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Tag: Under the Table Books
I’ve been madly writing the sequel to my just-published novel Under the Table Books. Given that only a handful of people have read Under the Table Books, and confronted by barely discernible sales of the mighty tome, my rational mind warns me that my current literary labor is folly, that years spent on a sequel to an unknown novel will amount to yet another wasted effort, and we’ve already got piles of those gathering dust.
What my rational mind fails to comprehend (no matter how many times I explain this to her and because logic only takes us so far) is that I do not think these things up, these stories and plays and novels, and then decide to write them down. I do not plan what I create. Nor do I consider anything I’ve ever done wasted effort. What happens for me, and has been happening since I was a little boy, is that I hear a story being told to me and I see a movie unfurling as I hear the words, and my mission, if I choose to accept it, is to transcribe what I’m experiencing as vividly and musically as I can. I say musically because my taste runs to prose that swings to consistent and compelling rhythms.
I have written other sequels to other books I’ve published, though I have yet to publish a sequel, so I certainly understand the concern of the pragmatic sector of my brain as it worries about the aging corpus laboring over a saga that may never be published and may never bring us money or something we can trade for food and shelter. And if that’s the case, why bother? In all honesty, I bother because despite the latest data from my personal commerce department, I find the thickening plot and the seductive characters irresistible and I can’t wait to read what I write down next. I’m hooked.
When I lived in Berkeley some years ago I was in range of three or four radio stations that presented bestselling and/or academically anointed fiction writers talking about their latest books and their lives and how they went about writing. Some of these writers spoke at length about what their books meant, which always made me uneasy. Even more disturbing to me was that the vast majority of these writers claimed to know what they were going to write before they started writing. They actually thought things out ahead of time and got their ducks in a row in a barrel before they started shooting. They said things like, “I thought I’d like to write a book about…” Or “I knew I could sell this if I set it in Venice and opened with a scene in which…” Or “Gardening and cooking and infidelity are all the rage right now, so I decided…” All of which were ways of thinking I considered antithetical to originality and intuitive creativity.
But as depressing as all that intellectual hoo ha was to me, the thing almost all of them did that made me want to smack them with a bamboo pole, was to claim they were speaking for other writers. They would employ phrases such as “every serious writer eventually discovers…” or “of course any good writer will tell you…” or “the best writers always…” or “one should never…” and many other repulsive and stupid things; thus I surmised their books would be poo poo.
So what does that have to do with me writing a sequel to my virtually unknown novel? Everything! And should I ever be asked to speak about my writing process, I will say essentially what I’ve just written here, though I will do my best to let my characters speak for themselves.
A Brief Excerpt From the Sequel to Under the Table Books
Natasha—tall, brown, graceful, and vastly pregnant—stands behind the bookstore counter reciting the lyrics of the Under the Table Books anthem to Hansel and Gretel Hosenhoffer of Stuttgart, a middle-aged couple in heavy gray tweeds blowing through California on a whirlwind tour of esoteric bookstores of the western hemisphere—Hansel sporting an ebony monocle, Gretel wearing a necklace of tortoise shell reading glasses.
“All books are free,” intones Natasha, her voice deep and sonorous. “If you want to leave something you value as much as the book you’re taking, cool. Have a book you don’t want? Drop it on by. And don’t get us wrong. We enjoy receiving stacks of quarters and piles of dollar bills. We delight in all forms of currency, including tasty comestibles. Yes, and keep those potted plants coming. May all beings be well read.”
Hansel Hosenhoffer frowns quizzically. “From zis you make a living?”
“Amazing but true,” says Natasha, resting her hands on the drum of her belly, her soon-to-be-born baby kicking gently in 4/4 time. “The kindness of book lovers knows no bounds.”
Gretel Hosenhoffer smiles in mild horror at the foundational implications of the anarchist bookstore. “But how does anyone determine the worth of anything?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” says Natasha, moving out from behind the counter to join Bobo in the Reading Circle where he has been waiting patiently for her to read to him from his current favorite book The Adventures of a Naughty Boy Named Knocker and His Trusty Sidekick Poo Poo Head.
The bell above the door jangles and Iris Spinelli dashes in out of the rain. A spry ninety-four, her curly white hair sprinkled with gold glitter, her leotard blue, her slender frame draped with seven purple scarves, Iris is wending her way home from the weekly gathering of the Society of Impersonators of Famous People (formerly the East Side Philatelists Association.) Iris is currently impersonating the interpretive dancer Isadora Duncan (1878-1927). Last week she was the movie star Claudette Colbert (1905-1996).
“Z around?” asks Iris, going up on her toes to kiss Natasha’s cheek. “How’s baby today?”
“She’s a busy girl,” says Natasha, smiling down at her swollen belly. “Z gets home tomorrow from the Frankfurt book fair. Having way too much fun, if you ask me.”
“All morning,” says Iris, gazing into Natasha’s eyes, “I’ve been hearing a fabulous three-part harmony for The Look of Love. You and me and Z.”
“Let’s do our parts now,” says Natasha, lowering herself into a big armchair. “So when Z gets home, we’ll have it down.”
Iris smiles sublimely and hums a warbling note to set the key. Natasha breathes deeply of the trembling tone and eases into harmony with Iris—every molecule of the old building vibrating in sympathy with Iris’s quavering alto and Natasha’s superlative soprano, the blend of their voices unspeakably sweet.
Hansel and Gretel look up from their respective books—he leafing through Goethe, she inhaling Rilke—each moved to tears by the unfettered magnificence of the choir of two.
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Under the Table Books
The Awesome Potential of Word-Of-Mouth
I have just published my magnum opus Under the Table Books. Were I a member of the cultural elite of this or any other nation, Under the Table Books would now be the talk of the international literary scene, translation rights would be selling like hotcakes, A-list movie stars and directors would be vying to collaborate with me on screenplays for a trilogy of record-breaking films based on the novel, and downloads of the audio book would be shattering records and straining the capacity of the internet.
But I’m not a member of the cultural elite. Within the framework of the linear logic of the human realm, the probability of Under the Table Books garnering even a single review in a lunatic fringe alternative weekly is close to zero. Indeed, within the framework of the linear logic of the human realm the probability of any recognition for Under the Table Books beyond a small circle of friends and fans is virtually zero. And yet…
The book exists and is well wrought and heartily touted by authors of credibility and renown. Dozens of copies have gone out into the world. People have read and are reading the book. The tiny consensus so far is that the book is a marvel, a treasure, a page-turning gem of remarkable originality. So I ask you, why shouldn’t word spread from one human being to another that Under the Table Books (with beguiling illustrations by the author) is a work of genius, a harbinger of a sexy humorous thrilling future for material minimalists and the mystically inclined, a phoenix rising from the ashes (compost?) of a literary scene that started rotting the day the multinationals bought up all the New York publishers, a monumental work of creative tenderness destined to change the course of art and love and human society, a singular achievement of wholly original visionary Yes!?
No reason at all. And here’s the most beautiful part of all. You can be at the forefront of this seminal shift in the cosmic flux. Yes, you. Imagine getting a copy of Under the Table Books, reading it cover-to-cover, relishing every word, every turn of phrase, every nuance, every dizzying run of words, and being joyfully overwhelmed and excited and positively transformed. Imagine yourself calling or writing to not one but all your friends and relatives and telling them that you have just had an experience akin to seeing God, flirting with Him, bedding Her, and experiencing the literary equivalent of an amazingly long and totally groovy orgasm or multiple orgasms that leave(s) you refreshed and inspired and happy, deeply happy, for the first time since, well…ever!
Now imagine that all your friends and family members, including people who haven’t read an actual book in eons, imagine all of them reading the book, loving it, and telling all their friends and family members that they, too, have just had a juicy and mysterious and transcendent experience every bit as thrilling and life-affirming and life-changing as any experience they have ever had.
You see where I’m going with this? In a matter of no time (in geologic time anyway) Under the Table Books could very well become the literary sensation of the century! And you could be one of the founding mothers or fathers or sisters or brothers of that sensation. You. Wow.
Or not. For within the framework of the totality of all universal principles (most of these natural laws unknown to us) and the instantaneously reactive and impeccably comprehensively wise universe, Under the Table Books may not be in line for such enormous public notoriety. There’s truly no telling what may happen with anything, let alone my latest novel.
But we do know that Universe Nature God wanted Under the Table Books to be birthed, and birthed she is—a beautiful baby, indeed. And I, as proud parent, say sincerely, “It is my extreme pleasure to introduce Under the Table Books to you.”
Myriad Blessings and Thanks,
Todd
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Todd reads “The News”
Here’s another story MP3: “The News“. This story is part of both Under the Table Books and the audio CD I Remember You.