Well, this was an interesting week.

Although I know it sometimes seems as if I'm constantly online, this week was neatly divided between my professional life, which is Going Very Nicely, and my personal life, which has been a series of Domestic Disturbances. Knock wood, I think I have finally assigned each problem/dilemma to the proper professional, although for all I know the catsitter is outside doing the brick work and our plumber is devising the menu for Mr. Lippman's birthday dinner. When I heard on Wednesday that I had managed, despite the Guns of August*, to elbow my way onto the New York Times list, my publisher asked what I was going to do to celebrate. "Shower!" I e-mailed back. I wasn't joking.

As we say here at The Memory Project IIRC, but -- IIRC, I remember reading Tillie Olsen's SILENCES in the creative writing class taught by Meredith Steinbach at Northwestern. I like to mention Meredith by name whenever possible because she was my first important mentor. Ironic, because my major was journalism and over in Fiske Hall, home to Northwestern's Medill School of Journalism, very few instructors seemed to have hopes for me. (Another exception I like to mention by name: Sallie Gaines, then at the Chicago Tribune, who was incredibly kind to me. And let's throw Sandra Cisneros, my writing teacher when I was in my 20s, into the mix.) Olsen -- IIRC, remember -- was a working mother who managed to write despite having almost no time to herself, composing her stories while hanging on a subway strap. I try to hold onto that story the way I imagine Olsen hanging onto that strap.

The fact is, even as Franzenfest was heating up, the writer who really got me thinking about literary bias was my friend Ann Hood, who wrote on Facebook on Aug. 17: "Why do some male writers still need to dismiss the topics and themes of women writers as trivial?" Ann is a lovely, lyrical writer. I can't imagine anyone who wouldn't shelve her work with literary fiction. At the same time, I know very few men who will pick up THE KNITTING CIRCLE, a beautiful novel about the infinite forms of grief. Pity, because it's not only a good novel, it's one that has much to teach other writers. I stole from it shamelessly to write THE GIRL IN THE GREEN RAINCOAT.

One of the themes that emerged this week was that Jodi Picoult and Jennifer Weiner shouldn't complain. Because they are successful to a degree that most writers envy. Because complaining always sounds petulant. Because they've made their literary beds and should lie in them. Because they are Happy Meals, not omakase at Nobu.

I understand these sentiments. (Except for the McDonald's metaphor, which just isn't working for me.) But if Picoult and Weiner don't raise these issues, who will? Who won't sound petulant?** Philip Roth? James Wood? (A brilliant critic with whom I often disagree in terms of personal taste.) There are no disinterested parties in this discussion. Or, more accurately -- the truly disinterested parties are also uninterested, which is the larger problem facing bibliophiles. Most people just don't care about books. So let's award points for the mere fact that the discussion got started.

Of course, as editor Reagan Arthur*** pointed out, the book -- FREEDOM -- got lost in the shuffle. Shouldn't we be talking about the book, which is garnering really enthusiastic reviews? Yes, that would be nice. But the funny thing is, we seldom really talk about the book or the film or the television show that's at the center of a media dust-up. We talk about whether Dan Brown has it in for the Catholic church, or if Murphy Brown should have a baby out of wedlock, or if The Wire's executive producer is an angry, angry man who should just shut the fuck up already about journalism. It's hard to talk about a book outside a classroom. Anyone who's ever been part of a book club can attest to that. I'm not saying it can't be done -- Ann Hood and I, along with other faculty members at the Eckerd Writers Workshop, end up doing that every year, late into the night.**** It's just easier to talk about the talk about the book.

For those who missed it -- Picoult and Weiner were clear that they don't begrudge Franzen anything. They would just like to see the New York Times expand its books coverage. Others have argued that the Times should hew to a literary agenda. My hunch is that if Snooki is part of all the news that's fit to print, then romance novels and chick lit could be, too. I argue this to my detriment. Newspaper space is finite and if romance novels get a monthly round-up in the New York Times Book Review, that could mean cutting back on the twice-monthly crime novel round-ups written by Marilyn Stasio.
But it strikes me as the right thing to do. The fact is, as someone who's pretty ignorant about the romance genre, I'd appreciate a monthly guide to its best practitioners.

In the end, we are all clinging to some kind of subway strap, trying to stay upright at the end of a long day. I remind myself every day that I am one of the lucky ones. But I don't think that being lucky obligates one to be silent. Sort of the other way around.

*James Patterson, Frederick Forsyth, Martin Cruz Smith, Dick Francis and Lauren Weisberger all had books with the same on-sale date as mine. Not even my mother expected me to make the printed list.

**I think I am on record as one of the few people who felt empathy for Franzen's wife, also a writer, who wrote about her professional life in his shadow.

***I think Reagan is an important voice in this debate because she has wide-ranging, inclusive taste. She publishes Elizabeth Kostova, James Hynes, Joshua Ferris.

****Bear in mind, we do this with the help of Scotch chosen by Stewart O'Nan.