5/29/2010
I first became aware of Rudolofo Anaya in 1978. I was working with the "relief crew" (Across the Wire, etc.) in Tijuana. To make some money--something I never had--I went to work for Cesar Gonzalez at San Diego Mesa College. I was his bilingual tutor and TA in Chicano Studies. This is when I heard of the legenday Bless Me, Ultima. But I was deeply into the world of Baptist missions folks, and didn't know if I could handle anything like curanderas. I had been raised among curanderas, mind you, but Baptists, at least these Baptists, and healers/indigenous magic/Catholicism, didn't mix very well. Perhaps I was having an identity crisis. But I did surrender to a book that changed my world: Rudy's Tortuga. Everyone should read it. Especially the gorgeous edition that has a turtle in place of the "o" in the title.
One day it came to pass that Rudy was coming to San Diego to attend events at the Centro Cultural de la Raza. Cesar sent my beloved Berthe Edington and me to collect Rudy and drive him around town. Well, I had never gotten a license--why get a license when you would never have enough money to buy a car? So Bertha drove, and I waxed poetic. Saint Rudy, in the house! We took him to lunch, feeling awe. I did not know he was devilish. When I asked him what he wanted to eat, he said, sincerely, "I think I'll order a bowl of fruit. I live in Albuquerque. You know, it's a desert. We don't have any fresh fruit there. I have only tasted fruit from a can." REALLY??? I breathed. Duh. It must have been hard for him not to laugh.
Later, Cesar took me out with Rudy. I was in the back seat. I had immersed myself in Heart of Aztlan as well as Tortuga. I owned Ultima, but had not yet ventured in. I asked Rudy what he said to Chicanos who, working the Marxist dialectic and the culture revolution, chided him for not being "political" enough in his work. Saint Rudy startled me by announcing, "I tell them to fuck off."
Gasp.
He said: "The personal IS political. When you have written about youer little grandmother, and you make the reader believe she is HIS little grandmother, then you have committed the most powerful political act."
Rudy became a generous mentor--though I didn't see him for years. In the late 80s I was touring around the US with my first wife. (Yes, I had the American practice marriage. I wasn't very good at it.) I had corresponded with Rudy over the years. I was editing a Chicano journal in Boston. (I wasn't very good at that, either. Though I can say the dry rot that wrecked the marriage wrecked my editing as well.) I called Rudsy in 'Burque and he took us out to eat. He ordered green chile--so I did too. He said, "Can you take it?" Wot? My good man--I happen to be from Tijuana. So they brought the bowls to us and I took a bite and steam blew out my ears and blood flowed from my eyes and I choked it down begging Jesus to cause it to rain in my mouth. Rudy chuckled, by the way. Sweat poured down my face. "Good," I croaked.
He wante dus to stay in his house. But I didn't want to cause a fuss. We were tenting in the KOA up near Santa Fe. He could not believe someone would choose to sleep in a tent. But I insisted. And off we went. Of course, that summer was the time that some sort of tornado made its way up the valley and blew apart a bunch of things, including the KOA. I was standing there in the dark staring at the ruins of our campsite. The manager came out and said, "There's a call for you in the office." What?
I went in and picked up the phone and Rudy said, "I TOLD you to stay in my house!" He ordered me to get my butt back down to 'Burque post-haste. Piled the wet, dirty stuff in the back of the car and drove back down. Rudy was waiting for us in his pajamas, in his car, hair standing on end. He was not amused, though later we have laughed about this night.
Later, Rudy came to the rescue of Across the Wire when nobody cared about it. He led a charge of blurbers like John Nichols. He also published the story that has done better than all my other stories, "Bid Farewell to Her Many Horses," in his Blue Mesa Review. You can still occasionally hear it on NPR's "Selected Shorts."
Like I said in Albuquerque: with no Ultima in my DNA, there would be no Hummingbird's Daughter. Without Rudy in the world, there would be no me.
Told you there'd be a movie!
One day it came to pass that Rudy was coming to San Diego to attend events at the Centro Cultural de la Raza. Cesar sent my beloved Berthe Edington and me to collect Rudy and drive him around town. Well, I had never gotten a license--why get a license when you would never have enough money to buy a car? So Bertha drove, and I waxed poetic. Saint Rudy, in the house! We took him to lunch, feeling awe. I did not know he was devilish. When I asked him what he wanted to eat, he said, sincerely, "I think I'll order a bowl of fruit. I live in Albuquerque. You know, it's a desert. We don't have any fresh fruit there. I have only tasted fruit from a can." REALLY??? I breathed. Duh. It must have been hard for him not to laugh.
Later, Cesar took me out with Rudy. I was in the back seat. I had immersed myself in Heart of Aztlan as well as Tortuga. I owned Ultima, but had not yet ventured in. I asked Rudy what he said to Chicanos who, working the Marxist dialectic and the culture revolution, chided him for not being "political" enough in his work. Saint Rudy startled me by announcing, "I tell them to fuck off."
Gasp.
He said: "The personal IS political. When you have written about youer little grandmother, and you make the reader believe she is HIS little grandmother, then you have committed the most powerful political act."
Rudy became a generous mentor--though I didn't see him for years. In the late 80s I was touring around the US with my first wife. (Yes, I had the American practice marriage. I wasn't very good at it.) I had corresponded with Rudy over the years. I was editing a Chicano journal in Boston. (I wasn't very good at that, either. Though I can say the dry rot that wrecked the marriage wrecked my editing as well.) I called Rudsy in 'Burque and he took us out to eat. He ordered green chile--so I did too. He said, "Can you take it?" Wot? My good man--I happen to be from Tijuana. So they brought the bowls to us and I took a bite and steam blew out my ears and blood flowed from my eyes and I choked it down begging Jesus to cause it to rain in my mouth. Rudy chuckled, by the way. Sweat poured down my face. "Good," I croaked.
He wante dus to stay in his house. But I didn't want to cause a fuss. We were tenting in the KOA up near Santa Fe. He could not believe someone would choose to sleep in a tent. But I insisted. And off we went. Of course, that summer was the time that some sort of tornado made its way up the valley and blew apart a bunch of things, including the KOA. I was standing there in the dark staring at the ruins of our campsite. The manager came out and said, "There's a call for you in the office." What?
I went in and picked up the phone and Rudy said, "I TOLD you to stay in my house!" He ordered me to get my butt back down to 'Burque post-haste. Piled the wet, dirty stuff in the back of the car and drove back down. Rudy was waiting for us in his pajamas, in his car, hair standing on end. He was not amused, though later we have laughed about this night.
Later, Rudy came to the rescue of Across the Wire when nobody cared about it. He led a charge of blurbers like John Nichols. He also published the story that has done better than all my other stories, "Bid Farewell to Her Many Horses," in his Blue Mesa Review. You can still occasionally hear it on NPR's "Selected Shorts."
Like I said in Albuquerque: with no Ultima in my DNA, there would be no Hummingbird's Daughter. Without Rudy in the world, there would be no me.
Getting ready for book tour to start in a couple of weeks, trying to finish as much of Hummingbird II before we go. Also working on updating/upgrading the website. And in our web browsings, we stumbled on this amazing gem.
First we laughed our #$% off, but then we were really pleased that clearly this kid read the book (check out "rooster boy's" red hair!) and it made an impact. Having helped our kids through our share of school projects, I know that they are a mixed blessing, but we totally loved this on all kinds of levels. Check him out!
Bless Me, Albuquerque
First we laughed our #$% off, but then we were really pleased that clearly this kid read the book (check out "rooster boy's" red hair!) and it made an impact. Having helped our kids through our share of school projects, I know that they are a mixed blessing, but we totally loved this on all kinds of levels. Check him out!
5/23/2010
I have come to honor Rudolfo Anaya.
Late spring in Illinois. The heat has fallen on us like a wool blanket just out of the dryer. This morning, there was a huge raccoon lying in our yard, trembling, having trouble walking. Big as a dog. Our idiot cat decided to stalk him. Oh, great, a rabies apocalypse waiting to happen. But the poor beast hove to its feet and staggered into the brush and vanished. I think he was hit by a car. We're all watching for him, ready to call him in if anyone in the neighborhood sees him. I missed all this drama, so I'm relating the tale as told by Cinderella. Hey, I was sleeping late. I was wiped out from my trip to 'Burque to receive the National Hispanic Cultural Center literary award.
People razz me lately. "Did you win any major national awards THIS WEEK?" is a common jibe. OK, yeah--I won the Edgar Award the other day. Uh-huh. And I won this award this week. So there. I'm a one man Mongol horde. But good things, like bad things, are seasonal, are sporadic, and are slightly ephemeral. I like moments like this because they remind me, when I'm mourning something awful--like the death of the genius poet Rane Arroyo--that all moments sooner or later struggle to their feet like our ailing coon and hide in the bushes. I suspect I don't register these awards because I think they are, somehow, fake, or an accident, or somebody somewhere is pitying poor ol' me. I think: oh yeah? Well, I didn't win the ________ (your favorite here) award! And that is a load of happy crappy because I never, never wrote for awards! Or reviews! I wrote, and write, to WRITE. But, um, listen, if you want to send me some more statues and handsome framed certificates, by all means, please, go right ahead and do it. Because, when all kidding is done, it is an honor that I can't quite wrap my head around. Probably too much shame, poverty, desperation and loneliness in my foundation. Maybe God is trying to shore up the old bricks.
Well, I rushed off to 'Burque. I was on the Southwest Airlines cattle-car flight, B group. Thought I'd never get a seat, at least not a seat that wasn't between unhappy people, but I did. Hallelujah. Reading Lee Child. How can you take a plane and not read Lee Child?
Got to town in time for the lunch and the open-mike reading at the Cultural Center. As I sat at the table with a wonderful group pof authors, agents, editors, a woman come over demanding a signature on her BEAUTIFUL NORTH. She said, warmly, "You're not going to like hearing this, but HUMMINGBIRD'S DAUGHTER is not a good book." Everyone turned to her with their mouths open. She said, "What do you want me to do? It's no good." Then she gave me her stories and asked that I help her get published. I have been laughing about this for two days. It's so classic.
I saw the fabulous Lucha Corpi. Hung out with Rigoberto Gonzalez. Was so thrilled to finally meet Juan Felipe Herrera. Homeboy! A Logan barrio boy like me. Though, as he pointed out, "I was from the lowlands--you were from the heights." Juan Felipe and I were laughing it up like maniacs. It was so good to see him. The Hummingbird-hater accosted him and insulted one of his books. That was priceless, watching his eyebrows go up to the top of his head.
Rushed back to the hotel to shower and iron my good clothes and get back to the Centro in time for the banquet and the awards. Now, RUDY ANAYA. I knew, right away, that I was going to dedicate the award to Rudy. If you know my bad book, HD, you know it owes its DNA to BLESS ME, ULTIMA. I owe so much to Rudy, perhaps I'll post a further blog here about his role in the lives of so many of us. I like to tell people he is our uncle. He has fed, housed, edited, promoted, hosted, published, educated, scolded, inspired, directed so many of us--sometimes I feel like Rudy has upheld the majority of the Latino literary world, or at least its southwestern division.
Rudy wife, Pat, passed away about four months ago. And Rudy has not been feeling well. But they ntold mer he was coming for the event--his first public appearance since the tragedy. And there he was! Beaming. Swamped with well-wishers and fans. Using a handsome carved cane. "I bought it as an art object," he said. "I never thought I'd be using it!"
I won't grand-stand here. I'll just say we drank mucho vino tinto. Demetria Martinez and Rigoberto and I sat with Rudy. Musicians played, and Rudy let loose a few gritos. I was so happy to see him happy. Then, when I spoke, I dedicated the award to him. I said, "Without Ultima, there is no Hummingbird. And without you, Rudy, there is no me." Dude. I cried. So did everybody else. It was a good moment. At the end there, when I got back to our table, I was able, in the tumult, to say, "I love you, Rudy."
Late that night, I joined a bunch of my colleagues in the hotel lobby. Just basking in the art-light. You know that light? Were you a bohemian like me in your youth? Were you up all night arguing movies, books, rock and roll? Going to bed at dawn after some mad poetry duel or systematic play-through of every Groundhogs album in sequence? Maybe that was only Rick Elias and David Thomson and me.
You know, here I am Naperville dad. Going to high school graduation. Taking out the trash. hanging with the neighbors drinking beer and complaining about the yard work. But then I take off my Dadman suit and put on my Writerman suit. Shazam! I join the other superheroes of the typing world and laugh all night. Well, OK, we're all moms and dads. So I make it to about midnight. They talk big, but they stifle yawns and stagger off at the same time I do. We have planes to catch. Families. Kids and dogs and lawns and sick coons in the yard.
Rick Najera and Stephanie Elizondo Greist and assorted pals and Rick's lovely wife all enjoyed the bohemian vibe for an hour or two. And the Hummingbird-hater staggered around insulting people. I went to bed so grateful. So happy.
And Rudy has asked me to bring Cinderella to his house to stay when we come back on book tour in June. BEAUTIFUL NORTH paperback, y'all. It's going to be a marathon. But I cannot wait to see Rudy again. I cannot wait to try to offer back just a little of the goodness he has brought us all.
I'll write you some of that story a little later. I have to go out and make sure our kids aren't getting chased by rabid mammals. I have to go out and give thanks....
Yrs., Luigi
Care of the Soul
Late spring in Illinois. The heat has fallen on us like a wool blanket just out of the dryer. This morning, there was a huge raccoon lying in our yard, trembling, having trouble walking. Big as a dog. Our idiot cat decided to stalk him. Oh, great, a rabies apocalypse waiting to happen. But the poor beast hove to its feet and staggered into the brush and vanished. I think he was hit by a car. We're all watching for him, ready to call him in if anyone in the neighborhood sees him. I missed all this drama, so I'm relating the tale as told by Cinderella. Hey, I was sleeping late. I was wiped out from my trip to 'Burque to receive the National Hispanic Cultural Center literary award.
People razz me lately. "Did you win any major national awards THIS WEEK?" is a common jibe. OK, yeah--I won the Edgar Award the other day. Uh-huh. And I won this award this week. So there. I'm a one man Mongol horde. But good things, like bad things, are seasonal, are sporadic, and are slightly ephemeral. I like moments like this because they remind me, when I'm mourning something awful--like the death of the genius poet Rane Arroyo--that all moments sooner or later struggle to their feet like our ailing coon and hide in the bushes. I suspect I don't register these awards because I think they are, somehow, fake, or an accident, or somebody somewhere is pitying poor ol' me. I think: oh yeah? Well, I didn't win the ________ (your favorite here) award! And that is a load of happy crappy because I never, never wrote for awards! Or reviews! I wrote, and write, to WRITE. But, um, listen, if you want to send me some more statues and handsome framed certificates, by all means, please, go right ahead and do it. Because, when all kidding is done, it is an honor that I can't quite wrap my head around. Probably too much shame, poverty, desperation and loneliness in my foundation. Maybe God is trying to shore up the old bricks.
Well, I rushed off to 'Burque. I was on the Southwest Airlines cattle-car flight, B group. Thought I'd never get a seat, at least not a seat that wasn't between unhappy people, but I did. Hallelujah. Reading Lee Child. How can you take a plane and not read Lee Child?
Got to town in time for the lunch and the open-mike reading at the Cultural Center. As I sat at the table with a wonderful group pof authors, agents, editors, a woman come over demanding a signature on her BEAUTIFUL NORTH. She said, warmly, "You're not going to like hearing this, but HUMMINGBIRD'S DAUGHTER is not a good book." Everyone turned to her with their mouths open. She said, "What do you want me to do? It's no good." Then she gave me her stories and asked that I help her get published. I have been laughing about this for two days. It's so classic.
I saw the fabulous Lucha Corpi. Hung out with Rigoberto Gonzalez. Was so thrilled to finally meet Juan Felipe Herrera. Homeboy! A Logan barrio boy like me. Though, as he pointed out, "I was from the lowlands--you were from the heights." Juan Felipe and I were laughing it up like maniacs. It was so good to see him. The Hummingbird-hater accosted him and insulted one of his books. That was priceless, watching his eyebrows go up to the top of his head.
Rushed back to the hotel to shower and iron my good clothes and get back to the Centro in time for the banquet and the awards. Now, RUDY ANAYA. I knew, right away, that I was going to dedicate the award to Rudy. If you know my bad book, HD, you know it owes its DNA to BLESS ME, ULTIMA. I owe so much to Rudy, perhaps I'll post a further blog here about his role in the lives of so many of us. I like to tell people he is our uncle. He has fed, housed, edited, promoted, hosted, published, educated, scolded, inspired, directed so many of us--sometimes I feel like Rudy has upheld the majority of the Latino literary world, or at least its southwestern division.
Rudy wife, Pat, passed away about four months ago. And Rudy has not been feeling well. But they ntold mer he was coming for the event--his first public appearance since the tragedy. And there he was! Beaming. Swamped with well-wishers and fans. Using a handsome carved cane. "I bought it as an art object," he said. "I never thought I'd be using it!"
I won't grand-stand here. I'll just say we drank mucho vino tinto. Demetria Martinez and Rigoberto and I sat with Rudy. Musicians played, and Rudy let loose a few gritos. I was so happy to see him happy. Then, when I spoke, I dedicated the award to him. I said, "Without Ultima, there is no Hummingbird. And without you, Rudy, there is no me." Dude. I cried. So did everybody else. It was a good moment. At the end there, when I got back to our table, I was able, in the tumult, to say, "I love you, Rudy."
Late that night, I joined a bunch of my colleagues in the hotel lobby. Just basking in the art-light. You know that light? Were you a bohemian like me in your youth? Were you up all night arguing movies, books, rock and roll? Going to bed at dawn after some mad poetry duel or systematic play-through of every Groundhogs album in sequence? Maybe that was only Rick Elias and David Thomson and me.
You know, here I am Naperville dad. Going to high school graduation. Taking out the trash. hanging with the neighbors drinking beer and complaining about the yard work. But then I take off my Dadman suit and put on my Writerman suit. Shazam! I join the other superheroes of the typing world and laugh all night. Well, OK, we're all moms and dads. So I make it to about midnight. They talk big, but they stifle yawns and stagger off at the same time I do. We have planes to catch. Families. Kids and dogs and lawns and sick coons in the yard.
Rick Najera and Stephanie Elizondo Greist and assorted pals and Rick's lovely wife all enjoyed the bohemian vibe for an hour or two. And the Hummingbird-hater staggered around insulting people. I went to bed so grateful. So happy.
And Rudy has asked me to bring Cinderella to his house to stay when we come back on book tour in June. BEAUTIFUL NORTH paperback, y'all. It's going to be a marathon. But I cannot wait to see Rudy again. I cannot wait to try to offer back just a little of the goodness he has brought us all.
I'll write you some of that story a little later. I have to go out and make sure our kids aren't getting chased by rabid mammals. I have to go out and give thanks....
Yrs., Luigi
5/14/2010
Thomas More, in his books on the soul, tells of how one cares for the soul. (Yes, you'd have to accept the fact that you have a soul.) And one cares for the soul not necessarily in great gestures and grand art, but in small daily routines. The soul flourishes in bread dough, play, reading, dirt. Digging in the dirt nourishes the soul. I like that. When I garden, I think I'm planting novels, poems.
I've been putting some chapters of Hummingbird's Daughter II in today, that's for sure.
I'm mourning the loss of my pal, the great poet Rane Arroyo. And I'm getting ready for several soulful things: Megan's high school graduation, book tour. But most on my mind right now is the garden: in a few days, a crew of landscape architects hits our front yard and remakes it. Most of my stuff out there will be gone, baby, gone. Japanese maples and pear trees and all kinds of cool new plants and grasses and a new brick seating area and a wall. We will sit out there in the afternoons sipping tea and spying on our street like the old farts we just about are.
So I'm saving bleeding hearts, chrysanthemums (thinking of Basho and the haiku masters), lavender (thinking about France), columbines--my colorful connection to the holy Rocky Mtns. I am astounded that the columbines have decided that the entire planet must be covered in columbines. I have columbines coming out my ears. You want a columbine? How about a baby maple? My trees--King Ralph and Queen Sally (named, of course, by Chayo) drop 10,000,000 helicopter seeds and I am faced with the Godzilla-like task of annihilating little tiny forests every spring. Hate it. For a San Diego boy, used to brown, it feels wrong to off a tree. Even if it's two inches tall.
Oh my. These hands are black with Illinois soil. I'm soaking up that Vitamin D in the sun. I'm thinking of Rane, and hoping perhaps a bright red bleeding heart will blossom to remind me of him.
Soul--it's all soul.
There's a New Sheriff in Town
I've been putting some chapters of Hummingbird's Daughter II in today, that's for sure.
I'm mourning the loss of my pal, the great poet Rane Arroyo. And I'm getting ready for several soulful things: Megan's high school graduation, book tour. But most on my mind right now is the garden: in a few days, a crew of landscape architects hits our front yard and remakes it. Most of my stuff out there will be gone, baby, gone. Japanese maples and pear trees and all kinds of cool new plants and grasses and a new brick seating area and a wall. We will sit out there in the afternoons sipping tea and spying on our street like the old farts we just about are.
So I'm saving bleeding hearts, chrysanthemums (thinking of Basho and the haiku masters), lavender (thinking about France), columbines--my colorful connection to the holy Rocky Mtns. I am astounded that the columbines have decided that the entire planet must be covered in columbines. I have columbines coming out my ears. You want a columbine? How about a baby maple? My trees--King Ralph and Queen Sally (named, of course, by Chayo) drop 10,000,000 helicopter seeds and I am faced with the Godzilla-like task of annihilating little tiny forests every spring. Hate it. For a San Diego boy, used to brown, it feels wrong to off a tree. Even if it's two inches tall.
Oh my. These hands are black with Illinois soil. I'm soaking up that Vitamin D in the sun. I'm thinking of Rane, and hoping perhaps a bright red bleeding heart will blossom to remind me of him.
Soul--it's all soul.
5/03/2010
I guess you heard. I'm embarrassed to make too much of this, but my story "Amapola" from the excellent anthology PHOENIX NOIR won the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America. Cinderella and I were in NYC for that and for the cool signing/reading/powerpoint debut of MR. MENDOZA'S PAINTBRUSH at Word Brooklyn. Christopher Cardinale and I did a li'l duet, and I read a section as he showed images on the big screen. It was a wonderful, bohemian, night. We met our twitter pal, Joe Wallace. Joe's jumping out of his skin because his novel, DIAMOND RUBY is dropping May 4. Yeah! Get it! Get two! Joe is the ambassador of love and good cheer, and he's also a good writer. Baseball fans and readers of all stripes won't be sorry. A novel that's getting really great reviews already. I'm tellin' ya.
So there we were in the basement with all kinds of Brooklyn cool kids--artistas and muralists and tweeters and bloggers (Aunt Feather from twitter was there). Liz, my beloved publicist and Sarah Murphy from Little, Brown came. We snuck out for drinks afterwards. Making the Brooklyn arty scene in a cool bar with a pit bull under the table.
We like to stay at the Fitzpatrick Hotel at Grand Central. The desk staff are all Irish with lovely Irish accents. And it's right around the corner from Little, Brown. And there's great coffee next door, and a great bar on the other side of the lobby. We went out and met with geoff Shandler and plotted and planned the Hummingbird II and the INTO THE BEAUTIFUL NORTH paperback domination of the world scenarios. Sandwiches in the board room. Free books. Saw our pub-pals in there. Then we were out on the rbicks, lookjing for a nice shirt for me to wear to the Edgars. The shirt-god led us to Kenneth Cole, where the young man behind the counter knew exactly the shirt for me. I heard him telling C he was marrying his boyfriend. "You're getting married?" I asked. "He better put a ring on this!" he quipped.
We walked in joy and romance all over the place, then staggered up to our room for a nap and a chill before the banquet (at the Grand Cetral Grand Hyatt, also around the corner). OK, so I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay in bed and make believe the whole thing wasn't happening. But I got on my suit, and C got all dolled up in uncomfortable shoes, and we limped to the Hyatt to face our fates.
Well, yes, there we were. Lost in the big crowd of famous and powerful peeps who all knew each other but didn't know us. I was like: "Holy shit! There goes C.J. Box!" C: "Oh?" Me: "OMG! There's Lee Child!" C: "Do tell." It was time for the group photo of short story nominees. One of the judges whispered to me, "Do you have a speech prepared?" I laughed. "I'm not going to win it," I said. She said, "Get a speech ready." OH OH.
We sat at the Akashic Books table with Johnny Temple, our rock star publisher. No, seriously--a rock star. He was in the band Girls Against Boys. You saw him on MTV.
I was tweaking: There's Alafair Burke! There goes Laura Lippman! That's John Hart! There's Lee Child again!
And hey--I won.
I gave Alafair a shout-out. later, she told us her phone lit up right away, and she cried, "That's right! Say my name, bitch!"
AS we left, a tall guy in a pink shirt called, "How'd it feel to crush Dennis Lehane?" Johnny Temple said, "You know who that was? Harlan Coben!"
I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS STUFF HAPPENS TO ME.
The next day was a hang-out day. Romance and stunned WTF Just Happened day. We walked more miles. Walked to Times Sq. Watched them film--egad--The Smurfs at Bryant Park. Back to the Fitz for drinks and gossip w/ Liz and Eve, her assistant. Then Ken Wheaton, novelis and my ol' homeboy from Louisiana came over. Oh, it made getting up Saturday hard to do.
Dragged home and got a call--Shawn Phillips is on a massive North American tour and asked to aprk his tour bus at our house. Yo, I am nothing if not rock'n'roll, ahem, so I said sure. And this 50' behemoth pulled up and SP laid siege and sleeps out there like a mad uncle and is making pasta sauce in our kitchen right now.
Tomorrow, I have my gig with Dave Eggers in Chi.
Did I mention I cannot believe this stuff happens to me?
See you Wed. for the Cinco de Mayo aprty at the bookstore in Glen Ellyn.
Oh, and don't hate me because I'm beautiful--Galveston TX just chose Beautiful North as their all-city read. See y'all down there around Mardi Gras.
Wish U were here...
L
So there we were in the basement with all kinds of Brooklyn cool kids--artistas and muralists and tweeters and bloggers (Aunt Feather from twitter was there). Liz, my beloved publicist and Sarah Murphy from Little, Brown came. We snuck out for drinks afterwards. Making the Brooklyn arty scene in a cool bar with a pit bull under the table.
We like to stay at the Fitzpatrick Hotel at Grand Central. The desk staff are all Irish with lovely Irish accents. And it's right around the corner from Little, Brown. And there's great coffee next door, and a great bar on the other side of the lobby. We went out and met with geoff Shandler and plotted and planned the Hummingbird II and the INTO THE BEAUTIFUL NORTH paperback domination of the world scenarios. Sandwiches in the board room. Free books. Saw our pub-pals in there. Then we were out on the rbicks, lookjing for a nice shirt for me to wear to the Edgars. The shirt-god led us to Kenneth Cole, where the young man behind the counter knew exactly the shirt for me. I heard him telling C he was marrying his boyfriend. "You're getting married?" I asked. "He better put a ring on this!" he quipped.
We walked in joy and romance all over the place, then staggered up to our room for a nap and a chill before the banquet (at the Grand Cetral Grand Hyatt, also around the corner). OK, so I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay in bed and make believe the whole thing wasn't happening. But I got on my suit, and C got all dolled up in uncomfortable shoes, and we limped to the Hyatt to face our fates.
Well, yes, there we were. Lost in the big crowd of famous and powerful peeps who all knew each other but didn't know us. I was like: "Holy shit! There goes C.J. Box!" C: "Oh?" Me: "OMG! There's Lee Child!" C: "Do tell." It was time for the group photo of short story nominees. One of the judges whispered to me, "Do you have a speech prepared?" I laughed. "I'm not going to win it," I said. She said, "Get a speech ready." OH OH.
We sat at the Akashic Books table with Johnny Temple, our rock star publisher. No, seriously--a rock star. He was in the band Girls Against Boys. You saw him on MTV.
I was tweaking: There's Alafair Burke! There goes Laura Lippman! That's John Hart! There's Lee Child again!
And hey--I won.
I gave Alafair a shout-out. later, she told us her phone lit up right away, and she cried, "That's right! Say my name, bitch!"
AS we left, a tall guy in a pink shirt called, "How'd it feel to crush Dennis Lehane?" Johnny Temple said, "You know who that was? Harlan Coben!"
I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS STUFF HAPPENS TO ME.
The next day was a hang-out day. Romance and stunned WTF Just Happened day. We walked more miles. Walked to Times Sq. Watched them film--egad--The Smurfs at Bryant Park. Back to the Fitz for drinks and gossip w/ Liz and Eve, her assistant. Then Ken Wheaton, novelis and my ol' homeboy from Louisiana came over. Oh, it made getting up Saturday hard to do.
Dragged home and got a call--Shawn Phillips is on a massive North American tour and asked to aprk his tour bus at our house. Yo, I am nothing if not rock'n'roll, ahem, so I said sure. And this 50' behemoth pulled up and SP laid siege and sleeps out there like a mad uncle and is making pasta sauce in our kitchen right now.
Tomorrow, I have my gig with Dave Eggers in Chi.
Did I mention I cannot believe this stuff happens to me?
See you Wed. for the Cinco de Mayo aprty at the bookstore in Glen Ellyn.
Oh, and don't hate me because I'm beautiful--Galveston TX just chose Beautiful North as their all-city read. See y'all down there around Mardi Gras.
Wish U were here...
L
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