Book review: "How To Be An American Housewife"

When I was first asked to review How To Be An American Housewife, I was immediately intrigued by the title. I knew it was fiction and not some how-to guide (because really, that would be kind of awkward if they'd actually made a how-to book for acclimating to American domesticity), but the title piqued my interest, especially when juxtaposed against the photo of the Japanese woman set behind it.

It turns out the title was based on a book by the same name that actually did exist back in the 1940s when Japanese women were marrying American GIs in droves during WWII. The novel's author, Margaret Dilloway, noticed an old copy her Japanese mother owned, given by her GI husband (and later Dilloway's father) in an effort to help her acclimate when he first brought her to America. It was this book, which later turned out to be a manual of sorts for Japanese maids and therefore was never read, that was the inspiration behind Dilloway's debut novel of the same name.

How To Be An American Housewife is not only a book about mother/daughter relationships, it's commentary on cultural assimilation. Of yearning to fit into a new culture and land while missing family and letting go of traditions left behind on native soil.

The first half of the novel is narrated by Shoko, a Japanese woman determined to come to America. She marries an American GI she falls in love with much later in life, but her struggles going from Japan to setting up a home near a military base in San Diego, California, are at the same time both humbling and heartbreaking. Dilloway cleverly crafts Shoko's narrative so that everything Shoko thinks is written in perfect English, while everything she communicates to her husband, children's teachers, or fellow parents comes out clunky, broken and distorted (since English is her second language). Through Shoko readers have a window into what it's like as a foreigner in America, of the language barriers and sometimes physical traits that shouldn't but often cast one as "an outsider."

The story continues through Shoko's narrative, gliding along memories she has of experiences in both Japan and America and the transition between, when about half-way through the narrative baton is passed to her American-born daughter, Sue.

Sue is a single mother and working professional with one divorce under her belt. She hates her job, has no love life and feels misunderstood by everyone, including her parents (and especially Shoko). Even though she's in her 30s, Sue still feels like she has no identity since she was raised in a multi-cultural household and loathes the fact that she could never fully fit in growing up; Shoko with her broken English seemed always an embarrassment for Sue at school functions or when she wanted to invite friends over. Even at 30-something, Sue's still not sure where she belongs and because of this has remained quiet, withdrawn and passive -- a wallflower, through and through.

It's only when Shoko asks Sue to travel back to Japan for her to mend a decades-old family argument that Sue (with her daughter in tow) comes into her own as a woman and begins to see the beauty of growing up multi-culturally. The acceptance of her upbringing and heritage (which were both solid but much different than her peers) starts to quickly transform Sue into a new woman, and brings about a level of understanding for her mother and mother's life before America that is fascinating to read.

I recommend this book to anyone who's ever felt like their mothers (or daughters) misunderstand them, or to anyone who's questioned their roots and what it means to be a part of a certain ethnic group. Dilloway's excels at showing the uncomfortable situations Shoko finds herself in once she arrives in America, the loneliness Shoko experiences as she lets go of her past to build her future, and the wallflower Sue who eventually blooms by reconnecting with her origins as a favor to her ailing mother. For a debut novel, I was thoroughly impressed.

Book review: "Let the Great World Spin"

Lately I've become jaded with the whole NYC-as-the-stillpoint-of-the-turning-universe thing. I've heard just about every story that could be told about Manhattan and its outer boroughs, from Annie Hall to Taxi Driver and everything before, between, and after. I'm tired of reading about life in New York. That is, until I read Colum McCann's fantastic new novel, “Let the Great World Spin”.

Before receiving my copy to participate in an online book tour, I researched critical acclaim for the text and tried not to roll my eyes. Another novel about what it means to be a New Yorker? Just what the world needs, I thought. And that was the mentality I went into reading the book with, which was foolish since after finishing my copy I can honestly say that “Let the Great World Spin” is one of the best novels I've read in a long time and deserves all the acclaim and accolades it has received (it won the 2009 National Book Award and was Amazon's “Best of the Month” pick in June of last year).

It's August of 1974, when the Vietnam War is still simmering and tensions in the city are high. Real-life tightrope walker Philippe Petit decides to walk thousands of feet above Manhattan across a tightrope between the World Trade Center towers, and so he does after practicing for months at his country cabin and illegally rigging up a rope with friends. But McCann's novel doesn't focus on the factual Petit or his tightrope walking feat – it's about the native New Yorkers watching the spectacle above while their own lives tread more or less in chaos.

The story begins far below the tight rope, on street corners in the crime-riddled Bronx and swanky apartments on the Upper East Side. McCann deftly weaves together a dozen or so different narratives – each chapter is from a different character's point of view – from New Yorkers of different ethnicities, religions and socioeconomic statuses. Each character is tethered to the next through tenuous, claustrophobic and often purely coincidental relationships based on occupation and social standing.

The first chapter begins with two brothers, Corrigan and Cairan, raised by a single mother in Ireland. As fate would have it both brothers end up in New York as adults, first Corrigan and then Cairan, who travels across the Atlantic in search of his brother only to find him living in Bronx squalor—with heroin needles lining the street gutters and hookers hanging on every corner. Corrigan has come to New York in search of “a fully believable God, one you could find in the grime of everyday” and he finds it in the hookers he befriends and tries to help, buying them coffee and allowing them to use the bathroom in his dingy apartment. Only Cairan, as a newcomer, can see that his brother's attempts are futile, that Corrigan can not save any of these people, least not himself because he provides until he has nothing left to give emotionally, financially, or spiritually.

From there McCann transports us to a tony apartment on Park Avenue, where the wife of a Manhattan judge sits nervously awaiting a group of ladies – a support group of sorts – who all share a common bond: Sons killed in the Vietnam War. Then the next chapter glides like a panning camera lens to two young artist newlyweds, children of privilege with simmering marital problems, smoking a joint as they race down the FDR and cause a horrific crash that changes the trajectory of a handful of characters in the book, including Cairan, the newcomer to New York City. Pages after there is another narrative, of the Park Avenue housewife's husband who became a judge to try and make the world, or at least New York, a better place only to realize during his first day in court faced with pimps and prostitutes that none of his rulings could ever clean up New York's streets.

For me the most heartbreaking chapter was “This is the House that Horse Built,” where one of the hookers introduced earlier in the book gives a tragic first-hand account of how she fell into a life of prostitution and heroin, and how her daughter eventually followed suit. It was a painful reminder of how poverty and addiction can be gaping, cyclical holes that swallow people whole—people who are past the point of being saved.

The tightrope walker high above all these characters is a metaphor for the lives of not only all New Yorkers, but people in general. Each of us, at least once if not constantly, “walk a tightrope just one inch off the ground.” Though the Twin Towers are now gone, with nothing more than open space where the pinnacles of the modern world used to stand, Petit walking his rope high above Manhattan in the late summer of '74 was and is a reminder of humanity and compassion, courage and awe, then and now. I have to agree with Dave Eggers when he called the book “one of the greatest-ever novels about New York.”

James Franco, literary prodigy

Laughing all the way to the bank.

So I'm not sure how I feel about James Franco's short story, "Just Before the Black", in Esquire. Annoyed is probably the right word. Why? Because I'm sure J-Dog queried it hundreds of times like every other writer has to do, before Esquire decided aloud one day:

"James Franco? Never heard of him, but let's give this kid a shot. He's got no real literary credits to his name besides an MFA from Columbia, just like countless others that we reject on a daily basis, but his story has spit-shined promise. I especially like this line: 'I poke the knife at him, at his fat stomach, lightly poking it with the tip, but he's wearing a puffy North Face jacket, so it doesn't stab him.' It's artsy and hip. Readers will love the prose of this relative unknown."

Now I don't want to be one of those angry faceless people behind this pitchfork-wielding Internet mob that's out for Franco's blood, but the whole thing kills me. Kills me. And here's why: Just because you're a well-known actor doesn't make you a writer worthy of being published in Esquire. Or being published, period. Based on that magazine's track record of rejections not even many good writers are worthy of being in Esquire (present company included -- we admit, we still have a lot to learn).

Perhaps my standards for Esquire are too high, but they reject tens of thousands of incredible short stories every year from gifted people that deserve an honest shot, and then Jamsie-poo, with his famous last name and movie about Pineapples, can waltz up to the front of the line and cut in front of Those More Talented just because he's got name cred and once played some dude in a Spider-Man movie. It reeks of self-importance and entitlement and I can't stand it when that sort of thing happens with line-cutters at the DMV, much less with a well-known publication. I know, I know: This is the way the world works, I should just suck it up and get used to it, which would be easier for me to do if his story was actually...well...good. I love being pleasantly surprised when someone can wear more than one hat well. But I would call this story a Fail, and I'm disappointed in Esquire for perpetuating Jamsie-poo's narcissism.

Sure, J-Loco is worth his weight as an actor (it can be argued that his portrayal of James Dean was incredible), but a writer he is not. Granted I'm no literary critic, but I've read a lot in my life and feel I'm entitled to an opinion. Reading over "Just Before the Black" and wanting to give it an honest shot wasn't enough to make me ever want to pick up anything Franco-penned again.

I think Sady Doyle over at Salon.com summed it up perfectly:

"... Although James Franco is Salon's Sexiest Man Living of 2009 for good reason, and one of our most valuable Bizarro Celebrities, no one should excuse Just Before the Black. ... The word "gap" is used so many times in this story – in relation to teeth, road barriers, windows. I don't know if it's an intentional motif, or if I just figured out where James Franco shops.

"It's true that, as these things go, James Franco is both interesting and crush-worthy. Unfortunately for him, he is also famous – which is the adult equivalent of being very handsome at a small liberal arts college, in that people will continually tell you that you are great whether or not it's true, and let you get away with far too much. They will, for example, publish your terrifying short story in Esquire. (Or in a book! James Franco will soon publish a book.)"

Yes, Jamestastic has a book deal.

It'd be one thing to accept it as kitschy gimmick -- Lauren Conrad's ghostwritten novel "LA Candy" is the first thing to come to mind. She wrote it "all by herself" within a "two-month span" and a month or so later it was already going to press. Most of us familiar with the publishing process can see through this and take "LA Candy" for what it is: Yet another piece of memorabilia to complement LC's burgeoning celebrity empire. As hard it is for me to admit there is a place for the "LA Candys" in our celebrity-obsessed world.

But the opposite is true with Jamsie-poo. Unlike other celebrity works, "Just Before the Black" is meant to be looked at with a critical eye, in a magazine that has historically produced quality prose and writers. J-Loco does deserve some credit -- he wrote it all on his own without employing the ubiquitous ghostwriter that lurks behind so many celebrity works -- but it still sucked and we as readers aren't supposed to think that. It's not meant to be laughed at as a joke, or cast-off with an eye-roll as a publicity stunt to add to his growing brand. It's supposed be taken seriously. The beginnings of a literary career. And how far it got, laid as ink on Esquire's precious real estate no less, is what is laughable. I think there's a line for just how much crap we can be spoon-fed. What's next? Lauren Conrad writing a piece for The New Yorker?

I hope I haven't spoken too soon...

I refuse to be flabby, and in other news: Lauren Bacall is on Twitter

So the other night I was wasting precious hours of my life sifting through reams of "interesting links" recommended by those I follow on the Twitter-sphere when I came across one called The Waistline Test, which assesses whether your writing is ‘flabby’ or ‘fit’:

The test works by counting percentages of words in five categories commonly associated with stodgy sentences: weak verbs, abstract nouns, prepositions, adjectives/adverbs and 'waste words' (it, this, that, there). For every writing sample you submit, you will receive an overall fitness rating ranging from lean to heart attack territory:

Lean	Fat-free
Fit and trim	In excellent condition
Needs toning	Would benefit from a light workout
Flabby	Judicious editing required
Heart attack territory	May call for editorial liposuction!

My initial thought? Brills!

But then fear set in.

What if I took the test and it spat back horrific results to me? Like that my writing was morbidly obese and destined for a life lived on treadmills and jogging trails in the backwoods of scary places, where scary people hang out cooking meth and living out of trash bag tents? If that was the truth, did I really want to know? Or was I better off blissfully oblivious and semi-delusional about my writing abilities?

Then again, now that I'd seen this Waistline Test how could I not take it? It would be like not pushing the button on that Mr. Bubbles contraption filled with bleach in my friend's shower back when it was a new product and I figured it was filled with body wash, thus giving the whole shower experience as we know it a contemporary, car wash-esque feel. "How modern!" I thought in glee, after pushing the button and allowing "body wash" to whir past me, till I screamed out in realization that it wasn't actually a Jetsons shower machine but rather a cleaning device that was shooting bleach into my face and mouth. Yeah, seeing the Waistline Test was kind of like that, except now I tread with minor trepidation when I'm about to push any buttons.

Was my ego writing checks my body couldn't cash? I needed to know, so I took the test, shielded my face with my hands and peered through my fingers at the results and ... I passed!!! Quite nicely, I should add. I pasted in the first couple paragraphs from my book and got back:

fit and trim.

For whatever this particular writing test is worth, all I have to say is PHEW. At this point in the month I don't think I have the emotional stamina to endure a reading of "flabby", much less anything that would call for editorial liposuction.

Now for all I know this test could be a crock of monkey poop, and I know there are other things that matter in good writing (i.e., expression, fluidity, clarity, etc.) but I do think it's an interesting way to assess overuse of adverbs and other evils that tend to weigh writing down like an anchor. See how your writing measures up, if you're curious.

In other news: Lauren Bacall is on Twitter(!), which is basically just as amazing as hearing someone like Grace Kelly or Joan Crawford pontificate on how tacky Hollywood (and the world in general) has become and how much better it was "back then", when everyone beat their kids with wire hangers chain-smoked and men wore suits and women wore heels and tattoos and cleavage weren't the norm but the exception, reserved only for seedy characters in seedy "B" flicks.

Here are my fave LB tweets:

"Yes I saw Twilight my granddaughter made me watch it, she said it was the greatest vampire film ever. After the "film" was over I wanted to smack her across her head with my shoe, but I do not want a book called Grannie Dearest written on me when I die, so instead I gave her a DVD of Murnau's 1922 masterpiece Nosferatu and told her, now that's a vampire film! and that goes for all of you! watch Nosferatu instead!"

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"Enough of me being a negative Nancy, its just that I am glad I got to see the Oscars of the 40s & 50s. Grace Kelly would have died if she saw what I did at the red carpet (a tattooed gum chewing woman with too much cleavage and a man in sneakers)."

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"I'm so sorry you guys didn't like my Studio 54 image simply because I was smoking, believe me there was far more worse things going on there then smoking! I was not expecting such negative feedback, ugh all this stress has made me want to light up and relax with a cigarette. The good thing about being 84 is that I can smoke as much as I want."

Lauren Bacall is the woman I want to grow up to be. "Literate and tart" were the words Roger Ebert recently used to describe her. She's a beautiful, no-nonsense woman who's been around long enough to know what timeless chic really is and could care less about what you and I think of her musings because she's right, after all. I can just imagine her lazing in some huge claw-footed bathtub in one of the many master bathrooms of her gigantic estate, tapping away with manicured red fingernails on a laptop picked out for her by some tech-savvy personal assistant. Like a modern-day Norma Desmond with a platform to reach the masses she lazes beneath her blanket of white bubbles, plumes of cigarette smoke curling around her head, as she tweets about the good old days when film meant something. When fashion mean something.

When a good vampire movie meant something...

Overheard last night

2:30 am. Our studio. Pitch black, trying to fall asleep. J sounds like he's beat me to that. Silence. I start drifting off, but then get hit by an amazing idea for a short story. Learned my lesson last time this happened when I didn't write it down and forgot what it was the following morning. Won't ever let that happen again ...

Too lazy to turn on my bedside lamp and grab a pencil and paper, I fumble for my phone on my nightstand. Candles and lip balm and bottles of lotion clatter around in the darkness. J stirs. Finally, my blind hand feels my cell phone, an old-school slider that I refuse to upgrade. I bring it inches from my face, pull up the "notepad" feature and begin tapping furiously at the buttons. The loud beeps of each letter cut the silence in the studio. Ten minutes of beeping later:

J (slurring sarcastically in his sleep): "What are you doing, writing a novel?"

Me: *beep, beep* "Actually yes, I am." *beep, beep, beep*

Instead of drifting off again he laughs out loud, turns the light on and hands me a notebook and pen from his side.

Oh, the merits of being married to a budding author.

Literary truths: Carroll

"It would be so nice if something made sense for a change." - Alice

Here's a fun fact for all you fellow bibliophiles out there: Charles Ludwidge Dodgson never publicly acknowledged that he was also Lewis Carroll (of Alice in Wonderland fame). He seldom signed his books, and never gave away his portrait. Dodgson did acknowledge his pen name among his friends (especially in the letters to his child-friends which he signed with that name) but publicly denied any connection with the Alice books.

Hence, he regularly returned strangers' mail addressed to him as Lewis Carroll with a printed leaflet that asserted,

"Mr. Dodgson is so frequently addressed by strangers on the quite unauthorized assumption that he claims or at any rate acknowledges the authorship of books not published under his name, that he has found it necessary to print this, once and for all, as an answer to all such applications. He neither claims or acknowledges any connection with any pseudonym, or with any book that is not published under his own name." [Source]

Along with an interest in writing and religion, Carroll also enjoyed photography, but after 24 years of picture snapping gave up the hobby in 1880 allegedly because of gossip about and resistance to his photographing pre-pubescent girls in the nude. (Many historians and biographers speculate that Carroll was a pedophile, albeit a repressed and celibate one.) After 1880, Carroll continued drawing young girls in the nude. [Source]

"I always call him Lewis Carroll Carroll, because he was the first Humbert Humbert," novelist Vladimir Nabokov told Vogue magazine in 1966. (Humbert Humbert was the main character in Lolita, Nabokov's famous novel about an older man pursuing a relationship with a young girl.)

"Have you seen those photographs of him with little girls?" Nabokov said in the article. "He would make arrangements with aunts and mothers to take the children out. He was never caught, except by one girl who wrote about him when she was much older."

These...are the days of our lives

Breaking the news that we have to move.

Tomorrow is moving day. And as I sit here surrounded by boxes, using the last of my Internet before the Comcast Nazis shut it off at midnight tonight, I can't help but feel a little sad.

I'm used to moving. In the last five years I've lived at six -- yes, six -- different addresses including this one. Packing up and leaving is modus operandi for me though always a little bittersweet. But this time that sucrose savoriness lingers a bit more than usual and I have a sneaking suspicion that it's because this is where J and I started out as a married version of "us."

When we left the west coast with 16 boxes and the rings on our fingers we didn't know what would be in store over the next three years of our lives here. Would he survive law school? Would I survive law school? Would we get to take weekend jaunts over to Europe now that we lived on a closer coast and plane tickets had to be cheaper? (The answers to these questions, consecutively, are yes, yes, and no.) We still have four months left in the DC area, and I suppose this post would be better suited for when we leave for good, but we've lived at this address for two years and I think it deserves some accolades.

This apartment has been the setting for some pretty fabulous memories, including intimate fondue dinners and epic tickling wars, dinner parties, Friday movie nights (thanks, Netflix) and dancing with J to the Bee Gees after he'd get home late and exhausted from class and still make an effort to make me laugh, a testament to what a good man he is. Oh and it was also here where monumental arguments between us would take place, making Lola -- who's very sensitive to volume and tone -- cower under the dinner table in fear. (Don't worry, pup: You know as well as we do that these arguments always end in laughter over how ridiculous we're being.)

It was in this apartment where we first brought Moneypenny home after adopting her, where my sister (who stayed with us summer of 2008 for her internship) ended up sleeping on the floor of our bedroom for a month after barricading the doorway because she was terrified of cats. (Suffice to say, as obese as Moneypenny was she still cleared our tall cardboard box hurdle. Hilarity ensued.) This is where I was first introduced to the Wii (grr), the best Bordeaux I've ever tasted, and everything jurisprudence-related (whether I wanted to know it or not) as told to me by J. This is where I woke up on the morning of Obama's inauguration, when we walked from our front door down to and across the Memorial Bridge, so we could stand on the National Mall with thousands of others in freezing conditions to hear the man give his speech.

It was in this apartment where I first discovered what would become my overarching obsession: Mad Men. It was here where, when I'd finally had enough, I made a career decision that two years ago I never would have dreamed of taking. This is where I started my life over because I realized it was never too late to push the "reset" button. This is where I competed in (and won!) my first Nanowrimo. And this is where I finished my first novel:


Did I think we were going to stay here forever? Of course not. It's an Archstone for Christ's sake; the clientele is as variable as Madonna's next musical persona. And I know that everyone has sentimental, sappy memories woven within rental walls, but these are mine and they're worth noting before Comcast clips the end of an era.

Anyway, at this point in our marriage we are without a home, complete unknowns, like rolling stones -- which is all fine with me. J brought up a good point the other night: We've built our life to be completely mobile, to pack up and leave whenever we need to wherever our next destination is. I'm glad that I could happily agree.

I think I've mastered the art of never getting too comfortable in one place. You just never know when you'll have to leave. Some might find this sad or scary; others may find it exhilarating. I think of it more as the latter. Every time you move you're embarking on another adventure. Even though I'm married I'm still young, malleable and open to change, which is the way I've been for the last 27 years. I hope I stay open to forms of change for the rest of my life, because I think that's what rounds you out as a person. If I dug my heels in at every opportunity to remain status quo I wouldn't be as happy, and I'd miss out on things I never tried.

Take moving to DC. It was definitely not on my to-do list (I'd lived here before for a congressional internship and had had my fill then), but I came back because of J and though it isn't my favorite place in the world it also hasn't been altogether terrible. If I hadn't come back, for instance, I never would have realized that this is truly the land of the personalized license plate. If I didn't live here I would never get to be cut off by the pretentious Mister "MasGolf" in his navy blue BMW almost every morning on Constitution Ave. while taking J to school. Or, after getting cut off, inevitably find myself behind Mister "JoeBama" in the brand new yellow Beetle. Again, DC has not been horrible. It's just another place that's been filled with new experiences and new friends that have shaped who I am. Contrary to what J might think, I have no regrets.

(Well, okay, one teensy regret: I have yet to live in a foreign country. I mean really live, not study abroad or visit or anything like that. I hope this'll change later this year when, money and careers permitting, we take up living in Buenos Aires for August. Oh, how I want to be an ex-pat, even for short-term. *Crosses fingers.*)

Anyway, as I mentioned in an earlier post, to save money our last four months here we decided to discontinue cable at our new apartment (funny social commentary that we own a 42'' plasma television but no cable). Luckily I've found a few places online that stream the shows (probably illegally) I watch but it's not my fault that laws in Malaysia and India aren't as strict as ours. We'll have Internet, but only God knows when since J just contacted Comcast today about scheduling an appointment, meaning we'll probably be connected in, oh, about three weeks.

So, until we meet again -- quite possibly sooner than later using free WiFi at a coffeeshop -- I'm off to Silver Spring, Maryland in a Uhaul truck tomorrow in the region's second-biggest snowstorm this winter. Let the good times roll.

My first Work in Progress: COMPLETED!

Let it be known that at 10:10 pm, January 30th, Crystal completed her first first manuscript, entitled "In the Hall of the Mountain King," a literary fiction novel about an ex-Nazi doctor who flees to Buenos Aires after WWII to start a new life as a cab driver under an assumed identity.

She can't come to the computer right now because she's overwhelmed with excitement and yes, she realizes it's annoying to talk about herself in the third person, but feels she's earned it now that's she's finished an entire. bloody. manuscript. (!!!) (Finishing said manuscript also entitles her to use such British dialect as "bloody" in lieu of something more crass and unrefined. She is a lady, after all.)

It's true that the clouds didn't part and God didn't speak to her in the psychedelic trip she expected upon typing that final word. But she's still frolicking about in the snow right now, basically pulling these moves in a parka on the sidewalk to share her elation with passing traffic:



J has no comment.

Of course, she realizes that the easy part is behind her. Now the REAL work begins. John Irving once said that half of his life was an act of revision. She says let the revisions begin!

Keeping the Feast: Book review and giveaway

Although set in the lush countryside and antiquated cityscapes of Italy, where happily-ever-afters are are as common as cappuccinos, Paula Butturini's memoir Keeping the Feast is not a love story.

Instead it's a story about what happens after the honeymoon phase of a marriage, when tragedy strikes and wedding vows – to love and to cherish, till death do us part -- are put to the test. It's a story about how a wife copes with the metaphorical “death” of her husband after he falls into a maelstrom of clinical depression, and how instead of giving up and leaving him to flounder alone, she finds strength and sanity through food and the preparation of meals. It's a story about survival through the darkest moments in a marriage and, in the end, it's a story about emerging from the darkness into light, hand in hand with your loved one.

In this Mediterranean country, where food is seen as a birthright and hearty meals are a defining staple in daily life, Butturini falls in love with fellow journalist John Tagliabue while both are working as foreign correspondents in Rome. After a whirlwind marriage John soon gets wounded by gunfire while on a separate assignment in Romania and the ensuing surgeries and treatments send him into a spiral of depression so deep he becomes a living ghost, a shadow of his former self. In Keeping the Feast, Butturini chronicles the loneliness she feels when she thinks she's lost John permanently to the depression, her memories rooted in family and food from her childhood in New Jersey, and her process of overcoming adversity and finally healing through cooking and (as cheesy as it sounds) love.

Italy has always held a special place in my heart. The country was a favorite destination of my family's during our European trips; when I was older and in college I studied abroad in Florence. And when J and I planned our wedding I wanted to make the day extra memorable so we booked tickets for our closest family members, rented a villa and had a Tuscan wedding that I still smile about nearly three years later. I can see, firsthand, how Italy would be the perfect backdrop for healing an individual and a marriage. Though I felt the ending of the book fell a little flat, it's worth a read if you're a foodie who enjoys salivating over vivid descriptions of Italian settings and gourmet cuisine. And even if food isn't your thing, we've all come to that crossroads in a relationship when we ask ourselves whether sticking it out through the bad times is worth it.

In Keeping the Feast it was. All you need is hope and a little bruschetta.

I'm giving away one free copy of Keeping the Feast for anyone who's interested!

How to Enter:

1.) Only US and Canadian residents can enter. Sorry international amigos, maybe next time.

2.) This giveaway is only open to readers of Brunette on a Budget, so you must be a follower of my random musings in some capacity or another (feed subscriber, a follower in the right-hand column of my blog through Google FriendConnect, etc.)

3.) Leave a comment below.

4.) Contest ends in one week, Thursday, January 28 at 12pm EST.

Once I get all the entries I'll choose the winner at random using a number generator. Good luck!

Literary truths: Hemingway

"Call me Pappy."

“I write one page of masterpiece to ninety one pages of shit,” Hemingway confided to F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1934. “I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.”

Nanowrimo Update: Week 3

Well, I did it. 50,000 words in four three weeks. I guess the only way to sum up how I feel is ...

VICTORY IS MINE!!!!*

And now with that out of the way, let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, kiddies. While I may have technically won Nanowrimo, I'm still not finished with the book. It'll probably end more between 70k to 75k words, so I still have a bit of a ways to go, but nothing I couldn't whip out in the next week or two.

What I learned in Week 3:

• Mark Twain once said, "Adverbs are the tool of the lazy writer." It's the truth. I don't think all adverbs are the devil's work -- a good adverb has its place like a guilty pleasure reality show on TLC ("Say Yes to the Dress", anyone?) -- but many are redundant and often weaken what you're trying to say.
  

• I'm not the kind of writer -- well, not yet -- that does well listening to just any music when I'm typing. I envy those that can listen to disco while composing. Anything with words (at least for now) distracts me because I start singing along, reminiscing about what memories the tune dredges up, etc. (So Uncle Rico of me.) But silence can get tedious, so I've found an in-between. Big band from the '30s and '40s. I know what you're thinking but it's not just for your grandparents. My favorite iTunes channel at the moment is KCEA, and when I'm not listening to big band, then I'm listening to Bossa Nova cocktail lounge music from the '60s. Swingin'! My favorite station is Illinois Street Lounge. It's like iTunes' version of a good stiff Tanqueray martini, to be enjoyed at any time of day.

• Coffee is still your friend, but sometimes a glass of red does wonders.
  

• The closer you get to the finish line (aka 50,000 words), the lazier you become. Which is bad. Especially when you're ahead and know you've got some extra time. Keep at it, Grasshopper. The truth is there is no finish line.
  

* - Though I use these photos in jest I have nothing against Tom Cruise, even when he was going through his ... phase. I adore him, especially when he: flies fighter jets, sleeps with prostitutes who steal his parents' glass egg, gets tied up in a corrupt law firm, is an arrogant sports agent, or becomes a samurai. Love him.

Encouragement for the frustrated writer

Keep at it, wildcat. If you do (and you're lucky), you might some day give an interview like this:



It would be payment enough. Just make sure to write your novel in an "obsolete vernacular," wear an eccentric cowboy hat and silently stare off into space a lot when people are waiting for your response.

Writers like Cormac McCarthy Eli Cash never fail to warm the cockles of my heart.

Nanowrimo Update: Week 2

Hilarious.

My clip this week for Nanowrimo has slowed a bit compared with Week 1, but I'm still ahead of schedule by about 9,600 words.

What I learned in Week 2:

• If you're going to write at a coffee shop, make sure said coffee shop does not play ear-piercing, annoying music that miraculously even masks (gasp) the continual grind of coffee beans behind the barista counter. If I wanted to experiment writing at the clurb I would have just lugged my laptop to the nearest Coco Bongo and ordered a red bull vodka, thankyouverymuch. If you're like me and cannot tune out The Noise easily, perhaps it's best to remain hunched Gollum-like over your solitary desk at home, sporadically talking to yourself to fill the silence.

• That being said, red bull vodka coffee is still your friend.

• No matter how appealing those Golden Girls reruns sound, no matter how tired/bored/uninspired/drunk/arthritic you are -- keep writing! Was Rome built in a day? No. Was it built in 30? Quite possibly, and procrastination was definitely not one of the building blocks. I'm continuously amazed this month at how much I'm capable of writing daily, even on the off days where I feel like pulling my hair out, hurtling my laptop across the room in frustration, or just "taking a break" for an entire weekend watching old movies on TCM. Taking breaks (within reason, i.e., an hour or two) is permissible; giving up is not. Understanding this will set you free.

• Aside from accomplishing stellar daily word counts, also amazing is how much time you actually have during the day once your writing is finished. Procrastination, as accommodating as it feels in the moment, does nothing in the long term. The sooner I finish my self-imposed daily word count, the sooner I can click my laptop closed and go enjoy a glass of red wine with J, stress-free. No word count hanging over my head.
  

Word count breakdown by day:

Nov. 6 (Friday): 2,533
Nov. 7 (Saturday): 1,994
Nov. 8 (Sunday): 2,648
Nov. 9 (Monday): 3,122
Nov. 10 (Tuesday): 2,205
Nov. 11 (Wednesday): 2,993
Nov. 12 (Thursday): 3,219
Nov. 13 (Friday): Currently in progress

Nanowrimo Update: Week 1

Just as I suspected. If Billy S. could write a classic in one fortnight, imagine
the possibilities in 30...

Week 1 was a success. Though I missed the first day of writing because I was in transit from NYC back to DC, I made up for it in the following days and have been a writing fool ever since. I'm currently at 12,529 words, or 25% of the way there.

What I've learned in Week 1 of Nanowrimo:

1.) 50,000 words in 30 days is surprisingly less painful than I thought it would be. According to the Nano Gods we're supposed to write 1,667 words per day to be on track. The idea of it seemed daunting, and I'll admit that I was quite intimidated in the final weeks of October in anticipation for the race to begin. I didn't know what to expect as this was my first time. Would I have time to blog at all? Bathe? Read? Keep up with the Kardashians? Usually I write at my own pace and I don't -- by any means -- crank out pages like a robot unless I've been hit by my muse (who, by the way, bears a striking resemblance to Olivia Newton John in Xanadu). But I knew that for the month of November I'd have to turn into a writing machine. I would eat words for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Why? Because I need to win. It's in my blood and I won't accept anything less. (A word of caution: You do not want to play dodgeball with me.)

2.) Ok, so 50,000 words will be as easy as cherry pie. (Watch, now I've jinxed myself.) Word count aside, the hardest part for me is going to be finishing my story, making sure it's got a beginning, middle and end by November 30th and not just a beginning and middle in 50k. I would still be dubbed a "winner" by the Nano folk, but to me that's not winning -- I would be left with a half-finished 1st draft. According to agents a 50,000 word manuscript isn't even a novel, it's more a novella and I've got a sneaking feeling that to wrap up my story it's going to take more than 50k word anyway. Hence why I'm writing as if my keyboard is a bed of hot coals. Must keep moving phalanges!

3.) Coffee is your friend.

4.) An outline is the golden ticket. I don't know how people finish a somewhat cohesive 50,000-word first draft in one month without having an outline. Though I'm past 200 pages on my first book, I can now see why it's been a lot more slow-going than my Nano manuscript. I didn't really outline that first book, and it's costing me. Not to say that it's crap, but it makes it harder to focus, stay on track and crank out pages when you're meandering through your storyline, feeling out which direction to go. With my Nano book I had a 10-page outline I'd worked on in October in anticipation of "staying focused." This outline is my Godsend. Could I write a Nano book without one? Yes, but it would be more scattered and all over the place and make it easier to take frequent breaks to catch up on Project Runway or bake cookies or churn my own butter or do anything other than work on my story.

Word count breakdown by day:

Nov. 1 (Sunday): 0
Nov. 2 (Monday): 3,778
Nov. 3 (Tuesday): 3,407
Nov. 4 (Wednesday): 2,473
Nov. 5 (Thursday): 2,871
Nov. 6 (Friday): Currently in progress

WIP Update

Update: I'm about 2/3 of the way finished with my book. *raises power fist in camaraderie-like gesture to fighter jet gliding by as I speed down tarmac on motorcycle with "Danger Zone" playing in background.* I'm temporarily calling it Untitled -- snazzy, no? -- as I've been unimpressed with the titles I've thought of so far (and probably will be till I'm completely finished and can study it as a whole). Nevertheless Untitled is going well.

When I talk to friends and family on the phone, they inevitably ask me how many pages I've written so far. An answer to that is as easy as cherry pie. Second inevitable question is "how long will it be?" I wish I knew. Projected word count eludes me like a George Clooney con Vespa sighting in Como. (Apparently he vacations there or some tripe like that, but whenever I'm there I see no such evidence. Sigh.)

I originally thought my book would be about 65k words. Once I started writing I realized that projection was ludicrously inadequate, so I upped it to 70k, then 75k, and now I'm projecting 85,000 words total ... but that'll likely go up to 95k to 100k. Which is fine. From what I've found an official novel is between 60,000 and 100,000 words.

I know that it's easy to get lost in word counts and page numbers and at this stage these things aren't so important, but for me it's the only way to track my progress and keep good pace. I find pacing is key. Here's why:

When I was forced to take freshman PE in high school, running track was my least favorite activity. (All I wanted was to stroll languidly with my girlfriends and discuss important issues like boys and what where we were going to sit for lunch. "Rachel saw Cody kissing Summer next to the art room lockers. Pass it on." Things of that nature.) I wasn't nor will I ever be a runner, but back then I was more of an idealist than I am today. This would result in me sprinting the first lap like a sprightly racehorse, then staggering through the last three laps as I hyperventilated and finally lurched toward that Godforsaken finish line. I didn't want that to happen as I worked on my book. Neither did I want to casually amble the track four times, absentmindedly eating CornNuts and showing my friends how to moonwalk on the gravel, clocking in a 25-minute mile in the end. (I earned no "A" for effort on those particular days.) Let's just say I've come to recognize that pacing is important.

Where I currently stand: 65,000 words written, about 200 pages complete. When I first began writing Untitled I thought something insanely groovy would happen when I finally hit page 200. Like maybe I'd defy the laws of quantum physics and be hurled into an alternate universe where God would speak to me without the use of any psychotropic substances ... orrrr that I would simply hit 200 pages. J teases me lately with "Has God spoken to you yet?" No, no he hasn't, but the farther I get along in my manuscript the more enlightened I become. Why? Because, as Hemingway once said, "The first draft of anything is shit." (FYI: Hemingway also said "Write drunk; edit sober." Something to consider...)

Writing is the easy part, it's in the editing when the real work begins. True enlightenment will come when I press print, get my red pen "Jorge" (pronounced "Hor-hay") ready and start blasting out whole sections, rewriting chapters and fleshing out the vague ... and then have those around me critique it all. I'm happy at how far I've come (I've written a lot in my life but never this many words in one consecutive project) and it feels good to have an actual workable manuscript nearing completion, but the yellow brick road that lays ahead is fraught with months of editing that I can't wait to undertake. John Irving once said that "Half my life is an act of revision." I think the saucy minx had a point.

Random thought

"A great social success is a pretty girl who plays her cards as carefully as if she were plain."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald

The thin line between work and play

What I look like after a sleepless night. Kidding ... kind of [Source]

Lately I haven't been able to fall asleep at a normal time. And by "normal" I mean somewhere in the range of 11pm to 2am. I've always been a night owl -- I was raised without a bedtime and got to stay up late watching Jay Leno with my parents as a child -- but even with my amnesiac tendencies, I still fell asleep by 1 or 2am. Lately it's been more like 3 to 4am, and that's with waking up before 9am almost every morning.

I have a slight suspicion (that both thrills and scares me) about why I haven't been able to sleep "properly": My book is taking over my life. And now for the million dollar question: Is that really such a bad thing? Or am I slowly going to drive myself crazy and die some tragic death, anonymous and unpublished? Come to think of it -- wasn't that the inspiration for Jack Torrance's character in Stephen King's "The Shining"? Eeep.

I know I'm somewhat obsessive when it comes to hobbies and work and ...well, anything really. I obsessed about certain boys in high school (I cringe when I think back to writing "I heart boys" in blue nail polish on my school desk), certain rock bands in college (thank God I'm not a tattoo kind of girl - David Bowie's mug has better places to be than my upper back), and of course certain foods (watermelon, this one's for you).

It was -- and still is -- all or nothing when it comes to my likes and dislikes. I either love it or I hate it, adore you or despise you, without much wiggle room in between. This works great for some things, but I've known for a while that the world is not black and white, that we actually live in quite a gray sphere. So by that rational, it may be fun to be obsessive about TV shows and thin white rock stars from Britain, but it can't be healthy for the "real things" in life, say your job, can it? I believe the first step in recognizing you have a problem is admitting it, but I've never thought of it as a problem until now, when I quit my boring job and made a hobby I was obsessed with -- writing -- into my full-time career. There's no more "I can leave this at the office" or "I'll pick this up where I left off tomorrow morning", as I settle in to catch up on my Travel Channel shows.

No, not even Anthony Bourdain standing next to a glittering Eiffel Tower can distract my thoughts, which are always. thinking. about. my book. And if I'm not thinking about my characters or plot or setting or some certain passage, then I'm thinking about other novel ideas and short fiction pieces that would be so fun to write, so I jot down the ideas in my moleskin to remember them, or start braiding tendrils of story here and there but not for long because I can't wait to get back to finishing the first draft of my book manuscript, and Whew! This episode is already rolling credits? Where was I, and how did I miss everything Paris had to offer?

The same goes for when I'm having dinner with my husband (thankfully he doesn't mind listening to me banter on and on about my story arc), or when I'm listening to the Eagles in the car, or taking a shower, or shopping. You get the picture. I've created a monster that follows me around incessantly, begging for attention like my obese cat when she's craving her Iams.

The definitive line between work and play has been blurred. Writing, which was my "play" before, is now my work and therefore there is nothing else. It follows me into everything else I undertake. While I don't think it's a bad thing, I may need to set up a few boundaries before I become a full-fledged insomniac.

Take last night for example: I could only badger my husband to stay up with me for so long. At a little past 1am he started getting cranky, complaining for me to "leave him alone" because he "needed to wake up early". "So?" I yelled back, slathering moisturizer on my face. "I wake up early too. That's no excuse to go to bed right now." Then he insisted on griping that he was exhausted, and by the time I explained to him that he could "sleep all he wants when he's dead", he had already passed out. Sigh.

So I was left tossing and turning alone next to a slumbering husband, and naturally began thinking up a downright cool story idea that I began narrating to myself in my head. At one point I almost got out of bed to jot down my exact language -- I was that impressed, which doesn't come often for someone who is so self-critical about her craft -- but I couldn't muster the strength. I began to fall asleep ... by telling myself a story. This morning I wrote down as much as I could remember, but the good parts are forever banished to the land of shut eye.

So, how do you all do it? Not just the writers, but everyone? How do you find your balance?

I'm still figuring that one out, but for now I'll have another drink and reflect ...

You know you're in Virginia when...

When I heard David Sedaris would be giving a book reading at the Borders a few miles from my apartment, I was ecstatic. Some people get their kicks taking body shots in dive bars on Friday nights; I pant at the thought of seeing a favorite writer in the flesh. And who better than Sedaris?

I had seen him once before in 2003 when I was in college and he stopped in Santa Barbara to give a reading and signing in the theater on our campus. The stories he chose made the audience roar with laughter, and though myriad signs were posted demanding there be "No Photography" in the darkened theater, I was "that girl" in the 8th row who forgot to turn the flash off when I snapped my picture. (Yes, I was a rebel in my heyday.)

After the reading I got in line to meet him. I'd been practicing in the bathroom mirror what I'd say when I was face-to-face with this literary master. I thought perhaps we'd briefly discuss the merits of the New Yorker, or his research tactics for his stories. Instead my mind went blank when I approached his table. "I'm, uh, like, your biggest fan," I managed to stutter, turning bright red at my idiotic statement. He laughed, though, and told me he'd be more than happy to sign my books. He asked my name, and after telling him "Crystal", he signed my first book with "Ha ha, You have a slutty name". I giggled like a school girl. The man can seriously do no wrong. Then he asked what I wanted to do with my life, and I told him I wanted to write books. So he signed my second book with "Crystal, I look forward to reading YOUR book. ~ Dave."

I know, it's kismet, right? There's a picture of me in the throes of ecstasy afterward outside of the theater, holding the two books and looking like I just won the lottery. Flash forward to last Friday, and you can see why I was so amped to see him again 5 years later, especially with where I was in my writing career. Love couldn't come as he needed to work on a project, so I went by myself, bringing my copy of his latest book to get signed. I was prepared for a thrilling night where much hilarity would ensue. Well, let's just say the night fell somewhat short of my expectations.

I showed up an hour early to try and get a seat, but by the time I arrived there were none left. I quickly found myself standing in a sea of mustached women with frizzy hair and names like "Mary-Kelly". Most of them, tired of standing for more than 5 minutes though they could have used the workout, sat cross-legged around me on the thin industrial carpeting, as if waiting to see the second-coming of Lilith Fair. One woman on the floor in front of me even had the audacity to wear these in public:
Oh she seemed quite proud of herself that she was sporting the latest in amphibious footwear while those around her still wore their faded Tevas.

Because the event took place on the second level of the Borders, it began getting hot and muggy in the crowd of at least 100, crammed between Yogi Berra coffeetable books and camping manuals. I began to grow irritated with the group I had chosen to spend my Friday night with. Not only did they smell like BO and dress like extras on Roseanne (I can forgive both these points), they had bad, loud attitudes. I could hear them snapping at one another about cutters in line and views being obstructed from their pow-wow on the floor. They nitpicked about this or that, only cordial with those they came with. I tried to make friendly conversation with a couple sitting near me but was treated like I had landed from another planet. Unnecessary hostility toward strangers never fails to make my blood boil. They were so different from the crowd I was a part of when I first saw Sedaris. The longer I stood there, the more annoyed I got. They reeked of everything I despised about Virginia but never fully realized until that night.

When I lived in California and used to imagine people from Virginia, I would think of Elizabeth Taylor in "Giant" -- all class and kindness, with an interest in social politics and penchant for horseback riding. That misconception quickly dissipated upon my arrival in the state with my various run-ins over parking spaces and spots in line at my local grocery store, and further eroded at the Sedaris reading last Friday. Prior to Sedaris' entrance, I was treated to a buffet of high-class manners, fashion and etiquette by Virginia's finest.

Then I began to wonder...what if it's not Virginia at all? What if these people are just his fanbase? That they're like this all across the country and it was a mere coincidence they happened to be different that night in 2003? Then a pang of fear shot through me. Was I just another one of them, convoluted in my notions that I was different? This last thought struck me after a girl/woman with thick glasses and offensive bushy eyebrows begging to be plucked kept turning around and sneering at me in capris made from what looked like floral motel curtains.

You know the saying "You are what you eat"? Well I also think you are what you read. But I came to the conclusion right then and there that though I'm a "Sedaris fan" (whatever that may be), I'm not a.) pretentious, b.) emo, c.) impolite, or d.) dowdy. In fact, I was so turned off I left right after the reading without getting my book signed.

Yes, I was sad about the whole affair until I started my car and put my foot to the pedal. Suddenly aware that I wasn't the one wearing the ridiculous "FiveFinger" footwear, I drove off, happy again.

Some (borrowed) advice for writers

Yes, I realize Don Draper has nothing to do with this post, but -- like me -- he's taking mental notes (and really, any excuse to allude to Mad Men is a good one).

One of the literary agents I follow on Twitter recently posted a link to an old 2006 blog post by Seth Godin, a bestselling author, entrepreneur and self-professed "agent of change." The agent on Twitter highlighted Godin's article as having the best advice for aspiring writers, so naturally I clicked over. Mind you, I've read many authoritative "this is what you need to do" lists on writing and getting published ... and most of them are BS, marketed toward getting me to buy some guide or book on the practice (God, I hate that, but such is the way in any industry I suppose). Godin's points, though, are completely valid and he hammers home the fact that getting published and getting printed are two very different things. One is a business and the other, well, anyone can do!

I just have to keep reminding myself of his most pertinent points:

1. Lower your expectations. The happiest authors are the ones that don't expect much.
2. The best time to start promoting your book is three years before it comes out. Three years to build a reputation, build a permission asset, build a blog, build a following, build credibility and build the connections you'll need later.
3. Pay for an eidtor editor. Not just to fix the typos, but to actually make your ramblings into something that people will choose to read.
4. Don't try to sell your book to everyone. First, consider this: " 58% of the US adult population never reads another book after high school." Then, consider the fact that among people even willing to buy a book, yours is just a tiny little needle in a very big haystack. Far better to obsess about a little subset of the market--that subset that you have permission to talk with, that subset where you have credibility, and most important, that subset where people just can't live without your book.
5. Resist with all your might the temptation to hire a publicist to get you on Oprah. First, you won't get on Oprah. Second, it's expensive.
6. Think really hard before you spend a year trying to please one person in New York to get your book published by a 'real' publisher. You give up a lot of time. You give up a lot of the upside. You give up control over what your book reads like and feels like and how it's promoted. Of course, a contract from Knopf and a seat on Jon Stewart's couch are great things, but so is being the Queen of England. That doesn't mean it's going to happen to you. Far more likely is that you discover how to efficiently publish (either electronically or using Print-On-Demand or a small-run press) a brilliant book that spreads like wildfire among a select group of people.
7. Your cover matters. Way more than you think. If it didn't, you wouldn't need a book... you could just email people the text.
8. If you've got the patience, bookstore signings and talking to book clubs by phone are the two lowest-paid but most guaranteed to work methods you have for promoting a really really good book. If you do it 200 times a year, it will pay.
9. Publishing a book is not the same as printing a book. Publishing is about marketing and sales and distribution and risk. If you don't want to be in that business, don't! Printing a book is trivially easy. Don't let anyone tell you it's not. You'll find plenty of printers who can match the look and feel of the bestselling book of your choice for just a few dollars a copy. That's not the hard part.
10. Bookstores, in general, are run by absolutely terrific people. Bookstores, in general, are really lousy businesses. They are often where books go to die. While some readers will discover your book in a store, it's way more likely they will discover the book before they get to the store, and the store is just there hoping to have the right book for the right person at the time she wants it. If the match isn't made, no sale.
11. Writing a book is a tremendous experience. It pays off intellectually. It clarifies your thinking. It builds credibility. It is a living engine of marketing and idea spreading, working every day to deliver your message with authority. You should write one.