That Time I Got a Little Weird and Misery-like with an Author

I had a wonderful time with the Misery read-a-long, sponsored by one of my favorite book bloggers, Care. 

There was no way I couldn't participate. Misery is my very favorite of all of Uncle Stevie's novels, one that I have recommended for years, sometimes several times a year. I had only read Misery once, back in the late 80s, when the paperback version came out, so I was startled to see how much of the book I remembered with such clarity. Annie Wilkes, yikes. What a creation. A three-year-old (I think. At what age do children employ and enjoy expressions like "doody"?) in a crazy-strong woman's body. Did Stephen King have preschoolers around the house during the writing of this novel? He got the language, the cadence so right.

Whatever Annie's many faults though, you have to admit that she got Paul Sheldon to get up off his talent and tell a story properly. I loved the Scheherazade theme and the twin threads of creativity and destruction that run throughout. Stephen King has revisited the disgruntled fan angle in his latest novel, Finders Keepers, and I couldn't be more delighted. Being #7 on the waiting list is a little less delightful, but no disgruntled reader here...as long as they keep the queue moving.

I thought I was all out of cringeworthy bookworm stories to share on this blog, but as I read Misery, an uncomfortable memory stirred. I didn't chop off any body parts or make anyone swallow their meds with dirty mop bucket water, but I did get a little intense. Maybe even creepy:

The year was 1995, and I had just read a first novel by a female writer that I'll refer to as A.S. On the back flap was her picture and a brief biography as well as something I had never seen before: An email address with a warm invitation to readers to contact her there. Email was something that was still relatively new in my life, and I was feeling quite cutting-edge as I composed a short note to A.S. saying how much I had enjoyed her work. Then I clicked 'send'. Sophisticated me.

Much to my surprise, A.S. wrote back! I remember seeing it early on a weekend morning and screaming and waking the whole house. So much for sophistication.

I don't have that email anymore, or even that email address, but as I remember, A.S. thanked me for my email and alluded to working on something new. I felt compelled to write back and thank her for thanking me, and thanks were unnecessary, because my god, she was a writer and I was unworthy. No, it didn't say that, but that was the general tone. I also asked about the work she had mentioned. She replied again saying that the new work would feature some of the same characters.

Now I must rinse.

 No, not really, but my reply was ill-considered. I not only blame myself, but the rapidity of our exchanges and the casual nature of email.

Again, I can't quote directly, but my lengthy reply advised her strongly (did I really have to say 'You'd better not...'?) not to switch from the first person narrative she'd used to third-person. I went on to explain that another author had done that (Barbara Kingsolver, The Bean Trees, Pigs in Heaven) and I had been really upset, Actually angry and betrayed at being distanced from characters that I had taken to my heart. I wish I could forget, but I do remember using that rather intense language. I remember thinking that A.S. would be pleased by my insight and by the fact that I was more than a mere reader; I really got into books. I remember clicking 'send' with such conviction.

Guess what? A.S. never wrote back.

 I told someone what I'd written, and this person grimaced and said, "Oh, God, Susan.  Did you really? You didn't. Please say you didn't."

I read over what I'd written, and horrible realization set in. I sounded like Annie Wilkes before she picked up her ax!

Sick, clammy sweat covered me. The forehead-smiting began. For days it was a pattern: Read my stupid email, smite my forehead, Read, smite. Read, smite. Should I write and apologize to A.S. for being presumptuous? No, I couldn't even stand the click-click-click of my own typing; it brought on nausea. I finally deleted our whole exchange.

For years, I couldn't bear to see A.S.'s book in the odd library sale or used bookstore both here and abroad. When I came across it in my reading journal, I hurriedly flipped the page, feeling that same sickening feeling.

Finally after 20 years, I'm over it. I can rationalize: Sometimes ardent readers get a little carried away, and A.S. could probably appreciate that.  I'm just glad I got carried away in the days before social media.

Recently, I looked up A.S. on Amazon and saw that no novels followed that first one I admired so much. What about the new work she'd mentioned? Did I stop her creativity in its tracks with my tirade? That's ridiculous...or is it? I'll always wonder.

Missing Out On A Great Read: The Lost Mind of Me

I was out of BOOKLEAVES for most of the summer because of my trip back to the US, summer camp and all that. Before I left, though, Shanna suggested The Lost City of Z as a future read. At some point, it was decided that this would be our book for the August 29th meeting. I made note of the title and the time when I received Veronica's update.

Perhaps I was distracted by the end of the semester business and busy-ness. Perhaps I was focused on my upcoming trip and didn't pay attention to Shanna's description of the book. I must have had my head elsewhere or I would have noticed the book's subtitle.

However the events transpired, I somehow got the idea that The Lost City of Z was a children's book or perhaps an SF/Fantasy novel. Long story short, I didn't make much of an effort to find this book during Bybee's Book-Buying Binge (BBBB) 2010.

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When I got back to Korea and was giving all those bookly props and bookish devotion to What The Book?'s new location and its luscious contents, I still didn't seek it out. In my mind, I'd already moved on. So what if I didn't read it? I reasoned. Book group members skip books all the time. Some of the greatest sports heroes in history have warmed the bench a time or two. This would be one of those times for me.

Imagine my surprise and subsequent mortification when I went to the meeting and found out that The Lost City of Z is NOT a children's book nor is it part of an SF/Fantasy series. I can't go on; I'll let Publisher's Weekly via Amazon take over:

In 1925, renowned British explorer Col. Percy Harrison Fawcett embarked on a much publicized search to find the city of Z, site of an ancient Amazonian civilization that may or may not have existed. Fawcett, along with his grown son Jack, never returned, but that didn't stop countless others, including actors, college professors and well-funded explorers from venturing into the jungle to find Fawcett or the city. Among the wannabe explorers is Grann, a staff writer for the New Yorker, who has bad eyes and a worse sense of direction. He became interested in Fawcett while researching another story, eventually venturing into the Amazon to satisfy his all-consuming curiosity about the explorer and his fatal mission. Largely about Fawcett, the book examines the stranglehold of passion as Grann's vigorous research mirrors Fawcett's obsession with uncovering the mysteries of the jungle. By interweaving the great story of Fawcett with his own investigative escapades in South America and Britain, Grann provides an in-depth, captivating character study that has the relentless energy of a classic adventure tale. (Feb.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to the hardcover edition.

The Lost City of Z is nonfiction! I like nonfiction! It's about an expedition! I like reading about expeditions! The expedition was ill-fated -- even better!

.Realization was slow to dawn, but as Veronica, Bernadette, Jill, Sandra and Shanna all discussed the book in-depth, insightfully and intelligently, I began to warp-speed through Kubler-Ross's famous 5 stages. Swears poured from me like lava. By the time the book was passed to me and I saw the really cool photos and maps and read snippets here and there of David Grann's intriguing prose, I was past swearing. All I could do was make sounds like "gluhr" and "fuhmyop", punctuated by whimpering. I was so flummoxed that I wanted to smite my own forehead, but I wasn't sure I could locate it properly.

.This has been a hell of a month in Bookworm Central. September can only be better.

Melon Books

Manfred, Jr. is visiting me for a bit. This weekend, we went to Japan. After we found a hotel, we went out exploring Fukuoka. As we walked down the main drag, a cute little yellow sign caught my eye: MELON BOOKS.

(I like Fukuoka pretty well, but the bookloving side of me has to sleep for a couple of days. Instead, the musicloving side of me comes out; Tower Records is in Fukuoka and they have a massive selection. When Manfred, Jr. saw the selection, he made a mental note to write to Manfred and ask him to send a list of "...that far-out shit that you're always looking for, Dad." )

Anyway. MELON BOOKS. I have to admit that where there's books, there's hope.

"A bookstore! Let's check it out!" I urged Manfred, Jr. He was game, so we climbed the two or three flights of stairs.

When I walked in, I had the impression that the whole joint had been washed in strawberry ice cream. It seemed like all the covers of the books and magazines were different shades of pink and featured female cartoon characters on the front. They all had that huge-eyed sort of vacant look that I recognize as Japanese anime. Leaving Manfred, Jr. to his own devices, I went looking for the novels. No novels. Yawn. All that pink. I was reminded of "Hello Kitty". Double yawn.

Then it hit me. Most of the cartoon characters were naked, or nearly so!

Right about then, Manfred, Jr. came around the corner.

"Do you know where we are?" he said quietly. "Think about it, Mom. Melon Books. Melon Books."

Oh.

"This is Hentai," Manfred, Jr. explained. I must have looked a little blank, because he rushed to clarify. "Anime porn."

Hmmmmm....

"I could leave," I offered. "If you'd like to look around some more, or maybe buy something. I'll just go out there." I pointed to the stair landing, right outside the store. Looking around Melon Books again, I noticed that I was the only middle-aged woman in there. It was a slightly cringeworthy moment.

"No, that's okay," Manfred, Jr. said generously.

We left together, but I could see him observing landmarks and location. We're going back to Japan in a few weeks. Something tells me that Manfred, Jr. will be making a bookstore run without the old lady in tow.