February 20th, 2008
Today Lulu and I had a grand adventure. We were on our way to her 15-month checkup, and I stopped at Harvestime to get some milk. It was one of those Classic Chicago winter mornings, sunnier than June, with no leaves to block the sun, but only 12 degrees , with a -10 windchill. Is there anything more demoralizing than wrestling your child into a carseat, driving your icebox-mobile three blocks, popping the baby out, tearing down the sidewalk in the frigid air, only to discover that for unknown reasons, the city has shut down the only store nearby with organic milk? I turned around, Lulu straddling my hip, and unlocked the car, glad I hadn’t bothered to feed the meter. To fasten Lulu in the carseat, I peeled off my gloves and tossed the car keys into the front seat. I loosened the belts, pried her arms through the straps, snapped the buckles. I wriggled her hat on her head, a pink felt number with a purple rose and a band of faux pink wool. Then I wrapped her legs in a baby Pendleton and slammed the door. I climbed across the icy snowbank and around the car, but when I reached to open the door, it was locked.
When I’d tossed the keys over the front seat, didn’t I accidentally hit the lock button?
I grabbed my cell phone and called my husband, and mercifully, he wasn’t at his desk. What made me think that alarming him might be a good idea? I called 911.
“I locked my baby in the car.”
“Hold for the fire department.”
After I’d given my 20, and they’d promised to be there in a few minutes, I smiled in the window at Lulu, danced from foot-to-foot, and she smiled back at me, highlighting her gapped front teeth. Who knows what she thought–mama’s dancing outside! I couldn’t stand in the sunny spot, because she wouldn’t be able to see me, so I kept moving, wiggling my toes, regretting that vanity had kept me from wearing a hat (though my hair’s exceptionally huge at the moment). I tapped and waved, looking up and down Lawrence, until I heard the distant siren’s approach.
Tears sparked in my eyes, as I saw the firetruck–a big rig with lights flashing–barrel down the middle of the road just for me and Lulu. Oh foolishness! I waved them my way.
Five firemen descended and swarmed the car. They wore big black jackets trimmed in dayglo green, with their names etched along the bottom. One held a hatchet; one held a long steel jimmy.
“Are you going to have to break the window?”
“We hope not,” Moran said.
They peeled the window away from the rim, and one man wheedled the jimmy down to the armrest. They blocked my view of Lulu, so I ran to the other side of the car to see what she thought of the crowd of men circling our car. She stared at them with her mouth open, calm and observant.
“I can’t see,” the guy with the jimmy said.
“Get outta his way,” Moran ordered, and one fireman stepped away from the passenger side window. “You’re almost there. See. It’s on the armrest. Keep going, keep going…”
I relaxed. They were going to reach it. Next thing I knew, another fireman was opening the door for me.
“What do I owe you?” I asked.
“Nothing, ma’am,” Moran said. “Now, what’s your name?”
“Favorite,” I said. “Like your favorite person to rescue.”
“All right, Ma’am. Now, don’t be locking your baby in the car anymore.”
“I won’t.” I said.
Lulu giggled when I got back in the car, and within minutes was fast asleep. We made it to the doctor on time.
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February 5th, 2008
According to my agent at William Morris, starting February 5, nine Starbucks coffee shops in Monroe and Marysville, Washington, will carry The Heroines and four other books as part of a rapid-testing initiative. If the book sells out west, expansion to other stores may happen. (The two towns are outside of Seattle.) I’m competing with the likes of Ken Burns on this one, so keep your fingers crossed that somebody out there wants a shot of debut fiction with their venti skim macchiato or an escape to the prairie with their skinny cinnamon dolce latte. Or a rendez-vous with Scarlett with their double Americano. Or a bla-dah-blah dee with their schmana-schmana-schmana!
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January 28th, 2008
Here’s a provocative interpretation of the novel, from Mike F. Agree or disagree?
“I very much enjoyed the book, especially when I think I “got it”. I must admit, I may be completely off base, but I saw this novel as a complex study of a woman with mutiple personalities. The mother & 13 year old daughter being the 2 main personalities that were able to see the “heroines” which were additional personalities that come & go. Mother was the care taker of the mind- never wanting to alter a visiting personality’s destiny and who kept the visiting personality from discovering that other personalities exists (other than Mother & Penny), because if that ever happened, madness would result, which occurs when the King wants to see Dierdrie which results in Mother losing control of the personalities, resulting in the trip to the psychic ward. Gretta the housekeeper was the strong one to take care of any problems. When Penny was committed to the mental ward, she created another character/personality to help her cope with the new surroundings- Florence the nurse, who was kind and kept an eye on her.
I loved the authors use of the Heroine’s state of mind being determined by what section of the novel the heroine hails from. It allowed the author to explore the many moods of the character- from happy to sad to depressed to confused, etc.
This is the most unique book I’ve ever experienced. I still have ongoing thoughts about the characters and which ones were real and which were a personality.
I definitely need to reread the book to see if my theories are correct, and if I am correct, I think the book cover should hint that this novel deals with mental health issue of multi personalities, but maybe the point of the book is to have the reader decide/interpret what the book reveals to themselves. Definitely a different journey for each reader.
I also think this book screams for a sequel.
If I am 100% wrong in my interpretation of the book, I apologize, but I had fun reading it, and will enjoy it even more when I reread it based on my multiple personality theory.”
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January 16th, 2008
I was delighted with Kevin Nance’s piece in the Chicago Sun Times last weekend, when he said,
as a metafiction, The Heroines allows Favorite to spoof the conventions of fairy tales and 19th century women’s literature; the prairie around Anne-Marie’s house shares distinct characteristics with the moor in Wuthering Heights, while the nearby forest, where Penny first encounters Conor, feels soaked in the mystery and enchantment of the Brothers Grimm.”
He’s one of the first to see the way I’m playing with literary conventions. Penny’s running smack into all the romantic notions of girlhood (the dashing stranger, the danger of the Woods), and yet she’s an anti-Heroine/anti-Princess herself–bratty, awkward, a bastard–not “to the manor born.” Her castle, the Prairie Homestead, relies on commerce (a B & B) for survival.
Nance also understood the postmodern and metafictional aspects of The Heroines. The fabulous experimental poet Daniel Borzutzky once asked if I felt nervous appropriating characters from other novels. For the most part, I modeled Flann O’Brien’s playfulness in At-Swim-Two-Birds and didn’t take the characters too seriously. By calling authors “despotic” in their use and abuse of characters, O’Brien essentially takes all authors down a peg, revealing how we work: we just have to keep making life harder for our characters. I did have to rein in my use of Franny Glass, since her story’s still under copyright. I even deleted a section where she reappears late in my novel, because those of the legal/litigious persuasion deemed my use unfair and equal to a sequel. Jonathan Lethem, in an essay in Harper’s, asserted that all writers should have free rein with each others’ characters. Is nothing new in fiction? I wonder how I would feel if Penny appeared in somebody else’s novel. . .
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