Literacy and Longing in L.A. by Jennifer Kaufman, Karen Mack

Some women shop. Some eat. Dora cures the blues by bingeing on books-reading one after another, from Flaubert to bodice rippers, for hours and days on end. In this wickedly funny and sexy literary debut, we meet the beguiling, beautiful Dora, whose unique voice combines a wry wit and vulnerability as she navigates the road between reality and fiction. Dora, named after Eudora Welty, is an indiscriminate book junkie whose life has fallen apart-her career, her marriage, and finally her self-esteem. All she has left is her love of literature, and the book benders she relied on as a child. Ever since her larger-than-life father wandered away and her book-loving, alcoholic mother was left with two young daughters, Dora and her sister, Virginia, have clung to each other, enduring a childhood filled with literary pilgrimages instead of summer vacations. Somewhere along the way Virginia made the leap into the real world. But Dora isn't quite there yet. Now she's coping with a painful separation from her husband, scraping the bottom of a dwindling inheritance, and attracted to a seductive book-seller who seems to embody all that literature has to offer-intelligent ideas, romance, and an escape from her problems. Joining Dora in her odyssey is an elderly society hair-brusher, a heartbroken young girl, a hilarious off-the-wall female teamster, and Dora's mother, now on the wagon, trying to make amends. Along the way Dora faces some powerful choices. Between two irresistible men. Between idleness and work. And most of all between the joy of well-chosen words and the untidiness of real people and real life. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly Kaufman, a former L.A. Times staff writer, and Mack, a former attorney and Golden Globe Award- winning film and TV producer, check in with this solid, thoughtful chick lit debut. Dora, at 35, is a twice-divorced former young reporter on the rise at the L.A. Times. Second ex-husband Palmer is now head of Sony Pictures, and still supporting her. Dora's depressed, and she only leaves the house to stalk Palmer and buy more books. At the bookstore, she meets elegantly scraggly comp lit Ph.D. Fred, and they begin an unlikely courtship. Dora is soon surprised by Fred's invitation to meet his mother, Bea, whom Dora likes instantly, all the more so when she learns Bea is also raising Harper, the six-year-old daughter of Fred's troubled sister. The bond between Bea and Dora gives Dora something she never had with her own, alcoholic mother, and helps her make decisions that bring her life back into focus. Dora is the kind of deadpan and imperfect heroine with whom readers can easily identify. Kaufman and Mack mishandle the abrupt ending and epilogue, but are most likely setting up a welcome sequel. (June 6) Copyright Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Booklist Book lust meets chick lit in this tale of a love-challenged bookworm. Dora, named for Eudora Welty, confesses, I collect new books the way my girlfriends buy designer handbags. Estranged from her husband and living in a luxurious L.A. high-rise, she deals with melancholy by taking long baths while drinking wine and reading paperbacks. Luckily, her habit must be fed, requiring frequent trips to the local bookstore, where she meets tall, handsome Fred--a starving playwright who ekes out a living by providing book-group recommendations to Brentwood housewives. Soon they're involved in a heated romance, but things begin to sour when Dora meets his family. Then Dora's husband pops up, and confusion creeps in. Dora is a charming character, and readers will appreciate some of her more neurotic tendencies, such as her debilitating fear of driving on freeways. No literary masterpiece, this cowritten debut reads instead like a gossipy e-mail from a witty, intelligent friend. A list of referenced books and authors is included at the end. Emily Cook Copyright American Library Association. All rights reserved Review A book with the word Literacy in the title? A book with a lot of astute and telling quotes used as a plot device?... Literacy and Longing in L.A. turns out to be the most delightful read of the year.... An absolute romp dotted with the kind of wise sayings you never want to forget.-Liz Smith Kaufman and Mack cultivate a bright, breezy tone.... This is chick fiction in its purest form, so humor is always plentiful.-The Miami Herald Jennifer Kaufman and Karen Mack have a lot of nerve! How dare they come up with the brilliant idea to write a novel about a woman who tells her life story through her obsession with books! And how dare they execute it so beautifully?!...The book is sharp, seamless and very, very funny. I wish I had written it.-Sara Nelson, author of So Many Books, So Little Time A poignant and witty tale of life, love and letters in Los Angles...[a] brilliant debut novel.-Karen Quinn, author of The Ivy Chronicles A wonderful story that completely won me over-insecure bookish Dora will appeal to anyone who has ever found solace or inspiration in reading. This is chick lit for bookworms, at times breezy, sexy, profound...-Denise Hamilton, author of Prisoner of Memory A delightfully stylish romp through life and love in Southern California in which our heroine offers irrefutable proof that literacy and L.A. are not mutually exclusive. -Judith Ryan Hendricks, author of The Baker's Apprentice I'm absolutely crazy about Literacy and Longing in L.A., which deftly serves up all the best elements of so-called 'chick lit,' lovingly larded with light-hearted, quick-witted, absolutely astonishing learning!-Carolyn See, author of Making a Literary Life Funny and charming.... What a pleasing combination: books and romance.-Fort Worth Star-Telegram Funny and charming.... A bit of chick lit for women who actually love to read.-Arizona Republic About the Author Karen Mack, a former attorney, is a Golden Globe Award-winning film and television producer. Jennifer Kaufman was a staff writer at the Los Angeles Times and is a two-time winner of the national Penney-Missouri Journalism Award. Their debut novel, Literacy and Longing in L.A., was a #1 Los Angeles Times bestseller and also won the 2006 Southern California Booksellers Association Award for Fiction. Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Master of the Universe All the best stories in the world are but one story in reality, the story of escape. It is the only thing which interests us all and at all times, how to escape. -Arthur Christopher Benson (1862-1925)- Women do different things when they're depressed. Some smoke, others drink, some call their therapists, some eat. My mother used to go ballistic when she and my father had a fight, then she'd booze for days on end and vanish into her bedroom. My sister was more into the global chill mode; give 'em the silent treatment and, in the meantime, gorge on frozen Sara Lee banana cake. And I do what I have always done-go off on a book bender that can last for days. I fall into this state for different reasons. Sometimes it's after an I hate your fucking guts fight. Other times it's symptomatic of my state of mind, ennui up to my ears, my life gone awry, and that feeling of dread whenever I'm asked what I'm doing. How can anyone sort all this out? All things considered, I'd rather read. It's the perfect escape. I have a whole mantra for my book binges. First of all, I open a bottle of good red wine. Then I turn off my cell phone, turn on my answering machine, and gather all the books I've been meaning to read or reread and haven't. Finally, I fill up the tub with thirty-dollar bubble bath, fold a little towel at the end of the tub so it just fits in the crick of my neck, and turn on my music. I have an old powder-blue plastic Deco radio near the tub that I bought at a garage sale in Hollywood a few years ago. The oddest thing: the radio only receives one AM radio station, which plays jazz standards from the forties and fifties, and it suits me just fine. Within my bathroom walls is a self-contained field of dreams and I am in total control, the master of my own elegantly devised universe. The outside world disappears and here, there is only peace and a profound sense of well-being. Most of the people in my life take a dim view of this . . . what would you call it? Monomania? Eccentricity? My sister is perhaps the most diplomatic. We both know that I have a tendency to lose my tether to reality when I close myself off like this. But then she'll joke that I'm really just another boring bibliomaniac and what I really need is a little fresh air. She always was a whiz with words. She actually informed me that a book she read by Nicholas Basbanes (appropriately called Among the Gently Mad) states that the first documented use of the word bibliomania came in 1750 when the fourth earl of Chesterfield sent a letter to his illegitimate son warning him that this consuming diversion with books should be avoided like the bubonic plague. Ho hum. I peel off my clothes and throw them on the floor. As I'm walking to the tub, I glance at the floor-to-ceiling mirror that covers the south wall of my bathroom. Oh god. Wait a minute. You know how you look in the mirror and you look the same and you look the same and all of a sudden you look ten years older? It's fitting that at age thirty-five I should notice this. My waist is thicker, my breasts saggier, the beginnings of--shit, is that cellulite on the backs of my thighs? Why is it that you think this age thing won't happen to you? Oh, and look at the backs of my elbows! They look like old-lady wrinkled elbows with a sharp, bony protrusion. I've never been able to figure out my looks. I've been told I'm striking. But what does that mean? It's something people say when they can't give you the usual compliments, like you're beautiful. It could be my height that puts them off. I'm almost five foot ten, which has only recently become fashionable. I also have enormous feet. Size 10 on a good day. When I was young, I hated my tall, too-thin, sticklike figure, which my mother described as willowy. She'd argue that my looks were special and would be appreciated when I got older. Just give yourself time, she'd say. You'll see. You'll outshine all those other girls with hourglass figures. I felt like Frankie in The Member of the Wedding: a big freak . . . legs too long . . . shoulders too narrow . . . belonging to no club and a member of nothing in the world. It wasn't just my appearance. I always felt like an oddball, the exception in a world where I imagined other families were normal and happy. Virginia and I endured the secrets and shame of an absent father and an alcoholic mother, and the few friends I had, I kept at a distance, always relieved when they didn't come over. The fact of the matter was that I was embarrassed that my mother couldn't cope, and in some ways, she passed that on to me. I shut my eyes as I get into the tub. I have purposely made the water scalding hot and when I dip my foot in, my toes turn red and start to sting. Too hot. I add a little cold, letting the water run through my fingers as I listen to a tinny version of Coltrane blasting out Love Supreme. Paul Desmond once said that listening to late-night jazz is like having a very dry martini. I think he's right. I stick my foot back in and then ease my body into the water. Still too hot. I twist the spigot with my toes, adding more cold. There. Perfect. I pick up The Transit of Venus, an obscure novel by Shirley Hazzard, whose newest book, The Great Fire, has become a favorite among book clubs. The premise is fascinating. It's about two beautiful orphaned sisters whose lives are as predestined as the rotation of the planets. I try to concentrate. The prose is dense and complex; I have to keep rereading paragraphs. I start to daydream and lose my place. This isn't working for me. Basically, I'm still depressed. Maybe it's just the time of year. It's Christmas, I'm alone, and my social prospects are nonexistent. This is the season to be somewhere else, and for the majority of my friends, that means packing up the kids and maybe a few of their best friends and migrating to second homes in Maui, Aspen, Cabo, Sun Valley, and the second tier, Palm Springs and Las Vegas. Being in West L.A. in December is like being banished to an isolated retreat or even a rehab center where parties and other forms of merriment are verboten. Not that I'm complaining. If you come from the east, the weather here in December is glorious. Right up until the El Ni-o rains in late January and February, the world is temperate, mild, and forgiving. Natural disasters like fires, floods, landslides, and earthquakes don't happen in West L.A. This year I have no plans to go anywhere and I am occasionally nagged by that insidious feeling of missing out. When I was with Palmer, we used to go to the Four Seasons on Maui every year. We'd get the corner suite and even bribe a beachboy to reserve our lounges every day to avoid getting up at five a.m. like everyone else. (In truth, most of our friends just had their nannies do it.) Now I hear Palmer is going to St. Barts. He thinks it's younger, hipper, and more fun, unlike being with me. I used to sit by the pool in the shade and read all day. The phone rings. It's my sister, Virginia. She sounds worried. I know you're there, Dora. Why haven't you returned my calls? If you don't pick up I'm coming over . . . I pick up. I'm okay, I say. You don't sound okay. Are you doing another one of your book-hermit things? Nobody knows me like Virginia. I've been a little upset. A little, like twenty-four hours little or a little, like three days little? Like three days little. Doesn't sound little to me. Do you want me to come over? I look around. My place is a shambles. No. Really. I'm fine. I was just going out. I convince her that I'm simply marvelous and she buys it. She just doesn't get it. She has a husband and a baby. Who can blame her? I pick up the Hazzard book and try again. This is so depressing. I have just finished an early chapter about Ted Tice, Paul Ivory, and Caro, and I can already tell they are all eventually doomed to lives of unspeakable loss and tragedy. For one thing, Paul is gay, or at the very least bisexual, and for another--oh forget it. I get out of the tub, grab a robe, and go back to the bookshelf, leaving wet footprints in my wake. It's not really intentional, but generally speaking I gravitate toward a certain theme for these lost weekends and, at the moment, I am set on choosing books about relationships that don't work out. Since most of the world's greatest classics deal with this subject, I have lots of options. Also, for some strange reason, my books are loosely organized into categories so it's easy to make a selection based on my mood. Let's see, do I want to steep myself in obsessive love . . . something like Wuthering Heights, where Heathcliff never did get it on with Cathy . . . unrequited love, dysfunctional love, adulterous love . . . Oh, here's Dorothy Parker . . . the brilliant cynic with deadpan wit alternating with fits of spiteful alcoholic rage (hmmmm) and Austen, the optimist. Her love affairs always work out. Not interested. Over here are the dysfunctional family books, including my mother's dog-eared copy of The Optimist's Daughter, and on the shelf below, the functional family books, mostly fantasies, sci-fi, or adventure classics that I have treasured since my childhood. I finally gather up the following: Sentimental Education by Flaubert (I lent Virginia my copy of Madame Bovary, which should be right beside it, and she never returned it. You see? That's why I don't lend books. It fucks up my whole library.), Anna Karenina, The End of the Affair (miracles and horrid disfigurements), Wuthering Heights (all right, I feel like wallowing), and A Farewell to Arms. God, what a dreary bunch of bathmates. Perfect for my grim, listless state of mind. That'll do for now. Oh well, I'll throw in ...