Tell me a story about you and the library.

I loved my little, underfunded library when I was a kid. It was always a thrill to see which picture books were pulled from the shelves and set up along the window sill. I found many of my favorites this way: Georgie the Ghost, Whistle for Willie, The Little House.

When I had kids of my own, I discovered the true glory of the library. Though our house was filled with books, everything I bought for them represented my taste. But when we went to the library—because it was free and we could check out stacks of books—they could takes risks. They could check out a book they knew nothing about or try out topics they weren’t even certain they’d enjoy. They could wander away from my favorite sections and find that the world of literature was much bigger than what I’d showed them. There was non-fiction, horror, satire, sci-fi. It was at the library that they discovered Terry Pratchett’s The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, and my kids have been different—and very happy to be so—ever since.

Looking forward to hearing your own library stories. And if you have the time, I highly recommend this article by Carol Fitzgerald called Libraries and Librarians Are Endangered Species: What You Can Do to Help.

In 2001, Judi Hendricks published her debut novel, BREAD ALONE, which went on to be a bestseller. Now she’s out with her fourth book, THE LAWS OF HARMONY, about a woman trying to flee from grief and betrayal. We’ll talk about this new book, the persistence of memory, and the lessons she learned from the community of writers at Squaw Valley. I hope you’ll join the conversation.

Judi Hendricks

Kids are playing on a rooftop during a party when one little girl falls to her death. Your book begins long after this tragedy, but this death is always stirring beneath the surface. Can you talk to me about weaving the past and present together in your narrative and whether you were tempted to set your novel back at that original incident?

For me, the past and present are inextricably woven together, which is why I always write many more pages than the eventual length of the book—because I have to know the history, and I can’t know it until I write it. Having said that, however, there’s a point where you have to sort of pull the two layers apart so you can look at each of them alone before putting them back together in a different way, a way that makes sense for the telling of the story.

THE LAWS OF HARMONY is a story that really hinges on the past—and I love the way you put it… that the death is always stirring beneath the surface. That was exactly my intent as I was writing, and it’s exactly how the main character (Sunny) perceives it. Loss is the great common denominator here—we’ve all known the loss of a person, of a home, a job, of love, of a dream. For Sunny, the loss of her sister becomes the prism through which she views the world forever after. But I never thought of setting the book in that time because, while Mari’s death is the inciting incident, the story isn’t about the death; it’s about the effect of that death on Sunny’s life. It’s about how we all experience loss and somehow find ways—no matter how flawed—to keep moving.

Years ago she told me she wished she would get Alzheimer’s, that her memories were unbearable. (p. 118)

The Laws of Harmony (Harper Collins)

In the scene where Nana buys Sunny a chocolate-colored dress, Sunny is shown another world, another way of living; and you see how this delivers both a crushing blow to her feelings about her current life and opens a window to how she might dream differently about her future. Talk to me about this scene. And do you remember a moment like this in your own life?

This is one of my favorite chapters because writing it clarified so many important relationships in the book. It helped me understand where Gwen came from and why she rebelled against her parents and their lifestyle. At the same time I saw that there was still a lot of love mixed in with the misunderstanding and pain. These are people who want to be close to each other, but they just can’t figure out how… sort of like Gwen and Sunny later on. I discovered the tension between Gwen and Rob, their different backgrounds and his dependence on alcohol and drugs to get him through intense situations. This chapter also revealed the mirror image parent/child relationship between Sunny and her father, the way she tries to look out for him, keep him from getting in trouble. Then there’s the bonding of Sunny with her grandmother, which seems to sustain her in different ways over the years, even though they never see each other again. And finally Sunny’s connection with Mari, who at this point is just a toddler, but seems to have a preternatural understanding of her world. The scene where she cries because she doesn’t recognize Sunny all dressed up for the wedding foreshadows that Mari will never know her sister as an adult.

My own experience with a glimpse into a different world came when I was about ten years old. My mother was the oldest of four children, and the only one who had kept to “the straight and narrow path.” On the rare occasions when her sisters and brother were mentioned in my presence, it was with much tsk, tsking and knowing looks between her and my grandmother. I was never privy to details, but I got the message that my aunts and uncle were not examples that I should emulate.

The doll from Judi's aunt.

It had been years since I’d seen any of them and I wasn’t old enough to remember what they even looked like. Then one day my Aunt Barbara showed up unexpectedly at my grandmother’s house when we were there… bleached blonde hair and dark red lipstick, top down on her convertible, loud, funny, and with a wallet full of cash. She scooped up my little brother and me, put us in the back seat and drove to the nearest toy store, where she told us to pick out anything we wanted. I still have the doll I got that day. Then she took us out for ice cream and told us all about her job—she was working as a blackjack dealer at Harrah’s in Lake Tahoe. My brother and I had no idea what she was talking about, but it sounded pretty darned exciting. Next we drove to the bus station to pick up her boyfriend, who’d just come down from San Francisco to meet her and then they were off to Mexico for a week. When we got back to my grandmother’s house, things were very quiet. I could tell my mother was angry, but I couldn’t figure out why. It was never discussed… my family’s usual method of dealing with anything outside our comfort zone.

Interestingly when my aunt died of lung cancer ten years ago, my mother professed not to remember that day. Maybe she didn’t. I’ve never forgotten it. I wasn’t quite ready to run off to Tahoe and learn to deal blackjack, but I now knew there were other possibilities than the “straight and narrow.”

So here’s an honest answer: I grew up on a commune in New Mexico. I spent my first eighteen years surrounded by an ever-changing cast of characters. Group work, group play, group meals… group sex, on occasion. Even our outhouse was a five-seater. It made my brother the kind of person who’d strike up a conversation with a guy who’s mugging him at gunpoint. It made me into somebody who thinks three people is a mob. (p. 218)

In many ways, you’re writing about contrasting worlds; and yet, when Sunny runs from one to the another—hoping to flee broken relationships, financial struggles, loneliness, disappointment—the hurts and problems run right along beside her. I’d love to hear you talk about this battle—the weight of the past versus the force of what a person dreams for herself.

French philosopher and essayist Michel de Montaigne wrote, “Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.”

Nobody understands that better than Sunny Cooper, my protagonist in THE LAWS OF HARMONY. At the age of 8, living on a hippie commune, she witnesses the death of her younger sister and the subsequent fracturing of her family. This is the memory that she can never outrun.

When I was twelve years old, I saw a painting by Salvador Dali … the one with the melting clocks. The title meant nothing to me then, but I was fascinated by the painting. Now it’s the title that I find most compelling. The Persistence of Memory.

The past—and how we deal with it—shapes our lives. Some of us get stuck there, repeating our mistakes, sometimes our parents’ mistakes, too—as if by reliving them we could change what happened and finally make things right. As Sunny finally learns, real freedom comes only when we acknowledge what is possible and what is not.

It rained in the night – the kind the Navajos call a female rain – slow and steady, soaking into the earth. As opposed to a male rain, which is hard, fast, and runs off immediately. (p. 300)

Judi's dog, Blue.

What did you learn about reconciliation while writing this book?

Actually, nothing. To me, true reconciliation is like the Aurora Borealis—I know it’s out there, but I’ve never seen it. Many people claim to have achieved it, but once the tears and embracing are out of the way, I’ve noticed that people tend to go right back to the attitudes and behaviors that caused the problem in the first place.

While reconciliation is the often longed-for resolution in a story, it’s not always realistic. As I got closer to the ending of THE LAWS OF HARMONY, I kept trying out different scenarios between Sunny and Gwen, none of which were successful or satisfying. Then it dawned on me that I was trying to force a resolution between these two women that was impossible… at least at the point where the book ends. You can know in your gut what you should do, and it may even be what you want to do, but you can’t make yourself feel something that you don’t feel. If Sunny and her mother are going to be reconciled it’s got to happen later, farther down the road. About the best they can do by the end of the book is a hopeful truce.

I love the way food is so much a part of this novel. You can feel the emotional lift the characters get as they eat brownies with blackberry ganache. And when Sunny has the blues, the perfect remedy is a chicken soup called avgolemono. I’m curious if you can describe this passion for food to someone who’s a lazy cook and disconnected from this type of joy, right down to the canned spaghetti sauce and instant coffee. And would you mind sharing a recipe?

I’ve always thought of food as more than sustenance. For me, it’s like music, the way it serves as a touchstone for life events. What we were eating the night Geoff proposed… Which Thanksgiving was it when Aunt Helen dropped the turkey on the floor? We were all eating my gram’s lemon meringue pie when my best friend whispered to me that she was pregnant.

The first novel where I noticed food being incorporated in a realistic and interesting way was Mario Puzo’s THE GODFATHER. There’s a wonderful scene where one of the Mafiosi is making spaghetti sauce and he’s explaining how he adds a little sugar to cut the acidity of the tomatoes. In the mid 80’s my brother-in-law turned me on to Robert Parker’s SPENSER novels; the main character, a literate tough guy, does a lot of cooking and eating.

Now, some twenty-five years later, I sense that cooking and writing run on parallel tracks. Both can be very solitary pursuits, but the object of both is to touch other people, to offer them something, to communicate. My career as a novelist seems to have had its roots at the McGraw Street Bakery in Seattle, and I think that’s appropriate. Because a book, just like a loaf of bread, is a process, not a product—slow, arduous, messy, and utterly unpredictable.

Recipe? Certainly. The only difficulty is choosing just one. This is one of my favorites:

ROSEMARY PINE NUT SHORTBREAD

8 oz butter
2 C flour
¾ t salt
½ C powdered sugar
1 t vanilla
½ C toasted pine nuts
2 T finely chopped fresh rosemary

Melt butter in microwave or in saucepan over medium heat. Remove from heat and stir in remaining ingredients to make a stiff dough. Pat evenly into a 10 x 14” baking pan. Chill for 20-30 minutes then bake at 350° F till firm & golden brown (15-20 min.) Cool in pan 2 minutes, then use a knife to cut into bars. Let cool at least ten more minute before removing with small spatula. Great with fruit and/or goat cheese.

“She’s like a cat,” I say. “Always attaching herself to the one person in a room who’s least likely to want her around. (p. 467)

Judi learning to ride a motorcycle while researching The Laws of Harmony.

What have you learned about yourself and this business after publishing four novels? And what’s the best lesson you could you share with writers who are at the beginning of their careers?

One thing never seems to change: every time I begin a new book, it’s like the very first time, and I have to learn all over again how to write. But the experience of writing has been completely different for each book. I think maybe this is because of the organic relationship between writer and book, the way they affect each other, the invisible push and pull of the story.

What it comes down to is that each book is a unique adventure for all concerned. The writer—just like her characters—is not the same person at the end that she was at the beginning. The book that you finish is not the book that you started. That’s what’s so amazing and engrossing and frustrating and exhilarating about the process of writing. And that is why, so long as I can see the computer screen and prop myself upright in my chair, I’ll probably never stop.

I recently saw a film called EVERY LITTLE STEP. It’s a documentary about the 2006 revival of the musical A CHORUS LINE. It was a fascinating glimpse into a world that I’ll never know—the world of young performers trying to make it on Broadway. And yet, certain aspects of it were all too familiar. You’ve got a line of people stretching for blocks; I think 3,000 people auditioned for 18 roles. Every one of them has a story. Every one of them is talented. Every one is driven. The thing I loved about the film was that it follows not only the ones whose dream came true, but also it looks long and lovingly at some who were eliminated, some in the early rounds, and a few at the very end when it was down to two people for a role and the reason one was chosen over the other was often incomprehensible to me.

One of these was an actress named Rachelle and she was a heartbeat away from one of the plum roles—as Cassie. The part went to another young woman instead. I felt so let down. Had I been her, I would have fallen on the floor and kicked and screamed and cried. Instead, she packed up her stuff, patted the shoulder of the guy who’d just given her the bad news and walked to the door. To add insult to injury, the people making this documentary have got the cameras on her, the microphone in her face and they’re asking her how she feels. The one thing she said that resonated big-time with me was, “It’s a hard business. You really have to like yourself.”

So the best lesson I can share with writers at the beginning of their careers—and one that we all need reminding of occasionally—is sort of that: Be gentle with yourself.

I hear myself laughing inside the helmet, like a little kid with the training wheels off for the first time. (p. 271)

I know you were a participant in the Squaw Valley Community of Writers. Can you tell me about that experience? I’d love to know who you studied with and how that shaped your writing or your dedication to the craft.

I was encouraged to attend Squaw Valley Community of Writers by Andrew Tonkovich, who was my writing instructor at UCI extension. Some of the things I remember most clearly had nothing to do with writing… it was blisteringly hot. The resort was being renovated, so workshop meeting times and places were somewhat fluid. There were construction noises and great clouds of dust during the day… and yet, I have nothing but happy memories of my time in the valley. I got lucky, ending up in a house with two guys who both had cars, and one of whom was an excellent cook. The three of us spent several long evenings drinking wine and discussing writing until someone would finally jump up and say, “I’ve got to go read my workshop papers for tomorrow.”

That summer I was working mostly on “creative non-fiction.” I did have the first chapter of a novel which would later become BREAD ALONE, but I’d never written fiction before and didn’t quite know what to do with it. I loved the workshop system they used, where you had a different instructor at every meeting, so I was privileged to learn from Mary Morris, Louis B. Jones, Lynn Freed, Bharati Mukherjee and others. In the afternoons I got to listen to Diane Johnson talk about dialogue (this alone was worth the cost of the program) and James N. Frey (No, not the James Frey of the fake memoirs) talk about plotting the damn good novel. In the evenings the instructors would read from their own works and authors like Amy Tan and Max Byrd regaled us with tales of the writing life. It was the first time I’d ever had a true sense of a writing community. I was thrilled to return in 2001 to read from my just-published novel.

While I learned at least one thing from every single writer (published or not) that I met there, the one who had the most influence on my work was Andrew Tonkovich. The year I attended, they had not yet started a nonfiction program, but in his classes at UCI Andrew had showed us how to use fiction techniques—setting, point of view, dialogue, etc—to write compelling non-fiction. It was in his class that I came to the realization that it was all one. All writing. Andrew gave us the tools and the freedom to use them for anything we wanted to write.

I have the kind of voice that’s meant to whisper. Good for libraries and pillow talk. When I answer the phone, the first thing people tend to say is, Did I wake you up? They didn’t; I don’t even like to sleep. I just have one of those voices. It’s my father’s voice. The sound of someone who needs to clear his throat. The sound of someone who can’t raise his voice though he certainly has the temperament for it.

When I try to speak up – even enough to talk to someone across the table from me, my voice quickly gives out. I speak from that place you shouldn’t – the place Brian Johnson of AC/DC uses to sing. If I have a long conversation one day, I’ve got a sore throat the next.

Do I have an accent?

I never thought of myself as having one until I went to college, where I was teased for my southern twang. I worked hard to lose it by reading out loud to my Boston-bred roommate and letting her correct me. Now I’m not sure why I tried so hard to lose it. But my Virginia roots show when I’m tired – I get lazy with the vowels.

I was glad to hear your stories of stutters and loud laughs and nasal tape-recordings. For those of you I haven’t met in real life, it’s a nice way to sharpen the picture of you.

*

What I read this month: Joe Hill, HEART-SHAPED BOX (not my usual genre, but, wow, it’s a good ghost story, and I’ve been recommending it to everyone). I’ve also been knee-deep in a whole mess of research books for my new novel, but I’m not telling what the books are about.

Thanks to my guest, Attica Locke, for her courageous story of finding her voice, and to all of you who played here this month. Also, big thanks to those who linked to LitPark: The Thrill Begins, In Her Own Write, Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Amazon Blog, Upstate Girl, Side Dish, Terry Bain’s Amazon Blog, Rumbly in my Tumbly, Tatuaj.org, Kimberly Wetherell, Red Room Blogs, Rachel Kramer Bussel, EI Johnson, Tayari Jones, Tanya Egan Gibson (thank you for the book!), Neil Gaiman, Brad Listi, Alexander Chee, Robin Slick, kmwss2c, Urban Haiku, Trish Tha Dish, Tayari, Rachelle Gagne, Nick Belardes, Bella Vida Letty, th3maw, Spaced Lawyer, and to the mentions in Wikipedia pages for Josh Kilmer-Purcell, Maria Dahvana Headley, Daisuke Tsutsumi, Scott Snyder, Denis Johnson, Greg Downs, and Bruce Benderson. I appreciate those links!

*

One announcement before I go…

The Nervous Breakdown is a creative non-fiction literary blog, written by published and emerging authors from around the world.

Come hear the writers of this award-winning collective as they read hilarious, journalistic, poignant and often salacious tales, as told on the pages of this engaging and highly interactive literary website.

The series kick-off includes readings from:

Jessica Anya Blau (The Summer of Naked Swim Parties)
Autumn Kindlespire (Random House Books)
Greg Olear (Totally Killer, coming Sept ’09)
Kimberly M. Wetherell (Filmmaker: Menage a trois, Why We Wax)
Todd Zuniga (Opium Magazine, Literary Death Match)

Tuesday, June 9
7:00pm
D-Lounge
101 E 15th St, NYC
(downstairs from the Daryl Roth Theatre, Union Square)
$10.00 Cover

After party at Bar 119, 119 E. 15th St.

Attica Locke has written movie scripts for Paramount, Warner Bros., Disney, Twentieth Century Fox, and is currently co-writing a miniseries for HBO about the civil rights movement. But it’s her debut novel, BLACK WATER RISING*, that has satisfied her need to write original material and find her own voice.

This literary thriller is about a good man who makes many wrong choices until he’s snared himself in a dangerous trap. There’s greed, politics, corruption, and oil in a city divided by race and class. We’ll talk about this book, as well as the heartbreak and satisfaction that is the life of a writer. I’m very fond of this author, and I hope you’ll leave her a message at the end of this interview.

*LitPark encourages you to buy books from your local independent bookstore. Click here to find the store closest to you.

~

First, let me ask you about your name. Attica like the prison?

Yes. My parents were political activists in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. I was actually born three years after the uprising at Attica prison in 1971, but my mother was so deeply moved by the events that took place there—the inmates who stood up to demand humane treatment and the crush of government violence that killed over 40 inmates and guards—and when I was born, it was the first name that came to her.

BLACK WATER RISING is your debut, but you’ve been writing for quite a while. Can you talk to me about your career leading up to this book?

I’ve been a screenwriter for ten years, writing the kinds of movies that production companies love to have on their roster—character based dramas or thrillers with a sociopolitical bent—because they sound classy and smart, but when it comes down to actually spending millions of dollars to make the movie they hesitate or their financiers don’t think it will sell, etc. In ten years, not one movie I’ve worked on has gone into production. It’s not a bad way to make a living, but not fulfilling enough for me to feel like I’m really living as an artist. I started to feel like film as a medium, especially because it’s such an expensive art form and companies can be fatally risk-averse, is getting more and more narrow in terms of the kinds of stories that get told. And that both saddened me and pushed me to explore a more inclusive art form: books.

And anyway, even as a screenwriter I’ve always had a very literary style. One production executive once told me in a meeting, flipping through the pages of my script, “There are too many words in here.” So, maybe I was destined to be a novelist.

I’m not normally a thriller reader, but I’m an absolute junkie when it comes to books about civil rights and race relations, and that’s what made me so anxious to get my hands on this novel. What I didn’t realize until after I’d finished is that this very real portrait of 1981 oil-rich Houston, with its corporate corruption and disputes between newly-integrated union members, is actually from before your time. What drew you to this period in history?

Jay is representative of my parents’ generation, and I think in some ways writing a character like him was an attempt to understand the people who raised me. I was a kid in the early ‘80s in Houston. My parents had been college activists in the early ‘70s and now found themselves smack in the middle of the Reagan era. There was a tremendous cultural shift going on in this country, from a focus on the political to the economic, in terms of the path to upward mobility. Money could be its own kind of equality. My parents played the game. They worked hard, bought houses in the suburbs. But I always felt that something in them got left behind. They never talked about it, but I think it was a challenging psychological shift for both of them. And I wanted to understand that better.

Also, in reality Houston was just an interesting place in 1981. They had just elected their first woman mayor, Kathy Whitmire. The city was flush with oil money and on the receiving end of worldwide attention. It was an arrogant, adolescent city, newly rich and oblivious to signs of impending doom on the economic horizon.

But most of Jay’s clients are walk-ins or people who get his name out of the phone book or friends of Bernie’s extended church family. People who, for the most part, cannot afford to pay him. Over the years, he’s engineered all manner of creative financing plans. Monthly installments and deferred payments. In lieu of cash, he’s taken everything from used furniture to free haircuts. (p. 207)

I never thought I’d be so thrilled to read about labor unions, but those scenes absolutely buzzed with tension. What a timely book—the resistance to change when it means a redistribution of power.

Well, there are things about this country’s current state of affairs that I never could have foreseen, other than to say that class tension has always been a hidden fault line running through our culture. Also, the labor fight for better wages for black workers was a part of the larger theme of the move from the civil rights movement’s focus on politics as a way up and out and the Reagan era focus on money as the path to equality.

“You know, Marx said that the working class is the first class in history that ever wished to abolish itself. And if one listens to some of our ‘moderate’ Negro leaders, it appears that the American Negro is the first race that ever wished to abolish itself. And, my black brothers and sisters, it stops tonight.”

The crowd was clapping and stomping, so loud that Jay could feel it backstage, as if the walls were shaking. He could not believe the heat this man was generating, like a lightning rod in a prairie storm. It wasn’t just the man, but, really, the ideas, the words…two words: black and power.

“So what you’re preaching, man,” one of the white students down front asked, a cat dressed in cords and a denim patch jacket, “isn’t it just racism of a different color? Isn’t ‘black power’ inherently anti-white?”

“See, you still putting yourself at the center of it, jack. That’s what you ain’t yet getting. Black folks ain’t talking about you, or to you, no more.” (p. 202)

One theme I see again and again in this book is the pressure for those with the least power to lie down and take what they’re given. Those in power say, Here, take what little we give you because we can certainly offer you something worse. I think that’s the magic in Jay Porter’s character because we know him, or we’ve been him—someone who feels such fatigue and discouragement when his ideals and dreams keep hitting a wall. Tell me what you think of Jay.

If I’m being honest, beyond the political focus of the book, Jay’s journey mirrors my own as a writer. His fatigue is mine. Was mine, I should say. Before I wrote this book, I had grown so disenchanted with film, which was the whole reason I’d moved out to LA. I’d made a big splash years earlier with a script that was accepted into the Sundance Institute’s Feature Filmmakers Program. It was optioned by a film company. We were location scouting when they ultimately decided that because most of the lead characters were black and the story dealt with very American issues of race and history, the movie ultimately would never make any money in foreign sales, which they needed to offset the cost of the financing the movie. They pulled the plug, and I was crushed. I stopped writing original material and started taking assignment jobs. Somebody would have an idea for a script or a book to adapt, and I would write it. I helped my husband go to law school that way. I bought a house. But my voice as an artist was silent. Another one of the themes of the book is Jay finding his voice again.

That’s me.

It wasn’t until late in the evening, the waiting room empty and the two of them the only ones still waiting, that she understood what was going on, that this white hospital had no intention of treating her husband. (p. 71)

I love the marriage in this book, and not just because of the wonderful bickering and the secret-keeping and the obvious love there, but because this marriage taps into a larger theme of the book. You nailed that moment when the ideals of youth meet with the reality of making payments and creating a safe and stable home. Talk to me about that moment.

Some of it’s what I wrote above. But I also saw this tension in my parents.

They came out of the movement with two kids to raise. My mother had a Master’s degree but had been working in a factory because she was a socialist. My dad worked at Shell Oil. The movement was gone. The marches had dried up. The country had moved on, and they were forced to move on too. So my dad went to law school, and my mom eventually started her own business. And both have done quite well for themselves. But, like I said, I grew up feeling like there were a lot of unresolved feelings about where they’d been versus where they were going.

“I heard you go out,” she says.

“I was taking out the trash,” he says.

Bernie nods. This makes sense to her, makes her feel better.

“You gon’ put another bag in?” she asks.

“I always do.”

“No, you don’t, Jay.”

He reaches under the sink and pulls out a black trash bag, snapping it open to make his point. “You gon’ fight with me about trash bags?”

“I’m just saying. Sometimes you don’t.” (p. 41)

In the end, this book has something to say about the courage of standing up for your convictions. Tell me, what are you passionate about? What, for you, is worth fighting for?

My voice. I never again want to spend ten years disconnected from who I really am.

Jay has three guns: a .38 in his glove compartment, a hunting rifle in the hall closet, and the nickel-plated .22 he keeps under his pillow, always within arm’s reach. He’s tried to break the habit of carrying it into the bathroom with him. But most days it’s right by his side. Some people, when they’re in the shower, imagine they hear the phone ringing. Jay imagines people breaking into his apartment with guns drawn. (p. 65)

The LitPark community is full of writers at every stage of the journey. Is there anything you learned along the way to publication that you’d like to pass on to them?

Well, I’m as neurotic as they come (as my husband can attest), but I have a good therapist and I pray a lot. I’m kind of being funny, but I am also completely serious. I don’t know how to do this work without a little faith, a belief in magic. I’ve certainly been rejected a lot, and I don’t know how I kept going except that I just did, even when it hurt like hell. In the end, no rejection has ever been greater than my desire to write.

What’s next for you?

I’m working on another book right now. And I’m writing a mini-series for HBO about the civil rights movement. It’s based on the books by Taylor Branch, and he and I are writing the scripts together.

If you haven’t seen very much of me in the last two months, it’s because I’m right about here in the new book:

Just after Thanksgiving, I took out a blank piece of paper and started to think about the things I love and the things I fear and the questions I’ve always wanted answers to; and I began to build those things into a plot. I went to bed with questions, and as the weeks went on, woke up with scenes and characters and more questions. Pretty soon, pieces of the book came into focus: a sense of setting, details about the characters and what they desired and what kind of mess they were in.

What a lot of faith you need to start with nothing and believe you can create something good and important.

Of the writers and artists I know, confident isn’t the first word I’d use to describe any of them. Cheery in their outlook on life and their place in it? Uh-uh. Excited by dreams of making big bucks? Buoyed by past successes and constant, overwhelming praise? Ha. Quite the opposite.

I can tell you that while I’m writing this new book, I have another on submission. And every day I have to pretend it’s not distracting, pretend I have room to be crushed a little bit more. Like all of you, I have to keep believing (knowing that belief and confidence are things I’ve lacked my whole life) that my writing will connect deeply with someone out there who will take a chance.

Maybe it’s precisely because it’s so easy in this business to sink into despair that I’m hesitant to give an honest answer to the Question of the Month. In fact, I’m hesitant to even think too long about what my answer might be. So I’m going to flip the question a bit. Rather than musing on the thing I desperately wanted and needed as a kid, I’m going to tell you a story about something I got, something truly simple but revolutionary that changed who I am.

I used to babysit every single day, for years and years, for a little girl who had a brain tumor – from age four when her parents first noticed the weird way her eyes would twitch and cross and how she’d bump into the door frame rather than walking cleanly through, to the surgeries and the horrible things that happen when you take away pieces of a person’s brain, to bike lessons and swim lessons and special schools and vacations (like the one in the picture; that’s me holding the baby bottles).

This is about a family who had every right to be stressed and focused soley on that tumor – killing it and saving the girl.

But that’s not how they did it. In this family that shouldn’t have had time for me or for each other, they read my dumb poems and stories, watched the skits and fake-Olympics I helped the three kids put on, listened to bad knock-knock jokes, and tolerated Vanilla Ice dance-offs. They always made sure there was enough food so I could stay for dinner. And one winter, in the middle of the worst of it, their father taught me to waltz.

The lesson I learned? There’s time. Time, even in the midst of a crisis, to give attention and show love. And there’s room for joy. There had better be. Or the cancer and wars and other things that are out of our control win it all.

So, for all of you who overwhelmingly answered that what you wanted and needed so dearly as kids was to be visible and to matter – and I’m talking the real you, not the potential of you, and not when you got your act together or hid parts of yourself away – my hope is you get that here because you deserved it then and you deserve it now.

Last thing…

This weekend, we’re having a huge, musical barbecue to celebrate our anniversary – 17 years; 22 if you count when we started dating – and I already know what Mr. Henderson got me: red Doc Martens!!

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What I read this month: Chris Adrian, THE CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL (God floods the world again and the only survivors are inside a floating children’s hospital. The first 300 pages are some of the best pages I’ve ever read – quirky, profound, emotional, and the brother, Calvin, who is dead before the book begins, is one of my favorite characters ever. But something too magical for my taste happens in the middle of the book, including a wedding I didn’t care for, and for me, the book never quite recovers its magnificence after that. I’m going to recommend it all the same. Uneven or not, it lit me up from the inside in a way few books do.)

What I read to my boys: We did that thing I hate where we start too many books at once and kind of ruin the momentum of all of them, so the only finished book was John Masefield’s THE MIDNIGHT FOLK (The boys found it fascinating in that great and creepy Neil Gaiman-y way, but slow because of the 1920′s British writing). And I also read them a whole bunch of little-kid picture books because I’m their mom and they still go along with what I say, even though they groan about it now. So: Jacques Duquennoy, THE GHOSTS’ TRIP TO LOCH NESS; Robert Bright, GEORGIE; Mark Teague, THE SECRET SHORTCUT; and Leo Lionni, FREDERICK MOUSE.

Thanks to everyone who played here, and to my guest, Lac Su, for giving such an honest and emotionally powerful interview. And thanks to those who’ve been linking to LitPark: New Pages (best writer resource on the web – check ‘em out!), Side Dish, Eat, Sleep & Read, Bliggidy Blog, Buy More Books, Mediabistro’s Galley Cat, The Book Deal: A Publishing Blog for Writers, CarolineLeavittville, Alpha FEmale Mind, In Her Own Write, A Title? What’s in a Title? I Was Never Told There Should Be a Title!, Paul Lisicky: Me Big Shiny Man, Kaylie Jones, Spaced Lawyer, Maureen McGowan, Raima Larter, Raven Books, Terry Bain, Ric Marion, and Terry’s LiveJournal Axis (Yo). If I missed anyone, let me know.

See you the first week in June with a new question and a new guest!

Lac Su left his homeland of Vietnam under gunfire, and at age five, began his life in America in an apartment teeming with drugs and prostitutes. His memoir, I LOVE YOUS ARE FOR WHITE PEOPLE*, tells the story of his search for a sense of worth and belonging from a violent father and local gangs. It’s a harrowing story, but told with heart, humor, and wisdom. I’m glad to have Lac here to discuss his book, and I hope you’ll leave him a comment at the end of the interview.

*LitPark encourages you to buy books from your local independent bookstore. Click here to find the store closest to you.

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Your wife was pregnant with your first child when you decided to write this book. Talk to me about what it’s like to have the pain from the past collide with your hopes for the future.

It feels like I’m running in place, like someone fashioned a rope around a boulder and tied the other end to my waist. The only way I can break free from this rock is to cut the rope. The only way I can do this is to face my past, come to terms with the baggage I’ve been carrying with me for so long and learn from it. Writing I LOVE YOUS ARE FOR WHITE PEOPLE—plus therapy—helped. I sought therapy for the first time in my life while writing the book.

I was half way through the third chapter when reliving my childhood turmoil became unbearable. Gentleman Jack found his way onto the table beside my computer during my late night writing sessions. The book was dragging me back into a dark place where I didn’t want to go. I tried to convince myself that my life was different now. My hard work was beginning to bear fruit—all the blessings that would make a man feel content with life. But my soul had not rest. Unresolved issues left me like an agoraphobic trapped inside his home; he looks out the window, sees a beautiful spring day, but is unable to set foot outside and enjoy it. It was dangerous and unhealthy to continue living this way.

So, I tried therapy. The biggest thing therapy taught me was that I’d been living my life in denial. I always figured if I didn’t think about my past, it would just go away. But on a subconscious level, old memories that were out of sight and out of mind affected me far more than I realized. The embers of pain were still smoldering deep inside me.

“Please make him smarter so he doesn’t have to endure any more beatings. That’s all we ask, great ancestor of ours.” She looks desperate and distressed. I try to make her feel better by staring straight down at my paper, with my pencil poised. (I LOVE YOUS ARE FOR WHITE PEOPLE, p. 63)

You were raised by a survivalist—a father wanted by the communists, who once had to eat insects and tree bark to stay alive. How did his perspective on the world shape you?

My world still revolves around this tiny man. In spite of 25 years of bad health, he’s still alive and kicking. He’s even smaller now—doesn’t stand more than 4’ 8”. He molded and shaped the man I’ve become. It was in college that I first began to challenge his perspective on life. College taught me a lot of things that contradicted what my old man had plastered onto me through the years. At first, I didn’t trust what the professors or books were telling me—they were all lies. I remember reading in a child development class about the importance of demonstrating affection. In my father’s house, I love yous are for white people.

My father is a hard man; he’s lived through a lot. Many of his lessons contain grains of truth, as long as you can sift through the twisted parts. Let’s see…a perfect example of this is in the Alhambra chapter when he decided as a 13-year old it was important that I know that, “Money and women are the two most wicked things in the world. The sanest person you know will become lost and irrational the moment he sees cash or smells pussy.”

I walk into the kitchen to tell Pa I’m home. The four beating sticks on the table are various sizes and shapes. One of them is new—a three-foot section of eucalyptus tree branch that’s a good inch thick. (I LOVE YOUS ARE FOR WHITE PEOPLE, p. 194)

Talk to me about what it’s like to live in a country when you don’t understand the language or the culture.

Overall, it was a fun experience. The confusion and frustration that I carried bred curiosity, which forced me to look for answers. My parents didn’t provide answers for me, so I had a lot to figure out on my own. People-watching is still a favorite pastime. As a kid, I would sit by the window or on my porch and just absorb the happenings of street life. It was the 1980s in Los Angeles—there was never a dull moment on Sunset Blvd.

English was my fourth language. My father spoke two Chinese dialects to me, and my mother spoke to me only in Vietnamese. I had friends who spoke Armenian, Swahili, Spanish, Spanglish, and Ebonics. Yes, it was perplexing at times. I learned quickly to read body language. Sometimes, words that I understood didn’t have to fall from my friends’ mouths for me to know what they were saying.

Our trips in Pa’s little red Chevette are conducted in the bike lane on the far right side of the road. They are marred by a merciless barrage of honking cars. Pa yells and curses back at them, convinced that he’s done no wrong. He stops every few blocks to check his map—a tattered little number that’s dotted in the red ink he uses to earmark the route. Pa can’t read the English street signs, so the map isn’t much help. (I LOVE YOUS ARE FOR WHITE PEOPLE, p. 134)

So much of what’s happened to you is devastating. But there’s a surprising sense of humor in this book (albeit bittersweet)—a little boy chewing on thrown away condoms, the inevitable teasing of Phat Bich, scamming the YMCA Santa, and your uncles—just having emigrated to the U.S.—breaking the necks of geese down at the local park and bringing them home for a feast. When did you start to find the humor in your story?

I started to see the humor in these stories when sharing them with a white friend of mine. As I said before, many of these events I’d never shared with anyone, but as I was writing my memoir I had a friend I’d tell the stories to, just to see what he thought of them. I actually found it funny the way he thought my stories were funny. I find that when you put people from different cultures into one place, you will often get a humorous, dynamic, and irreverent exchange. I hope I was successful in capturing this in my book.

Finally, Ma comes to the table with the main course, a huge glass dish holding the roasted geese. The birds’ heads are still attached, and the birds are so large that their necks hang down over the side of the tray. (I LOVE YOUS ARE FOR WHITE PEOPLE, p. 210)

You were taking your family’s food stamps, selling them for well below their value, and also stealing money, and this resulted in a brutal and humiliating punishment. But it’s the reason for the stealing that’s so utterly devastating—to try to buy friendship from someone who gives nothing back. If you found a kid today who felt worthless, hopeless, without a sense of belonging or purpose, what do you think might make a difference to him?

I’d write the kid a letter—a letter that I wish someone would have written to me when I was that kid.

Dear Kid,

The world is not like what you see on television. Things don’t always turn out OK. Real people sometimes feel lost, hopeless, and sad. The pain you feel makes you real. I think you would have a bigger problem if you weren’t feeling what you’re feeling under the circumstances. The psychology books call these people “crazy.” So, be glad you’re not crazy. There are reasons why you feel this way; don’t ignore them.

How much do you hate your life right now? I ask because the feelings weighing you down will remain if you don’t do something about what is causing them. What can I do about them, you ask? There are two important things for you to do:

1. Surround yourself with smart people. I mean really smart people. Learn from them. Soak up everything they have to teach you. Ask them a bunch of questions.

2. Keep these three phrases on the tip of your tongue: “I am sorry.” “Will you teach me?” and “Thank you.” There’s actually another phrase to hold close, but you can’t use this one unless you really mean it. When you do, you better damn use it: “I love you.”

Good luck, kid. You can turn your T.V. back on. Actually, turn off that T.V. and read a book.

Love,

Lac

“Do you remember how to get back to where we were, Big Head?” Pa asks.
“No.”
“Why didn’t you keep track?”
“Because I’m sleepy.”
….”We’re almost there at the old trash bins. You know how I know?”
“No.”
“Because of that big number eighteen on that wall. That’s how I get around. Remember things that pop out at you. Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Pa.”
“Okay, now you can walk home alone without me. I’m leaving you now.” (pp. 38-9)

You joined a gang when you were a teenager, and I was very, I don’t know, I think the word might be touched to find out it was a graffiti art gang, and all these little thugs had sketchbooks. What’s the connection for you between art and healing?

The beauty of art is that you can dump your negative energy into a medium and make it beautiful. It’s called “channeling”, I think. I understand how the most tortured and grieved writers and painters can create such beautiful masterpieces. When you look at a Van Gogh or Pollack, those intricate scribbles, patterns, and colors come from somewhere. Writers, like painters, tell stories with emotion. For a long time, I had a lot of negative emotions that I kept bottled up inside. Being able to release these bad vibes and make art out of it is soothing. Art says things that you’re unable to otherwise express. Writing is cathartic, and you hope that someone will connect with your art. For someone to say, “I know what that’s like,” serves as a form of healing for me.

My newborn brother never made it home from the hospital. The doctors said the Raid was the culprit. The crib that Pa pulled from the Dumpster—and was so careful to fix and polish to perfection—sat in our apartment collecting dust for nearly two years, until the day that Vinnie came home. (I LOVE YOUS ARE FOR WHITE PEOPLE, p. 74)

The scene of you rubbing Tiger Balm on the wounds you gave your little sister was a really pivotal moment in the book—a wake-up call that you didn’t want to become what you hated. But where does all that rage that was inflicted on you get released? How does your mind find peace when you carry such memories of fear and shame?

There are two things available to me: a quick fix and life-time maintenance. When I was younger, I wrote poems and drew pictures. These days, I paint and garden. Music has always been soothing. These are quick fixes—a bandage to cover my pain. (This is a great question, Susan. I’ve never really thought about this.) For the long haul, the way I heal and reconcile my past is to love people—and do things differently than what my father did to me.

If my in-laws lived in Kansas, that’s where I would be right now. Alas, they live in Hawaii.

(That’s my mother-in-law’s house and Mr. Henderson’s behind.)

I’m taking this month off from LitPark, but I thought this would be a good time for us to share our various websites. I’ll list mine here:

Twitter
MySpace (me, LitPark)
FaceBook (me, LitPark)

Now, list your websites in the comments section. And please feel free to mention any upcoming books, readings, or other news you’d like to share. I’ll comment when I’m back in town.

*

Next month, I’ll post a new question and interview for you. And now I’ll leave you with a little news from the last few weeks…

My boys played some songs for the Long Island Music Hall of Fame at Lighthouse Harley Davidson. Hell’s Angels were in the audience, as were members of Twisted Sister. Was pretty funny.

And, if you’d like to see how Purple Day went, Robin Slick has a great re-cap over here, with photos!

Take good care of each other while I’m away.

I was thinking about the years my kids were still into wearing costumes – no holiday required – and we’d head to the bookstore: me, Superman with a dishtowel for a cape, and his sidekick in a knight’s helmet, shorts, rubber boots and a whistle necklace which he was not to blow in the store.

My boys knew exactly where the books they loved were located, and liked to open one after another and explore every genre and turn the rack of Little Critter paperbacks round and round. We often read books to each other for an hour or more before choosing which ones to buy.

We love going to the bookstore together just as much now as we did then, but our visits have dropped off. More often, we sit at one of the many computers in the house and type our orders into Amazon. We don’t stray from our lists. It’s just so easy to do it this way, but there’s none of the sense that we are bonding or creating good family memories with this way of shopping.

I hadn’t noticed this fact until our discussion at LitPark this month. Your answers to the question – Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Indie? – changed me. And so did my guest, who not only made me realize the invaluable role of the liasons between publishers and bookstores (Cory Doctorow describes them beautifully here), but the hit these stores are taking each time we choose to shop at Amazon.

When you buy from an independent bookstore, $68 of every $100 stays in the community. Think about what that means in this economy. And now think about what it would mean if physical bookstores disappeared altogether.

Here’s a little story for you. I like to take my kids to The Book Revue when there are visiting children’s authors. A couple of years ago, I took them to see Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson, who had co-written a prequel to Peter Pan (called PETER AND THE STAR CATCHERS*) that my youngest loved, and that evening was the launch of the follow-up prequel. * = for an indie store click here

Dave Barry wore a Peter Pan hat and talked about what it was like to write a book with another author when one liked to work from an outline (Ridley) and the other liked to wing it (Dave).

Green-Hand, the one who used to wear the whistle necklace, was sitting in the first row with his newly purchased book, already reading and not at all bothered by their talking.

And then the terrible thing happened. Dave Barry (who might as well have slapped my son) opened his own copy of the book and began to read aloud from Chapter 3.

Green-Hand, still on Chapter 1, stood, pissed, and dragged his metal folding chair from the front row to the back of the bookstore, saying they were ruining the book by giving away what would happen. It was a long and loud while of pretending we weren’t related, and when he reached the back wall, he sat down in his metal chair and opened the book again.

At the end of the reading, the kids got in line to have their books signed, and I insisted that Green-Hand join his brother there. That’s him in the green shirt. And he’s smiling. Or trying to. Because I told him he better.

What will the world come to when there are no more physical bookstores, and all the readings are on YouTube? How will you show your righteous indignation? Who will hear you scrape your chair across the floor? These are the important questions we must ask ourselves.

And this is why I’m going to suggest that you join me in a little exercise this month. Click on this Indiebound link and type in your zip code and find a few indie bookstores in your neighborhood. Then have a visit. See if there’s anything that might bring you to the store on a regular basis: a book club, a café, wi-fi, comfy chairs.

Introduce yourself. Tell someone who works in that store that you’re a writer. Tell him or her what you like to read. Learn something about the person you’re speaking with – maybe that person is a writer, too. Maybe he or she has an interesting story. Ask questions about the store. Find out if they sponsor readings, if they have a website, if they’ll order books for you that you’d otherwise buy from Amazon.

Just try it, and I will, too. I’ll be bringing the kids.

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Normally, this is where I tell you what I read this month, but all were galleys, and I don’t want to give away future guests. I will, however, share the book I’ve been reading to my kids: Trenton Lee Stewart, THE MYSTERIOUS BENEDICT SOCIETY *. It’s about extra-smart kids who are chosen to take a secret test, and if they do well, they will be given a “very special opportunity” – but is this a good thing? We’re just a few chapters from the end (the book is 485 pages) and absolutely love it. Every chapter is strange and unexpected and dangerous. And this author understands how alone smart kids can feel, which adds a real depth to the thrilling plot. * = for an indie store click here.

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Okay. That’s it for March. Time for me to get back to the new book I’m writing. Thanks to everyone who played here, and to my guest, the very awesome bookseller, Ann Kingman. And thanks to those who linked to LitPark this month: Bookdwarf, Kash’s Book Corner, The Debutante Ball, Word of the Day, Daryl Ebneezra Kadabra, Bookavore, BitterSweet Blog, First Person Narrative, Bookies, Erin Balser, For Whom the Bell Tolls, Brad Listi . Com, Side Dish, Gray Skies, Endless Knots, and Read by Myfanwy. See you next month!

Today, I’d like you to meet Ann Kingman, a book lover, blogger, and District Sales Manager for one of the major publishing houses. We’ll be talking about what she does with your books in that window of time between turning in your final edits and seeing your book for sale. She’ll also share her opinion about the current crisis in the publishing industry and the important role of independent bookstores. And by the way, as they say on NPR: The opinions expressed in this interview are solely those of the subject and not of her employer or its affiliates.

I hope you enjoy our conversation and find Ann as lovely as I do. And after the interview, be sure to check out her two blogs: Books on the Nightstand, a blog and podcast about books and reading that she does with her colleague, Michael Kindness. And Booksellsers Blog, where she shares what she learns about social media and online marketing with independent bookstores.

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First, tell me about you as a reader, and how you happened to make your career about books.

Like so many of us, I can’t ever remember not reading. Both of my parents were readers and that must be where I picked it up. One of my earliest memories is my mother banging on the bathroom door to check if I was all right. I guess I had been in there a long time. I was fine, I was just really enjoying the biography of Juliet Low (founder of The Girl Scouts) and some peace and quiet.

I definitely took refuge in reading in the years up to and after my parents’ divorce, when I was 9. Reading is what got me through those times. I don’t think it’s a particularly unique story, which is why I believe so strongly in the power of literature to inspire, to comfort and to heal.

I was a Magazine Journalism major in college (among other things), and my dream job was to work as a features editor at a well-known magazine. But magazine jobs were very difficult to find, and when I did get an offer, the pay was not enough to live on, especially in New York City. I was working with an employment agency, who sent me on yet another interview, this time to Dell Publishing. I knew them primarily from their puzzle magazines, and I wasn’t all that excited, but I went on the interview anyway. I still remember the feeling when I stepped into the Personnel Office: on the wall was a poster celebrating the 25th anniversary of Dell Yearling Books. And pictured on the poster were many, many of my favorite books from childhood — the ones that got me through so many bad times. I knew at that moment that I just had to work there, even if it meant sweeping floors. Luckily, it was an administrative job in the sales department, and it paid quite well because I was one of the few people who had computer skills at the time. I didn’t know anything about how books were sold, but I was willing to learn. My plan was to move to the editorial side of the company after awhile, but I soon fell in love with the sales side of the process, and that’s where I’ve stayed. Twenty-two years and four mergers later, I’m still basically with the same company, though it has changed in name and location many times since I was hired.

What exactly does a bookseller do? What are the best and most difficult parts of this kind of work?

My actual job is really that of Sales Representative. We think of “booksellers” as the people who work in the bookstores putting books into customers’ hands. My role is that of liaison between the publisher and the bookstore. I work with approximately 30 independent bookstores in New England. I meet with them several times a year to share with them the books that we will be publishing in the coming seasons—we usually work about 6 months ahead. For instance, it is now February and I am talking to them about books that will be published in July and August. I work with the buyer at the bookstore to decide which books they should stock, and how many copies of each they should buy. Much of my advice is based on my knowledge of the store, what their customers buy, and what their booksellers like to read. One of my favorite parts of the job is talking to the booksellers who work on the sales floor. I try to get to know them and know what they like to read, so that I can give them Advanced Readers Copies—these are “preview” copies of books that we will be publishing in the future. I try to get the booksellers to read them early and tell me what they think about them. Our hope is that they will love the books I give them and recommend them to their customers once the books are in the store.

The most difficult part of my job is really remembering what time of year it is! As I said earlier, I am currently selling the books that we will be publishing in the summer. However, I am also working with my bookstores to make sure that they have enough copies of the books that are out right now—the books that are selling, getting review attention, and getting good word of mouth from booksellers and readers. In addition, I am now starting to read manuscripts that will be published in the Fall. I’m always working at 3 points in time, and trying to keep it all in the air without dropping any of the balls is a feat that challenges me on many occasions. It’s not exactly difficult, but there is definitely the feeling that our work is never done. We work the books throughout their whole life cycle to make sure that every book finds its readership.

So, walk me through the process, if you would. An author finds out, Yay, Big Publishing House bought my manuscript! When do you come in?

The timeline differs at each publisher, but the general process goes something like this: Author gets contract, and the book gets put on the publishing schedule (so far out in the future that the author likely believes that they will not live to see the publication, but the long process is a whole ‘nother story).  About 6 months before the publication date, the editorial, marketing and publicity departments present the title to the sales reps at a meeting formally known as the “Sales Conference.” These conferences happen 3 times per year. There is a marketing and publicity plan mostly in place, and the cover may or not be finalized.

Prior to the Sales Conference, the reps have received manuscripts or manuscript excerpts, and information about each book on that season’s schedule. At the Sales Conference, the reps talk about the books with the publisher, editor, marketing and publicity departments, learn more about the content of the book, the marketing plans, etc. Then we reps go out and sell the list to our bookstores.

On our sales calls, we talk with the buyers about titles that might be comparable to the books we are selling, we look at previous books by the author and how they’ve sold, and we spend a lot of time figuring out who at the bookstore is the right reader for each book. We also talk about how the store will promote the books they are most excited about: in their newsletter, by putting a stack at the front of the store on a table, a window display, etc.

We know that not every bookstore can carry every book, so we work with the store to determine which ones their customers will most want to buy. The staff at most of our independent bookstores know their clientele extremely well, and with the help of computerized inventory systems can determine which books are the best for them to bring in. Often a bookstore will start with a small quantity, just 1 or 2 copies, but if a bookseller on staff reads and loves the book, they will order more. Many bookstores are so passionate about the books that the staff loves that they can sell hundreds of copies of a favorite book simply by recommending it to their customers.

Fascinating! Over the years, I’ve gathered bits and pieces of this process, but, finally, I have a coherent picture. And I never knew bookstore owners gave their customers so much consideration.

With your more than 20 years in the publishing business, you’ve seen companies grow and buckle and merge before. Does this current publishing crisis feel different to you? And would you call it a crisis?

I’ve been through many “crises” and though it’s a cliché, it’s true that in publishing, the only constant is change. That being said, we are definitely in a time where there are many challenges to keep us all on our toes. During my career, the challenges have previously come basically one at a time, with most of them being a new outlet for book sales threatening the survival of existing channels. This time we have that, of course, with online bookselling, but we also have the rise of the e-book, print on demand, various formats, a recession… and they are all happening at the same time.

Is it a crisis? I don’t think I’d label it as such. This feels more like an evolution. Certainly things will change, and the uncertainty makes people uneasy. It’s a personal crisis to those who have devoted their lives to the industry and find themselves out of work with few opportunities to stay in publishing. But as an industry, publishing will always exist.

I’m such a fan of your bookseller’s blog because I think it’s really at the forefront of trying to rethink how publishers and booksellers might adapt to the changing habits of readers. Talk to me about the types of changes you’re making (or thinking about making) to stay competitive.

I think we all have to change our definition of “customer.” As publishers, our customers are not only the retailers and wholesalers who pay us directly, but the booksellers on the front lines, and the consumer who purchases a book at retail. The industry is great at speaking with their retail and wholesale customers, but not so good at talking with the others. This needs to change. Booksellers have to get up to speed on the technology, and probably make some significant investments in their websites and e-commerce systems.

A website is no longer “nice to have,” and a robust e-commerce system will allow them to stay competitive. We are in a time when the idea of supporting local businesses is nearing a groundswell, and local bookstores stand to benefit if they can keep the customer experience at the top of mind. Many customers will happily support a local business, and even pay a bit more, if it is convenient for them to do so. Booksellers need to make sure that ease of use is there, as well as continue to educate the public about the benefits of shopping locally. They also need to work with other local businesses to help drive that message home. And it’s more important than ever that booksellers create relationships with their customers to better serve their market.

As publishing becomes easier and less expensive, the number of books will increase. And I think that there will be an even more important role for people to act as curators for the volume of content that will come.  When faced with an infinite number of choices, we will still need someone to put a book in our hands (or the virtual equivalent) and say, “Read this, it’s fantastic.”

Last question. How could you convince a chronic Amazon user like me to buy from one of your independent bookstores instead? Here’s my reason for using Amazon: They already have my credit card, I always find what I’m looking for, and I can shop impulsively—the moment I hear of a book I want, I’m seconds away from placing an order.

Yes, let’s talk about bookstores.

I think people should feel free to shop at whatever business best meets their needs.  When you shop at a locally-owned and operated business, $68 of every $100 will stay in the local community. Shopping at a business that is part of chain will retain $43 in the local community. As the economy continues to falter and more of my friends and neighbors are losing their jobs, this has become even more important to me. I want to keep local businesses vital in my community, as they are what keep my community vital.

The second reason to support independent bookstores is one that should be of supreme importance to writers. There are more than 2,000 independent bookstores listed on Indiebound.org. Each of those bookstores determine for themselves what books will be sold in each of their stores. Pretend that there are no more independent bookstores. Imagine you are an author. What if the Romance Buyer at the big chain store decides that he does not want to carry your book in their stores? Now your book is not in any physical bookstore location. Worse yet, it’s possible that the publisher will not be able to proceed with the publication of your book. This is, admittedly, an extreme example, as I always think that there will be some thriving independent bookstores. However, leaving the decision of what will or will not be published in the hands of just a few is a dangerous path to take.

But let’s talk about you, the customer, for a minute. There’s no arguing the convenience factor of Amazon. Independent bookstores are working diligently to get up to speed with technology, and some stores have done brilliantly. Powells.com is the most well-known because they were there early. I do believe that independent booksellers need to make it easy for their customers to support them. So I would ask this: if you, the customer, want to support your local bookseller, but there are specific reasons why you don’t or can’t, have a conversation with the bookstore owner. Let them know what they could do to get your business. I know that it’s not always price that causes readers to choose another option. Often there is no price difference, or it’s just $2-$3.

This conversation will of course work better if it’s constructive and not just a litany of complaints. The bookseller may not be able to accommodate your wishes, or move as quickly as you’d like, but it’s important for them to know. In my experience, I’ve found that most bookstore owners love to talk with customers about what they can do better. A healthy independent bookstore is more than just a place to buy books—it’s a community center, a gathering place, and often an important anchor to a town’s retail center.

Ultimately, you should feel free to shop wherever you choose. Seeing the larger picture and understanding the ramifications is important, and may influence your choice of where to spend your money, but in the end, it’s all about choice.

One more thought: I cannot imagine a world where children cannot experience the joy of wandering around a bookstore, taking in all of the colors and pictures, touching everything, and pulling out a few dollars to buy a book that they picked out themselves. I witnessed this scenario in a bookstore yesterday, and it made me smile the rest of the day.

You’re lovely, Ann. Thanks for being here!

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Okay, maybe it’s my period, but that last answer totally made me cry. I’m off to find a local bookstore right now. While I’m gone, I hope you’ll leave a comment for Ann and visit her websites. And, as always, thank you for being here.

Tell me where you buy your books: Amazon, Barnes & Noble, an independent bookstore?

And since there’s so much talk about the changing habits of readers, tell me if your buying and reading habits have changed in the past few years, and how.

Thanks for answering this one because I think it’s at the heart of the problem the publishing industry is trying to fix.

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Wednesday, Random House’s District Sales Manager, Ann Kingman, will be here. Maybe you’ve noticed, but I’ve been trying to bring guests to LitPark who could give you peeks behind the curtain of the publishing business. Sometimes, I think writers have this idea that there are monsters behind that curtain, and maybe there are. But not this time. You’re in for a very nice surprise, and a fascinating conversation. I hope you’ll come back and join us.

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One last thing: LitPark now has a FaceBook page, and I’ll be so happy if you join! And here’s another nice surprise, there’s even a FaceBook group for Mr. Henderson’s ex-girlfriend, who wrote about him in one of her books and now sports a Tipper Gore hairdo. You can join that group, too!