Pants on Fire?

At one of my readings, a young man asked if I agreed with the statement that all novelists are liars. My immediate response, perhaps to play the part of the incorrigibly rascally raconteur, was, "Of course!"

But I lied. I don't think that novelists are liars. Maybe at book readings *cough cough* but not in their writing. On the contrary, I believe the best fiction writers are truth tellers. They just try to get at a truth by making stuff up.

A few weeks later, a different reader referred to the chapter in Bill Warrington's Last Chance that recounts the sexual history of one of the characters, Mike."You obviously have had many sexual partners to write about it so convincingly," the reader said. I almost burst out laughing. Fewer scenes in the book required more of my imagination.

I've also answered the how-much-of-this-is-true question by insisting that there is nothing autobiographical in the book. And yet... I set the story in Woodlake, Ohio. I grew up in Lakewood, Ohio. (Not clever, I admit... but fun.) The family matriarch died of cancer when she was a young mother.My real-life mother died of cancer at a young age. The made-up Bill Warrington  is based on a not-made-up neighbor I came to like and admire before he passed away. He didn't suffer from dementia, but he had the Bill Warrington attitude in spades.

So... what do you think? Is there such a thing as pure fiction? Does it matter? And what was your most recent truthful lie?

Shoveling Up the Past

We had another major snowstorm last night, and my son was out there shoveling before the flakes had stopped falling. I considered staying inside but--and I know this may sound strange--I love to shovel snow.

My daughter, born this day 24 years ago, has on previous snow days informed me that I am officially too old for this sort of activity and advised that I shouldn't expect her to venture out into the cold to help retrieve my corpse until Spring's first thaw. But still I grabbed a shovel and joined my son. He focused on digging out the cars; I tackled the front walkway.

Shoveling out reminds me, as nothing else here in New England, of my boyhood in Lakewood, Ohio. The muffled wind reminds me of the much stronger winds off Lake Erie, a block from our house. After the shoveling came snow forts and snowball fights. Or skating on the flooded field at Lakewood Park. I'm reminded of my mother's milky hot chocolate, topped with a turban swirl of Reddi-Wip, and the smell of pot roast. The cold  reminds me of "Triple Skate" at Winterhurst and post-skating sundaes at Malley's.Of the Browns vs. the Packers. Of downtown Cleveland, smoke from the steel mills frozen in gray. Of the strangely pleasant pain of near frostbitten toes warming in front of the TV--the Idiot Box, as my father called it.

What about you? What season or sight or sound or smell or physically risky undertaking reminds you of the good old days that seem to get better as your back gets weaker?

And Now for Something Completely Obvious...

... I appear to be failing as a blogger. Most recent post was in November? Pitiful. So much for that particular New Year's resolution.

The best blogger I know is Betsy Lerner. Every day, five days a week, she posts something that will make you laugh or frown or smile or cringe. She's not always (make that, rarely) politically correct and she often uses languages or describes situations that make the repressed altar boy in me trip over my cassock. But she never fails to entertain or force you to think. Kind of what I should be trying to do with this blasted site.

So check her blog out here. Today's post is especially good for writers afflicted with beautiful-writing-ho-hum plot syndrome. And if you love to write (or hate to write but must write), get her book, The Forest for the Trees.

(Unnecessary Disclaimer: Betsy Lerner is not my agent. I do not know her. There is no financial remuneration involved in this post. I happily acknowledge, however, that I sent her my first-ever fan letter to an author about nine years ago, and she was gracious enough to reply!)

How to Talk to a Debut Novelist

First-time novelists tend to be a sensitive sort. Getting published is often a lifetime dream come true, realized after years of solitary work and spirit-sapping rejection. This is why, once the book has finally been accepted, published, and released, any event even remotely related to the recently published (if yet unrecognized) work of art tends to bring out some of our more subtle personality quirks. A good review, for example, will send us on a fist-pumping, chest-thumping, air-kiss-throwing dance around the house as we begin composing the Nobel acceptance speech in our heads. On the other hand, anything less than five stars may send us into a self-doubting, self-loathing funk from which we may never emerge without the help of supportive family, friends, and several gallons of Ben & Jerry’s Triple Chocolate Brownie Fudge Supreme.

God help you if you live with one of these volatile souls. But even talking with one can be a tricky proposition. In the spirit of greater understanding and personal safety, please allow me to offer the following tips on surviving a conversation with a debut novelist:

DO fawn. You know that commercial for an anti-flatulent where a young, bespeckled woman touches the wrist of the product spokeswoman and says, adoringly, “I love your work”? Go for that. And don’t stop when the first-time novelist pretends to humbly brush off your admiration. That dismissive wave is actually a signal for more. Word helper: insightful, delightful, compelling, unique, brilliant.

DON’T ask about Oprah. It’s not enough to finally get a book published? You have to remind the writer of the incredible odds against reaching Ultimate Oz? Sheesh. Besides, most writers hate to self-promote—it’s too close to begging. (Note to Ms. Winfrey: Please oh please oh please?! I promise not to jump up and down on your couch.)

Read the rest here: The Divining Wand

My greatest fear...

... might be yours, too.

Check out this fun Q&A to find out.

The Divining Wand: The Revealing of James King