I attended a talk that Ann Patchett gave before a book signing of The Dutch House recently. She was a marvelously entertaining raconteur. She was also a throw-back to another age. Her adventures in writing and publishing are far outside the norm for this time period, beginning with short story published in “The Paris Review” while she was in college over thirty years ago. An agent read it and signed her. When she finished her first novel, she drove hours to deliver the manuscript (this was in the age before the internet and email). Four days later the book was picked up by a major publisher, and she never looked back.
I’ve read everything she has published, and while I am not crazy about some of her work, Bel Canto and State of Wonder are among the best novels I’ve ever read (and I’ve read well over a thousand).
In 2011 she co-founded Parnassus Books, an independent bookstore in Nashville, Tennessee. In that capacity she was inundated with all the new releases from the Big Five publishing houses, and became an interviewer of other authors who stopped by her store to do book signings and promotions. As a result, she has developed many friendships with other outstanding authors — Michael Chabon, Kate DiCamillo, Barbara Kingsolver, Zadie Smith, Donna Tartt, Patrick Ryan, J.K. Rowling, Jane Hamilton, and others. So, when she gets stuck and asks for some guidance from fellow writers, she has the best in the business to point her in the right direction. That is truly rarified air, particularly in a field that is so solitary by nature. I’m not suggesting that the rest of us toiling in the trenches have her talent, nor that given her contacts we could turn out work as transcendent. I’m merely pointing out how unique her situation is.
When she set out to write The Dutch House, she couldn’t get past 30 pages. She tried changing the point-of-view and other tricks of the trade, but no matter what she did she didn’t seem to be able to get past that wall. Then she interviewed Barbara Kingsolver. At lunch afterwards Kingsolver could tell that something was bothering her. Patchett recounted the trouble she was having starting her new novel. Kingsolver listened to the bare bones synopsis, then said something to the effect that, I see where you’re going wrong. Your story is probably coming off the rails at about page 29 or 30, because that’s where you should turn left instead of right. Which solved that problem. When Patchett finished her first draft, she gave it to (if I remember correctly) Donna Tartt, who said (and I’m paraphrasing): The first third is magical, the second third is brilliant, but the last third falls off a cliff. Kate DiCamillo looked it over, saw what the problem was, and gave her a paragraph about how she would finish the book. And that was how The Dutch House came together. Sometimes the best editors are fellow writers.
The novel has garnered mostly glowing reviews, though it isn’t for the usual reader of plot-driven genre fiction. After reading along with the audible version. Tom Hanks lends his reassuring voice to the narration. Here is my take on it:
The Dutch House continues exploring the same themes as her previous novel, Commonwealth. In Commonwealth she writes “…Accepting the circumstances didn’t turn out to be the same as forgiveness.” Forgiveness, or the lack thereof, seems to haunt Patchett’s novels. What rings true in The Dutch House, is how time takes care of all transgressions. We watch Maeve and Danny grow from children angry and dismayed by their mistreatment, to middle-aged adults who find that with enough time old grudges lose their power. The middle-aged survivors are simply no longer the same people they were as teenagers and young adults. Only the house remains unchanged. For me, The Dutch House lacked the mystery of State of Wonder, and the complex motivations and interactions that made Bel Canto so satisfying. But it is still a fine character study.
I finished writing The Seal Cove Theoretical Society in June. I say “finished,” because I had deemed it finished. Since then, seven beta readers have weighed in with their comments, and forty-some agents have declined to read it based on my query letter (more on that in the next blog post). So, I solicited another friend, editor, and author in her own right to give me guidance. Her first suggestion was that I get rid of the “asides,” chapters that have nothing to do with the main storyline, in which I present myself as a character by addressing the audience. Of the seven beta readers, one thought the asides were the best part of the book. The other six found them distracting. So perhaps the book is not finished after all and would benefit from some judicious slicing here and there. To that end, I’m excizing those chapters, one of which I give to you now:
The Bogarts and the Andersons
I wouldn’t want to give the impression that life in Seal Cove is always idyllic. Far from it. Sometimes it resembles a soap opera. Take, for example, the tale of the Bogarts and Andersons. Pete Bogart and Dale Anderson worked for the same high-tech company in Silicon Valley. They lived on the same street in San Carlos, commuted to work together, got together on weekends to barbecue, watched football during football season, and baseball during baseball season. Their wives, Barbara Bogart and Caroline Anderson, were chummy and the couples often got together to play bridge or gin rummy. Their kids, Pamela Bogart and Greg Anderson had known each other from the age of three.
The problem was that Pete’s wife, Barbara Bogart, had her heart set on living on the coast, and in time the Bogarts moved to a quiet street in Seal Cove heights. From the deck on the back of the house the Bogarts had a sweeping view of the Pacific Ocean edged with the dark green of cypress on the bluffs.
At work Pete Bogart touted the pleasures of living by the sea, and eventually, the Andersons moved to Seal Cove and settled into a house within hailing distance of their old friends. Soon they were hanging out on the deck every day after work, sharing cocktails, and falling into their comfortable old routines on the weekend. When the kids were eleven, they began spending their vacations camping side by side in the redwoods, sitting around a campfire drinking wine, and twice caravanning up the coast to Mendocino and Oregon.
So it should come as no surprise that such close friends might come to love one another, after a fashion. It all fell apart one weekend in Big Basin Redwoods State Park, when Pete Bogart and Caroline Anderson and the kids, who were sixteen by this time, went on a hike. Dale and Barbara pleaded fatigue and stayed behind to tend the camp. As it transpired, Caroline sprained her ankle. Pete had to carry her piggyback back to the camp, where they discovered Dale and Barbara conjoined in a sleeping bag. Horrified, the cuckolded spouses insisted that they pack up and go back home. For liberal people they had parochial views about marriage.
Back home, Caroline and Pete got together to commiserate and console one another, as wronged spouses might do, and one thing led to another, as things often do.
The Bogarts and Andersons divorced. Barbara Bogart became Mrs. Anderson, Caroline Anderson became Mrs. Bogart, and Pamela and Greg became step-siblings, and moved in with Caroline and Pete at the beginning of their senior year of high school. Whether out of anger and spite, or by dint of mutual attraction, the children soon began emulating their parents, coupling like a pair of bunnies. It wasn’t long before the adults got wind of this and all hell broke loose. The parents were aghast. Greg was sent down the street to live with Dale and Barbara, and Pamela was grounded and kept under strict surveillance, which did nothing to abate the youngsters’ concupiscent inclinations.
Determined to keep the children apart, the newly constituted Bogarts moved to Foster City. In the long run it was a vain move, as the kids had a different agenda. Unbeknownst to their parents, after spending their senior year of high school apart, they both applied to and were accepted to U.C. Riverside, where they secretly continued their torrid affair, and where they are now seniors.
The other inhabitants of Seal Cove were never the wiser for this little drama. Which just goes to show that the stage isn’t nearly as important as the players.
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