Following up on my previous post ...
Jill, Skyler and I made our inaugural visit to Citi Field on July 12. The Mets actually scored nine runs, a total they'll have trouble matching in their combined games the rest of the month.
The park is nice and, obviously, a big upgrade over Shea Stadium. The biggest advantage is that the fans are now much closer to the field. But .....
I had the feeling a family must have when it moves from its longtime house to nicer digs. The new spread is beautiful and everything, but the old place felt like home.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Yes, That's Me
I got a mention in the newspaper I work for (The New York Times -- maybe you've heard of it) on Sunday. Here's the link: http://bats.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/07/18/castillo-takes-a-breather/?scp=2&sq=tom%20coffey&st=cse
Friday, July 3, 2009
Spooner
Pete Dexter's new novel, SPOONER, is scheduled to be published in September. (Grand Central Publishing is putting it out.) In an advance word to potential readers and reviewers, Dexter noted that this MS. was in rougher shape than they might be accustomed to, and that many changes are possible before the book actually goes on sale. So take those words, and mine, for what their worth. (For one thing, he or a copy editor really needs to go through the book to clean up a raft of typos and grammatical problems.)
Dexter's career is an interesting one, especially to somebody like me. An ink-stained wretch who attracted attention as a columnist at the Philadelphia Daily News about thirty years ago, he then turned his energies toward writing novels. One of his earliest efforts, PARIS TROUT, won the National Book Award in 1988.
PARIS TROUT is a terrific book that I recommend without hesitation. I'm not so sure about SPOONER, a sprawling novel about a man who resembles Pete Dexter. I warmed up to it as I went along, but I don't know if readers will have the patience to slog through the first two hundred or so pages before they get to the good stuff.
The novel's arc is linear, beginning with the birth of Warren Spooner and following his childhood, coming of age and stuff like that. The spine of the novel concerns Spooner's relationship with his stepfather, the unusually well-named Calmer Ottosson.
As their lives unfold, it turns out that Calmer is a saint and Spooner is a fuck-up. Generally speaking, I don't like stories about fuck-ups, especially youthful ones. Usually they grow up to be George W. Bush. Probably the most famous literary fuck-up of the 20th century was Holden Caulfield. I may have been the only 1970s-era high school student who disliked THE CATCHER IN THE RYE, and I was delighted to read recently in The Times that modern high school students now take a dim view of the book's once-iconic protagonist. The young generation of today is a lot more sensible than many of its predecessors.
But I digress.
Somewhere along the line, for reasons that are never entirely made clear, Spooner straightens out and becomes as productive a member of society as a newspaperman can be. This is where the book begins to work. Spooner has a number of Pete Dexter-like adventures, including a near-death experience at the hands of a Philadelphia mob. Spooner's capacity for self-destruction borders on the staggering. It's a tendency that he's aware of, but can't explain. Through it all, Calmer is a rock who keeps his stepson's life anchored.
The bonds between stepfather and stepson gain strength as the two men grow older. Eventually Spooner holes up with his family on an island in Puget Sound, leading the Solitary Novelist life. Calmer, by now a widower, comes to stay with them. Roles are reversed (as they frequently are) as the old man's life winds down.
Given the obviously autobiographical nature of the material, I sometimes found myself wondering why Dexter didn't just give in to the great literary trend of the last fifteen years and write a memoir. At times the book meanders, as opposed to the airtight construction of PARIS TROUT. There's no plot; SPOONER is more a series of reminiscinces. On the other hand, calling it a novel avoids the now-nearly-inevitable charges of fabrication that cling like barnacles to top-selling memoirs, and it's a tribute to Dexter's intellectual honesty that he decided to put this book in its proper category once he determined he had to make up some stuff.
The pity, though, is that he has several taking-off points for a novel, but never follows through on any of them. Any one of SPOONER's several sections could have been amplified into a stand-alone book (with a plot), but instead the parts sail along on the strength of Dexter's sharp prose until they end, without much of a point being made. I felt as if I was reading the first or second draft of a book with a lot of potential. While nobody enjoys being edited, it is an essential process, and I felt that Dexter and his readers might have been better served if somebody at Grand Central Publishing had said: "Y'know, Pete, you've got a lot of interesting stuff here. Pick the one section that interests you the most, and write the hell out of it."
Dexter's career is an interesting one, especially to somebody like me. An ink-stained wretch who attracted attention as a columnist at the Philadelphia Daily News about thirty years ago, he then turned his energies toward writing novels. One of his earliest efforts, PARIS TROUT, won the National Book Award in 1988.
PARIS TROUT is a terrific book that I recommend without hesitation. I'm not so sure about SPOONER, a sprawling novel about a man who resembles Pete Dexter. I warmed up to it as I went along, but I don't know if readers will have the patience to slog through the first two hundred or so pages before they get to the good stuff.
The novel's arc is linear, beginning with the birth of Warren Spooner and following his childhood, coming of age and stuff like that. The spine of the novel concerns Spooner's relationship with his stepfather, the unusually well-named Calmer Ottosson.
As their lives unfold, it turns out that Calmer is a saint and Spooner is a fuck-up. Generally speaking, I don't like stories about fuck-ups, especially youthful ones. Usually they grow up to be George W. Bush. Probably the most famous literary fuck-up of the 20th century was Holden Caulfield. I may have been the only 1970s-era high school student who disliked THE CATCHER IN THE RYE, and I was delighted to read recently in The Times that modern high school students now take a dim view of the book's once-iconic protagonist. The young generation of today is a lot more sensible than many of its predecessors.
But I digress.
Somewhere along the line, for reasons that are never entirely made clear, Spooner straightens out and becomes as productive a member of society as a newspaperman can be. This is where the book begins to work. Spooner has a number of Pete Dexter-like adventures, including a near-death experience at the hands of a Philadelphia mob. Spooner's capacity for self-destruction borders on the staggering. It's a tendency that he's aware of, but can't explain. Through it all, Calmer is a rock who keeps his stepson's life anchored.
The bonds between stepfather and stepson gain strength as the two men grow older. Eventually Spooner holes up with his family on an island in Puget Sound, leading the Solitary Novelist life. Calmer, by now a widower, comes to stay with them. Roles are reversed (as they frequently are) as the old man's life winds down.
Given the obviously autobiographical nature of the material, I sometimes found myself wondering why Dexter didn't just give in to the great literary trend of the last fifteen years and write a memoir. At times the book meanders, as opposed to the airtight construction of PARIS TROUT. There's no plot; SPOONER is more a series of reminiscinces. On the other hand, calling it a novel avoids the now-nearly-inevitable charges of fabrication that cling like barnacles to top-selling memoirs, and it's a tribute to Dexter's intellectual honesty that he decided to put this book in its proper category once he determined he had to make up some stuff.
The pity, though, is that he has several taking-off points for a novel, but never follows through on any of them. Any one of SPOONER's several sections could have been amplified into a stand-alone book (with a plot), but instead the parts sail along on the strength of Dexter's sharp prose until they end, without much of a point being made. I felt as if I was reading the first or second draft of a book with a lot of potential. While nobody enjoys being edited, it is an essential process, and I felt that Dexter and his readers might have been better served if somebody at Grand Central Publishing had said: "Y'know, Pete, you've got a lot of interesting stuff here. Pick the one section that interests you the most, and write the hell out of it."
Thursday, June 4, 2009
A Slogan for Our Times
Given my success, and the success of my friend Tim Wendel, in handing out autographed books last week at the book expo, my wife and I have come up with a slogan that we believe truly captures the Zeitgeist of early 21st century America:
"FREE SELLS!!!!!!"
"FREE SELLS!!!!!!"
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
A New Project
And so this morning, at around 11 a.m., I started working on my next project -- a screenplay titled NO GOOD DEED.
I have not written a screenplay in years, and I wonder if the Muses are screwing with me. The idea behind the script is strong, and even before I began working on it I had a good sense of what I want to do. (Rarely the case for me when I launch something.)
The truly great thing about screenplays is that you max out at about 120 pages. So I should have a first draft of this completed by the time we start our summer vacations in mid-August.
Stay tuned, as they like to say on TV ......
I have not written a screenplay in years, and I wonder if the Muses are screwing with me. The idea behind the script is strong, and even before I began working on it I had a good sense of what I want to do. (Rarely the case for me when I launch something.)
The truly great thing about screenplays is that you max out at about 120 pages. So I should have a first draft of this completed by the time we start our summer vacations in mid-August.
Stay tuned, as they like to say on TV ......
Monday, June 1, 2009
On the Nature of Fans
Margery Flax's description of my fan Beatrice Weinberg as a "nice Jewish grandmother from Queens" got me thinking ....
My first novel, THE SERPENT CLUB, was a book drenched with sex and violence and violent sex. (I've calmed down a bit over the years.) The reaction to the book was eye-opening. A lot of woemn I would have described as grandmotherly or maiden aunt types really liked it. (He has problems, doesn't he?" one such woman said about the protagonist, as if she thought she could help him.) Although those observations surprised me, I was rocked even more by the responses from some of my colleagues in journalism, presumably jaded and cynical types who were appalled at what I had written.
It's ten years since THE SERPENT CLUB, and I'm still not sure what to make of that divergence. Except to note the wisdom of something my parents told me over and over again while I was growing up: Don't make assumptions about people. You have to judge them as individuals.
My first novel, THE SERPENT CLUB, was a book drenched with sex and violence and violent sex. (I've calmed down a bit over the years.) The reaction to the book was eye-opening. A lot of woemn I would have described as grandmotherly or maiden aunt types really liked it. (He has problems, doesn't he?" one such woman said about the protagonist, as if she thought she could help him.) Although those observations surprised me, I was rocked even more by the responses from some of my colleagues in journalism, presumably jaded and cynical types who were appalled at what I had written.
It's ten years since THE SERPENT CLUB, and I'm still not sure what to make of that divergence. Except to note the wisdom of something my parents told me over and over again while I was growing up: Don't make assumptions about people. You have to judge them as individuals.
Where Have You Gone, Beatrice Weinberg?
Just after my appearance at Book Expo America on Friday, Margery Flax of the Mystery Writers of America told me a fan story. Since I don't have many fan stories, I thought I'd relate it:
Margery got a message one day from an elderly woman at a nursing hime in Queens. The woman, a mystery fan, wondered if there any books the MWA had access to that it could send along to her. Margery liked the woman and wanted to help her out, so she put together a collection of about 40 titles and shipped them along.
It turns out that the woman was a "hard-boiled" buff, and she specifically asked Margery if she had any more books by Tom Coffey. She loved my stuff! At the time, I only had two books out.
Well, now there's a third. Unfortunately, Margery lost contact with the woman, whose name was Beatrice Weinberg. So if anybody knows where Beatrice is, please please please tell her about BLOOD ALLEY.
Margery got a message one day from an elderly woman at a nursing hime in Queens. The woman, a mystery fan, wondered if there any books the MWA had access to that it could send along to her. Margery liked the woman and wanted to help her out, so she put together a collection of about 40 titles and shipped them along.
It turns out that the woman was a "hard-boiled" buff, and she specifically asked Margery if she had any more books by Tom Coffey. She loved my stuff! At the time, I only had two books out.
Well, now there's a third. Unfortunately, Margery lost contact with the woman, whose name was Beatrice Weinberg. So if anybody knows where Beatrice is, please please please tell her about BLOOD ALLEY.
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