Why, thank you, Publishers Weekly:

Under the Poppy
Kathe Koja, Small Beer (Consortium, dist.), $24 (376p) ISBN
978-1-931520-70-6
The latest from Koja (Skin) is a page turner with riveting language and
close attention to sensory detail. Set in late 19th-century Brussels, the
story follows the adventures of puppeteer Istvan and brothel owner Rupert
who bond as friends and lovers. The first half of the novel is set at
Rupert’s brothel, Under the Poppy, a haven for bawdy puppet shows and loose
women. With war in the air, the brothel is forced to house soldiers led by a
corrupt general. A mysterious assault on Rupert leads to more violence and
an exodus of prostitutes from the establishment. Istvan and Rupert, with one
of the former working girls, who morphs into a theater owner and puppeteer,
leave as well and arrive in a new town, where they cavort with a family of
aristocrats that includes Isobel, who falls for Rupert (as does her young
brother, Benjamin, the family heir). Koja’s style is unconventional,
resulting in a melodrama with deep insights into character and a murky plot
balanced with prose as theatrical as the world it portrays.(Oct.)

Like we always say, if it’s fun you’re after, companionship and laughter …

Last night’s friends of Floozies soiree at funky-chic Five15 was a chocolate-covered cherry of an evening, during which our invaluable Kickstarter pledgers were thanked for their votes of confidence (voting with your wallet means it’s for real) and their continued support of Under the Poppy both onstage and between the (book) covers.

Diane, Monika, and I were on hand to greet our guests with Monika’s beautiful prints of the costume designs, Diane’s hot new remix of the trailer video (check the Chevalier!), scratch’n'sniff cards, buttons, and yes, chocolate-covered cherries and adult beverages.  Our pledger Honor Roll will shortly be posted so all the world may see who loves us, baby, and who’s first in line to get his/her floozy on.

Under the Poppy will be back at Five15 on November 11, for a dramatic reading, book signing, breakout top hat modeling session, and who knows what else once the puppets get going. In the meantime, thank you again, Friends of Floozies, for your invaluable knicker-riffic support! Mwah!

Or not. Davi Napoleon poses the question “Can playwriting be taught?” and gets divers answers. I like Michael Brian Ogden’s, and I told all the truth I knew in mine.

If you are here, like I wish I could pop over, go see The Hyperbolist, and if you don’t like it, call me and complain.  But I bet you will, and then won’t.

Reading Anthony Burgess’ gorgeous, peerless novel of Christopher Marlowe, A Dead Man in Deptford – not only (!) a book of heartbreak and hard beauty, but a passionate and mysterious alchemy of writer and writer, reminiscent, to me anyway, of Graham Robb and Arthur Rimbaud – makes one consider how difficult it is to write realistically of performance: no one wants to watch dance about architecture, right, and the overlay of enacted fictions on written fiction can sometimes be too precious by half, or too fey, or too much of a muchness. The puppets of the Poppy, being wooden and ironical by nature, I hope avoid that state, or fate. Puppets are the most nimble of all actors, the most silent, and without a doubt the longest lived.

Do yourself a favor and read this, if theatre in any format speaks to you at all.

Here you can get a peek into Monika Essen’s design process; her Woman Before A Glass will definitely be worth a visit.  Dressing the set, dressing the actors, dreaming a whole world into being, is so akin to what a novelist does: making that world of the unreal real enough to – almost – touch.  Although the novelist does have certain physical advantages: I’ve never stuck myself with a pin, say, though I did once staple right into the pink meat of my thumb.  Rigors of creation.

In another Ann Arbor note, there will be an event for Under the Poppy the novel hosted by Common Language Bookstore in October; date TK.  Don’t be surprised if a blackbird flies into the window …. I’ll also be at the Great Lakes Independent Booksellers‘ do in October, talking about Under the Poppy and surreptitiously eating chocolate, though I will use a napkin and keep the pages clean. I may be wild but I am civilized.

A bemusing take on fun in today’s New York Times: Katie Roiphe looks at “Mad Men” (a show I too adore: go Team Peggy!) and seems to conclude that, as satisfying as it may be to drink organic milk and be part of an audience of  “successful, healthy couples … sitting in their bedrooms with flat-screen TVs”, the deepest appeal of the show speaks to a hidden, defiant, dangerous urge to have … well, to have … fun. “The idea that you would do something just for the momentary blissful escape of it, for intensity, for strong feeling, is out of fashion.”

Whose fashion? Here at Under the Poppy HQ, fun is not a by-product, it’s our raison d’être and our middle name; Diane and I made it part of the mission statement pretty much from Day One. As in all the best cultural brothels, a delicious serving of creative transgression – or transgressive creativity, they do look the same in a bowler hat – can be yours for the price of admission, and be assured that the daily effort it requires of the many involved is just a lot of fun all on its own.  Every second is not a hoot (paperwork!), but cumulatively, we’re having a pretty damn good time here and we’re confident that that will translate to your experience, should you choose to give us an evening.  As for the book, see the post below, bearing in mind that fun can be another name for love.

And turning sideways for another wink at “Mad Men,” surely some of the visceral appeal of this show is that its characters are always all dressed up and lookin’ fine, in costumes of great sexiness and dash; “costumes” to us but to them, of course, the daily suit for the daily task. Part of the appeal of that “thrill of casual vice” is how hot it looks and how hot it makes one feel. If it’s even more fun to watch “Mad Men” while decked out in a merry widow (try it!), how much fun will it be to slip into some Victorian punkwear to come and see our show?

Have fun today.

…got nothin’ on the floozies of the Poppy, except possibly a more advanced command of French.  Have a gander at these geese as you ponder, perhaps, what might appear in a sexual guidebook, what is essential, what ought to be left out, based on your own desires, or your desire to desire (not at all the same thing, right?) …. As noted in the previous post, love is a very tough article.  Sex is play. Love is art. Both involve discipline, of course, but so does everything worth the doing, including writing, puppeteering, making hay, and making believe.

Reading through the proof of Under the Poppy on this really very warm late afternoon: watching a manuscript, a story, become a book is always a satisfying process, but never more so than with this story.

I’ve lately had/heard/read through a lot of conversations and disquisitions with other writers and artists (and I mean a lot: it must be very much on the collective creative mind) about creating for the market, and after all the arguments one can honestly conclude that what’s made in love, for love, tastes sweetest and lasts longest.  This is no question of what’s “hot” or popular or literary or whatever-have-you: it takes no notice of commerce: it’s Lewis Hyde territory and is really no “question” at all.  Love of the making and love of what’s made is how we make art: that’s my best understanding of the process.

Love, note, does not connote softness.  Love is the most tensile and ferocious substance there is.

The eventual readers of Under the Poppy, whether they like the story or do not, will still know, I hope, that I loved the doing and the making, word by word by word, and page by page.