Recently, the author Curtis Sittenfeld wrote an essay for the NY Times Book Review in which she claimed she’d rather be a member of a book club than attend one as the featured author, primarily because the main character in her novel, Prep, is often disliked and draws negative comments. As my appearances at book clubs increase, I find I have the opposite experience. What an unexpected pleasure that my demographic is me! I get to sit around, eat homemade goodies, chat with ‘new friends’ and drink wine, although I hold off on the wine until I’ve established myself as at least mildly entertaining and moderately well-spoken.

As a mid-forties suburbanite, my protagonist, Julie Berman, (Bitsy Beberman in A Little Bit Married) is also similar to me in that she is dealing with marriage, family, career issues, body changes, and of course, the neighbors. Also, despite sometimes making bad choices, which run the gamut from wrong husband, poor parenting tactic or second chocolate brownie, she is ultimately likable; yes, you can make the leap, I think I am too.

Last week I attended a book club where the average age was younger than usual; maybe early thirties. These delightful women taught me something I’d forgotten; new moms with small children and babies who manage to get out of the house at night do not want to go home! They want to eat, drink and talk trash. They want to know what they can do now to be prepared for when their son (who isn’t yet potty-trained) decides to have sex or alcohol in the house. They are so much fun. At one point I did the math; was it possible they were closer to remembering teenage behavior than preparing for it? Probably. This might explain why, at 11:45 pm on a weeknight, we were still going strong.

Later that night as I collapsed into bed beside my sleeping husband I found I wasn’t tired at all, whereas I bet the young attendees from the meeting fell fast asleep the moment they got into bed, after all, they still have 4 am feedings and 5:30 toddler-wake-ups. I started thinking about how every age has its benefits. As we move into the forties we sacrifice our tight skin and endless energy but gain a little freedom and hopefully, an ability to laugh (constantly, if necessary) at ourselves. Which is why I woke up my sleeping husband and told him I’d spent the night talking about sex and couldn’t sleep. Since we do not have mid-night feedings and dawn wake-ups, he didn’t mind at all, let's leave it at that. Each age or stage has hidden benefits if you look for them. And to Ms. Sittenfeld I say, just look at the unexpected perks of book clubs!

Posted by Debra Borden at 07:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Is it just me or does anyone else think this whole James Frey mess has become way too big a deal? It's now a barometer of our society's depressed status vis a vis truth, honesty, and The American Way? Must we really liken Mr. Frey’s misrepresentation of 3 months in jail (that was really 3 hours) to Enron or Tyco?

Look, I'm not saying I support the fact that he fudged the memoir, definitely a sleazy move by a clearly challenged and complicated individual. However, it was a story about a drug addict, remember? As Oprah often says we are all a work in progress. So James Frey didn't go from society dreg to pillar quite as quickly as he represented or all of us may have hoped. It was painful to watch him decompensate on the Oprah Unplugged episode, too painful for the crime, I’d say. There have to be some gray areas here.

First, a confession; I’ve always felt that memoir was flexible, at least in a way that Historical Fiction or How-To or Medical Facts cannot be. Think hard taffy instead of steel beam. It has to do with perspective, and age, and memory, and the ever-changing, subtle rhythms of the mind. You might argue that there is a difference when intent is present, rather than blurry remembrance, but this begs the question, is the problem the end product or the process? A lot has been discussed lately about disclaimers; Frey's next printing will carry one. This should solve the problem of the apparently gross injustice that has been done to readers. But again, I have to wonder, does anyone really go into the bookstore dead set on a great memoir, per say, rather than a great story?

I know, I know, there is the issue that truth is black and white. Is it? Don’t we blur those lines every day while being our truthful selves? You tell a story at lunch about a funny incident, you've told the story 9 times before and most likely you’ve tweaked it once or twice for a bit more drama or laughs and it's just a bit less truthful. Certainly, you are not walking around with a sticker on your head that says Non-fiction and no one paid to hear your factual story, but don’t we assume that words exchanged between civilized people are more or less the truth? Don't we count on that? So shouldn't we be offended and wounded to learn that instead of falling on your ass in the middle of the supermarket aisle you actually just stumbled a bit? I don't know about you but once again, I'm not, because it's your story, it's memoir, it's gray.

James Frey apparently wrote a damn fine book. I say apparently because although I read it and enjoyed it I don’t want to write a critique here. Suffice to say that a publisher liked it, Oprah liked it, and the hundreds of thousands who flocked to read and support it liked it. How rare is that? How difficult is that? Any writer who’s struggled to produce, query, submit, obtain representation and ultimately publish knows just what an elusive brass ring such and endpoint is-let’s give the guy a break.

You know, before I read the book, when I heard what it was about, I wasn't thrilled that Oprah picked it. She has shot liquid adrenaline into the heart of the publishing industry and all of us in the community owe her a great debt. It would be nice to see her support more writers who haven't had to overcome their own atrocities or been one-time victims in order to write a great work; writers that may even have the longevity to contribute to the great creative consciousness for years to come. There are so many talented, struggling writers honing craft, paying dues, committed to their art despite personal and financial hardships let alone the abyss of self-doubt and hopelessness. They are victims too. Of an industry that is increasingly devalueing solid talent in favor of reality TV memoir or expose'.

I made a choice to write fiction instead of memoir and it was a real choice that was specifically made but I don’t feel betrayed by Mr. Frey. Except when I want factual data about a historical event or a bodily function, what I look for in a book is a few hours when I don't want to roll my eyes from boredom or groan at the gross lack of character development or feel compelled to try and sort out the confusing plot line. I hope to get past page 50 of my recently purchased $20 hardcover and feel gripped by a story, not seduced by the hype of yet one more annual entry from a bestselling author who by now is just phoning it in. Sorry if I sound a little hostile, I guess I'm just 'Frey-ed.'

Posted by Debra Borden at 12:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)