On Botany and DNA

Several years ago, a plant sat dying in the lobby of the posh condo building I work at. Myrna, the resident who volunteers to provide and keep alive the lobby plants and flowers, gave me the plant to set atop a cabinet in the office where such things go to die. I placed it in its plant purgatory with little fanfare. None, as a matter of fact.

I took to dumping the remains of my water bottle into the vase—the backwash I was too lazy to take all the way back to the sink to pour out. Day after day, I deposited the tepid water from the previous night into the pot. Several times during each shift, I'd pour the KitKat-laced spittle from the bottom of my bottle over the pathetic plant.

One day Myrna noticed the plant atop the cabinet. “That thing still alive?”

“It's my DNA,” I offered.

Myrna decided it deserved a better pot. As she made the transfer, it was hard to imagine the water that poured out of that thing. She commented that no plant could survive such over-watering.

It became the emergency plant—when Myrna couldn't get to the florist after something else had really died—and periodically enjoyed its former place the lobby. I continued to dump my waste water on the thing until one day a pink bud appeared. It had never flowered before.

With Myrna temporarily slowed by a walker, the plant has again become the centerpiece of the lobby. And I've continued to generally abuse it. It sprouted a second bud.

Was it my DNA in the backwash? Had my ancestors hung the Hanging Gardens? Was I a Venus flytrap in a former life? Or perhaps eaten by one?

Questions such as these have mystified botanists since the dawn of time (or perhaps not), but one thing is for sure: This was an obvious fluke, never ever let me near your plants!

On Re-meeting Carolyn Forché

I began this blog eight years ago because I was told a writer needed a blog. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with a blog and still don't. I thought I'd begin by recording some stories of famous writers I'd met. I started with John Gardner and Raymond Carver, and—to show my versatility—filtered in Kirby Puckett (okay, it was just a tip of the helmet) and a First Avenue encounter with Michael Stipe.

With these four luminaries headlining the blog, my followers still stalled out at six. (It may say seven on the blog but two are really just one person.) Then a few friends died and my blog turn into an obituary column. My number of followers remained at six. I scrapped the name-dropping idea, even with the likes of Carolyn Forché and Tim O'Brien still left to capitalize on. After all, if getting hit on by Michael Stipe doesn't get peoples' attention, what will?

(And, yes, eight years later I still have the same six followers. I'm hoping the “follow” button in broken.)

Anyhow, word recently came out that Carolyn Forché was coming to town to read at the Plymouth Congregational Church. Couldn't miss that. The last time I was aware of her being in town was maybe thirty years ago at the Walker, shortly after I had had the pleasure of working with her on something called the Iron Range Documentation Project up in Duluth. The project teamed up writers and photographers to stay with families on the Range and included a reading on Duluth Public Radio. Very few writers signed on, which was fine with me for it left me with plenty of Carolyn's time and plenty of radio airtime. After the Walker reading we had talked at length, and she even invited me to drop by where she and her husband were staying the next night so she could look at some of my stories. This never happened as she got into a car accident the next day.

After thirty years I didn't expect much if I got a chance to speak with her again. Though certainly she'd remember the car wreck.

I arrived early and purchased her new book, What You Have Heard Is True. Her reading was terrific, her commentary on El Salvador riveting, as expected. While in line to have her sign my book, I rehearsed what I'd say to her in those precious few seconds to try to rekindle a memory.

As I reached the signing table, I spotted a tiny woman squeezing between it and the buying table. She had a large man in tow and proceeded to introduce Carolyn to him.

You're muscling in on my time, lady, I thought as I pushed the book toward Carolyn.

“I served you food at Bread Loaf back in '82,” I said to Carolyn, referring to our first encounter while she was on the Bread Loaf staff, and I was there on a “working scholarship”. “And later I was in on that Iron Range Project where—”

Carolyn interrupted by saying the tiny woman was the organizer of the Iron Range deal.

“What's your name?” the tiny woman asked.

“Will Tinkham,” I told Carolyn.

“I don't recall that that name,” the tiny woman said as my time ticked away. “No, I'm sorry, but I don't remember that name at all...”

Carolyn handed the now-signed book back to me. “I waited tables at Bread Loaf myself back in '71,” she said, then referred to my sling: “Hope your arm heals okay.”

I guess I should've mentioned the car wreck. I hope she got out of town okay.

This is an example of how I network.

On April 10, 7pm

Will Tinkham reads
from his new novel,
The Miracles.

Wednesday
April 10, 7pm
@Magers & Quinn
Booksellers, 
3038 Hennepin
   Ave S., Uptown

A wonderful 2/3s review

A woman who lives where I work stopped into the office last night and said she was two-thirds of the way through “the Cary Grant book” and that I had “outdone myself.” (She was referring to The Cary Grant Sanatorium and Playhouse and is one of a handful of people to have read all my books.) She said I was at my “wittiest and craziest.”

She went on to say she especially enjoyed the beginning of the book and I figured I had won her over because she is of the age that may have grown up idolizing Cary Grant and other movie stars referenced early on. Instead, she said it was because she “grew up in central Europe”—referring to the chapters dealing with a young man's escapes from the Nazis.

One can overlook dismal sales with a review like that. Thanks, Sonia and I hope you enjoy the rest of the book.

On $9

Delivered a copy of BONUS MAN to Subtext Books to sell on consignment. Received $9 payment for the last book sold, less the $4 I originally paid Amazon for the book and $3.50 bus fare to and from St. Paul, leaving me with $1.50 profit.

Of course, while in St. Paul I had to have lunch with my sister, so I then spent $20 out of my profit at the Eagle Street Grille.

Will have to check with my accountant on just how this will lead to millions. He tells me to be patient.

On $20

The following post was doing better than normal on its own, so I decided to pay $20 to "boost" it on Facebook. It went like this: “John Prine and Bill Murray both figure heavily in my novel THE GREAT AMERICAN SCRAPBOOK. My main character snaps out of a breakdown by wandering around playing Prine songs on his girlfriend's guitar. Later Murray, as part-owner of the St. Paul Saints, invites him to sing on Opening Day 2004.” I paired that with a video of an interview and a picture (below) of the two—not sure who the third guy is.

Final return on my investment: 'Reached' 1,928 people, got 98 'clicks', 8 'engagements', 6 'likes' from strangers, 2 new 'friends' on FB, 1 Goodreads 'follower' and sold zero 'books'.

That's what we call marketing.

On better failure

Over the last half-year, I've been conducting a failed experiment that will now come to an end. I ventured away from an exclusive Amazon Kindle agreement (see December 2, 2017 post) to sell my novels through other outlets such as B&N and iBooks. I sold exactly ZERO BOOKS through this expanded distribution, while the books I did sell through Kindle garnered a smaller royalty than if I had stayed strictly with Amazon.

According to Samuel Beckett I'm right on course: Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

Hmmm... Shouldn't it be: "Ever Tried? Ever failed?"

Be that as it may, all six titles are still on Amazon, as well as at Magers & Quinn in Uptown. 

Ask about all six at Subtext Books in St. Paul, even though they currently only carry this one particular title:

Thanks!