In an effort to mitigate the negative effects of what I refer to as my “allergy to social media,” I am going to pretend that this is not a “blog” (am I right in pointing out that this is the ugliest term given any literary genre?), but rather a one-way conversation that you can choose to end altogether or leave and come back to as you wish–and I will never know! No sensitive author’s feelings to consider.
I’m the first to admit that the dismal book sales of my first novel, Art on Fire, have not benefited from what can kindly be characterized as its author’s reclusive nature. My hope is that the book will come up from the rear, have renewed success as a sleeper–passed on unofficially–maybe given as birthday presents by appreciative readers with little money to spend. I don’t claim to have written the world’s greatest novel, or even the best book written in the Northampton, Mass. vicinity by a short Jewish lesbian with a psychiatric disorder–God knows there are a bunch of us. But, despite things I unknowingly “borrowed” from writers whose work I have devoured over the years–Nabokov (emigre, outsider, accidental rebel); Tolstoy; Annie Proulx; Raymond Carver; not to mention the playwrights: Albee, Irene Fornes, Lillian Hellman, and Tennessee Williams for starters, Art on Fire is involuntarily original. I have a strange brain that wants to communicate the thoughts and actions of characters who try to retain youthful optimism where world-weary fatalism is fast gaining the upper hand.
As I always tell the customers in my shop when they are considering the $14.95 investment, my book will, at the very least, make you laugh at things that aren’t supposed to be funny.