Hmm….

“Did Writing Anti-Coulter Book Cost a Reuters Editor His Job?” (Editor & Publisher)

I, for one, would be curious to learn more details.

And I like that the two anti-Coulter books coming out this week are called Brainless: The Lies and Lunacy of Ann Coulter (by Joe Maguire, published by Morrow) and Soulless: Ann Coulter and the Right-Wing Church of Hate (by Susan Estrich, published by Regan).

Presumably both authors will agree that she does have blonde hair. And a gut. (And that she trusts her gut.)

Magazine Editor Undergoes Sleek New Redesign (The Onion):

“I made a conscious decision to look more open and less dense without losing that smart edge that people have come to expect,” said Williams, who claimed the new design’s smaller size, bolder colors, and smoother lines will give her a broader appeal across upper demographics.

So Orhan Pamuk, “who in the quest for the melancholic soul of his native city has discovered new symbols for the clash and interlacing of cultures,” has won the Nobel Prize in Literature. Pamuk is pretty popular around here, but I definitely think more people were rooting for Philip Roth (or, “Big Phil,” as we affectionately call him).

I hate to go with what seems to be the prevailing sentiment, but it does feel as if political concerns have won out again. Fortunately, Pamuk is a writer of both heft and renown (even if his politics have been polarizing in his native Turkey), so it his winning seems at least reasonable. The 2004 winner, Elfriede Jelinek, may be a writer of terrific heft–who knows?

Here’s a link to Pamuk’s most recent book, Istanbul: Memories and the City. And here’s a link to a review of his most recent novel, Snow. Just two opinions–but does he sound like a Nobel laureate to you?

(Not to do any postmortem lobbying, but here are reviews of Everyman and The Plot against America.)

In “The Ignoble Prize,” (Salon), George Rafael, writing before the prize was announced, examines the politics of the prize and concludes:

If you put faith in prizes then the Nobel does matter, not for its literary merit, which seldom counts, but for what it has come to represent. Factors such as which country’s turn it is to win, being at the right trouble spot at the right time and, above all, gravitas — the right tone as it were — on the burning issues of the day weigh more.

He also states, amusingly:

This is only to say that perhaps we shouldn’t be so surprised when the prize blows up in our faces. (Among other things, Alfred Nobel invented dynamite.)

All right, I need to go get some coffee. Could everyone please not award any prizes for a few minutes?

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Maybe the National Book Awards are our equivalent of the Man Booker Prize. As the Booker is given to a Brit (technically, a “a citizen of the Commonwealth or the Republic of Ireland”), the NBA is given to a Yank (technically, “a citizen of the United States”). Both are judged by writers, although the Booker throws in critics and sometimes an actor. And both can be a bit unpredictable.

Anyway, moments ago, this year’s National Book Award finalists were announced:

Fiction
Only Revolutions, by Mark Z. Danielewski (Pantheon) 
A Disorder Peculiar to the Country, by Ken Kalfus (Ecco) 
The Echo Maker, by Richard Powers (Farrar) 
Eat the Document, by Dana Spiotta (Scribner) 
The Zero, by Jess Walter (Regan)

Nonfiction
At Canaan’s Edge: America in the King Years, 1965-68, by Taylor Branch (Simon & Schuster) 
Imperial Life in the Emerald City: Inside Iraq’s Green Zone, by Rajiv Chandrasekaran (Knopf) 
The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl, by Timothy Egan (Houghton) 
Oracle Bones:  A Journey Between China’s Past and Present, by Peter Hessler (HarperCollins)
The Looming Tower: Al-Qaeda and the Road to 9/11, by Lawrence Wright (Knopf)

Poetry
Averno, by Louise Glück (Farrar) 
Chromatic, by H.L. Hix (Etruscan)
Angle of Yaw, by Ben Lerner (Copper Canyon)
Splay Anthem, by Nathaniel Mackey (New Directions) 
Capacity, by James McMichael (Farrar)

Young People’s Literature 
The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation, Vol. 1: The Pox Party, by M. T. Anderson (Candlewick)
Keturah and Lord Death, by Martine Leavitt (Front Street)
Sold, by Patricia McCormick (Hyperion)
The Rules of Survival, by Nancy Werlin (Dial)
American Born Chinese, by Gene Luen Yang (Roaring Brook/First Second)

I’m pleased to see Richard Powers’ The Echo Maker, one of the best books I read all year, on the list. In August, I nominated it for the Booklist’s Top of the List. But more on that later.

Do you have award fatigue yet? Don’t forget the Nobel Prize in Literature, which will be announced tomorrow. Get ready to say, “Who’s that again?”

In England, you have a handful of tweedy types who meet in secrecy to choose the winner of the Man Booker Prize. In America, you have average Joes and Jolines who vote on the internet. Ladies and gentlemen, the Quills Book of the Year is…drum roll, please…Don’t Make a Black Woman Take Off Her Earrings, by Tyler Perry.

Not that the Quills are the U.S. equivalent of the Booker, but they both happened to be announced yesterday. (The two-year-old award is sponsored by Reed Business Information, publisher of our competitors Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, and School Library Journal…grrr). From their mission statement:

The Quill Awards pair a populist sensibility with Hollywood-style glitz and have become the first literary prizes to reflect the tastes of the group that matters most in publishing–readers.

According to the press release, the glitterati-studded extravaganza included Suzanne Somers as a presenter. Now that’s a literary award ceremony!

Anyway, notable winners included:

Book of the Year: Don’t Make a Black Woman Take Off Her Earrings: Madea’s Uninhibited Commentaries on Love and Life, by Tyler Perry (Riverhead)
 
Debut Author of the Year: Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen, by Julie Powell (Little, Brown)
 
Children’s Illustrated Book: If You Give a Pig a Party, by Laura Joffe Numeroff; illustrated by Felicia Bond (Laura Geringer/HarperCollins)
 
Young Adult/Teen: Eldest, by Christopher Paolini (Random)
 
General Fiction: A Dirty Job, by Christopher Moore (Morrow)
 
Mystery/Suspense/Thriller: Twelve Sharp, by Janet Evanovich (St. Martin’s)
 
Biography/Memoir: Marley and Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog, by John Grogan (Morrow)

There are about 20 categories, so click here to see the entire list.

After all the recent articles discussing the poor sales of books written by bloggers, it’s interesting to see Julie and Julia turn up with an award. It gives me hope for the book proposal I’m currently circulating, The Exciting, True-Life Story of a Guy Who Sits in Front of a Computer All Day.

Kiran Desai, daughter of Anita Desai, has won the Booker Prize for her novel, The Inheritance of Loss. Talk about fodder for an interesting dinner conversation: Anita Desai was shortlisted three times without winning, while Kiran Desai won on her first try. Not only that, at 35, she’s the youngest woman ever to win it.

(Also surprised were the bookies, who had her at 5-1, fifth out of six contenders.)

Perhaps the biggest surprise is that the novel is set in suburban Toledo, Ohio, a first for the Booker, which is awarded to the best novel of the year written by a citizen of the Commonwealth or the Republic of Ireland.

Just kidding. It’s set in India. (As have been previous winners The God of Small Things, by Arundhati Roy; Midnight’s Children, by Salman Rushdie; Staying On, by Paul Scott; Heat and Dust, by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala; and The Siege of Krishnapur, by J. G. Farrell.)

The Guardian calls it “a story replete with sadness over globalisation and with pleasure at the surviving intimacies of Indian village life.” Booklist’s own Donna Seaman, who gave it a starred review, calls it “perceptive and bewitching.”

Perhaps the most interesting part of the Guardian story comes near the end, when author John Ezard discusses this year’s winnowing process and the way authors are hyped:

But the publishing market treats novelists as promotable contenders with their first and second books, mature talents by their third, and burned out with their fourth and subsequent titles. This year’s passed-over favourite, The Night Watch, was a fourth novel.

Few of those who have read all the titles disagree that the relative newcomers Matar, Desai, Hyland, and St Aubyn were sound choices. The question left by the contest is whether new talent is in danger of being overexposed too soon.

An interesting point. Your second novel has won the Booker, and now all you have to look forward to is becoming a burned-out fourth-novelist. Cheers!

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Okay, I know I’m nearly a week late on this item–an eternity in blogworld–but you wouldn’t really want to read a blog written by a person who had no life, who simply sat at the computer 24 hours a day in order to be the first person to weigh in on a subject, would you? You would? Oh. Well, I think that says more about you and your unreasonable expectations than about me and my relaxed work ethic.

Anyway, as has been widely reported, troubled wide receiver Terrell Owens will soon join the ranks of famous folks who’ve either scribbled a children’s book on a cocktail napkin or simply licensed the use of their name on the cover. Publishers Weekly reports that Little T Learns to Share tells the story of a young, would-be diplomat who learns the value of compromise during his first Model United Nations assembly. Just kidding. It’s about a little boy who shares his football. Even better, it’s the first of a five-part series, called “T.O’s Time Out.”

(My favorite part of the PW story, by the way, is when Owens’ drug overdose is referred to as one of his “antics.” Yes, I speak Journalese.)

I’m not going to say anything about the fact that he’s not a good role model for kids–the kids who read the book don’t have to join his party posse–but I wonder if Ladbrokes will take bets on whether it will be any good? I know I’m supposed to keep an open mind until the book shows up, but because I don’t review children’s books, I think it’s safe to say that the odds are at least 50-1.

I think it’s fine when celebrities write–or allow to have written for them–memoirs. But I’m generally opposed to it when athletes and actors write novels and children’s books, because then they’re taking opportunities away from people who have dedicated much more time and effort to writing. The celebrity children’s book, however, seems to show no signs of going away.

In 1996, Ilene Cooper wrote a piece called, “It’s Not as Easy as It Looks,” in which, after noting the “undistinguished” books by Ken Follett, Chaim Potok, Fran Lebowitz, the Duchess of York, and Jimmy Carter, she then reviewed so-so offerings by Garrison Keillor, Marianne Williamson, and Wendy Wasserstein.

In 2004, in “It’s Not as Easy as It Looks, Part 2,” she discussed the efforts of Billy Crystal and Jay Leno. But to me, the quintessential children’s book by an author who doesn’t get it will always be Jerry Seinfeld’s Halloween, which reads like an old bit that was transcribed and illustrated.

At least T.O. had the decency not to say he’s writing the book because “there just isn’t anything good out there” (a standard, if jaw-dropping, celebrity line). I’m assuming he does know he’s writing a book….

I finished reading Ian Sansom’s The Case of the Missing Books yesterday. It’s (ahem) bloody hilarious. And–sorry, Nancy Pearl–librarians have a new superhero. Well, not exactly a superhero. But a hero. After a fashion. Not so much a hero as a figurehead. But not that he’s representative of librarians. More of a mascot, really. But not a mascot that would look good on a gym wall or a uniform…well, you’ll all just have to read the book and find out for yourselves.

Israel Armstrong is chubby, clumsy, lazy, and easily frightened–and his deductive powers consist mostly of making obvious guesses–but he loves books with a passion equal only to his disdain for B.S. and bureaucracy.

(Actually, maybe it’s Sansom who is librarians’ new hero.)

Anyway. After a harrowing trip from London, Armstrong arrives in Tumdrum, Northern Ireland, ready to assume his new job as librarian, only to find there’s been a wee bit of a snag:

“Yes. Erm. The library. Well, first of all I want to assure you that we at Tumdrum and District Council are absolutely committed to continuing the public’s free access to ideas and resources.”

“To libraries.”

“Yes. If you want to put it like that.”

“Fine. But you’ve closed the actual library?”

In fact, they want Armstrong to drive a decrepit bookmobile, or mobile library:

It would probably be safe to say that the mobile library is not considered by many people in the know to be at the pinnacle of the library profession. At the pinnacle of the library profession you might have, say, the British Library, or the New York Public Library, or the Library of Congress, or of Alexandria. Then coming down from those Parnassian heights you have university libraries, and private research libraries, and then maybe the big public libraries, and then district and branch libraries, and school libraries, hospital libraries, libraries in prisons and long-term mental institutions. And then somewhere off the bottom of that scale, around the level of fake red-leather-bound sets of the Reader’s Digest in damp provincial hotels and dentists’ waiting rooms is the mobile library.

They’ve even yanked the title librarian out from under him:

“We don’t call them mobile librarians any more. You’d be an Outreach Support Officer.”

I loved this book, and I’m delighted to see that it appears to be the start of a series. It will be enjoyed by librarians, library patrons, and even people who have never been fortunate enough to have a library card. It’s got a wonderful blend of wry, dry humor and outrageous slapstick. But there were a couple of moments when I thought, I haven’t seen this much sucking up to librarians since John Green accepted the Printz Award.

Not that there’s anything wrong with sucking up to librarians.

I wasn’t able to attend Bouchercon this year, unfortunately, even though it was held in nearby Madison, Wisconsin. It’s a really unique convention, not very commercial, that gives crime writers and fans of crime writing a chance to get together for informal, sometimes rowdy, panels and parties. I attended last year’s Bouchercon, which was in Chicago, and plan to attend again when I can.

A number of awards are handed out there, too: the Anthony, which is chosen by the Bouchercon membership; the Macavity, which is awarded by Mystery Readers International; the Shamus, which is given by the Private Eye Writers of America; and the Barry, which is bestowed by Deadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine.

Anyway, here are the winners:

Anthony Awards

Best Mystery Novel: Mercy Falls, by William Kent Krueger (Atria)
Best Paperback Original: The James Deans, by Reed Farrel Coleman (Plume)
Best First Mystery: Tilt-a-Whirl, by Chris Grabenstein (Carroll & Graf)
Best Critical/Nonfiction: The Heirs of Anthony Boucher: A History of Mystery Fandom, ed. by Marv Lachman (Poisoned Pen)
Best Short Story: “Misdirection,” by Barbara Seranella (in Greatest Hits, ed. by Robert J. Randisi [Carroll & Graf])
Best Fan Publication: CrimeSpree Magazine, ed. by Jon and Ruth Jordan
Special Service to the Field: Janet Rudolph, Mystery Readers International

Macavity Awards

Best Novel: The Lincoln Lawyer, by Michael Connelly (Little, Brown)
Best First Novel: Immoral, by Brian Freeman (St. Martin’s/Minotaur)
Best Non-fiction: Girl Sleuth: Nancy Drew and the Woman Who Created Her, by Melanie Rehak (Harcourt)
Best Short Story: “There Is No Crime on Easter Island,” by Nancy Pickard (Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, September-October 2005)
Sue Feder Historical Mystery Award: Pardonable Lies, by Jacqueline Winspear (Holt)

Shamus Awards

Best Hardcover: The Lincoln Lawyer, by Michael Connelly (Little, Brown)
Best Paperback Original: The James Deans, by Reed Farrel Coleman (Plume)
Best First Novel: Forcing Amaryllis, by Louise Ure (Mysterious Press)
Lifetime Achievement Award: Max Allan Collins

Barry Awards

Best Novel: Red Leaves, by Thomas H. Cook (Harcourt)
Best First Novel Published in the U.S. in 2005: Cold Granite, by Stuart MacBride (St. Martin’s/Minotaur)
Best British Novel Published in the U.K. in 2005: The Field of Blood, by Denise Mina (Bantam Press)
Best Thriller: Company Man, by Joseph Finder (St. Martin’s/Minotaur)
Best Paperback Novel: The James Deans, by Reed Farrel Coleman (Plume)
Best Short Story: “There is No Crime on Easter Island,” by Nancy Pickard (Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, September-October 2005)
Don Sandstrom Memorial Award for Lifetime Achievement in Mystery Fandom: Janet A. Rudolph

And, lastly, Dick Adler, who writes for a newspaper just down the street from Booklist, The Chicago Tribune, copped the American Crime Writers League Ellen Nehr Award for mystery reviewing.

It’s always interesting to see what, if any, patterns form in awards that cover the same genre. I think what these awards tell me is that I should read The Lincoln Lawyer, The James Deans, and “There Is No Crime on Easter Island.”

I actually met Reed Farrel Coleman, author of The James Deans (of which, unfortunately, there is no record of Booklist even receiving), at last year’s Bouchercon. When he was introduced to me, I recognized his name from a panel I would be attending, about the links between poetry and hard-boiled prose. So I mentioned that Richard Hugo, a world-class poet, had written a mystery called Death and the Good Life. “The hero,” I said, “is nicknamed ‘Mush Heart’.”

Coleman snorted, or scoffed, and said, “Well, you know why he called him that, don’t you?” And then he turned around and left. It sounded as if he was somehow offended. I found myself wondering whether there was some timeline by which Hugo could have stolen it from Coleman, but it didn’t make sense. So I actually didn’t know, and still don’t.

The synchronicities continue. Last Thursday, I discussed the difference between writing and acting. Last Friday, I called the JT Leroy hoax “theater.” And in Robert Stone’s Prime Green: Remembering the Sixties, which I finished reading last night, he writes about a moment in 1958 when an acquaintance suggested he study acting. Stone was already considering a writing life, but wasn’t entirely sure of his ambitions:

Compared to the rocks, the shoals, the silent storms I knew were out there in the endless progression of empty rooms that were the writer’s inheritance, a life of performance seemed very attractive.

A bit further down he adds:

The urge toward performance, an urge to risk winning the love of an audience or face its scorn then and there had much to recommend it, compared with the solitary struggle to believe in the power of what I could summon from my own silence.

To Michael Laser, the who wrote the Salon piece lamenting his lack of critical validation: compared to an endless progression of empty rooms, two bad reviews almost seems like a day off.