So…..as millions of Americans are firing up their Nooks, Kindles, iPads, smart phones and   other instrumentation, I wonder….is the tide about to turn?

The St. Louis Post-Dispatch published its Best Books 2011 list this past weekend.  I’m honored that Dancing With Gravity leads the category of titles with a St. Louis connection. Check out the list of standout titles for 2011–then buy a book for yourself and someone you love.

Click on the link or copy and paste the address into your internet browser window.

http://www.stltoday.com/entertainment/books-and-literature/post-dispatch-rounds-up-favorite-books-of/article_7cf29dcd-898b-5896-99da-326c27c26b72.html

On May 22, an E5 tornado a mile wide roared into the town of Joplin, Missouri. One hundred and sixty one people were killed, 990 were injured. Some 7,000 homes were destroyed, another 850 damaged. Adding to the calamity, lead contamination has emerged as a significant issue—it’s estimated that some 1,500 structures are affected, adding 7.5 million dollars to already staggering reconstruction costs.  Those are the numbers—some of them, at least. But so much associated with that storm defies the neat summing up.

A Sunday. Never a day that should reflect the rigors of the week past, or to come.

Every week should have two Sundays. For some, a day for church or relaxation. Visits with family, mowing springtime lawns, or running errands before the start of the week’s work demands. But for Joplin, it was a day that changed almost everything.

Does terror have a value? A depth comparable to an abyss? What about the death of a friend? Shredded heirlooms? Missing mementos from a life? What formula explains courage, or kindness? What number explains the desire to rebuild rather than leave? What numbers reflect the resignation to fate followed by a deep sigh, and then the orderly sifting of the past to make way for the future? These are the unknown and unknowable depths of the human heart and spirit. These are the gifts that define the very best of us.

Countless stories of heroism and kindness have emerged in the 26 weeks since that storm. Organizations and individuals have opened their homes and donated resources to help Joplin recover.  People gave what they could. Carpenters and cooks and nurses and volunteers all gave their skills to help this town heal. The effort continued last night at the Regional Arts Commission in St. Louis. Several dozen people came together on an unseasonably warm November evening to celebrate the launch of Storm Country: The Anthology. The book is a collaborative effort between the Missouri Writers Guild and the Joplin Writers Guild chapter, the Missouri Humanities Council and Mozark Press. Writers throughout the region submitted more than 337 essays, poems and short stories for consideration. All proceeds from the sale of the book will go toward books and learning materials for the Joplin School Libraries and Teacher Resource Center.

A handful of writers at the event stood at the podium to read from their work: stories of their own encounters with storms….stories of friends who faced the F5 in Joplin. It was an evening of generosity…and good will. Of acknowledging the suffering and frailty of our human condition. Of bearing witness. Offering hope. We are the stories we tell…the history we endure and remember. This anthology is a testament to memory. And the sale of these books will help equip a library. There is hope in that. Resilience. Courage.

You can help support this effort by purchasing copies of Storm Country: The Anthology. It’s available for $10 and you can find it on Amazon Books, The Missouri Writers Guild and it’s chapters, and other outlets.

Architrave Press is the work of Jennifer Tappenden, a graduate student in the Creative Writing program at the University of Missouri—St. Louis (UMSL). Although her day job deals in the world of computers and data, she is first and foremost a writer who wants to share her love of poetry with the world.

As Tappenden explains on the Press website, she founded Architrave Press to offer a new kind of periodical literature: poems printed as individual pages that allow readers to curate their own collection in the same way that music lovers create playlists.

It’s an approach that has the potential to place poems in the midst of everyday life: tacked onto a bulletin board, mailed as a postcard to a friend, utilized as a bookmark, or whatever one’s imagination allows. The poems in the first edition are whimsical and serious and thought provoking. But they’re beautiful as objects too. The poems are printed on 5 ½” x 8″ archival card stock using an antique Vandercook letterpress (from those great folks at All Along Press in St. Louis). It’s the old way of doing things that—while labor intensive—makes all a difference. (I confess I took special delight in running my fingers over the lines and feeling the paper raised by the metal type.)

And the launch party at the Tavern of Fine Arts? It was packed with a lively mix of people who—whether in their 20s or 70s—came to support the Press. A few poets featured in the first collection read from work that was by turns moving, thought-provoking and made the audience laugh out loud.  All in all, it was a celebration of vision and work…of respect for the written word and its possibilities—culminating in beautiful presentation.

Which brings me to Tavern of Fine Arts. It’s a find. The tavern— located at 313 Belt Ave., in DeBaliviere Place—consists of two lovely rooms and (my favorite) a shelf of used books for browsing. The Tavern offers seasonal small plates and classic cocktails. I also learned that co-owners Mathew Daniels and Aaron Johnson are both musicians who offer a venue for live classical chamber music from area musicians. (A chamber quartet was on tap for the next night.)

So do your part to support the arts! Order a copy of Edition One from Architrave Press (http://architravepress.com).

Then, stop by Tavern of Fine Arts for a glass of wine and a slice of their delicious flourless chocolate cake. Believe me, you’ll see the world differently if you do.

http://literallysocial.net/2011/09/06/award-winning-author-anene-tressler-reviews-some-rare-social-media-savvy/

And check out Lori’s previous and future guests: She’s interviewing a range of authors who share their wisdom and insights about connecting writer and reader in our media-driven world.

So let me tell you about Saturday night. I was invited to a “Book Review Party” at the home of a woman I’ve known (pleasantly, though not well) for several years. Her name is Ruby Trice. When Ruby learned that my debut novel, Dancing With Gravity was published this past March, she told me she felt called to support it. It was the sort of kindness reserved for loving family members or very close friends—a gesture mysterious in its origins but infinitely appreciated.

Even so, I didn’t know quite what to expect. I imagined coffee and cookies and some vague and polite congratulations about my novel. I didn’t know who had been invited. And—as a new author— I certainly didn’t expect that they had read my book.

We met on a breezy evening…chatted over a light supper…then assembled on the patio. Ruby introduced me. The group fell silent. A few dozen people gathered at tables and lawn chairs. I didn’t know many of them, but there was something familiar in the scene—something comforting—even though I couldn’t be sure what it was. Then I saw: nearly everyone at the party held my book. Ruby had sent e-vites to friends and co-workers telling them about my novel. They were invited to read the book and then come to an event at her home to “meet the author and discuss the work.” This wasn’t a book club. It was a gathering of people with a shared purpose. A variation on a flash mob that is every writer’s dream. As I scanned the scene I saw hardbacks and trade paper copies of my novel. There were two or three e-readers in the group. Some of the guests told me they were voracious readers—most were not. One (my hostess) confessed that she really disliked reading as an entertainment and had only read my book as a gift to me.

For the next 90 minutes, I had the pleasure and honor of answering questions about the book’s characters, my intent, and my own feelings about the story. People told me about characters they liked, or who frustrated them. We laughed over scenes in the book and considered the burden of flawed relationships. A few wondered aloud about the challenges of the priestly life. In one of the more touching moments the evening, one of the guests (also a priest) offered his own response to the main character in my novel (Father Whiting) and commented on the truth he found in Whiting’s self-questioning and loneliness. The moment was a gift to all of us.

In recent years, colleges have begun a campus-wide activity known as a “freshman read.” Incoming freshmen are assigned a book to read over the summer. It’s not part of a course, but a part of discourse. It offers a shared experience—a common ground for strangers— an opening to conversation.

In speaking of what we love—or hate—we reveal so much about ourselves. In reading we find proof that we are not alone. In expressing our thoughts and feelings and reactions, we shape and refine our own ideas. We come to know ourselves better. And we build connections with one another—and the world. And isn’t that one of the greatest gifts that books can offer?

Once again…thank you, Ruby.

If you’d like to view my reading, you can find it on the PATV website using the link below:

http://patv.tv/blog/2011/08/23/iowa-book-festival-dancing-with-gravity-reading/

Here’s how I did:

Dancing with Gravity reading Iowa Book Festival.mov

I read The Writer’s Almanac each morning and nearly always find engaging information. I sometimes paste copies of the day’s poem or articles in my notebook. They remind me I’m not alone—and they make me think more critically and creatively about the world around me. Listed below you’ll find an abbreviated excerpt from a recent edition of  The Writer’s Almanac. It features a comment by the culture critic Neil Postman that feels particularly timely—especially for writers:

The English author Aldous Huxley  was born July 26, 1894 in Godalming, Surrey. Huxley wrote a few of novels that satirized English literary society, and these established him as a writer. It was his fifth book, Brave New World (1932), which arose out of his distrust of 20th century politics and technology, for which he is most remembered. Huxley started out intending to write a parody of H.G. Wells’ utopian novel Men Like Gods (1923). He ended by envisioning a future where society functions like one of Henry Ford’s assembly lines: a mass-produced culture in which people are fed a steady diet of bland amusements and take an antidepressant called Soma to keep themselves from feeling anything negative.

It’s natural to compare Brave New World with George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (1948), since they each offer a view of a dystopian future. Cultural critic Neil Postman spelled out the difference in his 1985 book Amusing Ourselves to Death:

“What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture. … In short, Orwell feared that what we fear will ruin us. Huxley feared that our desire will ruin us.”

Learn more about The Writer’s Almanac at: http:// writersalmanac.publicradio.org

Sunday was my friend’s birthday. We celebrated with a trip to the art museum and lunch. I didn’t see anyone in a trench coat, but I did see a woman of about twenty posing coquettishly in front of Anselm Kiefer’s Burning Rods. This monumental painting is approximately 11 by 18 feet. Comprised of lead, iron, porcelain, and straw, it depicts a charred post-apocalyptic landscape. Kiefer created it following the Chernobyl nuclear disaster as a statement about our choices and possible future. Even without knowing much about the work, its scale and palette oppress.

Not so for the woman in wrinkled khaki shorts, pink t-shirt and flip-flops. Or for the three young women—her companions—who photographed her with small point and shoot cameras as she transitioned through expressions. She tilted her head and smiled coyly as her hair fell over one eye. She pouted. Raised her chin. Looked over her shoulder. Tossed back her head and stood, hands on hips, in profile to the ruin of Kiefer’s dark vision. Her companions aimed, and clicked.

The irony of the scene stays with me. I want to know what it meant. I’ve imagined alternates as well: what if another person had entered the gallery? Anselm Kiefer? A former Chernobyl worker? Or a resident of Iwaki, Japan—a village contaminated by radiation leaks from the Fukushima Daiichi plant? Why did the posing woman choose that painting as her back drop? These, and questions like them, are pebbles in my shoe that beg for attention.

Yesterday I read a wonderful letter by Michael Saur in The Metropolitan Diary—a column of observations about life in New York. The Diary is a regular Monday feature in the New York Times. Sauer wrote:

Dear Diary:

Every day, from 9:30 to 12:30, I go to the same Starbucks, on Crosby and Spring Streets in SoHo, to write.

I have seen a pigeon walk into the place and get lost by the milk bar.

I have seen a professional poker player manicure his hands.

I have seen a destitute man go frantically through a just-published Jack Nicholson autobiography because he used to be Nicholson’s chauffeur.

I have had the Jack Nicholson chauffeur peek over my shoulder, shrug and say, “I am not stealing what you are writing.”

I have seen people bring their own TV sets and watch the news.

I have heard a drunken man say into his cell phone, with exasperation in his voice, that he was not drunk but only went grocery shopping.

I have seen ladies in fur having their handbags stolen.

I have had a New York Police Department detective ask me whether he could mark my computer with an invisible pen in case it gets stolen.

I have seen the pen turn out not to be so invisible after all.

I have seen German tourists bring their own Wasa bread for breakfast.

I have seen the same people lose and gain large amounts of weight.

I have seen people with a full set of teeth losing them.

I have flirted for weeks with a beautiful girl who turned out to be a boy.

I have written three books there. They have nothing to do with the above. Or everything.

I’m not lucky enough to live and write in New York—a city I love like few others. But every day—in moments too numerous to count—the universe offers its gifts.