I am not the writer whose backstory includes always having my nose in a book. Most author…
The macabre quality of the stories was so enthralling: Dahl was a writer who could make my spine tingle and my lungs ache with laughter at the same moment. The story about the young girl who sits on a porcupine and has the prickles extracted by a gleeful dentist, Mr Myers, will stay with me forever—“Quite honestly, I cant pretend, I’ve ever pulled things from this end…”
As I grew older, books continued to shape my life. Roald Dahl brought on fits of laughter. Diet for a New America made me a vegetarian for 10 years. Motherless Daughters reminded me that I’m not alone. Thoreau taught me that it’s okay to be alone sometimes. Jeanette Winterson reminded me that I have a heart that thumps and a brain that pulses. Faulkner made me pay attention to language and narrative and consciousness.
When I truly fell in love with a writer I was in a beat up convertible 1970 VW Bug, primer gray, my sister’s boyfriend’s prize possession. It was the summer of 1978 and the writer was not a novelist, or a short story writer, or a poet. Not technically. Though his words resonated with more life and romance and tragedy and pain and moodiness than anything I’d ever read.
When I was ten-years-old, an alarming statistic hit the airwaves. Apparently, the average American child was watching over four hours of television a day. That translated to 28 hours a week, 112 hours a month and over 1,000 hours a year! By the time children entered college — assuming their TV-rotted brains even lasted through high-school – they had experienced more television than class time.
New World Order is partly about how we as Americans thought the new century would unfold and how it actually has, since 9/11. So much of what we as a people are all about has to do with commerce and trade and economic might. It sort of defines our place in the world. But suddenly it all looks a lot more shaky than we had believed.