I’ve recently done two author interviews, which  both asked about my current writing project.  In each case I managed a three sentence response that included some plot and some theme and an accelerated heart rate.  I get nervous telling strangers what I’m working on.  Or anyone besides my writing group and boyfriend.  The novel is giving me the jitters.  A year ago I was fine telling people the title, now I have to get around a jolt of paranoia before I speak the words.  I think this is a case of writing impatience.  These novels take a long time to write.  I want to be writing everyday, but I have a full-time job and usually only eke out a couple half days of writing a week.  This will not do.  Also, I’ve been working on the new novel- no titles here- for over three years.  I’ve been referring to the draft I’m working on as a second draft.  But I recently had a paradigm shift that its actually the third and fourth draft.  Without boring you with the details, I can attest that the math works out.  So, if this is the 3rd and 4th draft underway, when I get to the end, again, it seems reasonable to show it to my agent.  I’m starting to brighten up.

Which leads us to Ganesh.  Yes, the new novel deals with a Hindu deity or two and Buddhism gets a lot of page time.  But, novel aside, I’ve come to receive comfort from many a Eastern tradition and from the mere sight of Ganesh.  I’ve been surrounded by Ganesh my whole life, starting with a red, wooden elephant on wheels, with a string, that I pulled behind me for years as a toddler.  I have many elephants, and although not all elephants are Ganesh…they are.  My new novel also contains a tribute to my grandma who died in 2001, but remains with me each day, intensified by her appearing as a character in this novel.  I’m quite certain my grandmother never heard of Ganesh.  When I moved back to New York at the age of twenty-three, I brought one or two elephants with me that had always been with me.  I immediately noticed something.  My 83 year-old grandmother’s apartment on the Lower East Side was full of elephants.  Her collection now lives with mine- quite a stampede.

The Remover of Obstacles and Lord of Beginnings does help me fight the writing impatience and on some days, like today, he also trumpets- “Get on with it!”  

In recent weeks I’ve been on a very successful hunt.  Since taking a book promotion class on-line a few months ago, I’ve had the thought in the back of my mind that I need to tap into the blogosphere.  My first step was in March- with starting this blog.  Which I will say, was done hesitantly.  It took a bit of convincing for me to think I could make use of- and enjoy!- having an author website and blogging.  This is somewhat about being shy, and more so about timidly taking on a writer’s identity.  But I have found so much joy in embracing my identity as a writer and in building a stronger writing life in the last two years as The Sign for Drowning left my own computer.  It’s been all pleasure– except for the writing days that have been terrible.

So, a few weeks ago I discovered an amazing collection of on-line groups- which contain hundreds of members all of whom blog about books, do book reviews, or are authors, and all avid readers.  I’ve been crawling through the members and their blogs ever since and have found no shortage of totally interesting, entertaining, fun, and like-minded writers/bloggers/readers/people. 

One of the best relationships I’ve made so far is with Sheila DeChantal.  She has a chock-full blog that dazzles the eye and is hard to leave once you’re perusing.  She was so gracious as to interview me, review my book (upcoming) and give away two signed copies of my paperback in one her giveaway contests.  On top of all that- she takes care of business lickety-split.  The other great find was Book Club Queen.  Desiree at Book Club Queen reviews books and makes recommendations for book clubs.  She’s astute in her reviewing, and made me think about my writing style anew.  Thanks to both of them!

There is a pun in this blog entry title.  Coincidentally, when my parents took us as small children to England, my sister and I saw a streaker on the street in London and were inspired to streak in the halls of our hotel that night.  But here I am referring to a reading streak.

I recently went on a furious McEwan streak.  Last year, I enjoyed the great fortune of Bret Lott comparing my novel to The Child in Time by Ian McEwan.  When I first saw his blurb I was dismayed- embarrassed really.  I asked my publisher if it was allowed!  It was.  My British friend, Alan, calls me the American McEwan- very sarcastically.  Anyway- it was very kind of Lott- and I hadn’t read the book.  I’d read Atonement, Amsterdam and Enduring Love and loved them all, but I hadn’t actually heard of the much earlier- A Child in Time.  I ran out and read it and loved it as well and I admit- I could see how McEwan had grown.  This summer, I decided to finish off McEwan.  I began with The Cement Garden- a very slim and distubing novel- and excellent.  And then Saturday and On Chesil Beach.  Saturday is self-referential and drops a line about The Child in Time.  Which felt like McEwan was winking at me personally.  On Chesil Beach utterly surprised me when I assumed I knew what takes place in a post-nuptial hotel room.  McEwan is a master craftsman.

I hopped over to Ireland, like a Brit on holiday.  A lot of years ago I read Roddy Doyle’s, The Woman Who Walked Into Doors.  I thought he was little known and that I’d discovered a gem.  I kept my copy, but didn’t need to.  The book was totally unforgettable for me, but I failed to keep reading Doyle.  A week ago I read Paula Spencer, the woman (who walked into doors) and the sequel.  Even though perhaps a decade has passed, the first book leapt up in my mind and I couldn’t get enough of seeing what happened to Paula and her children.  I feel I could read a serial a day about the family for the rest of my life. 

But one thing got me.  The Irish critics on the back of the book said the book was hysterical, so much fun, a great laugh.  Now, I’m not Irish but I thought myself capable of catching tone.  This book about a physically abused alcoholic woman and her alcoholic child wasn’t “so much fun.”  Maybe in retrospect it had a lot of humor.  

But who could say, when two nights ago I finished The Snapper- and was laughing out loud all the way through.

As everybody already knows, Roddy Doyle can friggin write.

Last night I sat in my car for twenty minutes and listened to Frank McCourt on NPR taped in 2005.  He re-framed the memoir with Angela’s Ashes, giving it the credibility and linguistic beauty of any prose, and raising the bar for all memoirists I think.  And he’s more than lovely to listen to on the air as well, as his many NYC students could attest.  As Roddy Doyle would say, he’s grand.

I don’t think I’ll be leaving the United Kingdom just yet.