Jo-Ann Mapson

Spring, Book Reviews, and the Sean Connery
Coping Mechanism

At the edge of my property, trees are greening up, strangely enough, beginning with the trunks. When the dogs and I walk in the woods, swollen buds decorate every branch. In the garage, the snow blower gathers dust. The scent of spring breezes through on warm Chinook winds, and I stop whatever I'm doing to inhale it. There is no sachet capable of capturing what green Alaska smells like-it's a mixture of flowers, yes, but not exactly sweet, and accompanied by a deep, earthy undertone so rich it feels historical. Clean, like after the rain, but a little funkiness beneath, smelling fertile, and immense. It reminds me that I'm only a small speck in this state, and that I moved here to feel that way.

Bears are waking up, hungry from their long naps. That moose lucky enough to survive the winter will be after the willow buds soon, startling me when I least expect it, the red-brown hide emerging from the brush like a cross between a horse and Bigfoot. Soon relatives will arrive, and after we've seen Anchorage, we'll drive down to Seward, take one of those ocean wildlife cruises, witness humpback whales breaching, laugh at how clumsily puffins fly. We'll dine on halibut cheeks in some seaside restaurant while the sky does not grow dark, because this is Alaska, where summer is all about light, endless, brilliant buckets of it.

Which is why the fact that it's currently snowing outside is making me smile. This is no flurry-these are big wet flakes that turn to liquid three seconds after they hit the deck. I want them to go on all night, making drifts, but their heart isn't in it. Me, I'll miss winter, and look forward to its return. I felt that at home in it. Strange for a California girl to admit, but I feel 97% Alaskan now. The only thing I miss about home besides family is shopping with girlfriends. And they all have plans to come this way this summer. I'll show them Gottschalk's and we'll compare and contrast the Anchorage Nordstrom with various California Nordys' and dissect the differences over coffee and maybe the chocolate pyramid dessert at The Marx Brothers Cafe. Had it last week on my birthday. I'm still thinking about the talent it takes to create a dessert that memorable.

Another sweet thing is that my bindery copy of Bad Girl Creek arrived while I was in Arizona giving a lecture. When I returned home, I did what I always do, petted the book as if it were a new kitten, read through the pages and felt amazed that someone-because it sure wasn't me-wrote all those words. I slept with it under my pillow, because that's mandatory to complete the publishing experience. If I could freeze time in my writing life, this is when I'd get out the ice. I have made a book, it's precious and new, and nobody's yet bent the dust jacket. Before the melee of catching airplanes, fumbling with luggage in the overhead bin, before book signings and book reviews, I have this to myself-an inviolate moment I'd like to stretch out for a month. Readers who like it just ask for my signature and when is the next one coming out? (Answer: 2003, unless I stop sleeping and decide to write 24 hours a day.) Then there are those who feel compelled to tell me how much they didn't like something I did in the book

George Sand simply wrote as a man and avoided all that nonsense. But Virginia Woolf walked into the ocean, and Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven. I once had a misogynistic college professor who taught Katharine Mansfield, even though in his opinion, she was "minor" writer. There are books out now that feature terrible reviews of writers we consider literary giants today. The luxury of time passing provides perspective...for some.

Every year I tell myself I won't read reviews, and when someone says something mean about my book to my face I'll respond, "How interesting," or "Thanks for sharing," and return to my hotel room, order dessert (hoping for chocolate pyramids), and remind myself that they of the free and easy opinions haven't written a book, haven't embraced that year-long process of up, down, insecurity, panic, hard work, sweat, blind faith and ruthless public scrutiny. But I read them all anyway. I treasure the good ones, until the bad ones come along and poke at my very bones. In the end, I know it's the readers' hands I'm placing my stories into, and more than consolation, that is the reason I write. I just want to tell stories and make people laugh. Or cry, or something in between.

As my brother (who reads only the sports page) often reminds me, "Everyone deserves to lay an egg now and then. Look at Sean Connery: What the hell did he think making Darby O'Gill and the Little People?" Then he dances around like a stereotypical leprechaun and sings me a chorus of "In the Gnome Mobile" and the lyrics stay in my head for days. He takes nothing but the Lakers seriously, and when they lose he goes off to play blues on his guitar. God bless the men in my life. They are funny and kind and never allow me to take myself seriously.

April 24^th I have my first signing at Barnes & Noble Anchorage, 6:30 p.m. The remainder of my book tour is posted on this site. I hope to see some of you in my travels. Please introduce yourselves. Maybe, if there's time, we can have coffee and talk. Say what you like about my book, but if you didn't like it, don't be surprised to end up in a discussion of Sean Connery's movie career.

More later,
Jo-Ann

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