Sheryl Sorrentino

And the Mountains Echoed by Khaled Hosseini
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

First, a confession (in the interests of fairness and full disclosure): Khaled Hosseini has attained “untouchable” status in my view—so much so that, as my all-time favorite author, he can do no wrong. When an artist bestows upon me so much pleasure with his unbelievable gift, that shared connection engenders a sort of intimacy and expectancy. We begin to grow together.

Like Hosseini’s first two novels (The Kite Runner; A Thousand Splendid Suns), And the Mountains Echoed delivers unmatched sensitivity, poignancy, and subtlety. Pari is the unifying thread connecting the many subplots flowing throughout this incredible book. Literally wrested from her older sibling’s arms as a toddler and sold to a wealthy Kabul couple, she quickly forgets her early years with her father and brother and grows up in the lap of luxury. Eventually raised in Paris and given every material comfort by a beautiful and manipulative mother—and spared an almost certain, senseless death from the bitter-cold winter in her small Afghan village, Pari retains a gnawing, vague sense that she does not know who she is or her true place in the world. Through Pari, Hosseini poses the first of many unanswerable riddles: Which is more important to a happy and meaningful life—a stable upbringing free from want, or the irreplaceable love of one’s biological family of origin?

Fast-forward fifty years or so, and Hosseini hits us with another impossible moral dilemma: How do we help those facing incredible, tragic, and limitless need in far-flung places when we are so thoroughly mired in (and continually seduced by) our own “first-world” lives of luxury? Dr. Idris Bashiri (who as a child lived across the street from Pari’s adoptive father in Kabul) returns to Afghanistan with his coarse but well-to-do cousin, Timur, to reclaim his father's property (lost during the Russian invasion). Idris is deeply moved when he meets a tragically disfigured young girl living in a Kabul hospital (Roshi was attacked by her axe-wielding madman of an uncle over a petty property dispute). While Idris badly yearns—and genuinely intends—to use his medical connections to help this girl, once he leaves Kabul and returns to his cushy California lifestyle, more pressing (if less important) concerns (a demanding work schedule, a home renovation project) gradually steal his focus: “Talking about Afghanistan—and he is astonished at how quickly and imperceptibly this has happened—suddenly feels like discussing a recently watched, emotionally drenching film whose effects are beginning to wane.”

Meanwhile, cousin Timur (a bawdy, womanizing real estate investor who cheats on both his wife and his taxes) swoops in to play the hero and snatch the glory. Through these two opposing characters, Hosseini subtly and cleverly poses yet another vexing question: Which is the better man—the one who can easily and grandiosely throw money around to garner popularity and admiration (and, as a secondary byproduct, help a few people out along the way)? Or the one whose authentic, feeling heart is in the right place, but who (like so many of us) is paralyzed by his own carefully-crafted, hard-won sense of wellbeing and cannot (or will not) follow through on his well-intentioned promises?

As if this were not enough to ponder, And the Mountains Echoed poses yet another universal dilemma in its portrayal of Pari’s conflicted relationship with Nila (her adoptive mother); Markos’s relationship with his mother (Odelia); and the relationship between Pari’s niece (and namesake) and her father, Abdullah (the original Pari’s long-lost brother): How do we reconcile our wish to remain loyal to family with our instinctive need to pursue our own dreams and fulfill our destinies? Odelia makes an apt and wise observation about this most irksome of life’s realities: “It’s a funny thing, Markos, but people have it mostly backward. They think they live by what they want. But really what guides them is what they’re afraid of. What they don’t want.” Besides being a brilliant writer, Mr. Hosseini is—as all good writers must be—a keen observer of human nature.

Several readers have complained that And the Mountains Echoed contains too many characters and confusing story lines, but Mr. Hosseini is an unimpeachable talent who has more than earned the right to experiment with characters and settings. And while his third novel can be a bit “tell-y” in places (Pari’s abbreviated recounting of her married life and the raising of her children, for example; Mr. Markos’s ruminations of his years in Tinos, Greece and his exodus to the far corners of the earth to escape his stifling young life), we should not punish Mr. Hosseini for having set the bar so high with his two prior books. Despite these minor flaws, Hosseini pulls this epic third novel off the ground and launches it through time and space with unequaled skill; his male characters in particular—Nabi (Pari’s step-uncle), Suleiman Wahdati (her adoptive father), Saboor (her biological father), and Abdullah (her brother) are each nuanced, complex, and deserving of compassion. Yes, this is a big story, and Hosseini uses numerous interdependent characters and subplots to deal with such unpleasant topics as the far-reaching consequences of war, separation, and disfigurement. Along the way, he handles—with his trademark sensitivity and grace—the various sacrifices we humans sometimes make balancing survival against our principles and beliefs.

But what really knocks this novel out of the ballpark is its ending. I read this book twice, and each time I finished, I was reduced to tears. The scenes between Abdullah and his grown daughter (whom he named Pari after his missing sister)—and the powerful messages of hope and connection that the concluding scenes evoke—make this work deserving of five stars and render it a classic in its own right.


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My fourth novel, Stage Daughter, is barely hot off the presses (http://stagedaughter.com) and I am already sniffing around for a fresh idea for my next story. I want to write something edgy and different—a story that pushes the envelope with emotion and controversy. But how do I top a twelve-year-old girl reconnecting her hapless, stressed-out single mom with her devout, unwitting married Muslim dad? I am toying with the idea of writing about a lonely male protagonist who works as a security guard at a strip club. He’s got some very limited ideas about women, and as a result, spent his whole life watching naked bodies rather than ever really connecting with a woman (much less get married or have children).

Okay, I will confess: My 55-year-old brother makes his living as a bouncer in one of those joints, and I worry about him constantly. Aside from the fact that being a bouncer is dangerous work (he has to frisk for weapons, keep the dancers free of groping hands, and remove unruly patrons), I fret over how he will spend his golden years living alone 3,000 miles from his only living relative (me).

But boy, has Big Bro got some sleazy stories to tell! They’re not pretty, naturally, but according to Writer’s Digest, the key to writing a great story is to “forget about being pretty” and tackle “topics that are not attractive, like racism or incest” (http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/7-simple-ways-to-make-a-good-story-great). By now, my readers should know I thrive on writing about such topics. My latest novel (told from the point of view of three diverse and idiosyncratic characters) is a three-ring circus of religious intolerance, sexual and ethnic angst, and adolescent rebellion gone awry. Writing Stage Daughter involved lots of eye-opening and not always pleasant research about Islam and current teen behavioral trends. Should I decide to explore the strip club angle for my next book, I might have to interview a few exotic dancers, and since I don’t know any personally, I am dreading the prospect of actually visiting one of those demeaning establishments.

Let me ask you: Is stripping just another well-paying job? Or do the women who bump and grind for a living have serious issues around sex and self-esteem? According to my brother-the-bouncer, the dancers have great bodies (which they pay lots of money—often on surgery—to enhance and maintain); they are capable of impressive acrobatics (it ain’t easy hanging upside-down from a pole); and enjoy the attention their efforts garner from admiring men (who willingly pay to witness the nightly lineup of buff breasts and toned tushes). AskMen Entertainment would seem to agree: They claim these women like their jobs, and that one in four strippers has a university degree while about 20% strip to pay for college and post-graduate tuition. (See http://www.askmen.com/ entertainment/special_ feature_500/541_strippers-5-things-men-should-know.html. Not that AskMen should be considered a reliable, go-to source for information about women’s psyches and motivations, mind you; and in any case, their 20/25% “statistic” is hardly a ringing endorsement for stripping as launching pad to an education or a successful career.) 

What does it say about our culture that in 2013, an attractive woman can make as much disrobing onstage for hard-up men as developing computer platforms? And what does it say about those men that—even in an ailing economy—they willingly plunk down $200 - $300 (between cover charge, drinks, lap dances, and tipping) just to “leave with a boner and no explosion”? (Sorry; I just had to quote one particular sleazebag who left that comment on a bodybuilding website.) Yes, the money is decent ($300 - $400 a night, from what I understand) and the flexible hours leave time for studies or caring for children. But even my jaded brother—when pressed—characterized the atmosphere at his nocturnal workplace as “an open urinal.” (This, from an ineloquent guy who just loves watching those titties jiggle and doesn’t harbor a feminist notion in his brain.) 

What do you think, ladies? Do “gentlemen’s clubs” offer women a flexible way to make good money on the road to bigger and better things? Or are they beyond degrading to women? Would you (no, could you) take your clothes off before a roomful of gawking, drunken strangers for 300 bucks—earned one sweaty dance and one nasty twenty at a time? Personally, I’d prefer to live in a society where women didn’t feel the need to debase themselves in this way; where a decent living wage was available to all who are willing to work for it; and where men recognized the stupidity of parting with their hard-earned cash for a fleeting, anonymous hard-on.

Times may be tough, but it’s a great time to be in the self-publishing business. That is, if you happen to sell some variant of snake oil meant to transform an unknown writer into a best-selling author. Book ads. Virtual tours. Paid Tweeting—the possibilities are endless. The only catch is, these marketing devices can only deliver on one promise: To keep our fantasies alive while quickly emptying our wallets.

 

If this sounds a little like prostitution, there are definitely parallels between the world’s oldest profession and this relatively recent one. Think about it: If no one likes a man enough to sleep with him, he can either pay for sex or masturbate in shameful solitude. It’s the same with authors: If enough people won’t buy our books, there is someone out there who, for a fee, will dangle a carrot just inches from our noses with the promise of a score.

Once a self-publishing virgin myself, I have officially attained “ho” status in the two years since releasing my first novel. You might not know this, but the purveyors of promotional "smut" have a rating system for self-pubbers like me (similar to the detestable rating system boys use to rank girls on a scale from 1 to 10). They call it “SPH” (Self-Promotional Ho-dom). Each number tracks how many hundreds of dollars we chumps have spent pumping our books and chasing our dreams. (Right now, I’m about an SPH-55 over the course of two years and four books.)

Still, hope springs eternal, and I am always looking for tips on how to get better traction from my marketing efforts. So earlier this week, I spoke to an award-winning author, book publisher, and editor, Nesta Aharoni (see http://grassrootspublishinggroup.com/). A gracious and intelligent woman who seems to be winning at this low-odds game, Nesta gave me some rather inspiring suggestions, including using a press release distribution service and trying to get my fourth novel, Stage Daughter, a book award.

I was pumped by the time I hung up the phone—I could practically taste the glue (from running those glorious  gold prize stickers over my tongue and affixing them to my books)—until I saw how much it costs to apply.  A submission for an Indie Book Award, for example, runs $75 per category; the IPPY’s (Independent Publisher Book Awards) cost $85. That might not sound like much, but if I were to actually try to garner a literary honor, I would have to apply for at least ten such awards in three categories, given how fierce the competition must be. You can do the math. Perhaps the press release service is a surer bet. According to Bostick Communications (http://www.bostickcommunications.com/), they can get my release into the hands of 21,000 media outlets for only $175. But wait, I already tried blasting press releases last year—when I  hired Smith Publicity to pitch my third novel, The Floater. This is how I learned the hard way that media outlets are notoriously uninterested in covering unknown authors.

As with anything else in life, high-income individuals have it easier. The wealthy can choose from big-impact services at the top of the media food chain (think Sheryl Sandberg's promotion of her book, Lean In). We nobodies are left dragging our spluttering literary jalopies through overcrowded avenues swarming with questionable characters (and the only ones "leaning in" are hucksters). But why blame the rich and famous for indulging their fantasies? Given their circumstances, we would all do the same. After all, what’s a few thousand bucks on “getting off” (that is, getting a book off the ground) if it puts our name before the public and keeps our literary juices flowing? As for me, I remain open to any and all promotional pitches that might stimulate book sales—as long as they’re free and won’t give me a disease.  http://stagedaughter.com/

 

 

Like many people, I feel perplexed and dismayed by the not-guilty verdict in the George Zimmerman trial. I want to believe that those six women—who heard the evidence on both sides—did their jobs and made the right decision. But as a lawyer, I am not so naïve as to believe that justice prevails in all instances, especially when questions of race are involved.

This verdict has people up in arms. On one side, folks are demonstrating, decrying, and destroying. At the opposite extreme, conservative news commentators are claiming that a criminal charge should never have been brought against George Zimmerman in the first place. The day after the verdict was handed down, Geraldo Rivera asserted that political pressure—including President Obama’s comment that if he had a son, “he would look like Treyvon”—caused Florida prosecutors to pursue a charge that lacked sufficient evidence. But President Obama merely acknowledged what we Americans already know: A young, Black male runs a higher-than-average risk of being wrongfully perceived as a criminal in a “nice” neighborhood. In this instance, Treyvon Martin paid for that common misperception with his life. And if we are completely honest, there's something else we all know: Had a 29-year old Black man shot a 17-year-old unarmed white teenager under similar circumstances, it would not have taken 44 days to charge him with a crime; he would have been arrested and handcuffed at the scene. Hence, the initial public outcry, particularly within the Black community.

Zimmerman claims to have shot Martin in self-defense while pinned to the sidewalk; he alleged that Treyvon Martin was slamming his face against the pavement, and he instinctively drew his weapon in fear for his life. The testimony of Zimmerman’s neighbors seems to bear out his version of events, at least as far as who was pinning and punching whom at the time of the fatal shooting. But even so, Zimmerman's actions are hardly a textbook case of self-defense.

A key element of any self-defense claim is that the party alleging it cannot have done anything to provoke the assault.  Zimmerman was clearly the initial aggressor in this conflict. He noticed Treyvon Martin first, began scoping him, and then called police while Martin was minding his own business, buying Skittles and Arizona iced tea on his way to visit his father. Even so, we must give Zimmerman the benefit of every doubt. A defendant is innocent until proven guilty, and under Florida law, an initial aggressor may still regain his right to justifiably use force in self defense (see www.legalinsurrection.com, citing Florida Statutes section 776.041). Did Zimmerman, despite pursuing Martin over the contrary instructions of the 9-1-1 dispatcher, subsequently "regain his innocence" if Treyvon Martin threw the first punch and Zimmerman genuinely feared for his life?

Perhaps, but according to the Washington Post, it still wasn’t clear at the conclusion of the trial exactly who was pursuing whom immediately before the fight broke out. For all we know, Martin feared for his safety when he first tackled Zimmerman. What we do know is that Zimmerman decided Martin was “suspicious-looking”—that he “looked like” other young, Black males who had burglarized Zimmerman’s complex in the past. Why? Because Martin was a Black teenager wearing a hoodie. So Zimmerman decided to call police. Perhaps a poor judgment call, but at least Zimmerman was still acting within the bounds of the law at that point. 

But then, he followed Martin while armed with a 9 millimeter pistol, got out of his car, and approached the unarmed teenager. The altercation escalated to the point where Zimmerman found himself on the wrong end of a strapping, six-foot-tall, 17-year-old football player. By this point, Zimmerman may have had good reason to fear for his bodily safety—if not his life. But Zimmerman brought the entire mess upon himself, which is why this verdict feels “off” to so many people—myself included. As between the dead man and the one still alive to tell the tale, Zimmerman was the party who set this tragic chain of events in motion.  He aggressively targeted, followed, and then approached a total stranger based on what amounted to amateur racial profiling. Zimmerman’s unlawful vigilantism sparked a fatal incident in which he ended up taking the life of an unarmed teenager who was doing nothing wrong at the time.

And yet, Zimmerman will receive no punishment for his actions and even gets to keep his gun. He didn't even have to sweat telling his side of the story. I realize a criminal defendant is never obligated to testify in his own defense—and nothing may be read by the jury into his declining to do so. Indeed, it is risky for a defendant to subject himself to cross-examination, and far more clever types than Zimmerman have gotten creamed on the witness stand. (I suspect Zimmerman’s lawyer wanted to avoid that eventuality at all cost.) Nonetheless, I would have expected Zimmerman to insist on taking the stand. You can't claim the role of victim and present yourself as an even-tempered, color-blind pillar of the community while hiding behind your new suit and hired gun, George. I'm just saying, it makes you looks bad to a public more than a little curious about how you vibe.

It is a sad truism of the American justice system that juries don’t always “get it right.” Race can and does play a role in how juries perceive people and situations. Given that Treyvon Martin would be alive today had George Zimmerman simply minded his business and followed the dispatcher’s instructions, shouldn’t he be punished in some way for taking a human life? When a scant, six-person jury returns a “not-guilty” verdict by default, and news reports later reveal that these six women weren't even of one mind as far as the the lesser manslaughter charge, the decision leaves many feeling that justice has not been served. George Zimmerman may have "regained his innocence" under Florida law, but this verdict robbed many Americans of what precious little was left of our innocent faith in the judicial system.

There’s been a lot of backlash surrounding the lawsuit against Paula Deen and the Southern celebrity chef's admission that she used the “N-word” when (among other instances) describing an incident that took place when she was a bank teller and got held up at gunpoint. Ms. Deen said in her sworn deposition that she used the racial slur when recounting the event to her husband.

Although I feel for Ms. Deen being a victim of such a terrifying crime, I am not sure how these extenuating circumstances justify her use of a racial epithet. What her admission proves is that a "closet" racist’s true colors are exposed in situations of extreme stress (just as offensive opinions are often expressed when someone is angry or drunk). That Ms. Deen thought of her attacker as a "N_____" is rather telling. Even in a traumatized state, she could have labeled the guy a “thug,” “S-O-B,” “bastard,” or any number of well-deserved expletives that didn’t emphasize his race.

So, Ms. Deen has been justly “outed,” and the debate rages about whether she deserves to lose her Food Network contract because of it. Indeed, many white folks simply don’t "get" what all the fuss is about. Deen's supporters are quick to point out that Black rappers, comedians, etc. use the “N-word” all the time. But while it may be empowering for the Black community to neutralize a racially-offensive label by embracing it in this way (think of how effectively homosexuals have defused the words "fag," "dyke," and "queer" by taking ownership of them), this does not change the fact that the historically-laden term is considered obscene and incendiary when used by white people. (Silly me; I wouldn't have thought this required an explanation.)

Reverend Jesse Jackson has offered to “rehabilitate” Deen, saying she shouldn’t be turned into a “sacrificial lamb” over the issue of racial intolerance. Perhaps her lawyer should be “rehabilitated” as well. He claims that Lisa Jackson (the plaintiff in the case) lacks standing to bring the suit because she is white. I, for one, don’t think you have to be Black to recognize how offensive and damaging racist talk is to people of all races, having been privy to it my entire life. Perhaps if more white people stood up and spoke out when subjected to small-minded, insider "white talk," the more ignorant among us would get a clue. But, sadly, too many white folks still think it’s okay to use the “N-word” in “whites-only” circles, or “not in a mean way.” Huh? You mean, as in Deen’s describing her “dream Southern plantation wedding,” where a “bunch of little N______s wear long-sleeve white shirts, black shorts and black bow ties"? Please. The word isn't cute or quaint, and I have yet to understand how a white person might use this perjorative term in anything but a disparaging way.

I am glad Reverend Jackson wants to help enlighten Ms. Deen, but by the same token, I have no problem with The Food Network making an example of her. Personally, I think it only fair that a celebrity forfeit his or her "media darling" status when racism is brought to light. I imagine Deen has made gazillions off her high-fat, artery-clogging food empire, and her career has been helped along immensely by the people in her employ—many of them members of the racial group she so readily maligns. I say kudos to The Food Network for dropping her. Racism ought not be rewarded by an ongoing stamp of media approval, and people of bad moral character should rightly take their punishment in the wallet, where we're all grudgingly capable of learning life's hardest lessons.

Check out full review of And the Mountains Echoed on Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/559995391

We may give lip service to "reinventing ourselves," but it is a truism that people want and expect us to do what we do best in life. Nowhere is this more evident than in the arts. If a certain genre of book, music, or movie makes someone famous, fans will want more of that. Once an author, musician or director tries “crossing over” into something new and different, he or she risks alienating as many old fans as gaining new ones. But to stick with the tried-and-true—and keep doing the same thing over and over—is stifling for an artist (and ironically invites its own brand of criticism—that he or she has become stale and unimaginative. Hence, that other sad truism, "damned if you do; damned if you don’t").

I have nearly finished reading Khaled Hosseini’s latest novel, And The Mountains Echoed. Hosseini really spread his wings in this one, not only through his somewhat arbitrary choice of locales and time periods, but in the sheer number of characters. So many people (and perspectives) to keep track of! So many physical features and quirky personalities! And so many interconnections that aren’t immediately obvious! The book review that appeared a few Sundays ago in my local newspaper was less than laudatory when it came to the sections set in Paris, Greece, and California. Perhaps I was influenced by that review, because I found my attention faltering a bit, my unswerving devotion to my favorite author wavering ever so slightly like a leaf in a pleasant but barely perceptible breeze. I felt as though Hosseini had left to explore the world and had come back with a boxload of exotic presents—only not all of them had been chosen with me in mind.

A part of me wanted him to feed me more of what I had come to expect of him. Those unfamiliar story lines at first seemed like digressions; they lacked the characteristic richness, color, and raw emotion so typical of Hosseini’s work—and so evident in the early chapters (which, like his first two novels, are set in Afghanistan). But to keep a writer imprisoned in a comfortable, familiar niche will eventually render him tiresome; no matter how beautiful his work, it will always be more of the same. (Not coincidentally I believe, this notion of personal expansion, self-discovery and escape are recurrent themes found throughout Hosseini’s latest novel—themes we could all stand to examine and relate to our own lives.)

But by the end, Hosseini was back in full force, if in an entirely different dimension. It was like reconnecting with a close friend who’d gone away for a time, then returned home slightly altered. Some ephemeral kinship was lost during this separation, even though we'd communicated via less-than-perfect means like email and Skype. But once we reconnected in full frontal mode, the bonds of closeness and familiarity were still there, and had been all along, even though my friend had grown in ways I hadn't expected.

Hosseini is clearly a brilliant and inspired writer, possessed of a sensitivity, poetry, and spiritual intimacy rarely found in men. So I am squarely behind his latest attempt to expand his (and our) literary horizons. Having now proven his talent and vision twice over, he has earned the right to stretch his legs—and his pen. I hope to someday be able to say the same of myself.

You read that correctly. I hate self-promotion, and I especially loathe that stupid saying, “Fake it until you make it.” Who came up with this, anyway? “Fake” is the antithesis of everything I strive to be, namely authentic, genuine, and real. As far as I am concerned, you gotta get the goods before you can put up a “For Sale” sign.

Besides which, while you’re so busy “faking it,” how are you going to learn what you need to know to offer something of value? That comes from being open, asking the right questions, and suffering through a humbling process called “trial and error.” Where is the shame in admitting we don’t (yet) know what we are doing? There is none, but being a “fake” clearly is shameful.

I have now been around the block a few times where book promotion is concerned. My launches have run the gamut from “do nothing” to “pay a professional publicist”—and everything in-between. So far, the only thing I can say for certain is that the publishing game is “pay to play.” As a business lawyer, I advise my clients daily on how to “cut their losses,” “avoid unexpected surprises,” and “get the biggest bang for their buck.” But being a "successful" (i.e., well-known) writer entails the exact opposite: “Spend as much as you possibly can for publicity” (even though you will probably never recoup a fraction of your investment) and “give away your product for free” (simply to gain exposure). As Razia Schoenberg ( Stage Daughter’s twelve-year-old title character) would say, “It’s twisted.”

Here’s another truism I can impart to fledgling writers: While I don’t advocate “faking it,” you can’t “make it” until you truly believe in yourself. For me, that didn't so much mean overcoming doubts about my writing ability as knowing what the heck I was doing, and why. But that epiphany didn't happen until after I’d had a few books under my belt. Only then did who I am—and what I am trying to accomplish as a writer—come into clearer focus. Now I have a message to impart—something of substance to put behind those (still limited) promo dollars.

Here are my parting shots: Don’t take yourself (or this whole business) too seriously. It’s great (and imperative!) to believe in your work. But you should also see that “rush” of excitement for what it is—dopamine. It’s the same hormonal neurotransmitter that puts women on cloud nine (or into hellish depression) after childbirth—and plays a key role in addictive behavior. Now, I’d rather be addicted to creativity than cocaine any day of the week, but just as a crackhead can quickly go broke chasing after her next fix, so can we aspiring authors go bankrupt trying to garner a few crumbs of recognition. So here’s a bit of free lawyerly advice: When you're ready to "go public," make a realistic dopamine (ahem, marketing) budget. Then stick to it.