Small World Books on Venice Beach is so wonderful and not just because they seemed to stock every book I’ve worked on in the last six months INCLUDING the poetry. And it’s not easy competing with a beach. I was so in love with the place, I forgot to check if they had my frickin’ books. But I did peruse the entire poetry section, as is my wont. Wont? This, to me, is always the measure of a truly great store — the depth of the poetry section and it was superb. But SWB also has a great small press display. Amazing paperback section beautifully displayed. They have recently reviewed books up front. Tons of front list — but you could feel a really smart buyer behind the selection. Looking at the books was like having a really great conversation with well read and charming stranger. God, it was like breathing fresh air.
How do you case a bookstore?
p.s. Extra credit. We are reading To Kill A Mockingbird with our eighth grader and came upon the sentence that title comes from. Anyone remember?
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I used to have a friend called Raymond. He saw me through a lot of heartache. One of his standard soliloquies was about how great love wasn’t for every day. Everyday you could reasonably expect: a cup of coffee, the newspaper, a good dump, etc. But great love, well, it was going to take its time. This is true for finding great authors and projects.
Remember the moment in BIG when Tom Hanks presents his ideas for a new toy and his jealous colleague played by John Heard snarks back, “I don’t get it,” in an attempt to short circuit the presentation. Of course, it backfired because this is a feel good movie.
A fiction writer recently asked me if she should take a poetry class, sort of to jump start her writing. I thought it was an interesting idea. Look, poetry is always a good idea. But, I thought, there must be others: What about a violin class, or snow boarding? What about having an affair with a boarding instructor who is missing part of his arm? What about shoplifting? What about staying in your house until you’ve eaten everything. Hello, smoking! Remember how well that used to work? Hitachi magic wand. Go to therapy. Get on the couch. Do it. Talk about how much you want to blow your therapist, how you really don’t hate your parents, how everything reminds you of something you ate. Am I forgetting anything? Work in a bookstore, volunteer somewhere, trompe l’oeil the garage! Clean! Throw away five hefty garbage bags full of stuff. Pick your face, pluck your eyebrows, moisturize. Read a book that is 1,000 pages long. Cut up your credit cards. Stop talking. Write in long hand! (Betty Lerner is a big believer in the long hand!). Get up at 5:00 am. Just get up. Or, stay up all night. Become delirious. Get a dog. Get a divorce. Get a physical. Use index cards. (Big believer in index cards!) Remember: no one cares if you write. Not god, not the angels, not the editors who turn tricks on 42nd Street. In fact, some people would prefer it if you didn’t write, would sooner see you wriggle on a hook for your whole feckin’ life than reel one in. What could be more liberating? Do it precisely because nobody gives a shit. Because language has not yet begun to go bald. And you are a star.
Should you know your competitor’s work or avoid it at all costs? Should you sleep with the enemy? When I was working on The Forest for the Trees, there was one book that terrified me and I stayed far away from it. It was everywhere, it was beloved, and duh it was about writing. It had the greatest title, the kind of title that appealed on every level, and a sublime jacket, the kind of jacket that makes you want to own it, and only suits the book more after you’ve read it. Everyone seemed to have read it and everyone loved the motherfucker. Of course, I’m talking about Bird By Bird. I knew if I read it, I would never write my book. The shadow it cast was too large. I finally read it years later and here’s a newsflash, it’s wonderful. As it turns out, I really didn’t have to worry since Lamott’s book is about writing, and mine is about self-loathing. Phew.
