Here’s a pic of Lily Brett’s reading at the McNally Robinson bookstore last night. I’d never been there before and it reminded me of a combination of Gleebooks and Ariel. Usually the bookstore gets about 30 people to its regular readings, but Lily attracted about 75. Her publicist was thrilled.

Meet iHome, a wonderful invention for docking my iPod and allowing me to hear my music library, set the alarm clock, listen to National Public Radio (the closest thing to Radio National I can find), and recharge my iPod – all at once. I think of it more as my iSanity.

I don’t think it’s available in Australia yet, but here this has already been superseded by more sophisticated versions. Meaning larger, more powerful ones. I think those of you who are interested should start badgering Harvey Norman et al, asap.

I’m breathless with excitement as I tell you I came face to face with “Felicity” herself today – in the lobby of my building! Kerri Russell is the actress who plays Felicity, one of those shows for which I only saw the ads. She looked gorgeous, radiantly healthy and thin, but not in a skeletal way. Or, as Carrie Fisher’s character puts it in When Harry Met Sally,“your basic nightmare”. If that doesn’t date me, I should start ring-barking myself.

Near the Strand Bookstore is a little Diner with the most charming Mexican waiter. I have been there once or twice now. I don’t go there for the food – if this stay was about the quality of food I’d have returned to Australia already – but it’s just a relatively cheap place to rest those Manhattan-weary feet.

I had a chuckle when looking through the drinks menu I saw listed “Cafe Ole”. That’s milk, with a flick of your wrist.

I ventured inside the Strand Bookstore the other day. A maze for grown-ups, it’s almost impossible not to lose an hour at this grand old store at the corner of Broadway and 11th Street. Often that’s how long it takes just to move around the stacks of books and the people who love to browse through them. Continue Reading »

On 72nd Street outside a small shop there’s a coin-operated Bob the Builder ride for little ones. Until today I’d never heard it in action. But when I walked past this afternoon, a mother watched her son enjoying his ride in the toy-mobile, singing along to the Bob the Builder song, which – you guessed it - dubbed into an American voice. What’s wrong with Bob’s English accent? And who’s Barb the Builder? His Missus?

What a treat to catch a train “downtown” and walk a few blocks to a hip Chelsea bar called the Half-King to hear Sebastian Junger discuss and read from his new book, Death in Belmont. I was very amused to arrive early, be seated alone at a table, then watch as other women arrived in ones and twos, with hardly a man in sight. Thank goodness he’s a good writer, otherwise he’d just be making a fortune from those chiselled good looks. (Fortunately a few men turned up eventually and we were quite a gender-balanced crowd.)

The Half-King is Junger’s own venue – what every writer needs (he co-owns it with another journalist/novelist Scott Anderson). But there was nothing tacky about this ostensible conflict of interest. There were no books for sale. On the contrary, the author almost assumed we’d all read it. Every last woman of us. He read, he mused, he was charming but he was not arrogant. Truly impressive. Even more amazing, question time was actually full of … questions.

My friend Madeleine and I had to share our table for the sake of squeezing everybody in. Unfortunately our table-companions turned out to be a pretentious pair. The man asked Junger the first question, then literally turned his back on proceedings and went about texting messages and receiving calls on his phone. The woman had already endeared herself to us by relating, irrespective of an invitation, her variety of expertise in the areas of writing and publishing. “Do you know Sebastian?” she continued, a question designed precisely to establish the fact that she indeed knew “Sebastian” whereas we knew only “Sebastian Junger”. It’s the sort of question that women ask and understand perfectly of each other; and which men might listen to but never hear.

By some telecommunications coincidence I have been receiving a few calls each week from people asking, “Is that Gymboree?” At first I thought they were saying “jamboree”, inferring that my place was somehow identified in the phone book as the site of an ongoing “celebration or party” (the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition, not mine).

Alas, no. Somehow my landline number is mistakenly registered on the website of Gymboree, a kiddies’ clothing store. After contacting them via their website, I’ve received an apologetic response and the news that their IT department is “actively locating the error”.

Lily Brett is finally online, thanks to the efforts of her long-term editor, yours truly. Check out http://www.lilybrett.com and tell me what you think. Her latest novel, with the arresting title You Gotta Have Balls, was published in Australia in October last year. It’s only being launched in the USA next Thursday 29 June at McNally Robinson in NoLiTa (a twilight zone shared by Little Italy, SoHo, the Lower East Side and Chinatown). Yes, there are a couple of independent bookstores remaining. I think of them with particular triste as I sip my cappuccino in Barnes & Noble.

Never in my life did I imagine I would have a book dedicated to me. And then the most remarkable thing happened: a wonderful novel was dedicated to me and John, and it was called You Gotta Have Balls. He would have chuckled at that.

Attended, reluctantly, a party near Columbus Circle last weekend. I accepted the last-minute invitation because it was from a brand-new friend and I didn’t want to seem uninterested in her wider social circle.

On arrival at the swanky split-level studio apartment, both she and I were horrified to find ourselves surrounded by financial services types who were utterly superficial. Put it this way: I had to sit and listen to a man, not much younger than me, discourse on how Paris Hilton had influenced his choice of sunglasses. He then turned to me and asked, “So, what brand of sunglasses do you wear?’

I said, “Ones that work.” He didn’t get it.

Last night was my last class in the ten-week playwrighting course I took through Gotham Writers’ Workshop.  I can’t believe ten weeks have disappeared already – although my mother just informed me that she easily could.

More tales of our last class to come. For now, before I try to sleep in this sticky unseasonably early August-style weather (for Australian readers, think returning to work in February sans air conditioner), one delicious coincidence. I found a Chinese restaurant to eat in before I went to class. I was about to be critiqued by my colleagues on a short play I’d just finished. Presented with my change and a fortune cookie, I couldn’t resist. What did it say?

“If you have no critics you’ll likely have no success.”

I’ve always wondered about ghost writers – who are they? What do they do when they’re not “ghosts”? How are they paid? Exploring the “blogosphere” I came across this article via MediaBistro.

My curiosity has been piqued because I recently met a fabulous woman from Ukraine who wants me to ghostwrite her amazing story. Should I? What do you think?

It appears that John Updike’s latest book Terrorist will be his best selling novel in some time, despite some pretty ordinary reviews. It’s the most-reviewed book of 2006 and has attracted 28 full-length reviews from among top-50 circulation newspapers in the US (according to PublishersLunch statistics). The Wall Street Journal’s review of the novel was, by its own admission, “terrible”.  However, the book is already in its sixth reprint, meaning almost 120,000 hard covers in print. Tips for publicising your book? Continue Reading »

Today’s a first. I was called “rude” in my local grocery store … by a couple of older Australians. They took me for an obnoxious local when in fact I was trying to get out of their way. Fairway, the shop Upper West Side types love to hate, is always packed, always noisy, with trolley traffic jams in the aisles that make Saturday morning at Coles serene by comparison. The checkout queues, however, put the Australian supermarkets to shame, because they move very quickly. The downside is you have to get used to being yelled at by the queue “traffic managers”. (I’m trying but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.) These people have the unenviable job of identifying the next available cashier and screaming at the lined-up shoppers, “Next step down!”. The pace is Olympic in the express lanes. Our unfortunate couple had just finished buying their groceries and unwittingly pushed in front of me in the express lane (one line, two parallel lines of cashiers). I said nothing, distinguishing me from most locals, as the pair were clearly tourists (says she who’s been here for just under three months). The problem was that they were not responding to the cries of “Next step down!” and several cashiers had now been idle for precious seconds. Suddenly the woman of the pair noticed me and said, “Ooh, have we pushed in?” in that distinctive flat accent. I responded politely, “It doesn’t matter” and moved to one of the freed-up cashiers. Next thing I know the husband moves past me and sneers, “Doan be zo blahdy rood!”. Did I do something wrong?

How fantastic to have a laugh at the oddities of American life with people who share the Australian sense of humour. Today I caught up with Lou, Rob and James (aka my tenants) who are on a month-long odyssey through the USA. We bought food at Zabar’s (a New York institution) and took it down to Riverside Park, my local walking track/backyard and the closest greenery to the visitors’ hotel. After our picnic we ventured to a waterside cafe open on weekends, only to find that proper coffee wasn’t available “because we turn off our espresso machine at noon”. And Australians are considered unsophisticated!

Crucially, they also brought me a huge jar of Vegemite. Quite a relief, as my traveller’s tube had become anorexic.

As a result of attending the wedding of complete strangers last weekend, I have accrued enough brownie points with my friend and colleague John to guarantee I’ll never go hungry again. Continue Reading »

One thing that’s infinitely cheaper in New York is a subscription to the New Yorker magazine. I’m paying only $1 per issue! Even in US dollars it’s a bargain. I used to subscribe from Australia for about $500 a year. Well, for the one year I pretended I could afford it.

Anyway, I’m reproducing here a fabulous snippet from a local newspaper that made it into a small corner of a recent issue under the heading “We Don’t Want to Hear About It Department”:

“You see, Google wants, needs, us to trust it because it has great plans. It wants us to feel free to load all the information we want into Google Base to create the largest suppository of information on the planet.”

In my efforts to find a professional toehold in the enormous US publishing industry, I’ve been conducting lots of research on online marketing trends and promotion for authors. A few nights ago I attended a class at MediaBistro, an organisation which publishes a valuable daily newsletter with industry news and links to the best media blogs, and runs classes on everything from establishing your own media business to writing a memoir.

I attended “Perfect Pitch” to learn techniques for “selling yourself, your client, and your business”. Ah, the shackles of modesty seem positively quaint over here. There was a distinct absence of modesty in our presenter who, though providing many practical and honest suggestions, provided way too much personal information. How can it be that, days later, I can remember how old she is, how old her daughter is, the ethical dilemma she faced in rejecting a story idea from a former lover, and the last time she had a date? She gave us each her card, but I’m not sure what to do with it – give it to the next available man I meet?

It’s taken me almost three months, but I finally ate a Thai meal here this week that would have passed muster in Sydney. One of the indispensable tools of living in Manhattan – alongside a Metro ticket, walking shoes, and a robust attitude – is the annual Zagat survey of New York City restaurants. You can find recommendations by cuisine, location, price range, breakfast, lunch or dinner – quite daunting for an Apple Girl looking for a reasonably priced taste of Thai.

Zagat directed me to Kin Khao (“Eat Rice”) in SoHo, where I kicked back with a glass of riesling and a flavoursome Pad See Ew. While it satisfied my culinary craving, ultimately it made me feel a little homesick. I’ll be back.

The last thing I expected when I moved to New York City was to meet my neighbours. However on Tuesday – 060606 – our neighbour Terry, who has a huge apartment on the floor below ours, hosted a cocktail party featuring the photographs of yet another neighbour, Ben, and his wife Joanie. The photographs were hung all over the apartment – one even directly over the bathtub – and were organised by subject: New York, Paris, South Beach (Florida). I have no understanding of Florida’s enduring appeal for residents of other US states, although my information is restricted to occasional episodes of CSI: Miami, hurricanes, and the few photographs at this exhibition/party.

There was an excess of wine and a distinct absence of nibblies, and Ben and Joanie sold eight photographs. I don’t know if the no-nibblies strategy had any bearing on the number of sales.

The featured photograph is of a fountain in Central Park.

I was most amused to find Kuching sitting snugly on my brand new laptop the other day, as comfortable as you please. She seemed a lot more at ease at the keyboard than I often am. Unfortunately she’s not really interested in my attempt to delegate tasks.

My first weekend out of the city took place last weekend. I came face to face with the beauty of Shelter Island, which sits prettily between the north fork of Long Island, known for its wineries, and the south fork, known for the Hamptons. My friend Lara joined me – ostensibly for tennis, but the rain put paid to that – and we explored the gorgeous house we called home for a few days as well as the grey hues of the wet surrounds. It reminded me of the Hawkesbury River and the south coast of New South Wales. And the lack of white noise! Perfect.

 

Hello after several rainy days’ absence. I’ve started my new job, and I spent the last weekend on Shelter Island (two hours’ north-east of New York City between the North and South forks of Long Island), so I’ve been remiss in updating my blog. It’s been pouring with rain here for almost a week straight. I’m told this is unseasonal, unusual, unwelcome; I don’t mind it because rain is not something I’m used to seeing so regularly.

My “room-mate” Sally took these pics from our apartment of a sudden and intense snowstorm that hit Manhattan in the first week I was here. While retrospective, I think they’re quite stunning and in a perverse way I’m looking forward to experiencing my first northern hemisphere winter. (I’m sure I’ll quickly get over its novelty when it happens.)

 

I saw an extremely powerful production of Waiting for Godot last week, by the Classical Theatre of Harlem. The director’s decision to set the play in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina worked beautifully. The two central characters were perched on a partially destroyed rooftop (see pic) surrounded by flood water. This meant that not only did the actors spend a lot of their time in water, but the audience was often splashed, which only lent the production more potency. It was difficult to watch at times – when Vladimir writes ‘Godot’ in large chalk letters on the roof in a desperate appeal for help, or when Pozzo enters on a rubber dinghy holding a rope, the other end of which is around Lucky’s neck – but I wish everyone could see this production.

Ironically in the second half of the play rain started pouring in behind a partition at the back of the theatre due to a massive storm outside which had found an entry point. So I had water in front of me and water behind me during the play – a full immersion, “as it were”. When I left the theatre, I was promptly drenched as of course I had no umbrella. I left little puddles at my feet on the train coming back downtown.