I am taking a big technological leap with the help of my friend Chuck the computer genius - trying to upload pictures to share with you. So here's my first try - a picture of the author signing her opus, taken at Nicholas Hoare books.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
book launch picture
I am taking a big technological leap with the help of my friend Chuck the computer genius - trying to upload pictures to share with you. So here's my first try - a picture of the author signing her opus, taken at Nicholas Hoare books.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
stack o' books
I was riding my bicycle home the other day, and a neighbour called after me, "I'm on page 148!" My, this is fun. I have been getting all kinds of feedback - a bit not so good, from a friend who told me the book was well written but the story didn't engage him, and a cousin in New York who wrote, "So many details!!!" I'm glad people are honest. But mostly the reviews have been positive. My son's friend Tristan, who's 21, told me he was at the part where the chick was crazy for Jacob Gordin. "Been there, done that," he said.
I was thrilled to hear that Syracuse University Press has sold most of this print run and is considering another. So that's pretty good, considering that there haven't been any reviews yet, except one on-line which gives the book three stars out of four and then ends, "If you have a short attention span, give this one a miss." (It might just as well have said, "So many details!!!")
In the last week I've sent out four pieces to magazines and newspapers. Three were sitting there, nearly done, in my files, but I hadn't had the chance to finish them while dealing with the albatross, no, the wonderful book which is now flying on its own. And one - I went for a walk Sunday morning, had an idea, mulled it over on the way home, sat down, wrote it, sent it out. Now that's the way it should be - no more of this twenty-five years of research, all those @#$%&* details.
I was thrilled to hear that Syracuse University Press has sold most of this print run and is considering another. So that's pretty good, considering that there haven't been any reviews yet, except one on-line which gives the book three stars out of four and then ends, "If you have a short attention span, give this one a miss." (It might just as well have said, "So many details!!!")
In the last week I've sent out four pieces to magazines and newspapers. Three were sitting there, nearly done, in my files, but I hadn't had the chance to finish them while dealing with the albatross, no, the wonderful book which is now flying on its own. And one - I went for a walk Sunday morning, had an idea, mulled it over on the way home, sat down, wrote it, sent it out. Now that's the way it should be - no more of this twenty-five years of research, all those @#$%&* details.
Friday, May 18, 2007
OUT AND ABOUT
I was so high during the book launch on adrenalin and joy - and relief - that the whole thing is a blur. I do remember how my heart leapt, as I approached the beautiful Nicholas Hoare bookstore, to see my books lined up in the window. And then book buyers started to arrive and I sat signing and signing, and then I spoke and read, and Paul Soles and Kate Trotter performed magnificently from Gordin's plays, and I stood on the bookstore balcony looking down at so many friendly faces. And then we continued partying at home, more friendly faces, more blur, more signing. More than a hundred books were sold that night, and I wrote something in most of them, but what, I have no idea.
The next day I went into a wierd frenzy, decided I had to sell my house, began real estate dealings, and was told firmly by several friends that I was suffering from postpartum depression and should calm down. Which I did. Now, still in my house, I'm enjoying the interesting reality of my creation floating about out there - what is the child up to now? It had its first review, which has appeared on several websites - favourable, three stars out of four, though at the end advising readers "with short attention spans" that they should "pass on this one."
Most importantly, I have started work on something else. A very small something, but it's a step into the future, leaving this part of the past behind. Time to move on.
The next day I went into a wierd frenzy, decided I had to sell my house, began real estate dealings, and was told firmly by several friends that I was suffering from postpartum depression and should calm down. Which I did. Now, still in my house, I'm enjoying the interesting reality of my creation floating about out there - what is the child up to now? It had its first review, which has appeared on several websites - favourable, three stars out of four, though at the end advising readers "with short attention spans" that they should "pass on this one."
Most importantly, I have started work on something else. A very small something, but it's a step into the future, leaving this part of the past behind. Time to move on.
Friday, April 27, 2007
It's my party and I'll muse if I want to
Today I was shopping at the local dollar store for paper plates for the book launch party, which is in only a few days. There were bright yellow or blue ones, and then there were fancy ones, black with "Happy Birthday" in swirly type on them. I almost bought those, because on Tuesday May 1st we are celebrating not only the extremely protracted arrival of my book but also my great-grandfather's 154th birthday. The birthday plates were much more expensive, however, and knowing my great-grandfather, he would have objected to the extravagance. So plain plates it will be, but the thought is there.
It's funny that I write "knowing my great-grandfather" though he died in 1909 and I, contrary to my childrens' suspicions, was born some decades after that. Jacob Gordin and I have spent so much time together over the years that I do know him. And also, in many ways he was a lot like my dad, whom I certainly knew, and who wouldn't have noticed the plates at all because he would be too busy eating whatever was on them.
He would have loved the book launch, loved all the Russian food my daughter and I bought today, and the fact that his dark-eyed granddaughter is going to prepare it, mountains of sour cream and all. My mother and her sister, who are in their eighties, are coming to Toronto for this event, and so are several far-flung friends. Other friends have been calling, sending emails and notes, even funny email cards with music and animated dogs. So many people are happy for me. Something new has arrived in the world, and everyone who knows me understands how much that matters to me. And in a way matters to them too; when each of us achieves something after a long struggle, we all do too.
It's funny that I write "knowing my great-grandfather" though he died in 1909 and I, contrary to my childrens' suspicions, was born some decades after that. Jacob Gordin and I have spent so much time together over the years that I do know him. And also, in many ways he was a lot like my dad, whom I certainly knew, and who wouldn't have noticed the plates at all because he would be too busy eating whatever was on them.
He would have loved the book launch, loved all the Russian food my daughter and I bought today, and the fact that his dark-eyed granddaughter is going to prepare it, mountains of sour cream and all. My mother and her sister, who are in their eighties, are coming to Toronto for this event, and so are several far-flung friends. Other friends have been calling, sending emails and notes, even funny email cards with music and animated dogs. So many people are happy for me. Something new has arrived in the world, and everyone who knows me understands how much that matters to me. And in a way matters to them too; when each of us achieves something after a long struggle, we all do too.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Holding the Taj Mahal of books
India is a country of the most extreme contrasts, full of exquisite treasure and garbage, magnificent, appalling. Agra is typical - an unspeakably filthy town where in the parking lot men battle over tourists, shouting and shoving. From the parking lot you go through extensive security and more aggressive touts pushing postcards and souvenirs. And then you stand weeping in front of the most beautiful building on earth, the mystical Taj Mahal, graceful, serene, lovelier than any photograph. Perfect. And then you go out again through the touts, the skinny dogs and cows, the garbage and mud.
I kept a diary throughout the trip of course, and am working at transcribing it to see if there's a story. I mean, of course there's a story, but is there one to publish? The short answer is yes.
The day after I returned, woozy with jet lag, the doorbell rang; it was a FedEx man with a box. "It's heavy," he said. "It's books." "I know," I said, heart pounding. I slit open the box and there they were, my author's copies of the most gorgeous book in the world, the Taj Mahal of books. Syracuse has done a wonderful job - the book is as well produced as I could ever have imagined. The cover, font, chapter headings, spacing - all ideal. It has the right heft, solid but not daunting. I wonder if the world will agree. The next day I sat down and read the thing, and at the end was able to say that I found no typo's, and as I read I didn't scream in agony once. A wince or three - I wish I'd said that better, oooh, turgid here - but not, to my surprise, excruciating.
I wonder if the world will agree.
Two weeks later, I am still waiting to find out. It's a curious kind of limbo, this period when the book is out in the world but no one has read it yet. I've had two important reviews: from my friend Gerry Caplan and from my daughter. Gerry seemed genuinely to like it, and thrillingly, Anna told me that one day she read for five hours straight. "It's good," she said. High, high praise; I expected her to be bored with the factual, biographical parts. Now I'm preparing for the book launch, issuing invitations and copies of the book, mailing, phoning, checking, making lists, finding bits in the plays for the actors Paul Soles and Kate Trotter to perform.
But in the scramble part of me is still standing, in tears, before the Taj Mahal.
I kept a diary throughout the trip of course, and am working at transcribing it to see if there's a story. I mean, of course there's a story, but is there one to publish? The short answer is yes.
The day after I returned, woozy with jet lag, the doorbell rang; it was a FedEx man with a box. "It's heavy," he said. "It's books." "I know," I said, heart pounding. I slit open the box and there they were, my author's copies of the most gorgeous book in the world, the Taj Mahal of books. Syracuse has done a wonderful job - the book is as well produced as I could ever have imagined. The cover, font, chapter headings, spacing - all ideal. It has the right heft, solid but not daunting. I wonder if the world will agree. The next day I sat down and read the thing, and at the end was able to say that I found no typo's, and as I read I didn't scream in agony once. A wince or three - I wish I'd said that better, oooh, turgid here - but not, to my surprise, excruciating.
I wonder if the world will agree.
Two weeks later, I am still waiting to find out. It's a curious kind of limbo, this period when the book is out in the world but no one has read it yet. I've had two important reviews: from my friend Gerry Caplan and from my daughter. Gerry seemed genuinely to like it, and thrillingly, Anna told me that one day she read for five hours straight. "It's good," she said. High, high praise; I expected her to be bored with the factual, biographical parts. Now I'm preparing for the book launch, issuing invitations and copies of the book, mailing, phoning, checking, making lists, finding bits in the plays for the actors Paul Soles and Kate Trotter to perform.
But in the scramble part of me is still standing, in tears, before the Taj Mahal.
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