Earlier this week,
George Hodgman of Bettyville fame joined us via Skype at Penn. I have been teaching the idea of home this semester—what it is, how writers frame it, how every book ultimately, somehow, departs from or returns to a centering place.
(Speaking of which, please join us for the
Beltran event at Penn's Kelly Writers House, March 1, 6:00 PM, when I will be joined by Reiko Rizzuto, A.S. King, and Margo Rabb—along with students past and present—to discuss this idea of home in literature.)
The winds and the rains were fierce. I had my Skype-technology jitters. My students were ready, and so were the students of dear Julia Bloch, who were joining us for the session. And, oh—George Hodgman was brilliant. He was: Looking back over
Bettyville—how it began, how it evolved. Circling then pinning the definition of memoir. Speaking of his mother's love and his enduring felt need to make her proud. Pondering the nature of, and the blasting off, of personal and writerly inhibitions. Recalling the sound of conversation above the slap of flip flops.
Next George spoke about his life as an editor. The importance of stories that don't wait to get started, the importance of writers who are willing to work, the decision an editor must make, early on, about if and when to get tangled up inside a draft's sentences. And then George said this simple but remarkably important thing: Be messy (at first). The worst books are the clean, perfect books, he told us. The ones that feel safe.
Be messy.
For the past many years I've been at work (intermittently) on a book I feel could define me. It's a novel. It is a structural storytelling risk. I thought last year that I could publish this book as novel for adults. After a great disappointment, I pulled it back. Let it sit. Returned to it just this week, fear in my heart. Was it any good? Had I pumped it up in my own estimation, without any actual basis for pride?
Open the document, Beth.
Find out.
I finally did. And what I discovered was a book that was, indeed, messy. Too pretentious on some pages. Unnecessarily fantastical in covert corners. Too wishfully literary.
But. The story, the characters, the scenes—strip away the mess of the book, and, I discovered, there was a beating pulse. Despite all the mud I had slung on top of my tale, there was a glorious gleam.
I am taking this mess. I am turning it into something. I am grateful, deeply grateful, that I made such a horror in the first place. Inside these pages are complexity and promise. Inside them is my world.
I am reminded, once again, that this writing thing is, above all else, process. Clean first drafts are a constricting bore.
The annual Little Flower Teen Writers Festival is a school-wide celebration of writing and reading—a marvel of an invention in which a school, on a sunny Saturday, opens its doors to story weavers and student hearts. The dynamic, unstoppable Sister Kimberly Miller leads the way. Her girls wouldn't be anywhere else. And yesterday all of us who were in attendance were given keynote words from A.S. King that leapt us to our feet (yes, that's a deliberate inversion of language logic, but that's so what happened). King is one of those writers who has earned her status as a star. Her stories are essential. Her sentences are prime. And when she gets up there behind a microphone she has something actual to say—words that belong to her, ideas unborrowed.
I left Little Flower, rushed home, put on a skirt, swapped out my graffiti boots for a pair of four-inch heels, picked up the cake I'd made the day before, and headed out again to celebrate the career of Greg Djanikian, the exquisite Armenian poet whose life and work I
profiled in the Pennsylvania Gazette last year. Greg is stepping down from full-time administrative duties at Penn so that he might write more and live less bounded-ly. Saddened as we are by the thought of seeing him less, last night was anything but a sad event. It brought together (in true Greg fashion) the teachers, writers, and student advocates who give Penn's creative writing program and Kelly Writers House their aura. Oysters, sherbet-colored shirts, an undaunted cat. Talk about food carts, the meaning of words, 1960, serial memoirists (
the third Fuller), astonishing turns in storied careers, the art of the frittata, and the costs and high rewards of loving students. Sun when we arrived and stars when we left.
In between the two events, Kit Hain Grindstaff sent word of something wholly unforeseen—a
Guardian review of
Going Over. It begins like this below and can be
read in full here.Lyrical prose, beautiful and sensual imagery, a dark setting; yet, hope: there is always hope – because for the stars to shine, there needs to be darkness. Going Over just shot to my 'favourites' of 2015 list and I regret nothing. This book is graffiti, and colour and play dough and bikes. It is love, it is death, it is life; it is astronomy, maps, escapes and archery. It is a wall, splitting the earth with dark and hateful ideologies, and it is a spring in your step on one side: pink hair and coloured moles with a quiet and thoughtful being on the other; scope in hand, love clenched in heart and freedom circling though mind. Going Over is Ada and Stefan, Savas and Meryem, Turks and Germans and kids and adults. It is a story of humans and their plight in this world, and it is a story of love.
As is perhaps clear in
this recent Huffington interview, I've been thinking a lot of late about what happiness is. I wrote toward that in
today's Philadelphia Inquirer story, which has Frenchtown, NJ, as its backdrop. (Thank you Kevin Ferris and your team for another beautiful presentation of my photographs and words.) I've been also thinking a lot about kindness (never simple, often rare), thanks in part to George Hodgman's glorious memoir
Bettyville, which I reviewed for the
Chicago Tribune, here. Today there is sun out there, flowering trees, wet-headed daffodils. I'm going to celebrate by finishing the fabulous
Between You and Me (Mary Norris) and later checking into Chanticleer garden for the first time this year. I'm way overdue for a visit.
How I loved this book—for its kindness, for its wisdom, for the way it cracked itself open, quietly. My full review of
Bettyville by George Hodgman can be found
here, at the
Chicago Tribune. It will appear in Printers Row this weekend.
In 2012, author and editor Kevin Sessums shared a post that his old colleague from Vanity Fair George Hodgman had written from his hometown of Paris, Missouri, where he was caring for his mother, Betty.
Sessums introduced it, in part, by saying: \"His missives here on Facebook about his time back home with her are so beautiful. I had to share this latest one… (they) resound with such love and respect and a kind of sweet regret.\"
Portions of the story in that missive appear in Hodgman’s new book Bettyville, which will debut at #9 on the New York Times bestseller list next Sunday. Hodgman–a noted book and magazine editor who has worked at Simon and Schuster, Vanity Fair, Talk magazine, Henry Holt and Company, and Houghton Mifflin–announced it on his Facebook blog on March 18: \"This is a total thrill and unexpected. I wanted to post this here because I truly owe it to all of you. YOU MADE THIS BOOK FOR ME.\"
Writing in the New York Times, Cathy Horyn calls Bettyville, \"a most remarkable, laugh-out-loud book\" that \"works on several levels (as a meditation on belonging, as a story of growing up gay and the psychic cost of silence, as metaphor for recovery).\" When Horyn notes that he approaches memoir from a \"fairly new perspective: that of a gay son,\" Hodgman says, \"Here was this neurotic, self-centered, New York, childless gay man.\"
Horyn quotes Sara Bershtel, publisher of Metropolitan Books and a Hodgman colleague from his time at Henry Holt, who said, Bettyville suggests \"the development of a watchful gay kid. You have to watch everybody, you have to watch your parents, and you can’t show anything.\" Horyn feels that watchfulness \"made him a shrewd and witty observer.”
Hodgman told the Times that he generally wrote from 4 to 9 a.m., when his mother rose. Sometimes he would key in their chats while his mother spoke from the sofa.
\"My mother is funny and dry without knowing that she is. Together, we can make people laugh. So I had this idea of a quirky comedy team…I’m also very nostalgic about these towns…I just felt that this rural area was a real story that nobody was telling.\"
People are listening. In January, Publishers Lunch had already flagged it as a book to watch in its BUZZ BOOKS 2015: Spring/Summer edition. Amazon and Books-a-Million recently made Bettyville a Top Pick, and People named it a \"Book of the Week.\"
\"I am a believer in God in my own special way. But I think I was given this book because I came back.\"
