Two weeks after I handed in my manuscript I feel like I am still in a twilight zone, not quite reintegrated with the world
One of my main fears before submitting a book is that I will die in the hours before the deadline, and all the work I will have done will be for nothing because the publisher will only have an outline and the completed book itself will remain on a password-protected hard drive and ultimately buried in landfill.
I have long associated handing in a book and dying because the two seemed connected on some subterranean, unconscious level. Finishing a major project is a form of death – something has ended. But finishing is not something you hear much about in all the short courses, podcasts, MFAs, online articles and books on the creative process.
Chloe Hooper sets up her memoir in quick strokes: two young sons, an older partner and something, suddenly, happening, rendering domestic life precious and strange. The father of her children is Don Watson (writer, historian and, famously, Keating speechwriter). The something: a common cancer and a rare mutation. Hooper, two novels and two critically acclaimed works of investigative nonfiction under her belt, turns her humane, forensic eye on her own family’s grief and private undoing. It feels like a novel, its characters engrossing, moving and funny – that these are real people seems a secondary, extraordinary feat.
Bedtime Story is dedicated to both boys but addressed mainly to the elder. Hooper pores through centuries of children’s books, hunting for stories that will help her speak to him “about the real dark”. She is not just looking for language to broach the subject of Watson’s illness, but to teach herself, somehow, to be less afraid
ALL YOU NEED IS CASH: An Open Letter to Paul McCartney Regarding Ticket Prices.
Let’s, Paul, for the sake of argument, say I want my parents to, you know, actually see you, so I buy three seats in section C129. Those seats are $450. Each. And, as Ticketmaster reminds me, “+ fees.”
I can’t surprise my parents with tickets to see Sir Paul freakin’ McCartney only for them to sit halfway to LAX. That’s like giving a child a toy without batteries. A $600 toy, mind you.
That $600 doesn’t include parking. I’ve yet to visit SoFi Stadium, but let’s pretend parking is $20. We both know it’s not $20, but let’s pretend. That’s $620. My parents don’t drink alcohol, so I’m definitely saving money on beers, but — and I know you don’t live here — have you any idea of current gas prices? You probably don’t because if I wrote “The Long and Winding Road” I wouldn’t know gas prices, either. Paul, gas is expensive. Like, so expensive that I’m writing to you and wasting space by talking about gas.
Conservatively, if I bought the cheapest tickets, I would be looking at $700 to take my parents to your show and sit far enough away that we will not be able to see you. To be frank, Paul, that sucks. I don’t want to spend that kind of money to stare at the big screens that I am sure will be on stage. Certainly, you’ve heard of YouTube. My parents and I can get the same experience tomorrow morning for much less money.
Paul, serious question: What the f*ck?
Did you actually think the Beatles were serious when they sang “All You Need Is Love?”
