Open House

Ebook $11.99

Random House | Sep 19, 2000 | ISBN 9780375505874

  • Paperback$15.00

    Ballantine Books | May 01, 2001 | 272 Pages | 5-1/2 x 8-1/4 | ISBN 9780345435163

  • Ebook$11.99

    Random House | Sep 19, 2000 | ISBN 9780375505874

Praise

"Touching . . . [A] deft, sweet, and often comic novel."
–Chicago Tribune

"THIS NOVEL MAKES FOR PLEASANT READING . . . PATTY MURPHY IS APPEALINGLY VULNERABLE. . . . NOVELIST ELIZABETH BERG HAS AN ENGAGING VOICE AND STYLE."
–Los Angeles Times

"A PERCEPTIVE COMEDY OF MODERN MANNERS . . . At the end of each undemanding day, Patty goes home to an empty apartment and listens to her biological clock ticking as ominously as Captain Hook’s crocodile. . . . Patty wants a husband and a baby, and not necessarily in that order. . . . But Patty has a problem. Try as she might, there is only one man she can love–her best friend, Ethan–and try as Ethan might, he is quite firmly and intractably gay. With rueful good humor, Until the Real Thing Comes Along shows how Patty and Ethan come to terms with the impossibility of having it all."
–The Boston Globe

"BERG WRITES WITH HUMOR AND UNDERSTANDING ABOUT MATTERS OF THE HEART. . . . The author’s generous view of humanity is evident in her characters, who walk right off the page they are so well and truly drawn."
–St. Louis Post Dispatch

"ENTERTAINING . . . FLAWLESS DIALOGUE . . . READING IT IS LIKE EAVESDROPPING ON AN INTIMATE FEMALE CHAT."
–New York Daily News

"COMPELLING . . . [A] WARMLY TOLD TALE."
–People

Author Q&A

A Conversation with Elizabeth Berg

Christine Edwards Allred has a Ph.D. in English and American Literature and
has worked as a book club director. In addition to the reader’s guide for Open
House
, she created guides for Leave It To Me, What We Keep, and Until
the Real Thing Comes Along
.

Christine and her husband, Keith, live in Massachusetts.

Q: If you "could lift the roof–make for a real open house–and look in-side,"
what roofs would you lift? What do you think you would see?

EB: Given my interest in things "ordinary," I would probably lift the roof
of the people on my block. And what I would see are people involved
in "ordinary" lives, which, for me, are extraordinary. I’m the kind of
person who is entertained watching someone simply be themselves,
whether they’re putting their children to bed or making dinner or sit-ting
at the table reading the morning newspaper. I like the myriad
ways people reveal themselves, the great variation in the human
species, as well as the remarkable similarities.

Q: Is this what you’re doing when you write–"lifting the roof"?

EB: Yes. I look to find the heart and soul of people, of my characters. I
look for the truth of them, and the truths about life that are presented
through them.

Q: Sam wants to "lift the roof" in a moment of isolation. Does writing
allow you to ward off isolation? Or, is writing isolating?


EB: Well, that’s an interesting question. The answer is both. Writing is,
of course, a solitary occupation. But for many writers, myself in-
cluded, it’s through writing that we make certain vital connections.
Oftentimes I need to write about something in order to understand it.
And it’s on the page that I’m able to most accurately say the things I
feel and believe.

Q: Did this novel begin with a particular "roof" you wanted to lift or
a character or a situation you wanted to investigate?


EB: It began with an idea that I’d like to write about a woman who took
boarders into her suburban home. I thought, hmmm, what might
have to happen so that that occurred? And then it came to me that a
divorce would do it: a woman gets abandoned by her husband, and
wants to keep her house rather than selling it. And then the book be-came
something else altogether, which often happens. You start out
to write one book, and then another one takes over. In the case of
Open House, it became a story of a woman finding her way back to
herself.

Q: Is this where or how your novels usually begin?

EB: It depends. Sometimes it’s an issue I want to explore, like the power
of women’s friendships in Talk Before Sleep or changes that occur with
menopause as in The Pull of the Moon. Sometimes a character’s voice
leads the way and makes the story emerge later: Katie in Durable
Goods and Joy School.

Q: What was unique to your experience of writing Open House?

EB: Every novel is unique, because it makes its intentions known in its
own way: at a certain point, it takes over and invents itself, and I’m
just the typist. Every novel is the same for the same reason. One really
different thing about Open House, though, is that after I turned it in,
I decided not to publish it. It just didn’t feel right. I kept it on the
shelf for five years, then rewrote it, added a few things (the Martha
Stewart thing, for example), and then let it be published.

Q: The first sentence of the novel is "You know before you know, of
course." Is it "of course"?


EB: Seems to be so. Your heart knows before your head will let the information
in.

Q: Once Sam realizes that the divorce is really happening, she does
some rather–well–extraordinarily embarrassing things. Do you
ever–out of sympathy–want to stop a character from acting as
she intends to?


EB: I never want to stop a character from doing anything. I love when
they "take over" and I feel like I’m just watching the show.

Q: In a way, Sam isn’t acting like herself. Is it difficult to write about
a character who acts out of character?


EB: No. Extraordinary circumstances make for different kinds of behavior.
Part of a writer’s job, I think, is to know her characters so completely
that it’s no more difficult to write them acting out of character
than in it. It’s that old thing about how you have to know much more
about your characters than you ever present on the page. You may not
ever write about what’s in their refrigerator or their closet, or how
they take a bath, or if they like poetry, or who their first love was, or
how they would react in certain situations, but you should know it.

Q: In the moment that Sam tells Travis about the divorce, you write
two explanations: the explanation we all know Sam should give,
and the response she does give. When you began to write, did you
know which would actually come out of her mouth?


EB: No. I like to let the characters lead the way. When I write dialogue,
it emerges on the page as is. I don’t plan it.

Q: Sam leaves a tough question in the novel unanswered: How much
truth are children entitled to? Do you have an answer to that
question?


EB: Oh, I wish I did. It’s a hard question. And there is no definitive answer,
because children are all different. Some are well equipped to
handle difficult truths; others need more protection. Some have a
great deal of empathy and perspective; some do not. It’s not always a
function of age, either–a younger child may be more philosophical
or calm or secure than an older one. Our job as parents is to try to
know our children as best we can, and then support them in the ways
that they need it. And it’s a really hard job. It might be impossible.
But we try. And when they know that we really, really love them, it
helps.

Q: In a difficult conversation between Sam and her own mother,
Veronica tells Sam that "your children never really grow up for
you." Is this true of a child’s experience of her mother, as well? Is
an adult child ever able to relate to her mother not as a mother, but
only as another adult? Is Sam?


EB: I think it is in that moment that Sam does begin to see her mother as
a person. She believes she understands why her mother has this impenetrable
cheerfulness and crazy behavior–Sam has begun to see
the fault lines. That is to say, she has come to understand her
mother’s vulnerability, and her defenses against her own fragility.

Q: Although her relationship with Veronica is difficult, Sam relies on
the "truth" communicated across generations. Is there wisdom
that can be communicated only across generations? Is there wisdom
that only older women–like Lydia–possess?


EB: Wisdom is a funny thing. I think some children are very, very wise,
and some old people are not wise at all. It seems to me that, more
than anything, wisdom is a gift some people are given.

Q: In her search for women to share her experience or to offer wisdom
or empathy, Sam seriously considers calling the author of a novel
she’s just read. Has such a reader ever called you?


EB: Yes. Many times.

Q: How did you respond?

EB: It depends on the caller. Most of the time, they’re very kind and considerate,
and they just really want to tell me how much a book has
meant to them. And that’s nice. But sometimes I get someone who
wants me to write a book for them, or read their manuscript, or do
some other favor, and they can be very pushy. That’s not so nice.

Q: Have you ever called another author?

EB: Many years ago, when Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying came out, I tried to
call her. I called New York City information, got a number, dialed it,
and then hung up. I wanted to tell her how much I loved the book,
but I was afraid I’d be bothering her and/or sound like an idiot.

Q: Did you know, when you began to write, that David would ask to
return? Were you afraid that Sam would take him back?


EB: No. When he said he wanted to come home, though, I knew Sam
would not take him back. Especially since the only way he could ex-press
appreciation of her was to note what she did for him.

Q: Is there a moment when you knew Sam was strong enough to stand
on her own?


EB: Well, it was a slow evolution. But something big happened when she
lay in the bathtub listening to Janis Joplin.

Q: Does divorce always result in what Sam calls a "psychic limp"?

EB: I can only speak from my own experience. I will always have a raw
place inside me from that experience.

Q: Where does a character like King come from? Does he just walk
onto the page?


EB: Actually he did just walk onto the page.

Q: What did that feel like? How did it happen?

EB: It felt completely natural. I have no idea how it happens. You’re asking
an "under the hood" question, and I’m a person who doesn’t think
very much about technique. In Escaping into the Open, I tried to
explain all that I know and believe about the writing process. But
it’s mostly . . . I don’t know, magical. I mean, how would you ex-plain
how and why people fall in love? Why we crave chocolate or
salt? (Or, my favorite, chocolate and salt together?) Those things are
just in us. I don’t think about or try to manipulate or analyze the creative
process when I’m writing something. For me, that would be
death.

Q: When did you know that King and Sam would be instrumental in
helping each other find their way back to themselves?


EB: Again, you’re assuming I know what I’m going to do. I don’t. I just get
out of the way and let it happen. When Sam first met King, I didn’t
know who he was going to be for her.

Q: As King helps Sam find her way back to herself, he asks her to re-member
a time when she "wanted to know everything." She re-members
herself as a little girl. Why is it that she has to look back
so far? Why do women so frequently seem to lose themselves during
adolescence?


EB: It’s not that she has to look that far back. It’s just the memory that occurs
to her at the time he asks the question. To answer your other
question, I think women often lose themselves in adolescence because
of boys–because of our desire to shape ourselves so that they
will be attracted to us, and because boys sort of take over in general.
That has certainly been well documented!

Q: When King explains to Sam why his job isn’t astrophysics, he talks
about the "limitations of words." Is this something that you know
about through writing? Are there moments where you want to say
"red" and come out with "chartreuse"?


EB: As I mentioned before, the place I come closest to speaking the real
truth is on the page. But I also believe that the deepest things are
very, very difficult to express, no matter how articulate you are. The
eyes hold so much. A touch. A sigh. The translation is so difficult and
so often inadequate.

Q: Do you ever stop writing for a while because, as King says, "when
I’m away from it in the specific, I’m better able to see it generally"?


EB: I never stop writing unless my life circumstances force me to. It has
nothing to do with publication. It has to do with the fact that I must
do it, and that I love doing it.

Q: When and how did you learn that Open House had been selected as
an Oprah Book Club book?


EB: I was sitting at my desk on August 16 when the phone rang and a producer
told me the good news that Open House would be the September
selection. She said that Oprah said to apologize for not calling
herself–she was in court that day. I thought, oh, man, Oprah doesn’t
have to apologize for anything.

Q: What was your book club discussion experience like?

EB: It was enormously gratifying. The women who appeared on that show
were so honest and so giving, and I feel they helped other women
who have been through or are contemplating divorce. There was
such pain expressed, but also such triumph. Women laughed and
cried during that discussion–who could ask for a richer emotional
experience?

Q: All of the individuals discussing Open House at that meeting were
women. When you write, do you write for women or with women
in mind?


EB: I write for myself. But I am very interested in women’s issues, and I
seem to tend to focus on them.

Q: How do you think that the men reading this novel–or any of your
other novels–respond?


EB: Most of my readers are women, but more men are starting to write to
me and/or come to readings. A lot of men have told me that my books
help them to understand their women better, and that makes me feel
great.

Q: What are you working on now?

EB: The next novel, called Never Change, will be out in June of 2001. It’s
about a visiting nurse in love with one of her patients, a man with a
terminal illness. It’s much more serious than the last two, and I’m
very excited about it. I’ve begun a new novel, too, but it’s much too
soon to talk about it.


From the Trade Paperback edition.

 

A Conversation with Elizabeth Berg

Christine Edwards Allred has a Ph.D. in English and American Literature and
has worked as a book club director. In addition to the reader’s guide for Open
House
, she created guides for Leave It To Me, What We Keep, and Until
the Real Thing Comes Along
.

Christine and her husband, Keith, live in Massachusetts.

Q: If you "could lift the roof–make for a real open house–and look in-side,"
what roofs would you lift? What do you think you would see?

EB: Given my interest in things "ordinary," I would probably lift the roof
of the people on my block. And what I would see are people involved
in "ordinary" lives, which, for me, are extraordinary. I’m the kind of
person who is entertained watching someone simply be themselves,
whether they’re putting their children to bed or making dinner or sit-ting
at the table reading the morning newspaper. I like the myriad
ways people reveal themselves, the great variation in the human
species, as well as the remarkable similarities.

Q: Is this what you’re doing when you write–"lifting the roof"?

EB: Yes. I look to find the heart and soul of people, of my characters. I
look for the truth of them, and the truths about life that are presented
through them.

Q: Sam wants to "lift the roof" in a moment of isolation. Does writing
allow you to ward off isolation? Or, is writing isolating?


EB: Well, that’s an interesting question. The answer is both. Writing is,
of course, a solitary occupation. But for many writers, myself in-
cluded, it’s through writing that we make certain vital connections.
Oftentimes I need to write about something in order to understand it.
And it’s on the page that I’m able to most accurately say the things I
feel and believe.

Q: Did this novel begin with a particular "roof" you wanted to lift or
a character or a situation you wanted to investigate?


EB: It began with an idea that I’d like to write about a woman who took
boarders into her suburban home. I thought, hmmm, what might
have to happen so that that occurred? And then it came to me that a
divorce would do it: a woman gets abandoned by her husband, and
wants to keep her house rather than selling it. And then the book be-came
something else altogether, which often happens. You start out
to write one book, and then another one takes over. In the case of
Open House, it became a story of a woman finding her way back to
herself.

Q: Is this where or how your novels usually begin?

EB: It depends. Sometimes it’s an issue I want to explore, like the power
of women’s friendships in Talk Before Sleep or changes that occur with
menopause as in The Pull of the Moon. Sometimes a character’s voice
leads the way and makes the story emerge later: Katie in Durable
Goods and Joy School.

Q: What was unique to your experience of writing Open House?

EB: Every novel is unique, because it makes its intentions known in its
own way: at a certain point, it takes over and invents itself, and I’m
just the typist. Every novel is the same for the same reason. One really
different thing about Open House, though, is that after I turned it in,
I decided not to publish it. It just didn’t feel right. I kept it on the
shelf for five years, then rewrote it, added a few things (the Martha
Stewart thing, for example), and then let it be published.

Q: The first sentence of the novel is "You know before you know, of
course." Is it "of course"?


EB: Seems to be so. Your heart knows before your head will let the information
in.

Q: Once Sam realizes that the divorce is really happening, she does
some rather–well–extraordinarily embarrassing things. Do you
ever–out of sympathy–want to stop a character from acting as
she intends to?


EB: I never want to stop a character from doing anything. I love when
they "take over" and I feel like I’m just watching the show.

Q: In a way, Sam isn’t acting like herself. Is it difficult to write about
a character who acts out of character?


EB: No. Extraordinary circumstances make for different kinds of behavior.
Part of a writer’s job, I think, is to know her characters so completely
that it’s no more difficult to write them acting out of character
than in it. It’s that old thing about how you have to know much more
about your characters than you ever present on the page. You may not
ever write about what’s in their refrigerator or their closet, or how
they take a bath, or if they like poetry, or who their first love was, or
how they would react in certain situations, but you should know it.

Q: In the moment that Sam tells Travis about the divorce, you write
two explanations: the explanation we all know Sam should give,
and the response she does give. When you began to write, did you
know which would actually come out of her mouth?


EB: No. I like to let the characters lead the way. When I write dialogue,
it emerges on the page as is. I don’t plan it.

Q: Sam leaves a tough question in the novel unanswered: How much
truth are children entitled to? Do you have an answer to that
question?


EB: Oh, I wish I did. It’s a hard question. And there is no definitive answer,
because children are all different. Some are well equipped to
handle difficult truths; others need more protection. Some have a
great deal of empathy and perspective; some do not. It’s not always a
function of age, either–a younger child may be more philosophical
or calm or secure than an older one. Our job as parents is to try to
know our children as best we can, and then support them in the ways
that they need it. And it’s a really hard job. It might be impossible.
But we try. And when they know that we really, really love them, it
helps.

Q: In a difficult conversation between Sam and her own mother,
Veronica tells Sam that "your children never really grow up for
you." Is this true of a child’s experience of her mother, as well? Is
an adult child ever able to relate to her mother not as a mother, but
only as another adult? Is Sam?


EB: I think it is in that moment that Sam does begin to see her mother as
a person. She believes she understands why her mother has this impenetrable
cheerfulness and crazy behavior–Sam has begun to see
the fault lines. That is to say, she has come to understand her
mother’s vulnerability, and her defenses against her own fragility.

Q: Although her relationship with Veronica is difficult, Sam relies on
the "truth" communicated across generations. Is there wisdom
that can be communicated only across generations? Is there wisdom
that only older women–like Lydia–possess?


EB: Wisdom is a funny thing. I think some children are very, very wise,
and some old people are not wise at all. It seems to me that, more
than anything, wisdom is a gift some people are given.

Q: In her search for women to share her experience or to offer wisdom
or empathy, Sam seriously considers calling the author of a novel
she’s just read. Has such a reader ever called you?


EB: Yes. Many times.

Q: How did you respond?

EB: It depends on the caller. Most of the time, they’re very kind and considerate,
and they just really want to tell me how much a book has
meant to them. And that’s nice. But sometimes I get someone who
wants me to write a book for them, or read their manuscript, or do
some other favor, and they can be very pushy. That’s not so nice.

Q: Have you ever called another author?

EB: Many years ago, when Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying came out, I tried to
call her. I called New York City information, got a number, dialed it,
and then hung up. I wanted to tell her how much I loved the book,
but I was afraid I’d be bothering her and/or sound like an idiot.

Q: Did you know, when you began to write, that David would ask to
return? Were you afraid that Sam would take him back?


EB: No. When he said he wanted to come home, though, I knew Sam
would not take him back. Especially since the only way he could ex-press
appreciation of her was to note what she did for him.

Q: Is there a moment when you knew Sam was strong enough to stand
on her own?


EB: Well, it was a slow evolution. But something big happened when she
lay in the bathtub listening to Janis Joplin.

Q: Does divorce always result in what Sam calls a "psychic limp"?

EB: I can only speak from my own experience. I will always have a raw
place inside me from that experience.

Q: Where does a character like King come from? Does he just walk
onto the page?


EB: Actually he did just walk onto the page.

Q: What did that feel like? How did it happen?

EB: It felt completely natural. I have no idea how it happens. You’re asking
an "under the hood" question, and I’m a person who doesn’t think
very much about technique. In Escaping into the Open, I tried to
explain all that I know and believe about the writing process. But
it’s mostly . . . I don’t know, magical. I mean, how would you ex-plain
how and why people fall in love? Why we crave chocolate or
salt? (Or, my favorite, chocolate and salt together?) Those things are
just in us. I don’t think about or try to manipulate or analyze the creative
process when I’m writing something. For me, that would be
death.

Q: When did you know that King and Sam would be instrumental in
helping each other find their way back to themselves?


EB: Again, you’re assuming I know what I’m going to do. I don’t. I just get
out of the way and let it happen. When Sam first met King, I didn’t
know who he was going to be for her.

Q: As King helps Sam find her way back to herself, he asks her to re-member
a time when she "wanted to know everything." She re-members
herself as a little girl. Why is it that she has to look back
so far? Why do women so frequently seem to lose themselves during
adolescence?


EB: It’s not that she has to look that far back. It’s just the memory that occurs
to her at the time he asks the question. To answer your other
question, I think women often lose themselves in adolescence because
of boys–because of our desire to shape ourselves so that they
will be attracted to us, and because boys sort of take over in general.
That has certainly been well documented!

Q: When King explains to Sam why his job isn’t astrophysics, he talks
about the "limitations of words." Is this something that you know
about through writing? Are there moments where you want to say
"red" and come out with "chartreuse"?


EB: As I mentioned before, the place I come closest to speaking the real
truth is on the page. But I also believe that the deepest things are
very, very difficult to express, no matter how articulate you are. The
eyes hold so much. A touch. A sigh. The translation is so difficult and
so often inadequate.

Q: Do you ever stop writing for a while because, as King says, "when
I’m away from it in the specific, I’m better able to see it generally"?


EB: I never stop writing unless my life circumstances force me to. It has
nothing to do with publication. It has to do with the fact that I must
do it, and that I love doing it.

Q: When and how did you learn that Open House had been selected as
an Oprah Book Club book?


EB: I was sitting at my desk on August 16 when the phone rang and a producer
told me the good news that Open House would be the September
selection. She said that Oprah said to apologize for not calling
herself–she was in court that day. I thought, oh, man, Oprah doesn’t
have to apologize for anything.

Q: What was your book club discussion experience like?

EB: It was enormously gratifying. The women who appeared on that show
were so honest and so giving, and I feel they helped other women
who have been through or are contemplating divorce. There was
such pain expressed, but also such triumph. Women laughed and
cried during that discussion–who could ask for a richer emotional
experience?

Q: All of the individuals discussing Open House at that meeting were
women. When you write, do you write for women or with women
in mind?


EB: I write for myself. But I am very interested in women’s issues, and I
seem to tend to focus on them.

Q: How do you think that the men reading this novel–or any of your
other novels–respond?


EB: Most of my readers are women, but more men are starting to write to
me and/or come to readings. A lot of men have told me that my books
help them to understand their women better, and that makes me feel
great.

Q: What are you working on now?

EB: The next novel, called Never Change, will be out in June of 2001. It’s
about a visiting nurse in love with one of her patients, a man with a
terminal illness. It’s much more serious than the last two, and I’m
very excited about it. I’ve begun a new novel, too, but it’s much too
soon to talk about it.

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