{"id":8042,"date":"2010-11-23T14:29:24","date_gmt":"2010-11-23T19:29:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=8042"},"modified":"2010-11-23T14:29:33","modified_gmt":"2010-11-23T19:29:33","slug":"fifteen-minutes-with-ann-beattie","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2010\/11\/23\/fifteen-minutes-with-ann-beattie\/","title":{"rendered":"Fifteen Minutes with Ann Beattie"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"It\u2019s been a long book tour for Ann Beattie\u2019s collected New Yorker<\/em> stories<\/a>, and the tour hasn\u2019t even begun yet. \u201cIs this my first stop?\u201d she asks, pressing a hand to her forehead. \u201cI don\u2019t remember.\u201d We are sitting downstairs at McNally Jackson Books, about an hour before her reading is scheduled to start. Her publisher approaches with an update about the Miami Book Fair on Saturday (destination number two on the tour): Beattie can arrive at 10:45, not a problem, but could she make sure to drop by the hospitality tent? Also, in fifteen minutes, her friend will be upstairs, ready to meet her for tea. <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll have to change into my high heels at some point,\u201d the author sighs. She\u2019s spent the day on her feet, but she looks poised and fresh in a floral-patterned skirt, deep green blouse, and pale green sweater. Cabled gold glitters at her wrists and neck. Like Ellen, the protagonist in \u201cA Platonic Relationship<\/a>\u201d\u2014the first story in the collection, from which she will read tonight\u2014she wears her hair loose, \u201cfalling free.\u201d When I admire her nails, which are long, tapered, and crimson, she smiles almost apologetically. \u201cI have insomnia,\u201d she explains. Applying nail polish is one of the few ways she can occupy herself at night without waking her husband. She adds that the age of the word processor has been kinder to her hands than that of the typewriter: Returning the carriage while at work on a story, she once snapped off four-fifths of her manicure.<\/p>\n

Most readers would consider the sacrifice worthwhile. Over four decades, fiction by Beattie has appeared forty-eight times in The New Yorker<\/em>\u2019s pages, making the D.C.- born author something of an institution. Her blend of acuity and flattened affect now defines a genre, with its own adjective: Beattiesque. Beattie herself sees more similarities between her stories than differences. She calls them permutations of a single voice, though reviewers tend to emphasize evolutions in her style. An older Beattie, goes the conventional wisdom, has mellowed into lyricism. Her sentences have filled out and deepened; a sense of mastery stands in for the original sense of discovery. But Beattie denies that more than the surface has changed. Continuity<\/em> and consistency<\/em> are words that keep coming up, along with the descriptor \u201ctongue in cheek.\u201d Also: dogs. In her stories, the dogs often seem as complex as the human characters. Is Beattie herself a dog person?<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, yes.\u201d Her busy schedule and complicated domestic life (she and her husband rotate between three homes) currently make dog ownership impractical. But for seventeen years she cared for a golden retriever named Sandy. The writer gathers her coat; our fifteen minutes are up. I head toward the reading area, and she is shuttled along to her next engagement.<\/p>\n

Upstairs, a swath of floor space has become an impromptu auditorium. Two-thirds of the foldout chairs are already full. It\u2019s a youngish crowd, dominated by sideburns and plastic glasses, but older fans are trickling in. The New Yorker Stories<\/em> flashes everywhere on shelves and laps (\u201cMy friend thought it was made of pleather,\u201d Beattie told me ruefully, fingering the book\u2019s bright red cover). When the author takes the stage a few minutes after seven, I notice that she has decided not to wear her high heels. She opens by asking the audience what she should do with the lozenge in her mouth, and a woman hands her a napkin. <\/p>\n

Beattie has selected a 1975 story called \u201cDwarf House<\/a>,\u201d and she enunciates the \u201cd\u201d and the \u201cw\u201d with wry precision, as if to hammer in her subject\u2019s abnormality. Nods, smiles, and laughter come from the crowd. She stands slightly hunched over the lectern and rarely raises her eyes. Outside, three silver-haired men peer through the window, and one tries to take a picture on his iPhone.<\/p>\n

Join Beattie in San Francisco<\/a> on December 7 and Los Angeles<\/a> on December 8. Purchase our summer issue<\/a> to read her story \u201cHoodie in Xanadu.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It\u2019s been a long book tour for Ann Beattie\u2019s collected New Yorker stories, and the tour hasn\u2019t even begun yet. \u201cIs this my first stop?\u201d she asks, pressing a hand to her forehead. \u201cI don\u2019t remember.\u201d We are sitting downstairs at McNally Jackson Books, about an hour before her reading is scheduled to start. Her […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":78,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[489],"tags":[1392,1395,1396,1394,1393],"class_list":["post-8042","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books-2","tag-ann-beattie","tag-book-tour","tag-fifteen-minutes","tag-mcnally-jackson","tag-the-new-yorker-stories"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nFifteen Minutes with Ann Beattie by Kate Waldman<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"November 23, 2010 \u2013 It\u2019s been a long book tour for Ann Beattie\u2019s collected New Yorker stories, and the tour hasn\u2019t even begun yet. \u201cIs this my first stop?\u201d she asks, pressing\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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