Today's guest post comes from Andy Abramowitz, author of Thank You, Goodnight. Teddy Tremble is a former musician whose band, Tremble, was a 1990s one-hit wonder. Now a lawyer in Philadelphia, Teddy discovers that Tremble is big in Switzerland—or at least, one tiny town in Switzerland. Is this his chance for another shot at coming out on top? Fans of Nick Hornby and Jonathan Tropper will find much to admire in this heartfelt and hilarious story. We asked Abramowitz—who has a musical past himself—to give us a "Top 5" countdown of lessons he learned as a debut novelist.
Guest post by Andy Abramowitz
No. 5 – Your friends don’t want to read your book; they want to have read your book
Those friends of yours who only read presidential biographies or Allure don’t suddenly develop an appetite for fiction just because you wrote a book. They’ll congratulate you; some will mean it. They’ll say they’re going to buy it; a small subset of those will do that too. That should be enough. It’s quite nice of them to lie about how much they enjoyed it. Think you’re special? Test them. Narrow your eyes and ask, “What did you think of what happened to Warren at the end?” You’ll detect a bulky swallow in their throat and they’ll shrug and say, “It worked for me.” Told ya.
No. 4 – The editing process doesn’t end, it stops
Like the rush of critical information that suddenly occurs to your five year old at the precise moment of her bedtime, the editing process is never over. Every sentence stares up at you, asking for a tweak. I’m not telling you to walk away because it’s good enough. I’m telling you to walk away or your editor and publisher will. You’re not Steinbeck. Speaking of which . . .
No. 3 – John Steinbeck wrote East of Eden
Hardly revelatory, I know. But consider how much effort you put into making each of your sentences feel right and look right, informational and tonally true, not choking on gratuitous adverbs or clunky prepositions. Then humble yourself under the notion that so many others have done it with a lot more literary loop-de-loop than you could ever muster. So, Faulkner, wipe that scowl off your face over the fact that your masterpiece isn’t front and center at the airport newsstand.
No. 2 – You’ll never feel like more of a fraud than when signing a book
People you see every single day and whom you suspect are smirking because they know that the publication of your book is a minor miracle—they’ll all ask you to write your name on the inside cover. It will feel silly and pretentious, unearned, like an act performed only by the Michael Chabons of the world or people with fiction-writer hair. (See Michael Chabon.) Really—why would your sister ever need your autograph? I don’t have an answer for this one other than to nudge them toward the ebook version.
No. 1 – It’s okay to like your book
Society dictates that artists view their work with a measure of contempt, as but an imperfect realization of their vast vision. Applesauce! In a free moment, pick it up, read a few a pages, and notice that you’re smiling. That doesn’t make you a jerk. At least I don’t think it does.
Today's guest post comes from writer Shelly King, whose first novel, The Moment of Everything, goes on sale next week. It's set in a used bookstore, where former Silicone Valley employee Maggie has found part-time work after the failure of the tech startup she was working for. When Maggie finds a lovers' conversation written in the margins of a used copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover, she embarks on a quest to discover who they were—and what happened to their romance.
In a guest post, King—who moved to California from the South and once worked for a Silicon Valley startup herself—explains the mystery of found objects and shares some of her favorite found objects in literature.
I was 15 the first time I found a letter in a used book. I was in Montana visiting family and had wandered into a used bookstore. There I found Ernest Hemingway: Selected Letters. I hadn’t read Hemingway yet, but I knew he was an important writer and that he’d spent a lot of time in Africa. I opened the front flap and saw it was covered in writing. It was the letter from a father to a young boy.
The details are fuzzy, but I remember the father was traveling in Africa. I thought it was nice that he was sending his son a book about another man who had been to Africa. He missed his son. He signed the letter “Papa.” I fell in love with this letter. But I didn’t buy the book. I didn’t have much money, so I left it behind. But that letter stayed with me. I thought of it for days, wishing that I’d bought that book, not for the letters of Hemingway, but for that letter written in the book. I finally told my mother about it, and she took me back to the bookstore. But the book was gone.
About 15 years after I first found that letter from the father in Africa, I was in Seattle at another used bookstore where I saw a copy of Ernest Hemingway: Selected Letters. I smiled thinking of that other copy I found years ago in Montana. I opened up the front flap, and there it was—the handwritten letter from a father traveling in Africa to his son. Only this time I was more familiar with Hemingway, whom I now knew was also known as Papa. And this time, I noticed the letter was dated decades before this book was published. When I looked closer, I realized the letter wasn’t written in the book. It was a reproduction of a Hemingway letter that decorated the inside flap.
Even though the letter was not what I thought it was, I’m grateful for my misunderstanding. It started a lifelong search for treasures of the past in old books. Over the years, I’ve found drawings, letters, postcards, ticket stubs, restaurant receipts, photographs, recipes, and inscriptions. The people who owned these books before left a bit of their lives in them. I love not just the story the author intended but also the story of the book itself.
My favorite novels (and one play!) that have someone discovering something in a book:
Boston writer and visual artist Annie Weatherwax's perceptive debut, All We Had (Scribner) is the story of an unusual mother-daughter duo attempting to find a place to belong. At just 13 years old, Ruthie convinces her mother, Rita, to leave her no-good boyfriend and start a new life. The pair hits the road, cruising through small-town America—a vista of diners, local businesses and memorable characters that Weatherwax describes with flair.
In a guest blog post, Weatherwax explores the appeal of the road novel, explaining what the pressure-cooker of car travel brings out in her characters.
At the beginning of my debut novel, All We Had, my protagonist, Ruthie, and her mother, Rita, spend a lot of time in their used Ford Escort. The car is central to their lives. It’s the only thing they own, and when they have no other choice, it doubles as their home.
The car is a built-in pressure cooker. With nothing to distract them their highs and lows become heightened and intensify.
At first they feel invincible. Speeding along the freeway, with the windows down and the music blaring, they are full of almost exalted hope as they escape their California and head east towards Boston to what they are certain is the promise land.
But car rides can become endlessly boring and boredom can quickly lead to irritability. “[A]ll the things my mother usually did—tapping the steering wheel with her thumbs when she liked a song, biting her bottom lip when she wasn’t smoking—suddenly annoyed me,” Ruthie says.
If you leave characters in a car long enough there is bound to be drama. When emotions escalate there is no way to avoid them. Characters are restricted in their seats. When arguments are over they must sit with their feelings and negotiate the psychic space between them and, in a speeding car, there is a limit to the actions they can take.
At one point after a particularly bad fight, Ruthie rummages through the glove compartment and when she finds gum shoves the whole pack into her mouth. One piece after another, she crumples up the empty wrappers, throws them on the floor then abruptly hawks the entire wad of gum out. Her mother retaliates by blatantly ignoring her.
The lack of distraction in the confines of a car lends itself to the exploration of daydreams. Could there be a better vehicle (pardon the pun) for a writer?
The vantage point from inside a car is unique. The whoosh and rhythm of sounds has a particular quality. The skyline looks different and the fragmented glimpses from rearview and side mirrors can be astonishingly beautiful. In fiction a car can do many things. Most obviously it can reveal status and move characters from point A to point B.
For this writer, it’s the confinement of a car that exhilarates me. Limitation takes away choice but it also relieves the paralysis of choice. Creativity is often fostered by such constraints. Restrictions and obstacles can spark connections between things that are not necessarily obvious. The true nature of a human being can reveal itself when characters make decisions under pressure and a car can provide that pressure.
A car ride implies that the desired time and place resides at some point in the future. But the destination is often not what’s important; it’s what happens on the journey that can truly move a story forward.
For more on Annie Weatherwax and All We Had, visit her website.
Author photo by Lou Goodman
What does it mean to have "the good life"? In her debut novel, Susan Kietzman explores this question through the lens of a wealthy woman—the wife of a CEO—who appears to have it all. Then her elderly parents move in, and her life is disrupted . . . and she is forced to figure out what really matters.
In a guest post, Kietzman describes her own understanding of what constitutes the good life—and how her ideas have changed through the years. If you also grapple with the meaning of "the good life," then you will enjoy Kietzman's novel. The Good Life is on sale today.
Finding the good life
By Susan Kietman
The term “the good life,” quick research tells me, can be traced back to the Greek philosopher Aristotle, meaning people have been pondering its definition for ages. I didn’t think about it in a conscious, complex way until I was a grown up. But as a child, I knew exactly what it was.
I usually walked to and from elementary school with my brothers. As I got older, I was allowed to walk by myself. And I can distinctly remember walking home alone on the last day of school when I was in fifth or sixth grade because this is when I had my first “good life” moment. I meandered down the sidewalk daydreaming about the long glorious summer ahead of me— going to the beach, swimming to the raft, catching fiddler crabs at the end of the dock and running around barefoot until the soles of my feet looked and felt like leather.
As a teenager, the good life revolved around my friends. And, as in my childhood, it could be experienced in a single moment, on a single evening. The scenario usually went something like this: One of my friends picked me up in her car, and then we drove around town picking up as many girls as the front and back seats would hold. We arrived at the party house and “Free Ride” by Edgar Winter was playing so loudly on the stereo that we could hear it as soon as we emerged from the car.
As a mother with young children, I was often overwhelmed by everydayness; the physical and mental fortitude needed to get from morning to night trumped any stray philosophical thought. I do remember having a conversation with my mother-in-law, who had to undergo a medical procedure necessitating a couple of nights in the hospital. How nice, I said to her, to have 48 hours of quiet time!
The good life, back then, was a feeling rather than a concept. It was something that happened rather than the result of active planning and tireless pursuit.
It wasn’t until my children were older and I had more time to observe those around me that I began to contemplate the good life in financial terms. This, it seemed, was what everyone my age was doing: comparing what they had with what their neighbors had. Cars, houses, clothing, memberships, boats, second homes, vacation destinations all loomed larger than they ever had before. Is this, I wondered, the middle-aged adult version of the good life?
I further wondered what those who appear to have everything thought about the quality of their lives. Did they still compare themselves to their richer acquaintances, or did they think they’d arrived at the summit? Were they happy? The Good Life is an exploration—using a modern-day wealthy family as the vehicle—of material wealth and the pursuit of happiness.
I am so excited to share news of The Plum Tree with readers of The Book Case. This is a historical novel by debut author Ellen Marie Wiseman, a first-generation German American who was inspired by her mother's experiences in Germany during World War II. The book is on sale now.
In the novel, Christine lives in a German village and works for the Bauermans, a wealthy Jewish family. She falls in love with son Isaac Bauerman—but their lives are complicated in very painful ways when Isaac is arrested and sent to Dachau, the first Nazi concentration camp opened in Germany. But Christine is desperate to be with him as she's left on the home front.
Ellen's publicist shared with me why the author had to tell this story:
Ellen grew up listening to her German relatives tell tales of poverty, hunger, bombings, and constant fear—a time when the country was made up of women, children and the elderly struggling to stay alive while the men were drafted and sent off to fight. In writing the book, Ellen’s hope was to put a face on the countless destitute German women and children who lived and died under Hitler's regime, most often as victims of their government’s actions.
Here, you can see how the author's family history inspired the book. These are her own family photos and the captions and explanations are in her voice.
This photo was taken to send to Opa while he was off fighting on the Eastern Front. At one point during the four years Opa was gone, he was captured by the Russians and sent to a POW camp in Siberia. For two years my mother and her family had no idea if he was dead or alive until he showed up on their doorstep one day. Opa and his stories were the inspiration behind Christine’s father in The Plum Tree.
For years, Oma rang the bells every day to call the farmers in from the fields for Mittag Essen (the midday meal); every evening for prayer; and every Sunday morning for church service. During the war, the army took the bells down to be melted into bullets, a bomb hit the steeple, and the congregation, afraid to assemble without fear of being labeled traitors, met secretly in their homes. In The Plum Tree, this is the church were Christine attempts to expose an SS camp guard during the first service after the war was over.
My aunt’s face is bandaged because she tried to swallow fire after watching a fire-eater at a carnival. In The Plum Tree, Christine remembers her sister, Maria, doing the same thing.
My mother is wearing one of her best dresses; the rest were made from printed cotton sheets. The tall door behind them led to the goats’ indoor enclosure, which shared a wall with my great-grandparents’ first floor bedroom. The neighbor’s house (to the right of the tall door) shares a roof with my mother’s childhood home. This is the setting for Christine’s home in The Plum Tree.
I recently interviewed author Jon Steele about his debut novel, The Watchers. It's a smart, literary thriller with a supernatural twist. Set in Lausanne, Switzerland, the story centers on Marc Rochat, the bell ringer of the cathedral in Lausanne who is drawn in to a series of murders in the city. I asked Steele about his experience of visiting the real-life cathedral for the first time, when he came in contact with the bell ringer.
Steele went on to write hundreds of words on this haunting meeting, a story that I've excerpted here. Below, you can read about the man who rings the bells marking the time in Lausanne--and how he inspired an exciting new trilogy.
For more on The Watchers and Jon Steele--who is also an award-winning cameraman and has written a memoir about working in combat zones--read this Q&A on BookPage.com.
The bell ringer of Lausanne
guest post by Jon Steele
First time I saw the cathedral. Spring of 2001. I was a news cameraman/editor for ITN [Independent Television News]. I’d been working the Intifada on the West Bank and Gaza for six straight months. I was pretty well shot. I went to Lausanne for R&R, stayed at the Lausanne Palace. I didn’t leave the hotel, but I saw the cathedral from my room. It didn’t look like much. More like a grey lump of falling-down rock than a cathedral.
Wasn’t till a couple years later, after I quit TV news. Long story. I was in Baghdad the day the war started. I’d been living there four months. I decided journalism had lost its mind. Tens of thousands of innocent people were about to die. This war was bullshit, and TV was helping Bush and Blair sell it. I wanted no part of it. After 20-some years of covering the sharper end of news, I put my camera on the ground and quit. I wanted no part of this one. I drove out of Iraq as American bombs fell.
I went to the south of France, hid out in a small village for a year. No TV, no radio, no phone. I took long walks in quiet places and wondered, “OK, now what do I do?”
I wrote a novel called Saddamistan: A Story of Love and War. It was my take on what went down in Baghdad leading up to the war. (It’s still in my desk drawer.) After a year of that, I passed through Lausanne again, checked back into the Lausanne Palace.
One night, me and a mate had dinner on the town. Driving back to the hotel, he pointed to the cathedral. There was a light moving around the belfry. My mate told me it was le guet, the guy who spent his nights in the belfry and called the hour over Lausanne. Once upon a time, all cathedrals had such a man in the belfry, to watch for fires and invaders. One by one they disappeared, except for Lausanne. There’s been a man in the belfry, circling the tower with a lantern and calling the hour, from the day the cathedral was consecrated in the 13th century.
I ended up at the foot of the belfry tower, that very night, bottle of wine in hand. Here’s how it works. You go to the cathedral, stand there and call up, “Renato!” Then this shadow of a figure appears at the railings. He lowers down a key on a 300-foot piece of string. You take the key, Renato pulls up the string. You unlock the tower door, go in, lock the door behind you. You wind your way up the stone steps. It’s dark, the air is close. Then you feel the fresh, night air drifting down, you round the steps one more time and you’re standing on the lower balcony of the belfry. Then this little guy in a black floppy hat, carrying a lantern, steps from the shadows of Clémance (the execution bell) . . . and he says, “Hello, it’s only me.”
That’s how I met Renato Haüsler, le guet de la cathedrale de Lausanne. He’s got a funny shaped room between the bells; it looks like something out of a Tim Burton film. It’s where Renato sleeps. There’s a small bed, a small desk. The room is lit with candles. Renato has candles on the brain. He gave me a tour of the belfry. I met all the bells. The biggest is Marie-Madeleine. She rings the hour. There are five more bells in the upper belfry. Renato took us up to say hello. Along the way he told me about the thousand-year-old timbers of the carpentry, the gigantic tinker toy arrangement of ancient timbers from the primeval forests of Lausanne that house the bells. We went back to his room, had a glass and he told me about his vision. He wanted to light the nave of the cathedral with thousands of candles so people could see the place for what it was.
There was a winching sound and the loudest sound I’d ever heard in my life exploded through the belfry. It was Marie-Madeleine; she was calling the hour. The entire belfry trembled. Renato re-lit the candle in his lantern. Told me to follow him. He walked to the east balcony, waited for Marie’s voice to fade. He held his lantern into the night and called, “C’est le guet! Il a sonne douze, il a sonne douze!” (“This is the watcher! It is 12 o’clock, it is 12 o’clock!”) He did the same to the north, west and south. And facing south, there was Lake Geneva, the lights of Évian on the far shore, the shadows of the Alps rising to the stars.
The wheels in my head starting spinning.
Last of his kind lives in a bell tower in a grey falling-down lump of a cathedral. He’s strange, he wears a black floppy hat, carries a lantern . . . he’s got candles on the brain.
There was a story. I just had to find it.
Thank you, Jon! Readers: Will you check out The Watchers? It's on sale this week. Read more about it on BookPage.com.