Happy Ending's Reading

Jennifer Banash, author of Hollywoodland: An American Fairy Tale, will be reading at the Happy Ending's Reading Series from 8:00-10:00 pm (doors open @ 7 pm) on Wednesday, November 29th along with Alix Strauss, Robert Marshall, and Mila Drumke. The address is 302 Broome Street @ Forsythe. Take the B or D to Grand Street or the F J M Z to Delancy. If you're in the NY area, come on down and enjoy the show. You'll enjoy the added bonus of watching Jennifer make a fool of herself during the "public risk" portion of the performance-which is reason enough to trek down to Chinatown if you ask me.

Thanksgiving

This year, I feel we have a lot to be thankful for--most recently, the fact that Impetus Press has been picked up by Biblio book distribution, and that Impetus titles will now be available in bookstores nation wide. Most impertantly, I can finally get these damn books out of my apartment. Yay!

I'm also thankful for our authors, who impress me daily with their talent, bravery, and determination. Not to mention Willy Blackmore, who is the best co-publisher a girl could have. Thanks, Willy.

The review and podcast of the Impetus Press reading at the KGB Bar in NYC has finally made it's way online. Unfortunetly, it's buried in back pages of the archive and the following link is the closest I can get you to it. You'll have to scroll down until you see a picture of Jennifer and I--then read from there.

Both Kate Hunter's The Dream Sequence and Jennifer Banash's Hollywoodland: An American Fairy Tale have new reviews floating around out there on the internet. As a publisher, I have bones to pick with both, but I guess that's just the way it has to be. Here are the links so you can check them out yourselves.

Hollywoodland Review

The Dream Sequence Review

I've Got the Guns, Bitches: My Almost-Liberation From LOST


Who do these LOST bitches think they are? Really. First they hook me with two breath-stopping, action-packed first and second seasons, and THEN they have the nerve to pull the rug out from me with this, should I say, boring third season that has all the suspense of an episode of The Young and the Restless. NOW, to and insult to injury, they're now pulling this going-on-haitus-for-sixteen weeks-bullshit. And it has me hopping mad--or at least switching off my TV in disgust. Do the writers of LOST really think our addiction is so unstoppable that they can pull this klind of bullshit and we'll still show up, drooling in front of the TV like hungry puppies when they finally decide to resume the season in Feburary? (that was a rhetorical question, in case you missed the blatant sarcasm)

LOST is on the cusp of becoming an evil, all-encroaching super-power--much like Starbucks. You've gotten too big for your britches, LOST, and I think you need to be taken down a peg or two. And, I for one am not falling for your island-mind-games. Do you hear me, LOST? I refuse to be captive to your limp-wristed intimdation tactics. After all, unlike Sawyer and Kate, the only cage I'm trapped on is one of my own making. No longer will I tell everyone I meet that LOST is the best show ever. No longer will I buy your overpriced box sets for family and friends during the holiday season. No more will I program my Tivo weeks in advance, checking it one, or two tiimes each wednesday night, JUST TO BE SURE its working properly. Nope, not me. Going on haitus? Just test me, bitches, just fucking TRY me. Because I am one fickle, stubborn bitch. You go on vacation, have a lovely time languishing on those Hawaiian beaches, and, in the meantime, I'll become addicted to America's Next Top Model or The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. After all, LOST isn't the only show on television that can boast quality programming. . . Maybe I'll even forget about you entirely. THEN where will you be, huh? Who's laughing NOW?

Clearly LOST has no idea who they're dealing with. And Sawyer and Jack are not THAT cute. I will not tune in each week just for the glorious pleasure of seeing Sawyer half-naked for 60, bliss-filed minutes. Although I might be seriously tempted. . . . Even if I did turn it on, for say, five minutes, naturally I would never tell anyone about it . . . And if I don't tell anyone, then it doesn't count. So there.

Damn you, LOST. Damn you all to hell.

Fires author Nick Antosca reads at The Class of 2007 Reading Series

If you live in NYC or are going to be in the area on November 8th, be sure to head down to the Box Car Lounge to hear Nick Antosca read from his new book, Fires, which will be released by Impetus mid-December.

The Class of 2007 Reading Series is hosted by Jami Attenberg (author of Instant Love) and highlights the work of first time authors publishing their debut works this year.

The Boxcar Lounge is located at 168 Ave B (10th/11th).

Go check it out!

Thanks, But No Thanks-- Or, Having To Say No

Saying no is something that doesn't come easily to me-- but, as a publisher, its something both Willy and I have to do every day--whether we like it or not. Although our submission requirements and our mission statement are posted clearly, in bold on our website, every day we get queries from people who haven't bothered to read them. This results in an inbox clogged with submissions we wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole--not because they're not viable projects in their own right, but because its just not what we do. We publish no genre function at all-- and that includes mysteries, thrillers, romances, chick-lit, and adventure fiction. Oh, and by the way--we don't publish non-fiction either. Or poetry--a fact which doesn't adequately explain why I got a package of handwritten poems in my Post Office box last month . . .

Often times I leave the rejections to Willy, as he's far more tactful than I (I'm a New Yorker. And a bitch. So sue me). There's also the added issue of the fact that when I write rejections, no matter how nice I am, many, (usually male) writers decide to respond by being complete and utter assholes. Now, I don't know when this whole "let's be rude to publishers to get some attention" thing came into Vogue--probably around the time Gerard Jones became infamous for his website Everyone Who's Anyone. I actually really like Gerard, and respect what he does, but I can't understand how some writers think its a good idea to send threatening, insulting, or harassing emails to prospective publishers. Its going to get you remembered all right--but for totally the wrong reason. Maybe its a gender thing--and I suspect it is. Because I can, and often do, write rejections on Willy's email account (hey, there's only two of us--sometimes we have to multitask), and I have never once encountered rudeness in doing so under the guise of a male persona. I'm also willing to believe it might simply be a coincidence, but I have a sneaking suspicion its not.

The point is, we hate having to say no--we want Impetus to be this alternative space for writers who have no real place in the market. And when we take said writers on and say "Welcome home," we mean it. But, we can't take everybody in--we don't have the financial resources to do so-nor would we want to. That being said, we have to limit what we publish. And, if I'm going to put my hard-earned dollars into backing a book, I really HAVE to love it. And I'm a picky bitch--I don't naturally love everything I read.

However, I'm reading Heidi Julavits's book The Uses of Enchantment right now, and am loving it. This could be because it fits perfectly into a chapter of my dissertation on Freud's Dora that I'm currently working on--or it could be that its just a damn good book. I'm also multitasking by cooking butternut squash soup, cracklin' cornbread, and chocolate-peanut butter-chip cookies right now. Having the time to be a kitchen whore gives me deep domestic pleasure, but I guess that's neither here nor there.

Whether You Fall

Its really difficult to be an independent publisher these days. What's even harder though, is trying to be an independent publisher, a novelist, as well as finishing your doctorate in English. Add the terrifying prospect of being on the job market this fall to that. Then throw the added craziness of trying to have a relationship into the mix. Stir well. And then stand back as everything blows up in your face on a regular basis.

I'm worried all the time, even as I know I'm taking on far, far too much--that I'm not actually doing enough. Not enough for my authors, who are depending on me to get their books out there and help them shape their literary careers, not enough to my dissertation-- which suffers woefully most of the time under my inattentive eye, to my creative work, which is largely just a fond memory at this point, or to my relationship--the area of my life that suffers the most consistently from neglect. I don't want to disappoint anyone-- and because of that I'm terified that I'll end up disappointing EVERYONE.

Under the stress of trying to get distribution for our titles, traveling to do readings, constant emails and phone calls, under the stress of finishing a freelance novel-for-hire and starting on the seemingly endless edits my publishers require, its hard to keep everything in perspective and remember just why Willy and I started this press in the first place-- we wanted to make a difference. But in a publishing climate that's uncaring and dismissive at best, its becoming harder and harder to convince myself that we'll be able to make any kind of a change at all.

On top of this, I'm exhausted--so tired that I can barely hold a conversation at the end of the day. I write and talk all day long-- the last thing I want to do is have a heart-to-heart when I come home at night. Most of the time I feel shell-shocked, unable to really listen, or form words. I'm so tired I can't even really read for pleasure anymore-- it just feels like work to me. All I really want to do is watch mindless television, eat soup out of a can, and fall asleep with a glass of cognac in my hand. As you can probably tell, this isn't making me too popular with my boyfriend, who I don't think has an idea of exactly how wiped out I am. I've written 200 pages of this novel-for-hire in 3 weeks-- something that really took it out of me in ways I can't even really fathom. This makes me a lousy girlfriend, and an even worse friend. Don't even ask me when the last time I've been able to listen to my friend's problems was--I'd be too embarassed to tell you. I miss my old life, at times. I miss my boyfriend just being . . . my boyfriend. Now my boyfriend's my co-publisher, and there's no place for any romance in our lives. I was ready to just give up this morning. And then I turned on my Ipod, and Tracy Bonham's Whether You Fall came on randomly. As I sat there and listened, I began to feel a little better.

I have to keep reminding myself that its the SMALL strides that count, that really matter at the end of the day--not just the big moves. And every move is a step towards changing the landscape of publishing--each book I manage to put out there helps--even a little. And at the end of the day, maybe that's all we can hope for. And sometimes, just showing up every day--in relationships as well as publishing--is enough.

"Whether you fall, means nothing at all
Its whether you get up,
its whether you get up . . ."

Sunday Salon Chicago Photographs

Here are the few shots I took of the Impetus Chicago excursion. I should've been more trigger happy, as I just got a new digital camera, but there's something about taking pictures of people reading in dark places that makes me uncomfortable--but I promise to overcome this problem in time for the next reading.


Left to right: Anthony, Lisa, Kate, Jennifer


My fancy-pants, ergonomic book display system


Sunday Salon Chicago host Mike Zapata


Kate Hunter reads from The Dream Sequence


Kate Hunter reads from The Dream Sequence


Jennifer Banash reads from Hollywoodland: An American Fairy Tale


Jennifer Banash reads from Hollywoodland: An American Fairy Tale

Let Them Eat Cake

I have a love/hate relationship with Marie Antionette--and all things Versaille. I am, in equal parts, fascinated and horrified by what went on there--so much so that my next novel takes place at the Court of Versaille in the time of Louis XIV. Since Sofia Coppola is, hands down, my favorite young director, I waited with breathless anticipation for the release of Marie Antoinette--a film I was sure I was going to love. Much to my surprise, when I first saw the film, I absolutely hated it. i thought it was a badly drawn pastiche, what Frederic Jameson calls "a statue with blind eyeballs." A beautiful glossy surface on which the light reflects--nothing more. But, I couldn't ignore the fact that when I sat through the film, I was starving, having no time to eat lunch, and all I could really think about was going with Willy to eat ribs after . . . (those who know me well will not be shocked by this admission).

After stuffing myself with ribs and cornbread, and reading Stephanie Zachareck's sympathetic and well-thought-out review of the film on Salon.com, I knew I had to see it again to be sure. So, i went back to the theater the following weekend, and, what can I say? This time I absolutely loved it. Coppola has a way of telling a story so quietly and unobtrusively that it is very easy to underestimate her abilities. And, of course, the film is so beautifully shot that it almost hurts to look at it--everything is styled in gorgeous pastel candy-colors of pink and blue, silver and gold. Coppola was actually the first filmmaker to be granted the privilege of shooting the film INSIDE Versaille, and to watch the characters interact in rooms I myself have stood in repeatedly, was beyond amazing. As for pastiche, if Coppola leaves Marie Antoniette herself largely undrawn, a blank for the audience to fill-in, isn't that the point? And aren't we missing Coppola's entire argument if we fail to realize this as viewers? After all, who really KNEW the REAL Marie Antoinette? She was whatever the public wanted her to be on any given day: A piece of candy, a bargaining chip, a royal womb, a traitor, a foreigner, a spendthrift, a teenager.

I don't know why Court life fascinates me the way it does--it certainly has something to do with the glorious excess of it all: the yards of satin and lace, the jewel-encrusted fans, the pavillions in the garden with billowing white sheets--complete with crystal chandeliers. The gossip. The backstabbing and cattiness--a society based on the ability to be witty, to impress your dinner guests. Many critics have pointed out that MA is one of the last political films to come along in a decade--but I don't think politics is at all Coppola's point. Coppola makes films about girls who are trying desperately to become women, thrown into often isolated worlds they cannot control. In Marie Antoinette's case, that world was created long before she arrived onto the scene--and she had little hopes of changing it once she became Queen. She was Austrian--a foreigner--and therefore, not to be trusted. Her royal status did absolutely nothing to change that.

If anything, Coppola's film makes us see that things aren't so diferent now. The lifestyles of the elite few are still glorified and celebrated as they live in their mansions, yelling at their servants--while the (mostly silent) majority cluster around the grounds, begging for bread. Too bad we don't get some torches and start a revolution--but then again, the French have always been more politically subversive--which perhaps explains why this film was booed at Cannes--its an extremely AMERICAN take on Versaille--one that embraces our oldest American pastime--the rampant buying, selling, and consuming of goods.