There is so much admiration in bowing out gracefully when the rewards of a brighter future neccessitate it.

Timberland

This weekend, we have several trees felled on our property. We're in the process of "thinning" out some alders, fir and whatever else seems to choke the sun from our house. We're trying to be selective, I think. My partner is the one who really wants them gone--I like them, but then I'm not the one with the eye for landscape aesthetics. It is nice to see some clarity, but shocking all the same.

As the "tree guy" cut up the logs and stacked them into piles of eight foot sections, my mind went back to an old picture that had been my grandfather's. It was a postcard from Bennett, Wisconsin, of the old family homestead some time around 1920 (or before). All around were stacks and stacks of logs, waiting to be hauled to the sawmill and cut into lumber. That was it, nothing deeper than that. No comtemplation or reflection, just a quick flash memory of that picture. Oh, and I had a beer, too, so maby that remided me of my grandfather, too. Maybe not.

It's raining (again), though I believe it's just an interruption in some wonderful, pre-spring sunny weather we've been having lately. We're due for some more sun tomorrow. Yee ha!