Ann Patchett

It was thrilling to meet Ann Patchett last night at the Peterborough Players and to hear her talk about her life in books. She is such an accomplished and engaging speaker. A few different times she remarked, “I do the best I can.” I love that message about moving on from second-guesses. “Fiction takes us outside of ourselves,” she said, “it’s an empathetic act.”

This morning I woke up early to perfect light in a silent household – just right for finishing up the last pages of Run while the dogs were out doing just that. When it was first published, a friend lent me her hardback copy and I read it in one sitting out on the old couch in our greenhouse room. Much of the plot is centered on a twenty-four hour period, and it was pure pleasure to take in that book all at once. It was like those moments in traveling when you are completely keyed to a particular experience; the landscape of it all becomes indelible.

This week, however, I enjoyed rereading Ann Patchett's most recent novel while in no great hurry to turn pages and discover what is happening next in the plot. There is such satisfaction in reading a book over again; phrases are savored and sentence structure admired. This is a story of adoption within adoption, of hope and a race for being better as human beings. It’s a run.

A half hour later the household was still asleep and the dogs were back at the bottom of the bed. I pulled out the volume I purchased yesterday as something for the author to sign, What Now, a commencement address Ann Patchett delivered at her alma mater, Sarah Lawrence. A tribute to her friends and teachers, the speech is very much about paying attention. My favorite line is, “I breathed that wisteria.”

To tell the truth, this little hardback from Harper Collins really needed a good book designer. It’s not laid out well and the pictures didn’t print well on the paper, all of which distract from reading the words themselves. Perhaps this piece really just belongs on 8 ½ x 11, or would be better listened to on audio. And speaking of publishers, my edition of Run has a typo. It’s in the back, in the description of Bel Canto. I love my odd proofreading gift and saw the Roxanne Cross right away. Errors like this are fuzzy and lift up off the page; they vibrate a bit. The opera singer’s name is Roxanne Coss. Doesn't every one know that?

It was so much fun to hear Ann Patchett talk about writing Bel Canto. She knew nothing about opera when she began, and now she has been backstage at the Met lying on a stage set bed with the soprano just before the curtain went up – what fun! Clearly, she knows all about experiencing delight while watching and listening. She recalled an oven cleaner commercial that reminds her of what it’s like to write. A woman is out playing tennis and shouts out, “I’m cleaning my oven right now!” Writers are in the right now, noticing everything for later.

There was a lot of synchonicity for me last night. I gave Ann the letter I wrote her yesterday afternoon (see post at Cupcake Chronicles). It was in an airmail envelope and she looked hard at me, “You’ll hear more about this in a few minutes," she said. Later when she read us the first pages of the untitled book she’s working on now, airmail stationery is an important part of the way a message is delivered to kick off the unraveling plot of a pharmaceutical company in Brazil and the death of a doctor. Ann is married to a doctor and found herself talking about her marriage quite a bit. She is very witty.

A favorite moment occurred for me when she was talking about books she loves. Some one asked for her favorite and of course she doesn’t have one. Who does? That would be like choosing a favorite flower in the garden – sometimes it’s one lone gorgeous flower and then it may be a whole display. Sometimes we’re remembering gardens from other times or anticipating blossoms not yet in bloom. They are all favorites, or not. It changes.

But then Ann began to talk about Madame Bovary, a book she taught over and over again. In my note yesterday I wrote a bit about Laura Brown, who, like Emma Bovary, reads passionately and addictively. Ann is thinking these days about why people read and the role fiction plays in our society. I love that. Henry James was mentioned (an author I read passionately, addictively), and I wanted to tell her about the Jamesians, the HJ Scholars who meet up in Paris, Venice and Newport. She would have fun with all that -- the pursuit of a single subject.

A writer like Ann Patchett needs a reader like me. Or the books do, they need readers like both of us. When she mentioned The Leopard I was taken aback. This is absolutely one of my all-time favorite novels and I’ve read it over and over again. I have even traveled to the island of Lampedusa (the book is written by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa; I have his biography). In the Italian, Gattopardo is not a leopard but an ocelot that was hunted in the Sicilian mountains. I have long wanted to write about that novel which is set during during Risorgimento, a profound time in Italy’s history. Perhaps I could invent a modern-day Tancredi. Now that’s all come up again.

Meanwhile, the early morning slant of light has turned into mid-morning. Three other human beings are awake now and trolling the house; clearly it’s time for me to move on from books and writing and into the day at hand. Going to this event last night was very inspiring. Sometimes I feel alone in my thoughts, but I am realizing that this is part of who I am as a listener and observer. A rich interior life is both the driving force and the reward.

Last night Ann Patchett remarked about being a writer, “I am a professional imaginer.” Last night I got to breath that wisteria.