A Fabulous New Website!!

Once in a lifetime comes a talent so phenomenal, so ground-breaking, so utterly astounding that you can’t help but shout it from the highest mountaintop. Your Trudy is lucky enough to have encountered this vivacious and truly original writer in the flesh, to have experienced her golden words, to have basked in her fabulousness. With so much flotsam and jetsam considered “fiction” these days (present company excluded, natch), it’s a breath of fresh air to come across someone as talented and entertaining as this incredible new find. Of whom do I write? Well, you’ll just have to experience her yourself by clicking right here. You won’t be sorry!

Smooch!

Trudy

Now you know who you have to @#*% to get published

Levi Johnston is a nice guy. There’s no disputing that. He seems affable enough, especiallly with all the media circus being Bristol Palin’s baby-daddy, and for a simple guy from a small Alaskan town, I truly think he’s handled it well. Last year he even subjected himself to the liberal lion’s den that is “Real Time with Bill Maher,” and although looking a bit nervous, he handled himself with aplomb. You have to give him props for that. But after reading on Galleycat yesterday that Mr. Johnston just landed book deal with Simon & Schuster’s Touchstone imprint, for a book entitled, Deer in the Headlights: My Life in Sarah Palin’s Crosshairs, I had to ask myself: is that what it takes to get published these days? That it isn’t the talent, but the six degrees of separation?

I’d like to think not. But if this guy wasn’t Playgirl-centerfold material, and if his son’s grandmother wasn’t the Tea Party’s darling (though Michele Bachmann might have something to say about that), who’d be paying attention? Just goes to show you, it’s all in the representation. Without a good agent, I’m sure no one would’ve given a second look to Levi’s jeans.

Smooch!

Trudy

Trenton, a Novel

Think of Trenton, New Jersey, and you might have many different impressions. If you’re a native, it may have been where you went to straighten out that Motor Vehicles snafu, or as a kid, for a school trip to the Old Barracks, or you may have passed it on Route 29, following the Delaware on the way to Lambertville or New Hope, PA. To me, it’s a huge chunk of my life. It’s where I was born, where I spent most of my school years, where I ran a bookstore in the Capitol District, playing lunchtime hostess to a pack of newspaper and TV reporters, various authors such as Janet Evanovich, and the occasional Governor Christie Whitman (who always seemed to come in when I was outside at the loading dock, fancy that).

It’s where I saw Bruce Springsteen for the first time at The War Memorial, where I also enjoyed the Greater Trenton Symphony Orchestra, until it fell onto hard times and a limited schedule this year, where I haunted its legendary nightclub, City Gardens.  Or where I ate at its numerous restaurants like Pat’s Diner, Delorenzo’s Pizza or The Blue Danube for the best Eastern European fare on the planet, or visited many friends and family there who have since moved on. Lately, New Jersey’s capital city has mostly been an afterthought for me, even though I don’t live so terribly far from it. It’s just that lacking a reason to go there I haven’t, and without the full investment this great state should have placed in it, the historic city of George Washington, John A. Roebling and Ernie Kovacs has become a victim of blatant disinterest, and it shows. Even so, it’s a pleasure to see someone willing to sound its very worthy horn, as with local authors John P. Calu and David A. Hart’s recent novel, Trenton (Plexus Publishing, ISBN 978-0-937548-66-0, 24.95). From its publisher site:

1774. The revolution brewing in the American colonies is set to erupt in violent conflict. In Hopewell, near Trenton, New Jersey, the nearly lifeless body of an orphan girl is pulled from the Delaware River by a son of John Hart, a man whose passion for independence has brought down the wrath of the British Crown and its many local sympathizers.

Thus begins an epic two-part saga in which the Harts become pivotal players in the cause of freedom, pitted against a powerful enemy alongside George Washington, Ben Franklin, and other patriots from throughout the colonies. John Hart becomes a hunted man, and young Edward Hart—deeply inspired by the writings of Thomas Paine—falls in love, enlists in Washington’s ragtag army, and suffers tragic losses on and off the battlefield before victory at Trenton changes his life and alters the course of history.

New Jersey has had its share of detractors and pretenders, but we Jerseyans know it’s so much more than what we’re led to believe. In Calu and Hart’s novel, Trenton becomes more than a starred dot on the state map; it becomes the touchstone of our collective memory as a people of the Garden State, and perhaps the starting point of a greatness it can achieve once again.

Trudy

David’s got a new Sedaris…

There’s very few writers whose books I buy on name alone. I have pretty eclectic tastes, and my picks run the gamut of genres, from Stephen Fried’s history of the Harvey Girls, Appetite for America, to Lisa Kleypas’ newest historical romance, Love in the Afternoon. I like compelling fiction and historical biographies, as well as the occasional ripping yarn and political expose, and being a regular reader of The New Yorker, I enjoy Malcolm Gladwell’s books as much as his articles. But one writer who always snags my literary lunch money is David Sedaris, as he did with his just-out, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk (Little, Brown, ISBN 978-0-316-03839-3, $21.95). While doing some research on Sedaris this week for a class, I discovered he had a new book out, and like the obsessed little devotee I am, I scurried to B&N last night and plunked down my cash (and my member card to get my extra 10% discount)), and walked out the store a happy woman. (Well, with that and a Mocha Latte Grande decaf.) It wasn’t until I got home and peeked at some review sites that I found out that maybe – just maybe – I shouldn’t have been so tickled pink after all. And why was that?

Disclaimer: this is not a review of his book. I haven’t read it yet. It’s sitting beside me on my desk looking inordinately cute, and maybe that should have sent up a warning flare. Because Sedaris’ book covers generally are anything but. They are subtly witty and kind of inside-jokey, fashioned by that King of cover illustrations, graphic artist extraordinaire, Chip Kidd. But this one isn’t; it’s by Ian Falconer, the author and illustrator of the bestselling Olivia series of children’s books. He’s also this book’s illustrator, and like Sedaris, a frequent contributor to The New Yorker, and maybe that’s where they cooked up this idea. I don’t know. But I’m going to reserve judgment on what they’re saying and wait for my own. Although I am walking into this with my own slightly dusty pre-conceived notions. See, there’s just some people out there who just can do no wrong in my eyes. Especially when I’m plunking down  $21.95 (sans 40% discount plus tax, naturally).

Smooches -

Trudy

Yo, it’s a Jersey Thing…

Naturally, I’ve been watching the fabulous new HBO series Boardwalk Empire on Sunday nights. I mean, come on, not only is it set in Atlantic City (well, actually, on an elaborate set in Brooklyn, but that’s still East Coast, so I’ll let it slide), it’s from Martin Scorsese and Terrence Winter so of course it has to be fabulous. I mean, really–talk about a 180 degree flip from the puerilely gratuitous Jersey Shore. Complex characters, virtuoso writing, eye-popping sets that beg for the pause button so you can drink them in, Empire is an exercise in excellence, even if it does waggle the truth a bit. But who really cares if Enoch “Nucky” Johnson’s surname’s been tweaked to Thompson? If that be the cost of this creative license who am I to dicker? Or with those who will counter with here we go again. More Jersey gangsters to distort the State’s image.

Look: I know what we are. And I’m darn well aware of what we aren’t. Which is so many things that people watching on the other side of the screen know nothing about. But if you’re cringing about my home state and yours again being depicted as corrupt and morally challenged, then consider this: the author of the book the series was based on, Nelson Johnson, hardly needed to make this stuff up. As an attorney for Atlantic City’s planning board in the early 1980s, he uncovered so much hidden gold he knew there had to be a story in it. According to an article in The Press of Atlantic City, he used his contacts and knowledge of local politics to get close to people who had lived it. “It took me about three years before I said, there’s a book here that could be written,” he said. And realizing all the info that lay out there ready to be excavated, he spent the next 20-plus years mining it to complete the book.

But here’s the part that makes every writer cringe: taking that scary leap from finishing your book to actually selling it. Finding a publisher willing to commit to his project, then titled “Nucky’s Town,” was another struggle. “There were many rejections,” Johnson said. “It was almost laughable.” The rookie author went through several publishing companies and two literary agents before he found Plexus Publishing, based in Medford, NJ. Since then, “Boardwalk Empire” has sold a modest 15,000 to 20,000 copies. But since the premiere of the HBO series, Plexus has re-released about 85,000 more copies of the book in the United States and Canada, with a new tie-in cover. And with the success of the series, I’m sure there will be more printings to follow.

So there you go, score another one for New Jersey.  A Jersey story, a Jersey publisher, a Jersey boy makes good. See? It’s a win-win sitch all around. But if you don’t get it, then maybe because it’s a Jersey thing. Because even when we’re bad, we’re good.

A salty smooch–

Trudy

Boardwalk Empire by Nelson Johnson, Plexus Publishing, ISBN 9780966674866, $16.95

Our Inglorious Heritage

All right – it’s been awhile since I wrote anything I can generously refer to as a book review. (Run, book reviewers of the world; your noble profession is about to be taken down by a shameless interloper.) It’s not because I haven’t been reading. My goodness, your Trudy reads scads! It’s just that it’s been awhile since I’ve read anything substantial enough to put in my two worthless cents. I won’t mention my Goodreads page which I haven’t visited in months, and whose single book listed could’ve been read over and over by a first grader by now. But I digress. Which is entirely rude because the book I’m so-called reviewing, Wench by Dolen Perkins-Valdez (Amistad, ISBN 978-0-06-170654-7, $24.99) deserves your undivided attention.

The novel centers on four women regulars of the antebellum Ohio resort, Tawawa House. But this is no regular resort, and these four visitors are anything but on holiday. They are slave mistresses to Southern white masters, and their presence there is an open secret among the Northern patrons. The novel mainly spins around Lizzie, owned heart, soul and body by her master, Drayle, and who is also the father of her two children back at the plantation in Tennessee. Although she professes to love him, her eyes are opened by a fiery red-haired mistress/slave from Louisiana, Mawu, as well as the pregnant, Sweet, and the older Rennie. Each have their own complicated relationship with their respective masters, and each dream of an unbound life past the free state of Ohio. But Lizzie hardly needs chains to keep her from running away from Drayle, not with the intricately woven web of loyalties and deceptions so intrinsic to bondage. Then a fire at the resort makes her confront the many truths she’s too long ignored, and she’s forced to make a choice between her own survival, and the future of those she loves.

I must confess I’ve always been drawn to the exploration of human intolerance, specifically the institution of slavery and the Holocaust of World War II. Some may find this curious as I am neither African-American or  Jewish, and maybe it could be blamed on my unabashed Liberalism, but more than likely it’s because I find it nearly inconceivable such depravity could have existed. Perkins-Valdez depicts a world turned upside-down, where slavery can exist in a free state, where concubines can profess love for their tormentors, where life goes on after seemingly insurmountable loss. Just the fact that she is around to chronicle this world is proof enough of the women’s endurance, just that fact that it had to be chronicled is to our endless discredit. It is a chilling tale, and ably told.

Not that I didn’t hit a few speedbumps. Perkins-Valdez sometimes writes in too modern language, which can be disconcerting. And although Lizzie professes her love for her master, Drayle, he’s a bit flat as a character and prone to stereotyping. Lizzie seems too intelligent and complicated not to see through him. On the other hand, Drayle’s wife, Fran’s, complexities shine through in only a few carefully woven scenes. And I would’ve wanted to know a bit more about the fascinating Mawu. The author could write a sequel on what happens to her alone. Matter of fact, that’s a good idea, Ms. Perkins-Valdez. I suggest you get right to it.

But again, I digress. The fact remains, this was a book I was thinking about when I wasn’t reading it, and twice, it made me late for work. A fascinating subject which begs to be explored, written in affecting prose. Which means I’m looking forward to reading more from Dolen Perkins-Valdez. So, dahling, about that sequel I mentioned above….

Trudy

I Love You – Squeamishly…

Okay, I’ll admit it – I’m a sucker for stories about hot 18th Century Scottish men named Jamie. Pulled me in for seven books in Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series. Most recently, I was spun into the Gaelic vortex by Blindspot (Spiegal & Grau, ISBN 978-0-385-52620-3, $15.00, Paperback Release, 12/29/09). Co-written by two Cambridge, MA historians, Jane Kamensky and Jill Lepore, Blindspot weaves the tale of portrait-painter Stewart “Jamie” Jameson, who, fleeing his debtors in Edinburgh, sails to pre-Revolutionary Boston, with not much more than his brushes and a florid gift of gab (Nimrod’s ghost in the Tower of Babel! Judas Iscariot on a flaming red chariot!). Answering Jamie’s advertisement for an apprentice is a starving lad named Francis Weston, who is actually Fanny Easton, a young fallen woman driven from her Brahmin father’s home. Astounded by the quality of Weston’s portfolio, Jamie takes “him” on, and while the boy hones his craft, while he mixes the paints and fills in the backgrounds of the portraits, Jamie steadily and bawdily falls head-over-lusty-heels in love with him. But…but…

Halt, Jameson! You command. What happened to your pledge, uttered not so many pages ago? Leave the boy be!

‘Tis true. He addresses the camera, so to speak. Telling us, the Dear Reader, that he put my hands on his narrow hips–dear God, my hands reached two-thirds of the way around him. I let my thumb stray across that patch of skin, tugging his shirt out of his trousers as I moved my fingers across his back.

Gaa! I am drawn in – absolutely transfixed, his ardor, his passion for the scent, the feel, the innocence of this young lad, and I can’t stop looking, even when he tells me–

Virtuous Reader, judge me as you will, but if you would censor me, now is the hour for you to leave my painting room. Go, but hurry, Sir. I cannot wait. And shut the door behind you.

I am appalled. At myself, at my voyeurism, and yet…

I pressed myself against him, closed my eyes, bent my head, and kissed the downy nape of his neck. His buckled hair, grown soft since he first came to my door–as shorn as a sheep in spring–is not yet long enough to tie. Its loose curls brushed against my face. I kissed his neck, my lips against the soft down. Again and again I kissed him, for he seemed to melt into my embrace. And no, dear Reader, not as a child nests against a parent, but knowingly, full conscious of the pleasures his body might give, and take; full sensible–how could he not be?–of the force of my ardor.

Oy! I’m reveling in this, a party to the crime of this boy’s violation! And yet, I’m not, because I’m in on the joke, fully aware that the he is a she, that the lad is a lass, that the boy is a woman, and not only allowing the attention but inviting it, reveling in it, falling in love with Jamie as well, even as he is attempting to slake his burgeoning- now wait a minute!

See? This is the quandary I faced, as I read a little over half the book before Fanny’s secret was revealed. Admittedly, there were parts that were a bit hard to swallow, such as the mystery surrounding a certain crime and its subsequently pat resolution, and there was a slight problem with historic continuity. But overall, the interaction of the two principles, the bawdy language and the romance, made for a rollicking good time. And upon finishing, I honestly hoped for a sequel (still do). Yet I couldn’t help thinking: where do we draw the line between what we’re willing to accept as art, and what violates our innate code of conduct, ie, Young Boys Are a No-No, Fictional or Otherwise? Does it come down to another variation on Willing Suspension of…? I’m not sure. But I did breathe a sigh of relief when Fanny literally and figuratively dropped her drawers.

Many tentative smooches -

Trudy

10,000 Hours or Bust

Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers (Little, Brown & Co. ISBN 978-0-316-01792-3, $27.99) is not a new book. In fact it’s a year old, but it is one that I’ve read lately. As in the other Gladwell books (The Tipping Point, Blink), the author picks a subject and expands on it, or as he explains in his website, I write books when I find myself returning again and again, in my mind, to the same themes. Said theme for Outliers was, and I liberally interpret: Why do some people become successful and others, who are just as educated and innately intelligent, don’t? This is a question I have posited myself, as I have seen some people rocket to the top of their chosen profession while many of their peers struggle and remain perennially in the backfield. So I picked up Gladwell’s book hoping to find not so much answers as explanations, and I certainly received what I was searching for. Not that it made me feel any better. In fact, there’s a simple word to explain exactly how I felt.

Screwed.

As Gladwell theorizes, it’s not how hard you work, but how advantageous you were in where and when you were born, and how the culture in which you developed shaped you. In essence, as hard as some people work to succeed, the vast majority of those who do find success do so aided by circumstances beyond their efforts. Or as the author puts it: …we vastly underestimate the extent to which success happens because of things the individual has nothing to do with. Now, who hasn’t heard the stories? The accountant who just happens to send his resumé in on the day another accountant gets fired, and gets hired, purely out of necessity. The actor who gets to star in a blockbuster film after the first pick for the role turns it down. Or as in Bill Gate’s case, growing up in Seattle the son of a wealthy lawyer whose private middle school, in 1968, was able to afford a unique computer for him, and a few other select geeks, to use on their own. A computer, tied to a main-frame up town, which Bill and his cohorts got to use day and night and weekends and all summer until all they did was program and program and program, until this coding-jones replicated exponentially into Microsoft. My God, how could you compete with those innate set of circumstances? Because part of what Gladwell expounds on, what ultimately leads to Bill’s success, lay not so much in the advantages, as the time he spent perfecting his craft. His 10,000 hours.

Gladwell postulates that in order to be considered a Master in any given field, one must spend a minimum of ten years, or ten thousand hours,  grinding away at it. Bill started out by obsessively programing for almost 1,600 hours in one seven month period. Likewise, the Beatles launched their career by performing in Hamburg, Germany, for 270 nights in a little over eighteen months, for almost 1200 hours. Reading that, I began to feel a little better about myself, as I’ve had my own set slave-driving circumstance. To wit:

You may as well know Your Trudy is a bit of an academic. Not so very long ago, she was working on her Master of Fine Arts degree, which encompasses writing a thesis. Since my degree is in Writing, my thesis was a novel, and said thesis was in progress at the very same time I was working on a three-book contact. So, in one ten-month period, I wrote one 80,000 and three 50,000 word novels, as well as several papers, four grant proposals (I minored in grant writing), and two short stories. This is addition to all the ancillary writing that goes along with the business of submission and course requirements, so I spent many a weekend from sun-up to -set still in my dressing gown, gaining my sustenance by anything I could eat with one hand. At times, it wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was always exhilarating and ultimately very rewarding. 

The end result is I can drop prose like others drop trou, and now I get to teach people how to do it. I’m not perfect, I’m still a work-in-progress, but I can honestly say I love what I do. And if you can say that, well then, your working days are done.

Smooches,

Trudy

Why DO Women Have Sex?

I caught the title of this book on www.cnn.com: Why Women Have Sex – Understanding Sexual Motivation – From Adventure to Revenge (And Everything in Between) by Cindy M. Meston & David M. Buss. (Henry Holt & Co. ISBN 9780805088342 $25.00.) Researchers have found women have sex for a variety of reasons: out of feelings of obligation or revenge, to satisfy their curiosity, gain experience and enhance their self-esteem, to relieve migraines and menstrual cramps, reduce the risk of endometriosis and prevent age-related vaginal atrophy.

Suffice to say, since your Trudy has been known to write a bit about the glorious act, this book piqued her into a spell of rumination. So glass of white zin in hand, she kicked off her mules and draped herself pensively upon her chaise to ponder. From what I can figure, and from what I have gathered over the years from commiserating with others, the prime reason women have sex is to bond with their mate or potential mate. It’s within that ultimate human connection women find a kind of center, a “normal-ness” which unconsciously assures them if my mate will have sex with me, that means everything is all right. When sex leaves the relationship, the couple becomes off-kilter, their relationship strained. Regular sex, at least between the committed, keeps the partnership at an even keel, and the woman assured the bond with her mate is secure.  

Either that, or she’s jonesing for some headboard-rattling, nails-down-the-spinal-column, top-of-the-lungs caterwauling booty. Which is more than fine, too. In fact, when you frost it on what’s above, it’s absolutely the best kind. Because let’s face it, sweeties, a trip to the Target appliance department will get you what you want if you’re only looking for that outcome. But if you love the scent of a man as he brushes his nose against that tender spot behind your ear…? Oh, darlings, there’s only one way to get that.

Biggest of smooches -

Trudy

The Day Trudy’s Heart Beat a Little Faster…

Which was last Thursday – the day my new copy of Diana Gabaldon’s seventh volume in the Outlander series, An Echo in the Bone (Delacorte Press, ISBN 978-0385342452, $30.00) arrived in my mailbox. For anyone who hasn’t followed this saga of Scot ex-pat Jamie Fraser, and his time-traveling wife, Claire, from the mid-eighteen century to the twentieth, well… The most I can say is if you’re a firm believer in a good book is never thick enough, then you’re in for one lusty, luscious history-hopping ride. If you love historical fiction and a darn good Energizer Bunny of a yarn, then get thee to thy bookseller and pick up what I’m sure will be a fabulous read. And the reason I’m using supposition is Ms. Gabaldon hasn’t let me down yet (well, very briefly with The Fiery Cross, but even Babe Ruth couldn’t hit ‘em out of the park all the time, and it was just for part of the book, and then Roger got in all that trouble (again!) and I was up until FOUR AM and – ahem! Sorry. Where was I? Oh yes…), as I just started the book last night, and BOOM! right away, I was hooked. Then it was time for Entourage on HBO, and with only one episode left, your Trudy just HAD to find out if Turtle was really going to break up with Jamie, and if Drama would get the part on the new Melrose, and if E would EVER hook back with– oh mercy! I DO know how to digress, don’t I?

ANYWAY…this is a fabulous series and I just can’t wait until I can sink my teeth back into it. So just let me gather up an afghan, a cuppa herbal tea, a square or two of Belgian Chocolate (70%, natch) and snuggle up on the chaise with Jamie, ahhhh, there we go…Scottish Bliss.

Smooch…

Trudy