Sharon Harrigan

March 13, 2014 By Sharon Harrigan

AWP 2014: Overwhelming? Intimate? Yes.

I pulled out Geoffrey Wolffe’s Duke of Deception, and the man sitting next to me on the plane asked, “AWP?”

“How did you know?”

“You’re reading a real book,” he said. “Only writers do that.”

He was reading a real book, too: an anthology of flash fiction by Dinty Moore. He needed to finish it for his panel the next morning. Would I come?

I wasn’t surprised to find someone going to the same venue as me. So were more than 12,000 other people. The annual conference of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs in Seattle drew a record number of participants this year: writers, teachers, and students. Neophytes, Nobel laureates, and everything in between.

In the space of the five-hour flight, I learned my seatmate’s life story. He told me about his precocious three-year-old daughter and bitter divorce-in-progress. Friends more experienced than I had warned me that AWP would be overwhelming. So many people, I’d get lost in the crowd. But I was already making connections and I wasn’t even there yet. How hard could it be?

Once I landed in Seattle, I got a text from my friend A., who was going to share a taxi with me. “I met two people on the plane,” she said. “OK if they come with us?” The party was already starting.

A.’s new friends had cajoled a limo driver into taking us to our hotels for $15 each. And that is how I landed in the first limo of my entire life.

The limo dropped us off at an alternate universe, where literary greats like Tobias Wolffe and Jess Walters were afforded the celebrity usually given to rock stars. My two roommates met me in the lobby, where we shared beers and I bumped into a poet friend I’d known since I was nineteen. This serendipity would keep happening, with such a density of writers per square foot unmatched on any other place on the planet. I staked out my corner, reunited with friends, and saw how a mega conference can actually be warm and cozy.

Of course, it was dizzying, too. Half a dozen simultaneous readings and panels beckoned in each time slot. I chose mostly memoir, panels on the ethical dilemmas of writing about your father, writing about a subject who is missing, writing about your children, and writing about others. The panelists seemed to be speaking directly ro me, addressing all the technical and moral issues I’ve been wrestling with in in my book. How do you write about someone you know so little about? How do you recreate scenes you weren’t there to witness? How do you arrive at the emotional truth without throwing anyone under the bus?

I also attended a sprinkling of panels on publishing trends, publicity, and journalism and went to an off-site brewery where many of my MFA pals read from new work. Then, in a headline event, Barry Lopez, in his imitable wise way, reminded us that writing, at its best, is about engagement with social and environmental issues.

I had the two most fabulous roommates. See their blog posts on the conference

here:

and

here.

In the picture above, we are toasting Tabitha’s essay acceptance, which she received in person at the exhibit hall.

My exhibit hall highlight was stopping by the Pleiades booth and talking to Phong Nguyen, the journal’s editor. When I told him I was expanding my Pleiades story into a novel, I learned that the journal has a history of launching novels. Zachary Mason published the story that turned into the novel The Lost Books of the Odyssey in Pleaides and Bonnie Jo Campbell’s title story for American Salvage appeared first in that journal, too.

While my roommates were crashing famous authors’ after-parties and sampling whale blubber smuggled over by Alaskan indigenous writers, I was fast asleep. But I did squeeze in a little late-night dancing, as well as an early-morning stroll along the water and a visit to the flagship Starbucks and the city market.

I’d heard so many verdicts about AWP before I came. “It’s a blast.” “It’s competitive.” “You’ll get lost.” “You’ll find exactly what you want.” I realized, on my way back, that there are more than 12,000 AWPs. We each have our own.

February 24, 2014 By Sharon Harrigan

How Getting a Puppy Is Like Living in Paris

Mittens, my three-month-old cockapoo, nabbed a plastic bag from the dirty snow with her mouth, shook out an opened ketchup container, and licked. Not exactly the height of haute cuisine. Then she sniffed out the feathers left from a cat’s midnight snack and rolled, covering her fur with bloody fluff. Hardly haute couture, either.

So what do puppies and Paris have in common?

I can’t take Mittens for a walk without every neighbor kid running out the door, panting: “You are so lucky. Aw. . . I want one, too.”

When I told my friends we were moving to Paris for twelve months, they all said, “I wish I were you.” One woman even asked (jokingly, I hope) if I wanted to do a husband swap for a year. Even now, as my husband readies for a two-week solo trip to Paris over spring break, people keep saying, “Lucky dog” and don’t believe him when he says, “It’s for work, not fun.”

The pet-crazy kids on our block don’t want to hear about having to set my alarm to take the puppy outside in the middle-of-the-night cold to empty her bladder. The fashion- and food-obsessed francophiles don’t want to know about having to wait eleven months to get health insurance or visit a bank five times before being allowed to open an account.

Puppies and Paris. Adorable. Enviable. Exhausting. Not that I’m complaining. I know I’m not allowed to. And anyway, I can’t open my mouth. Mittens is wagging her entire bottom with joy, a joy I can’t help but share, as she covers me with kisses. And ketchup. Bon apetit!

January 31, 2014 By Sharon Harrigan

Review of Happé par Sempé by Christophe Carlier

[Note: The French translation follows the English review.]

Happé par Sempé by Christophe Carlier. Paris: Serge Safran, 2013.

Happé par Sempé (Caught by Sempé) is a slim volume of first-person criticism, an art appreciation mixed with memoir. Perhaps most of all it is a long love letter from an acclaimed novelist to an iconic cartooonist.

Jean-Jacques Sempé is best known in the United States for his New Yorker covers, more than a hundred of which have featured his whimsical drawings. His importance in France, a country obsessed with cartoons, is perhaps second to none.

At the start of the book, Carlier has missed his train by a few seconds. He faces a long, boring wait, with nothing to do but watch the punctual passengers on the other side, who seem ludicrously happy just to not be him. What happens next is magical. Even though we know that we are following the author’s ripe imagination, what unfolds seems fabulously real and delightfully immediate.

Waiting at the train station, Carlier recreates a Sempé drawing in his head. Then he becomes a Sempé character. The world around him transforms into Sempé’s whimsical universe of slippery, splotchy, watercolored joy. The author imagines his suitcase covered with travel stickers, and he can no longer feel the weight of his baggage or his tardiness. A woman across the track is seized with a crazy laugh. He is saved. Sempé allowed him to observe himself from the outside, with the amusement of a spectator. He can see the absurdity of our daily lives and troubles, as well as the happiness that soaks through our days the way watercolor soaks through the paper.

Once Carlier, our narrator and guide, learns to draw Sempé’s characters—in his head—these drole, balletic creatures can follow him everywhere. And, lucky for us, we can use this technique to imagine our own Sempé-populated world wherever we go.

What is Sempé’s irresistible appeal? Not nostalgia, but something more edgy and innovative. Carlier tells us that the artist doesn’t evoke the past but instead precisely observes the present. Sempé’s gift is giving close attention to small things: Bicycles with frames so thin their riders resemble tightrope walkers. Angry people who look so much like children that we are moved by their troubles. Politicians and other bigshots who wear their ties on their shoulders like flags in the wind.

Calling Happé par Sempé criticism is like calling MFK Fisher’s luscious stories about food cookbooks. Both authors write lovingly about their chosen topics in a deeply intimate way. Both give us abundant and amusing narratives that can add adventure to our quotidian lives and remind us of the hidden beauty in small, seemingly insignificant things.

The combination of invention and documentation in Happé par Sempé reminds me of Patrick Modiano’s Dora. In that brilliant nonfiction work about a Parisian Jewish girl who died in the Holocaust, Modiano leads us on a quest to discover and imagine who Dora was. He enters into the experience of research in the same, first-person way that Carlier does. Both Happé and Dora are hybrid kinds of writing: nonfiction about a real person that is participatory and involves active imagination on the part of the author. Both are written in elegant, spare, melodious prose. Prose so beautiful, evocative, and precise that we can imagine the drawings when we read the book and then venture out into the world, even when we don’t have the pictures in front of us.

Happé par Sempé par Christophe Carlier. Paris : Serge Safran, 2013.

Happé par Sempé est un mince volume de la critique intime, l’appréciation de l’art mélangé avec mémoire. Peut-être d’abord et surtout, c’est une longue lettre d’amour écrit de la part d’un romancier primé à une cartooniste emblématique.

Jean- Jacques Sempé est le plus connu aux Etats-Unis pour ses couvertures du New Yorker, plus d’une centaine qui ont présenté ses dessins fantaisistes. Son importance en France est difficile de surestimer.

Au début du livre, Carlier a raté son train—de peu. Il attend une attente longue et ennuyeuse, avec rien à faire que de regarder les passagers ponctuels de l’autre côté, qui semblent ridiculement heureux juste de ne pas être lui. Ce qui se passe ensuite est magique. Même si nous savons que nous suivons imagination de l’auteur, ce qui se déroule semble fabuleusement réel et délicieusement immédiate.

Attente à la gare, Carlier fait un dessin de Sempé dans la tête. Puis il devient un personnage dessiné par Sempé. Le monde autour de lui se transforme en univers fantaisiste de Sempé, un monde de glissant plein de la joie aquarellée. L’auteur imagine sa valise couverte avec des autocollants de voyage, et il ne peut plus sentir le poids de ses bagages ou des sa manque de ponctualité. Une femme à travers la piste est saisie d’un rire fou. Il est sauvé. Sempé lui a permis de s’observer de l’extérieur, à l’amusement d’un spectateur. Il peut voir l’absurdité de nos vies quotidiennes et les troubles, ainsi que le bonheur qui absorbe à travers nos jours la façon aquarelle absorbe à travers le papier.

Une fois Carlier, notre narrateur et guide, apprend à dessiner les personnages de Sempé dans la tête ces créatures balletique et drôle peuvent le suivre partout. Et, heureusement pour nous, nous pouvons utiliser cette technique pour imaginer notre propre monde Sempé peuplée n’importe où nous allons.

Quel est irrésistible chez Sempé ? Pas de nostalgie, mais quelque chose de plus innovante. Carlier nous dit que l’artiste n’évoque pas le passé mais il observe précisément le présent. Sempé nous enseigne comment donner une attention particulière aux petites choses : vélos avec des cadres si mince leurs cavaliers ressemblent funambules. Les gens en colère qui ressemblent tellement à des enfants que nous sommes émus par leurs chagrins. Les politiciens et les autres gros bonnets qui portent leurs cravates sur leurs épaules comme des drapeaux dans le vent.

Appeler Happé par Sempé critique serait pareille d’appeler les histoires succulentes de MFK Fisher les livres de recettes alimentaires. Les deux auteurs écrivent amoureusement sur leurs thèmes choisis d’une manière profondément intime. Les deux auteurs nous donnent des récits abondantes et amusants qui peuvent ajouter aventure à nos vies quotidiennes et nous rappeler la beauté cachée dans les petites choses, en apparence insignifiants.

La combinaison de l’invention et de la documentation chez Happé par Sempé me rappelle de Dora de Patrick Modiano. Dans ce travail documentaire brillante il s’agit d’une jeune fille juive parisienne qui est morte dans l’Holocauste, et Modiano nous conduit dans une quête pour découvrir et imaginer cette fille. Il entre dans l’expérience de la recherche de la même façon que fait Carlier. Les deux livres, Happé et Dora, sont des sortes hybrides d’écriture : un conte d’une personne réelle qui est participative et qui implique une imagination active de la part de l’auteur. Les deux livres sont écrits avec une prose qui est élégant, libre, et mélodieuse. Prose si belle, évocatrice, et précise que l’on peut imaginer les dessins quand nous lisons le livre et ensuite s’aventurer dans le monde, même si nous n’avons pas les photos en face de nous.

December 30, 2013 By Sharon Harrigan

Resolved: To Be More Like a Man

My husband, daughter, and I were sitting at the breakfast table. I was folding James’ underwear when he burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, and he read aloud a story about football teams competing in a “beef bowl,” eating up to eight pounds each at a sitting.

“That’s disgusting,” Ella and I agreed.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s funny, too.”

“The only thing a man proves by gorging on meat is how insecure he is about his masculinity,” I said.

“It’s selfish,” Ella said. “They should leave some meat for everybody else. It’s like people who want to kill wolves because the hunters want all the elk meat to themselves.” She’d been following the New York Times stories about the wolf debate in the West. I wasn’t sure I saw the connection, but I gave her credit for trying.

“Men,” Ella and I said to each other with our eyes.

I hate “battle of the sexes” conversations, and I didn’t mean to engage in one. My husband is the most accommodating man I know. I have no complaints.

“The beef bowl is pretty funny,” I admitted. “As funny as me sitting here folding your underwear.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “It’s a gesture of love.” And then I started to silently laugh. At myself.

How many other ways did I use my time carelessly, as a mother, wife, writer, editor, and friend? It’s the time for New Year’s resolutions. I resolve to be more selfish. More driven. More focused. I resolve to work more like a man.

I realize that last line is provocative, that I am perpetuating nothing more than a stereotype. That’s because I don’t need to be more like a real man, but more like a stereotypical one.

I vow to put my work first, to make finishing my book this year my first priority. In the past two months, I agreed to write four interviews and five book reviews. I’ll follow-through with my promises, but I won’t agree to take on any projects in the interests of being a good “literary citizen” until my own work is done. I’ll try to make 2014 the year in which I don’t do the metaphorical equivalent of folding my husband’s underwear, in my career.

We’ll see what happens. If I’m seized with uncontrollable cravings for a plate of meat as heavy as a newborn baby, I’ll let you know. It could be funny.

October 18, 2013 By Sharon Harrigan

David and Goliath, or Monoprix and Giant

One of the best things about our location in Paris was the store next door. Monoprix is a supermarket. It’s also a microcosm, the contemporary equivalent of old-fashioned general stores in small towns. Flour and butter and eggs and really good merguez sausage and coeur coulant chocolate cakes beckoned from the back. Clothes, books, office supplies, make-up, toiletries and kitchen gear lured people in from the street. If Monoprix didn’t stock something, that meant you didn’t need it. And yet the store wasn’t big.

Not like Giant. That’s my local supermarket here in the States. The physical space is as huge as its name, with aisles wide enough to drive a pick-up through. They sell only food and toiletries.

I have fidelity cards for both stores, so I receive e-mails from Giant and Monoprix, sometimes on the same day. The contrast makes me laugh.

Giant’s e-mail today says “Feed a family of four for $7 or less with budget-friendly recipes. This week is tuna and vegetable stove-top casserole: 1 box Rice-a-Roni Broccoli Au Gratin, 1 cup frozen peas, 1 can tuna. Mix.” Last week’s missive was a three-ingredient recipe for turkey chili.

Monoprix’s newsletter features breakfast made from three sale items: braided brioche, mango preserves, and orange juice. It reads, in French: “Add to your table a few cravings, a hint of indulgence and a lot of balance for breakfast. A slice of brioche will start you off on the right foot.” Bread, jam, and juice cost 9.26 Euros, or almost twice as much as the $7 dinner-for-four from Giant. Coffee costs extra, especially if you get a chatpuccio, or cat cappuchino, like the one Monoprix sent me (pictured above).

Or, for about the same amount as the tuna casserole or turkey chili, you can buy from Monoprix several “men’s beauty” items, the e-mail says. I can’t imagine my supermarket with the big, burly name ever daring to put the words “men” and “beauty” in the same sentence.

Because we had such a small pantry and refrigerator in Paris, I shopped at Monoprix every day. At least that’s how it felt. If I stayed away too long, I’d joke about going through “Monoprix withdrawal.”

We loved that store so much we are even considering naming our not-yet-adopted dog for it. Monop for short. It’s got a ring to it, doesn’t it?

Or do you think we should name our dog Giant? Such a name might be confusing, since he won’t be a big dog. He’s got to be small enough to slip into a handbag. Then we can take him grocery shopping.