My Literary Rock Star Moment

This last Friday, I had the geat honor of hearing and meeting one of my longtime literary role models, Tobias Wolff (pictured with yours truly). I don't want to get all Annie Wilkes ("Misery") about it, so I won't gush. But the reading was wonderful and Mr. Wolff's graciousness and humility was a treat. 20 years of reading his work and to have him remember having read about my own book, showing a geniune interest and willingness to read it, was more than I ever would have imagined in my wildest dreams. I hadn't yet begun reading his new collection--partly because I was finishing Mary Roach's new book, partly because I was holding out since the longer I stretch the reading experience, the longer I'll have it to read--but on the ferry ride home that night, I cracked it open and had to struggle to put it down as we reached the dock.

I also had my final reading (for now) of my own book, "The Lyncher in Me" at our local bookstore here on Bainbridge Island. A great crowd, about 50 or so, including some family members. I admired that they were there, as I know it wasn't a comfortable spot to be in, knowing that all of these strangers around them were privvy to the most intimate of details of our family. The support was wonderful, though, and the feedback was validating. As great as it was, though, there's a certain level of relief to be done for awhile.

Spring Has Sprung--Then She's Gone Into Hiding Again

What a glorious day Saturday was! My neice contacted me to share her tickets to see the Dalai Lama in the afternoon, which was a hard thing to turn down. Why would I turn down this rare opportunity to witness such greatness? My unselfish nature, I guess. My partner Shayne has been a follower (and reader) with much more fervor than I've been and so I thought it only fitting to pass the offer on to him. A lame analogy would be to use my old REM standard. When REM became all the rage with their Automatic For the People CD, I had to fight an element of bitterness at all the pruported "fans" suddenly turning out in droves for them. After all, I'd been a fan since way back in their college radio days, back in the days of "Radio Free Europe" and "Murmur" (back when no one could understand a word that Michael Stipe was...well, murmuring). And so out of recognition that "he who hath loved longest should receive the love most purely", I gave up my seat way in the back of Quest Field. Instead, I basked in the sun and pulled weeds, planted starts and listened to Verve jazz remix all afternoon (oh, there was a little league game in there and a late arrival to a birthday party).

On Sunday, I nearly had an aneurism reading the paper. I read a review of Tobias Wolff's new collection of short stories, (picture above) a book that I had pre-ordered months before its release and have been coveting ever since receiving it, putting off opening it until I finish my new Mary Roach book. I look at Wolff's book like Charlie Bucket opening that final Wonka bar, peeling it just slightly, savoring the wonder and excitement of a one-of-kind treasure. There are very few writers that I re-read, whose writing I take in like rolling fine wine over my tongue. Steinbeck, Hemingway Edward P. Jones, Tobias Wolff (and I wouldn't even place them in that order). I e-mailed Mr. Wolff some months ago, as I was mired in the final editorial revisions of my own book. I wanted to thank him for being such an inspiration to me as a writer (and for providing such joy as a reader) and he was gracious enough to send a very thoughtful reply. And now I see that he is coming to Seattle for a reading and I will be able to meet him at long last. It's hard to put into words without sounding like a crazed stalker-fan, but I remember the incredible impact his book, "This Boy's Life" had on me at first reading--a fellow northewesterner, a young boy dealing with a maniacal stepfather--it was incredibly moving. From then I discovered his sublime, complex fiction storytelling and can recall specific moments (backpacking through Thailand while reading "In Pharoh's Army", camping in Costa Rica with "The Night in Question", sharing "The Barracks Thief" with my newly teenaged son) when his writing carried me away. Even this last week, when I was in Minnesota for my own book tour and I was caught in a horizonal driving snow, I couldn't help but think of the cold that enveloped me when I read his dark, frustrating, are the guys completely clueless? short story, "Hunters in the Snow."

Can't wait.

And the Rain Fell in Sheets...Flannel Preferred

On Saturday, the promised snowstorm blew into town, blanketing our property in just enough stuff to support a fiberglass sled for about a dozen runs. Numb hands draped holiday lights from the eaves and shrubberies and by the end of the evening, it was a festive, glowing delight. Even my kids had to take a moment to compliment me and I'll always welcome that.

We went out that night to see "No Country for Old Men," the new Coen brothers film starring Javier Bardem (in his best/worst Prince Valiant hair-don't and Carol Burnett-playing-Nora Desmond crazy-eyes), Josh Brolin (who has grown up so ruggedly from his "Goonies" days, looking like the lost, grit-covered son of suave "Mr. Streisand" James Brolin) and the ever-reliable, gruff Tommy Lee Jones. An amazing movie, harkening back to the "Blood Simple" days of the director(s). Unexpected, non-Hollywood ending (no spoiler, here)--perfect. Like a Tobias Wolff story, even though it's from the Cormac McCarthy book.

The rain is pouring down like a monsoon here; the dip at the bottom of our drive was a small lake this morning. There are parts of our property that are like sponges anyway. Right now they are sodden and mucky and completely alluring for young boys wearing Crocs, who must plant their little feet with extra force as they walk, then complain loudly and incessantly of cold, wet feet and muddy socks. Too bad, so sad is what this compassionate father says. Just don't get mud on the floor of the car.