Writing the hard stuff, and finally some good news
making book
Forgive me while I become a publicist for a hot minute.
Last week, Ori went to Yetzirah, which is a weeklong Jewish poetry conference, but we have been referring to it as “Jewish Poetry Camp.” He brought back many books by his classmates and teachers, a 32-oz jar of peanut butter, a somewhat flattened loaf of bread, and an enormous canister of marshmallow fluff. Apparently he went grocery shopping on the first day, thinking he might not have someone to eat with for all the meals, but ended up eating every meal with another person from the conference, making lots of connections and generally having a great time. He came home tired and very happy. We are eating the bread, the peanut butter, and perhaps eventually we will get through the vat of marshmallow fluff. And he came home with the news that his first book of poems, Where Babies Come From, is now available for preorder from Cornerstone Press. There will be a book launch event and some other cool things. If you preorder, we will send you a porcelain tooth in the mail, or a clay bee or something. Just email me with your receipt and your address. There is a lot of dental anxiety in this book. Also bees. Preorders help a lot, especially when publishing with a small press. Relatedly, if you are a books/media person, please let me know if you are interested in a copy for possible review or interview.
A couple things people have said about the book already:
“Kind of like Russell Edson, but with more birds and more citrus, and thus with significantly more feathers and significantly less scurvy. Ori Fienberg’s debut is gently zany and wonderfully absurd in the best possible ways.” - Brian Evenson, author of The Glassy, Burning Floor of Hell
“This is a book of possibilities disguised as a book of poems; it’s a delightful catalogue of parallel worlds and what ifs and world problems as word problems. It’s elegant but wild; a raucous party in the subconscious…These pieces are things of meaning, things of hidden meaning and overt meaning, things of wordplay and sound and light and great sadness and understanding and they are very, very good.” - Amber Sparks, author of And I Do Not Forgive You
I spent the week at home with our highly anxious dog, who received a variety of treats and chews over the fourth of July holiday. I did some writing, but not enough, spent some time in the garden, but not enough, went to the barn and rode horses, but not enough. Worked on house projects, but not enough. I spent hours on Zillow, looking at incredible houses, because this is what I do when I’m stressed. (Flip to the studio! The studio!) I remodeled our apartment in my head. I started a new save of Stardew Valley. I organized my studio space a little, wedged clay, put some tiles in the test kiln.
In doing all of this, I spread myself thin in an almost entirely symmetrical way. I know that a lot of my avoidance is about the new book and how hard it is. Because all books are hard. I hope this one is more mature, more complicated, more contemplative. I think the book is about me, of course, and it’s weird, and it’s hard to explain to other people, because I am in the middle of it. There is a way to describe part of the book, the stuff of what happened, but then there is the real subject, floating beneath the nominal one. The book is about a lot of different things, it seems, maybe more and more every day. Part of it goes something like this: how do you grieve someone who is still living?
I am writing to find out, to make sense of what happened. My brother burned down my parents’ house, was booked for felony arson, got into a second chances program, was neutrally discharged from the program because he could not complete it, carries a diagnosis of ASPD—antisocial personality disorder—among other issues. Now, he lives in a windowless 5’x8’ cargo trailer in my parents’ driveway.
The standard treatment for ASPD is that the people affected by the person receive supportive therapy, because the person with ASPD cannot change. They may mellow with age, and I hope, forever, that this is the case with my brother. I think about it every day. But they don’t operate in the same way that other people do. Periodically I scan through the diagnostic criteria, to see if maybe they didn’t get him, maybe someone missed what was really going on, but he seems to check all the boxes every time. Sometimes I think about how he used to have more of a sense of humor, how he was so funny, how he wrote music or rode his bike or spent time with friends. Now, he doesn’t seem to do any of those things. He has not worked in a very long time. He receives support from our parents.
I want to connect with him, but I know it’s not possible, just superficial nonsense. When we’ve spoken, whatever he says is devoid of information. He agrees to everything, puts on a different personality for each interaction, tries to get you to say yes to whatever he wants, but won’t actually do anything himself. Everything is easy, no problem, according to him, but nothing actually is. The less he interacts with people, the less he seems to be able to interact with people. There are no other people in his life, outside from minor interactions with family. At the same time, I worry about others entering his life, especially someone who might be vulnerable. I miss him, or the idea of him. Mostly, I’m writing because I don’t understand: the person I maybe thought I knew and grew up with turned out to be an inflexible, facile stranger.
Of course the book is not really about him. It’s about me. Or my decisions. My flexibility, or lack thereof. It’s a weird book, but it’s starting to cohere. Everything feels like an impossible task. A few days ago, when I was having big feelings and explaining them, Ori said I had to let someone into the book, and maybe it should be him. It makes sense. He edited my first book. A truth: I had not sent pages to anyone: not to my editor or agent, not to friends. Not to Ori. A couple of friends have seen maybe 1500 words. That’s it. So now I’m starting to print pages, to give sections to Ori to read. Last night, I sent Ori 63,000 words. I have to let someone in. It’s due in September. I will make my deadline.