O Authors, My Authors

I feel it's only right in a blog that is loosely centered around writing to include somewhere a shrine to my favorite authors.  Even more reason to broach this topic right now is the fact that this has been a stupendous year for some of my authors (yes, I call them my authors), with some of them having new books released.  So, without further ado, I give you my most adored writers:

1. Margaret Atwood
2. Mary Roach
3. Karen Russell
4. Joyce Carol Oates
5. Laura Hillenbrand

My first introduction to Margaret Atwood was as a freshman in college.  A friend introduced me to The Handmaid's Tale, Atwood's unbeatable dystopian novel.  From there, I was hooked. 

I got to meet Margaret Atwood once - a dream come true.  She was in DC a few years ago, promoting her book The Year of the Flood.  After a stage performance of a chapter from the book, I anxiously lined up for autographs.  I had her sign my beloved and well-read copy of The Handmaid's Tale, and it looks like this:

I re-read this book about every two or three years.  I think I'm about due. 

The thing about Maggie (sometimes I call her that) is her prose is so vivid but sometimes harsh in its brevity.  Somehow she maintains that delicate balance of description and succinctness that alludes me at all times.  If you're reading this Maggie, I love you.

I discovered Mary Roach when she published her first book: Stiff, the Curious Lives of Human Cadavers.  This woman's ability to sink her teeth into the bizarre and come out with something that is both enlightening and hilarious is so wonderful.  Writing non-fiction, her journalistic skills make for great reading.  I remember reading her book Spook on a flight from vet school to home for Christmas vacation and stifling laughs as she described struggling to pull out a specimen of "ectoplasm" in the basement of a library. 

The thing about Mary is although she's entertaining and her subjects border on preposterous, her sense of scientific curiosity keeps the books moving forward.  She's not just writing to write weirdo stuff.  She's writing because she wants to know more. 

Karen Russell is my most recent edition to Anna's Top Authors.  I read her debut novel Swamplandia! in February.  It was her second collection of short stories, though, that really blew me away.  Vampires in the Lemon Grove came out this year and hang on to your hats, kids, because this girl can write. 

The thing about Karen is the creativity packed in her short stories is unbridled yet honed to a sharp point.  The Barn at the End of our Term is my favorite of her short stories so far and I look to her stories for guidance as I struggle with my own.

Ah, Joyce Carol Oates.  You are a staple to any reader worth his/her salt when it comes to 20th and 21st century American literature.  I remember first seeing JCO's novel Blonde in the window of a bookstore in Covent Gardens, London.  A perennial fan of Marilyn Monroe, it caught my eye but it wasn't until sophomore year in an undergrad fiction class when we read a short story by JCO that I connected the dots.  Unlike my other favorite authors, I haven't yet read all of JCO's works (my god, that woman is a prolific writer!) but I'm slowly working toward that goal. 

Last but not least is the lovely Laura Hillenbrand.  Like any good horse lover, I dutifully read Seabiscuit which I probably would have enjoyed even if it was poorly written (which it's not).  The second time around, Laura's next book Unbroken confirmed in my mind what an engaging writer she is. 

Like Mary Roach, Laura tackles non-fiction, and has somehow dug up amazing stories left almost forgotten in history.  Piecing together interviews and research, Laura manages to piece together stories that read like water tight thrillers only better because they actually happened.  Oh, and to add to Laura's amazingness?  She suffers from chronic fatigue syndrome.  That's right - nearly paralyzed by exhaustion in bed, she still managed to put together not one but two New York Times bestsellers.  *commence standing ovation*

So there you have it for the record: my favorite author manifesto.  Which leads me to ask: who are your favorites?

Literary Art

It always seems that in the dead of winter, when I'm trapped inside the confines of my house daydreaming myself away to a tropical paradise or just somewhere above 30 degrees, I get a little artsy-fartsy.  Years ago during my senior year of vet school, on a fairly quiet rotation called "ancillary" where we fine-tuned our histopathology skills in the mornings and spent the afternoons slipping on blood on the necropsy floor, and therefore had no patients to care for and were finished by 4:30 every afternoon, I had some time on my hands.  This rotation was in February and being cooped up in my one-bedroom apartment in bone-chilling Lafayette, Indiana, I revived a passion of the art work of Edward Hopper.  

Months prior to this, I visited the Indianapolis Museum of Art, where I encountered my first Hopper painting: Hotel Lobby.

Hotel Lobby, Edward Hopper (1943)

At the time I was completely unfamiliar with Hopper's work but I recall being drawn to this painting.  I loved it.  I found it had the simplistic power of suggesting a million different stories of what was going on in the scene.  I remember standing in front of it for minutes, just staring and getting lost in the possibilities.  This painting was like the opening of a novel, laid out visually right before my eyes. Researching more of Hopper's work, I discovered he painted one of my favorite paintings of all time, Nighthawks. 

Nighthawks, Edward Hopper (1942)

I read this painting was on display at the Art Institute of Chicago, which is where I set out on a bitterly cold Saturday during my ancillary rotation.  Ironically, the exhibit showcasing Hopper's masterpiece was closed for renovation during my visit, but I did see a few of his other works and of course bought a few goodies at the gift shop.  One of my prize possessions from this trip was a book called The Poetry of Solitude: A Tribute to Edward Hopper by Gail Levin.  A small collection of poems inspired by Hopper's works, this book contains the culmination of all things wonderful in my world: a poem written my one of my favorite authors (Joyce Carol Oates) about my favorite piece of art, Nighthawks.

EDWARD HOPPER’S NIGHTHAWKS, 1942

The three men are fully clothed, long sleeves,
even hats, though it’s indoors, and brightly lit,
and there’s a woman. The woman is wearing
a short-sleeved red dress cut to expose her arms,
a curve of her creamy chest; she’s contemplating
a cigarette in her right hand, thinking that
her companion has finally left his wife but
can she trust him? Her heavy-lidded eyes,
pouty lipsticked mouth, she has the redhead’s
true pallor like skim milk, damned good-looking
and she guesses she knows it, but what exactly
has it gotten her so far, and where? — he’ll start
to feel guilty in a few days, she knows
the signs, an actual smell, sweaty, rancid, like
dirty socks; he’ll slip away to make telephone calls
and she swears she isn’t going to go through that
again, isn’t going to break down crying or begging
nor is she going to scream at him, she’s finished
with all that. And he’s silent beside her,
not the kind to talk much but he’s thinking
thank God he made the right move at last,
he’s a little dazed like a man in a dream —
is this a dream? — so much that’s wide, still,
mute, horizontal, and the counterman in white,
stooped as he is and unmoving, and the man
on the other stool unmoving except to sip
his coffee; but he’s feeling pretty good,
it’s primarily relief, this time he’s sure
as hell going to make it work, he owes it to her
and to himself. . . . And she’s thinking
the light in this place is too bright, probably
not very flattering, she hates it when her lipstick
wears off and her makeup gets caked, she’d like
to use a ladies’ room but there isn’t one here
and . . . how long before a gas station opens? —
it’s the middle of the night and she has a feeling
time is never going to budge. This time
though she isn’t going to demean herself —
he starts in about his wife, his kids, how
he let them down, they trusted him and he let
them down, she’ll slam out of the goddamned room
and if he calls her Sugar or Baby in that voice,
running his hands over her like he has the right,
she’ll slap his face hard, You know I hate that: STOP!
And he’ll stop. He’d better. The angrier
she gets the stiller she is, hasn’t said a word
for the past ten minutes, not a strand
of her hair stirs, and it smells a little like ashes
or like the henna she uses to brighten it, but
the smell is faint or anyway, crazy for her
like he is, he doesn’t notice, or mind —
burying his hot face in her neck. . . . She’s still contemplating
the cigarette burning in her hand,
the counterman is still stooped gaping
at her, and he doesn’t mind that, why not,
as long as she doesn’t look back, in fact
he’s thinking he’s the luckiest man in the world
so why isn’t he happier?

~ Joyce Carol Oates, born 1938, American poet, novelist, and essayist

Now, if only one of my other favorite authors, Margaret Atwood, would write a poem inspired by Dogs Playing Poker, by C.M. Coolidge, I will have found my nirvana.