Gold Stars & Rotten Tomatoes

Among my current tasks is providing the press with potential review contacts for newspapers and literary magazines -- a happy pursuit, given that a mere week and a half ago The Los Angeles Times, for example, laid off all its freelance book reviewers and columnists. That same day, Slate published former Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky's "How Not to Write a Book Review." Using John Wilson Croker's 1818 scathing attack of Endymion (the review famously said to have killed John Keats) as a model of what to avoid, Pinsky breaks the art of reviewing down to three rules:

1. The review must tell what the book is about.
2. The review must tell what the book's author says about that thing the book is about.
3. The review must tell what the reviewer thinks about what the book's author says about that thing the book is about.  

The above prescription has me (re)thinking my own forays in reviewing, something I do on a regular basis both gratis and for monetary compensation. Dollars aside, my motivation is twofold:

1. Support the community of writers of which I am a part

2. Take advantage of the opportunity to closely study disparate examples of prosody and poetics

In recent years, I've reviewed collections by Tracy K. Smith, Cecily Parks, Jennifer Chang, Kara Candito, Elizabeth Bradfield, Jennifer Atkinson, Paula Bohince, Patrick Phillips, Beth Bachmann, Susan Somers-Willett, Kathleen Sheeder Bonanno and Kevin McFadden, among others. Yes, the majority of the above poets are women, along with writers the establishment would call "emerging" -- a fact (and deliberate choice) to which I answer, Have you seen VIDA's numbers?

As a reader, I loathe the "drive-by" review, the hit-and-run 500-words-or-less rant that isolates a poet's weakest moments and provides little context or insight as to his or her project as a whole. Such reviews are not only irresponsible, but also obvious as most writers recognize their shortcomings. I, for one, can already tell you which poems in my forthcoming collection are frail. I know too well the lines I've labored over for years and for which I can still find only passing satisfaction.

Equally abysmal is a sin Pinsky describes: not closely -- or completely -- reading the book under consideration. Sadly, this recently happened to a friend of mine (I'll call her A.), whose debut was written up at a popular online site. The reviewer's analysis of A.'s work was scattered, ill-considered. In fact, one of the reviewer's claims seemed to contradict the very excerpt of the poem he quoted. A. was rightfully upset. The reviewer clearly hadn't read the book, yet proceeded to make egregious implications about the poet's views and politics. Ironically, the reviewer's main complaint was A.'s "irresponsible" handling of the subject at hand.

In the past, I've turned down solicitations to write reviews because I couldn't find anything positive to say about the book under consideration. My feeling -- particularly about first or second collections -- is that I'd rather highlight those works about which I can write something enthusiastic or constructive. Reviewing, after all, shouldn't be an exercise in self-elevation or amusement.

I'm on deadline now for a review-essay due at month's end. It's a different and much deeper sort of project, one in which I consider a poet's selected work and letters from the vantage point of spending a month in her house. I've read and re-read -- poems, epistles, critical essays, interviews -- taken notes. Doing so has already proved fruitful. While prepping the essay, I've drafted poems I doubt I would've otherwise written. What I've learned from reviewing is this: best case scenario, living in close proximity to others' work can leave you standing in fascinating shadows.

Razzle Dazzled

I read this poem a day (or so) ago at the Academy of American Poets, and can't stop thinking about it:

AGAIN A SOLSTICE
by Jennifer Chang
It is not good to think of everything as a mistake. I asked for bacon in my sandwich, and then I asked for more. Mistake. I told you the truth about my scar: I did not use a knife. I lied about what he did to my faith in loneliness. Both mistakes. That there is always a you. Mistake. Faith in loneliness, my mother proclaimed, is faith in self. My instinct, a poor polaris. Not a mistake is the blue boredom of a summer lake. O mud, sun, and algae! We swim in glittering murk. I tread, you tread. There are children testing the deep end, shriek and stroke, the lifeguard perilously close to diving. I tried diving once. I dove like a brick. It was a mistake to ask the $30 prophet for a $20 prophecy. A mistake to believe. I was young and broke. I swam in a stolen reservoir then, not even a lake. Her prophesy: from my vagrant exertion I'll die at 42. Our dog totters across the lake, kicks the ripple. I tread, you tread. What does it even mean to write a poem? It means today I'm correcting my mistakes. It means I don't want to be lonely.

"The Arrant Self-Promoter"

Much as I disliked Black Swan,
Barbara Hershey nailed it.

I've spent this week gathering contacts, filling out forms, and answering questions from the press. It's slow-going and painful:   Explain your title, an editor asks. Which poems best represent the collection as a whole? The art designer wants to know, what's your tone? (to which a poet friend, thankfully, offers a response: "definitely G minor")
 

Happy as I am to support others' work, it's difficult to push mine out into the world. In the old life, perhaps I witnessed too many episodes of bad behavior from overbearing stage mothers. When I was living at the (ballet) academy, for example, a twelve-year-old drank bleach in an effort to get sent home. Instead of buying a plane ticket, her parents (who lived three thousand miles away) instead lobbied that she receive a better role in the upcoming winter performance -- a wish the administration granted...but I digress.
 

A friend of mine had two books come out last year from different publishers. The first book received a dozen reviews and multiple prizes, while the other went quietly into bookstores and the hands of (fewer?) readers. Safe to assume the writer furnished each press with the same marketing information (places to send review copies and personal contacts for promotional mailings).
 

Which begs the question: does any of this matter?
 

You write the book. Send it out. Rejection. More doubts. Publish poems. Revise. Revise some more.
 

Upon acceptance, I, for one, hadn't expected to be asked to list those "in the profession who are in a position to influence the success of the collection." This isn't a complaint. I'm grateful the book is finished and will soon be released. What complicates the matter is that I live overseas; thus, no stateside readings or signings to spread the word. What's to be done? Consider a blog tour, a friend suggests, work the web. But shouldn't I spend my time drafting new work instead?  

Of his decision to launch a web site, writes Peter Kline at Ploughshares:

"Many poets I know have a complicated relationship with social media and self-promotion, a relationship that must be constantly renegotiated to allow them to best achieve results for their careers while avoiding crippling public scorn and private feelings of worthlessness. They Twitter, but refuse to Facebook.  Or they Facebook, but carefully ration their posts. They launch a website dedicated to their work, but don’t include an author’s photo. They minutely tailor their biographies. They advertise, quietly.  All of them dread being stuck permanently in their current state of near-universal disregard.  Yet even more than this they worry about the whiff of cut-throat desperation that clings to the arrant self-promoter.  All of us want to live forever, but first we have to live in this world..."

How to live in this world: my husband will borrow a camera to shoot my author photo. Between rounds of making Scrabble moves on Facebook, I will attempt to summarize the collection's recurring themes in 250 words or less. I will make humble requests for blurbs. Above all else, I will avoid bad behavior with bleach. 

SASE

submission season is around the corner!

Bozo, Bubbles, Homey & Krusty

My Arabic teacher's youngest daughter wants to know whether K. makes his living as the Embassy's official American clown. No joke. Does he dress up as Santa, the Easter Bunny, Christopher Columbus? Does he get paid to wear funny shoes and fashion animals from balloons? The Embassy Clown. Yep, that'll do it.

*

U.S. Marines in Amman

July 4, 2011: K. and I celebrated America's birthday overseas. So what does Independence Day look like in the Middle East? Are there hot dogs, block parties, fireworks and flags, copious renditions of "Stars and Stripes Forever"?

Keeping up with tradition, the U.S. Embassy provided potato and macaroni salad aplenty, not to mention a pair of bounce houses and a bean-bag toss for the kids. What really surprised me, however, was that K. and I received more "Happy 4th" wishes from Jordanians than we ever have in the states. My favorite message came late in the day from Hisham and referenced both the British rule of American colonists, as well as the former "Emirate of Transjordan" : "Screw the Brits!," he cheered, "Happy Independence to us all!"

*

I convinced K. the committee solicited him for the role because of his dashing good looks and obvious patriotism. Truth told, they needed a tall guy. And so with neither his consultation nor approval, I brought the costume home: top hat, bow tie, red striped pants and navy jacket -- everything required to transform my own Yankee Doodle sweetheart into this year's Uncle Sam.

*

K. and his followers

Uncle-Sammy-the-Embassy-Clown, as I now like to call my husband, spent the morning of the July 4th festivities hiking Wadi Mujib. K. later confessed he hoped a fall might produce the broken arm or leg needed to excuse himself from celebration duties. 

Nonetheless, the hour arrived. That afternoon surrounded by dozens of helium-filled balloons, I helped him dress in the Embassy's Community Liaison Office. We took stupid photos. I tried not to snicker. K. insisted on wearing flip-flops with his ensemble. You can take the kid out of California...

Then, nerves set in. He anticipated the reactions (i.e. mockery) of his co-workers and friends. My laughter didn't help. "Do it for the kids," I said. "Do it for your country." 

*

K. let the parade like a trooper. He waved and posed for pictures. He braved jeering adults and managed to make the role his own. Better still, I watched the man who loves to tease everyone and anyone (especially me) squirm a bit, and loved every moment...

Everybody loves a clown!

Which makes what happened two days ago even more of a hoot. A box arrived from my in-laws: in it, K.'s baby clothes, blankets and shoes. Relics from the 70s -- an infant's powder blue track suit, crushed velvet pants with suspenders and tuxedo shirt, button-ups accented with butterfly collars.


When I first pulled out the onesie -- fuzzy, neon red with white fur cuffs and trim -- I didn't think much of it. After all, K. was a December baby. I assumed the outfit was something along the lines of "Santa's Little Helper." Closer inspection revealed the true history of K.'s calling: there, stamped above his heart -- baby's first clown badge.

*
Uncle-Sammy-the-Embassy-Clown swears he's retired. "Once was enough," K. says, but I know better. I've already ordered him a make-up kit, foam nose, and rubber chicken. For Americans, National Dog and Women's Equality Days are just around the corner. Who knows how far he can take this role. To combat his fears of suffering further humiliation, I remind K. things could be worse: he could've easily been assigned the task of working in the Ambassador's dunk tank. That, plus the fact, that he once went public wearing that fuzzy red clown suit (see above).

Two Steps Forward, Three Steps...

I stopped at the flower shop to buy a bouquet for R.: a simple request for khamestaash dinar worth of lilies (orange, yellow, white). All was well -- or so I thought -- until I declared the arrangement "Hiloueen."

"Halloween?" the salesman asked. "It's summer. Halloween is in October."


"La," (no) I answered, repeating "Hiloueen" -- meaning, beautiful.


He dressed the bouquet with purple paper and a foil ribbon. I forked over the money.

"Listen," the shopkeeper advised as he handed me my change, "don't speak Arabic."

*

These days, I make so many mistakes in Arabic I relish the occasions (rare round these parts) when a local errs in English. I remember feeling a similar satisfaction more than a decade ago when the Parisian twenty-something who interned at the magazine where I worked erroneously conjugated a verb, an offense I'd committed often in an attempt to master French. Call me patronizing or just plain petty: for the fleeting moment Claude misspoke, five years of my own linguistic missteps seemed to matter less...

*     
A Jordanian colleague submitted to K. a list of demands instead of requests. Although my husband took the time to correct him, I probably wouldn't have bothered. All things considered, most days what's the difference?

*

Recently, I had my best exchange in Arabic to date. The speed of the dialogue, its level of diction -- everything seemed to click into place. Perhaps classes and homework are paying off, I thought.

My buddy and I chatted about the menu of the dinner party we were attending, our favorite dishes, summer plans, the things we do for fun. We shared some laughs. Finally, I felt, I'm making some progress!

Friends, it's taken almost a year but I've found someone with whom I can speak comfortably in Arabic: his name is Mohammed, "Mon Mon" for short.

He's three. 

*
M. came, stayed for a month, just left. His visit went something like this: San Francisco to Paris, Paris to Amman; "Fight Night" at Le Royal; Jerash; tour of King Hussein Bin Talal Mosque; Dead Sea; Souk Jarra; Mount Nebo and Madaba; downtown Citadel; birthday dinner; Irbed and Umm Qais; Sea of Galilee; Wadi Mujib; Petra; Wadi Rum.

At the Bedouin camp, Mahmoud told M. the group would be riding "whore-ses" into the desert's deeper recesses. "Whore-ses" instead of camels, Mahmoud insisted. They're a much more comfortable ride.

*

"Thanks," I replied to the man in Madaba who stopped to offer mabrook (congrats) on the coming arrival of K.'s and my first child.

"Is it a boy or girl?" he asked. And when I answered: "You're pregnant seven years?"

I paused and smiled, my vanity crushed.

I'm big these days -- kabeera kiteer -- and getting bigger by the minute. But then I stopped, and thought: sir, how right you are! Because at a certain point seven months feels like seven years, whatever the words' truest meaning.