Here’s some press from PEN/American, the LA Times, and the NY Observer.

I’m thrilled to share the prize with Danielle Evans, whose book [...]]]> I’ve known for a few weeks, but was sworn to secrecy — so I’m very pleased to finally be able to announce that STILTSVILLE won the 2011 PEN/Bingham Award for a debut work published in 2010.

Here’s some press from PEN/American, the LA Times, and the NY Observer.

I’m thrilled to share the prize with Danielle Evans, whose book BEFORE YOU SUFFOCATE YOUR OWN FOOL SELF has received ubiquitous praise. Last year, Danielle and I read (with Sam Chang and Gary Shteyngart) at the Friday Festival of Fiction at the Wisconsin Book Festival.

I’d known of Danielle and her work, of course, since we both had fellowships at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and we’d both attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

Winning with Danielle is like having a sister in good news — I even got congrats from her mom!

–Sd

Here’s my contribution to Shome Dasgupta’s On Reading project, in which 130+ authors have expressed some of their thoughts about the act of reading. Check out contributions by the terrific Anthony Doerr and Gina Frangello, among others. Sandra Beasley‘s essay is especially wonderful, as well.

Read the post at Shome’s blog, or [...]]]>

Paperback in the house!

Here’s my contribution to Shome Dasgupta’s On Reading project, in which 130+ authors have expressed some of their thoughts about the act of reading. Check out contributions by the terrific Anthony Doerr and Gina Frangello, among others. Sandra Beasley‘s essay is especially wonderful, as well.

Read the post at Shome’s blog, or below.

_______________________________________

There’s a lot of complaining and judgment these days concerning the act of reading — about the demise of the physical book and traditional publishing, in particular. And yet, everywhere I look: Readers, reading!

I’ve visited more than twenty book groups in the past year. I’ve joined, in my adult life, half as many (I always stop going — for a writer, especially, I think reading tends to be a solitary experience). I am not at all concerned about the future of the book, in whatever form it takes.

My one concern about modern reading isn’t that it’s on the wane — all evidence to the contrary — but that it is homogenizing. There have always been popular books, of course, but it seems that with the rise of book group culture, two things are true:

a) More books have room to be popular at once (a good thing)
b) People who read are expected to read all the same books (not a good thing)

When I visit book groups, I ask what they’ve been reading, because I’m genuinely curious. In a ten-book-year, seven or eight titles will be repeated across every group. These titles filter through the public consciousness like weather. There’s nothing abjectly wrong with this, but it leads to a way of thinking about books that I believe is misguided.

Many people seem to believe these days that a book should be consistently appreciated or even liked, as if every book strives to take its place on a universal reading list (and if a book doesn’t, it’s failed). This is a misapprehension not only about books but about humans, who experience everything in the world — the written word included — individually.

Recently I was taken to task when I said I hadn’t read a wildly popular series of novels. I think there was a time when a person might have said, ‘No, I haven’t read that,’ and that would be the end of that part of the discussion. These days, the follow-up question is more likely to be, ‘Why? Is there a particular reasonyou’ve neglected this book [that everyone else has read and liked]? Are you taking a particular stand against reading this book?’

It’s disconcerting. Despite the difficult publishing climate, books continue to be released in numbers much greater than one can reasonably consume. (And of course there’s literature’s backlist, all the books we wish we’d read but still haven’t.) Considering this alone, there should be no expectation — none at all — that we all read the same books.

This naturally leads to the question of how to find books to read, which brings up the demise of the brick-and-mortar store and the pastime of browsing. The one path left to lesser-known books? Word of mouth.

So my answer to the question of why I haven’t read monumentally popular books X, Y, and Z is this: I want to be part of the word of mouth, not one voice in a million but one in a dozen. I want to be able to say: If you liked that, you might really enjoy this little-known author and his little-known body of work. And if you like it, you can recommend it to your book group. And so on

___________________________

In other news, I’ve received bound copies of STILTSVILLE in paperback — and they are scrumptious.  Available 6/28 in stores, or now for pre-order!

Sd

Post script — It occurs to me that I might include titles I’ve read lately, and enjoyed (considering word-of-mouth must start somewhere!) The books I’ve read in the past few weeks are:

CROSSING TO SAFETY, by Wallace Stegner. This was my late mother’s favorite book, and I can’t explain why it’s taken me so long to read it. It’s beautiful, and it reminds me of my book (I know how that sounds since Stegner’s is a classic, yes, and also it reminds me that my mother would have loved Stiltsville.)

THIS BEAUTIFUL LIFE, by Helen Schulman. This was a recommendation from my editor, who is also Schulman’s editor. Lovely novel about what happens to a family after what appears to be a minor crisis snowballs.

CUTTING FOR STONE, by Abraham Verghese. Yes, this is an oft-read book club book, but it’s exquisite. I’m not sure how Verghese manages to keep the narrator from seeming overwrought, but he does so beautifully.

LIGHT YEARS, by James Salter. I’ve only just begun this novel. I’ve been told approximately five million times that it is manna from heaven, so I suppose that should be enough for me to read it, no?

My excellent editor came up with the headers, by the way, and though I’ve found the clog response surprising, I love how editors always know exactly how to title a piece to [...]]]> I’ve got a new piece up at Slate.com this week, about my decade-long effort to make a home in the heart of the heartland.

My excellent editor came up with the headers, by the way, and though I’ve found the clog response surprising, I love how editors always know exactly how to title a piece to maximize attention. I am no kind of headline writer, myself (though I was proud to contribute the line “What Took You So Long?” for my first Slate piece, last year.)

I remember buying my first Danskos, at a comfort-shoe warehouse store on Broadway and eighty-somethingth in Manhattan, 1994. I bought black, because back then there weren’t many options.

Today, on this chilly spring day, I wear my red patent leather Danskos. They are the sixth or seventh pair I’ve owned (including a misguided flirtation with Dansko boots a few years back, better left undiscussed).

Read the full article here.

Living in the Midwest: Does it make you complacent and likely to wear clogs?

My husband started a spreadsheet. In it he keeps track of “Things We Like” and “Things We Don’t Like” about the Midwest, where we live. This is part of his ongoing effort to sell me on my adopted hometown of Madison, Wisconsin, where he’s spent almost all of his life. Much of the time, the effort is unnecessary, but every once in a while—like now, as our governor proceeds with his sure-handed destruction of public unions, and what would normally be a quiet race for state Supreme Court grows ever more bizarre by the minute—I need reminding that the “Things We Like” column is winning. By a landslide . . .

Continue.

AC: One of the most surprising aspects of Stiltsville is [...]]]> I was invited recently to be interviewed by Anna Leigh Clark for her site Isak, a terrific site devoted to all things artistic and literary, where I lurk from time to time as a reader. Here’s a taste, and you can read the full interview at Isak.

AC: One of the most surprising aspects of Stiltsville is that it is sustained, over the span of decades, by the first-person voice of Frances — who is the sort of quiet character that I rarely see centered like this. Was it a struggle to craft this inward voice into fuel for an expansive novel?

SD: For me as a reader, a narrator’s resume makes almost no difference in comparison to that narrator’s lens, which determines what is called into focus and what is expanded and contracted in a narrative. Frances has a keen, unrelenting gaze and uses it to illuminate the world around her, both in terms of what is beautiful as well as what is unnerving or discordant. I think there are plenty of novels from the point of view of a quiet male character — James Hynes’ wonderful NEXTcomes to mind, as well as almost anything by Charles Baxter — but fewer from the point of view of a woman who is, on paper at least, not all that different from many women of my mother’s generation, and even of mine.

Read the full interview at Isak.

–Sd

This week, I answered the question at length for Slate. Please check it out.

I’m getting the [...]]]> I don’t know if I’ve ever answered the question “How long did it take you to write your novel?” the same way twice. I don’t mean to lie — it’s just that it’s a loaded question, to say the least.

This week, I answered the question at length for Slate. Please check it out.

I’m getting the feeling, already, that I’m not alone. What a wonderful thing to know.

–Sd

The package arrived. I opened it. Then I put the book high up on a shelf, and [...]]]> So here’s my experience of receiving one hardcover copy of STILTSVILLE (and only the one I’ve received so far — my editor sent it out hot off the presses, and my contract copies will follow at a later date):

The package arrived. I opened it. Then I put the book high up on a shelf, and ignored it for twenty-four hours.

The toddler agrees with Booklist that Mama's book is "written with great delicacy and discretion"!

I can’t say why, exactly. After twenty-four hours, I started circling it like a buzzard, stealing sideways glances. Finally, I picked it up. I looked again at my weird author photo. I read the acknowledgments, tentatively.

On my next circle around, I picked it up again and read one paragraph from the middle of the book. OK, that wasn’t too painful. I actually kind of enjoyed it. Maybe I’ll read another . . .

Another twenty-four hours later, I’d read roughly fifty paragraphs, all chosen at random, and all while standing next to the bookshelf, ready to drop the book back into the shelf at any moment.

But, hey, this isn’t so bad! I thought. I actually like a few of these sentences. I’m not cringing at every turn of phrase — I actually think some of this reads pretty well! Sure, I’d change this word if I had another go at it, and I’d maybe drop this sentence, and maybe add something here to clarify meaning . . . But again, I’m not having tremors or running screaming from the book.

To my surprise, I was actually kind of enjoying the experience of reading random chunks of my novel.

Twenty-four hours later, I sat down on my living room sofa, the book in hand. My toddler son was shooting hoops on the back porch, my husband was making dinner. I opened the book at the very beginning, on the dedication page.

I read the title page, the blank pages, and the first page of the first chapter. Still not so bad. I sipped from my lemonade. I relaxed.

Then, my stomach dropped. There it was. What I’d been dreading, and what I knew — though I hoped against hope — I would eventually find.

A typo. And not deep into the novel, around page 200 or so, where it might be swept up into the momentum of the narrative. No, this typo is on page 9.

Let me say that I pride myself on being a pretty clean writer. Even my first drafts are pretty clean, though not perfect, of course. I have training as an editor, and still read with that eye for mistakes. But what I didn’t realize before going through the publishing process is that most of the typos in a book — and there are always typos in a book — are not made by the author, because the author’s mistakes are fixed early on by the slew of editors, proofreaders, and copyeditors who work on the manuscript when it’s at its roughest.

That’s not to place blame elsewhere, but rather to highlight how many times a book is read — and improved — before it’s published, and how many times fixes are made. And we all know what happens when we mark up a manuscript and then input our corrections — a few new little typos are made. And then those are fixed and a [much smaller] number of even newer typos are made. And then those are corrected, and so on.

The book must be get out the door sometime, after all.

I understand how it happens, and I am certain that the people who worked on it did much, much, much more good than harm. But still, I had to put the book down. I will probably pick it up again when that feeling that makes my stomach turn and my shoulders tighten and my face flush fades a little.

And really, it’s wonderful to finally have the finished product, even if it’s just going to sit on a shelf. It’s wonderful to put it in my toddler son’s lap and watch him point to the jacket photo and say, “Mama!”

“That’s right,” I tell him. “Mama’s book.”  Mama’s book. My book. And, truly, I couldn’t be more thrilled.

–Sd