Friday, April 18, 2014

Friday Freebie: Orion's Daughters by Courtney Elizabeth Mauk

Congratulations to Jim Mastro and Lewis Parker, winners of last week's Friday Freebie: Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 by Francine Prose.

This week's book giveaway is the freshly-published novel by Courtney Elizabeth Mauk, Orion's Daughters.  The good folks at Engine Books have supplied me with a copy to send to one lucky reader.  Will it be you this week?

Here's the publisher's summary of the book's plot:
A postcard arrives straight out of her past, forcing Carrie to confront her commune upbringing alongside Amelia, the almost-sister she worshipped and lost. Desperate to keep her daughter close as her marriage disintegrates, Carrie must come to understand how the choices made by a well-meaning but misguided community have defined her life since, and threaten to forever.
Here's how the novel begins:
From the time we were small, Amelia had a knack for storytelling. She could string words together like the pastel candies on the necklace she wore as a bracelet, twisted four times around her skinny wrist. Like those candies, her words never split or cracked, they never fell off into the grass and were lost. I did not have her skill. Two days after her grandfather gave us those necklaces mine had been destroyed by my sweet tooth and my carelessness.
As I said earlier at the blog, "Orion's Daughters is told in a series of brief chapters, some only a page long, which have the short, sweet crunch of beads on a candy necklace." Pamela Erens, author of The Virgins, had these words of praise for the novel: "Lean, muscular, poetic, Orion’s Daughters explores the age-old hunger to re-invent Eden (in this case as a rural Ohio commune) and the marks left on two girls shaped by Edenic isolation and ideals.  The novel has the heartbeat of a mystery, and I turned pages rapidly, desperate to know the outcome yet at the same time holding back so as to drink in each precise, resonant phrase."  One last thing: Courtney is no stranger to The Quivering Pen; you should check out the stories about her "first time" and her library shelves.

If you’d like a chance at winning a copy of Orion's Daughters, simply email your name and mailing address to

Put FRIDAY FREEBIE in the e-mail subject line.  One entry per person, please.  Despite its name, the Friday Freebie runs all week long and remains open to entries until midnight on April 24, at which time I’ll draw the winning name.  I’ll announce the lucky reader on April 25.  If you’d like to join the mailing list for the once-a-week newsletter, simply add the words “Sign me up for the newsletter” in the body of your email.  Your email address and other personal information will never be sold or given to a third party (except in those instances where the publisher requires a mailing address for sending Friday Freebie winners copies of the book).

Want to double your odds of winning?  Get an extra entry in the contest by posting a link to this webpage on your blog, your Facebook wall or by tweeting it on Twitter.  Once you’ve done any of those things, send me an additional e-mail saying “I’ve shared” and I’ll put your name in the hat twice.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Discovering Ice in the Desert: Gabriel Garcia Marquez and My Year of Solitude in Iraq

When I heard, just a few moments ago, that Gabriel Garcia Marquez had died, I immediately thought of three things: the fine grit of Iraqi sand that scratched between the page and my fingertips, the metal cot with springs that squeaked like those beneath a prostitute's well-worn bed, and the way my forearms ached as I lay in my hooch on Camp Liberty (Baghdad, 2005) and held a hardbound copy of 100 Years of Solitude above my head, absorbed in what I'd long put off reading.

That year--my personal year of solitude away from my wife and three children--was when I finally got around to reading Marquez (as well as Don Quixote, Winesburg, Ohio, The Wings of the Dove, Catch-22, Gilgamesh, and The Da Vinci Code).  I drank big gulps from my Literary Bucket List in those months spent alone in my trailer (my "hooch," in Army parlance).

If it took sending me to a war zone to get me to read Marquez, then I owe the U.S. Army a handshake of "thanks."  I'll admit I wrestled with Marquez in the first 100 pages of 100 Years (see below); but in the end, I was--like so many of his readers--pinned to the mat by his artistry.  To date, that novel is the only one of his I've read (I know, I know...), but news of his passing will hopefully send me back to the shelves in search of Cholera or Chronicle.  So, yes, I was sad when I heard he'd died, age 87, today at his home in Mexico City.  RIP, Gabo.

The news also sent me spinning back to memories of Iraq and into the journal I kept during my tour of duty, deployed as an active-duty soldier with the 3rd Infantry Division in Baghdad.  I looked up the brief mention of Marquez I set down in those pages nine years ago and thought I'd reprint them here as a sort of sideways tribute to GGM (Warning: this blog post has too much Me and too little Marquez).  But first, a quick detour to an e-mail I received from my literary agent shortly after I'd sent him a batch of journal entries mentioning 100 Years of Solitude.
I reread that novel (amazing, isn't it) after I'd read the first volume of Marquez's autobiography. So much of the novel became clearer to me. Would you like me to mail you a copy of the book? If so, give me your mailing address. I hope this won't cause further havoc with your writing.
(That last bit is funny to me now--as if being in a war zone wasn't already "havoc" enough for my writing.)
Wow, Nat, that would be great. I appreciate the offer.
I found "100 Days" a bit rocky at first--so many characters and all of them starting with the letter A--but I was able to read a huge chunk of it a couple of days ago and it started to flow better for me.
Again, thanks for the generous offer.
I hope Nat isn't reading this because, to my chagrin, I haven't gotten around to reading the autobiography, either.  Time and the tide of books, my friends, time and tide.

In 2005, however, I did have the enviable luxury of time (along with the unenviable prospect of mortars crashing down from the skies at any given moment).  Here's what I wrote shortly after I started reading Marquez' classic for the first time.

March 22, 2005: When I wake this morning at 8 a.m. (it’s another blessed day off for me), a thick haze puts the entire sky into soft focus. I can’t tell whether it’s fog, smoke or stirred-up dust.  The sun is up and hot enough to have burned off early-morning mist, so I wonder if there have been a series of car bombs downtown.  But when I check horizons, there are no tell-tale plumes of smoke.

Last week, when I was leaving Headquarters for evening chow, I saw a black tail of smoke—sharp, distinct, fresh—rising from downtown Baghdad.  Behind me, on the opposite side of the city, I could hear the plaintive wail of evening prayer from a distant mosque.  The contrast was disturbing and a bit sad.  On the one side, death; on the other, prayer.

The satellite dishes are sprouting like quick-growing flowers outside the hooches in Trailer City.  When I step onto my porch, I count eight dishes just in my row alone (there are ten rows in our section of trailers in the Life Support Area).  At any given time, two of those eight dishes will have a frustrated soldier turning and tilting the dish while craning his neck to see the TV back inside the trailer.  Soldiers spend more time tweaking their dish position than they do watching whatever shows they hope to catch off the satellite.  I cannot fathom why these soldiers would want to go to all the trouble and expense of getting a dish.  What on earth can they be watching on these satellite dishes?  American Idol, NASCAR, porn?  Whatever it is, their addiction is so all-consuming that they’re willing to spend half a night inserting and removing cardboard shims underneath the dish in order to get the right angle for a good signal.

While they’re out positioning dishes, I’m in my hooch reading.

This just in from the About-Damn-Time Department: I started One Hundred Years of Solitude three days ago.  I’ve always been told Marquez’s novel is the be-all, end-all of literature.  Apart from that classic opening line—“Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice”—I’m finding it slow-going with its chunky, pages-long paragraphs and swift-moving parade of characters.  It’s beautiful writing, yes, but I’m struggling to keep up with who’s who.  Maybe a war zone isn’t the best place to appreciate this novel.  Maybe I need solitude to concentrate on it.  One thing’s for certain, however: it’s an easier pill to swallow than Henry James' dreadful The Wings of the Dove.

I am probably the only soldier in the Iraq theater of operations to have paintings by Albert Bierstadt and Thomas Moran taped to the wall of his hooch.  The fake-wood paneling of my trailer needed something to liven it up.  I clandestinely downloaded some paintings off the Internet, printed them on photo paper, then brought them back and taped them to three of my walls.  So now I’ve got pastoral landscapes of dense, leafy forest glens, an English countryside with a storm approaching in the distance, a mountain stream tumbling and cascading around room-sized boulders and a majestic view of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone with Tower Falls falling into a mist in the background.  It helps remind me of the vegetative world out there beyond the borders of Iraq.

It’s another day off for me.  Apart from my weekly phone calls to Jean [my wife], this about the only thing I have to look forward to over here. It seems like every day is blending into the next.  I feel like I’m one of those poor, exhausted orphans in a Dickens workhouse factory—a whole line of dirty little boys endlessly walking on top of a round drum which turns the gears of machinery.  Every day is the same thing: get up, shower, eat breakfast, get to the cubicle by 7:30 for the shift change-over briefing with Master Sergeant K____, check my e-mail for something from Jean, dash off an all-too-hasty reply, slog through my work e-mail, respond to the ones which need responding to, file the rest, continue to archive photos, go to a meeting, go to lunch, archive photos, maybe walk over to the company area and take care of soldier business (supply, personnel, etc.), come back and check work e-mail, work on endless spreadsheets (filled with media stats, press release data, counting the hairs on a gnat’s ass, etc.), check for e-mail from Jean, archive more photos, work on another report, hibernate in the bathroom and read a few more pages of my book, go to evening chow, come back to check on e-mail from Jean, do the shift change-over briefing with Master Sergeant K____, return to my room around 8:30, do push-ups and sit-ups, get a shower, write in my journal, read a few pages in my book, fall asleep, wake up at 2 a.m. to empty my bladder, go back to sleep, then get up at 5:45 to start the whole process over again.

Some things help break up the monotony.  Like when a soldier down on Haifa Street dies after getting shot in the neck, or when we kill 24 insurgents in retaliation, or when I get a care package and I savor the thought of the unopened package all day long and put off opening it until I get back to my room at 8:30 that night, or when the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or the Secretary of the Army pays a visit (as they both did last week) and suddenly the headquarters is abuzz with soldiers cleaning and mopping and polishing and desperately trying to smooth the wrinkles in their uniforms.

Apart from things like that?  Monotony.  Sheer unadulterated monotony.

Later that night: As the afternoon wore on and I read more of 100 Years of Solitude, Marquez’s prose started to flow better and I’m enjoying it more than I did eight hours ago.  It is, I think, a 400-page novel that deserves to be read in one unbroken sitting.

As I was coming back from dinner tonight, I saw a flock of dragonflies hovering around my trailer.  (Is that what you call them, “a flock”?  Maybe “a cloud”?  Or, “a cluster”?)  I had never seen a concentration of dragonflies like this before; nor did I know that they ate other insects.  I stood on my porch for nearly three minutes, watching as they swirled and looped and dove and banked through the clouds of tiny bugs which have arrived after the earlier torrential rains which created the stagnant ponds near our trailers.  The dragonflies were truly things of delicate beauty.  They actually seemed to be cavorting as they fed on the gnats.

I went inside, stripped to my shorts, fell back on my screaming-spring cot, and fed on more Marquez.

War, Death, Laughter: Vassar Students React to Fobbit

Midway through writing my debut novel, Fobbit, I started to feel uneasy about what was making its way from my head to the page.

On the one hand, I had a well-meaning buffoon named Captain Abe Shrinkle who, despite his years of Army training, found himself in one scene giving way "completely to the dread and terror of close-order combat and releasing the clench on his bowels."  This, during a stand-off with a suicide bomber, could be construed as funny....or the gallows humor could go completely awry in a scene which was, at heart, deadly serious.  I mean, we're talking about suicide bombing here--the kind of attacks which came all too frequently during my year in Iraq.

Looking at my journal, I saw that on June 1, 2005, I wrote this:
In Kirkuk, a bomber plows his car into a U.S. consulate convoy. Two Iraqis die and 12 are hurt. A few hours, a New York Times reporter will write in an article that “Suicide bombings have surged to become the Iraqi insurgency's weapon of choice, with a staggering 90 attacks accounting for most of last month's 750 deaths at the militants' hands. Suicide attacks outpaced car bombings almost 2-to-1 in May, according to figures compiled by the U.S. military, The Times and other media outlets. In April, there were 69 suicide attacks, more than in the entire year preceding the June 28, 2004, hand-over of sovereignty. The frequency of suicide bombings here is unprecedented, exceeding that of Palestinian attacks against Israel and of other militant insurgencies, such as the Chechen rebellion in Russia. Baghdad saw five suicide bombings in a six-hour span Sunday.”
And there I am with my clown, Captain Shrinkle, drawing chuckles from readers in Chapter 2.  Could I, should I, make people laugh at war?  Fobbit has scenes in which people are killed in the most awful ways imaginable during a war that seemed to be nothing but a cycle of frustrations and setbacks.  But yet, at one point, I have a now-disgraced Shrinkle low-crawling through the post exchange, a bag of potato chips crushed against his chest, in an effort to avoid being seen by his former soldiers.  Screwball comedy during a war in which people, Allies and Iraqis alike, were killed by bombs made of screws and explosives.  How dare I?

I dared.

For starters, I remembered the legacy of Joseph Heller's novel Catch-22 which abounds with grim laughter.  And then there were the hours I spent in front of the television as a kid, laughing without constraint or conscience at M*A*S*H's doctors cracking jokes while elbow-deep in gore or Hogan's Heroes which treated the Holocaust like it was a caustic circus.  If they could pull it off, then maybe I could.  After nearly 10 years of depressing headlines, it felt like it might be time to start (cautiously at first) laughing at and with the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

This idea of using humor as one way to engage readers with serious subjects like death and war came up during a recent Skype session I conducted with an American Studies class at Vassar.  I'd been beamed electronically into the classroom at the invitation of instructor Peter Molin (of the fantastic Time Now blog) and Professor Maria Hohn (herself the author of a study about race, nationality and the military called GIs and Frauleins: the German-American Encounter in 1950s West Germany).  In the hour I spent with the students, I was impressed by their thoughtful questions and how they held me accountable for my art.  It's a rare delight for a writer to encounter deep readers like those I found at Vassar.

Professor Hohn was kind enough to share some of the students' written reactions to Fobbit and, with everyone's permission, I'm going to post two of them here--not for self-gratification (though I am truly grateful for these insightful reviews) but because Clyff Young and Sarah Warmbein articulate the humor-sobriety argument so much better than I've just attempted with my flailing words.  So, here we go--Clyff's response first, then Sarah's.

Warning: There be spoilers ahead.

*     *     *     *

I watch two political dramas on TV.  One of them is House of Cards.  The other is Veep.  House of Cards tells the story of Francis J. Underwood, a supremely ambitious, intelligent, and sociopathic politician whose tactical and manipulative genius is unmatched in all of Washington D.C.  Veep is about a struggling vice president who, like her staff and everyone else is D.C., is useless and incompetent.  Hilarity ensues.  Washington’s image wants to be that of House of Cards—the best and brightest cutthroat talent the nation has to offer.  To me (but what do I really know?) Washington is more like Veep.  Point being that the news media paints the military’s public portrait as a professional entity comprised of the cream of the crop, and Fobbit, like Veep, underscores a possible reality that, like in the world of politics, the army is rife with the ineffectual and inept, and constantly making a mess of things.

In the spirit of David Abrams, I think it is safe to use unsavory language in describing his work.  Fuckity fuck, Fobbit was amazing.  I faced one uniform moral conundrum throughout the book: Am I allowed to laugh at what is happening?  The characters may be fictional, and the situations—like Abe Shrinkle blowing up the fuel truck and “barbequing” an innocent “Local National” in the process—are, probably out of legal necessity, imagined, but everything seems so real.  From widespread incompetence to Duret’s headaches, the sense that what is happening is an account and not a novel is pervasive.  So when Lumley fires on the suicide bomber whose car is stuck underneath an Abrams tank and Shrinkle soils his underwear, what does it is say about me and the way that the war has affected the average civilian (me) when I can’t help but giggle?  Further, what about that passage, and others like it, is making me laugh?  Certainly, the language is clever and vulgar, which lends a humorous air to the book.  But behind the swearing and the army witticisms that an immature college sophomore find funny is real death.  Hundreds have been killed and maimed in Iraq and Afghanistan since 2001 due to suicide IED attacks like the one Abrams depicts.  I’ve seen it, we’ve all seen it, on the televised news, in magazines, and in newspapers, many times coming in the form of high-definition photos or videos.  I didn’t laugh then, but I am now, even though the violence in Fobbit is commensurate to the actual news coming out of Iraq and rendered in equally harrowing detail.

What separates Fobbit from reality, and in turn what makes it a hilarious read, is its humanity.  Every character, regardless of rank, has his or her eccentricities, the little things that are getting them through the war.  The American public doesn’t get to see the human interplay and individual complexity of the war.  All we get to see are well-oiled “Armies of One” constituting a “Global Force for Good.”  The “Moneymakers” appearing on CNN are robotic, ever-conscious of their impact on public opinion and promulgation of the military as America’s ultimate human resource.  Letting the public in on the average needs and qualms of the soldiers, their tics and fears, would perhaps make it easier to relate to the war.  But if that was the way it were, Fobbit wouldn’t be quirky and comic—it would just be sad, which isn’t to say that it is particularly uplifting (at all) to begin with.

I am not sure how I feel about how hard I laughed.  Is Fobbit funny because it is satirical, mocking the military?  Or is it funny because it is true?  How I read the novel hinged on those questions.  Sometimes I was disgusted at the obvious disconnect between the Iraq war and me.  Sometimes I felt relieved I didn’t have to be there.  And that might be the ultimate point: that Abrams’ fictional soldiers don’t know what to think of the war, to laugh or cry, and neither does the reader.  In any case, Fobbit is brilliant.  It is Slaughterhouse-Five for those who grew up with the Global War on Terror, showing the confused, ambiguous, ill-advised, and stupid nature of war and conflict with an effortless human touch shining through the brutality.

*     *     *     *

I was impressed and also taken aback at David Abrams’ Fobbit.  When I learned that the novel was a satire, I didn’t quite know what to expect in terms of how the author would use humor to deal with something as grim as the Iraq War.  At times I was pleasantly surprised, but at others I questioned Abrams’ use of the absurd.  For example, I found the names of the characters absolutely brilliant.  They each seemed to highlight (for me at least) the characters’ quirks and flaws: Shrinkle, the idiot coward; Lumley, disinterested and somewhat bland; Gooding, the goodie two-shoes; and Duret, an ambitious commander whose fortunes have taken a turn for the worse (I’m pretty sure the choice of making his name French was no accident).  However, some of the situations depicted in the book made me question whether or not humor is an appropriate tool to explore war, such as when Shrinkle shot the mentally-disabled Iraqi.  That whole incident was strange, the description of and reaction to the man’s snow pants and jester’s hat made me want to laugh (because he really did get it right, who sells snow pants in Baghdad?) but the man’s death and the lack of consequences for Shrinkle’s actions infuriated me.  I think it would have been useful in that instance to explore more deeply each character’s inner monologue after that death, but instead the reader is just left with a description of two elderly women weeping over the loss of someone they loved.  The only hint of anger against Shrinkle we see is from Duret much later and only after Shrinkle killed another civilian.

On the other hand however, I wonder if my questioning Abrams’ absurdity is only proof of Fobbit’s effectiveness.  As someone who has read more than her fair share about war and violence and genocide over the years, the fact that Abrams could make my stomach turn says something, although if I’m being honest I’m not entirely sure what.  One thing is certain though, Abrams managed to get beyond my own cynicism and numbness to the realities of war.  Fobbit was emotionally difficult, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to be wrestling with the novel for a long time to come.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

A Marital Division of Books: Courtney Elizabeth Mauk's Library

Reader:  Courtney Elizabeth Mauk
Location:  Manhattan apartment
Collection size:  400 or 500 (and steadily growing)
The one book I'd run back into a burning building to rescue:  Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates (I’m imagining mine is a signed first-edition)
Favorite book from childhood:  Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery
Guilty pleasure book:  I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith

I grew up in Ohio in a house crammed with books.  The bookcases my dad built on every wall of the living room actually sagged from the weight.  We spent weekends and vacations going to bookstores and almost never gave a book away.  I loved living in such a full house.  To me, books have always represented home.  They’re the last things I box up when I move, the first I unpack.

For the past ten years, I’ve lived in New York City.  In that time, I’ve had six different apartments.  First was the room in Harlem that fit a double bed and a folding table desk; I could squeeze between the two only if the desk chair was pushed in all the way.  Next, a creepy, dank room one block over, big but full of leftover furniture, none of which was useful, none of which I was permitted to throw out.  That was followed by a windowless bedroom in Bushwick, another closet-sized room in Bed-Stuy.  You get the picture.  By necessity, I had to get strict with my book addiction, an effort aided by my limited funds.  The Brooklyn Public Library became my library.  Only the most beloved titles were boxed up and taken from one apartment to the next, and even then, I had to periodically cull the stacks on my floor.

But now, finally, I have some room to expand.  After spending three years in a 500-square-foot place on the Upper West Side, my husband and I moved into a two-bedroom last summer.  And our library is spreading out.

In the living room we have three large bookcases and one small bookcase leftover from our last apartment.  One of the large bookcases belongs to me, one to my husband, and one’s communal, with the small bookcase for spillover.  The designations are rough.  For example, Russell Banks lives on my husband’s bookcase even though he’s one of my favorite authors.  My husband likes him, too, but his list of favorites is shorter than mine, so I’m willing to give him Banks.  When we first moved in, we put books together by author and genre.  I’ve never been so organized as to alphabetize, but I have a lot of respect for those who do.  Over time, our order has loosened.  Sometimes that bothers me and I’ll go on a grouping frenzy.  Most of the time, though, I’m OK with the encroaching chaos.

Communal Shelves
Let’s start with the communal bookcase.  From the top down, we have travel books, nonfiction, general fiction (most of these are books I’ve read but which didn’t win top placement on my bookcase), classics (fancy copies of Shakespeare and Edith Wharton, ragtag paperbacks of everyone else—someday we’ll upgrade), and poetry (many of these are from my grad school days; I’d love to grow our poetry section).  You’ll notice in the photos that we use our bookcases as display shelves, too, which would have been sacrilegious in my childhood home.  But we like the way the hodgepodge looks and don’t have much extra display space anyway.  As the library grows, we’ll have to figure something out.

His Shelves
On to my husband’s bookcase.  In addition to Banks, this is the home of Denis Johnson, Kazuo Ishiguro, George Saunders, Jeffrey Eugenides, Deborah Eisenberg, and Evan S. Connell.  The bookcase also contains a few travel books; copies of Spires, the literary journal my husband edited in college; and on the lower shelves, nonfiction (Jared Diamond, David Foster Wallace’s essays, Hyperbole and a Half) and assorted business books.

Her Shelves
My bookcase is in my office area, which is located in the corner of the living room, across from our dining table.  The top shelf used to be reserved for nonfiction (Joan Didion, Ellis Avery’s The Smoke Week, Stephen O’Connor’s Will My Name Be Shouted Out?, Adrian Nicole LeBlanc’s Random Family), but fiction has drifted up there (Alexis M. Smith’s Glaciers, Cary Holladay’s The Palace of Wasted Footsteps).  On the lower shelves, I have my canon: Mary Gaitskill, Joyce Carol Oates, Colum McCann, Ian McEwan, J.M. Coetzee.  There are sections for Kelly Braffet, Jennifer Egan, Tessa Hadley, Dan Chaon, Laura van den Berg.  All the Engine Books titles are here, grouped together in chronological order by publication date.  Also here are recent favorites, including: Caitlin Horrock’s This Is Not Your City, Cari Luna’s The Revolution of Every Day, Pamela Erens’ The Virgins, Claire Vaye Watkins’ Battleborn.

Favorites Shelf
My to-be-read books are laid on top of the rows and shelved when I’ve finished them.  Right now, these include Headlong by Ron MacLean and Girls I Know by Douglas Trevor.  Currently I’m reading The Empathy Exams by Leslie Jamison, so that gets the prized position of the windowsill next to my yellow reading chair.

After years of necessary deprivation, I’m pleased by how our library is growing.  We have a long way to go before the sagging shelves of my childhood, but for our first semi-permanent feeling NYC apartment, we’re doing a pretty good job of creating a space that feels settled and rooted, like home.

Courtney Elizabeth Mauk is the author of two novels, Orion’s Daughters (Engine Books, 2014) and Spark (Engine Books, 2012).  Her essays and stories have appeared in The Literary Review, PANK, Wigleaf, and Five Chapters, among others.  She lives in New York City and teaches at the Sackett Street Writers’ Workshop.  Click here to visit her website.

My Library is an intimate look at personal book collections.  Readers are encouraged to send high-quality photos (minimum 150 dpi) of their home libraries or bookshelves, along with a description of particular shelving challenges, quirks in sorting (alphabetically? by color?), number of books in the collection, and particular titles which are in the To-Be-Read pile.  Email for more information.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

15 Random, Belated Thoughts on The Pale King by David Foster Wallace

David Foster Wallace's posthumous novel The Pale King is boring.

The Pale King is funny, inventive, brilliant, engrossing.

The Pale King is both I. and II.  But not at the same time.

I started writing this "review" two years ago shortly after I finished reading The Pale King.  Why I never followed through and put all my initial thoughts down on paper at that time, I don't know.  Distraction, I guess.  Maybe I was on sweaty, bowel-cramping deadline to finish filing my taxes.  Maybe I got bored with my own words of conflicted praise about The Pale King.  Whatever.  But now I'm trying one more time because....well, because it's April 15--Tax Day here in the U.S.--and that is the fulcrum of The Pale King.  It seemed fitting to resurrect my fading memories of DFW's last book today of all days.

For those of you not in the know: RIP, David Foster Wallace.

The agents at the IRS Regional Examination Center in Peoria, Illinois, appear ordinary enough to newly arrived trainee David Foster Wallace.  But as he immerses himself in a routine so tedious and repetitive that new employees receive boredom-survival training, he learns of the extraordinary variety of personalities drawn to this strange calling.  And he has arrived at a moment when forces within the IRS are plotting to eliminate even what little humanity and dignity the work still has. (These words are not my own.  They were written by a person or persons working at, or hired by, Little, Brown whose job it is to write short paragraphs of condensed descriptions which will fit on the cramped real estate of the inside fold of the dust jacket, an abbreviation of plot designed to entice and persuade a casual, perhaps bored, bookstore browser or internet shopper or library patron to take an interest in and a gamble on the 548 pages bound between the covers and lightly hugged by the aforementioned dust jacket.  Jacket flap copy should be a nice, neat summation of tens of thousands of words.)

There is nothing nice, neat or easily-summarized about David Foster Wallace's work.  I can only imagine that poor, beleagured jacket-copy-writer faced with a task akin to stuffing greased, wriggling eels into a soup can.

But, yes, The Pale King is a novel about the I.R.S. and the tedium of white-collar labor.

Among other things.

David Foster Wallace wrote a novel about boredom by writing long paragraphs--huge, multi-page affairs which turn into a grey blur if you fan through the book, flipbook-style--and this is either brilliant or wrong-headed.  I'm still trying to decide.  I tend to think it was a deliberate choice on DFW's part--to lull us with dullness to make his point.  On page 85, he writes:
To me, at least in retrospect, the really interesting question is why dullness proves to be such a powerful impediment to attention. Why we recoil from the dull. Maybe it’s because dullness is intrinsically painful; maybe that’s where phrases like ‘deadly dull’ or ‘excrutiatingly dull’ come from. But there might be more to it. Maybe dullness is associated with psychic pain because something that’s dull or opaque fails to provide enough stimulation to distract people from some other, deeper type of pain that is always there, if only in an ambient low-level way, and which most of us spend nearly all our time and energy trying to distract ourselves from feeling, or at least from feeling directly or with our full attention.

A world with David Foster Wallace was a world with a great capacity to know itself and understand itself.  It was a better world than the one in which we now live, and yet there is a certain propriety to the fact that Wallace’s great work can now only be Infinite Jest.  His personal writings make clear that his era was that of television, creeping corporatism, addiction, and the decline of the welfare state—in other words, an era that ended sometime around when Infinite Jest began.  Infinite Jest is the great novel of that moment, it is the one Wallace could write as a native surveying his native land in his native tongue.  Anything else he wrote would have either been an elegy for those times or an investigation made by an outsider looking in on the lives of the next generations.  That is not to say that great work would not have been in Wallace’s future; it is only to say that any future great work would have been of a qualitative difference from the work he did from within his own era.  A similar sort of effect can be seen in the work of Wallace’s great idol, Don DeLillo, a writer who shares with Wallace the rare distinction of living into a world that he helped invent.  One imagines that, like DeLillo’s post-9/11 writing, Wallace’s post-Infinite Jest works would have been of considerable merit, but without a certain vitality that characterized the works that helped create the world in which he lives.  With the flood of personal information that has come out after Wallace’s suicide, it has become ever clearer exactly what a conjunction of personal circumstance, inspirational calling, and pure luck went into the creation of Infinite Jest.  It was a rare, perhaps even miraculous moment for American letters.  The fact of Wallace’s untimely demise will forever color our approaches to his career, the what-ifs will never completely cease to draw shadows over the books.  But none of that does a thing to change the fact that we cannot know how fortunate we are to have gotten from Wallace what we did.

The words in X are not mine.  They come from the rousing crescendo of Scott Esposito's contribution to the "Who Was David Foster Wallace?" symposium at The Quarterly Conversation.  If you have even a gnat's hair of interest in the life, work and critical reverberations of DFW, you will probably want to set aside an hour or three to dive into all the symposium offers.  Mr. Esposito maintains that Infinite Jest is Wallace's masterpiece--a claim which will be Amen'ed by a hundred-thousand fanboys and fangirls--and while I liked-bordering-on-loved IJ, I think Wallace's essay "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again" is the essential pinnacle of all his career strove for: the stinging humor, the determinedly caustic criticism of American materialism, the fascinating self-deprecation, the corporate takedown.  It is everything The Pale King reaches for, going up on its soft tiptoes at the end of its stubby infant legs.  "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again" also happens to be the first thing of Wallace's I ever read and like all other my cultural firsts--Captain and Tennille's "Love Will Keep Us Together," Season 1 of Twin Peaks, and the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup circa 1968--nothing else can top that initial experience.  I yearned for just half-a-gigawatt of ASFTINDA's vibrancy while working my way through The Pale King.  It was, I'll admit, an unfair mirror to hold up against the pages.

I read The Pale King in hardcover.  The paperback version, however, has four "previously unpublished scenes."  I've only read one of them, thanks to the good people at The Millions.  It's typical of the chattering, run-on nature of the rest of the novel, which you will either love or hate, depending on your tolerance of run-on chatter-lit.  Several nice things in this "scene," though: it describes Charles Lehrl's upbringing in Decatur, "a city of such relentless uninteresting squalor and poverty that Peorians point with genuine pride at their city’s failure to be as bad as Decatur, whose air stank either of hog processing or burnt corn depending on the wind, whose patrician class distinguished itself by chewing gum with their front teeth."  From an airplane, DFW shows us "the flannel plains and alphabets of irrigation pipes laid down in the bean fields."  And then there's the moment when Lehrl and his siblings climb the backside of a billboard advertising a Bob's Big Boy restaurant in order to spy on albino children throwing rocks and shards of glass at soon-to-be-slaughtered cows.  Lehrl's spyhole is the Big Boy's front left incisor.  See, it's that specificity of detail which makes David Foster Wallace's work burn alive for me.

That mention of "flannel plains" is an echo back to the novel's opening paragraph:
Past the flannel plains and blacktop graphs and skylines of canted rust, and past the tobacco-​brown river overhung with weeping trees and coins of sunlight through them on the water downriver, to the place beyond the windbreak, where untilled fields simmer shrilly in the a.m. heat: shattercane, lamb’s‑quarter, cutgrass, sawbrier, nutgrass, jimsonweed, wild mint, dandelion, foxtail, muscadine, spinecabbage, goldenrod, creeping charlie, butter-​print, nightshade, ragweed, wild oat, vetch, butcher grass, invaginate volunteer beans, all heads gently nodding in a morning breeze like a mother’s soft hand on your cheek. An arrow of starlings fired from the windbreak's thatch. The glitter of dew that stays where it is and steams all day. A sunflower, four more, one bowed, and horses in the distance standing rigid and still as toys. All nodding. Electric sounds of insects at their business. Ale-colored sunshine and pale sky and whorls of cirrus so high they cast no shadow. Insects all business all the time. Quartz and chert and schist and chondrite iron scabs in granite. Very old land. Look around you. The horizon trembling, shapelesss. We are all of us brothers.
In my copy of The Pale King, there is a star inked in the margin, indicating my love for that opening paragraph.  I loved it then, and I love it now.  Except maybe that last sentence.  It feels out of place to me.

Another ink-starred passage comes less than 20 pages later when Claude Sylvanshine stands in the aisle of a plane (a thirty-seater from something called Consolidated Thrust Regional Lines) ready to de-plane.  This paragraph is genius:
And stood—having squeezed by the powdery older lady, she being the type that waits in her seat until all others have deplaned and then exits alone, with a counterfeit dignity —holding his effects in an aisle whose crammed front portion was all regional business travelers, men of business, willfully homely midwestern men on downstate sales calls or returning from the Chicago HQs of companies whose names end with '‑co,' men for whom landings like this yaw‑wobbled horror just past are business as usual. Paunched and blotchy men in double‑knit brown suits and tan suits with attaché cases ordered from in‑flight catalogues. Men whose soft faces fit their jobs like sausage in its meaty casing. Men who instruct pocket recorders to take a memo, men who look at their watches out of reflex, men with red foreheads all mashed standing in a metal chute as the props' hum descends the tonal scale and ventilation ceases, this the type of commuter airplane whose stairs must be rolled up alongside before the door opens, for legal reasons. The glazed impatience of businessmen standing closer to strangers than they would ever choose to, chests and backs nearly touching, suit bags slung over shoulders, briefcases knocking together, more scalp than hair, breathing one another's smells. Men who cannot bear to wait or stand still forced to stand still all together and wait, men with calfskin Day‑Timers and Franklin Quest Time Management certificates and the classic look of unwilled tight confinement, the look of a local merchant on the verge of an SSI‑withholding lapse, undercapitalized, illiquid, trying to cover the monthly nut, fish thrashing in the nets of their own obligations.

In his Editor's Note to The Pale King, Michael Pietsch said DFW once told him, while working on the novel, it was "like wrestling sheets of balsa wood in a high wind."

I was going to limit this to just 15 random thoughts about The Pale King--because, you know, April 15--but now that I'm into it, it's hard for me to stop.

The Pale King is sometimes, but not frequently, laugh-out-loud funny.  To wit, this opening paragraph to a news story in the Peoria Journal Star: "Supervisors at the IRS's regional complex in Lake James township are trying to determine why no one noticed that one of their employees had been sitting dead at his desk for four days before anyone asked if he was feeling all right."

I like to think that was the IRS agent who processed my tax return two years ago.

Trailer Park Tuesday: The Farm by Tom Rob Smith

Welcome to Trailer Park Tuesday, a showcase of new book trailers and, in a few cases, previews of book-related movies.

If you were tempted by my tease of Tom Rob Smith's new novel in the latest edition of Front Porch Books, then this slick, haunting video should firmly set the hook.  The trailer for The Farm is one of the best of the year; if you didn't know this was for a book, you'd swear it was promoting a new Hollywood movie.  Though some of us can't afford the bundles of money which have been sunk into The Farm's trailer, it's nice to see a marketing department believing so strongly in a novel that they're willing to go all-out with its promotion.  The plot of the novel in a nutshell: Until he receives a disturbing phone call from his father, a young man believes his parents are enjoying a peaceful retirement on a farm in Sweden.  The father tells him that his mother has had a psychotic breakdown and was committed to a mental hospital before she checked herself out and disappeared.  The son prepares to fly to Sweden, but then he's contacted by his mother who tells him that everything he just heard from his father is a lie and that he's the dangerous one.  It's a great setup for a story that's bound to keep readers wobbling on shifting ground, trying to guess what's true and what's false.  The trailer provides some clues to the sinister truth behind the parents' conflicting stories and culminates in a series of disturbing images worthy of filmmaker David Lynch.

Monday, April 14, 2014

My First Time: Jessica Levine

My First Time is a regular feature in which writers talk about virgin experiences in their writing and publishing careers, ranging from their first rejection to the moment of holding their first published book in their hands.  Today’s guest is Jessica Levine.  Her debut novel, The Geometry of Love, is just out from She Writes Press.  Her stories, essays, poetry, and translations have appeared in many journals, including Green Hills Literary Lantern, North American Review, The Southern Review, and Spoon River Poetry Review.  She earned her Ph.D. in English at the University of California, Berkeley.  She is the author of Delicate Pursuit: Literary Discretion in Henry James and Edith Wharton (Routledge, 2002) and has translated several books from French and Italian into English.  She lives in the Bay Area.  Click here to visit her website.

My First Short Story and the Mess It Wrought

When I went to Paris for my junior year, I was fortunate in that my mother had a close friend there who could host me while I looked for an apartment and settled in.  When Françoise Jouret embraced me at the Charles de Gaulle airport that September morning of 1975, I felt I had found a substitute mother.  She, her daughter Colette, and her second husband formed a household I would find fascinating.  Their lifestyle, with three meals a day served on pressed linens by their Cordon Bleu-trained Fifi, was aristocratic, their politics were liberal, and their dinner parties always included someone shocking to the establishment, giving everyone at the table a reliable frisson.  All this was rich material for a budding writer, and by the end of the year I had my first short story, which I submitted to a campus fiction contest upon my return to college.  When it won a prize, my mother excitedly sent it to Françoise, who showed it to her daughter.  I had written nothing to offend, and the Jouret women enjoyed my success and the gentle portrait I'd drawn of them.

Things took a different turn when I returned to France after graduation.  The more I got to know Françoise and her family, the more I wanted to satirize them.  Colette, in her bouffant skirts and Peter Pan collar blouses, lived the life of a cloistered princess, professing her desire to be an actress yet unwilling to get her hands dirty in the complicated world of the theater.  Her Mormon step-father, who always greeted me at the door saying, "Enter and be saved," was completely out of place, and I gathered Françoise had married him for practical not romantic reasons.  As for the ancient and deaf Fifi, her tireless service from dawn until nightfall reminded me of stories about life at Versailles.  The French caste system had survived 1968 intact.

My rewrite targeted Colette, who enjoyed teasing me by calling me "Trigorin," after the character in Chekhov's Seagull, a writer who ceaselessly takes notes on those around him.  The more she teased me, the more I took mental notes plotting revenge.  My rewrite twisted every fact available in the direction of satire, but I told myself I had no intention of showing this second version to the Jourets or anyone else.  Then one evening there was a knock on my door: Colette had dropped in to visit.  While I was making tea in one room, she rifled through my desk and found my manuscript.  I tried to grab it away from her but she wouldn't hand it over.  And I let her leave with it.

The consequences were disastrous.  Furious, Colette transmitted to me, through her mother, the message that she would never see me again.  Françoise asked to meet me at a café, where she told me off.  What I had done was unpardonable.  In the future, she would be there in an emergency, but there would be no more dinner invitations.  I was no longer welcome in their home.

I was devastated by the stupidity of my own actions and surprised, as I felt I hadn't done anything different from what my Paris-based heroes⎯Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin, Hemingway—had done in their autobiographical fiction.  What I hadn't seen was that my subjects were too close to my heart for me to have risked my relationship with them.  In the following years I became sensitized to this issue, which I have often seen other writers struggle with.  What will my mother think? is the frequent question.  My sister, husband, father?  As contemporary writing becomes ever more personal, the risk/reward equation of using autobiographical material merits deep attention.  Ultimately, I have found that the safest thing is to make sure I have at least two, if not three or four, tributaries to every character I create.  At the same time, I know there is no safeguard.  Fiction works like a Rorschach test: everyone you know will see him/herself reflected there, no matter how much alchemy you bring to the process of transmutation.  Ultimately writing is about taking risks and you have to be prepared to take the consequences.

Note: This piece has been written as a morality tale about the dangers of writing fiction.  The characters and events in it are fictitious, and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Author photo by Nan Phelps

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Sunday Sentence: Memory Wall by Anthony Doerr

Simply put, the best sentence(s) I've read this past week, presented out of context and without commentary.

Drops of dried blood are spattered on the linoleum beside the hospital bed; they look like tiny brown sawblades.

"Procreate, Generate" from Memory Wall by Anthony Doerr

Friday, April 11, 2014

Friday Freebie: Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 by Francine Prose

Congratulations to Beverly Sizemore, winner of last week's Friday Freebie--a bundle of three novels: The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry by Gabrielle Zevin, The Impossible Lives of Greta Wells by Andrew Sean Greer, and The Road From Gap Creek by Robert Morgan.

This week's book contest prize is Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 by Francine Prose.  I have TWO brand-new hardback copies of the novel to give away to two lucky readers.  Here's more about the new prose from Prose:
A richly imagined and stunningly inventive literary masterpiece of love, art, and betrayal, exploring the genesis of evil, the unforeseen consequences of love, and the ultimate unreliability of storytelling itself. Paris in the 1920s. It is a city of intoxicating ambition, passion, art, and discontent, where louche jazz venues like the Chameleon Club draw expats, artists, libertines, and parvenus looking to indulge their true selves. It is at the Chameleon where the striking Lou Villars, an extraordinary athlete and scandalous cross-dressing lesbian, finds refuge among the club's loyal denizens, including the rising photographer Gabor Tsenyi, the socialite and art patron Baroness Lily de Rossignol, and the caustic American writer Lionel Maine. As the years pass, their fortunes--and the world itself--evolve. Lou falls in love and finds success as a race car driver. Gabor builds his reputation with vivid and imaginative photographs, including a haunting portrait of Lou and her lover, which will resonate through all their lives. As the exuberant twenties give way to darker times, Lou experiences another metamorphosis that will warp her earnest desire for love and approval into something far more sinister: collaboration with the Nazis. Told in a kaleidoscope of voices, Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 evokes this incandescent city with brio, humor, and intimacy.
Gary Shteyngart, never one for a bland blurb, had this to say about the novel: “Prose’s latest book goes further in destroying the concept of a single truth than Rashomon.  It’s also an uproarious portrait of Paris from the mid-twenties to the Second World War.  Prose has always been adept at slaying sacred cows; in this book, she pretty much machine-guns them.”

If you’d like a chance at winning a copy of Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932, simply email your name and mailing address to

Put FRIDAY FREEBIE in the e-mail subject line.  One entry per person, please.  Despite its name, the Friday Freebie runs all week long and remains open to entries until midnight on April 17, at which time I’ll draw the winning name.  I’ll announce the lucky reader on April 18.  If you’d like to join the mailing list for the once-a-week newsletter, simply add the words “Sign me up for the newsletter” in the body of your email.  Your email address and other personal information will never be sold or given to a third party (except in those instances where the publisher requires a mailing address for sending Friday Freebie winners copies of the book).

Want to double your odds of winning?  Get an extra entry in the contest by posting a link to this webpage on your blog, your Facebook wall or by tweeting it on Twitter.  Once you’ve done any of those things, send me an additional e-mail saying “I’ve shared” and I’ll put your name in the hat twice.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Front Porch Books: April 2014 edition

Front Porch Books is a monthly tally of books--mainly advance review copies (aka "uncorrected proofs" and "galleys")--I've received from publishers, but also sprinkled with packages from Book Mooch, Amazon and other sources.  Because my dear friends, Mr. FedEx and Mrs. UPS, leave them with a doorbell-and-dash method of delivery, I call them my Front Porch Books.  In this digital age, ARCs are also beamed to the doorstep of my Kindle via NetGalley and Edelweiss.  Note: most of these books won't be released for another 2-6 months; I'm just here to pique your interest and stock your wish lists. Cover art and opening lines may change before the book is finally released.

Fourth of July Creek by Smith Henderson (Ecco):  Henderson's debut novel has been on my book radar for more than six months--ever since I heard editor Lee Boudreaux mention it on Brad Listi's Other People podcast.  I can't remember exactly what Ms. Boudreaux said during that interview, but I believe the words "epic," "beautiful," and "Montana" were breathed into the microphone.  That's all I needed to hear.  Ping! went my radar.  And now I finally have an advance copy of this big, beautiful novel about Montana in my hands and I couldn't be more excited.  Let's begin with this bit of Blurbworthiness from Philipp Meyer (himself the author of the epic novel The Son): “This book left me awestruck; a stunning debut which reads like the work of a writer at the height of his power. Begins with the story of one struggling man and his family and soon seems to encompass and address all of modern America's problems.  Fourth of July Creek is a masterful achievement and Smith Henderson is certain to end up a household name.”  Here's the Jacket Copy:
After trying to help Benjamin Pearl, an undernourished, nearly feral eleven-year-old boy living in the Montana wilderness, social worker Pete Snow comes face-to-face with the boy's profoundly disturbed father, Jeremiah. With courage and caution, Pete slowly earns a measure of trust from this paranoid survivalist itching for a final conflict that will signal the coming End Times. But as Pete's own family spins out of control, Pearl's activities spark the full-blown interest of the FBI, putting Pete at the center of a massive manhunt from which no one will emerge unscathed. In this shattering and iconic American novel, Smith Henderson explores the complexities of freedom, community, grace, suspicion, and anarchy, brilliantly depicting our nation's disquieting and violent contradictions.
And the Opening Lines:
     The cop flicked his cigarette to the dirt and gravel road in front of the house, and touched back his hat over his hairline as the social worker drove up in a dusty Toyota Corolla. Through the dirty window, he spotted some blond hair falling, and he hiked in his gut, hoping that the woman in there would be something to have a look at. Which is to say he did not expect what got out: a guy in his late twenties, maybe thirty, pulling on a denim coat against the cold morning air blowing down the mountain, ducking back into the car for a moment, reemerging with paperwork. His brown corduroy pants faded out over his skinny ass, the knees too. He pulled that long hair behind his ears with his free hand and sauntered over.
     "Name's Pete," the social worker said, tucking the clipboard and manila folder under his arm, shaking the cop's hand. "We're usually women," he added, smiling with an openness that put the cop at ill ease.

We Were Flying to Chicago by Kevin Clouther (Black Balloon Publishing):  Kevin Clouther's collection of short stories is further evidence that some of the most interesting literary fiction is coming out of small presses like Black Balloon Publishing.  I've sampled paragraphs from several of the stories in this book--sort of like picking out pieces from a box of chocolates, taking one bite, then putting it back and moving on to the next caramel--and I can confidently report that this is writing that's unmistakably alive and feral.  Here, for example are the Opening Lines to the title story:
For no good reason, we were flying to Chicago. Our connecting flight had already left, and there was no hope of another that night. The flight attendant was a cruel sentinel. Stubbornly unattractive, she skulked in the corner, preemptively dismissing the complaints we all were thinking.
I just love that phrase "stubbornly unattractive."  Succinct and fresh, it paints a clear picture of this "cruel sentinel" in just two words.  Or consider this opening paragraph to the story "I Know Who You Are":
I was sitting at a desk in New York, an enormous desk with too many small things on it. The smallest thing was a paperclip. I mauled the paperclip. It was the only one. I turned it into an S and then a triangle. With my index finger, I launched the triangle into the door. The paperclip bounced cleanly onto the carpet.
Haven't we all mauled paperclips at one point in our lives?  I'm attracted to Clouther's writing by its blunt, simple style--which I know can be a turn-off to some readers.  Dare I say that I hear Raymond Carver and Ernest Hemingway echoing in my head?  Which, again, are high compliments in my book.  Blurbworthiness: "Kevin Clouther's remarkable collection illustrates, page by page, the unique joys of reading short fiction. By turns subversive and poignant, darkly humorous and deeply moving, these ten stories show us the author's expansive range and the heart that drives his imagination. Clouther's beautifully rendered characters will stay with you long after you've finished the book--you'll see them on the street, in the office, in your mirror."  (Bret Anthony Johnston, author of the forthcoming Remember Me Like This)

Crooked River by Valerie Geary (William Morrow):  I was impressed with Valerie Geary's way with words right from the Opening Lines of this novel:
We found the woman floating facedown in an eddy where Crooked River made a slow bend north, just a stone skip away from the best swimming hole this side of anywhere.  Her emerald-green blouse was torn half open and her dark, pleated skirt was bunched around her waist, revealing skin puckered and gray, legs bloated and bruised.  Her hair writhed like black snakes in the current. I poked her back with a stick. Not mean, but gentle, the way you might poke someone who's asleep.  She skimmed the surface, bumped against a half-submerged rock, and returned to where Ollie and I stood at the water's edge.  She bobbed there in the shallows in a tangle of brown leaves, her arms outstretched, fingers reaching, and it seemed like she was settling in to wait for someone else to come find her.  Like maybe we weren't good enough, Ollie and me, just two girls with skinny arms and skinny legs who didn't know the first thing about death.  We did, though.  We knew more than we wanted to anyway.
Apologies if you're eating breakfast while you read this; I should have warned you first.  A bloated body in a river is never a good way to start off the day.  However, a good book is always the best way to begin a morning, right?  Here's more about what you'll find along the banks of Crooked River, from the Jacket Copy:
With the inventiveness and emotional power of Promise Not to Tell, The Death of Bees, and After Her, a powerful literary debut about family and friendship, good and evil, grief and forgiveness. Still grieving the sudden death of their mother, Sam and her younger sister Ollie McAlister move from the comforts of Eugene to rural Oregon to live in a meadow in a teepee under the stars with Bear, their beekeeper father. But soon after they arrive, a young woman is found dead floating in Crooked River, and the police arrest their eccentric father for the murder. Fifteen-year-old Sam knows that Bear is not a killer, even though the evidence points to his guilt. Unwilling to accept that her father could have hurt anyone, Sam embarks on a desperate hunt to save him and keep her damaged family together. Ollie, too, knows that Bear is innocent. The Shimmering have told her so. One followed her home from her mom's funeral and refuses to leave. Now, another is following Sam. Both spirits warn Ollie: the real killer is out there, closer and more dangerous than either girl can imagine. Told in Sam and Ollie's vibrant voices, Crooked River is a family story, a coming of age story, a ghost story, and a psychological mystery that will touch reader's hearts and keep them gripped until the final thrilling page.

An Untamed State by Roxane Gay (Grove/Atlantic):  There are anticipated books, and then there are Anticipated Books.  You know, the ones which cause you to pull out your pocket calendars and scribble boxes around publication dates, pressing hard with the red ink pen until the paper tears.  Roxane Gay's debut novel is one of those books.  I've been in a restless state of impatience for what seems like years (though it's probably only been a matter of months), ever since I heard the news my publisher (Grove/Atlantic) would be releasing this novel about a rich Haitian-American woman who is kidnapped and held for ransom.  I myself feel like I've been tied to a chair in a dank basement, held at gunpoint while I wait for bags of money to be delivered to my kidnappers.  And now the day is here at last (or will be, for the rest of you, when An Untamed State is published in May).  The Opening Lines prove the payoff was worth the wait:
      Once upon a time, in a far off land, I was kidnapped by a gang of fearless yet terrified young men with so much impossible hope beating inside their bodies it burned their very skin and strengthened their will right through their bones.
      They held me captive for thirteen days.
      They wanted to break me.
      It was not personal.
      I was not broken.
      This is what I tell myself.
This is easily one of the best openings I've read this year; and the novel just gets better from there as we see the narrator, Mireille, attacked and ripped away from her husband and son while on their way to a beach outing.  Their car is surrounded by three black Land Cruisers: “The doors of all three trucks opened at the same time and men we did not know spilled out, all limbs and gunmetal.”  The men approach Mireille's car and bash out the windshield with the butts of their guns. “Their bodies glowed with anger,” Gay writes as she sends us into the heart of her novel, propulsive sentence by propulsive sentence. I have to agree with Tayari Jones (Silver Sparrow) when she says, “From the astonishing first line to the final scene, An Untamed State is magical and dangerous.  I could not put it down.  Pay attention to Roxane Gay; she's here to stay.”  Still not convinced?   Okay, what do I have to do--persuade you with the Jacket Copy?
Mireille Duval Jameson is living a fairy tale. The strong-willed youngest daughter of one of Haiti’s richest sons, she has an adoring husband, a precocious infant son, by all appearances a perfect life. The fairy tale ends one day when Mireille is kidnapped in broad daylight by a gang of heavily armed men, in front of her father’s Port au Prince estate. Held captive by a man who calls himself The Commander, Mireille waits for her father to pay her ransom. As it becomes clear her father intends to resist the kidnappers, Mireille must endure the torments of a man who resents everything she represents. An Untamed State is a novel of privilege in the face of crushing poverty, and of the lawless anger that corrupt governments produce. It is the story of a willful woman attempting to find her way back to the person she once was, and of how redemption is found in the most unexpected of places.

The Farm by Tom Rob Smith (Grand Central Publishing):  Though I'm not familiar with Tom Rob Smith's novels (his Child 44 still sits unread on my shelf), the premise of The Farm is one that seems guaranteed to send me into his pages.  Here's the Jacket Copy:
Until the moment he receives a frantic call from his father, Daniel believed his parents were headed into a peaceful, well-deserved retirement. They had sold their home and business in London and bid farewell to England, setting off to begin life anew on a remote, bucolic farm in rural Sweden. But with that phone call, everything changes. Your mother's not well, his father tells him. She's been imagining things--terrible, terrible things. She has had a psychotic breakdown and been committed to a mental hospital. Daniel prepares to rush to Sweden on the first available flight. Before he can board the plane, his father contacts him with even more frightening news: his mother has discharged herself from hospital and he doesn't know where she is. Then his mother calls: "I'm sure your father has spoken to you. Everything that man has told you is a lie. I'm not mad. I don't need a doctor. I need the police. I'm about to board a flight to London. Meet me at Heathrow." Caught between his parents, and unsure of who to believe or trust, Daniel becomes his mother's unwilling judge and jury as she tells him an urgent tale of secrets, of lies, of a horrible crime and a conspiracy that implicates his own father.
Here are the Opening Lines:
      Until that phone call it had been an ordinary day. Laden with groceries, I was walking home through a neighborhood of London, just south of the river. It was a stifling August evening and when the phone rang I considered ignoring it, keen to hurry home and shower. Curiosity got the better of me so I slowed, sliding the phone out of my pocket, pressing it against my ear–sweat pooling on the screen. It was my dad. He’d recently moved to Sweden and the call was unusual; he rarely used his mobile and it would’ve been expensive to call London. My dad was crying. I came to an abrupt stop, dropping the grocery bag. I’d never heard him cry before. My parents had always been careful not to argue or lose their temper in front of me. In our household there were no furious rows or tearful fights. I said:
      ‘Your mother...She’s not well.’
      ‘Mum’s sick?’
      ‘It’s so sad.’
      ‘Sad because she’s sick? Sick how? How’s Mum sick?’
      Dad was still crying. All I could do was dumbly wait until he said:
      ‘She’s been imagining things–terrible, terrible things.’

Orion's Daughters by Courtney Elizabeth Mauk (Engine Books):  Courtney Elizabeth Mauk's debut was aptly titled Spark, and, judging by this new novel, she has kindled the start of a solid career in storytelling.  Dan Chaon, author of Await Your Reply, apparently agrees with me: "It's clear to me that Courtney Elizabeth Mauk is going to be an important new voice of her generation." As described in Orion's Daughters' Jacket Copy, Mauk's new work is about how our past echoes into our present:
A postcard arrives straight out of her past, forcing Carrie to confront her commune upbringing alongside Amelia, the almost-sister she worshipped and lost. Desperate to keep her daughter close as her marriage disintegrates, Carrie must come to understand how the choices made by a well-meaning but misguided community have defined her life since, and threaten to forever.
We get a taste of Mauk's natural way with words in the Opening Lines:
From the time we were small, Amelia had a knack for storytelling. She could string words together like the pastel candies on the necklace she wore as a bracelet, twisted four times around her skinny wrist. Like those candies, her words never split or cracked, they never fell off into the grass and were lost. I did not have her skill. Two days after her grandfather gave us those necklaces mine had been destroyed by my sweet tooth and my carelessness.
Orion's Daughters is told in a series of brief chapters, some only a page long, which have the short, sweet crunch of beads on a candy necklace.  The novel officially publishes in May, but you can get a copy right now, through the publisher.  Click here to see the exclusive deal at the Engine Books website.

Scouting for the Reaper by Jacob M. Appel (Black Lawrence Press):  Jacob M. Appel, winner of the Hudson Prize, had me hooked with the penguins in his short story, "Hazardous Cargoes," whose Opening Lines go like this:
      Know your load.
      That’s rule numero uno in this business, which is why I make them count the penguins out in front of me one at a time. I’m not going to be the schmuck who shows up in Orlando two birds short of a dinner party. Or the screw-up who's got to explain to the highway patrol exactly how sixty kilos of coke ended up in his rig without his noticing. Short John Silver used to tell about one fellow who kept trying to turn his radio off, over and over again, but it just wouldn't shut off, and when he pulled into a rest stop for the night, he realized he'd got a ten-piece mariachi band camping out in his trailer. So I always insist on a comprehensive inventory. And the guys at the zoo grumble about it, giving me looks as icy as the day is hot, but they do it. So I know I’m pulling out of Houston with exactly forty-two Gentoo penguins, seventeen Jamaican land iguanas, four tuataras from New Zealand, and a pair of rare, civet-like mammals called linsangs. No more, no less.
Most of the other first lines in this collection of short stories are no less hook-y:
      Miss Stanley was new to the ninth grade that autumn, and we could all sense that she wasn't cut out for it.  ("Choose Your Own Genetics")
      The woman who was not my mother was named Sheila Stanton and at the age of nineteen she was held captive for ninety-one days by the Red Ribbon Strangler.  ("Creve Coeur")
      Nothing sells tombstones like a Girl Scout in uniform.  ("Scouting for the Reaper")
      George had handled their taxes. All year long, he tucked receipts and invoices into a battle-scarred manila envelope with a string-tie seal that he kept in his lower desk drawer alongside the church-warden pipes he hadn't smoked in two decades and the July 1958 copy of Playboy that he'd shoplifted as a teenager.  ("Ad Valorem")
      Another family crisis: The rabbit goes blind.  ("Rods and Cones")
I don't know about you, but when I see authors wield this much control and authority over their fiction from the first sentence, I just know the rest of the book will have a satisfying pay-off.  So, I'll just leave it at that and let Appel's sentences be the catalyst that compels you to buy the Reaper.

Savage Girl by Jean Zimmerman (Viking):  Jean Zimmerman follows up her debut novel, The Orphanmaster, with this enthralling story of a feral girl let loose in Gilded Age New York.  As I look back over this blog post, I realize I've used the word "feral" several times (along with "Untamed," of course).  This month, I must be drawn to dangerous stories and characters who need to be held at bay with whip and chair.  At any rate, here's the Jacket Copy to explain the wild roars of Savage Girl:
Jean Zimmerman’s new novel tells of the dramatic events that transpire when an alluring, blazingly smart eighteen-year-old girl named Bronwyn, reputedly raised by wolves in the wilds of Nevada, is adopted in 1875 by the Delegates, an outlandishly wealthy Manhattan couple, and taken back East to be civilized and introduced into high society. Bronwyn hits the highly mannered world of Edith Wharton–era Manhattan like a bomb. A series of suitors, both young and old, find her irresistible, but the willful girl’s illicit lovers begin to turn up murdered. Zimmerman’s tale is narrated by the Delegate’s son, a Harvard anatomy student. The tormented, self-dramatizing Hugo Delegate speaks from a prison cell where he is prepared to take the fall for his beloved Savage Girl. This narrative—a love story and a mystery with a powerful sense of fable—is his confession.
Here's how Hugo's confession begins in Savage Girl's Opening Lines:
Manhattan. May 19, 1876
      I wait for the police in the study overlooking Gramercy Park, the body prone on the floor a few feet away. Outside, rain has cooled the green spring evening. In here the heat is stifling.
      Midnight. I’ve been in this room before, many times in the course of my twenty-two years. The Turkish rug on the floor, the Empire chairs, the shelves of uncracked books, all familiar to me. A massive mahogany partners desk, from England, in the William IV style, installed as proof of the late victim’s diligence, a rich boy’s insistence that he is, after all, engaged in honest work.
      Of the dead man, a schoolmate of mine, I feature two possibilities. She killed him, in which case they will surely hang her. Either that or I killed him, in a fit of madness the specifics of which I have no memory.
Blurbworthiness: “A richly detailed 19th-century murder mystery and a fresh gloss on the Pygmalion fable, all in one. The story, narrated by a man who may or may not be a serial killer, compels you to keep turning the pages all the way to its shocking–and satisfying–end.”  (Christina Baker Kline, author of Orphan Train)