Contrary
to stereotypical belief, readings can be fun. The First Fiction
tour has roots in an indie bookstore in Arizona a couple of years
ago, when the owner took it upon herself to organize a reading series
for debut novelists. The tour has since become national and is the
result of collaboration between publishers to win attention for
promising first books. They have it at bars, which apparently helps.
But don’t go for the pints alone. These four very different
writers have some intriguing things to say.
Journalist
Marya Hornbacher attracted much attention with her first book, Wasted:
A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia (Random House, 1999). The Center
of Winter (Harper Collins), her first novel, tells the story of
a troubled family in Minnesota. After the suicide of her husband,
Claire Schiller and her children try to recover. Here is a description
of the man, told from the point of view of Katie, the youngest child:
My father would sit on the back porch watching her, sitting the
way men here sit: leaned back, feet planted far apart, arms on the
arms of the chair, a beer in his right hand. The beer would be sweating.
Serpent Girl
(Villard) opens with a scene reminiscent of a certain famous book
by a certain recently deceased “gonzo” writer. Matthew
Carnahan’s protagonist, a young carnival worker named Bailey
Quinn, comes to in the desert after being passed out for who knows
how long. There is peyote involved, and a helpful drawing of a peyote
button graces the text. In fact, a list of the drawings provided
should give you a clear idea of the novel’s mood: thong, road
flare, Schopenhauer. The following is one of the many highly educational
passages about circus life:
Clowns, in
the circus caste system, are a separate entity from crew and performers.
Clowns tend to stay in their own clique, often traveling between
a few different circuses, or taking it solo and basking in malls.
It was a journeyman skill I could learn and take anywhere, although
I found it a little pathetic, putting on a bunch of pancake makeup
and behaving like an asshole. But the pay was double props and rigging,
and really, how hard could it be?
The clowns
at Maximus were a strange lot, drab and unremarkable without their
makeup, and even in their makeup—their happy, smiley clowny
makeup—they could communicate a level of hostility I had rarely
encountered. They were known to the crew as the Fuck-You Clowns.
Responsible
Men (Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill), by Edward Schwartzschild,
tells the story of Max, a broken-down con man trying for some semblance
of youth through affairs and new deals in Key West. The bar mitzvah
of his son, Nathan, calls him back to Philadelphia, where his father
and uncle, two cantankerous old salesmen, live together, and his
ex-wife and her new, rather hilariously loathesome, fiancée
are waiting to unwittingly torment him. Max’s Last Big Score
drives the plot, but it’s the family and ex-family that make
it interesting. This is a much-conversation between Max and his
ex-wife “You
should take Nathan with you,” Max said. “I’m sure
he’d love some time on the islands”
“Not
possible,” she said. “Besides, your father would be
upset, even if you wouldn’t. And we’ll be very busy
over there. It’s not a pleasure trip, you know. Well, not
entirely. Hiram’s going to learn more about Japanese landscape
science, and we’ll both be taking intensive Japanese classes.”
“It all
sounds wonderful,” Max said. “The rewards of prosperity,
long overdue.”
“And
what are your big plans?”
The two young
female characters in The Effects of Light (Warner Books) have a
complex relationship with a woman who photographs them. Sisters
Myla and Pru model for Ruth, a middle-aged woman who takes the sort
of photos of nude children and adolescents that make Sally Mann,
Jock Sturges and other artists whose work tests the boundaries between
innocence and experience so controversial. Author Miranda Beverly-Whittemore
was a photographer’s model herself and knows of what she speaks:
She remembered witnessing this quality in Ruth too, in the moment
just before Ruth would crouch behind the camera, gather the dark-cloth
to her shoulders. Her eyes would look different. She’d use
words, but they weren’t conversation, they were words from
another part of her body, words to service her eyes. “Shift
left. Eyes her. Blink. Now.” It had seemed such an easy way
to be, such a comfortable solution. Myla wondered if she’d
lost all capacity to practice such grace. A2P
First Fiction, Tuesday, April 5, at 7:00 p.m. at Arbor Brewing Company,
114 E. Washington.
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