The Confession

Lest I be accused of not having my blog be sufficiently literary -- and, really, I do love my horror movies -- I'm taking part in a game of Consequences, where a series of writers writes 250 words, set in an abandoned landscape, each using the last line of the previous writer.

So far:

1. Sam J. Miller

2. Jade Park

3. Jane Voodikon

4. Lisa Silverman

5. Anna Shapiro

6. Mark Krotov

7. Wah Ming Chang

8. Alex Chee

And now me. A little tardy.

Okay, a lot tardy.

But still...

***

He gripped her face in his hands, leaned in for the kiss. Quickly, before the other guards saw. Her eyes were blind with terror, but he had recognized her the moment she was brought here, in shackles. As children, they had once fished for catfish in Tonle Sap Lake, tying crickets to the end of long branches to lure the fish to the surface.

And now, she was a seditionist, a traitor. Who had implicated her, he didn’t know, but he had heard husbands implicate their wives, mothers denounce their sons. The people being questioned called out names of the half-remembered, of the already dead, of the loved and hated and feared. And then, maybe a month later, they were led to the room where the executioner waited with a heavy pickaxe in his hand, because bullets were scarce.

Strange to think that this had once been a school, that students had once strolled across the tan-and-white tiled halls. Now, instead of students sitting in long, orderly rows, there were the prisoners, sleeping head to foot, shackled to a long iron bar.

Now, it was her turn to confess. Her life lay on the sheet of paper before her, starting with her birth. It would take another day, at least, to reach her arrest. She did not speak as he held her face, and did not react as he placed a thumb-sized lump of rice in her mouth. It was a small mercy, a cold mercy, but a mercy nonetheless.

***

Next up:

10. Lucas Green: porousborders.wordpress.com

11. Jedediah Berry: (manualofdetection.com): http://crshd.tumblr.com/

New Potential Boyfriend: Ira Silverberg

Pity Ira Silverberg. He may be an incredibly powerful literary agent, but he's had a rough streak of authors. Last year, there was that whole JT Leroy incident. And now, there's the Ishmael Beah scandal. Isn't anyone who he says he is? Given the explosion of memoirs-that-really-weren't (James Frey, Margaret Jones) and given the numerous self-effacting interviews that Silverberg has had to give, won't someone cut the poor guy some slack?

Yes, I say, yes! I will! Setting aside his knack for representing powerhouse queer authors (Kathy Acker, Dennis Cooper, Adam Haslett), he's quite fetching. He looks determined, forthright; he continues to champion Ishmael Beah's veracity even though the evidence to the contrary seems quite convincing.

A joint Ira Silverberg venture isn't necessarily just about advancing my literary career; it's about fulfilling his life on an entirely different level. No longer would he have to fear of some concocted identity: why, I've been right here all along, making toast and buttering your muffins. Good morning! And the possibility that he'll be burned by another concocted memoir? Forget it; I'm fiction all the way. (At least until I get around to my memoir. But even then it'll be 100% true. And mostly verifiable.)

I urge Mr. Silverberg to take me on as a client at his earliest possible convenience. It's in his best interest, really, considering all the cheats and frauds littering the marketplace. In fact, it may be his only safe bet.

Possible positive boyfriend aspects: Shameless literary hucksterism. I'll no longer have to send out stories; Ira will do it, and the New Yorker will clamor to rush me into print. "Alice Munro who?" they'll say.

Possible negative boyfriend aspects: If I'm not mistaken, I believe his current partner works for the New York Times, in which case, Michiko Kakutani might come gunning for me.

Reading: Chip Kidd

Valentine's Day.

Is there anything more romantic than going to see a potential new boyfriend? Yes, I suppose, if said boyfriend lives up to your expectations. Chip Kidd (about whom I've rhapsodized in a previous post) visited the Library in support of his new novel, The Learners. But the audience -- young, hip -- most likely know Kidd for his comic and graphic design work. Give the man his due.

Kidd didn't give a traditional reading; instead, he opted for a PowerPoint presentation: humorous, erudite, and filled with both his successes and failures. So while displaying some of his upcoming book covers (Oliver Sacks, Augusten Buroughs), he also ran through slides of jacket designs that didn't make the cut (Fangland, early attempts at Cormac McCarthy's The Road). The latter was accompanied by a wicked Binky Urban impersonation, which only made me want to be her client even more. Not because she's a powerhouse. Because she also represents Kidd himself.

When Kidd reached to "reading" part of the presentation, his grand, theatrical style carried over: he didn't just read dialogue, he embodied the characters, especially the Norma Desmond-like Himillsy Dodd. And while this wasn't as enthralling as his impersonation of, say, Peter Lorre singing "Sugar Walls," Helen Hayes singing "Nasty," or a newborn hamster performing Hamlet, I can imagine him concocting these characters by becoming them first, testing out their voices outloud, and transcribing what comes out of his mouth.

I admit: I was feeling giddy throughout, grinning maniacally, staring at his shoes (brown, with an slash of orange on the side) and admiring his sartorial sense (vintage tweed, shirt collar hanging outside the lapels). He has much more upper-body bulk than I imagined -- his Marion Ettlinger portrait in Author Photo shows a much more trim Kidd (he laughed obligingly when I called it his "beefcake photo"; he compared himself to Stanley Kowalski). Whatever the case, he mentioned how his glasses were custom-made in London, reflecting his love of Bauhaus, and if that wasn't enough to get me swooning, I'm probably dead inside.

Not to mention Kidd is the first author I've met who signs the page edges.

Reading: A.L. Kennedy & Roddy Doyle

When you have two readers going up at one time, it's best to have contrast. And, at first glance, this wouldn't be it. You have two prize-winning authors from the British colonies (or post-British colonies, if you prefer; Scotland and Ireland, respectively), and two authors with a voluminous body of work between them. Roddy Doyle is probably better known, of course, from The Committments , of novel and film fame, and the Booker-winning Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha. But, for my money, it's A.L. Kennedy who comes out all bangers and mash.

Both authors offered humorous readings, but their delivery was a contrast in style. Kennedy, while subdued, was filled with droll, deadpan humor, much of it rolling just under your consciousness. Her work, as well, has more subtlety about it, the humor tempered by darkness. Doyle, on the other hand, brings his voice to the forefront, which suits his own work: brash, brassy, and hilariously profane. And while both authors captured dialogue nimbly -- indeed, both authors read dialogue heavy sections from their current works (Day and The Deportees, respectively) -- Kennedy captures the hesitations, the pauses and hiccups, that Doyle's head-on language has no time for.

Part of it may be the formal structure of Doyle's work: he admitted that he wrote "Guess Who's Coming For Dinner," the story from which he read, in 800-word chunks which were published serially. Doyle's voice floored the gas from go and rarely let up. And while the story itself -- an Irish retelling of the Sidney Poitier movie of the same name -- Kennedy's quiet, intense examination of a damaged RAF pilot sticks more in my consciousness. Still, you can't blame him for being popular; Doyle's line at the signing table drew much more interest than Kennedy's. It reminded me of the Edward Jones/Edwidge Danticat/Zakes Mda reading last fall. Danticat's fans lined up around the Free Library, while Jones and Mda had plenty of time to twiddle their thumbs.

Sure, I'd go out for drinks with Doyle, but I'll talk mostly to the funny Scottish lady.

New Potential Boyfriend: Chip Kidd

Buddhists say that desire is the root of all suffering. To that, I would add that these roots grow long and deep. Witness: I want to publish a book. I want to publish a book with Knopf. I want to publish a book with Knopf so that Chip Kidd can design the book jacket. I want to publish a book with Knopf so that Chip Kidd can design the book jacket whereupon we two will fall madly in love and live in a spacious New York City apartment, living off my royalties alone.

Alas, until then... suffering.

Much in the way that Vaughan Oliver changed album covers, Chip Kidd revolutionized book jackets. Think Jurassic Park. Think The Secret History. I rarely buy art books, but each time I open his Book One: 1986-2006, I'm dazzled by the way he juxtaposes image (both found and created), text and color to create a new narrative. It's one thing to read a book and enjoy the beautiful prose (or, conversely, to have the pleasure of throwing it across the room in disgust), but to have the physical object match the interior content -- isn't this what sublimity is all about?

So: author photo taken by Marion Ettlinger (who took the picture of Chip above), book lovingly wrapped around a Chip Kidd design -- who needs nirvana when you've obtained perfection?

Possible positive boyfriend aspects: Since Kidd is also a comic book otaku, I could finally catch up on 10+ years' worth of mind-dizzying storylines in the X-Men (since I stopped buying comic books). Ancillary benefits include: awesome business cards, wowie-zowie greeting cards for Christmas, and an endless supply of free books and ARCs from Knopf. Not to mention: Kidd is himself an author. I wouldn't have to go past my own door to be able to seethe in literary jealousy.

Possible negative boyfriend aspects: I'm pretty sure his current boyfriend, poet J. D. McClatchey, could beat the tar out of me.