A Tremendous Thing in a Small Package

I'll begin this saga with the eponymous package:

The black bars over my last name and address were not part of the original, obviously, but the black and white grid pattern was.

To the unsuspecting eye, this may seem like a pretty uninteresting piece of mail. I, however, squealed when I saw it and felt my heart beat a little faster. I carefully snipped it open, hands practically shaking with anticipation, because I knew that it was going to contain this:

"To Beth, With thanks and best regards, David Mitchell, Clonakilty, 2012"

!!!!!!

I must confess that even now, about a week after I receive the book, I'm still sort of at a loss for words.

Here's how it happened: Some of you may remember reading a post I wrote in October about a Selected Shorts program hosted by David Mitchell. I gushed about how wonderful he is and how much I enjoyed hearing him speak, but also how disappointed I was that he was unable to do a book signing because of his flight plans. But I resolved to move on. I read the book I'd intended to have him sign - usually I hardly touch these after they're autographed to keep them in pristine condition - and figured I'd just try to go see him again some day. Ed's mother, who is more proactive, had other ideas.

Ed's mom often reads my blog, and when she stumbled upon this particular post she decided to take action (for which I will always be grateful). Somehow she tracked down David Mitchell's publicist and sent him the link to the post I had written. The publicist wrote back to her and said that she would forward the link to Mr. Mitchell and see that I got a signed book in the mail! Ed, who was (I think) privy to this plan before his mother heard back from the publicist, did not tell me about it until she had received confirmation. As you can probably imagine, elated does not begin to describe how I felt. I eagerly watched the mailbox for the next week, and then the week after that. The package did not arrive.

When it finally arrived, I'd almost forgotten about it. I was expecting a sterile-looking envelope with a typed label and a copy of the book with an impersonal signature - the sort of thing a publicist might pull from a stack of signed copies and tell an intern stick in the mail. So I was taken a bit aback at the hand addressed (and decorated!) envelope shipped straight from Clonakilty, Mitchell's home in Ireland! Honestly, I'd probably have been pretty satisfied with just that. But the hits kept on coming. As you can see, Mr. Mitchell must have spent a good few minutes adding curlicues and other artistic touches to the cover page of my book, even taking the time to spell my last name correctly. 

I was still processing all this when I turned to the note he'd written:

Dear Beth, This is just to thank you for your generous and tremendously encouraging words about my appearance at Symphony Space. Sorry I had to dash off to the airport afterwards - 747s wait for no-one - but I hope our paths can cross the next time I'm in New York. Warm Regards, David Mitchell

Practically delirious with delight, I handed the note to Ed, who promptly stopped grinning at me. He informed me curtly that my "path would not be crossing" Mr. Mitchell's without his strict supervision. My observation that Mr. Mitchell is both a husband and father did not lessen his resolve to personally oversee the preservation of my honor. Good grief.

It's truly wonderful to discover that a famous person one admires is kind, humble, and generous. I, too, hope our paths cross again (under Ed's watchful eye, of course) so that I can thank him for this, and I'm incredibly grateful to Ed's mother as well. My next book signing, scheduled for February, will likely feel a bit disappointing after this. But it's worth it.

Star-Studded Selected Shorts

I am a huge fan of Symphony Space's Selected Shorts program. The brainchild of brilliant Isaiah Scheffer, Selected Shorts is a live program in which three short stories are read to audiences by local talent. Sounds good, but consider these two facts that make it even better: a) the stories are selected and introduced by some of the most talented authors writing today, and b) in New York, the local talent runs pretty deep. In the past, authors have included Stephen King, Jennifer Egan, T.C. Boyle, David Mitchell, Julia Alvarez, and many more (I have not seen all of these, alas), and readers have included Alec Baldwin (I did see him!), Parker Posey, Cynthia Nixon, and Mike Birbiglia. I have never seen a reading by a disappointing actor. Many of the readers are not big names outside of the theater world, but in New York they often have celebrity status because of past performances in hot Broadway musicals and plays.

B.D. Wong

The much beloved Isaiah Scheffer used to be the host of Selected Shorts, but most unfortunately he passed away just a few weeks ago. B.D. Wong, actor and fellow board member, has stepped up to take his place for the rest of the season. Wong has done a number of well-known TV shows (like Law and Order), movies (like Jurassic Park), and Broadway productions (like M. Butterfly). He seemed nervous on his first night taking over for Scheffer, but last night was better; he was more relaxed and pretty funny. There's still something intrinsically awkward about him, but somehow the overall impression is charming. Wong kicked the evening off by introducing the guest hosts of the night, Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich. These were the guys I'd come to see. Abumrad and Krulwich host RadioLab, a podcast I really enjoy. Technically, it's about science, but the format is creative and accessible, and they do a brilliant job of teasing out the impact that science has on everyday people.

I've listened to RadioLab for a long time, and it was very surreal to see two unknown faces spouting out voices that have become very familiar to me. Both men are pretty goofy looking, to be honest. But I love their voices-Abumrad's in particular-and they've got the rhythm to their give-and-take down pat so that they work seamlessly together. I really enjoy their sense of humor on the show, and their introductions to the stories did not disappoint. They delved into neuroscience and explanations about how the moon's path has changed over the millennia, then hurried off the stage to make room for the impressive line-up of readers.

Kyra Sedgwick

The first story, the shortest of the three called "The History of Everything Including You" by Jenny Hollowell, was read by a very trim Kyra Sedgwick. I was a fan of her fitted coral-colored pants, but not so much of her shaggy hair that seemed to get in her eyes a lot. She did a nice job of reading the story, which was one of those pieces that becomes more beautiful the more you think about it. It had a haunting ending and I felt rather morose when it was over. Luckily, Abumrad and Krulwich came back onto the stage and said they thought that the author might be in the audience, and moments later, Hollowell had popped up and was waving cheerfully to thunderous applause. My somber mood shifted to incredulity: Surely such a wise, soulful story was written by an old woman, and not this perky 30-something with a short, black bob?

Jane Curtain

Krulwich introduced the next reader as a woman with a long and varied career. He said that the two of them had actually collaborated on a radio comedy show ages ago that no one remembered, but that we knew her best as "Jane, you ignorant slut." Fans of vintage-era Saturday Night Live roared with laughter and clapped as Jane Curtain took the stage and did a masterful reading of "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)" by Paul Broks. It's a true story, apparently, written by an eminent scholar of neuroscience about both a case he researched and a lecture he gave and the impact of both on his life. It was reflective and poignant and, thanks to Jane, funny. I was sorry to see her turn the last page. There's something almost magical about her stage presence, though I don't think I can explain exactly what it is that makes her so delightful to listen to and to watch.

Liev Schreiber

As the crowd settled back down after the intermission, Abumrad announced that the reader of the next story, Liev Schreiber, is Robert's "boy crush." Krulwich actually giggled and looked rather coquettishly into the wings where Schreiber was waiting, then stammering a bit, launched into an explanation of how he'd once seen a play in which Schreiber, before a word was uttered, simply sat in a chair onstage and turned a single page of a newspaper and Krulwich became aware that he was looking not at a character but at a real three-dimensional person, indeed, a universe laden with meaning and a purpose informed by a complex past. He added, rather breathlessly, that he thinks Schreiber is our best living actor. Goodness. I'm not sure I'd jump to such a dramatic conclusion, but I will say that Schreiber has a rich, resonant voice and that I loved the way he performed his story. Called "The Distance of the Moon" by Italo Calvino, it was a bit strange, but very entertaining, particularly given what Abumrad and Krulwich had taught us about the changing path of Earth's moon. The author had made up a fantastically imaginative account of the ways those changes affected an invented tribe of ancient people who were accustomed to being able to climb up onto the moon using ladders propped in the bottom of boats. Schreiber brought out the humor hidden in the lines that a hasty reader (like myself) may well have missed.

Selected Shorts always delivers, but this evening was particularly enjoyable. I don't know whether it because of Wong's relaxed manner, the stellar guest hosts, the talent of the readers, or the two margaritas I had before the show began, but whatever the reason I found this to be a particularly exemplary evening. Next up: Lorrie Moore and Sherman Alexie in February!

Still a Sucker for Peter Rabbit

It was the kind of drizzly Sunday afternoon that makes you want to stay home all day. Ed and I tried that on for size for the whole morning and some of the afternoon, but soon cabin fever drove us out and to the Morgan Library. Regular readers will recall that the Morgan is one of my favorite buildings in the world. It houses the jaw-dropping manuscript collection of J.P. Morgan and rotates its exhibits frequently. I first went to see a collection of handwritten manuscripts by Charles Dickens. This time, I giddily viewed Beatrix Potter's famous picture letters.

A letter about Peter. The rabbits at the bottom are throwing snowballs.

I listened to, and eventually read, Potter's stories again and again growing up, but I'd never thought much about their author. Ms. Potter was a bit eccentric, as are most people I like. She lived during the Victorian era, and despite the codes of propriety imposed on her by this period of history, kept a series of outlandish pets. Over the years, she played host to cats, dogs, newts, hedgehogs, bats, frogs, various birds, and, of course, mice and rabbits. The rabbits were her favorites. She wrote frequent letters to Noel, the son of her former governess, to entertain him, as he was sickly and often confined to bed. The story of Peter Rabbit came, almost word for word, from one of these letters. Potter drew illustrations around the text of the letter using her own pet rabbit, Peter, as a model. Later, in preparation for publishing, she added some content to the original story but otherwise changed little. Letters to children were the genesis of most of her stories; she believed that writing with a single child in mind was what made her work so fitting for young readers. I was delighted to read the words to the stories I knew so well in Potter's own handwriting, and to see beloved characters like Benjamin Bunny (Potter's pet was named Benjamin Bouncer), Jemima Puddleduck, Jeremy Fisher, Squirrel Nutkin (Potter's real Nutkin was so badly behaved that she took him right back to the pet store), Apply Dapply, and others. It's hard to know how long it took her to come up with the stories for these letters; it seems that she just dashed them off. Her drawings and paintings, however, were the product of decades of practice. Potter was passionate about the natural world, and grew up sketching the animals and plants around her. She had particular techniques for capturing sunlight falling on leaves or the delicate fur at the tips of rabbits' ears that makes her work stand out. Her talent for drawing animals that are at once personified and incredibly realistic is still just about unparalleled, in your humble blogger's opinion.

The inspiration for Apply Dapply

Mostly, it wasn't too hard to read Potter's handwriting. We had lots of trouble with other writers, though. In the Potter exhibit, several picture letters from other authors, like William Makepeace Thackery, were on display for comparison, and it was nearly impossible to make out their scrawls. I thought I'd seen it all as an English teacher, but at least my kids mostly printed instead of writing in cursive... Whew. It's a miracle anyone managed to communicate, what with overly sloping, sometimes tiny letters confounded further by splats and blobs from dipped pens.

Downstairs, Ed became glued to a letter written by George Washington on Christmas Day asking Congress for more supplies for his soldiers. I was similarly enchanted by an award-winning story by a sixth-grade Truman Capote. It was written in pencil on lined paper and was full of the kind of flair that characterizes his adult writing. Thoreau's diary was also opened for inspection. Thankfully, some thoughtful curator had arranged for a portion of it to be typed out and displayed in the case, too, but it was nearly impossible to read his messy scrawl, even when I knew what words I was looking for. We saw a letter from Napoleon to his new bride Josephine, handwritten sheet music by Mahler and Schubert, and a book of coats of arms and family histories from perhaps the 1400's (the uncertainty is mine, not the Morgan's) that was neater than Thoreau's diary but just as unreadable. Dickens's handwritten Christmas Carol manuscript was out again, and so were some early printings of Christmas songbooks.

I will be sorry to see Potter's letters go back into the archives, but I'll be waiting for their replacement with baited breath.

The Nut(hic!)cracker

Ed and I almost didn't make it to The Nutcracker. I was casually sorting mail at the kitchen counter after work when Ed wandered in. He asked me what time the ballet started, and I, accustomed to 7:30 start times, shrugged. Moments later, tickets in hand, he was chasing me down the stairs to change because the curtain was, in fact, at 6:00! We had six minutes to spare when we got off the subway, and sank into our seats just a few minutes before the lights dimmed. Phew.

I enjoyed the show from the first few notes of the overture. Though I've only seen The Nutcracker once (that I recall), I just about wore out a narrated audio tape of it when I was younger and so am very familiar with the music and the story. The structure reminded me of A Midsummer Night's Dream, a ballet we saw a while ago: The plot begins and ends in the first act, and the second act seems to exist only as an excuse to showcase the dancers' talents. The only traditional ballet in Act I was the dance of the snowflakes, at the very end. Bits of paper floated down on them as they danced, covering the stage with a thin, ethereal layer.

Dance of the Snowflakes

The battle

In Act II, set in the Land of Sweets, Clara and the Prince are welcomed by the Sugar Plum Fairy. They are treated to various candy- and sweet-themed dances to celebrate their arrival. Most of the numbers are very short, and, unlike in Act I, most of the dancers are adults. Ed enjoyed this act more than the first since it contained more actual ballet instead of children running around pantomiming. I wasn't sure which act I preferred, but we both agreed that the mice were the best part of the show. They were played by children, and the over-sized bellies of their costumes was a pretty funny contrast to their scrawny little arms and legs. We both enjoyed watching them scurry around the stage.


I'd never seen so many children in the audience at Lincoln Center, though I suppose one should expect that when one goes to The Nutcracker. For the most part, they were well-behaved, but one kid sitting far to our left had to be bodily lifted and removed from the theater by his exasperated-looking father. I heard lots of shushing throughout, and much more whispering than any other show I've attended in New York. This wasn't limited to the children either; the two older women to my left were pretty chatty, too.

Mother Gingerbread and her children

I couldn't complain too much, though, as I committed my own behavioral faux-pas. Sometime during the dance of the marzipan shepherdesses, I got the hiccups. They persisted through several more dances, and I was mortified. The second they started, the music seemed to get-and stay-much softer, and I was sure that everyone in the theater could hear me. Ed, ashamed of the spectacle I was creating, hid his face. Finally, sometime during the dance of the flowers, I decided to stretch out my diaphragm by taking a huge gulp of air and holding it for as long as I could. This seemed to work, to my vast relief. Ed told me after the show that he thought he was going to have to leave, not because I was mortifying him as I'd suspected but because he wasn't sure he'd be able to contain his laughter. He was incredulous that I had not felt him shaking with his suppressed guffaws. Apparently he was not covering his face at all, but rather trying to block the ear closest to me so that he wouldn't hear my frantic "hic"s and burst out laughing. Nothing like sympathetic support from your better half.


I enjoyed The Nutcracker very much. I was impressed by the professionalism of the children dancing in it, some of whom were as young as seven, and it was fantastic to hear the score performed live. The sets, which included a massive Christmas tree that rose out of the stage in a seemingly endless column of green, and the elaborate, lacy images that adorned the the Land of Sweets, were pretty spectacular as well. I loved the costumes. I loved the scene with the sleigh at the end. I certainly recommend this show for anyone who finds themselves in New York at Christmastime, though I do not recommend the hiccups.

Clara and the Prince ride out of the Land of Sweets at the end of the show

Go (to) Fish!

At a party for my friend Katie recently, the conversation turned, as if often does when I am involved, to oysters. Kaveri and Isaac, a couple we'd met for the first time an hour earlier, had already endeared themselves to Ed by speaking about Texas Hold 'Em with great enthusiasm. They endeared themselves to me when they told us about Fish. Fish was great, they said, but what really made it stand out was their Red, White, and Blue special. At any time during opening hours, we could lay down a mere $8 in exchange for six blue point oysters and a beer or a glass of house red or white wine. I wrote a while ago about slurping down $1 oysters at Barrio 47; indeed, this is a deal lots of restaurants have. But $8 for six oysters and wine sounded almost too good to be true. On Sunday night, famished after sitting through Lincoln (which is excellent), Ed and I decided to give Fish a try and headed to the West Village.

Fish in summer

The restaurant is long and skinny and smells like vinegar, but in a good way; I was put in mind of amber waves of delicious malt vinegar dripping down a piece of crispy cod instead of puddles of vinegar left over from cleaning. We'd shown up at around 6:00, very early for dinner by New York standards, and still most of the tables were already filled. I eyed an icy case displaying different shellfish waiting to be devoured as we waited for the hostess. I liked the place already. The atmosphere managed to be both bright and cozy at the same time. As we sat down, I noticed a small, white woodstove on the opposite wall. It was not lit, but it must make Fish a particularly welcoming retreat on very chilly winter days. As is the case in most New York restaurants, we were elbow to elbow with our neighbors and did our best to ignore their conversation. We were unable, however, to ignore the huge, succulent lobsters they were served minutes after we arrived, accompanied by corn on the cob and tasty looking seasoned fries.

Ed and I began, of course, with the Red, White, and Blue deal. We'd been burned once before in pursuit of cheap oysters - they ended up being tiny, flaccid, and bland. Nothing could have been farther from the plump, tender, glittering beauties that arrived on a bed of ice at Fish. We tried to savor them, but they were too good and disappeared with the flash of a fork. I spent ages trying to decide which of the appealing entrees to order, and in the end Ed and I decided on the same thing. I love shepherd's pie but, as it's hardly a vegetarian dish I haven't eaten one in ages. I was delighted to discover a lobster shepherd's pie on the menu, and even more delighted when I took my first bite. The mashed potatoes on top were whirled into elegant patterns and nicely browned just the slightest bit. Underneath was a rich layer of generous lobster chunks, peas, carrots, corn, and some sort of reddish sauce that I was too busy scarfing down to identify. Ed's pie was gone in what seemed like moments. In an act of herculean self control, I saved half of mine so that I could enjoy it for lunch the next day as well.

I proposed that we return to Fish every day, and Ed smiled and agreed. I think he thinks I am kidding.

Still Recovering from Sandy

This morning I went to they gym. That may not seem like a blog-worthy event, but this is the first time I've visited my gym since the storm almost a month ago. The aptly named Chelsea Piers is right on the water-albeit elevated above a parking area-and while I don't know the extent of the damage to its facilities, I do know that the flooding caused major electrical problems. It's hard for me to believe it took this long to repair everything, but evidently that's the case. This morning was like any morning at the gym before the storm. The elevators were not working, but everything else seemed completely normal. Manhattan, at least the parts of it I inhabit, betrays very little evidence of Sandy, though other parts of the city were not so fortunate. My gym's closure was one of the few reminders that all is not quite back to normal. In general, though, Manhattan has had a pretty short memory.

Legit Lit: Cloud Atlas

I vowed to read Cloud Atlas post-haste after hearing a bit of it read aloud at Symphony Space during an evening of Selected Shorts featuring author David Mitchell. After turning the last page rather breathlessly on Monday night, I dragged Ed to see the movie (all two hours and 45 minutes of it). This post will be a struggle to write because I don't want to give away too much about either one; here goes nothing.

First of all, David Mitchell can write. This guy's phenomenal. His books are nothing short of enthralling, and I highly recommend any of the ones I've read. I'm not sure that Cloud Atlas is my favorite, but that's only because they're all so good. I can say with confidence, however, that Cloud Atlas is certainly the most ambitious of his offerings that I've paged through. For those who don't know, it is split  into six different stories which take place in six vastly different time periods, beginning in 1849 and reaching hundreds of years into the future. The first half of the book works through the first halves of five of the stories, which are presented chronologically. The sixth story is told in its entirety in the middle of the book, then the second halves of each of the stories are told in descending order so that the book begins and ends with Adam Ewing's 1849 journal. This structure is interesting for a lot of reasons, but one of the most compelling aspects for me was already knowing what would happen to Mitchell's world as I read the second half of the book. It still managed to pack quite a few surprises.

Mitchell definitely does not have a "type" as far as genres go. I wrote in a previous post about his dexterous somersaulting between historical fiction, coming of age stories, and post-modern experimental works. His virtuosity is visible in full force in Cloud Atlas. Each of the six stories is told in a completely different style, and masterfully so. Adam Ewing's 1849 journals reminded me of the dreadful old journals I had to read in college penned by pompous, venerable Americans from the 17th and 18th centuries (differing only in that Mitchell's work is not dreadful). The 1970's detective story read like any chronicle of a hard-boiled gumshoe, complete with some lame jokes and characters all trying to sound like they're infinitely more badass than everyone else. The modern-day farce told by elderly British Timothy Cavendish had a romping tone, and the sixth story was written entirely in an invented pidgin (which was tough to read at first, though I got used to it.) All this, remember, in one book. Each of the primary characters is connected to another character in another time period somehow, and I anxiously flipped pages as I sought to discover these links. The book was simply riddled with subtleties, and I highly recommend it to the thoughtful reader. Reading it is thrilling in the way that climbing a high mountain is: You'll be left speechless by the view, but your lungs and legs will be burning by the time you get there. For the adventurous soul, it's well worth the trip.

Two of Tom Hanks's roles. Recognize him?

I'm very glad I saw the movie version and enjoyed it very much, though, as is always the case, the book was better. Obviously, changes had to be made - for one thing, the book is 500 pages long. One major difference between the novel and the film is that the stories crosscut with each other frequently on the screen instead of proceeding along in stately order as they do in the book. I thought this was a very effective adjustment, and it made the connections between the plotlines easier to see for the benefit of those who didn't have the book's background. The movie features the same few actors appearing in time period after time period, often wearing thick make-up and elaborate costumes so that they can play characters of different ages, races, and even genders. This was an element that was largely absent in the book and added a whole different layer of meaning to the movie, which I saw mostly as arbitrary but Ed saw as pivotal. It will be interesting to hear what he thinks after reading the book. The movie was directed by two different parties: Tom Twyker took the central stories, and Andy and Lana Wachowski oversaw the shooting of both the most historic and most futuristic of the scenes which bookended Twyker's work. I much preferred Twyker's approach. The central stories held on to a great deal of the gentle nuances that shaped Mitchell's book, while the Wachowskis traded a lot of the pivotal conversations and powerful event sequences in the book for flashy chases and fight scenes.

The minute the credits started to roll, Ed announced that he was definitely going to read the book; he'd been on the fence before. I said that I assumed he'd like the movie, and he said that yes, he had, but that he could tell there were many more subtleties in the book that didn't make it to the screen and was anxious to read them for himself. I'd say this statement pretty much sums up my rationale for preferring the novel to the film. I enjoyed both, but I sort of resented the way that much of the intricate, meaningful detail had to be either eradicated or blasted at the audience at full volume. I know the directors had to make things obvious, but I hated to see the deliciously labyrinthine story pruned down. I recommend seeing Cloud Atlas - somewhat less heartily than I recommend reading it - but only with the caveat that those who wish to indulge in both should do themselves the favor of reading it first.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

Never mind that Thanksgiving is tomorrow. This morning, I saw the first Christmas tree vendor of the year (for me at least) setting up shop just outside the 18th Street 1 station. It made me think of going to the Christmas tree farm with my family many years ago. My brother and I would run from tree to tree, breathing in the frigid piney-ness of it all and falling in love with each tree we spotted. My parents taught us to look for symmetry and gaps in the branches, and finally my dad would down our choice. (I think I remember him sawing - do people do that any more?) In later years, we'd just pull into one of the empty lots that played host to Christmas tree hawkers each winter to pick out our pre-cut tree. It was a little less festive, but the air still smelled just the way it was supposed to, and we would buy hot apple cider and kettle corn to celebrate our purchase. For the last few years, my mom has bought trees from various high school teams who sell them as a fundraiser. I think you just specify the size you want and pick up your tree from the school parking lot a few weeks later, where a group of adorable, earnest high school boys, eager to show off their still-new muscles, help you load the tree onto the roof of your car. 

It's strange to think that most children who grow up in New York never experience any of this. Sometimes the tree vendors will string up a few lights or play holidays songs on a portable CD player, but that's about as festive as it gets. On the other hand, they've got Rockafeller Center and every store on Fifth Avenue if they're feeling a bit short on holiday spirit. And I'm not one to talk; the only tree in my apartment this year will be the eleven-inch wire tree my mom sent to me a few years ago, complete with tiny ornaments on strings. Maybe I'll burn a pine-scented candle in the vicinity to complete the effect.

Nostalgia in Nashville

Last weekend, I headed out to Nashville with Ed to meet my brother and two dear college friends, Phil and Courtney, to celebrate my birthday. I'd been a bit homesick for Nashville, home of my alma mater, and it was great to be back, particularly in fall. I'd rented house that seemed to be nice online, but we were all taken aback by how huge it was when we pulled into the drive on Friday night! It was a true log cabin - the outside walls were made of huge logs held together with thick layers of cement (I think it was cement), and there was no plaster or drywall inside so you could appreciate the logs from all angles! There was also a pool with a lovely patio and outdoor bar, a pool table, several dart boards, a hot tub, a half-court basketball court, and lots of space both inside and out. We stuffed ourselves at Cracker Barrel, bought tons of beer, and spend the evening relaxing in the hot tub. Things were off to a good start. 

Phil and Anthony play bocce ball in front of the house as they wait for everyone to emerge from the house. 

We had big plans to go to the Pancake Pantry the next morning, but we'd all stayed up much later on Friday night than we'd intended to. As a result, we didn't get to the restaurant until almost noon, and the line was out the door (typical) but also stretched most of the way down the block (excessive). It was a simply gorgeous day - low 70s with clear blue skies - so we drove to Centennial Park instead and ate at a small barbecue shack. Hog Heaven can't really be described as a hole in the wall because there aren't really any walls. It sits on the outside border of the park. You order from a window and sit at picnic tables on a patio enclosed by chicken wire. The food is divine, though, and it's right across the street from Vanderbilt.

Free bricks!

I was itching to walk around campus, so after lunch Ed, Courtney and I gave ourselves a thorough tour while Anthony and Phil hung out in the park. Some parts of campus looked exactly the same, but some were unrecognizable. The dining hall, Rand, has been completely redone, and the fusty old quadrangle so beloved by all of us when we lived on campus years ago had been leveled to make space for a huge new building. At the edge of the construction site were several pallets of bricks that had made up Kissam Quad. "Free to Alumni" said the sign. You know you loved college when you can't resist the opportunity to take home a dirty brick. Courtney and I decided to stop with the car on the way home to pick up a few, not wanting to carry them with us around campus.

Our walk was lovely. Vanderbilt is a national arboretum and is beautiful any time of year, but it is breathtaking in fall. Courtney and I oohed and aahed over the leaves and shared all manner of memories uninteresting to anyone but us that Ed was nice enough to listen to. After walking around main campus, we crossed the street to Peabody, where Courtney and I met and took all of our education classes. There have been some major changes there, too, and we gaped as we toured the new buildings. I found myself glaring jealously at the freshman lounging around their dorms, wishing I was in their shoes.

Outside Furman Hall

Reading on the porch of the house

Courtney and I bought some Vanderbilt gear from the campus bookstore, then we rendezvoused with everyone back at the car, picked up our bricks, and headed to the grocery store for snacks and more beer. We had "cocktail hour" on the back patio, chatting and munching quietly but mostly gazing around us and enjoying the peace. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement and jerked my head around to see three deer. Everyone hurried to the front of the house, were they seemed to be headed, and we watched in delight as the herd swelled to ten, all does with one mostly-grown fawn. They were drinking from the pond near the front of the house, but they didn't stay long, not caring for our company. I found myself thinking wistfully about my apartment back in New York, which I had always loved but which does not have herds of deer wandering through it.

 After some naps, which everyone felt we needed after doing very little all day, we headed back into Nashville for a night on the town. We had dinner at a restaurant I used to love - which seems much less like haute cuisine after a few years of life in New York - then Phil steered us downtown toward the neon lights. We rubbed shoulders with women in cowboy boots, men in tight jeans, and a surprisingly robust population of hipsters and punks with dyed hair and tattoos. Bleached blonde, ratted hair and thick black eyeliner were very much in. Our first stop was a bar called Robert's and listened to a rockabilly band who played great, old-fashioned country songs. Next, we went to a place next door called Layla's, which featured a slightly more modern band who played old country classics interspersed with Tom Petty. Our final stop was Lonnie's a karaoke bar. Courtney, Phil, and I all had fond memories of Lonnie's. It's definitely a dive, and plenty of talentless people step up to the mic, but like New York, Nashville attracts a fair amount of talent. One of the great things about Lonnie's is sitting through two or three terrible songs only to be blown away by the unassuming girl who knocks it out of the park. The latter party was conspicuously absent from Lonnie's that night, however. We were treated to one stellar performance, one really good performance, and about 50 groups of drunk sorority girls and frat boys tunelessly yelling the lyrics to Taylor Swift songs. One nice thing about it, though, was that Phil and I decided that we couldn't help but be better than the cacophony if we signed up. So we did, and sang the last song of the night, "Summer Nights," from Grease. I'd always wanted to sing at Lonnie's, and it was great to finally do it! Courtney said that the hostess, who'd been rolling her eyes at every group that stormed the stage for the last hour and a half, smiled at us.

Sunday morning was...rough, to put it delicately. But I had absolutely no regrets. With much ado, I got my brick through security at the airport and flew home next to Ed, happy to have been able to celebrate my birthday in one of my favorite places with some of my favorite people.

2005 (pay no attention to the date stamp - I didn't know how to set it...)

2012

Whatever. I'll Run Anyway.

Friday evening, I learned to my great disappointment that the New York City Marathon had been cancelled. It sounded to me like Mary Wittenberg, the president of the New York Road Runners (NYRR) had been hesitant to carry on with the race from the get go, but after Mayor Bloomberg announced on Wednesday that the race was on, NYRR's hands were tied. If the mayor says go ahead, there's not much you can do... A public outcry followed almost immediately, as people were concerned about the police, medical services, and sheer manpower it takes to run a marathon taking away from rescue and recovery services for storm victims. The city claims that no services would have been diverted from recovery efforts (which I find a bit hard to believe, frankly, but may be legitimate). I can certainly see both sides, and all I can say is that I'm glad the decision was not mine.

I decided that I wanted to run the distance I'd been training for on Sunday, marathon or no marathon, and I invited a few friends to join me in the park. Then my friend Isang emailed to tell me about a much bigger, more publicized marathon alternative, and so I decided to join that one instead. Ed and my dad came out to run at least part of it with me on Sunday morning, and we arrived at what would have been the official finish line of the NYC marathon to find thousands of people milling around and ready to run.

Before the start of the race

Run Anyway, the name of the alternate marathon, was a blast. It was preceded with the national anthem, just like every NYRR race (though this one was not affiliated with NYRR) and then we all counted down together and took off! The grandstands had already been erected and were still in place, and as the race went on they filled with cheering onlookers. The course was not nearly as interesting as the actual marathon course, alas; we did a little more than 4 laps around the park to finish with 26.2 miles exactly. Ed stuck with me for 20 miles of it before dropping out - quite impressive for someone who had never run more than 13.1 miles before yesterday - and my dad finished the whole thing with similar training credentials! It seemed that almost half the people on the course were foreign, which makes a lot of sense because international runners would have already been in NYC, or at least en route, when the announcement of the marathon's cancellation was made. They were stuck, but they seemed very pleased to at least be able to run something, even if it wasn't the real event. I saw teams large and small from places as diverse as France, Spain (with a separate team from Catalonia), Hungary, Mexico, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Ireland, Switzerland, Peru, the Philippines  and Brazil. Many of them wore jerseys identifying them as nationals of their various countries, and some ran with huge flags. Lots of people, myself included, wore the orange, long-sleeved t-shirt we had gotten as a marathon souvenir when we picked up our numbers on Thursday and Friday. Some wore goofy costumes they'd planned to wear in the race; I saw over-sized foam cowboy hats, tutus, and one guy dressed, bafflingly, as a cow. Some people even pinned on their race numbers.

There's always a lot of support for the real marathon, and it's great to see people using their Sunday to volunteer with NYRR  to help and encourage thousands of runners they don't know. The effect of the volunteers at Run Anyway was even more powerful, though, because these people were funding their own support efforts. The course was peppered with makeshift aid stations, and lone spectators stood on the side of the course handing out water, sports drinks, bananas, bagels, and Starbursts they'd bought themselves. Many other supporters waved signs, rang cowbells, and cheered us on as we went by. There were still large sections of the course with no spectators - and let me tell you, cheering helps enormously - but I couldn't believe how many people showed up to support an unofficial event. The spirit of comradeship spread throughout the ranks. Not only were there volunteers walking the course backwards with outstretched trash bags so that runners could easily dispose of empty gel packs and old water bottles, runners themselves were more careful than I've ever seen them in a race to hold onto refuse until they could dispose of it. Generally, cups and trash are tossed around willy-nilly, but the park stayed tidy on Sunday, and I was proud of everyone for that. Another positive outcome: Isang said that they collected a huge sum of money and almost more donations than they could handle for storm recovery efforts from runners who wanted to run and help out, too. NYRR helped out by sending boxes to collect donations, which was nice of them.

As for my performance: I did not go as fast as I'd wanted to go, but I was still pleased.  I finished the course in 3 hours and 53 minutes, a 12-minute improvement from my last marathon. I'd been hoping to go below 3:50 and, maybe, finish by 3:45, and I think I'd have been able to do it had the actual marathon occurred as planned. Anyone who has done any running in Central Park will appreciate how hilly it is, and though the regular NYC course is not totally flat, it doesn't have nearly as much elevation change as a few laps around the park do. Also encouraging has been my recovery thus far. Although I'm somewhat sore today, this is nothing compared to the agonizing days that followed my last marathon. I was quite pleased with my pacing yesterday, which will serve me well for the 2013 marathon. All of this leads me to conclude that the training plan I followed worked very well for me, and I plan to use it again to get me ready for my next attempt at the NYC marathon. (I'll plug the book I used at my friend Conor's suggestion: Run Less, Run Faster is a fantastic, detailed, and realistic guide.) I will be making a few changes to my training regimen, however; I plan to add more weight training, and I'll do more of my tempo runs in Central Park instead of on the flat path that runs along the Hudson like I did this year.

I learned a lot from Run Anyway, and I had a great time, to boot. While I look forward to doing the real marathon next November, I can't imagine a better resolution to a very disappointing situation.

Surviving Sandy: A Refugee's Diary

Sunday
Ed, recovering from his half-Ironman (more on that later), found a text message on his phone from his cousin, a travel agent who'd booked our plane tickets for us. "Your flight has been cancelled," he told me. "What?" I spluttered. This seemed ridiculous, as the hurricane wasn't predicted to get really bad until Tuesday morning. I'd thought for sure that my Sunday night flight would land with no problems. Ed, who was scheduled to fly out of Austin on Monday, presented a bigger problem in my mind, though it seemed now that both of us were stuck. Ed's cousin emailed a bit later to say that he'd gotten me on a Tuesday flight, but that he was not optimistic about its odds of taking off. Oh dear. I texted my office manager to let him know, and turned my attentions to taking care of Ed, who was wiped out after his race.

Monday
We checked out of our hotel in Austin and drove the rental car to San Antonio to stay in Ed's mom's house; she was traveling and so not there to greet us, but we were happy to have a free place to wait out the far-off storm. We settled in and I used Ed's laptop to do a bit of work by the pool. Not a bad trade for the office. Later, we went to Ed's friend's house, where we watched CNN and the Weather Channel, gasping at the images of our familiar running trail under water and a building in our neighborhood whose facade had fallen off. It was tough to see in the dark, but the flooding seemed terrible enough that I worried about our apartment. Our building was in the zone least likely to flood (apparently), but I was still anxious, particularly since we're on the first floor and our bedroom is in the basement. My friend Jenny texted me to say they'd cut her power. I was torn between being glad to be stuck where I was and wishing I were home, though I reasoned that I wouldn't be able to stop the flood waters if they did get to our building.

Tuesday
We were not surprised to learn that my Tuesday flight had been cancelled. Ed's cousin emailed to say he'd gotten me onto a Wednesday flight - he was pessimistic about this one, too - and had gotten Ed a spot on a Friday flight. I was scheduled to fly into Newark, which seemed to have sustained the least damage of the three airports that service New York City, but Ed was scheduled to land at JFK where the flooding was much worse. A seat on my plane would set Ed back $1,000, too much, we decided, for two days. We brought breakfast back to the house and watched the morning news for more information the storm. Lots of the floodwaters had receded, but the suspension of subway service was a sobering prospect. Nearly everyone in the city depends on the subway, and even the people with cars were supposed to stay off the roads to allow the clean-up and repair crews to do their jobs. The lower part of Manhattan, as well as lots of town in New Jersey and Long Island had no power or gas (and therefore no heat). We switched off the TV after too much bad news. I read for a while, then went for a tempo run while Ed did a conference call. Later, we went out for dinner at a nice restaurant Ed's mom had recommended. I was starting to feel very lucky to be stranded in Texas. I'd enjoyed a hot shower that day, and was now eating in a restaurant that had a working fridge, gas for the stove and oven, and staff members who were able to get to work easily. Few people in Manhattan would be able to say the same, I reasoned.

Wednesday
My Wednesday flight was cancelled as well, not surprisingly. Ed's cousin got me on one for Thursday, and we settled in to wait for word that this one, too, was cancelled. To pass the time, we went shopping, visited the zoo, then picked up lots of cash, a solar cell phone charger, batteries for Ed's camping lantern, and candles for me to take back to the city with me. I reasoned that all of these things would be in short supply. We met a friend of Ed's for dinner that night, and still had not heard any news from Ed's cousin, meaning that my flight seemed to be on.

Thursday

The red text says "cancelled".

Ed gallantly drove me to the airport at 3:30 in the morning in time for my 6:00 flight. I thought the plane would be overflowing with other stranded New Yorkers, but there were quite a few empty seats and most of the accents I heard were gentle drawls instead of the harsher tones of my fair city; I guess Austin isn't a very popular destination for New Yorkers. We landed in Newark without incident. The airport was emptier than I'd ever seen it, and a glance at the departures screens told me why - it seemed that about a third of the scheduled flights were cancelled.

I was worried about getting into the city without the aid of a train, figuring cabs would be few and far between. I ended up taking a $16 shuttle to Port Authority - it was cheap and quick. The subways had opened but weren't going below 34th Street, so I hailed a cab without difficulty to take me the rest of the way home. I knew my office on 29th was open and had power, so I was hopeful that my apartment might, too, as we drove down 7th Avenue. My hopes dissolved, however, as we crossed 25th Street and I saw that the stoplights were suddenly dark and every storefront was shuttered. Upon seeing me, our doorman produced a flashlight and used it to escort me to my apartment because the hallway, windowless, was pitch black. Glow sticks lined the edges of the floor and had been hung on each door, but they were losing their luminescence. Things inside the apartment looked pretty normal, to my relief. I put on my headlamp and set about unloading the candles, putting the batteries into the lantern, and tidying up and unpacking while I had daylight remained; all that stuff would be difficult to do in the dark later. My work ethic halted when it came to the fridge, however; it had sat without power for more than three days and I decided I'd had enough for one day.

Venturing through the wilds of the bathroom

I dressed for work and headed out the door. In the lobby of the building, two mail carriers were chatting about how many hours earlier than usual they'd had to get up to make it to work. I was grateful that the efforts of people like them, who were willing to rise early and work late, were slowly but surely restoring the city. I heard later that workers were scrubbing the subway tracks and rails by hand to get the salt off so that the trains could run again; THAT'S dedication. Outside, policemen in bright yellow jackets took the place of working stoplights, not a single store was open for blocks, and the sidewalks were covered with leaves and debris; I guess business owners are responsible for clearing the areas in front of their shops.

I didn't see too much in the way of large pieces of debris, but one huge tree seemed to have simply snapped just above the ground; it was amazing to think that the winds had been strong enough to topple it. Clearly, efforts had been made to trim off the lighter parts of it, but the huge trunk still lay on the sidewalk, wrapped in yellow tape, awaiting removal. I snapped a picture and kept walking and suddenly I was back in the city I know. I'd reached 25th Street where the power had been restored and everything was up and running as though nothing had ever happened. People were drinking coffee in Starbucks and paying cashiers with credit cards at Duane Reade. What a weird transition. I put in a few hours at the office, most of which were spent talking to my co-workers about their storm experiences. Our office manager's trip to our building from his home in Brooklyn had taken him three hours that morning: 90 minutes of standing in line and 90 minutes on a bus standing in for the subway that, without traffic, could have arrived in Manhattan in just 15.


I made arrangements to stop by my friend Jeremy's apartment after I picked up my number from the marathon expo. He lives just blocks from the convention center so I could walk there without having to worry about whether the subway was running or not, and his apartment is far enough north (41st Street) that their power had never been disconnected in the first place. He said they were largely unaffected by the storm, and I glowered. I was soon joined by two other refugees, residents of Chinatown, who were also without power, and we all showered and it was wonderful. Some of Jeremy's roommates showed up with yet another homeless New Yorker; he said he'd been couch surfing for four days and was quite cheerful about his transience. I hung around to watch TV and eat take-out Thai food in a well lit, warm apartment for a few hours, then ventured back to my own place at about 10:30. My cabbie drove carefully through the dark streets. It felt scary, somehow, seeing the familiar streets turning alien without the streetlights and lit restaurants and storefronts. My friend Nick once wrote a poem with a line in it about how there's more to dark than just the absence of light, and I can whole-heartedly agree with him after last night. Beyond spookiness, though, it was downright dangerous to be in some of the outer boroughs without streetlights; stories about muggings and lootings abounded. In Chelsea, though, I had no cause to worry about such things. I was dropped off in front of my building without incident and fired up the headlamp and lantern as soon as I was through the door. I'd gotten in late enough that there was little to do but get into bed, which was fortunate because I'm not sure what else I could have done. The cats settled in around me to keep me warm. I switched off the headlamp and reflected that I couldn't remember when I'd last been in such total darkness. There wasn't even a digital clock to break it. Not conducive to living, but very conducive to sleeping. ConEd had promised to have the whole island connected by Saturday night, and I drifted off to sleep with high hopes that they'd surpass their estimation.

The Counting Crows Give Me Hope

I have a milestone birthday approaching, and it's kind of freaking me out. 

Last night, in an attempt to prove I'm still hip, I went to a Counting Crows concert at the Roseland Ballroom with my friend Dennis. Adam Duritz, the lead singer, is one of my favorite performers and I was eager to see him work his magic on the mic again. I reflected on their music as we waited for them to start and realized that the first time I'd ever heard "Mr. Jones" I'd been in 6th grade. There could be no mistake about that: It was morning and I was getting ready to start the day at Space Camp in Huntsville, Alabama (I have never claimed to be cool), and one of our adult supervisors came into our dorm singing it at the top of her lungs. It's a vivid memory, but it gave me pause. Could that really be right? Goodness, these guys were OLD. 

Still rockin', crow's feet and all

Some research today confirmed my conclusion. The bad formed in 1991 - several years before I started 6th grade, actually - and the lead singer, who floored me again last night with his energy, passion, and pure rockstar appeal, is 48. Now 48 no longer seems to me to be outlandishly old - a sobering realization for me - but it's considerably above the range I typically associate with rock musicians. Most of his band must be right around that vintage as well, but they were still spectacular. In fact, I bet they are way more spectacular than they were in their 20's. One of the things I've always admired about the Counting Crows is their talent as musicians, particularly in an age where musical prowess is not a prerequisite for a career "performing" music. They use a huge range of instruments and are constantly experimenting by making their old stand-by songs into medleys, combining various musical styles, and improvising like crazy. Some bands perform their songs just the way they recorded them, making one wonder about the point of going to see them live if one can access the same performance on an iPod. But I'll bet the Counting Crows never play the same song the same way twice. And I'll bet they wouldn't be able to do that, and do it with such skill, if they were still young men.

Receding hairlines do not prevent us from rocking your world.

I left the concert with ringing ears and a hopeful buoyancy in my step. Maybe this new decade won't be so bad after all. 

Religion, Globalism, and Swearing with Rushdie and McCann

Though I always get excited to see authors I admire, I was particularly excited about last night's event: Salman Rushdie would be speaking with Colum McCann about his (Rushdie's) newest book Joseph Anton. Rushdie is someone I've long admired for his unparalleled ability to craft great, swooping stories while dazzling readers at the micro level with word play at the same time. McCann certainly doesn't yet have Rushdie's track record, but Let the Great World Spin - a National Book Award winner and the subject of a Legit Lit post) made me a solid fan of his, and I'm eager to read more. I would have anticipated an inspirational showing from either of these great men individually, and I figured that, together, they'd be better than the sum of their parts.

The evening kicked off with an introduction from Granta editor John Freeman. He started off every bit as awkwardly as he did when introducing David Mitchell just days before, and I felt a little sorry for him; he's clearly a master of the written word, but speaking those words seems to pose a different challenge. But then McCann piped up, objecting to Freeman's calling Rushdie "Mr. Salman Rushdie" when McCann himself had been introduced only as "Colum McCann." The audience tittered slightly as Freeman rolled his eyes and allowed that "Mr." McCann would be speaking with Mr. Rushdie, then was uninterrupted again as Rushdie pointed out, almost under his breath, "It's 'sir,' actually." (Rushdie was knighted in 2007 as part of the Queen's Birthday Honours.) This seemed to break the ice for Freeman, who laughed along with the rest of us, and later, stumbling over "misters" and "sirs" sighed, "This is really going to f*ck me up." The evening was off to a good start.

McCann seemed nervous at first. A New Yorker by way of Ireland, he punctuated nearly every other word with "em" as the conversation began. "So, em, I thought, em, well, em, what question will I, em, will I begin with, and then, em, I thought, I thought maybe, em, we could, em, start, em, with your father. What what what what was it like for you...?" Oh boy, perhaps this wasn't going to be as enjoyable an evening as I'd thought. But McCann seemed to find his stride quickly, and his speaking style, while remaining eccentric, settled into fluency. I was amused by his costume: a plain gray blazer, jeans, and a white button-down with a rather jaunty orange plaid scarf wrapped around his neck. In searching for an image of him for this post, however, I discovered that while the scarf itself varies, its presence seems to be an important ingredient in his signature look. He consulted a small, brown notebook throughout the evening and seemed a bit jumpy, but jovially so.

Rushdie wore a taupe suit with a white checked shirt underneath and, amusingly, maroon socks. He seemed much more at ease than McCann, an attitude befitting his many years of experience and allegedly considerable ego, though he did have a habit of fiddling in his left coat pocket from time to time with the hand that wasn't occupied by the microphone. He has a white goatee and a ring of black hair surrounding a very bald, shiny pate. His most distinguishing feature is his right eyebrow, which juts up at an almost impish angle, making him look like he's constantly amused. And he is very, very funny - he made references to Monty Python and, in regard to a disguise he once wore, deemed himself "gorgeous" in a wig. His smooth British accent contrasted with McCann's perky brogue as they discussed Joseph Anton (Rushdie's pseudonym during the decade he was in hiding, a construction of the first names of favorite authors Joseph Conrad and Anton Chekov) and numerous other provocative and entertaining topics.

Of course, religion was explored thoroughly. Rushdie was raised by a father who was more of a scholar of Islaam than a believer; Rushdie pointed out that most atheists are obsessed with the idea of God. He also identifies as an atheist, though has no objection to people practicing their beliefs in private, and he did tell McCann that, as writers, he was sure they both understood that "there's a thing in [people] that is not just flesh and bone." Discussion of the fatwa was also inevitable. I was a bit surprised that we didn't have to go through a metal detector when entering the theater, and there didn't seem to be any security. When McCann asked about the current threat to Rushdie, the older man asserted that "those days are gone," though allowed that there are certain countries he still cannot visit. McCann made a crack about taking Rushdie on the subway, and Rushdie countered that he takes the subway all the time, as, after all, there are times when one simply cannot get a cab. "Wow, that's fantastic!" McCann exclaimed. "No, it's just taking the subway," said Rushdie mildly.

I've never read any of Rushdie's non-fiction, and it was strange to think about this author, who I associate with magical realism, writing about his own life. But the memoir does sound a bit like a novel - at least the part he read aloud for us, anyway - because it's written in third person. Rushdie said he tried writing in first person and didn't like the resulting test, and that it was just easier to "turn the lens on himself" this way. Rushdie felt sharply criticized by the British media, particularly during the first months of the fatwa, and said that people were making up versions of him all over the place so it was nice to have his own chance to invent a version of himself, though his is factual. I can't imagine what it must have been like to be in hiding for ten years. Rushdie said that the hardest thing to convey to people is "the idea of duration" because people understand a moment of crisis, but it's harder to extend that comprehension when the crisis lasts for a decade. McCann pointed out that Rushdie looks younger now than he did in his 40's due to the stress of the experience, and Rushdie agreed whole-heartedly. That, he said, was the reason there are no pictures in the book. "I looked like sh*t." he said. "It's appalling." He maintains that being a writer saved him. "Writers are used to sitting in a room, looking out the window, wondering what the f*ck to do," he said. (I was delighted that someone who can use English with more grace and skill than almost anyone on the planet was not above the frequent use of casual profanity.)

Rushdie is a notorious social butterfly, and it was rather titillating to hear about how he'd meditated with Allen Ginsburg, played ping pong with Jonathan Safran Foer, argued about Wodehouse quotations with Martin Amis, commiserated with Ian McEwan about their mutual struggles getting published, sent manuscripts to Christopher Hitchens, and spent a weekend with Kurt Vonnegut. It felt, on some levels, like name dropping, but I reminded myself that this was his social circle, after all; of course he's going to use their names. What else would he call them?

"For Beth - With all best wishes"

I most enjoyed the conversation that circled around the craft of writing. Rushdie loves poetry, not just as a genre but because he believes that one can get lazy writing prose, churning out "meat and potatoes sentences" (which have their place, but shouldn't be relied upon too heavily). Poets, he says, really pay attention to language, and he reads several poems each day to remind himself to do the same. He doesn't write poetry himself, however, because it scares him. McCann said that each time he finishes a novel, he worries that he's out of stories, sitting back and thinking, "I'll never be able to do that again." (This from a young author who has already written eight novels and short story collections.) He asked whether Rushdie has every experienced this feeling, and Rushdie responded without hesitation, "Every time." But, he added, "it doesn't show up if you don't plug away at it." You've got to just jump back in and work, and something always comes. As the author of 28 novels, major essays, and collections, I feel confident in trusting him on this.

Despite his spellbinding talent for storytelling, reviews for Joseph Anton have been somewhat critical. Rushdie said that he cut 200 pages from it before publication, but most critics agree that it is still far too long. The popular opinion seems to be that there are gems in it, but that his ego outshines them and makes the whole thing somewhat off-putting, and there is speculation that Rushdie's eye for effective content, while keen for writing fictional stories about made-up characters, is somewhat clouded when it comes to writing about himself. And Joseph Anton contains lots and lots of name-dropping. Each person at last night's talk got a free copy, so I will probably at least read part of mine; the beginning, it seems, is fascinating and superbly wrought.

As we lined up for the signing afterward, I was distressed to see that McCann did not seem to have a table set up. I asked an employee, and sure enough only Rushdie was scheduled to do a signing. I was emboldened by memories of my disappointment at the end of David Mitchell's talk last week. I hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, then I asked my friend Jeremy to hold my place in line and made my way up to the side of the stage where McCann was chatting with someone. When he finished, I tremblingly blurted out that I was a big fan and knew he wasn't doing a signing but if it wasn't too much trouble I'd really appreciate it if he'd sign the book I'd brought if he didn't mind. He was happy to oblige, and we chatted a bit as he scrawled a message and his name on the title page. My interaction with Rushdie was less interactive, as I was too nervous to do anything more but squeak "thank you," and flee. Jeremy, however, chatted and laughed with Rushdie (who had a glass of whiskey on the rocks perched on the corner of the table) for a few moments. Jerk.

I am less an unconditional fan of Rushdie than I was yesterday morning after seeing this talk and doing some research. But there's no question that he is a man to be enthusiastically read and admired. And I'm grateful for the ways McCann said Rushdie has inspired him, and many other young authors, who are using gorgeous language of their own to tell the important stories that explore what it is to be human and make me feel more alive.

Almost Marathon Time!

Yesterday afternoon, I went for my second-to-last "long" run of this training season. I'm in taper mode - though my legs don't really believe it after this morning's intervals - so all of my workouts are getting shorter. Instead of the usual 18-20 miles for my long run, yesterday I did just 13, and next weekend I'll do only 10. (Trust me, these seem like small numbers when you're training for a marathon.)  It hadn't really sunk in that the race was really all that close until I got to Central Park, three miles from my apartment, and saw a series of flags like the one below lining the lower part of the running path:

After a bike ride on Saturday, Ed had mentioned that he saw bleachers set up by where the finish line will be.   I heard him, but it didn't really register. Seeing these flags lining the part of the park that will signal the end of the race, and the rows of port-a-potties and bleachers already set up, however, made me feel sort of quivery. In exactly two weeks, I thought, I'll be actually running this thing. I sure hope I'm ready.

One very encouraging piece of news is that my parents, who were planning a trip to NYC sometime this fall anyway, decided to come the weekend of the race. My brother and his wife will also be joining us from DC. It helps a lot to see familiar faces along the course, and I'm looking forward to seeing the whole crew near the finish line and celebrating with them afterward.

New York Road Runners, the club that organizes the marathon, is sending out daily emails to registered runners by now. One of their coaches wrote that, at this point, "the hay is in the barn," meaning that there's not much more we can do to train anymore; now it's all about getting good nutrition and making sure to rest up while still staying limber. That's partly comforting and partly alarming. Have I done all I can to prepare for this race? Probably not, but apparently it doesn't matter at this point. All I can do is try to think positively and think about how good it's going to feel to get to the part of the park where I can see those orange flags on November 4th.

Delighted and Devastated by David Mitchell

A few years ago, I was browsing the shelves at a clearance sale in a bookstore. All prices were heavily discounted as the store was going out of business, so instead of going in with a clear idea of what I wanted to buy, I was doing much more meandering than usual. A book called Black Swan Green caught my eye - probably because of the strange title - and I picked it up when I saw that the accolades of both book and author (Booker Prize finalist, best seller, best book for young adults, etc.) I added it to my Buy pile. I generally do meticulous research before selecting a book to read - life is short and chunks of it should not be dedicated to reading bad fiction - so I come across few books in this random way. But looking back, it feels like providence, because Black Swan Green was my introduction to the truly monumental talent of David Mitchell.

This seemed a fitting picture

I should, nay will, do a Legit Lit post about Black Swan Green, as well as The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, the other Mitchell book I've read, but for now I will wrench myself away from my urge to gush about his spellbinding skill and describe, instead, the experience of seeing him speak last night at Symphony Space. The event was one of the Selected Shorts series in which a lauded author selects short stories written by other authors and explains why they are fantastic, then steps back to let an actor read them to the audience. First, however, John Freeman, the editor of a magazine called Granta about new writing - which I must investigate - introduced Mitchell. He was an awkward speaker, and his poor phrasing took away from the loveliness of his words, unfortunately. Then Mitchell took over the podium and the atmosphere shifted from squirmy to glowing within a few sentences. He was tall and very thin with short-cropped hair, and wore a green t-shirt, a too-big blazer, and jeans. After thanking everyone at Symphony Space and declaring that his head would be large enough to exceed the baggage restrictions on his flight back to London after Freeman's introduction, he held out a few papers and sort of squinted at them, reading verbatim that he was supposed to discuss some of his favorite authors in 2 to 3 minutes. He expressed his relief, stating that it's much easier to talk about authors than to introduce one's self (and that stuff is all on Wikipedia anyway), then launched into a rhapsodic adulation of Anton Chekov, Tolkein, Isaac Asimov, and Mikhail Bulgakov. He practically knocked over the podium in his enthusiastic promotion of Independent People, by Halldor Laxness. Then he recounted reading Ursula Le Guin as a boy (he still finds her to be sublime) and being filled with the desire to write because "you want to do to others what's just been done to you," to write a book so captivating that "the room vanishes."

If you've read any of Mitchell's work, and I can't recommend strongly enough that you do, you'll know instantly that here is a man who has a nearly unprecedented way with words. However, he seemed to be struggling sometimes to find the right word, and this hesitancy was compounded by the unbridled joy evident in his voice and gestures as he talked about writing he loved. I had a hunch that this wordsmith couldn't possibly be searching for the right word - his overall eloquence was too great for that - and I recalled that the protagonist in Black Swan Green has a stutter. A bit of research today confirmed my suspicions that Mitchell himself suffered from a stutter as a child. I don't think the casual observer would have made the connection, though; if his difficulties with speech were as bad as Jason's, he's come so far that he comes off as someone lovably bumbling instead of a sufferer of a speech impediment.

For his short stories, Mitchell selected "Vanilla Bright Like Eminem" by Michel Faber and "The Burning Palms" by Claire Keegan, and both were brought spectacularly to life by actors Daniel Gerroll and Patricia Kalember. Mitchell read his notes from a black Moleskine notebook. When he described Keegan's writing, he seemed hardly able to contain his admiration for the way she put words together to convey meaning far deeper than their individual definitions. He read us a short sentence from the first part of the story, then twittered, "She packs so much into this little suitcase [meaning the sentence] and then, blaugh [estimation of spelling; word accompanied by exploding gesture made by hands], it just...spills meaning and implications and resonances..." He followed this with a happy sigh.  Then, of another sentence, "'...rain dripping on the rhubarb leaves.' You can just hear the drops in that sentence, can't you?" He tapped the microphone with a finger several times, murmuring dreamily,"drip, drip, drip." If Mitchell wasn't an author, he should be teaching poetry to sullen youths, as there's absolutely no chance of their being able to remain less than enchanted by the art of the written word after three minutes with this man.

After hearing the short stories, we were treated to a discussion between Mitchell and Freeman. We learned that Mitchell writes a long, thorough biography for every one of his characters before beginning a novel, which explains why his characters are so astoundingly three-dimensional and also why it takes him three or four years to write each book. He said that events from their lives often work their way into his books, though he's never had one of these biographies turn into its own book. Freeman commended Mitchell for the breadth of time periods, settings, and genres covered by his books. When asked about his vision of the movie version of Cloud Atlas as compared with the book he wrote by the same title, he laughed that he was really glad the director had re-imagined so much of it because a film made to follow his book exactly "would suck." The movie comes out in just a few days. We watched the trailer, and then one last actor (wonderful Campbell Scott) read a chapter from the book that took the form of a letter written by an irreverent  witty, gay composer in the 1930's whom I'm devastated I'll never meet. It was, he was mind-blowing. I must read this book immediately.

I've written a lot about being delighted by David Mitchell. Now for the devastation in the title of this post: because he flew back to the UK immediately after the talk, he did not do a book signing. I was crushed, and ordered something very unhealthy at the diner we went to afterward, hoping smother my pain in french fries and American cheese while Ed tried very hard to make cheerful conversation, even offering to sign my books for me while feigning a charming, bumbling British accent.

So David Mitchell, if you stumble across this post some day, reach out. Let's make a deal in which I get one of your signed books and you can have...my firstborn? It would be a fair trade to own a book signed by a writer with as titanic a talent as yours.