Mentor

mentorThis memoir of the tortured trajectory of the writer’s life was completely fascinating, if not always for the right reasons. Tom Grimes’ brave and excruciatingly honest account of sixteen rollercoaster years of his life is a startling documentation of the craziness, both literal and figurative, that can descend when a person decides to stake his entire life on becoming A Published Author. One small anecdote caught my eye: it’s reading Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises at community college that inspires Tom to become a writer; he wants to be Jake Barnes, journalist and the novel’s narrator. ‘The only problem was, I’d romanticized Jake’s life so completely that, until my professor pointed out this fact in class, I didn’t realise Jake was impotent.’ Beware all would-be writers with urgent ambitions. Whether he intends it or not, Tom Grimes is a terrible warning rather than an excellent example.

Ostensibly, the memoir is about the relationship between Tom and Frank Conway, author of a classic memoir, Stop-Time (and not much else), when they first meet, but more crucially, director of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Tom is waiting tables in Key West, Florida, a struggling writer going nowhere, but all that is about to change. Having crudely snubbed him when they first meet, Frank Conway astounds Tom by phoning him after he submits his application to the workshop. ‘”I never call anyone,” he said, “but I’ve read your manuscript.”’ At this point, doors to the Aladdin’s Cave are flung wide, with Frank offering Tom his agent’s services, scholarships, and every other glittering prize he can think of. Tom enters the program at Iowa as teacher’s pet, his arrival heralded in advance on the strength of the early chapters of his literary novel about baseball. Over the next two years, buoyed by such spectacular support, Tom writes his novel with manic intensity. An earlier novel is picked up by a small publisher and put out to encouraging reviews, and a play he has written also finds backers and a theatre.

The speed at which Tom’s star rises overwhelms him somewhat, and this sense of swimming out of his depth culminates in the auction for his novel, not quite the bidding frenzy he had thought it would be, but a painfully drawn-out day of escalating advances that never seem to come from the right people at the right time. Having already overthought this moment too many times, Tom has a whole shopping list of literary ideals – the right house, the right editor, the right price – but ultimately in the confusion of having to make a decision on the spot, he does not go with the house he has always wanted, but takes the larger offer from Little, Brown. In no time at all, the editor he signed with has switched jobs, leaving his novel an orphan. And now Icarus feels the intolerable heat of the sun on his wings. The novel is handled as ‘just another baseball novel’, the reviews are meagre and bad, the book never makes it out of hardback into paperback, and the chapters of the new novel he has recently begun are looked upon from this tainted perspective and roundly rejected.

But Frank’s faith doesn’t waver in his star pupil. He simply exerts himself even more to get teaching positions and grants and awards to sustain Tom while he works on his second novel. Frank doesn’t want to hear the negativity and brushes all the bad stuff off. As he negotiates for Tom, Tom has an unsettling moment of clarity. He knows Frank is genuine in his admiration, but ‘he also wanted to prove he still had the clout to bestow upon me a major literary honor solely on the strength of his name.’ For Frank’s star is currently in the ascendent – the novel he is writing has editors salivating and offering outrageous advances. And meanwhile, Tom Grimes sinks into delusion and paranoia in a mental breakdown from which his creativity never seems fully to recover (until, we suppose, this memoir).

Let us pause here for a moment and consider the impossible equation that is publishing. Tom accepts an advance of $42,000, with which he is a little disappointed, truth to tell, as Frank had thought he’d get $100,000 at least. The novel took him about three years to write, and he could have earned $10,000 a year if he’d stayed waiting tables. However,

A year after Seasons’s End’s publication, its paperback edition was nonexistent. Twenty-two hundred hardcover copies sold. Thirteen thousand were remaindered. And Little, Brown had recouped only forty-four hundred dollars of my forty-two thousand dollar advance.’

Ouch. He does publish his next novel, for a $17,500 advance. It had six reviews, mostly positive, but only sold 4,000 copies and again never made it to paperback. Even Frank Conway’s much-anticipated novel, Body & Soul, although it certainly does recoup its large advance, never makes it to the bestseller list and receives somewhat mixed reviews. What are we to make of all this? Tom Grimes’ memoir never comments upon it, viewing the situation entirely from the perspective of his own humiliation and thwarted longings. But what is going on here? And how is it sustainable for any of the players involved?

What does come across, loud and clear and somewhat mesmerising, is the painful solipcism of the author. Tom never spares himself any harsh criticism, but does he realise his own self-obsession? His sister attempts suicide a couple of times in the book, but having mentioned it and indeed flown back to see her, the narrative focuses exclusively on Tom’s research trip to the local baseball team (I’m sure they’re famous but baseball makes no impression on me and I can’t be bothered to look their name up). What takes his attention is the slighting behaviour he has to endure from a journalist for the New Yorker, who asks about the publisher for his first novel and then seems to dismiss him and ignore him for the rest of the day; ‘his publishing pedigree made me feel more than ever like a literary mutt’ Grimes writes. It’s all so desperate, this hunt for status, this desire to be one of the players. In retrospect, Tom blames his mismanaged first auction on the fact that he had to handle it alone. ‘Frank should have been sitting behind his desk and I should have been sitting across from him in my chair,’ he writes, because nothing is so important as that auction, certainly not Frank’s life. It’s no wonder that when Tom falls ill, it’s paranoia – an anxiety disorder that arises paradoxically out of the fear that one is insignificant – that holds him in his grip.

And what of Frank, the wonderful mentor? Grimes argues that his story’s obvious trajectory, from success to failure, can actually be overwritten by a more important arc: ‘The meaningful story is: I arrived fatherless; I departed a son.’ But you can’t help but think that Frank’s input has been a lot of baseless enthusiasm that might have been swapped for more insightful literary critique.

If I’m making this sound like a bad book, I don’t mean to at all. It’s an excellent book. It is gripping and engrossing and, I fear, all too true to life. Grimes’ straightforward, show-don’t-tell style means that we are left with a lot of questions that a more self-aware and nuanced character portrait might have elucidated. But goodness it’s fascinating trying to come up with answers to those questions. An absolute must-read for anyone who thinks they not only want to write, but publish, too.

The Fantasy Book Group

Eric over at Lonesome Reader started it, and then my friend and co-editor, Annabel, carried it on (and included George Clooney) and I found I just couldn’t resist putting together a fantasy book group myself. They were both looking for celebrities who weren’t authors but who had bookish interests. Well, my book group members probably aren’t celebrities by normal standards, but I did just about manage to avoid fiction writers (my first, immediate, mental list began Virginia Woolf, Ali Smith…). I also think it will be as much a séance as a book club…

 

alexandra pringleAlexandra Pringle – currently Editor-in-Chief at Bloomsbury, she began her career at Virago, went on to work for Hamish Hamilton and then became a literary agent for a while. Her list of authors include: Donna Tartt, Barbara Trapido, Michele Roberts, Richard Ford, Esther Freud, Jay McInerney, Margaret Atwood, William Boyd, Georgina Harding, Ann Patchett, Kate Summerscale and Elizabeth Gilbert. I bet she’d have a few pithy things to say about any book put in front of her.

 

eunice frostEunice Frost – initially secretary to the founder of Penguin Books, Allen Lane, she was at his side when he introduced the much-reviled paperback book. She became an editor in the late 30s and eventually a director of the company (the penguin mascot is named ‘Frostie’ after her). A worrier and a sufferer from bronchial complaints, she was known for her formidable hats. It was largely down to her that Penguin began producing original work, not just reprints. She would have a fine eye for a book, I feel sure.

 

roland barthesRoland Barthes – French cultural critic who was hugely influential though he never held an orthodox academic post. He wrote a great deal about his theories of reading, and it would be irresistible to have him in the group, asking: ‘So hands up who experienced jouissance when reading this text, then?’

 

f r leavisF. R. Leavis – I hesitated over including him in my line-up because he was such an opinionated old grump. However, you need a bit of grit in any book group to get traction in a discussion and I would put good money on this formidable literary critic stirring up some fine book talk.

 

miss marpleMiss Marple – Well there has to be someone there to keep any egos under control, and I felt Miss Marple, with her razor eye and her sweet old lady façade would be just the ticket. The combination of her knitting and her unassuming but devastating one-line put-downs was not to be missed. She’d have a thing or two to say about current crime fiction, I’ll bet.

 

So that’s my line-up. Who would be in your fantasy book group?

Of False Correlations

I’ve been trying to think what’s been happening around here lately to tell you all, and can only come up with events that involve unusual modal tenses.

There are things I ought to have done but haven’t. For instance, several months back I was invited to chair an author event at the local bookstore. I did that thing where you look far ahead at a blank calendar and think, oh I shall be so free and well-rested in those empty days! And agreed to do it. After all, I used to chair a great deal, back in the university era. Well, I quite liked the idea of it for a good six weeks or so, and when I had a chronic fatigue relapse I thought, I’ll doubtless be fine when the time comes. I even bought a new pair of boots (any excuse!). Then, when we got to a couple of weeks before the event, I began to feel the stirrings of horror. Did I really want to have to stand up before an audience and talk? I always did have stage fright, but there was a time when I was very stern with myself about repressing it. Plus I was practised then and knew I would do the performing stuff well. I reminded myself that this was a local event which would probably have no more than twenty or so people in the audience, half of whom would be related to the author, half of whom would have wanted to come in out of the cold. But still I trembled and the chronic fatigue was settled in for the duration; knowing your body can give out on you at any moment is a fun thought to take into a stressful situation.

Preparation is the key, I told myself, and so I went to the bookshop and asked whom I should talk to, in order to have a look at the space we’d be in and familiarise myself. I was a little surprised to find the bookseller had no knowledge of the event. And when I looked at the advertising posters in the shop, it clearly wasn’t on them. I went home and checked the internet, nope nothing on the website either. See, I told my chronic fatigued self: this will be the best event ever, because it’s going to be just you, the author and the publicist! You can all go down the pub! But I was still chronic fatigued and easily stressed and I began to think that finding someone to take my place might be the best idea. But wasn’t it unethical to hand an event over to someone else, knowing as I did that it was going to be…well, intimate?

Just as I was getting tangled up in knots over the various strands of worry involved, I received an email from the publicist telling me the event had been cancelled due to ‘poor ticket sales’. I’ll say! It’s hard to sell tickets to an event no one knows about. Through the immense relief, I felt a stirring of sharp curiosity to know what had happened. Had the event been cancelled before I went in the shop or after? Was there someone in a London office somewhere tearing at her hair and yelling ‘Christ, I knew there was something I’d forgotten to do!’ or was it more the case that no one had the heart to disappoint that poor blogger, who was probably gagging to appearing in the real world rather than the virtual one? Either way, I was just relieved, and it was a good reminder to myself that my public speaking days are over at the moment. Just because you were good at something in the past doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it.

Then there have been things I wonder whether I shouldn’t do but am still doing. The cancellation of the event meant I felt able to commit to writing another chapter of the book I am STILL working on, knowing it would be a tiring thing to do. Since I began writing this book in the early summer of last year, there has been a string of disasters, some acute, some chronic, all unpleasant, that make me wonder whether the universe is not on the side of this particular project. Despite my best efforts, I cannot help but read omens and portents into the world around me, and maybe these scare tactics of fate are a way of saying: Give up! Do something different! And still I stubbornly trudge along, churning out stuff that probably no one will want to read out of some cussed conviction that what I start I ought to finish. Of course there is a line of theory that suggests life is random, and cannot be interpreted as if it were a narrative whose end is obscured by future time. But given that every part of my life has been bound up with stories one way or another, what sense would that hold for me? Surely a refusal to interpret would go against everything I have ever held dear?

Mind you, away from these mental minefields, there has been some straightforward stuff, too. My capacity for comedy accidents continues to astound me. On the way into the funeral last week, walking in the slow, solemn procession into the crematorium, I suddenly realised my forward progress had come to an abrupt halt as the heel of my shoe got stuck in a grating. The line of mourners snarled up behind me as I struggled to hoick myself out, and I wondered for a moment if I’d have to walk in barefoot. To the kind woman behind me who said in a most sympathetic voice, ‘That sort of thing happens to me all the time,’ thank you.

And then yesterday I noticed as I headed out to my car that an industrious and quite substantial spider had constructed a large web across the garden path. Ha! I thought, and avoided it by walking over the lawn. Yes, sure spiders are great, but not on me. When I returned, I remembered the spider and carefully walked around it again. And then, mid-afternoon, I realised there was a book in the library I needed and I thought I would nip out quickly and collect it. You know what’s coming next, don’t you? I really hope my next door neighbour was not working in his garage as there was rather a lot of squealing. And I did a little raindance, too. Proof that troublesome as my brain may be when it’s working, not much good comes of switching it off entirely.

 

Issue 2 Is Out!

Yes, our second, summery edition of Shiny New Books is live today!

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I learned one or two intriguing things over the past few months:

1. It is possible to say ‘yes, please’ to too many books.

2. I was surprised by how hard it is to judge books from their blurbs. This shouldn’t have come as a shock, but still, the books I put off for a bit, uncertain whether I’d like them or not, turned out to be without fail the most amazing of all.

3. I have outrageously talented blog friends: take a bow Jodie, Susan, Andrew, Danielle (and again), Tom, Rowland, Helen, Jean, Denise, Karen H, Karen L. and Max.

4. The best way to spot typos is to read over Mr Litlove’s shoulder, having said something like: ‘This is fantastic, you must come and read this!’ I am thinking of hiring him out to others in need of such an invaluable service.

As ever, we’ve had a fabulous time putting it together. A big cheer please for Annabel, Harriet and Simon, who did all the difficult stuff while I drowned slowly in review copies! Do go over and have a look at the wonderful reviews and features on offer. Last time, we had over 14,000 hits in our first week, and it would be great to better that….