I Can't Complain by Elinor Lipman Read Free Book Online Page A

a minor role. He finds his wife and introduces her to me. I manage to say, hoping to sound like a thoughtful reviewer of the arts rather than a breathless fan, that she is a terrific actress with excellent comic timing. She is most gracious. After the wedding (cell phones haven’t been invented) I call my friends Joan and Tammie,
AMC
watchers, from the hotel phone—very expensive—to tell them that I’ve met Midge. Silence. “Remember Midge?” I ask. Neither does.
    Circa 1988: A friend flying in first class gets the sense that
AMC
’s James Mitchell/Palmer Cortlandt, unprovoked, is making a pass from the adjacent seat.
    1996–1997: I switch channels from
All My Children
to watch CNN’s coverage of the O. J. Simpson trial. I never return.
    2003–the present: At three separate author events I meet three actors emeritus from
Ryan’s Hope,
which I especially liked for its acknowledging the existence of Catholics and Jews. They are Faith Catlin, who played Faith Coleridge; Louise Shaffer, who played (among many roles in other shows) the villain Rae Woodard; and Malachy McCourt, who played Kevin MacGuinness.
    Faith, Louise, and I are Facebook friends. I’ve seen Louise’s Emmy statuette (best supporting actress) in person. I learn that a mean character can be nothing like her offscreen persona. When I bake, it’s often her excellent red velvet cake.

 
     
     
ON WRITING

Confessions of a Blurb Slut
    I N THE SPRING of 1986 my editor sent bound galleys of my first book, a story collection, to six authors, soliciting endorsements (AKA blurbs) for the back of the jacket. The first turndown came from an extant Lost Generation novelist, apparently irked by a lofty editorial assertion. “If I wanted to read Dorothy Parker, I’d read Dorothy Parker,” she grumbled.
    “Nothing to worry about,” my editor said.
    Eventually kind words arrived from a short-story wunderkind who’d once shared a cubicle with my editor, from a novelist I’d met at a party, and from a writer published by Viking, which was also publishing me. My fondest hope, a comedy-of-manners top dog, didn’t answer. On one hand, I understood. Wouldn’t everyone want her anointment? On the other hand, I knew she had worked in publishing. How could a former solicitor of blurbs not send a collegial turndown? My heart didn’t break, but it hardened. The final no arrived from a short-story starlet, pleading overwork but wishing “Ms. Lipman well.”
What a mensch,
I thought.
What a gifted and sensitive soul.
    The first time an editor asked me for a blurb, I put my work aside and sat down with the manuscript. It stank. I wrote a full-page apology explaining how flattered I was, how disloyal I felt to my brother author and to my imprint, but that I couldn’t lie. When the editor didn’t respond, I called him.
    Huh? Oh, that. Don’t give it a second thought.
He certainly hadn’t; he’d sent it to every living author on his list. And by the way, some rather big fish loved it.
    My policy—no compromises and no dutiful blurbs—was codified after a minor moral dilemma. A prizewinning author, who had praised my first novel in private and my second in print, suggested I might have something kind to say about his new work. I called my editor for advice. She cut me off as soon as she heard the problem: that I hated most of it. “Don’t do it,” she said firmly. “He won’t remember who was sent the book versus who came through. Never blurb something you don’t like.”
    “I won’t,” I promised. (P.S. End of friendship.)
    Nonfeasance is the norm in blurbing. Publishers expect little. Several galleys per month arrive at my door. I always open the envelope, and I always read the editor’s letter. I like the personal, the flattering, the imploring: “In so many ways this book reminds me of yours, Ellie—. . .” (Heartwarming adjectives follow the dash.) Or, “I would be in your debt—more in your debt, that is, than I already am for having your