I grew up on Martha's Vineyard in a house as big and loud as a parade - the clamor resonated along the entire New England coastline. Calliope whistling, batons soaring, trumpets bleating, everything tapping and humming, orchestrated chaos, but we could afford it. My mother was rich, her father's money falling from the sky like ticker tape, gently suppressing the ordinary consequences of all that noise.
Lovely, huh? One phrase best describes May's debut novel pick by Elizabeth Kelly (Twelve) - over the top.
The writing, the characters and story line are among the most flamboyant I've come across in some time. In this story of redemption, young Collie Flanagan serves as the plain vanilla center in the midst of his fabulously wealthy and eccentric family: his adulterous, boozing father, his cruel Commie mother, a pigeon-racing uncle, his morally upright prep-school failure of a younger brother, and the Falcon, Collie's newspaper baron grandfather whose largesse enables them all. In the midst of such a flamboyant family, Collie's only wish is to be ordinary. He manages sane stability until a tragic accident leaves him reeling, forcing him to figure out what it 'means to be a man'.
Apologize, Apologize! is a comi-tragedy, unwieldy in places yet elegaic in others. The first half of the story rips along with humorous alacrity, then takes a sudden turn toward darksome when the tragedy occurs. For me, this fulcrum is when the story comes alive; the first half seems a 'getting to know you' dance filled with anecdotes of growing up Flanagan that left me itchy for substance. My prickliness was enhanced by the somewhat superficial and stereotypical sketches of some characters (must all Irish be rip-roaring drunks?) and the somewhat unbelievable events. But the second half builds empathy for the protagonist who, until then, seemed pallid in comparison to his crazy kin. Indeed, I found Collie upstaged by his more colorful - and likable - brother Bingo. One of the saddest, funny books I've read - the story and the characters haunted me for several days and made me reflect on the graces of being less than superordinary.
The Author... Elizabeth Kelly is a Canadian journalist and former magazine editor. She lives in an old house in a small village in eastern Ontario with her husband, four children, dogs, cats, and fish.
The Press... Eh, I know, as an imprint of the Hatchett Book Group, TWELVE is quasi-Indy press. But I've wanted to read a book published by TWELVE for some time due to their mission of publishing one book a month in order to focus on the editorial and marketing attention such books deserve. APOLOGIZE, APOLOGIZE! is one of its rare fiction offerings.
Take a gander at this fine debut piece o' fiction, if for no other reason than the sheer joy of reading the elegant prose.
What I saw this morning on my way to work - red Rohrshach blotches splattering the sidewalk like breadcrumbs I followed, the drops trickling smaller, wetter, trailing four blocks past Sylvie's pawn and check cashing, the bus stop across from Seven Eleven where my friend, now dead, once worked, jaywalking across to Stearns Fine Jewelry, Starbuck's, the Hippodrome, past nurses and docs scrubbed blue and green, I followed, hound-hungry, ruby drops sparkling in fine spatter to emergency then bought a latte, went to work...
So what did you see on your way to work?
THE READING... MIDDLEMARCH by George Eliot. A dense but fascinating read. Glad I'm reading this with the Project 100 Fill in the Gaps crew - it's tough going in spots. Finished my MAY DEBUT novel pick - look for my review later this week.
THE WRITING... Working on Chapter 2 of PURE. Putting my brain cells through this novel. Also readying shorts and poems for flight into the world.
NATHAN BRANSFORD blogged a provocative post about writers and the way they self-identify as writers. He notes people don't tend to define themselves by their hobbies; rather, people tend to identify themselves by their work.
As he states...
"You can see this in the way people talk about writing: some people compare it to oxygen, i.e. something that they can't live without. They don't say, "I like to write, it's fun, I enjoy it." They say, unequivocally, "I am a writer. It's who I am."
I'm going to be honest here and say that while I don't judge people when they define themselves as writer, whatever their publication status, I find it a little unsettling when they make it an overly intrinsic part of their identity.
First of all, people just don't tend to define themselves by their hobbies. You don't hear anyone shout to the rafters, "I AM STAMP COLLECTOR!" or "I AM A CONNOISSEUR OF REALITY TELEVISION!" And until you're making a living at it, writing is a hobby. It's something you do in your spare time. (Right?)"
Righty-oh. My hobby in my spare time, oh between 5 and 7 am. Every day.
A good friend, one of my writing buddies, received his lay-off notice today. The subject line on his email? POP THE CHAMPAGNE. You see, he's been wanting more time to write, to pursue his 'hobby', but the day job has drained him for years.
I, for one, am rather tired of this culture that emphasis self-identity based upon the position one holds in a paid work-force, that favors the size of the paycheck and the length of the title.
I want to live in a world that values art and craft, meaning and beauty. That treasures the creative spirit that resides in every one of us.
Who Am I? I am what I write. I am writer, mother, wife, sister, lover, reader, singer, gardener, poet, potter, sculptor, jeweler, daughter, photographer, lampworker, mentor, professor.
Of sadness now that April, month of poetry, is over?
A fabulous 30 days journeyed with fellow poets at POETIC ASIDES. Take time to peruse the more than 25,000 poems posted over the month.
I'm exhausted, from writing and reading.
What will May bring? I sense MIDDLEMARCH, a debut book review, maybe some good publication news, and writing focused on PURE...
Even before the acrid-sweet smell of urine and cedar assaulted me, I knew. No usual scurry and rustle of rodents swarming to greet me, their provider of food, water, and amphetamine. I dropped my bags at the door, cracking it open. My eyes adjusted to the crimson glow bathing the room, intended to keep the animals in a preternatural state of sleepy calm. On the left counter, caged white mice; Deepak’s last four metabolic syndrome controls plump from gorging three times their weight every day, bumped up sleepily against the Plexiglas.
But not my mice. Even in the diffused light, I could see all eight anorexic manic rodents curled into each other, shuddering with shallow exhalations of sleep. But when my gaze traveled to the second cage, I couldn’t discern any shadowy humps or sleeping forms. Just smaller shapes, chunks larger than droppings and food pellets but smaller than animals.