The Better Part of Valor

What do you call 8,000 authors in a room? AWP, of course. The conference you love to hate just ended. More news, with photos and gossip soon.

Well, it’s official. I’m moving to Florence, Italy for a few months. I got a call from someone I know who is the head of an international  school in Florence asking would I fill in for a departing middle school history teacher. I’ll be there from mid-Feb to July. Come and visit

I’m just tired a lot. I needed 20 hours of wires to tell me that?

Yup, I finally did it. After years of insomnia and daytime sleepiness I have finally booked myself into the sleep clinic, from where I write today (December 12, 2008. I’m a little slow on the postings).

The pulmonary and sleep specialist I consulted offer three theories for my sleep troubles:

I may be a hypersomniac. If the average need for human sleep is 8 hours, and people like Bill Clinton and Sarah Tombaugh only need 5, someone is getting 11 hours a night to balance them out.

I may have a sleep apnea. Though I do not snore (I insist that I breathe heavily), there might be an airway obstruction that prevents me from getting good quality sleep.

I may have mild narcolepsy.

As ridiculous as the last option sounds, narcolepsy is not like we learned in middle school science (remember the narcoleptic dogs?). It doesn’t cause you to fall over mid-sentence.

In any event, I arrived last night at around 9pm. I was shown to my room, where I watched television for a good hour. The room is something like a cross between a Howard Johnson and a hospital room. I’m told it’s raining outside now, but I have no window to back up that information. Inside there’s a television, a bed, a camera trained at the bed, and a bunch of electronic equipment.

Electrodes were placed on my face, head, chest and legs to measure brainwaves and limb movement, as well as any changes in heartbeat (indicating an apnea). Also, a pulse oxometer was placed on my finger. And finally, they put small nodes in my nostrils to measure breath and record sounds.

This was not terribly comfortable. The biggest problem was the fact that all these electrodes were attached to a box, so I was unable to roll over. They kept falling out in my sleep, and the technician came in several times to reattach the wires, finally replacing them.

He woke me at 6. I was not happy. Then I had to fill out a questionnaire—how much did I think I slept, how long did I think it took me to fall asleep, how many times did I wake up during the night?

I stayed awake for an hour and a half (I watched the Today Show) while the majority of the wires were removed. Then they turned out the lights with the command: “Go to sleep,” delivered via loudspeaker into the room.

So I did. I was rudely awakened 20 minutes later. Then I did some work. And napped again for 20 minutes. I didn’t think I’d fallen asleep, but apparently I did. Then I did it again. And again. Five times. I was napteased. I had the napping equivalent of blue balls.

Staying with my brother and his fiance in Berkeley was a great pleasure. Had some wonderful blasts from the past at my readings at Booksmith and Dog Eared- no embarrassing attendance levels. Took a break from reading to attend Lorri Elder’s beautiful wedding. Then down to LA to spend a day on the beach (completely alone. Apparently my idea of beach weather is not a Los Angelean idea of beach weather.) A great book party organized by Stacy Bierlein, a fun trip to Palm Desert, where, thanks to Tod Goldberg, an attentive crowd awaited. Back to Los Angeles, where I finally had the experience every writer dreads: a reading where no one shows up.

That’s not completely true. Two friends showed up, but they both had to leave before the scheduled reading time. There were mitigating circumstances: it was a Friday night. It was Los Angeles, and there had been Prop 8 protests clogging the streets. I was, frankly, relieved. I signed stock and went to dinner.

In the Los Angeles airport I experienced a pang of homesickness and nearly boarded a plane for Newark. But I held firm and traveled to Portland for the Wordstock Festival. I first read with Richard Lange, the imminently talented short story writer. Unfortunately, we were reading at the same time as Alison Bechdel, who siphoned off all the dykes to watch out for. I also participated in a panel with Russell Perreault on marketing.

I got to spend time in a swanky hotel, and also with Katie Feiertag, who apparently goes by Kate now that she’s no longer 7 years old.

Then to Seattle, where Leah Jacobs babysat me along with her gorgeous daughter Simona. Afterwards, I spent the night at Jen Graves and Patrick’s house (adorable… hot tub in the backyard. I highly recommend it!).

Finally, I boarded a plane for New York City. Lord, it’s good to be home. I really needed new clothes.

When we last left our heroine she was traveling to Iowa City. I arrived in the early afternoon and visited the swanky new workshop digs. Dey House got a makeover. Connie Brothers took me to dinner with her hubby, Charlie D’Ambrosio, Chris Offut and wife and Jim MacPherson at the Motley Cow. Confusing: old restaurant, new location. That sums up my trip there– a combination of nostalgia and confusion. I survived the radio interview with only minor missteps– apparently if I weren’t a writer I’d be an electrician.
I spent the night at Robyn Schiff and Nick Twemlow’s house and could not have found nicer hosts. Their house is amazing– sun room, garden, attic, guest room. Robyn described it as a bookcase surrounded by a house– a writer’s dream.
Back to Chicago, where I read at the Sunday Salon. Next stop: west coast.

So it’s been awhile since I’ve written you, faithful blog readers. Perhaps you’ve despaired that I would never return to Cyberland. But fear not! I’m back.
So I’ve had a crazy month: readings, more readings, driving, more driving, flying, more flying and more readings. It’s been good to be home, though now I have a cold compounded by thousands of miles of travel and hundreds of different regional strains of germs.
My first leg took me to the midwest. I spent the night in New Jersey to get a jump on traffic and early morning Pennsylvania in October was breathaking (insert poetic descriptions of leaves and gorges and stuff here). I arrived in Michigan in time for my friends’ children’s soccer practice. The next day I went to purchase a straightening iron and get my broken headlight fixed. Then I took a nap. Meanwhile, my host (a obstetrician/surgeon) performed inter-uterine surgery on a 22 week old fetus, but I think those things are comparable, don’t you?
I spoke to the residential college at University of Michigan (my parents’ alma mater) along with my fantastic publisher, Dan Wickett, who promised, in front of 40 witnesses to foot the bill of the entire book tour (not really). My reading at Shaman Drum was very well attended, and I got to meet Mike Cy….ski who is Dzanc’s new author. Good on him!
I made it to Chicago in time for my hands-down best event, my book party, thrown by my publisher, OV Books and my mother. Mom pulled out all the stops: she called high school friends, college friends, playgroup friends she hadn’t seen in years to come and buy books. We sold 70. That’s a good number. And I ate a lot of cheese and drank so much that I only read for 90 seconds.
Then it was off to the Wisconsin Book Festival, where I had the pleasure of reading with Daphne Beal and Alistair McCartney. I spent the rest of the day with Daphne and her husband Sean, and then went to dinner with Tom Perotta and Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum (how’s that for literary name dropping?). Spent the cocktail hour helping Tom fend off attacking sycophants. (Lady: “I wrote a book about the great lakes.” Tom: “That’s great. Which one’s the biggest.” Lady: “You know, I’m not sure.”). Then I spent the night at Mom’s friend’s Gail’s house, which may be the most beautiful and exquisitely designed house I have ever seen. And she has cute dogs.
Next post: Iowa City, the triumphant return!

So I had the first reading from my book tour, and it wasn’t a disaster. In fact, it went really well. The FIXX reading series, run by the amazing Amy Guth (which is pronounced “Gooth” btw). There was a nice crowd of people I know, and a couple of people who know the other readers, talented poets Jill Alexander Essbaum and Reb Livingston. It’s nice to be sandwiched between poets. Reminds me of grad school. And, yes, I made the same joke at the reading and no one laughed there either.

Amy said she could see me occasionally gripping my book with my index finger and then wincing in pain. I might not be able to blame that on the finger. I went through waves of what my friend Chelsea would call “reality orientation.” I’d forget that I was reading to an audience and concentrate on the book. Then I would remember the audience and try to force myself to slow down, sounding, no doubt, like the literary equivalent of the new driver, lead-footed and then slamming on the breaks.
In any event, the radio show sounded pretty good– I had “NPR voice.” I occurs to me that I should record my outgoing message in a radio studio. I no longer sounded like a 12 year old from Skokie, but an actual adult. Most of what I said almost made sense. You can listen here.

Next up, an interview with Rob Duffer for Time Out Chicago. Lord only knows what I said. I was intoxicated with coffee at the time, though, so I can’t really be responsible for my quotes.

So I’m having some issues with this “blog every day” deal. Seems like there’s not that much to say.
For one brief day, I was author number 30,000 on Amazon. Of course, it IS test prep season, when my stock goes way up thanks to my seminal test preparation book “Cracking the SAT Subject Test in Literature.” It’s a classic.
A common question people pose to me is, “so now that you’re not teaching, what are you doing?”
Well, publicity, mostly. Oh, and dealing with my ornery computer. And tutoring. So what else is new?
My first reading is Thursday, and I have to admit to some nervousness. Mostly because the Cubs are finally in the playoffs…. and I may have a ticket to next Thursday’s game. Oh, and I don’t know what to read or wear. Going on book tour is kind of like throwing 15 parties in a row, and not being sure if anyone will come!

Or nearly, anyway!  A shout-out from Stanford Magazine. Did Curtis Sittenfeld’s book get that? Nooooo (of course, it doesn’t need the help.)