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The Wonder Singer
by George Rabasa

Published: 2008-09-30
Hardcover : 336 pages
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Mark Lockwood's life is a small one. He's made his living as a freelance writer, producing a series of little books for hire called How to Talk to Your Teen about . . . . But for the past few months he's been at work on a ghostwriting assignment beyond his dreams. To prepare her ...
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Introduction

Mark Lockwood's life is a small one. He's made his living as a freelance writer, producing a series of little books for hire called How to Talk to Your Teen about . . . . But for the past few months he's been at work on a ghostwriting assignment beyond his dreams. To prepare her “autobiography”, he has been interviewing the internationally renowned diva, Mercè Casals. When the Señora dies suddenly-floating sizable in her elegant scented bath-she is suddenly a hot property and a celebrity biographer arrives to take over the writing of her book. But Lockwood realizes this is his one chance at greatness, and so he runs off with the interview tapes. Abetted by the beautiful but scrupulous Perla, the Señora's nurse, and by a female impersonator who considers himself the diva's greatest fan, Lockwood locks himself into his study, endlessly plays the tapes, and begins to craft his greatest book. Once the three conspirators rescue the Señora's husband from the home she put him in, Lockwood's sense of his own heart begins to expand beyond his considerable imagination. Moving by turns through the diva's lyrical account of her life and the frantic pace of Lockwood's notes from underground, The Wonder Singer portrays for us just what it can mean to live a beautiful life to its fullest.

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Excerpt

The wrong people keep trying to get hold of Lockwood these days. They beep his pager and his cell phone, leave messages on his voice mail and on Perla's answering machine. Suddenly, he has a passel of writing assignments. No time, he says. I'm writing the story of my life.

Most insistently, Hollywood Hank wants to know why nobody was home when the courier showed up to pick up the tapes. “Where the hell are you? Where are the tapes?” He keeps asking, merely irritable at first, but later, his voice straining with frustration: “I paid for those tapes. I paid for Mercè Casals' story. And I paid for you.” Lockwood sees him red-faced, bug-eyed and skew-haired, jerking his blue silk tie loose, sweat circles dampening his Irish linen shirt.

The phone rings from extensions all over Lockwood's house: beeps in the kitchen, bells in the basement, buzzes in his study, and chimes in the bedroom. He cannot get away from the phone. He holds Claire by the arm, raises a finger to his lips as the answering machine goes through its clicking paces after five rings.

“This is Hank Holloway. Please Mrs. Lockwood,” he says. “I want you to think of me as your friend. I don't know what you have discussed with Mark. But trust me, your husband is way out of his league here. All I'm saying at this point is that you and I have things to talk about. Not true for Lockwood and myself; communication has broken down between us. A shame too, because at one point I had said to myself, there is real rapport with this guy; he's not an egocentric jerk, but a fellow one can reason with, a true professional who knows the value of a client, and a check. Boy, was I ever wrong about him. He's turned out to be a two-faced, double crossing snake in the grass. I don't envy your being married to him. Anyway, I'm sure you are by far the superior human being of the couple, a person of sense and sensibility, a rational, balanced woman of the new age….I don't care if neither of you wants to hear what I have to say. The truth of the matter is that Lockwood is way, way out of his depth on this issue. It's an important point that bears repeating. The league I have in mind includes names that I'm not at this point able to reveal because of strict confidentiality agreements. And because the principals involved are afraid your husband may take violent action against them. These are names that you would recognize if I spelled them out for you. But I will give you a few hints. The author of The Authorized Biography of Mercè Casals, currently in progress, is no mere scribbler. We are talking a heavyweight household name here. A muscle writer. There is buzz of a million dollar advance. Which is not at all unusual for this particular writer whose name rhymes with Gonzo Taylor. There is talk of a bidding war among three publishers whose names I'm not at liberty to disclose. These are the giants of the publishing world, the editors of which would not give your husband the time of day even at the height of his glory days as a star MFA at some writing school. You want to know what publishers I'm talking about? I know you do. I can't tell you, but I'm sure you can guess. Think big…. all your hubby has to do is hand over those tapes and sign a letter saying he has no intention of writing any book, fiction or otherwise, based on Mercè Casals or Nolan Keefe or Prince Liviu Gregoriu or (what the hell we've got an investment to protect here!) even opera in general. After five years, of course, he can write about anything he wants to. Lockwood does the letter, I do the check. He gets the most money he's ever gotten, without having to write a word. Nothing could be simpler.…Feel free to ask questions if there are any doubts in your mind. The number to call, toll-free, day or night is 1-800-MY AGENT. Ask for your friend Hank Holloway. Seven days a week, twenty…”

His voice is abruptly cut off and the red message light keeps blinking frantically, saying in luminous code, Listen! Listen! Urgent shit for playback! view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. What was your immediate response to this novel? Is there anything in your personal experience that you could identify with in this novel? If so, how did that affect your response?

2. How would you describe the tone and style of this novel? What did you enjoy most about the novel?

3. What about the Hollywood setting for Lockwood's story? Did it seem appropriate or enhance Mercè's story?

4. What themes did you find in this novel, and how did you arrive at them? For instance, this novel starts with a death. How would you describe Mercè's attitude about impending death and the loss of her voice? Are they inter-connected?

5. How do you interpret the scene between Pep Seval and Mercè after the battle of Barcelona?

6. How would you describe and/or analyze Mercè's character and the relationships with the men in her life? How did they reflect her strengths? Her flaws? Do you find her viewpoint about her professional behavior to be justified by the events in the narrative?

7. How would you describe the portrait(s) of marriage as presented in this novel? What parallels, and contrasts, did you find between Lockwood and Claire and Mercè and Nolan? How did these portraits interact with one another? What was your response to Nolan-as-marriage-counselor at the end of the novel?

8. How do you, personally, define friendship? How would you describe the friendships in this novel? Were there parallels between Mercè's account of her life and that of Lockwood's life as a writer? Do you think that Perla and Mercè's relationship was a friendship? What about Lockwood and Mercè? Then what about Lockwood/Nolan/Perla/Orson? Would you trade your own life for a life like Mercè's or Lockwood's?

9. What subjects in this novel, if any, made you want to learn more about them? Why?

10. “A meditation on Voice”: What do you think Rabasa means by that? How did you see that playing out in the novel?

Notes From the Author to the Bookclub

As a reader I'm often interested in the work habits and writing spaces of writers. When one of my readers asked about these things, I thought back to a recent, typical morning.

George Rabasa Punches in at the Fiction Factory

I'm late, I'm late! It's 9:13 and the brain is humming but the author is not writing. Not a good situation for the novel in progress (two years, four months, three weeks, four days, so far). Still, I just can't dive in. Like a good athlete I need a little warm-up - might strain a brain cell or two otherwise. So, I check e-mail (nothing much), news headlines (nothing much), calendar (nothing much there either).

I take a look around the Fiction Factory, and I'm energized by the red walls (“cayenne,” actually), the Mexican rug with the huichol designs depicting the symbols for the eagle, corn, flowers, peyote. Packed bookshelves holding a lifetime of reading, and learning. This is where my masters live - Garcia Marquez, Updike, Lowry, Borges, DeLillo, Cervantes, and that's enough name dropping for now. There are pictures on the walls, some by friends. On the i-pod player, Perla Batalla sings Leonard Cohen.

Before I know it, I'm staring at the screen, cursor blinking, words waiting to be arranged and rearranged. Commas achieving the importance of subatomic particles; take one out or put one in and the order of the universe has been altered. The new novel is about 90,000 words so far, but all I think about for the next hour or so is a sentence, a paragraph, a scene. It's one step at a time, without thinking too much about the finish line. Then I move on, at a snail's pace, to the next sentence. And so on…

Finally, it's lunch time! My union contract with management specifies a decent time for lunch and reading and nap. Then a couple of hours of the afternoon shift. And it's time to meditate, run, wine, dinner, chocolate. Ah, a happy routine! While I'm often told I should get a life, I can't think of a better one.

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