The Magnificent Mary Karr

       I saw Mary Karr last week, and am going to begin with how she ended. Here is the poem Mary Karr recited--by heart--after an audience member told her she carried a copy of the poem in her wallet for years.

A BLESSING FROM MY SIXTEEN YEARS' SON

I have this son who assembled inside me

during Hurricane Gloria. In a flash, he appeared,

in a heartbeat. Outside, pines toppled.

Phone lines snapped and hissed like cobras.

Inside, he was a raw pearl: microscopic, luminous.

Look at the muscled obelisk of him now

pawing through the icebox for more grapes.

Sixteen years and not a bone broken,

not a single stitch. By his age,

I was marked more ways, and small.

He's a slouching six foot three,

with implausible blue eyes, which settle

on the pages of Emerson's "Self Reliance"

with profound belligerence.

A girl with a navel ring

could make his cell phone go brr,

or an Afro'd boy leaning on a mop at Taco Bell --

creatures strange as dragons or eels.

Balanced on a kitchen stool, each gives counsel

arcane as any oracle's. Bruce claims school

is harshing my mellow. Case longs to date

a tattooed girl, because he wants a woman

willing to do stuff she'll regret.

They've come to lead my son

into his broadening spiral.

Someday soon, the tether

will snap. I birthed my own mom

into oblivion. The night my son smashed

the car fender, then rode home

in the rain-streaked cop car, he asked, Did you

and Dad screw up so much?

He'd let me tuck him in,

my grandmother's wedding quilt

from 1912 drawn to his goateed chin. Don't
blame us, I said. You're your own
idiot now. At which he grinned.

The cop said the girl in the crimped Chevy

took it hard. He'd found my son

awkwardly holding her in the canted headlights,

where he'd draped his own coat

over her shaking shoulders. My fault,

he'd confessed right off.

Nice kid, said the cop.

This is the pose she did after I said, "You're
61 years old? You look gorgeous!  I hate you."

         Here are some quotes of Karr's that I jotted down:

• She was asked by her agent? publisher? where she wanted to do a book signing? She--for sure--wanted to do Boston, because she had taught classes there. She said, "I went there for the signing, and three people showed up."

• "A lot of literature is about longing."

• "Memoir, if done right, is knocking yourself out with your own fist."

• "A dysfunctional family is any family with more than one person in it."

• "I remember myself as smart. There was no evidence I was smart."

• (In writing memoir) "You get ambushed by the truth."

• (As a memoirist) "My goal is to make you feel something."

• "I'm an inefficient writer but a skillful editor."

• When writing one of her memoirs, she threw away 1,200 finished pages... "they went to live with Jesus."

• "I spend a lot of time in my head. I have a big inner life."

• "What is the difference between autobiography and memoir? Well, memoir sounds so much more French. Mem-wah."

• "The ass-whipping is easy to write. It's hope that's hard to write. Hope and love are hard to write."  

What writer would you most like to see in person, and why?

Why I Hate Mary Karr and Back-of-the-Book Blurb Friday # 25

       A couple of evenings ago I saw Mary Karr's talk on memoir. I was seated surrounded by Lynn Obermoeller, Linda O'Connell, along with Marcia and Jim Gaye.

      I'll post about her talk on Tuesday. Every thing about the night was wonderful. Karr was full of great advice on how to get published. ("Learn to write well.") She was full of confessions. (Sometimes she felt like eating Ho-Hos all day, and was Catholic "but probably not the Pope's favorite Catholic.") She was full of family tidbits. (Her mother was amazed when Karr got an advance for her memoir The Liar's Club. "You mean you get to keep that money? Even if the book doesn't sell?")

     However, as I watched her stride across the room, owning it, in her size 2 white pants and sky-high sandals, wearing her wrinkle-free face, a deep hatred started rumbling around in my heart.

     And when I heard she was 61, I declared my hatred for her--to her face. (She of course thanked me when she heard why I hated her.)

      On Tuesday I'll post more about Mary Karr... and now onto Back-of-the-Book Blurb Friday (I know. It's now Saturday, but we were in a car dealership all afternoon and evening and during the day I was at work 'cause, you know, I retired and then went back to work and my knee is really bothering me and if I don't stop this whining I'm gonna have to serve some crackers and some decent cheese to you and Velveeta doesn't count.)

• Look at the photo below. That is the cover of your book.
• You choose the genre. A mystery? A coffeetable book full of strange dog photos? A historical piece? You decide.
• Write an enticing blurb--150 words or less. (The title doesn't count in the word count.) Lisa Ricard Claro is the original brains behind this writing exercise. Her third romance book just came out in July (Love to Win) so right now she's booked solid, doing book signings in Europe (mostly in France) as she does double duty--she's selling her novels and constantly on the look-out for Johnny Depp. Or Juliet Binoche. Or Maurice Chavalier statues.
• Include your blurb in a blog post. Include a link to this post. 
• Link your post to Mr. Linky. Mr. Linky is easy. You don't have to buy him a drink or anything. If you've never done it, you'll be impressed with how simple he is.
• Check out the other blurb(s). It's interesting to see the different directions writers take, given the same photo.
• And most importantly, have fun. This is supposed to be enjoyable.

Here is the photo and my lame-o blurb:

One Strange Dog

         Fo-Fo was one strange dog. He was a golden retriever and yet he was aloof. Unlike every other golden, he didn't have human contact too high on his priority list. Fo-Fo was content to spend most of his life waiting... waiting to be a missile.

        This golden boy wasn't made to do anything that took any smarts but he was designed to fly across fields after a ball, a stick, a disc—anything that could be thrown. Fo-Fo lived for racing like a missile in frequent games of fetch.

         But then Fo-Fo's family starts spotting a stranger—often seen walking in front of the house or sometimes just standing in front of their house, seemingly lost in thought.

And then one afternoon, Fo-Fo disappeared. The gate was still closed. No holes were dug under the fence... and the stranger was gone as well.

        Where did Fo-Fo go? (145 words)

        And dig in... Here is the photo for next week:

Mary's Comin'

        Okay, I certainly am not on a first-name basis with Mary Karr. But I thought, 'Perhaps my few followers will read on, intrigued, wondering who Mary is.'

     But Mary Karr is coming to St. Louis this week. Thursday night she will be giving a talk at the St. Louis County Library Headquarters. The doors open at 6, but people start lining up early to ensure a spot.

      Her first two memoirs, The Liars Club and Cherry covered her childhood and her teenage years. Lit is my favorite--it covers her unraveling as an alcoholic and a mother... and her finding her way back.

        I've spent years savoring and reveling in memoirs. Make Me Into Zeus' Daughter. All Over But the Shoutin'. Stolen Lives. These are books that sit on a sacred spot on my shelves. But I also have favorite books on the art of writing.

        On Writing by Stephen King. Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. Now Mary Karr has come out with a book on writing memoir.

          I've written a memoir that is thinly disguised as a novel. (The manuscript is with an editor who is probably trying to figure out a way to disguise her lack of interest in it.) Writing gives me great joy. Memoir is how I untangle my life. And writing about the writing of memoir?

          That's just gravy.

          In case you can't make it, or in case you'd like a double helping of Mary Karr, here is a link to a conversation with her. (It's short. A little over 10 minutes long.)

       What is YOUR favorite memoir? Have you written memoir pieces before? Do you have any advice for those who might be just dipping their toes into memoir writing?

What's in a Name?

          I love when a post prods me to go to my book shelf--or even better--compels me to write.  The writing inspires me to trot off, on a mission, to find the something I'm looking for...

         Yesterday Donna Volkenannt's blog, among other things, got me thinking of first lines of books.  Donna is asking for you to share some of your favorite first lines. If you haven't done so already, do so. 

        I always look at the first line of a book before I buy it.  Sometimes it doesn't immediately hook me, but if I already love the author, I'm willing to go on the journey anyway.  Most of the time, however, if I make the purchase, it's because that initial line sends me off into a much-desired direction, or it intrigues me to the point that I must know where it leads... 

        When commenting on Donna's blog, I included that I loved Dickens' first, paragraph-long sentence from Tale of Two Cities.  Com'on.  You know you want to join in with me..."It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness..." (and that's only half of it).

       Also, I quoted Barbara Robinette Moss' first line from her brilliant and moving memoir Change Me into Zeus's Daughter. This was an author I was unfamiliar with.  I remember vividly picking this book off the shelf, looking at the first line, being held hostage--with that sentence jabbing me in the back---until I paid for the book and started reading it, completely immersed.

     "Mother spooned the poisoned corn and beans into her mouth, ravenously, eyes closed, hands shaking."

      I just had to know why the woman was eating something poisoned while she was obviously being watched by her child/children. I figured she was bent on killing herself, but no, that's not where the story leads...(Buy the book or borrow it from the library. It's a worthwhile read.)

       

       I also love Mary Karr's first line in her memoir Lit.  After the prologue. When the story really begins...

       "Age seventeen, string-haired and halter-topped, weighing in the high double digits and unhindered by a high school diploma, I showed up at the Pacific Ocean, ready to seek my fortune with a truck full of extremely stoned surfers."
Occasionally I turn to the last page and read the last line. Of course, I'm taking the risk of sabotaging myself.  But it's like the bread that makes a sandwich. If it's spongy white Wonderbread that holds the story together, I'm not interested. However, if it's hearty, coarse bread with a thick, crunchy crust, baked in a brick oven (in southern France!  Make it bread baked in France!), then I'm gonna take a bite and start chewing...

       ("Okay.  Enough with the on and on moaning about first lines and now---Geeze---salivating over bread.  Your post's title was "What's in a Name?"  Stop digressing.  Get back to the point you began with.)

       Donna's post got me thinking about the fact that sometimes, it's the title that gets me excited. Usually it happens with books that I use with my third graders.  And just like I bought Change Me into Zeus's Daughter just because I fell in love with the first line, I also bought this intermediate book simply because of the title: No More Dead Dogs.  (And no, it's not a depressing book about the death of a dog. In fact, it's funny.)

      So, share with Donna some of the best first lines from books you have collected on your bookshelf.  And share with me the book titles that have most intrigued you.  What titles have lit you on fire?