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This is the Story of a Happy Marriage.

I’m about as big a fan of Ann Patchett as you’ll find – I’ve read every one of her novels, including the Pulitzer Prize contender Tom Lake, made a pilgrimage to her bookstore Parnassus Books before the pandemic, and was even scheduled to do a talk and signing there in May 2020 that obviously never happened. Somehow in all my fandom, I’d never read any of her nonfiction, even though that’s where she got her start; I just loved her fiction so much that I couldn’t imagine reading her voice in a different milieu.

My wife recently got me a copy of Patchett’s 2013 essay collection This is the Story of a Happy Marriage, and, yeah, of course it’s great, because Patchett could write about a ham sandwich and make it interesting. It’s her first essay collection and includes works published from 1996 through 2012, including her essay “The Getaway Car,” which was also published as a separate book. That essay alone was worth the time spent reading the whole book, as it’s one of the best pieces I’ve ever read on writing as a craft and a career, although the book has many, many other highlights across a range of subjects.

One of the most frequent topics is her marriages – the current one, yes, which in her telling is a happy marriage, but also her first, brief marriage, which ended barely a year in and which turned her off the institution for some time. She married young and unwisely (I can relate), but to her credit, realized it early and got out, a history she describes in “The Sacrament of Divorce,” which makes what was probably a painful period in her life wryly funny. Karl, her current husband of many years (and partner of 11 years prior to that), comes up often in the book, both directly as in the title essay and “The Paris Match” (the story of a fight), but also in the two stories about their dog Rose, “This Dog’s Life” and “Dog Without End,” the latter about Rose’s death. Karl certainly comes off far better than husband #1, at the very least. Also, the stories of women throwing themselves at him after his own divorce are hilarious, as if they came from a bad made-for-Netflix film.

“The Wall,” one of the longest essays in the collection, tells of her abortive plan to go through the Los Angeles Police Academy and write a book about it. Patchett’s father was an LA cop for a long time, and derisive of the people who led the department during the aftermath of the assault on Rodney King and subsequent acquittal of the four cops who beat him. Patchett took and passed the test, but didn’t go into the academy, in part for fear of taking up a spot that would have gone to someone who really wanted to become a police officer, but the essay itself also shows us quite a bit about her relationship with her father without her ever addressing the topic head on. It’s a masterful piece of writing, with a bit of a humblebrag mixed in.

Two essays deal with Truth & Beauty, Patchett’s memoir of her friendship with the late author Lucy Grealy, whom she met when they were both 21. Grealy had cancer of the jaw as a child and was left disfigured by surgery to remove part of her jawbone; her own memoir, Autobiography of a Face, told of her life with the emotional and physical consequences of the cancer and surgery, and was met with wide critical acclaim. One of those essays here is about an attack on the book by religious zealots in/around Clemson, South Carolina, when that university assigned the book to its incoming first-year class. An alum named Ken Wingate, who was a lawyer, a member of the state’s Commission on Higher Education, and a Presbyterian Bible teacher, said the book was pornographic and launched a campaign to get the requirement removed. Ain’t a damn thing changed, folks: Orange County, Florida, banned two of her books, including her greatest novel Bel Canto, from its schools.

There’s some filler in here, like her intro to the edition of Best American Short Stories that she oversaw, and an essay from Gourmet called “Do Not Disturb” about what amounted to a staycation in the Bel Air hotel in Los Angeles, but they’re short and unobtrusive amongst the gems that litter the collection, not least of which is “The Getaway Car.” If someone told me right now they wanted to be a writer of any stripe, I would tell them to go read this essay. I don’t think it tells you how to write or how to be a better writer, nor does it try to dissuade the reader from writing (a cynical response I hear too often from journalists – our industry is a mess, but the world needs journalists, period). And, not to put words in Patchett’s mouth, she doesn’t seem to have that sort of concrete advice. She offers no dictums like “write every day” or “write what you know” or any of the other bromides that you hear from writers; if anything, she writes for the reason that I write – because she has to. She does describe a more arduous writing and editing process than I imagined for her, given how beautiful and lyrical her writing is; I just figured this was how she wrote, and how she speaks (which we get an example of in “Fact vs. Fiction,” a convocation address she gave at Miami of Ohio). It’s an essay about her life in writing, how she saw herself as a future writer, how her career unfolded, how she had to work at a lot of things unrelated to writing – including building her relationships in the writing world – to get to be a writer as a full-time profession. It’s a marvelous piece of storytelling that, if you have a writing bone in your body, will make you want to grab a notebook and start. What more could you want from an essay about writing? This is the Story of a Happy Marriage does indeed have that story in it, but more than that, it is the story of a brilliant writer over the first forty-odd years of her life, and it is beautifully told even in its disparate pieces.

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→ August 4, 2010
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Scout, Atticus, & Boo.

New post on the draft blog for Insiders: Cape Cod League top 30 prospects for 2010. Also, no Klawchat this week due to the start of the Area Code Games.

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I’m a big fan of To Kill a Mockingbird, placing it at #4 on the Klaw 100, but unlike most readers I came to the book relatively late in life, reading the book for the first (and only, for now) time at the age of 29. It was never assigned in school – when I think back on the garbage we had to read for some English classes in lieu of important classics of American and British literature, I wonder what the hell my parents paid property taxes for – and I actually wasn’t an avid reader of fiction between graduation from college and the turn of the century*. When I shifted from non-fiction – and just not reading that many books to begin with – back over to novels, I decided to fill in the gaps in my cultural literacy by reading as many of those “name” books as possible. They didn’t all measure up to their reputations, but Mockingbird exceeded them, and was one of a handful of books that accelerated the renewal of my interest in reading non-comic fiction.

*The book that turned me back on to fiction, putting me on a decade-long tear that saw me read roughly 400 novels across ten years? Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone, of course.

Documentary writer and producer Mary Murphy seems to feel much the same about the only literary output of one Nelle Harper Lee and assembled a book called Scout, Atticus, and Boo: A Celebration of Fifty Years of To Kill a Mockingbird that comprises interviews with 26 writers, celebrities, a politican, and a few people connected with Lee herself on the book, its legacy and the enduring mystery of Lee’s silence, both in her lack of output and her four-decade-plus refusal to give interviews. (Needless to say, she’s not one of the 26.)

Richard Russo, one of my favorite writers, had for me the most interesting essay because of how he talks about the art of writing, not just in how Mockingbird influenced him, but in how a technical analysis of the book misses its greatness – “Great books are not flawless books” – and what aspect of the book hit him the hardest. James McBride, an African-American novelist and musician, offers a passionate defense of the book as great literature, one of the questions Murphy must have posted to every interview subject, while also drawing parallels to John Coltrane when answering the question of why Lee might have chosen to stop writing after one book.

The most fun interview of all of them is Alice Lee, Nelle Harper’s older sister who, at the time of the book’s writing, was still working in her law office every day at the age of 98. With the author herself unwilling to give interviews – she reportedly was upset that one or more interviewers misquoted her in the 1960s and put words or even thoughts into her mouth, but has also indicated that she believes the author should be more or less invisible behind her works – Alice gives some insight as to Harper Lee’s childhood and what aspects of the book are grounded in real people or places.

I was surprised to find that one of the most enjoyable interviews in the book was Oprah Winfrey, whose responses may be the most personal, from her identification with Scout to an encounter with Gregory Peck (“he will always be Atticus to me”) to her plan to persuade Harper Lee to come on the show (fail). Her quote from her lunch with Lee is too priceless for me to repeat here, but it’s quite telling about the author’s attitude towards the celebrity she has so consistently declined. If you want to bounce around Scout, Atticus, & Boo, Andrew Young, James Patterson (really), and Anna Quindlen also offered interesting or insightful comments on the novel.

The introduction, written by Murphy, includes heavy quoting of the 26 essays that follow, and I found that reading it first scooped a number of the most interesting quotes from the interviews; if you pick this book up, skip straight to the first interview, with the actress who played Scout in the film version. If you haven’t read To Kill a Mockingbird, you should do so, and then watch the film, and then read this book if you enjoyed those two works as much as I did.

Next up: John Derbyshire’s Prime Obsession: Bernhard Riemann and the Greatest Unsolved Problem in Mathematics, about the still-unproven (or disproven) hypothesis that bears Riemann’s name.

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→ July 23, 2010
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What the Dog Saw.

I really enjoy Malcolm Gladwell’s writing, since even when I disagree with the conclusions he presents, his writing is interesting and thought-provoking, and he is unafraid to challenge conventional wisdom by looking at the underlying data. His most recent book is a compilation called What the Dog Saw: And Other Adventures, bringing together nineteen essays from Gladwell’s tenure at the New Yorker, uneven as compilations typically go, but anchored by several very strong essays that, again, challenge some pretty basic assumptions of our society and daily lives.

The most relevant essay to my day job was “Most Likely to Succeed – How Do We Hire When We Can’t Tell Who’s Right for the Job?” which is available, like all essays in this book, for free on Gladwell’s site. The essay deals with the difficulty in hiring for certain positions where the qualities required for success are either poorly understood or difficult to measure in candidates, with a focus on teachers and on NFL quarterbacks. (That intertwining of two seemingly unrelated stories is a Gladwell conceit, and, from a narrative perspective, a highly effective one.) NFL scouts have a hard time evaluating amateur quarterbacks because the college game is so different from the professional game, and that difference is most pronounced in areas that directly affect the quarterback, notably the style and quality of opposing defenses. Gladwell mentions the Year of the Quarterback draft in 1999, where just one of five first-round QBs (Donovan McNabb) had a first-round career, and cites a study by two economists (David Berri and Rob Simmons) that showed neither Wonderlic scores nor draft position had any correlation to NFL success for quarterbacks. (For more on this, there’s an excellent blog post by Jason Lisk at pro-football-reference.com.) And he carries the analogy back over to the teaching world, where hiring criteria like master’s degrees have done nothing to improve teacher performance.

There is, of course, an obvious parallel in baseball to what Gladwell calls “the quarterback problem:” The fact that most high school and college baseball programs use composite metal bats, making the amateur game (exclusive of top summer leagues and showcase events like ESPN’s Area Code Games) substantially different from the professional game. Scouts from MLB clubs (and non-scout evaluators like me) are always grappling with the question of whether a particular hitter’s swing will translate to pro ball, or which pitchers will take advantage of the ability to pitch to the inner half when the sweet spots on hitters’ bats are reduced by more than half with the switch to wood. Amateur catchers almost never get to call their own games, as pitches are called from the bench, while ignorant college and high school coaches employ brain-dead small-ball strategies completely unsuited to the high-scoring environments of metal-bat baseball. And, as the guys at CollegeSplits have shown us, there are often large differences between the pitcher a hitter faces on Tuesday night and the one he faces on Friday night. It’s not the same game, and those differences are part of what makes the MLB draft seem, at times, like a “crapshoot.”

There’s another sports-related essay on the difference between choking and panicking, starting with the story of Jana Navotna’s epic collapse in the 1993 Wimbledon women’s singles final and ending with Greg Norman’s final ten holes at the 1996 Masters. (He mentions another collapse by Novotna in the 1995 French Open, but omits her 1998 Wimbledon title, and doesn’t mention Norman’s two British Open championships, which both raise the question of how deep the psychology of “choking” runs in any individual.) More interesting within this essay, to me at least, was the issue raised of “stereotype threat,” where an individual’s performance on a task or test may be negatively affected by stereotypes of his or her ethnic/racial/gender group:

Garcia gathered together a group of white, athletic students and had a white instructor lead them through a series of physical tests: to jump as high as they could, to do a standing broad jump, and to see how many pushups they could do in twenty seconds. The instructor then asked them to do the tests a second time, and, as you’d expect, Garcia found that the students did a little better on each of the tasks the second time around. Then Garcia ran a second group of students through the tests, this time replacing the instructor between the first and second trials with an African-American. Now the white students ceased to improve on their vertical leaps. He did the experiment again, only this time he replaced the white instructor with a black instructor who was much taller and heavier than the previous black instructor. In this trial, the white students actually jumped less high than they had the first time around. Their performance on the pushups, though, was unchanged in each of the conditions. There is no stereotype, after all, that suggests that whites can’t do as many pushups as blacks. The task that was affected was the vertical leap, because of what our culture says: white men can’t jump.

Gladwell goes on to explore some of the psychological reasons why we see these significant correlations – and no, it’s not because women are naturally bad at math or white men really can’t jump. In baseball, scouts often have players run the 60-yard dash and perform other athletic tests, often in groups at showcases … but what if the “stereotype threat” is in effect? Are we getting bad reads on white or black players because of this psychological issue?

The second essay in the collection explores, of all things, the markets for condiments, asking why we have many kinds of mustard but only one kind of ketchup. The answer to that specific question isn’t all that interesting – in a nutshell, Heinz has struck a nearly perfect balance across various dimensions of flavor that appeals to a mass market because it doesn’t stand out in any one dimension – but the discussion of the science and statistics of taste was. Gladwell veers off into a conversation with Howard Moskowitz, a researcher in the realm of psychophysics, who uses taste tests and user feedback to identify clusters of taste that might be targets for new variations on existing products, such as the “extra-chunky” tomato sauce category he uncovered through research for Campbell’s to fix its flagging Prego brand in the 1980s.

Other essays of note include one on Nassim Taleb, an investor now known as the author of The Black Swan and Fooled by Randomness; puncturing the myth that genius burns bright when young but fades early; and calling the entire field of criminal profiling into question. The essay on the hair dye industry covered a couple of very interesting characters, but the essay on Cesar Millan managed to make him – and the subject – boring. (Disclaimer: I’m not a dog person.) Gladwell gets personal with one section on a case of plagiarism that involved the use of material from one of his articles in the Broadway play Frozen, but I couldn’t quite come around to his ultimate conclusion that we are too protective of authors’ intellectual property rights.

I listened to the audio version of What the Dog Saw, read by Gladwell, who has a fantastic voice for reading audiobooks and, of course, can always use the perfect tone for what are, after all, his own words.

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