Archive for the 'authors' Category

Oh, I’m the book critic

paperhaus February 12th, 2010

Jennifer Weiner just called me a book critic, and she didn’t mean it in a nice way.

Weiner, of course, is the author of a heap of books, including Good in Bed & In Her Shoes, and a lively advocate for popular fiction. She thought I was shitting on Jackie Collins when I tweetedJackie Collins, serving up sexy Hollywood trash! Oh, YAWN.” Her reply was swift: “Book critic being snotty, dismissive to popular commercial writer? I see your yawn + raise you a coma.”

Well, she hadn’t clicked on the link, to this Jacket Copy post — it’s about how Collins’ stock-in-trade — shockingly sexy tales of Hollywood! — has been usurped by sources of more immediate gratification: TMZ, Perez Hilton, you know. Seems to me like there isn’t much of a place for 400-page trashy Hollywood novels anymore. Collins has a new book, Poor Little Bitch Girl, that treads a mashup of Heidi Fleiss and Paris Hilton and more and… feels very tired.

What shocked me, though, wasn’t anything about Jackie Collins — it was that Jennifer Weiner was calling me a book critic. As if I was one of those shadow bogeymen of haute culture, a gatekeeper. Me? But… and I think of all the ways that I have been outside the gates. Oh, so many. Oh, for so long. Take today: I am totally wearing the wrong shoes.

But it’s true, I have to admit, that I write book reviews. I’ll be on the board of the National Book Critics Circle, starting in March. And I love writing about books, in a way that’s thoughtful, and even smart.

And I suppose that makes me a book critic.

And I think I’m OK with that.

Talking to Rebecca Skloot

paperhaus February 11th, 2010

I met Rebecca Skloot in New York last fall, when after a National Book Critics Circle event I had little business attending, I tagged along with a group of former board members in search of cocktails. Because we’d gone to the same graduate MFA program I knew her name — not that I learned the names of all alumni, but the nonfiction program had been passing Skloot’s book proposal to class after class of new students, saying This is the way you do it.

The book, however, had been in (and out) of the works for a long time, and when she told me it was finally on the way, I suppose I was dubious. But I was also curious. It sounded fascinating, and it was.

The book was released Tuesday, Feb 2; my piece on Skloot and her book, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, ran in the LA Times this Monday. Here’s some of it:

Lacks, who died of cervical cancer in 1951, is the source of the HeLa cell line, the first human cells able to reproduce on their own in the laboratory.

By the time of her death, researchers at Johns Hopkins University had been trying for years to find cells with such reproductive properties. Lacks’ cells — powered by something in her cancer — were so remarkable that Hopkins shared them with scientists around the globe. A new industry of mass-producing human cells grew up around them.

HeLa cells have been used in experiments for decades, enabling countless scientific discoveries, including the polio vaccine and the discovery of chromosomes. The were blown up with an atom bomb and sent into space.

Still in use, they have been produced at mind-blowing volumes — enough to wrap around the world three times. They’ve been called immortal. Yet as vitally important as they have been to science, few have thought about their origins.

Skloot first heard the story of the cells as a teenager, learning only that they came from Lacks, an African American woman. She found the information tantalizingly inadequate. At the time, Skloot’s father, Floyd (who is the author of several books about living with brain damage) was severely ill and enrolled in a difficult, frustrating drug trial.

“I think that’s why I latched onto the story,” she says. “My first question was, ‘Does she have any kids? What do her kids think of this?’ “

One thing I didn’t mention anywhere is that Skloot has established the Henrietta Lacks Foundation, in hopes of providing resources to subsequent Lacks generations. Henrietta was poor when she died; her children grew up poor, as many of their children have, unable to afford to health insurance even as major biomedical industries have grown up around their mother’s tissues. Maybe some of the people who make charitable decisions in those industries will consider putting some resources into the foundation.

I interviewed Skloot in January, before she embarked on a massive, 100+ day book tour. Part of that conversation was posted on Jacket Copy, the LA Times book blog. Seeing Skloot in action, and hearing her story of this book, is highly recommended — she’s a total dynamo. I feel lazy around her, and believe me, I generally only feel lazy when encumbered by a massive hangover.

Chances are, if you’re living in the continental US, she’ll be showing up somewhere near you soon.

Joshua Ferris on The Unnamed

paperhaus January 15th, 2010

When I first reached Joshua Ferris to talk to him for the Barnes & Noble Review, my call surprised him. “I’m driving!” he said, and before he got pulled over for using his cell phone, we arranged to talk the following day. Crossed wires, publicists, scheduling - it happens. Anyway, our subsequent, not-driving conversation — in which he talks about the ideas underlying his new novel, The Unnamed — is now online. The protagonist of The Unnamed, a very successful NY attorney, is afflicted by a disease that has no known diagnosis. Here’s a bit of Ferris:

It seems to me that when a scientist or a medical doctor or a philosopher says, well, Descartes is over, the mind/body problem has been solved and we know that everything is located in the brain and we should celebrate, it seems to have missed the point. We don’t yet have subtle enough tools to alleviate all suffering, and the mystery is far too great – the confoundedness of disease; it brings me back to the soliloquy in Hamlet, “What a piece of work is man.”At the end of it, he says, “to me, what is this quintessence of dust?” There are two poles  — one says we’re just this machine, and the other says, what a piece of work is man. I did not want to come down on one side or the other. It’s possible that this poor guy, with enough research and enough time, could have solved his problem  — but essentially, the mystery at the heart of his entire being can never be solved….

That was my greatest hope for the book – that it came to a place where the most pressing questions about what it means to be human, what it means to be heroic in the face of evisceration, and whether or not this particular character could muster the resources to do something in spite of his illness. All of these things became pertinent. I kept going back to the quote by Albert Camus, “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” That was a kind of challenge, as I was writing the book, because clearly this is kind of Sisyphean disease — its very recurrent nature makes it such. I had to wonder, Is this particular man going to find a way to be happy? And what is it going to be about – his career, his physical comfort, his family?

Tod Goldberg has just reviewed the book for the LA Times. “The Unnamed is an accomplished and daring work,” he writes, “by a writer just now realizing what he is capable of creating”