All Sorts of News

What's the saddest week in Chicago? You could probably make a case for any number of winter weeks and cite temperature alone as your evidence, but for my money, the week after the Bears beat the Packers--especially in a game like that--is as low as it gets around here.  I remain defiant and continue to wear my Packers hat around the streets of my adopted hometown, however; and I do this despite the fact that last night, after Devin Hester's touchdown, a drunken man at the bar beside me screamed "FUCK YOU" into the side of my face seven or eight times, then pointed his finger at my head so aggressively that I swear I could feel his fingernail with my longer, more translucent ear hairs.

No matter! Chicago, I love you.

Some things to talk about have been building up around here, and I thought I'd counteract the hangover with a few updates:

• My friend Benjamin Percy's first novel, The Wilding, hits the bookshelves today. My copy is on its way, about which I am very excited; from all I can tell, it's going to be exactly my kind of book--a literary thriller. Time after time, and pretty much always after I've just watched an episode of Breaking Bad, I think to myself that the perfect hybrid, for me, is a story whose stakes vacillate between character and plot, and do so with smoothness, efficiency, and a kind of internal, organic logic. At times I want events to dictate the direction of a story. At times I want choices to do it. And while of course those two things are interrelated, it's amazing how often television relies too much on events and literary fiction superciliously raises an eyebrow in the direction of plot. Good thing we have the Ben Percys of the world. (Someone else who does this amazingly is Nic Pizzolatto, who book Galveston came out over the summer. If you're feeling what I'm talking about right now, read Galveston right away. Do it before it shows up as a huge movie, too.)

• I'm not teaching this fall, but I'm happy this week because I've joined the faculty of Warren Wilson, the country's oldest low-res MFA program. I've always been fascinated by low-res programs and intrigued by the potential pedagogical differences between the WW MFA experience and my own, which was nothing if not traditional: two years, lots of workshops, total immersion, too much drinking, excellent fun, all other life on hold. Whole days spent alone in my apartment in front of a screen of text, no job and credit card debt chosen as a better, albeit stupider, model. As I've thought about the differences this week, I've begun to wonder whether or not that last quality--all other life on hold--has stayed with me over the years and led to my preference for working at writing colonies as opposed to a daily routine at home, integrated into everyday living. It's very possible this is just an outgrowth of my personality, some need to geek out completely or not at all, but I do think there might be something to the notion that our writing crucibles--where we were and what we did in our most fiery, early years as writers--play a role in what process ends up feeling the most natural.

• Third thing: the first story I ever had published, called "Trouble and the Shadowy Deathblow," just got optioned again. It looks like the producers are going to try to pitch it as a TV show, not a movie, which I think is smart.  I hope it works; I am convinced that Jim Funkle would be a nicely weird and twisted sit-com father who only sometimes kills people on purpose.

• Fourth thing: The Universe in Miniature in Miniature is going to press this week! The last steps were a) integrating some rather amazing images into the text, and b) integrating J. Robert Lennon's 11th-hour blurb into the copy design. Lennon's blurb goes like so: "Patrick Somerville is the most devastatingly sensitive badass nerd in contemporary lit--he is as consistently inventive and surprising as anyone writing today.  I love this book, with its weird art and crazy machines and secret agents and out-of-control love.  It's as if Optimus Prime has folded himself up into a story collection." Kinda can't believe it. And I also owe great thanks to two other wonderful writers for helping out on the blurb front: Jami Attenberg (whose blog I love, btw) and Roy Kesey. Thanks so much to all three of you!

I think there's too much to say about the new images in the book to post here. In fact, I'm thinking about writing a whole essay.  I'll just say thanks so much to Rob Funderburk and Mark Rader, two talented Chicago artists, for devoting such time and energy to my somewhat strange requests. The book is better for it. Zach Dodson, featherproof's design guru, has been slaving away in front of the computer for quite some time to get this whole thing done.

Have I mentioned I love featherproof?

The Universe in Miniature in Miniature - November 15!

"Patrick Somerville has perfect pitch across the thirty-odd voices in these stories, gets perfect reception from past and future both. He is funny and sad and scalpel-sharp, at times all in the same sentence. This book contains worlds within worlds. Every single one of them enriches ours."

-Roy Kesey, Author of All Over

Newcity's Lit 50

Hi friends. A few nice things to report as the summertime gets rolling in Chicago and the lake, once again, begins to resemble the Caribbean Sea.

• I was pleased to find out this morning that my name, along with a long list of incredible writers, appears in Newcity's 2010 list of influential literary Chicagoans.
  
  
• I'll be reading tonight at the season finale of the terrific Encyclopedia Show.
  
  
• Tomorrow, I head off to California to do a smattering of readings around LA and San Diego, and to reconnect with Jim Ruland, a new friend whose acquaintance I made back in Denver. Unfortunately he witnessed this; what's impressive is he still wanted to be friends.
  
  
• I had a wonderful, wonderful time in New York a couple weeks ago when I attended the One Story Debutante Ball.  I made many new friends and saw many old ones. As I said to Maribeth Batcha and Hannah Tinti during the ball: "Thanks, One Story, for being responsible for my entire career."

My Next Novel - Good Sense

So happy to announce that my next novel, called Good Sense, will be published by Reagan Arthur Book/Little, Brown sometime down the road. It'll be a solid year before anything like the schedule gets worked out, so for now, it's TBD. But it's in the books, so to speak.

The book is what I've been working on for awhile, and this just means I'll be staying put with a fantastic house and a fantastic editor for the foreseeable future. It's set in 2007; a lot takes place in Wisconsin.

Thanks to all of you for all your support and feedback, too.  Truly, it matters a lot.

Now it's time to drink a gallon of coffee.

Trouble's on Kindle, Sort of Insane Collection of Short Stories Cooking in the Oven, Paperback's A-comin', Gabriel's A-comin'

February seems to have become the Month of Snowblowing here in the now-deemed-funky Edgewater/Roger's Park neighborhood (I already knew), and I thought I'd take this moment to post a few pieces of news.

One: Vintage has now converted Trouble over to a Kindle-friendly format, so if you're a fan of The Cradle and have one of those fancy devices and want to check out my first book, have at it.

Two: I noted it on Facebook already, but my third book and second collection of short stories will be out this fall from featherproof books.  It's called "The Universe in Miniature in Miniature"--the title story was published in American Short Fiction last summer.  Yes, the book has aliens. Yes, this book references Cocoon several times, but for a reason. Unlike Trouble, the book is seriously linked, with quite a few labyrinthine connections binding the characters together into one--this is a literary term, now--clump.  I'll post more about it down the road. For now, I'm cooking. Can you smell? Don't make a mean joke.

Three: In the meantime, the paperback edition of The Cradle will be out this April. Look for it in stores on April 12th, and look for me on the west coast sometime in May. I'll get the whole tour up on the site in a few weeks. Definitely Seattle and Portland. Hopefully more.

Four: Amazing writer and old friend Jerry Gabriel will be coming to Chicago for his book Drowned Boy, and I'll be reading with him and fellow writer Mark Rader at The Book Cellar on February 18th. Jerry's book contains a number of absolutely stunning stories--that's all I can say. Come on by!

Best of '09 Lists

A flurry of listing activity brought some gratifying news of The Cradle making a couple Best Of lists over the weekend. Here's a list of the lists, including a couple others that have trickled in over the past weeks.  I think most of the papers around the country are done with this for the year, so I'm putting it on the site; as I'm sometimes still caught off guard realizing I'm a writer in the first place and that I did not end up an astronaut, each one of these came as an unexpected delight.

The Cradle is listed as one of the:

• Best Books of 2009, The Cleveland Plain Dealer
• Best Books of 2009, The New York Times (Janet Maslin's List)
• Notable Books of 2009, The Arizona Republic (Anne Stephenson)
• Best Books of 2009, Bookmarks Magazine
• 50 Favorite Books of 2009, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch
• Favorites of 2009, The Chicago Sun-Times

Some Cradle for Christmas? Or Would You Say Christmas Cradle?

Janet Maslin at the New York Times has listed The Cradle amongst her ten favorite reviewed books of the year, and I'm thinking that perhaps you may want to take this opportunity to buy up some of the few remaining hardcover copies that are out there in the world? It just seems like that's what you're trying to say. Maybe I'm reading this whole thing wrong.

Yes, the paperback will be out April 11.

But no, you cannot give that to your cousin for Christmas or other various holiday celebrations.

I'm saying this as a non-partisan, kinda outside observer.

Literacy Everywhere

So a few days ago I was at Open Books, a Chicago non-profit bookstore and literacy center, to help open their new (and beautiful) space with a reading about, well, reading. The event was in and amidst the store's colorful stacks, and I wandered around, looking at the shelves and touring the pretty amazing upstairs classroom area for the first hour or so. I also read a short essay about Where the Red Fern Grows, as the book haunts me to this day, and I figured the only proper thing to read at such an event was a description of one of my old and formative reading experiences. Going to post it below.

By sheer coincidence, I also spent a little time at Literacy Chicago a couple of weeks ago. It's another literacy center in the loop-area; they've been around and doing their thing for a very long time. I sat in on a two-hour class with 25 or so students, who were discussing a play with great passion. It was amazing to see so much energy and enthusiasm about literature coming from people who, before they started coming to the free classes, couldn't read at all. It's easy to forget that literacy is not just about the day-to-day and the working world; it's also about access to the culture, and all it has to give to improve people's lives.

The holidays are here. Also cometh the end of the fiscal year. Wanna give some dollars away? Check out these two great Chicago institutions.

Here's the essay...

So this is a solid example of a time I went completely berserk while trapped inside the universe of a book, and in case it’s not clear, I’m holding this experiences up as good experience.  What I’d like to do is say a few words about the book Where the Red Fern Grows, a novel by Wilson Rawls that I read in 4th grade and that I will never be able to read again.

My 4th grade teacher was named Mrs. Buege.  Like a lot of teachers, she spent some time every week reading to the class from a book, in part as a rest from regular schoolwork but in part, I’m sure, as a way to make us more interested in stories and novels, but to take away the mental burden a full-length novel puts on someone who’s in the early stages of learning how to read.  If I’m remembering right, that year was really the first year I ever managed to actually read a book on my own—since this was the Reagan era we had Book-It, and reading was incentivized by a large corporation, and you could earn an entire personal pan pizza from Pizza Hut if you read a certain amount over the course of the year.  It was still difficult for me to read for an extended period of time, though, and I loved the half-hour windows when Mrs. Buege would turn to the books.  Then we got to Where the Red Fern Grows.

Without giving an entire plot-summary—and I’m sure a lot of people know the story—I’ll just say I was totally captivated.  The basics are that a 12 year-old in the Ozarks named Billy Coleman is obsessed with having two red coonhounds, and he spends two years saving up the money for them—when he finally gets them, he names them Dan and Little Ann after a heart he sees carved into the trunk of a tree that has those two names written in the middle.  For some reason, just the setup alone gave me goosebumps—I thought about Billy and the dogs every day, walking back and forth from school, and I had trouble concentrating on anything else.  My anticipation about whether or not he was actually going to make enough money fell in line with Billy’s anticipation about the same thing—I sort of was in the book, if that makes sense.  The time between Mrs. Buege’s reading-sessions was unbearable—sometimes it would be a week before we got a new chapter.  And as I’d begun to talk a lot about this book at home, my mom suggested to me we go down to the library and get a copy, and that I read the book on my own, ahead of the class.  I had not realized you could do such a thing, and once I heard the idea I demanded we go to the library that day.

I’m not sure if Wilson Rawls quite knew what he was toying with when he wrote the second half of that book.  My mother probably also didn’t understand the consequences of our trip to the library, and if she’d known, she might not have taken me.  I’ll just say that within 48 hours, I was a shell of a human being, totally inconsolable, crying so much my father seemed afraid of me and my sister, in an unprecedented move, refused to even make fun of me.  I was unable to really even talk.  I have a clear memory of lying on my parent’s bed on a Sunday afternoon, my face buried in the pillow, not crying anymore because I was too exhausted, but just numb and unable to move.  It wasn’t just that it was a sad story—that would have been manageable, I think.  It’s that I don’t think I actually understood, until that moment in my life, that sadness like this actually existed—that emotions could be this powerful.  It was a whole new sense of the world—not the fictional world, but mine.  I literally came to know one of the core human emotions while reading that—pardon me—goddamned book.

At the time, it was really an awful thing.  Even looking at the cover made my cry, and my mother had to return it without me.  Even today, hearing the title—just the sound of the words together—gives me a hint of the same devastation, and I’m a 30 year-old married man, far away from my parent’s bed.  It still completely gets me. 

The worst part is I thought since I was ahead and already knew the story, I’d be prepared for it when Mrs. Buege got to the book’s ending in class, and I’d be able to sit back and watch everyone else in class start bawling and freaking out and I’d be sort of the Miles Davis of storytime, impenetrable, badass, arms crossed, snickering at them for their vulnerability.  That did not work out for me, as I completely broke down throughout the mountain lion scene, there at my desk, even though I already knew everything—like the bed, I have another clear memory of opening the top of my desk and sticking my head inside, down with my books and pencils, trying to wait out the story but also trying to make it look like I was maybe digging around for an eraser I’d lost.

Why is it, then, with all this pain and suffering, that this is one of my fondest memories from all of childhood?  Or that 22 years later, having read many books, I still think about that book all the time?  I think part of it is because that’s the same state I always want to get back to, and rarely can anymore, being that immersed in a story.  It doesn’t matter how sad it is, or frightening; there’s just something profound, pure, and completely good about being in a book all the way, totally immersed in the dream-world it creates.  Wilson Rawls is an evil, evil man for what he did to so many children, but what I think is true of reading is this: No matter what you see inside, good or bad, every time you come back out, the world looks better.

 

    

Some Center for Fiction, Some Gapers Block

On Monday, my wife and I concluded a little trip to New York with a totally sober evening at the Center for Fiction (formerly the Mercantile Library), which is essentially an institution that spends all of its time and money loving fiction and spreading it around the world, which, of course, is fantastic. The Cradle was on the shortlist for the First Novel Prize, and while it didn't win, it was hard not to see the night as a great boon for young Matt and the like. It was also excellent to see well-known writers in the flesh--I can report that many of the fancy New York ones (famous, but play it cool) we've heard about over the years do exist and are human.

It was my great pleasure, too, to spend much of the pre-cocktail-party-cocktail-party (yes) chatting with John Pipkin, who went on to win the award a couple of hours later for his novel Woodsburner. He was about as unpretentious, interesting, and kind as they come.

A second piece of exciting news was something I saw online while sitting around at the hotel in New York, trying to get over a cold. Scrolling through the Chicago news I sometimes scroll through, I found out that Gaper's Block has picked The Cradle to be its November 2010 Book Club selection, which is, of course, fantastic.

And also, finally, thank you to the young wry man named Patrick who gave me a cigarette, which are, as we all know, hard to come by after you've entirely quit smoking.

Mid-Fall Haiku

There are gusts of wind
And also there are earthquakes.
I could not care less.