Each week we will be ranking, from worst to first, the guest readings at the conference. It’s important to say that these are simply rankings of the reading performances themselves, and in no way try to cast judgment on each author’s body of work. Each reader is an exceptional author, and we of course greatly appreciate and totally respect their contributions to the modern literary canon. But how they read from that work during the conference: that’s another story. So if you agree/disagree with our rankings, feel free to leave gripes/additions in the comments. Here goes.
Lifting the conference’s ban on “baroque introductions,” Roger Rosenblatt presented Joyce Carol Oates to a room full of travel-weary participants with the mild explanation that the sweetness of her name does not do justice, and cannot prepare the reader for the graphic content of her fiction.
“Joyce, rejoice,” Roger said. “Carol, like singing. Oates, you think of breakfast.”
Joyce then read from her newest piece of fiction, her 34th published novel, The Gravedigger’s Daughter. Sitting in the front row in the first major assembly of the conference, it was neither the prostitution scenes, nor the shotgun suicide, that provoked me. Rather, what dominated the reading was a promise I made to myself that, no matter what, I would not fall asleep while Joyce was reading. My determination was so thorough that I resorted to biting several fingers of my hand for a jolt of pain, and more importantly, adrenaline.
Initially, I was a bit embarrassed at my inability to stay awake through a reading by one the most prolific and renowned authors alive on Earth, but when I shared this difficulty with my fellow participants, many of them shared the same sentiments.
“Not a great speaker,” said one. “Yeah, I was almost out like a light myself,” said another. “That close,” said a third, in reference to how close he was to his nightly dosage of unconscious activity. That an author could read from their work and effectively put the crowd to sleep should not be taken as an indictment of the quality of neither their talents, nor of the respective work being read. Certainly, many of us would likewise be tempted to sleep through most passages of Moby Dick or The Scarlet Letter, or for that matter, comedic works, such as Catch-22 or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
What then, makes someone a good reader?
I asked a voice-over agent I work with, and she said that doing voice-overs isn’t just about the quality of your voice. Many, many people do have voices for the radio. And many, many pretty young ladies have faces for the picture shows, she said to me, but what makes someone good at voice-overs is that they’re actors first, and voices second. It seemed to me that Joyce put us to sleep not because the quality of her fiction was poor at all. But because the quality of her acting was. Her writing was probably lovely, but because she couldn’t bring an actor’s sensibility to her work, I couldn’t tell.
Joyce certainly seems to have “written” a good book in Gravedigger, but she certainly didn’t “read” a good book.
The difference between the written and spoken word is a significant one. Creative use of punctuation is lost in speech; tone of voice cannot be captured on paper. And in terms of Joyce, who read mostly in a monotone drawl, not particularly conscious to the change of tone among characters in her story, an extended reading from her work was to many in the audience, like the droning of a helicopter blade. Certainly, powerful. Absolutely, fearsome. But then again, kind of boring. The lesson here, to writers who intend to read their work aloud to any sort of dedicated audience, is that your words, without your help, do not speak for themselves.
Joyce did engage the audience in a thorough and enlightening Q&A section, so I do not mean to suggest that it was a wasted effort. I certainly loved learning that the point of writing fiction is knowing where you’re going with it from the beginning, and not doing something so silly as hopping in a car without knowing where your final destination would be.
-MZ
Michael Z! Michael Z! I totally disagree!
I don’t think it’s the writer’s job to be an actor at all, to put on a verbal puppet show or hump the lectern or give a wink and a smile to the audience. She’s a legend, a presence. Her quiet way of reading just made the content that much bigger for me.
I heard the characters come to life, the different voices, just by focusing on JCO’s words. The scene in the pick-up truck–that urgent repetition of the girl cop’s “Mister? Hey, Mister?” haunts me, gives me the creeps if I think about it too long. The violence at the end of the chapter–the murder and the suicide–linger, too, because her reading allowed ME to imagine, let me put emphasis on certain images and sounds and emotions.
Some guy in the Q&A made some comment about JCO’s size–that it’s ironic or something she’s such a monster on the page. It was an odd moment, sort of awkward. I don’t know if folks in the audience wanted to throw rocks at the guy, or laugh in agreement. I can’t remember what he said exactly.
I shared a similar response. I’ve never seen her photo, never heard her read. I wouldn’t say I’m a huge Oates fan, but I dig some of her stuff, teach it, and admire that she’s got so damn much. What struck me about the reading is that she went away–all 5ft, 97 pounds and perm and slow, careful words–and that place she created, that narrator, that story erupted for me. I was happily blown away.
I find it disruptive when the author of the work is actory or too aware of the audience. I love reading books so much because the stories become mine; I’ve felt this way since I was a kid. Often, live readings or meeting the writer in person wrecks the fantasy, what happens in our minds with those words.
I’m rambling.
If I want to be entertained or shown how to feel, I’ll watch a movie or go see a play or put socks on my hands and act the story out myself. The work should stand on its own, and I think the chapter Oates read in her unassuming voice owned that room.
I only commuted from Sag Harbor, though, so I wasn’t sleepy. And after her reading, I left wired. It’s Joyce Carol Oates, you know? She’s a big deal and didn’t let me down.
Hope you’re all well.
DZ
I think he called her ‘diminutive’ and I remember who it was.
Matt, You sound like Paulie on The Sopranos.
“I remember who it was…an I took care of him in the parkin lot afta, doanworryabowdit, Ma.”
That’s me using my imagination. Or high on caffeine. Did you cut that opening paragraph in your piece?
Sorry.
Right, thanks. Diminutive: word beginning with the letter D I’d never use to describe a force like JCO. It was an awkward comment, but I sort of knew where he was headed.
I just didn’t think the reading was a snoozer. Helicopter blades? Really?
dz
Joyce did not read from The Gravedigger’s Daughter. She read the short story “Lonesome Dove” which is from a recently published collection of 36 stories written over the last 40 years entitled, “Lonesome Dove” culled from the 1000 or so short stories she has written. She will probably be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Maybe by sitting in the front row, everything she said went over your head.
I would just like to add that while its great that people are responding to these reviews and all, it’s entirely inappropriate to make personally disparaging remarks of any kind.
About anyone.
This isn’t the first time that it’s happened, and not only does it show a remarkable lack of maturity, but also tact and good will. From here on out, anyone posting comments that contain personal insults will be banned.
So to repeat: Disagreements are 100% welcome. Personal insults belong somewhere else entirely. Not here.
I’m officially sorry to the “diminutive” dude in the audience–and to Matt, if I’ve been too familiar about that paragraph, or saying he reminded me of Paulie. I’m sorry to my ex boyfriend for his unfortunate, dysfunctional penis–and for outing him about it here in the 6-word fiction section. I’m sorry the Banks/Marx reading was abusive; we didn’t deserve it. Mike Z KNOWS I’m a fan of his voice, and I’m certain I haven’t hurt his feelings by disagreeing with the Oates reading review. He’s perfectly entitled to his opinions–flawed as they are–I’M KIDDING.
I do that. I’m immature. I tease. I’m direct here onscreen and shy in real life. I still smoke cigarettes. None of you should ever be my friend. I’m sick.
I had a laughing fit for the duration of Ursula Hegi’s reading at the Gala Launch. She opened her mouth and it was over. Total insanity. It was her accent that set me off, I think, and she read this hot sex scene. My shoulders shook. I snorted, embarassed my friends, even peed a little. All I could think of was the Dana Carvey/Kevin Nealon “Hanz & Franz” skit on SNL, and Ursula pinching her own nipples while straddling Bob Reeves.
“Give it to me, girly man…”
I told you: sick.
I was in the second row, grateful and sure she couldn’t see me–and even if she could, it didn’t matter. I was out of control–and she could very well be a Nobel prize winner, or a nice person, a great writer. Didn’t matter at the time. I wasn’t into what she was reading or the way she read it at all.
Mike Z could easily leap on this, say it was the best reading of the Conference, and what a jackass I am for not liking Ursula’s stuff, and I’m clearly an ingrate because I dare not to swallow everything on my SB-SH Writers Conference plate with a big grin on my face. Would that insult me? No, because he’s allowed to say what he wants. And questioning giants–these humans, no better or worse than any of us, just established in their fields of study–their written works, their readings, their performance in the workshops–shit, questioning the Conference as a whole–IS A GOOD THING. Should he be banned for expressing himself? Nope, I can take it. So can he.
Mike S, your warning to us is admirable. I just think everyone should say what’s on his or her mind–good, bad or ugly. Why censor? If you keep lawyering-up this blog, no one’s going to say boo. JUST a thought.
JMH, I was in the 2nd row at the Oates reading. I totally missed that she was reading from a short story. So what? And implying, rather passively, that Mike’s not sharp enough to grasp the significance of JCO’s strength as writer is a mistake, I think. That’s an observation, not an insult.
GO SOX! Ha.
dz
Danielle:
First, thanks for implanting those images in my head.
Second, here’s the deal with the comment banning. We started this blog as a place where conference participants could support one another and have spirited (yet entirely respectful) discussions about their experiences, and hopefully share work with one another freely.
So when it gets to the point where commenters are lobbing personal insults at that are completely disconnected to any substantial issue whatsoever (i.e., calling them [or us] “a bunch of Tidewater warriors,” accusations of stupidity, gutlessness, etc.), it endangers this blog’s reputation as a safe place for conference participants to safely share either work information. Evan commented very astutely a while back about the critical nature of this thing, and I don’t see anything critically valuable with telling a contributor that they’re too stupid to differentiate between good literature and good performance.
Frankly, I think I speak for the other editors when I say that we’re not interested in providing a platform for that kind of reductiveness. Think about it this way: would it be acceptable if someone in a workshop wrote as a comment on someone’s essay/short story/poem: “Your personal blog states, ‘The Eiffel Tower is a piece of shit.’ You need to learn to see the good in things.”?
If a remark is critical of the information presented, fine. But when it only concerns the person presenting that information, how is that anything but immature and useless to the conversation? So we’re just not going to permit those comments here is all. Seriously: who would want to contribute work here if their fellow conference mates are going to call them stupid?
OK: Enough serious talk. I just wanted to be clear about things. Back to real life work. Adios.
Dear Mike Scalise,
This blog is not a confidential site, open to only conference participants. It is open to the public or anyone who choses to type in the web address. I believe if you are going to skewer the faculty, you should have the guts to sign your name. I know you do sign your full name. If you choose to take on how Melissa Bank read a chapter out of one her best selling books the night after she suffered a death in her family, that is your perogative. What I disagreed about was the necessity for negativity that is contained in almost all the reviews.
What I feel is gutless is how Michael Z refuses to sign his full name to his criticism, but instead, has stolen someone else’s identity (Peter Baigent) and is signing Peter Baigent’s name to his criticism. Then to make matters worse, there is a link to Peter Baigent’s Stony Brook website. So on the surface of this blog, it would appear that the real Peter Baigent is taking potshots at his fellow faculty members and guest lecturers at Stony Brook. I do not know Peter Baigent personally, but I would venture to guess that if he became aware that Michael Z was using his name in this fashion, he would be quite upset. He could conceivably be successful in pressing charges against Michael Z (and perhaps against the other creators of this blog for allowing this practice to continue). I hope you have liability coverage because you seem determined to continue this practice.
When I first saw the blog, I was impressed with the layout and the idea behind the blog. What I object to is the unnecessary negativity and outright criticism that you have levied at some of the professors. At the beginning of each review, you have a disclaimer that you respect the work and are only commenting on the reading aspect of it. Then you go right ahead and bash the actual work. Let me quote from Michael Z’s review of Marsha’s play. “Whether Marsha can follow her own advice and write a play that an audience will want to watch…” or “But what it seems, at least to me, is that she’s chosen to write a play that is destined to be bad.” This is a direct attack on her work. I was not the one to point out that Michael Z might have left the theatre after only 20 minutes, but if that was true, the commentor thought it was audacious for him to write a review. Is that what you call a personal attack?
When he questions why Marsha would make Heathcliff a gypsy, is it a personal attack to cite the four places in the book Wuthering Heights where Bronte calls Heathcliff a “gipsy”? I don’t believe anyone in the comments section has used the word “stupid”. But if you are going to hold yourself out as someone qualified to be a critic of an award winning literary figure, you should at least have your facts straight. You should know the work you are reviewing; you should have at least read it, watched it or listened to it. But if you get called on the carpet for not knowing your facts, don’t blame anyone but yourself if it makes you feel less intelligent.
So in sum, there are many nice elements of this blog. Unfortunately, when you want to be nasty, you are very mean about it. If you haven’t noticed, there have not been many conference participants that want to have anything to do with this blog. Maybe that will change if you keep your arrows in your quiver.
Ah, the arrows in your quiver…
Mike S, I hear you loud & clear, over. Maybe banning will work. Dunno.
JM, the Peter B thing is clearly a private joke. There’s no legitimate case against Mike Z, legally; I looked. I’m sure Mr. B would realize what this site is actually about, or what it’s trying to be–and not fret too much that his name’s being thrown around or attached to reviews which reflect one man’s point-of-view. This isn’t the Times.
You’ve lost your sense of humor here and you’re peppered up by these posts, obviously. You’ve been called out on the carpet for your behavior, and now you threaten legal retaliation? Over what? Because Mike didn’t like Norman’s play? Because he fell asleep over Oates? His reviews have a biting edge to them, if he didn’t enjoy himself. So? That’s his style. I don’t think I’ve ever read a sweet, hand-holding bad review. And who says Mike HAS to be anything but himself here? Yeah, walking out of a play after 20 minutes & proceeding to review it is odd, but he’s making a harsh point. “I didn’t like the taste of that, so I didn’t eat it.” And his facts about what Oates read are incorrect. Again, the point is made: Mike Z no-like-a. His work and ideas are his own. I champion that, of course, because I have no interest in hearing sycophantic, gusher reviews, decorated with flowers and candy. I talk about what I don’t like, and I tend to shout praise. I really appreciate honesty–constructive or not–when I see it, because it’s so fucking rare these days.
He should be using the time to finish his memoir and personal essays, because, in my opinion, the subject matter’s more interesting. Not to be insultiing.
We’ve all had opportunities to write our own reviews of these readings–and plenty of chances to review the reviews. Use your voice, if you don’t like what you see. But don’t name call. That’s really not what’s happening here. It may SEEM this way to you, because perhaps you feel the writers you admire are given a raw deal–and you must defend them. Fine. Do them justice, then. This is done not by gunning Mike Z or anyone else down, but by supplying beneficial dialogue that will further knowledge, enlighten minds–and ultimately engage us.
Like Mike S said, disagreement is 100% okay. So disagree, but be productive about it. Like me. HA.
And as far as the usual suspects/quiet or low participant participation on this blog, how can you say for sure Norman or Oates aren’t listening right now? Hegi could be sending me anthrax as I type, pinching her nipples.
“I will pummel you, Dahnyell! I will make you cry!”
Reluctance to be heard doesn’t necessarily mean readers don’t like what they see, or they feel intimidated or unwelcome.
Maybe they’re actually writing up some fiction or poems or memoir or creative nonfiction or screenplays. New material to post on this blog.
I’m late for work now. Be well.
dz
Jean Marie Hazelton–
1. I think I was VERY clear on what I call a personal attack. (See the numerous examples in my previous comment).
2. I’m happy to see that there are actual substantial criticisms in that last comment from you. They’re both refreshing and satisfying to read.
3. You’re right. You never called anyone “stupid”. You simply wrote: “Maybe by sitting in the front row, everything she said went over your head.” Not a far cry. As far as inaccurate information in the post: it happens. We’re not the AP. This thing happened like seven weeks ago (though I haven’t fact-checked that), and some memories are rusty. Thank you for pointing out the errors, but there was simply no need for insults.
4. Danielle Z.’s got it right: “Use your voice, if you don’t like what you see. But don’t name call. That’s really not what’s happening here. It may SEEM this way to you, because perhaps you feel the writers you admire are given a raw deal–and you must defend them. Fine. Do them justice, then. This is done not by gunning Mike Z or anyone else down.”
As far as the availability of this blog, we made it as unavailable to search engines as possible. Mainly because the intended audience are the 120 or so people that attended the conference, not those who wade through the ephemera of the Web. Perhaps we should restrict access to only conference participants, but that would require an awful lot of work on our part for something you claim “many conference participants” want nothing to do with.
You know what–this was meant to be fun, and aside from things like this, it has been. Seriously: it’s a blog about a writer’s conference. No one is trying to invent cold fusion here (well, maybe St. George is). If you don’t like it, or feel that it’s “ugly,” please join the “many conference participants” who feel the same way, and don’t type the URL into your browser. We assure you: your disapproval has been heard loud and clear.
Can we get back to the fun now? Please?
I mike scalise
sorry that was supposed to say I “heart” mike scalise
“Hegi could be sending me anthrax as I type, pinching her nipples. “I will pummel you, Dahnyell! I will make you cry!”
you are fucking brilliant.
Nit picky…The story she read is called “High Lonesome.”
What’s the origin of the idiom “called on the carpet,” o “called out on the carpet?” Let’s talk about words, shall we? And Joyce was a little, just a tad, just a smidge drony. That, and the pushing at her hairline thing.
Origin guess, because I’m way too lazy and creative (ha) to Google: Something political? Confronting a candidate about where he/she stands? Is the House carpeted? Ha. Probably went back to England, though. They threw out carpet for the royals, I imagine. See? I could keep spinning this all day. Good times…
But I immediately went to our current red carpet–a dazed, unstable Brittany outside the VMAs being tormented by the press about what a loser she’s become, how she’s disappointed the entire universe, and why she thinks this is so…the hot lights, dizzying, rapid-fire questions. Poor Brit.
Maybe JCO wasn’t so engaging. If I’m honest, I drifted only in the beginning, with that blue grass music riff. Otherwise, it was solid. She pushed at her hairline? Off with her head! I’m kidding.
God, how hot is this thread? Woo! Hope you’re all well. –dz
Yeah, she did that push at her hairline thing. And, you know, there are a lot of things I can overlook: droning babble about shoes, politically insensitive ex-cops showing documentaries about their lousy movies, roaming packs of pretentious poets (how alliterative!)…but damnit, when a spooky famous broad starts fingering her forehead, I have to draw the line, throw down the gauntlet, take a stand, and other stuff like that.
Shit – I should’ve said, “when loquacious literary luminaries start fingering their foreheads….” I wish there were an edit function.
Actually, I think that was a damned good save.