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the everyman memoirs

The official blog of author Tali Nay.
NOV
09

An Afternoon at King's English Bookshop

Last weekend's book signing at King's English Bookshop was significant for a few reasons. First, Utah is cold, so the weekend was memorable in and of itself and left me (and my coat) wondering how we ever used to handle cold weather on the regular. Second, unlike signings in my own backyard, coming back to Salt Lake City after not living there for almost a dozen years meant that so many of the people who came out to the bookstore were people I hadn't seen in a very long time. Some close to 20 years. And isn't that just a little crazy? So are worlds colliding, which is what happens when you have a very crowded bookstore full of family, friends, former roommates, former classmates, people from your hometown, and former church colleagues. It's a melting pot of your own life history. 

The third reason that last weekend's signing was significant is that it marked the first time I've ever done a reading. I've always shied away from them in the past, I suppose in part because I get nervous reading my own books, but mostly because a reading seems a little silly when you're someone who's not actually famous. I mean, I'm not exactly JK Rowling. I'm not even known much beyond my own friends and family. So what would really compel people to hear my own measly thoughts about my own measly book, the details of how it came to be, snippets of my favorite passages? Yet there I was, reading and talking to a group of people in a slightly overheated room of children's books and totally loving it. Did I turn bright red and wish that sort of thing didn't happen to me when on the spot? Yes. Did several show up late or miss the reading entirely? Yes. Do I wish I didn't talk so fast? Of course. But I loved having the chance to tell readers a bit about the book, what it means to me, and what I hope they'll like about it. I loved reading a few passages and seeing when people laughed and when they didn't. I loved feeling like an author.

Here's to Salt Lake. Here's to King's English Bookshop. And here's to (hopefully) more readings in the future.

MAR
25

Adolescence and Memory

As a writer of memoirs, I mention a lof of people in the course of my writing. As a no-name author, I've been able to do this with very few of these people even knowing they are mentioned. I have a very small readership, see. And while nothing I write is vindictive and most of the interactions I mention in my books are positive (I remember my dad saying after my first book came out that he wished he were mentioned more), I do have a relatively constant worry that people I have mentioned will discover they are mentioned and be upset with me for mentioning them. 

Recently a girl I went to high school with contacted me to say she was reading my first book and loving it. I reveled in the compliment, but only for a moment, because this girl is mentioned in that book. She's mentioned most notably for hurting my tender adolescent feelings in a rather humiliating way as we began our sophomore year. I waited rather tortuously for her to get to that part in the book and scold me for outing her cruel slight, but the scolding never came. Instead I got a long and heartfelt apology from this girl for putting herself and her budding popularity ahead of loyalty and friendship. 

Of course, then I felt bad for making her feel bad about this silly thing that happened twenty years ago. I'd included it because the whole point of my first book was to make it a study of the things we learn from our school years that have nothing to do with textbooks. And being an adolescent girl is a study in itself. Her slight only affected me so much because I was fifteen, acutely aware of my own lack of popularity, and vastly influenced by the overamplication of any shred of it I gained or lost. So here was this girl, my friend, apologizing for this thing that had meant so much to me then, but now hardly seemed worth mentioning. I mean, what's the protocol for that?

I told her it was ok, because it was, and that it had been a long time ago, because it had. I'd made it through high school just fine, and my life had unfolded quite nicely despite her decades-old diss. So the only thing that really mattered now was that we were back in touch, bonded not at all by circumstance--our lives could not be more different--but by the shared memories of where we were raised, the people we had known during this time, and the uncharted paths by which we each navigated our adolescent selves, hoping for acceptance. 

The simple answer here is I really should be writing fiction. And believe me, if I could, I would. 

 

 

 

 

 

NOV
04

Flee to the Cleve

You know that episode of Friends when Chandler and Monica take Erica on a tour of NYC and Chandler comes back to their apartment all decked out in touristy garb and declares, "New York is awesome!" He explains, "I've been to these places before, but I've never really seen them, you know." Now isn't that always the way.

I had company in town last week, and it gave me the rare opportunity to actually see Cleveland. It's no New York, as I believe I've mentioned pretty much weekly since this blog's inception, but I'm quite fond of it, and there's so much I'd like to be taking better advantage of. I kept thinking how much I was enjoying myself, how much more a person is able to do and see when she doesn't have to be at work. I know, I know, without work I wouldn't be able to afford to DO anything, I'm just saying (once again) how nice it would be to be independently wealthy. Which I will be once I sell about a million more books. Glass half full, people.

Anyway, here are a few shots from my week in the city. The city where I live but rarely see.

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