My mental circus, inside and out.

Future Shock

Hey, my book is well ahead of Simon WInchester's hyped-up Crack in the World on the Canadian Amazon site this morning.  What fun (and possibly, profit).

Yesterday, I watched my one-year-old grandson leaf through the cheap student edition of The Communist Manifesto. He was exploring my books. It's strange to think that by the time Max grows up, Marx will have faded into deep historical memory. He's already on his way. I remember when we could talk about Marx without someone snorting. I remember when for a large part of the population he was the very devil, and for another, a modern savior. No one even discusses him as a rather intriguing idea anymore. I feel my years when I watch names, events, trends, fads, ideas, even whole swaths of political movements ... just vanish. Alvin Tofler called it Future Shock. Oh, but then, no one remembers him either. . .

Posted by: EmmaPele at October 30, 2005 19:04 | link | comments (2)

Theory again

The last book event, as far as I know, is tomorrow.  I feel relieved in a way, since I haven't had much time to think in the past two months.  Now that I've had my experience with writing for a trade market,  I'm in the mood for more intellectual endeavors.   I'd say, overall, that the experiment exceeded my expectations (and that is a lot of  "e"s for one sentence! Where's the editor!).   I did manage to reach a bunch of readers, I made a tiny splash in a small part of the world, I was both extolled and trashed by reviewers, and who knows, maybe we'll finally sell the film rights.   I'm not exactly a star at this kind of writing--professional journalists seem to be best at it--but I did OK.   I was reading Dr. Anti-True-Crime's essay in a leading theory journal, and I found it so brilliant that I realized I'd forgotten what a pleasure  it is to encounter innovative critical theory.  Not many readers can appreciate these arguments.  They take time to digest.  But I have missed the challenges of theory, which I sacrificed to history. The essay really made me rethink what I was doing.  I am going to read and read and read now on this fine, but chilly day.

Posted by: EmmaPele at October 29, 2005 21:15 | link | comments (1)

The toasties

I have always considered myself a wreck at public speaking.  I've often stumbled through papers, made egregious errors out of nervousness, and looked like a fool.  I've been rejected, heckled, and, at best, ignored.  I've gotten sweaty palms, clammy armpits, and dry mouth.  I know the cliche--frozen with fear--to be a literal description of the cold chills I've gotten preparing to speak.  I was once so shy that I couldn't open my mouth even in small meetings. So to my huge surprise, I suddenly find myself a decent public speaker. 

When  I discovered that I'd have to be appearing in the media, I realized that fear was not an option.  I was going to have to remake myself into The Author. With four weeks to go before my first public talk,  I joined Toastmasters.   Just the act of joining was enough to establish, in my own mind, that I was making a serious committment to getting good at it. 

It was really delightful to discover that my local club is full of warm, funny people, my kind of people.  Most of them are a bit eccentric in the way that formerly shy people become rich, distinctive personalities when they gain confidence.   We have a Mensa member who's into  past life regression, a computer geek who does improvisational comedy, a nurse who loves telling children's stories, an African American financier who glows with religious faith, a blind woman with a master's degree in sociology who jokes about the human senses,  a tiny Chinese engineering student with a deadpan humor, all sorts.  It's the most supportive environment I've ever encountered.  When we give speeches, we get critqued.  (We have an "ah-er" counter, and I suspect many academics would flunk that test.)  But the advice is never patronizing or arrogant, and it's always accompanied by tons of praise.  Some of the "Eloquents" who've been in the group for a long time engage in competition, but it's the most good-natured, humorous competition you could imagine.

I've heard that other clubs are formal and difficult.  I've never thrived in that kind of situation.  But in two months, partly because of my own will, partly because of this warm support, I've been able to reinvent myself as a confident speaker.  I can talk for an hour without notes or look calmly into a camera and deliver my message.  Last night, I was flabbergasted when the oldest member of the club said, "You have the qualities of a professional speaker.  You should try for the district competitions sometime." Maybe I will!

Posted by: EmmaPele at October 28, 2005 22:57 | link | comments

Sediments

When Emma was growing up in a Cleveland suburb, she was the strange kid.  She had no social skills and no interest in acquiring them.  She read too much and tried desperately to impress adults.   She read the entire Bible because she had a crush on her fourth grade religion teacher.  Later, she would stupidly choose someone who resembled his dark good looks, work just as hard to impress him, and suffer mightily for it.

She went to church in hand-made clothes.  Her mother, Maud, came from a line of seamstresses.  Sewing was a valued skill.  Maud's own mother, Lizabeth, had lost one of her fingers in a garment factory.   Maud told Emma that Lizabeth was so accomplished as a seamstress that her stitches looked as good on the underside as they did on the topside.  But the clothes Emma wore to church contributed to her oddity:  an orange cape over a dress with tiny matching flowers.   Maud was very proud of that outfit, though Emma felt it made her stand out too much.

At school, Emma wore a uniform, a vest and plaid skirt, but her hair was untidy.  A blond, she wanted always to be a Breck girl, but her mother saved money buying Prell, so harsh it was like sanding Emma's head with a brillo pad.  Emma had scabs on her head, making her more vulnerable to ridicule.  She has avoided green shampoos ever since.  

Emma bonded with other girls who were also odd and self-tortured, and who were chosen last for the kickball teams.   For a season, they formed a kissing club, and ran aroung chasing boys who would have done anything to avoid any girl.  

Emma still does this.  In many ways she is the girl that she was, sedimented with experience and cynicism.  She sifts that sand, and finds the stone.

Posted by: EmmaPele at October 28, 2005 21:30 | link | comments

the great illusion

I've learned some really interesting things about the mass media lately.  For example, the trashy review I received recently has translated into kudos.  I met with a television producer on Monday who wants to feature my biographical subject in a history show.  He said, "Wow, I saw that great review in the newspaper!"  Ok, this was not a great review.  In fact, it stank.  But it was obvious that the producer hadn't actually read it.  I said,  "I don't think that reviewer was well equipped to review a work of history," to which the producer replied, "But look at all the column inches you got!"  My publicist told me that she's gotten all kinds of comments about this "glowing review."   This would really irritate the reviewer, since one of the things he was complaining about was what he saw as the "hype" of the jacket cover. Obviously no one actually reads reviews, or they just read the headline and a couple of paragraphs. That is the dirty secret of the media.  It doesn't matter what the content is, it's how long you get to talk or how many inches you get.   That is why it is always better to get a live or a "live-to-tape"  interview on television, because if you just get a taped interview, the editors will cut your remarks down to three seconds.  The difference between taped and live-to-tape is that a taped interview is intended to be cut whereas live-to-tape is filmed continuously.  Fortunately, all my interviews have been live-to-tape so far, so I haven't ended up on the cutting room floor.  All in all, I've had pretty good success at gaining media time and having the title of my book repeated the 8 times necessary to get people to buy it, according to my publicist. 

Another interesting thing is how much television is an illusion.  When you look at these interviews, you see a nice, pleasant, warm set.  But in reality, television is taped in freezing warehouses that look like garages.  The furniture is slightly shabby, and they just drag it out into an empty concrete space where you perch (because it's forbidden to lean back lest you look "disinterested").  I think they must put the background in afterwards.   When I was on the morning show, the crew had tables that looked like they belonged in a kindergarten, with fake plastic donuts on a plate.  But somehow this all comes out looking like a real kitchen.

Posted by: EmmaPele at October 26, 2005 22:36 | link | comments (1)