On Saturday, McC and I did what seemed only right to do: We took the best Latte in America to get "The Best Latte in America." (according to the New York Times.) It was a glorious day in Larchmont Village-- even though much of Hollywood was blocked off due to a parade, a high school graduation, palm tree pruning, and perhaps the Daytime Emmy's preshow. It was unclear. But when we finally made it to the adorable strand of shops, Latte was out in full force, making friends with every man, woman and child and cute-ing up the place royally. He met his shaved pom twin, and like all doppelgangers, it was full hate coming from both sides (but mostly the other guy, because, let's face it, Latte is pretty secure in his cuteness.) We decided we would have this almond-macadamia nut milk iced-latte no matter how much it cost. And we took bets on just how much we were going to throw down. When we walked in, my eye immediately went to a $13 beverage. "Thirteen dollars," I said out loud to McC. "That's gotta be it. I bet you that's it." Luckily, that was a 5 shot extravaganza and the latte we desired only ran us six bucks each. Of course, the drinks came in ball jars. And various other products ranged in price from expensive to very expensive, including a small ceramic tumbler that said go get em tiger and cost $43. Okay, but was it the best latte in America, you want to know? I don't know because, while I have had many lattes in both America and abroad, I haven't had them all. But I'd say it was worth six bucks. And Latte thought so too. The first thing he did was try to steal a sip of McC's. go get em tiger 230 N. Larchmont Blvd.
Hey everyone! So part of why I haven't been around as much these days is that I've been working on some other projects that are similar, but far more lucrative and have way more readers. (Props to you, core group of awesome ones, though.) And one of those things launches TODAY! The inaugural issue of Giada, a digital weekly is available for FREE for your ipad in the itunes store. It's coming soon to other digital platforms. But for now, if you have an ipad, please give it a try. There's tons of amazingly delicious Giada recipes, music playlists, style and beauty tips, and tons and tons of travel stories so you too can live the good life. I've tasted these recipes, I've seen these tips in action, and I can tell you... WORTH YOUR TIME. I want to be Giada when I grow up and this emag will make you want to as well. Super thanks to everyone involved for the opportunity to be a part of this. (Especially you, Ashley Reed!) Launching things, being there when it all starts is my most favorite part of life and especially of any sort of artistic/professional experience. With all your help, this can be the start of something really fun and special. We'll keep working hard; you keep reading.
I did it! I found some smokin' hot male people. They aren't people I actually know, but let's just run with it. Aussies don't really crank the dials for me the same way they do a lot of ladies I know, but these two are sort of special. I'm pretty sure Justin O'Shea (the worldwide buying director of MyTheresa.com) is gay (I try to avoid listening to his speaking voice, in order to keep that knowledge at bay), but perhaps that's part of his appeal. It's all just hypothetical. As Anne Taintor says, "She liked imaginary men best of all." I feel like Justin O'Shea is the grown up version of fellow Aussie, Tom Bull. And I know, Tom Bull looks already grown up (and grown up RIGHT!) but he's like fourteen years old. Oof. He does mention an ex-girlfriend though, so at he's playing for the team. Blonde beards. Rugged. What is my deal?
While visiting these past few days, my dad asked which part of Melrose Avenue the old 90s soap classic, 'Melrose Place' was supposed to be. I didn't know. I guessed somewhere more in West Hollywood than where I am. Once I we got home from our excursions, I did some digging. And while Melrose Place is obviously somewhere in Hollywood, the Greenwood, where they filmed the complex is in Los Feliz. The rest was filmed in studios. I loved this show so much when it first came out. Probably because I really felt like I was getting away with something by watching it. I mean, it was even more scandalous than Beverly Hills 90210, which I still have no idea how I convinced my mom to let me watch at age 9. I wanted to friends with all my cool neighbors. And wished I could ever pull off Josie Bissett as Jane's adorable pixie cut. Thinking about the show gave me a little urge to rewatch some old Melrose Place courtesy of Netflix. What a gas I actually laughed out loud several times during the pilot at how awful it is. I mean, just watch the original intro. To their credit, they changed it immediately after the pilot to the much catchier theme song and graphic look they'd keep for the rest of the show's run. But... man. Anyhow, there's your trip down memory lane to kick off your weekend. Here are the rest of your links. - I've been exploring Melrose from my house west lately. Blu Jam is my favorite breakfast place EVER. Crunchy french toast for every meal, please! - 6 Places You'll Recognize from the background of every movie ever - My favorite eye candy blog these days - Rejecting Oxbridge - I came thiiiiiis close to adopting Hazelnut here. But she was gone. :( - Advice to young writers from Jeffrey Eugenides - I still like MY review of Les Miserables, but this is my second favorite. Stay tuned! The next three days are my Best of 2012 lists-- albums, books, movies.
As a musical theatre lover of the first order, I have to
tell you, though I’m always in eager anticipation of the next show-to-movie
musical adaptation, I’ve never come out of one and not been a little
disappointed. Basically, when you’ve been that close up to musicals, it makes
it hard to enjoy-- seeing the places where their seams show. (And they all have seams.
Even the classics. Sometimes especially.)
The close up of film normally removes the immediacy of
singing. And something is lost. Tom Hooper was essentially always asking for a
world of dilemma by taking on one of the world’s most beloved musicals—a show
that has always walked a fine line between gut-wrenching and melodrama. (Or as
Steven might say, “High, high retro drama. Get ready for it.”) When I saw the revival on Broadway, though I much loved it, and met some of my best friends from that show, I felt it lost something in a smaller house. The barricade didn't intimidate me. It was just a set piece. I was simply too close to believe.
My personal
attachment to the show, coupled with my long standing reservations about it, made my viewing of Les Miserables full of anxiety. (“Almost NO Broadway
people. Only Aaron. All London people. On principle, this felt like another
snobby British moment. And would it prove to be too stunt cast-y? Remember that minute when Taylor Swift was almost going to be Eponine? Yeah.)
But Tom Hooper—who pointed out in conversation after the
film that this was technically ‘low budget’-- made several huge, game-changing,
instinct-driven decisions. First is the much-discussed live singing. I won’t go
into that in much detail, because everyone else has, but I will say this. We
should never make movie musicals any other way ever again. Ever.
Second-- and in some ways, I think this one might be more
important-- is a decision about perspective. The camera is always somewhere I
didn’t expect it to be. It holds longer than you’d think. It never cuts when you think it will. It zooms in and stays
there. This movie is unflinching.
Tom Hooper chose to shoot all the solos in extreme close up.
Anne Hathaway’s rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream,” plays without cuts, and in a single
take. You’ve probably heard whispers or grumblings of this, but it’s true:
throw everything you’ve ever thought about Anne Hathaway out the window. She’s
fine-to-good in everything leading up that song—one of the best in musical
theatre history. But, while no vocal power house, I assure you, you will not
care. It’s the rawest thing I’ve
ever seen filmed.
A close second is “Look Down.” The images of that opener are
still with me. And it’s where Hugh Jackman won me over completely which helped
as the movie went on. Because, for me, Jackman gets less compelling as the film
goes on, until his death scene. (Spoiler. Jean Valjean dies.) The biggest let down of the film for me was his "Bring Him Home."
But the Hugh Jackman of “Look Down” is arresting. All bloodshot
eyes and soaking wet and patchy hair with visible scalp scars. From that song into the convent section
where he experiences a redemption at the mercy of the priest and prays at the alter
to his own transformation, it's a juggernaut. And then, the scene is immediately transformed in the way that
shows Jean Valjean’s vision of the world and his place in it. When he leaves
the convent--a place we had previously a bleak, tight scope on-- to reveal the full
world, and Valjean casts his ripped up convict papers and scatters them to the
wind... that shot is…. Magnificent.
And here's the real and deeply satisfying revelation of choosing to shoot the film this way. Not only does it trust the actor to tell the story plainly, it trusts the song. Just typing those words, I well up a little, because isn't that the point? Isn't that what every musical theatre writer hopes for? A trust that the song is enough. That the song is the ultimate expression. And I smile, thanking Tom Hooper for knowing that it is.
My only concerns with the film are the concerns I have about
Les Mis as a stage show as well. Namely, its pacing in the second act and the
very nature of a sung through show. For the record, I think that device works
better in a film adaptation than a stage show. In the medium of the close up, it’s harder to justify the
intense emotion that necessitates only one method of release: song. That’s why
they sing on the stage. But in film, you have the close up. That much emotion
close up…. it can be overwhelming. It can backfire and make you uncomfortable.
My issue with an entirely sung through show—particularly
this show—is that it becomes too sing-song, that it feels naked and not in a
good way, was largely washed away when I heard director Tom Hooper explain it.
Rather than make a deal with the audience that asks us to
forgive or understand why sometimes the characters sing and sometimes they
speak, (sometimes a contradiction that’s easy to forgive and sometimes not) or
a trope like fantasy (Chicago) or the confines of a performative group of
people (Dream Girls) instead you create an alternate reality where singing is
essentially the only way that people communicate.
Other takeaways for me: Eddie Redmayne was exactly what
Marius should be (though watch out, they’ve cut the instrum intro to ‘Empty
Chairs.’) but nevertheless, Enjolras is the more compelling character, and I
think Aaron steals the scenes away from Eddie a lot. Maybe I’m bias. Samantha Barks
was just okay. BLESS Anne Dudley and Stephen Metcalfe for giving us a Les Mis with red-blooded orchestrations. I need never hear those synths again. Gavroche has always been the coolest kid to ever run Paris, but this Gavroche is so blued-eyed and vivid and alive that he's almost too real. Sacha Baron Cohen & Helena Bonham Carter as the Thenardiers seemed like they were from another movie, but I nevvvvver cared.Bonus points for Colm Wilkinson's cameo.
The packed theatre was audibly sobbing at multiple moments.
Even the men. Normally, when I recommend a movie musical, I do so for the
people who don’t love musicals, thinking: oh, this is removed enough. Maybe it
will give them a way in. But it is with pleasure that today I say, I’m not sure
what non musical theatre people will think of this movie and I don’t care. But
we geeky musis of the world, this is a film for us. And a film we can be proud of. Go see it. Though I know I
don’t have to tell you that.
All the cool kids are obsessed with Scotland. Recently, Chanel hosted their yearly 'secret show' at the birthplace of Mary Stuart-- Linlithgow Palace. The guests were treated to a feast before viewing the Scottish themed line. As I watched the clothes head around the runway (I do not miss the word 'round' used for the word around) I thought to myself, "Yeah, that's pretty much how you have to dress in Scotland. Certainly how I dressed. A combination of Bunny MacDougall from Sex & The City, Molly MacDonald, and the Olsen Twins. AKA-- a cross between a starlet and a multi-layered tartan hobo.) Basically, if I were rich, and didn't live in LA, I'd wear it. And the show was a beautiful little piece of theatre. Unfortunately, the show and its press were as steeped in inaccuracies as it was history (and layers.) The header of the show says Paris + Edimbourg. Which, while I can see their point, isn't totally true, as Linlithgow Palace is in West Lothian, technically. My favorite comes courtesy Vogue (UK Vogue no less! Something about this seemed so typical of England and Scotland.) where almost everything they said about Linlithgow was wrong. My favorite was a commenter who called them out in a quite Scottish manner. "It is Linlithgow Palace... not a ruined castle and never has been. It's Linlithgow Loch, not a lake and never has been. The Park is called The Peel," ...and always has been. You go, Brenda McMeechan. John Paul Gaultier may have an on-going fascination with Scotland, even saving clothing manufacturers in the borders, but I bet he doesn't know the town he saved (Hawick) is pronounced Hake.
Since my return from abroad, I've been working a lot on retaining that British/European sensibility I genuinely identify with now that I'm back in the States (for now). But I also recognized that it's important to be where you are and love where you are. So I've been on a bit of a mission to fall in love with America again. I got a little answer to my prayers on a five day road trip through some of my favorite parts of the South (largely the hippie parts) with my family.
Some of the best time I ever spend I spend with my Godmother Lucie-- wherever we are, but especially in North Carolina. Saxpahaw is close enough to university towns to have that feel, but out of the way enough to have small Southern town charm with a hippie soft edge.
Saxapahaw might be the middle of nowhere, but it is the nexus of all things to love about small hippie Southern artists' towns. Our first stop was the SXPHW General Store where we feasted on brisket sandwiches and local grown vegetables, local cheeses and beers. If I had been travelling with anything more than a small backback, I would have taken a whole lot of that home (Home? Where?) with me.
We sat in the sunshine while the vegetable garden grew all around us. There, Lucie and I plotted the artist colony in repurposed mill condos we'll start next summer... To Be Continued...
When I finally figured out there was a job that combined all my strengths; that didn't ask me to choose between being a writer and a producer-- in fact, happily blurred that line-- it felt more like vindication than revelation. See? I thought. I didn't have project or purpose attention deficit disorder. There was (is!) a whole, special, powerful position for people exactly like me! Ideas people! Bossy people!
Showrunner. It just sounds good doesn't it? It's your show. Your idea. And you run that shit. You control the arc, make the final decisions, weigh in on all the important matters, but you have a whole room full of people to handle some of those nuts and bolts issues. Transitions. The episode to episode. Amazing.
I had my show idea. (Still have it.) Had it two and half years ago. I knew what to do. But of course, a few years ago, I had a lot of people in my ear saying 'you can't be a showrunner at your age.' Or without previous television credits.
Enter Liz Merriwether. A playwright and messy dabbler who graduated from Yale the same year I graduated from Rice. Another blonde who loves politics, weird people, and sometimes feels like she should have been born Jewish (past life?)
In one fell swoop, she went from playwright to Obama firee to screenwriter (of rom com No Strings Attached) to New Girl showrunner. (I'm sure I'm simplifying, but that's part of the fun, right?) Is she in over her head? Probably. Does she sleep in her office? Yes. Either way, it seems to be paying off.
I don't watch New Girl and in fact, don't want to. Maybe because I don't want to be influenced? Perhaps I should just bite the bullet and do it. Is this stuff probably the best stuff Liz Meriwether is going to do in her career? Probably not. And that's a good thing. Just think of where she's starting and where she might go. And bless her for doing it.
Mostly, I just want to say to Liz Meriwether: thank you. Thank you, Liz for being exactly who you are. For being the glaring example, the name I blurt out spastically whenever anyone talks about "starting over" in film and TV in Los Angeles. Also, Liz, do you want to be my new best friend? Call me.
As she balances the logistic and creative challenges of parallel careers in New York and Los Angeles, Ms. Meriwether remains determined to pursue both theater and Hollywood. “I don’t think I’d be satisfied leaving the theater,” she said. “But I’m really getting a taste of what it is to do both.”
After a bit of stalking the Royal Court Theatre box office cancellation line, Gordon and I went to see the new play by Olivier Award winning writer, Mike Bartlett (for you New Yorkers, you can check out his play Cock at the Duke right now.) G had heard good things from his aunt, so we had high expectations. Well, I'll say this: the seats at the Royal Court are amazing. Which came in handy for a two and half hour show with two very long intervals.
I don't want to come off as more harsh than I mean. I enjoyed much of the play-- that follows an extremely self-involved baby-boomer couple as they rationalize their behavior from the 60's to the early 90's to present day. I was truly excited about the cast (costume drama frequent Victoria Hamilton was the lead woman)-- especially the children, played by one of my faves, Claire Foy as well as George Rainsford. There were some really amazing moments and entire swatches of dialogue-- especially in the first two acts. And the show raised some really valid and interesting generational ideas, and what the responsibilities of parenthood are.
But by Act III, the parents were so single-mindedly caught up in their own experience, so double-standard-y, so callous-- and to add insult to injury, self-congratulatory about those traits-- that the farce of their behavior was almost too much for me to take. This may be exactly what Mike Bartlett wanted, but I think he had some lose ends. Neither of the younger actors had more than one note to play after Act II and the brother relationship that dominated Act I is never brought back home in any satisfying way.
A previous production of the show featured another costume drama fave, Daniela Denby-Ashe, and knowing that now, I keep going back and re-envisioning scenes with her in them. I'm guessing she'd be equally formidable, but a bit more sympathetic.
I'm a very big fan of love. But to me, this show was not about love. Let alone love, love, love. Love is not anything like the selfish stuff I saw on stage last night. Or for that matter, what I see mostly walking around calling itself that these days.
In any case, I was thrilled to go & still recommend the play to anyone lucky enough to swing some tickets. All the reviews have been favorable and there is much to appreciate. In fact, I think I enjoy the ruminating and dissecting as much as the watching.
Danish singer/songwriter Agnes Obel is kind of captivating, right? Why is she looking at me so intently? And who does she remind me of? Someone I can't quite place. Maybe that's part of the whole appeal. A kind of deja vu-- a do I know you from somewhere-ness.
Maybe it's because she shares a birthday with my mother. I'm always intrigued and a little frightened of Scorpio women. At least at first. There's a lure, but you get the sense you shouldn't get too comfortable. With Agnes Obel though, it's tough not to put on "Philharmonics" and just relax. She even finds a way to further relax Elliot Smith in her cover of his "Between the Bars." You want to trust her.
Especially when you find out her list on influences goes a little something like this: Roy Orbison, PJ Harvey, Joni Mitchell, Debussy, Ravel, Erik Satie, Alfred Hitchcock and Edgar Allan Poe. There's another famous Dane, who-- if he were living in contemporary times, not to mention, real-- might list that lot as inspirations too. Sounds like a bit of a recipe for Hamlet, no? Anyhoo.
The Scandos have really been taking over my musical consciousness for the past few years-- in totally different ways. But they are rapidly becoming the new classics for me. From Lykke Li, to First Aid Kit, to the once and forever favorite, Robyn. I'm adding Agnes to that list. Thanks, Scandinavia. Keep those hits coming.
Isuppose I don't really talk about my family too much, but I'm pretty proud of all of them. Most people who knew me in my younger days are still confused I didn't end up living in my beloved Georgia, watering my Southern Roots. While I haven't ruled out retiring to Savannah and a plantation house one day, it's enough to be a bit of a Georgia girl in New York, London, or wherever else I may happen to be. It was good enough for Jessica Daves, my aunt/pivotal Editor in Chief of Vogue Magazine. And it's working for my gorgeous and talented cousin, Lindsey, who makes her Southern Living debut this issue. Check it out!
McC and I have a special knack for excellent decision making. One of the things I love about hanging out with my pal of ten years is that we find a way to congratulate ourselves and be enthusiastic about even the simplest decisions. (This philosophy is kind of parallel to the ground-breaking epiphany I had when I was about fifteen that the key to having a good birthday is simply to go around joyously reminding yourself and everyone around you that... it's your birthday! Turns out, most people like having a reason to celebrate. Anything. Anything at all. The joy is contagious. Promise.)
So thanks to old pal Flintie, Sara and I got walked in to the Wynn pools on Saturday and spent a lovely five hours or so lounging, laughing, and making excellent decisions about sunscreen application, reading materials, storytelling, drink ordering and meal splitting. (Throw back: hey, do you want to split my twix??) God, we're good.
While I take the UK hands down on a lot of topics, on the topic of sunshine, I will always feel a twinge of longing for my West Coast, USA origins. I mean, not everyday, because then it's not special. But man, I could use a little more sunshine. The March we had in London this year would do just fine. But I feel like I've been spoiled and that it surely can't last.
And of course, our perfect, still (meaning: windless. Super rare for Vegas Spring.) sunshiney day had to come to a close too. But it will ge written down in the annals of the amazing McC/Ferg Friendship Chronicles.
If you're ever in Vegas, I highly recommend greasing your way into that pool. Or at least taking a stroll through the Wynn with all it's Alice in Wonderland topiaries and waterwall-feature cocktail experiences. Despite its vibrant decor scheme (designed especially for Vegas Uber-Mogul Steve Wynn's long-serving and loyal wife Elaine-- who he very shortly thereafter divorced... ???.....[Rather ironic too then that the themes for the hotel are "Life imitating art" and "Imperfect Dream") I still find the Wynn one of the chic-est spots in Vegas.
I don't spend a lot of time in my life feeling cool. But some songs actually have the ability to make you feel cool enough to do things like dress up and go out hard core in your own ridiculous, camp hometown. To hit up pseudo French restaurants and lounge in a big chandelier. To walk through the casino in slow mo with your girls, fake wind machine in front of you, blowing your hair... right before you trip because you don't normally wear heels... but before that, you feel like a badass, because it's your birthday... and this is one of those songs.
Well done, Reg. I shall buy this "What We Saw From The Cheap Seats" album when it comes out May 29. And thanks for the jams today.
No matter what the season is or the country I'm in, all my favorite shows are on Sunday nights. This often means I end up watching them on Monday here in the UK. While I miss Homeland, Dexter & True Blood at the moment, it's a golden time because of Mad Men's Season 5 and the new Game of Thrones.
Last night brought the return of Betty Draper-- absent from the premiere-- and she's gotten fat. I'm torn as to whether I think it was a bit genius to take from Betty the thing she most relied on or whether it was a cheap shot (and convenient work-around January Jones' real life pregnancy). Or whether the cheap shot at women getting fat is just another part of the genius of the show's look at women in the first place.
There was a time when I hated the idea of television. But now, I don't think anything happening in cinema is anywhere near as good as the kind of long game amazingness of what's going on even many seasons in to my favorite shows. Makes me itch to start writing something that open-ended, that ambitious.
While taking a turn through a bookstore this week, I had one of those moments of panic that arises in me when I realize I have missed the publication of a book super relevant to my life. In this case, a new dual biography of John and his brother George Keats.
If you read this, you no doubt know Keatsy as my cosmic boyfriend. And George, John's younger brother, is not the recipient of some of John's best and most famous letters, (including prime article of my life numero uno on negative capability) but a pretty amazing story of rise to power in his own right through immigration to America.
This new bio, by Stanford scholar Denise Gigante reveals new insight into both men's lives by looking at their relationship. I think I actually drooled on the floor of Blackwell's.
For more check out here & here. Also, you KNOW I'll be attending this.
Most of my life, my style has erred on the side of the classic or the vintage. I liked cozy rooms, warm rooms (womb-rooms, if you will) especially because unless you had the means to renovate to the standards required to pull off that clean, modern look, what you ended up with always looked...well, bad.
This was definitely the case in all my NYC buildings-- ramshackle pre-wars and Astoria row houses. Same for the Victorian building in Edinburgh. But since even the idea of London came onto my mental scene, I've been in the mood for light, airy and modern. Maybe I just love Spring. Maybe I'm just ready for a long and extended Spring in my life.
Either way, I am loving the way Claire DesJardins paintings make me feel. This French-Canadian artist is just what right now is all about. And while I think I'm always going to love a little bit of vintage, it's refreshing to continually find how life and taste are always evolving.
Everything is happening all at the same time, guys! As positivity-centered and optimistic as I am, when absolutely everything is at stake... but seemingly on-track, I start to get a little suspicious. You mean... I can get ALL the things I want? At the same time?? Like... all of it? This is when the trust part comes in. Universe, I need you to have my back right now. I know it's going to get harder than this. The challenge part I'm okay with. As long as all the plates stay in the air, I don't mind how much they wobble. Wobble away.
The thing I'm realizing about what my year and a half of mental and emotional recuperation and exploration in Scotland meant is not that the world gets any harder or easier. You just let yourself get lax. Or... I think in this case, you just get better.
Anyhow. I'm up at the crack of dawn this morning heading out to BumbleEff Croydon to make sure they'll let me stay in this beautiful country. Here's hoping all goes smoothly and by the end of this weekend, I'm feeling settled in my new spot on the Earth with a bang-up presentation all finished and ready to go for the job I just can't stop thinking about. While we're standing by, here's what's what from the internets this week.
- Finally, a March Madness I can get behind! Vulture has a greatest tv drama of the last 25 years bracket going. Up this week was Mad Men v. Lost with Mad Men advancing to the next round. I should say. While I have mixed feelings about some of the advancing shows, I applaud the idea and the general candidate pool. I foresee a final match up between The Wire and Sopranos with Sopranos taking the title. (People get so hot for Sopranos...Sigh.) Which of course I will hideously and vehemently disagree with.
Even though my address will not be Upper Street, I'm still more than ready to explore the shops from Highbury & Islington down to Angel and imaginary-shop for furniture, etc. Today's lovely store is Little Paris. Voted one of the 100 Best Shops in London by Time Out, the Little Paris style features contemporary French designers (like Zoe de las Cases!) as well as vintage items from the 40's, 60's and so on and so on.
Best of all, perhaps, is their high turn over. They get a new delivery from France every three weeks and so all the inventory is cleared out and restocked. Not that I've had the chance to experience that first hand, as it's only my two week anniversary in London. It feels like I've been here a lot longer than that. Check out their full inventory if you like imaginary shopping as much as I do. Or read their design blog, Bags & Boudoir.
Also check out this on the Vintage Guide to London about Little Paris's Crouch End store & this: in the most recent edition of Time Out, all about Paris in London.
For over two long years now (I read the galleys of The Passage in January before it came out) I have eagerly awaited the sequel to my college writing mentor's hit book, the first in a triology. Despite my incessant efforts to charm, bribe and/or blackmail any advance material out of him, (I mean, as if all the babysitting of his precious children I did in my youth wasn't enough, not to mention the hilarious jokes I told during class, I was going to trade him some Season 2 of Downton Abbey before it came out in the US, so I think I had the goods.) I have yet to read this mysterious and certainly gripping, The Twelve.
Well, it turns our the wait is almost over! Sort of. At least we have a release date and that date is October 16, 2012! Dude, that's like another seven months. I can't wait that long. Luckily, there's a new excerpt coming out in this week's Entertainment Weekly with the hottie Jon Hamm on the cover, so check that out. Word on the street from the man himself is that the excerpt features my favorite character, Alicia. Boom.
And here's a plea to my pals working at Random House: Anyone who gets me the galleys of The Twelve will get Season 3 of Downton express from me to you a full year in advance of the US release date. It could be the start of a beautiful friendship. Just think about it. And check out The Twelve. There is possibly no living human who has had a bigger impact on my constant, repeated, occasionally ridiculous-seeming choice to persist in being a writer. Thank you, JCC/What the eff did you get me into?
One of the main characters in my novel is violently brilliant, but thwarted dancer. And since I'm one of the world's klutziest people, even my vocabulary with the physicality of dance is somewhat lacking. Thus, Jake recommended I read a book I'd been meaning to get around to for ages: Colum McCann's Dancer.
SO many things. The Russia. The Margot Fonteyn. The story of the beautiful, if slightly (okay, lotsly) cruel man. McCann's novelized biography of precision-master Rudolf Nureyev has a lot going for it. And that's even before we look at its form. A novelized biography. So close to the ideas I'm looking at for my phd re: roman a clef and "non-fiction novels" a la Truman Capote's In Cold Blood.
And using one artform to discuss another. I haven't always loved the book, (I'd have liked more separation between narrators. I always do. Sigh. And actually, I enjoyed the impressionistic sections in Rudi's own voice perhaps best anyhow) but it's been well worth the read. Well worth looking at Rudik again. There's a lot to be learned from his drive. He considered almost everything that wasn't dancing a waste of time. It's always something I'm weighing. Balance vs. Greatness. Where they intersect.
