Monday, March 1, 2010
Reader Letter
Hello Mr. Genelin
My ex-husband went to your Paris reading of Siren of the Waters, and you inscribed one of your books to me as from a would-be-Slovak to a real one (something like that). I greatly enjoyed you book at Christmas a year ago, and shared it with my Slovak sisters. Recently I found your second novel through interlibrary loan (shocking that Cornell does not have them!), and settled in for another great need. We enjoyed immensely your European canvas and your understanding of the Slavic and Slvak temperments, as well as your talent for plots and story-telling. Would love to share more about Slovakia and my family, but thought you should know immediately about this victory (Ed. Note: author posted the news of the Slovak 2-1 victory over the Russians in the Winter Olympic Games)
Best wishes and thank you for your wonderful books.
Elizabeth (Silaj) Teskey
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Where Did That Character Come From?
During a reading in Portland last week, a reader asked how I create my characters. I explained the characters generally create themselves. 'The Muse' speaks, and they appear. Or do they? The answer is sometimes 'the Muse', and sometimes me. My heroine, Jana Matinova is a doppleganger for a woman I know, respect and admire in Slovakia. She is brave, courageous in adversity and unflagging in following through with her convictions. She is the model for Commander Matinova but is not, as in the novel, a commander in the police. Jana's (fictional) supervisor in the police, Colonel Trokan, is also a doppelganger of someone else I know in Slovakia. Not a police officer, but charming, bright, serious about his work, and when the occasion calls for it, very, very humorous. For me, the two jumped onto the page. They were there just waiting to be written. The readers I talked with at the reading also felt the characters, as written, were alive and real. And yet, there are other characters for her, and others, that also jumped onto the page who were not, to my knowledge, drawn from real life.
So, where did they come from, who created them? When they appeared on the page fleshing themselves out they were as real to me as people that I know, as real as Matinova and Trokan in their actual personas. There they were, talking, walking, independent human beings who acted seemingly without any real volition on my part. They did what they did, surprising me; they were individuals as interesting as those based on 'real' people. And, surprise, we had never been formally introduced. I've had critics talk about these characters, seeing them as people who itched and scratched just as the other characters did. And their itching and scratching on the page astonished me. Who magicked that person into the book? One critic said he wanted to see a certain character again, perhaps as a protagonist of another novel, simply because he was so vividly real. He was? Well, he was real, on the page, if I do say so myself, although we had not met each other before the casting director (the Muse) slipped him into the story.
So, where do characters come from? I think the story must be real to the writer. If it is, the characters are real. If not, the book probably fails. I guess I have a partnership with 'the Muse': We write the stories together; and the characters. And if I haven't met the characters before, if they're newly introduced by 'the Muse', I'm very happy they show up while I'm writing. It's always nice to meet someone new. They're interesting people, and besides, it wouldn't be a very good story without them. As a writer, I welcome everybody's assistance. Even strangers.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
How To Be A Writer
My collegue and friend, Cecilia Mangarra Brainard, has written a number of books, including two extremely well reviewed novels, both of them noted by the critics for their nuanced and persuasive conviction and realism: "Magdalena" and "When The Rainbow Goddess Wept." Now she's written a book for the beginning writer titled "Fundamentals of Creative Writing." In short, Cecilia covers all the bases for the tyro writer, immediately capturing the reader, connecting him/her with the concepts: She illustrates the points she makes with exerpts from her own novels. It works! Congratulations on the novel approach, Cecilia.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Eat the Lychee Nuts
When I was a kid every Friday night my whole family would eat at a Chinese food place. It was cheap and good, great for an evening out without crippling the budget. I loved it, not for the variety of great food, but because I loved egg drop soup and Lychee nuts which I would look forward to after the chow mein. I would always eat the chow mein because I couldn’t stomach the look of the other dishes my mom and dad would order. Well, what do you expect from a little kid? Of course, thank the lord, I changed. Boy, did I change. Here are Some recent tastes of mine which went beyond Lychee nuts and egg drop soup: Whole young-beef head, floating island, mondongo (intestines), cumin-flavored anything and everything, chocolate covered chicken. Sound good? Or how about reindeer stew, halusky, tzimes, cuttle fish pan-fried in their own ink? Palacinky? Reflect on this: whole baby goat roasted and coated in almonds. Yup, a long distance from my mom and dad’s Friday nights. Folks, I’ve changed. I moved on. You wouldn’t recognize the little stinker who was always ready to gag at the sight of a new plate.
Recently, I had a mental conversation with my father. Although my dad has long been gone, I confess I have these conversations all the time…in my head. I tell him all about my travels, and my eating, and he adds his two cents on to my observations just as he did years ago. It’s a way, albeit I confess a little odd, for the two of us to stay close.
When Dad first began participating in our joint adventure he pointed something out to me, which I now agree with: The only consistently characteristic local item in this age of purposeful sameness of vehicles, movies, loud rock music, TV headlines and re-runs - and the constant effort of pick-pockets to deprive you of your wallet and spoil your journey - is the food. Yup, the food. People link their nationality and love for their homeland with their local favorite food. And so do my pop and I after we’ve eaten in their country.
Notice, my Dad and I avoid talking about the McDonalds and other fast food places. They only qualify as “food” under gastric emergencies, according to my Dad. He and I are referring to the signature dishes, and their artisanal variations, that voice a call for the people in any given country to queue up with their eating implements at the ready position preparing to take their first bliss-filled bite of their home dishes.
Dad and I got in a heated discussion recently. The people who saw us arguing aloud on the metro began moving away from me, but my Dad was insistent on continuing the exchange, despite my embarrassment in appearing to be arguing with myself. To summarize the discussion, Dad is a down to earth guy who loves people and, as my companion in my frequent travels, says that every place has its own uniqueness. I have found that is true, even in the most travelled areas. These arguments with my father, who sometimes becomes overbearing, but who is always worth listening to, once told me that that the people that I meet would be what be what stuck in my mind the most when I travel. I am now proud to say, as an adult, that he was slightly wrong, and slightly right. However distinctive the people in any given place, or the great waterfalls that I now see, the deep chasms I peer down into, the rainbow colored sunsets, all seem to be linked in my memory to the food I’ve eaten in those places. In fact, it often seems to take a greater space in my remembrances than the national monuments proudly displayed in any given country. So, there dad! And, it’s your fault, really. You got me started on lychee nuts.
Recently dad and I went to northern Europe, then to Alsace in eastern France, then back to Paris. Of course, dad never shows himself to the locals, but he insists on making his commentaries no matter where I am. It’s okay. I’m trying to learn how not to move my lips when we talk. Anyway, in one Scandinavian country we visited I had a basil ice cream. It was creamy and, unlike too many overly sugary ice creams, it left my taste buds without a cloying residue. In another country I (or should I say we?) had a hot beet borscht, leavened and thickened with meat and served with a dollop of sour cream in the middle, the dish so tasty and appetite-satisfying that there was no need, or want, for any other food at that sitting. In Alsace we had a tarte flambé made with Munster cheese and sprinkled with lardons that made me glad that Alsace had been returned to the provenance of France after the Second World War. Dad was even more pleased since he fought in the Second World War. Finally, when I (we) returned to Paris we found a small sorbet stand that was advertising a group of unusual tastes in their products. We tried the apricot sorbet flavoured with pepper. Yes, pepper! The pepper cut the sweet, and (I am now going to insist on my own individuality, despite what my Dad says) I walked away thanking the imagination of man for creating the dish.
Which gets me to my point as an eater - and writer. As I travel through one country or another on the page I find that I now include, among my dotted I’s and crossed T’s, a share of kitchen hopping and tasting which seems, for me, to be growing in importance. In my next book, which will be published in July of 2010, I write about a sumptuous breakfast. That breakfast happened. I experienced it in St Petersburg. And, I love reliving it. I can taste it as I write about it today. I was, and am still, in awe at its size and variety of dishes. And all those wonderful flavors. I rolled out of the dining area after that breakfast only regretting I had no capacity to stuff myself further.
One other thing both pop and I perceive from all these experiences: Meals are like individuals, various dishes having their own particularity, some being different, better and “tastier” than others. It’s the good ones that we remember, that keep us going and seeking the next taste…of both people, and food. Now, let me add a small addendum: Who would have ever thought, when I was first tasted egg drop soup, chow mein and lychee nuts in our Friday night family dinners that one of the most important questions I would ask when going into a foreign city is, “What’s the soup of the day?”
Lychee nuts, anyone?
When I was a kid every Friday night my whole family would eat at a Chinese food place. It was cheap and good, great for an evening out without crippling the budget. I loved it, not for the variety of great food, but because I loved egg drop soup and Lychee nuts which I would look forward to after the chow mein. I would always eat the chow mein because I couldn’t stomach the look of the other dishes my mom and dad would order. Well, what do you expect from a little kid? Of course, thank the lord, I changed. Boy, did I change. Here are Some recent tastes of mine which went beyond Lychee nuts and egg drop soup: Whole young-beef head, floating island, mondongo (intestines), cumin-flavored anything and everything, chocolate covered chicken. Sound good? Or how about reindeer stew, halusky, tzimes, cuttle fish pan-fried in their own ink? Palacinky? Reflect on this: whole baby goat roasted and coated in almonds. Yup, a long distance from my mom and dad’s Friday nights. Folks, I’ve changed. I moved on. You wouldn’t recognize the little stinker who was always ready to gag at the sight of a new plate.
Recently, I had a mental conversation with my father. Although my dad has long been gone, I confess I have these conversations all the time…in my head. I tell him all about my travels, and my eating, and he adds his two cents on to my observations just as he did years ago. It’s a way, albeit I confess a little odd, for the two of us to stay close.
When Dad first began participating in our joint adventure he pointed something out to me, which I now agree with: The only consistently characteristic local item in this age of purposeful sameness of vehicles, movies, loud rock music, TV headlines and re-runs - and the constant effort of pick-pockets to deprive you of your wallet and spoil your journey - is the food. Yup, the food. People link their nationality and love for their homeland with their local favorite food. And so do my pop and I after we’ve eaten in their country.
Notice, my Dad and I avoid talking about the McDonalds and other fast food places. They only qualify as “food” under gastric emergencies, according to my Dad. He and I are referring to the signature dishes, and their artisanal variations, that voice a call for the people in any given country to queue up with their eating implements at the ready position preparing to take their first bliss-filled bite of their home dishes.
Dad and I got in a heated discussion recently. The people who saw us arguing aloud on the metro began moving away from me, but my Dad was insistent on continuing the exchange, despite my embarrassment in appearing to be arguing with myself. To summarize the discussion, Dad is a down to earth guy who loves people and, as my companion in my frequent travels, says that every place has its own uniqueness. I have found that is true, even in the most travelled areas. These arguments with my father, who sometimes becomes overbearing, but who is always worth listening to, once told me that that the people that I meet would be what be what stuck in my mind the most when I travel. I am now proud to say, as an adult, that he was slightly wrong, and slightly right. However distinctive the people in any given place, or the great waterfalls that I now see, the deep chasms I peer down into, the rainbow colored sunsets, all seem to be linked in my memory to the food I’ve eaten in those places. In fact, it often seems to take a greater space in my remembrances than the national monuments proudly displayed in any given country. So, there dad! And, it’s your fault, really. You got me started on lychee nuts.
Recently dad and I went to northern Europe, then to Alsace in eastern France, then back to Paris. Of course, dad never shows himself to the locals, but he insists on making his commentaries no matter where I am. It’s okay. I’m trying to learn how not to move my lips when we talk. Anyway, in one Scandinavian country we visited I had a basil ice cream. It was creamy and, unlike too many overly sugary ice creams, it left my taste buds without a cloying residue. In another country I (or should I say we?) had a hot beet borscht, leavened and thickened with meat and served with a dollop of sour cream in the middle, the dish so tasty and appetite-satisfying that there was no need, or want, for any other food at that sitting. In Alsace we had a tarte flambé made with Munster cheese and sprinkled with lardons that made me glad that Alsace had been returned to the provenance of France after the Second World War. Dad was even more pleased since he fought in the Second World War. Finally, when I (we) returned to Paris we found a small sorbet stand that was advertising a group of unusual tastes in their products. We tried the apricot sorbet flavoured with pepper. Yes, pepper! The pepper cut the sweet, and (I am now going to insist on my own individuality, despite what my Dad says) I walked away thanking the imagination of man for creating the dish.
Which gets me to my point as an eater - and writer. As I travel through one country or another on the page I find that I now include, among my dotted I’s and crossed T’s, a share of kitchen hopping and tasting which seems, for me, to be growing in importance. In my next book, which will be published in July of 2010, I write about a sumptuous breakfast. That breakfast happened. I experienced it in St Petersburg. And, I love reliving it. I can taste it as I write about it today. I was, and am still, in awe at its size and variety of dishes. And all those wonderful flavors. I rolled out of the dining area after that breakfast only regretting I had no capacity to stuff myself further.
One other thing both pop and I perceive from all these experiences: Meals are like individuals, various dishes having their own particularity, some being different, better and “tastier” than others. It’s the good ones that we remember, that keep us going and seeking the next taste…of both people, and food. Now, let me add a small addendum: Who would have ever thought, when I was first tasted egg drop soup, chow mein and lychee nuts in our Friday night family dinners that one of the most important questions I would ask when going into a foreign city is, “What’s the soup of the day?”
Lychee nuts, anyone?
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Cruising Through Finland
I've been in the same place too long and it was beginning to feel stale. Fact is, I needed to feed the muse, so, I went to Helsinki.
I expected a withdrawn group of people: The warnings in the travel books said the Finns were dour, not communicable, and quite distant. Instead they were cheerful, eager to talk, initiating conversations without effort on my part, and very willing to share their feelings. Even better, they had an easy sense of humor and quick non-threatening laughter, which created a sense of security and commonality. A street cleaner I ran across told us jokes, bits and pieces of his family life, and his discoveries as a street cleaner, joking about the things that people discard, how they discard them, and how if affected his home life. After one or two conversations like that you know you are in the right spot. If you can see people in a their own environment, instead of the preconceptions you have, and they see you, then you can know where and why you have come.
Another person I made contact with was in what seemed, at first, to be inauspicious circumstances. We met in a crypt underneath a church. A collective of artists had turned the crypt into an art gallery, decorating it, hanging their art work on the walls, generating life in what would have otherwise been a very cold, lifeless place. I enjoyoyed the paintings and sculpture, admired a number of the pieces, and eventually came to a small counter that had been set up to serve tea, coffee and homemade Finnish pastry. Leena was serving.
Leena is a woman my age, cheerful, inquiring, and she joined me at my table. We talked, laughed, took each others' photographs, and when we returned to Paris, continued our conversations on e-mail. Leena turned out to be a novelist, and we shared information about writing, publishing, Finland, America, Scandinavia in general, and people, both specific and general. It made the day, and a number of days afterward. Why? My eyes were freshened by having that contact...which every writer needs.
Maybe, in fact, its what every writer wants to do with his/her writing. We explore our perceptions, see other people, and hope they see us. If we're good enough wordsmiths perhaps those people who page through our books will connect with us. Even as the artists whose works are hung on crypt walls. It makes the walls look a hell of a lot better:
I expected a withdrawn group of people: The warnings in the travel books said the Finns were dour, not communicable, and quite distant. Instead they were cheerful, eager to talk, initiating conversations without effort on my part, and very willing to share their feelings. Even better, they had an easy sense of humor and quick non-threatening laughter, which created a sense of security and commonality. A street cleaner I ran across told us jokes, bits and pieces of his family life, and his discoveries as a street cleaner, joking about the things that people discard, how they discard them, and how if affected his home life. After one or two conversations like that you know you are in the right spot. If you can see people in a their own environment, instead of the preconceptions you have, and they see you, then you can know where and why you have come.
Another person I made contact with was in what seemed, at first, to be inauspicious circumstances. We met in a crypt underneath a church. A collective of artists had turned the crypt into an art gallery, decorating it, hanging their art work on the walls, generating life in what would have otherwise been a very cold, lifeless place. I enjoyoyed the paintings and sculpture, admired a number of the pieces, and eventually came to a small counter that had been set up to serve tea, coffee and homemade Finnish pastry. Leena was serving.
Leena is a woman my age, cheerful, inquiring, and she joined me at my table. We talked, laughed, took each others' photographs, and when we returned to Paris, continued our conversations on e-mail. Leena turned out to be a novelist, and we shared information about writing, publishing, Finland, America, Scandinavia in general, and people, both specific and general. It made the day, and a number of days afterward. Why? My eyes were freshened by having that contact...which every writer needs.
Maybe, in fact, its what every writer wants to do with his/her writing. We explore our perceptions, see other people, and hope they see us. If we're good enough wordsmiths perhaps those people who page through our books will connect with us. Even as the artists whose works are hung on crypt walls. It makes the walls look a hell of a lot better:
Thursday, September 10, 2009
michaelgenelin.com web site updated with info about Dark Dreams
I have updated my website, http://www.michaelgenelin.com/, with added information about my new mystery "Dark Dreams". I think the reviewers have been very kind, and you can read their reviews on my website. Note: Bragging is allowed on websites. Dark Dreams takes us with Jana Matinova to Nepal, India, Hungary, much of Europe, and of course, Slovakia, as she searches for the reason someone has left a huge diamond in her home, and for the individuals who have committed multiple murders, all before the killers find her. I enjoyed writing Dark Dreams; I hope you enjoy reading it.
There's also icing on the cake, Siren of the Waters, my first book, has just been published in paperback. When you read either book feel free to leave a commentary here. I want to know what you think. I hope to talk to you soon.
--Michael Genelin
There's also icing on the cake, Siren of the Waters, my first book, has just been published in paperback. When you read either book feel free to leave a commentary here. I want to know what you think. I hope to talk to you soon.
--Michael Genelin
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)