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The Red Room Writers Society began as a so-called brick and mortar operation in the San Francisco Bay Area.

From the Web site:

“Founded in June 2002 by Ivory Madison, the Red Room Writers Society began providing its innovative, signature Writers Studios to procrastinating professional and aspiring writers in the San Francisco Bay Area.

It was an immediate success. Founded on just $150, and a lot of volunteer support, it provided numerous scholarships for writers who could not otherwise afford the program…”

In January 2008, Madison launched redroom.com, as a way to reach an even greater community of readers and writers. The site features interviews, videos, blogs, tips and all kinds of great stuff, including content from members who are well-respected and, in some cases, renowned, authors. (Some of the more recognizable members are Amy Tan, Clive Barker, Evan Handler, Susan Orlean) Membership is free, and they are still in the BETA stage, so the more feedback they receive, the better.

Another memoir, and here’s where that voyeurism I admitted to kicks into high gear. Not much like walking that walk than do it in the Manolos of a NYC escort before the fall. No, not a former president, nor even Ted Turner, but not the sort of humdrum life one gets a glimpse into everyday either.

The Price, is the story of Natalie McClennan’s very fast and furious rise from obscure Canadian ex-pat partygirl and wannabe actress to top paid Queen of the Call Girls at New York Confidential, and equally rapid and jarring descent to reality–all within about a year’s time. It isn’t a story of recovery or of self-pity, for that matter. Most of the space is devoted to who did what with whom and for how much (though Natalie maintains her integrity with regard to naming famous names–she doesn’t–which she maintained would unnecessarilt destroy families), and what everyone was wearing. The business dynamics, the recruiting, and the relationships withing the organization, which was in a constant state of flux, is also interesting, considering how much money flowed through it at any given time. And while the sex is not gratuitous–what’s a story about hookers without sex–what sex there is would be considered pretty explicit (fair warning). The story received a lot of coverage a year or two ago–Larry King, Paula Zahn, and so forth–none of which I tuned in to. If you followed the case, the book will be a no brainer, and it’s an interesting current events read on its own. If not, it might be fun to Google it afterward, and see what became of the rest of the menagerie–or where they’ve set up shop now!

“My desire for this unknown woman was so immediate and keen and inappropriate that it quite startled me; and I have often wondered if that punishing desire, that sense of fire within the body, that craven need to touch the skin, was not simply the result of the heightened circumstances of the fire itself. Would I have been so ravished had I seen Etna Bliss across the dining room, or turned and noted her standing behind me on a street corner? I answer myself, as I inevitably do, with the knowledge that it would not have mattered in what place or on what date I first saw the woman–my reaction would have been just as swift and as terrifying.”

As Professor Nicholas Van Tassel writes of his first glimpse of his future wife–the only woman, he will admit later, he ever loved–note the use of the words “punishing,” “craven,” “fire,” and “terrifying” in such short proximity and the gothic nature of All He Ever Wanted will perhaps become immediately apparent. Van Tassel is a man who is not a little insecure, in addition to being conservative, even for men typical of his time–he opposes adding physical education to the college curriculum, for instance–in a marriage where both parties have settled for less than they have hoped, but for something to which they both agreed. There are secrets in the marriage, however–though not the secrets the reader may suspect–and, as in many cases, the secrets do not remain secret forever.

Anita Shreve is simply gifted at character and voice, not only here, but in other books I’ve read. Her sense of time and place–in this story around 1900–always feels comfortable. And in All He Ever Wanted, which I imagine was not intended as a gothic mystery, she nonetheless proves herself as a writer who could give a lesson or two to those who think they have that genre nailed.

Everyone I know is on a budget this season, and, unless you’re purchasing gifts for collectors or something that is a keepsake for some other reason (and for a book lover those reasons could be many and esoteric), there is no reason not to make bargain books the place you go when shopping. It used to be that the bargain bins–and they were often bins–were piled with banged up, torn and elderly texts that were more suited to trash heap than treasure hunt. You may find similar bins in used book stores today, but in most retailers the selection is pretty strong. Coffee table books, astrology, history, story collections, classics, and children’s books make an especially strong showing, but you’ll also find a lot of remainders from best selling authors. And to sweeten the deal, gift wrapping is typically free at bookstores, although some have charitable organizations asking for donation for the service during the holidays.

Another way to spend less and support your local economy is to find a great used bookstore in your area. The good ones will be picky about the condition of their stock, and often carry new books as well. You get more for less, keep the money in the area, and perhaps make the acquaintance of a fellow booklover as well.

Amazon.com has great prices for books, still some of the lowest on new editions, but I always wait until I’m ready to spend $25 to get the free shipping. If I pay for shipping, the price cut isn’t that remarkable. Overstock.com has great deals on books and a small flat shipping rate, but the selection is pretty limited; like the bargain tables, though, if they have what you want, it’s a great deal.

If cost is a negligible factor, I would wholeheartedly encourage you to find a local independent bookseller, though. Independents, as we know, struggle against the giants and the discount stores during the best of times, and these are not the best of times.

In closing, here are a few of my favorites:

Stacey’s - San Francisco, CA
Powell’s - Portland, OR
Avid Reader - Sacramento, CA
Upstart Crow - San Diego, CA
Firehouse Books & Espresso Bar - Beaufort, SC

Talk Radio, Reality TV, People Magazine, Google, YouTube, yes, even blogging–and I’m sure I’m leaving some out–we are, now, more than ever, as a society, at the apex of voyeurism. Perhaps the mildest evidence of this is the popularity of the memoir. I have always been an avid reader, and I can remember, when I was younger, that there were biographies and autobiographies on library and bookstore shelves. I remember this, because when we were kids, we had a tough time remembering which was which. At some point, the autobiography was replaced by the “memoir,” but, even then, it was people of note who were penning their life stories for public consumption–ex-presidents, religious leaders, really- famous-people-who-had-interesting-lives-we-were-curious-about. Not so today. Today the most mundane of lives are handed up for published posterity, which I find ironic in a time when the death knell of the book is also constantly being sounded. In just the past few months I have read a number of memoirs (I’m happy to cop to my love of peering into the lives of others, especially if it makes mine appear more functional) and, by and large, they have been nothing special–the lives or the writers–even the ones that I admit I somewhat enjoyed. We are not so desperate for reading material that we have to publish everyone’s story; I don’t have to work in publishing to know that, so what gives? These aren’t sensational books, so even that often used justification won’t fly. I don’t know the answer, but the question haunts me, mostly because I have to wonder what of merit isn’t getting published instead–and why.

I am off on this jag again after finishing John Grogan’s The Longest Trip Home. Grogan is the author of the incredibly popular Marley & Me, which has recently been made into a movie, opening at Christmas. I haven’t read Marley & Me, but I can almost guarantee–or at least hope–that this latest memoir would not have been picked up without the previous book, because there is nothing special about this guy’s life. Seriously. Do people now become memoir-worthy because they have had a best seller about their dog? Apparently they do! Don’t get me wrong, Grogan is a good writer, and it’s a sweet story; it just isn’t any sweeter than the story of the family I grew up next door to, and I think they’d be surprised to find that they were that interesting to the world at large. Because maybe they’re not!

A little about the book itself. Grogan grew up in a medium-sized Irish-Catholic family in an upper middle class suburb on a lake. He had three pals he hung around with until college, although they drifted a bit in high school. His parents were devout, becoming more fundamental as they aged, but none of the kids ended up being religious (as was the case in many Catholic families of that generation and the following in my experience). He went off to college. He struggled with lying to his parents about not being devout. He married. He watched them grow old. That’s about it. He had a great life and a close, loving family, albeit with religious differences. No lesson for us to learn. He did nothing of note in the world. But he can turn a phrase (and his last book was made into a movie).

The autobiography is dead. Long live the memoir. At least the bookstore shelves will never be empty. There are plenty of ordinary, unaccomplished people yet to tell their stories!

“It’s just a small story really, about, among other things:
*A girl
*Some words
*An accordionist
*Some fanatical Germans
*A Jewish fist fighter
*And quite a lot of thievery”

This is a profound and poetic oversimplification of and from The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, an artful, heart-wrenching, extraordinary book about a young girl and her life during World War I, narrated, appropriately, by Death. The girl Liesel, and her younger brother, were being given into foster care by a mother who could not care for them herself, but her brother did not survive the frozen train trip.

“Upon her arrival, you could still see the bite marks of snow on her hands and the frosty blood on her fingers. Everything about her was undernourished. Wirelike shins. Coat hanger arms. She did not produce it easily, but when it came, she had a starving smile.”

She could barely read, but she would steal her first book that day and eventually she would own fourteen.

“When she came to write her story, she would wonder exactly when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything. Was it when she first set eyes on the room with shelves and shelves of them? Or when Max Vandenburg arrived on Himmel Street carrying handfuls of suffering and Hitler’s Mein Kampf? Was it reading in the shelters? The last parade to Dachau?”

The format and perspective are unique, and although it is classified as juvenile fiction, I consider it classic and worthy of any age. Beautifully written and well worth shelving for rereading and recommending.

John Updike was a low-key, jovial, and somewhat dapper, though certainly intelligent, well-spoken, and sharp presence on the stage of the Crest Theatre in Sacramento on Tuesday night. He is touring with his latest book, which is, he says, likely to be the last sequel, in a career that has included more than a few. He was candid in saying that he is conscious of his advancing years–he is 76, but not what I would call a physically robust septuagenarian, though at no loss mentally–and has begun the process of putting things in order, though I believe he referred to it as “packing his suitcases” (I really should take notes if I want to immortalize these moments later–I was much more diligent when the money was good). This book is one he did not always plan to write, but began to feel right at some point. The original, The Witches of Eastwick, Updike reminisced, was a surprise to many when it was published. He had a reputation as a “very male” author up to that point, and a novel about three women who performed charms, that included sexual content was quite a departure. It was not, he shared, an attempt to lure a female audience, but something much more political. It was the 1970s, and many who were dissatisfied with what they saw as harsh and cruel decisions being made by the men in power, took the position that if women were in power, they would make more compassionate, “softer” choices. Updike disagreed. The witchy women in the novel and their less-than-selfless use of powers were his way of making a statement.

During the Q&A, when asked to choose from his own writing, Updike identified one of his favorite books as The Centaur, which he said was based on his own experiences in high school and those of his father, who was a high school teacher, but in a Greek construct. In some way, an homage to his father, it seemed, as he spoke of it. Brazil was his second pick of the novels. He also has a fondness for light verse that he wrote a lot of in his early years, and recited a bit from memory. He admitted, in one of many self-deprecating moments, that he had edited a collection of his work himself, as it seemed no one else was interested in doing it.

There is no doubt that John Updike’s suitcases will be full when he is finally ready to leave, though, unless he knows something he isn’t telling, that may yet be a long while. He began publishing short stories in The New Yorker in 1954 and has published over 50 books, most famously the Rabbit series. Rabbit at Rest received the Pulitzer, and he has been awarded numerous other prizes.

Myself, I have read only Seek My Face, an unusual novel that consists of a day long interview between a young journalist and a 79-year old woman, who is an artist in her own right, but perhaps more renowned for being the wife of two major artists. It is apparently based, somewhat, on Jackson and Lee Pollock. A fairly cerebral exercise in art and literature, but I liked it.

John Updike’s latest book is The Widows of Eastwick.

In the mail the other day, I received a solicitation from Oxford American magazine letting me know that I could order gift subscriptions at a great price. Sadly, I could not think of a single person on my gift list that would appreciate a subscription to what I think is one of the finest ever periodicals published–except, perhaps, my Aunt Joan, who has no address to which to send it. (I take comfort in the fact that my gift list is small and limited.) I decided, alternatively, to share the gift of Oxford American with you, dear readers, guessing that a large number of you are not familiar with this magazine that has struggled, strangled and survived to continue to publish great and unique voices year after year.

OA is a magazine of Southern Writing and Culture–with capital letters–so if you don’t care for such, this is not your cup of tea. It began in Oxford, Mississippi, and after initial difficulty, was saved by writer John Grisham, who invested money, gained a title on the masthead, and serialized his novel The Painted House in OA before publishing it. That’s about the time I discovered the magazine. Don’t quote me on the details, as I’m blogging from memory not reporting; I haven’t gone back to research this. I absolutely love southern writing, and have since I discovered Tennessee Williams when I was much too young. I also love most things southern–excluding racism and humidity–though I get grief for this from my California friends and family. I subscribed to OA in a heartbeat. Again, financial troubles struck, and, in a creative effort to survive, OA offered “lifetime subscriptions” to those who paid at certain levels, kind of like the pledge drives at public radio and TV stations–but for life. I pledged. They lived. But the roller coaster continued. They relocated, eventually, to Conway, Arkansas, and the campus of the University of Central Arkansas, where they seem to have found a safe and comfortable home, as much as any bright, deserving foster child can. Issues have been cancelled, the future has looked dim, but Oxford American has soldiered on. And when they have published, what they have published has been great.

The OA is produced quarterly, and includes a music issue every year with a CD enclosed. The CD is considered great southern music, but could include anything from scratchy soda shop recordings of hillbilly songs to music of today. This year, there was, I believe for the first time, a Best of the South DVD. That magazine issue included “An Insider’s Guide to Prison Food,” “Odes to the Best Vandalism, Play, Used Bookstore, Pistol, Aquarium, Fireworks, Cathouse, Cowboy Boots…” and “A Writer’s Daughter in Deliverance Country by Bronwen Dickey.” That’s just to reenforce the idea that this is not a southern magazine about how to knit sweaters for cats or which fork to use for dessert. It’s kick ass stuff. Also great photos, fiction, and art.

Grab a copy from your local bookstore or newsstand and check it out. And then remember, gift subscriptions are available–the gift that keeps on giving all year long! No, I get no kickbacks from OA. Just supporting fellow great writers. www.oxfordamericanmag.com

Adam Nimoy’s new book is My Incredibly Wonderful, Miserable Life– An Anti-Memoir. Adam’s father, Leonard Nimoy found his fame as Mr. Spock in the short-run (only 3 seasons, believe it or not), but long syndicated and wildly popular Star Trek series of the 1960s, but Adam’s childhood was shaped as much by his father’s hardscrabble upbringing as by his stardom.

“I’ve never had much luck arguing with him. Have you ever argued with a Pop Culture Icon? Have you ever argued with a guy who can cause a frenzy among thousands at a convention hall simply by performing a Vulcan hand salute?

Because when you’re dealing with a man who’s adored by millions of fans the world over, when you lock horns with a man from the tenement streets of Boston who clawed his way to the top of the Hollywood heap, good luck with the argument.”

Nimoy senior also struggled with alcohol and later became sober himself. Complicated as their relationship may have been, being the son of Leonard figures very little in the book, which focuses mainly on the year that Nimoy separated from his wife, moved out of the family home, and became active in AA. He writes honestly and extensively about the pain of being apart from his son and daughter, who both refused to stay at his new apartment and often cried and begged him to move back into the house. In one scene, the children were supposed to have dinner with him at the apartment, but daughter, Maddy, changes her mind at the last minute and asks to be taken home immediately. In the car, she unleashes a tirade:

“How can you do this to me? I’m through with you, Dad. How do you feel about never seeing me again? I will never, ever come back to your stupid apartment. How do you think it will feel to live alone for the rest of your life?”

And this toward the father who still picks her up and takes her to school every morning, helps with her homework every afternoon, and whom she will profess undying love for by the end of most days. The divorcing dad stuff is very powerful and spot-on.

Interwoven are anecdotes about hot women he meets at AA meetings, bright moments he experiences as a teacher, stupid things that derailed his directorial career, and the occasional story about life with Dad.

My Incredibly Wonderful, Miserable Life contains no revelation or inspiration of note, and reads like a cleaned up, neatened up two-year diary of a nice guy giving up pot and getting divorced, whose dad just happened to be a Vulcan.

Author and filmmaker Michael Crichton died unexpectedly on Tuesday of cancer. He was only 66. I read a bit of Crichton when I was younger and liked stories where things ran amok, which they typically did in Crichton’s work. Dinosaurs, doctors, scientists could and did wreak havoc in the lives of mild-mannered folks who often had just showed up for help or a day’s work. That was the same period I was reading Stephen King, I think, and eventually I became squeamish about King’s sado-masochism and Crichton’s scary medical mayhem; I don’t want to say I outgrew them, which sounds patronizing, more that we grew apart.

Crichton obviously continued to appear in bookstores and in association with films, though I am not familiar with the titles. He is one of few authors that seems to have achieved and maintained success with movies and books simultaneously, no easy feat. After he died, and I read a couple obituaries, I learned that he was also the creator of the incredibly successful, long-running TV series ER. This guy had a lot going on. He was also, reportedly, not a jerk.

Death is often an excuse to learn more about people. Writers are often interesting, whether you like their writing or not. A couple of good, short pieces on Crichton can be found at:

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2008/11/05/print/main4575403.shtml
http://www.boston.com/ae/movies/blog/2008/11/michael_crichto.html