A lot of people are talking about Bob Dylan getting the Nobel Prize.

What say you?

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Every year I sit with my mother for Yom Kippur services. I space out for most of it, hum along with prayers I learned years ago, stare at the stain glass panels searching for imperfections, read the prayer book randomly like people who spin a globe and go to wherever their finger lands. The music is familiar, heavy. Waves of sadness move through me. My father. My sister. The young son of an old friend. I say I hate coming, but I’ll miss it when she’s gone. I’ll miss everything.

May you be written in the book of life.

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I have a client who has either no or negative self-esteem. That said, he is a writer. And I’ve always believed that writers are egomaniacs, often closeted, but egomaniacs all the same. How the hell else do you bank your life on sentences knowing that there is a mighty chance that no one will read them, and make them anyway. Is that ego, insanity, possession, obsession, neurosis, inspiration, habit, faith? I think the reason people write is because they need to. This post is all over the fuckin’ place.

Are writers egomaniacs?

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Guys, guys!!! Look who has a book coming out. One of our very own peeps, Rea Tarvydas. CONGRATULATIONS. Such a cool title: How to Pick up a Maid in Statue Square. Buy a copy HERE. Here’s a little interview I did with Rea. Please spread the work, share with your FB friends, tweet and all that meat.

1. What did it feel like to hold a finished book in your hands?

It was surreal. I mean, I knew it was my book because it had my name on it but it was a different emotional experience than I expected. Vulnerable. A shiny, black book exposing what troubles me: the dark, the lonely, the isolated.

2. How did you come up with the title?

Actually, my press came up with the title. It’s the title of one of the stories in the book, in which Fast Eddy instructs on how best to pick up Filipina maids on their rest day. I’m SO BAD at titles. I mean, it took me two years to come up with a working title (The Globe) and it’s adequate because it’s the name of the bar that my characters frequent.I like the title. I think long titles are trending.

3. If one famous person could read your book, who and why?

John Cusack. I pictured John Cusack playing the character of Fast Eddy from the collection. I sent a copy of the book to his production company. Why not?

4. Which is your least favourite part of the process?

House style.

(what the fuck does this mean? Is it like Gangnam style?

5. Why do you write?  Two reasons. I write because I’m trying to figure something out and I’ve discovered I don’t know anything. I mean, I attempt to understand but I have no fucking idea what’s going on.

I write because I want to be called by name. I think this is tied to my upbringing as the “Sergeant’s Daughter”. My Dad was in the RCMP and we moved every three years throughout my childhood. When you move that frequently you’re referred to as the “New Girl” and then the “Sergeant’s Daughter”. Followed by “Narc” and “Sarge”. I ended up in the nursing profession and was referred to as “Nurse”. If I didn’t show up for work, another nameless person took my place.

(whoa)

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People are just as likely to ask what you’re watching on TV as what you’re reading. TV is exploding and binge watching is the only acceptable thing to binge on. I actually watch some programs on my phone under the covers, the way I used to read as a kid. My favorites are Luther, THe Killing, Happy Valley, and Transparent.

What are yours?

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Let’s talk about the impostor complex. Who me? You talking to me? Thinking that your work sucks is baby stuff. I’m talking deep, ingrained, institutional self disgust. I’m talking about a baggie and a twisty. A-list celebrities going down on you. On page 1: Bruce Springsteen sprinkles gold tarnished fraud. I wish I could be Bruce Springsteen for five holy minutes. The better I feel the worse I feel. I hear that senators and kings suffer. Bradley Cooper. The twins. You say we’re all impostors. You say everyone thinks about it. Ashton Kutcher. This is what you say when you leave the office meeting dinner elevator:

When do you feel like an impostor?

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Over the weekend, I had a book event/fund raiser in Westport, CT. A bridge club invited me to read, followed by a luncheon, and two hours of duplicate bridge. First of all: this is my life. Is this my life? Who am I? Did I write a book about five Jewish octogenarians and learn to play bridge? Do I go to readings with my mother and kibbitz on the way there and back. And actually want to spend this time with her. And feel all this incredible connection with people about the book. Me? At one point, while signing books, someone yanked my dress (yes, I wore a dress!) and I discovered that the back of my dress was tucked up into the waist of my pantyhose and everyone could see my control tops and my ample arse.

What was your finest hour?

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When did this become a thing: a person emails you and tells you to call him. Please don’t ask me to call you. Please let’s not make a phone date. Just pick up the phone and call. If I’m not there, leave a message and I’ll call back. Isn’t that how we used to do it? I always thought that was a pretty good system. What’s the point of using email to make a phone date. It’s an extra step and it puts the onus on the wrong party.

Am I right?

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I’ve been editing a manuscript for the last week and I am reminded how much I love it. When the book is meh, it’s kind of thankless. But when you’re working on a book that is beautifully written, surprising, risk-taking, and emotionally powerful it’s like having a thrilling conversation. It’s like sparring with someone you respect, fear and love. You prod the writer with questions that hopefully compel him to respond in a way that makes the book even more fully realized, or change up transitions to keep it moving, or cut scenes that don’t advance the story. I love suggesting one word for another if it strikes me to have more clarity or accuracy.

Are you a good editor?

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I used to go to an optometrist who caught six home-run balls over the years. I asked him his secret. Well, first, he played baseball in high school and college and throughout his adult life. He said when a home-run ball is hit, people in the stands start jumping around trying to catch it. He planted his feet and snagged the ball out of the air.

I could be out of my mind, but it seemed like an apt metaphor for writing. You’ve got to do it for many years (it just doesn’t “happen”) and you’ve got to settle.

Do you have a metaphor for writing?

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