Alex George's Blog

Funny how times flies when (a) you’re having fun or (b) you’re mired in a once-in-a-generation pandemic.

Hard though it is to believe, it’s been nearly a year since The Paris Hours was published – which means it’s almost time for the paperback to make its way out into the world and into the hands (we all hope) a new batch of readers. The book comes out on May 4. If you’re so minded, you can order it from Skylark Bookshop here, and I would be happy to sign and personalize your copy for you.

As you’ll see, the good folks at Flatiron Books have changed the cover. I confess I’ll miss that beautiful staircase, but I like this one, too. Plans are in the works for podcasts and a couple of remote bookshop appearances around publication time and I’ll be adding those to my events page when I have the details.

I recently read a wonderful book, Becoming Duchess Goldblatt. It’s a memoir, written anonymously, about a writer who assumes the guise of a fictional character, Duchess Goldblatt, on Twitter. Twitter was made for Duchess Goldblatt; Duchess Goldblatt was (quite literally) made for Twitter. She is warm, arch, strikingly original, and extremely funny. Her tweets betray a deliciously skewed way of looking at the world, and an infectious joy in language and humanity. The memoir itself is equally delightful, although it is laced with a quiet sadness. Even as the writer enchants her followers with the Duchess’s online wit, she struggles with the breakdown of her marriage, in particular being forced to give up full-time custody of her beloved child, the legacy of her parents, and the perennial struggle to remain creative in the dour face of everyday life. The Duchess, though, offers her an escape from all that, a sniff at redemption. And then there’s Lyle Lovett.

Lyle Lovett, you see, is a fan. He loves the Duchess’s tweets, and amplifies her voice through the prism of his own celebrity. He invites the writer to one of his shows. They become friends. The book describes this relationship with equal parts humility and charmingly giddy disbelief. As soon as I finished the book, I wrote a review, full of praise. I posted a photo online, all that stuff, and added at the end, “Plus, you know, @LyleLovett.” The Duchess wrote back (she always writes back), thanking me. I tweeted a reply. And then, to my surprise, Lyle Lovett liked my tweet. So of course I immediately took a screenshot and posted it. Lyle Lovett had liked my tweet! I sent a text to my son, a musician, bragging about it. 

I saw Lyle Lovett play about sixteen years ago, an outdoor show in the shadow of the giant college football stadium in the Missouri town where I live. I’d never heard his music before. I remember driving home afterward in a fog of euphoria, the music still coursing through me. The next day I went out and bought all Lyle Lovett CDs that I could find (this was back when people still bought CDs.) I began listening obsessively. A deep vein of soul runs through every Lyle Lovett song. For every twang of a steel guitar there’s some deliciously funky stuff: Hank Williams meets Louis Jordan, you might say. This is music that lifts you up, and wakes you up, leaving you a little more attuned to the world. It is music of joy, and delight, and wonder. In other words, it’s everything music should be.

All this came flooding back to me when, after Lyle Lovett liked my tweet, I listened to one of his albums as I walked my dog in the rain. Despite the rotten weather, I had a huge grin on my face. The songs came back to me, warm and familiar, old friends in my ears. I remembered every note, every line, just as if I’d listened to them the day before. In fact I hadn’t listened to any of Lyle Lovett’s music for a decade. 

My first marriage ended ten years ago. After my divorce I was so eager to turn away from the previous thirteen years and to start afresh that I abandoned as much of my previous life as I could, including things that gave me joy and delight: those once-loved CDs had been gathering dust on the shelf since then. Without realizing it, I had put Lyle Lovett into emotional quarantine. 

Music occupies perilous emotional territory for me. I have a playlist on Spotify that is called Songs That Make Me Cry. It is accurately, if unimaginatively, titled. I listen to it regularly, to my wife’s stupefaction. She cannot fathom why I would deliberately listen to music that I know is going to make me sad. She’s missing the point, of course. It doesn’t make me sad, not really; those songs trigger a visceral response deep within me, and that’s one good way to remind myself that I am still alive. I write novels for a living, so I know a little bit about the emotional power of a good story, and Lovett, more than most, knows how to tell a tale with his songs. Sometimes his lyrics are smart and funny; sometimes they’ll crack you open and leave you a helpless wreck on the floor. Either is good with me. 

I arrived back home from that dog walk, wondering why I’d turned away from Lyle Lovett for so long. I concluded it was a question of self-preservation. They say that smell is the sense most closely linked to memory, but for me music is far more likely to come freighted with old sensations and emotions. Abandoning his songs had been a way to inoculate myself against all of that. It’s one thing to choose to listen to my sad Spotify playlist; quite another to be hijacked by unwanted memories that might linger in old tunes. 

But I’d been unduly cautious, it turned out. Like the song says, it’s funny how time slips away – but pain, too, diminishes as the years pass, until it’s just an echo of an echo.  Perhaps the intervening decade had had a mellowing effect – I was, after all, ten years older, if not wiser. Whatever the reason, any treacherous memories that might have once lurked in those songs had been erased by time. All that was left, blessedly, was the old, familiar joy – with just a small twinge of regret about those ten Lovett-less years. I quietly mourned all that time spent not listening to him that I would never get back now. 

Ten years of silence isn’t an answer to anything. Those songs deserved better. Hell, I deserved better. So I’ve made a resolution: once the musical rehabilitation of Mr. Lovett is complete, I’m returning to my CD collection, to see what other forgotten treasures I can find. Memories, even sad ones, should not be cast in shadows and silence. They’re still part of who we are. I have a feeling both Duchess Goldblatt and Lyle Lovett would approve.

So, that was fun.

The Paris Hours went out into the world yesterday, and while it wasn’t the launch day that anyone had anticipated, it was full of joy. 

First of all, a massive thank you to everyone who was so kind to write and send their good wishes. I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to respond to everyone quite yet. I will try, I promise. The sheer volume of messages was overwhelming, in the best possible way. It was like a million Facebook birthdays all at once. While I didn’t see many folks in person yesterday, I absolutely felt as if I spent the day with all of you lovely people. Thank you all for being there.

The day started off with the nicest surprise – a lovely photo montage of some of my favorite independent booksellers from across the country who got together to wish The Paris Hours on its way. I know first-hand what challenging times these are for these amazing people, which made the gesture even more special. I was so touched by their kindness. Booksellers are the very best people. You all know that, right?

Speaking of bookshops, I spent most of the day at Skylark, signing and sending off yet more books. Now that we’re allowed to do curbside pick-up again, a ton of people stopped by to pick up their copy of The Paris Hours in person, and it was lovely to wave at them through the windshields of their cars. We took delivery of another 200 copies of the book – our fourth consignment so far. I’m so grateful to everyone for shopping locally. Please don’t stop!

Yesterday was also my son’s 19th birthday. He ought to be in Boston right now but has been here for seven weeks, doing his studies from home. He bicycled into town and we had lunch together in the shop, courtesy of Sycamore Restaurant, which praise the heavens, has recently re-opened its curbside pick-up service. (Their Patchwork Pork sandwich is about the best way to celebrate anything, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.)

Much of the afternoon was spent with my daughter, driving around Columbia delivering copies of The Paris Hours to people’s homes. With contactless delivery this wasn’t quite the social activity it might otherwise have been, but it still felt good to see the book go to all those homes.

In the evening, I had the enormous pleasure of launching the book virtually with Will Schwalbe. This pandemic has put us all in the market for silver linings, and one big one for me was that I got to spend time with Will last night. We talked (OK, I talked) for well over an hour and the time whizzed by. Thank you to everyone who was kind enough to tune in. And huge thanks to Will for being there and for asking such wonderful questions.

It was a wonderful day, and none of it would have been possible without your support and kindness. Thank you all so much.

Finally, even though the book tour is canceled, there’s still stuff going on. This evening I’ll be chatting with Kris Kleindienst of the wonderful Left Bank Books in St. Louis at 7:00 p.m. CST, and on Thursday I’ll be talking to the brilliant Christina Baker Kline at 3:00 p.m. CST as part of The Mighty Blaze online book extravaganza. Maybe see you there?

(Finally, if you’d like a signed and personalized copy of the book, Skylark Bookshop has you covered.)

So, that was fun.

The Paris Hours went out into the world yesterday, and while it wasn’t the launch day that anyone had anticipated, it was full of joy. 

First of all, a massive thank you to everyone who was so kind to write and send their good wishes. I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to respond to everyone quite yet. I will try, I promise. The sheer volume of messages was overwhelming, in the best possible way. It was like a million Facebook birthdays all at once. While I didn’t see many folks in person yesterday, I absolutely felt as if I spent the day with all of you lovely people. Thank you all for being there.

The day started off with the nicest surprise – a lovely photo montage of some of my favorite independent booksellers from across the country who got together to wish The Paris Hours on its way. I know first-hand what challenging times these are for these amazing people, which made the gesture even more special. I was so touched by their kindness. Booksellers are the very best people. You all know that, right?

Speaking of bookshops, I spent most of the day at Skylark, signing and sending off yet more books. Now that we’re allowed to do curbside pick-up again, a ton of people stopped by to pick up their copy of The Paris Hours in person, and it was lovely to wave at them through the windshields of their cars. We took delivery of another 200 copies of the book – our fourth consignment so far. I’m so grateful to everyone for shopping locally. Please don’t stop!

Yesterday was also my son’s 19th birthday. He ought to be in Boston right now but has been here for seven weeks, doing his studies from home. He bicycled into town and we had lunch together in the shop, courtesy of Sycamore Restaurant, which praise the heavens, has recently re-opened its curbside pick-up service. (Their Patchwork Pork sandwich is about the best way to celebrate anything, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.)

Much of the afternoon was spent with my daughter, driving around Columbia delivering copies of The Paris Hours to people’s homes. With contactless delivery this wasn’t quite the social activity it might otherwise have been, but it still felt good to see the book go to all those homes.

In the evening, I had the enormous pleasure of launching the book virtually with Will Schwalbe. This pandemic has put us all in the market for silver linings, and one big one for me was that I got to spend time with Will last night. We talked (OK, I talked) for well over an hour and the time whizzed by. Thank you to everyone who was kind enough to tune in. And huge thanks to Will for being there and for asking such wonderful questions.

It was a wonderful day, and none of it would have been possible without your support and kindness. Thank you all so much.

Finally, even though the book tour is canceled, there’s still stuff going on. This evening I’ll be chatting with Kris Kleindienst of the wonderful Left Bank Books in St. Louis at 7:00 p.m. CST, and on Thursday I’ll be talking to the brilliant Christina Baker Kline at 3:00 p.m. CST as part of The Mighty Blaze online book extravaganza. Maybe see you there?

(Finally, if you’d like a signed and personalized copy of the book, Skylark Bookshop has you covered.)

Sitting here in my kitchen, early in the morning on publication day, there is much to contemplate. The Paris Hours arrives into the world today. I’ve done this enough times to know that even in ordinary circumstances, publication day can be something of an anticlimax. This day that has been emblazoned on your psyche for months finally arrives – and, incredibly, life goes on as normal. 

In more normal times, at least on publication day authors could at least wander into a bookshop and enjoy the thrill of seeing their book on the shelves for the first time, but during the pandemic we can’t even do that. There are no launch parties, no book tours. (Although I will be raising a virtual glass to the book this evening at 7:00 p.m. CST and chatting online with Will Schwalbe about the book. Join us here.)

All of that fun stuff sometimes feels like a reward for the years of lonely work that goes into writing a novel, but its absence this time around has served as a useful reminder of what’s important. There’s a world of difference between writing a book and publishing a book – and it’s the writing that I love.

I love telling stories. I love the challenge of getting what is in my head out on to the page. I love wrangling characters, words, and plotlines. I love the act of creation. My favorite Stephen Sondheim song, Finishing The Hat, has the lyric, Look, I made a hat/Where there never was a hat. I find quiet satisfaction in a stack of paper with my words on every page: look, I made a story. 

In the lead up to publication it can be very easy to lose sight of all that. Good reviews and appearances on “Best Of” or “Most Anticipated” lists are thrilling, and I’m grateful for every one of them, but what matters about being published is that you get the privilege of sharing your story with others. I feel incredibly lucky that I get to do that on a scale that I never would have dreamed of when I first sat down, cracked my knuckles, and pecked out a sentence.

I’ve begun my next book, but I haven’t written anything for a while. I need space in my head to do that, and there’s been precious little of that recently. But today serves as a reminder that I need to start writing again. I have another hat to finish.

Sitting here in my kitchen, early in the morning on publication day, there is much to contemplate. The Paris Hours arrives into the world today. I’ve done this enough times to know that even in ordinary circumstances, publication day can be something of an anticlimax. This day that has been emblazoned on your psyche for months finally arrives – and, incredibly, life goes on as normal. 

In more normal times, at least on publication day authors could at least wander into a bookshop and enjoy the thrill of seeing their book on the shelves for the first time, but during the pandemic we can’t even do that. There are no launch parties, no book tours. (Although I will be raising a virtual glass to the book this evening at 7:00 p.m. CST and chatting online with Will Schwalbe about the book. Join us here.)

All of that fun stuff sometimes feels like a reward for the years of lonely work that goes into writing a novel, but its absence this time around has served as a useful reminder of what’s important. There’s a world of difference between writing a book and publishing a book – and it’s the writing that I love.

I love telling stories. I love the challenge of getting what is in my head out on to the page. I love wrangling characters, words, and plotlines. I love the act of creation. My favorite Stephen Sondheim song, Finishing The Hat, has the lyric, Look, I made a hat/Where there never was a hat. I find quiet satisfaction in a stack of paper with my words on every page: look, I made a story. 

In the lead up to publication it can be very easy to lose sight of all that. Good reviews and appearances on “Best Of” or “Most Anticipated” lists are thrilling, and I’m grateful for every one of them, but what matters about being published is that you get the privilege of sharing your story with others. I feel incredibly lucky that I get to do that on a scale that I never would have dreamed of when I first sat down, cracked my knuckles, and pecked out a sentence.

I’ve begun my next book, but I haven’t written anything for a while. I need space in my head to do that, and there’s been precious little of that recently. But today serves as a reminder that I need to start writing again. I have another hat to finish.

Six years ago today, the sewer pipe in our basement burst. The Roto-Rooter guy walked up the stairs and told us it was bad. “You’re not going to be able to flush a toilet or turn on a tap,” he told us. My partner Alex and I looked at each other. We remained calm. We told the guy we were getting married in a few hours and that the house would soon be full of people. We asked if there was anything else he could do. He scratched his chin. “There’s one thing I haven’t tried, I guess,” he mused. “But I don’t think it will work.” We asked him to please try the one thing. He did. It worked.

The last six years have been full of joy and adventure. We have pushed each other and supported each other and loved each other through all manner of challenges, some rewarding, some fraught. Throughout it all, there has been such kindness. 

Our wedding day was beautiful, with so many wonderful friends and memories. But the Roto-Rooter guy is always there, too. You, sir, have become a magnificent metaphor. Every so often, we have to try the one thing that we don’t think will work. But it usually does.

(Photo by the brilliant Shane Epping)

Six years ago today, the sewer pipe in our basement burst. The Roto-Rooter guy walked up the stairs and told us it was bad. “You’re not going to be able to flush a toilet or turn on a tap,” he told us. My partner Alex and I looked at each other. We remained calm. We told the guy we were getting married in a few hours and that the house would soon be full of people. We asked if there was anything else he could do. He scratched his chin. “There’s one thing I haven’t tried, I guess,” he mused. “But I don’t think it will work.” We asked him to please try the one thing. He did. It worked.

The last six years have been full of joy and adventure. We have pushed each other and supported each other and loved each other through all manner of challenges, some rewarding, some fraught. Throughout it all, there has been such kindness. 

Our wedding day was beautiful, with so many wonderful friends and memories. But the Roto-Rooter guy is always there, too. You, sir, have become a magnificent metaphor. Every so often, we have to try the one thing that we don’t think will work. But it usually does.

(Photo by the brilliant Shane Epping)

Just a quick reminder that I’ll be appearing with the brilliant Whitney Scharer and Meg Waite Clayton at 7:00 p.m. CST this Thursday, April 30, on the next virtual event for the Unbound Book Festival.

We’ll be talking all things historical fiction, including the knotty question of how much license authors should give themselves when writing about real people and real events. It will be a lot of fun – I’d love to see you there.

Registration is completely free – go here to sign up.

Just a quick reminder that I’ll be appearing with the brilliant Whitney Scharer and Meg Waite Clayton at 7:00 p.m. CST this Thursday, April 30, on the next virtual event for the Unbound Book Festival.

We’ll be talking all things historical fiction, including the knotty question of how much license authors should give themselves when writing about real people and real events. It will be a lot of fun – I’d love to see you there.

Registration is completely free – go here to sign up.