the circle is full (of Oscar Wao)

Eleven years ago I dragged my then-husband, the now ex-Mr Baroque (as distinguished from the ex-ex Mr B - or, as he likes to be styled, the Original Mr B) to a book reading at Watertone's in Islington. The reader was a young Dominican-American writer called Junot Diaz, and his book of short stories, published in the UK by Faber, was called Drown.

Reader, I didn't marry him. But I almost wanted to. This was writing at its freshest, as it should be: stories of Dominican immigrants that pulsed with immediacy and life, written in spare, elegant, demotic, tone-perfect prose (even Newsweek has written that he has the voice of a poet). I was a bit blown away by the reading. It made a big impression on me, not least because I was working on my own doomed novel at the time. But that fact illustrates only my receptivity. The book also gave me a push around some other things that were troubling me - things to do with authenticity and vocabulary and voice (I was, remember, American and living in London) - but Drown is in itself a remarkable collection of stories, spare and touching and elegant and stark and funny and moving. I can't say anything more specific because I am away from my books and can't quote....

In the intervening years I kept hold of my treasured signed copy, which became like a sort of talisman (among others, I admit: I have even been taken to task for the number of talismanic signed copies I seem to possess*), but I never met anyone else who had read the book.

I was clearly travelling in the wrong circles. Earlier this summer I read a post on Maud Newton's blog celebrating the imminent publication of Diaz' first novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, and the attending furore in literary circles. And not just literary circles: the waiters and waitresses of New York are all on tenterhooks for it too. In fact, it's a groundswell. Hurrah! I thought, and prepared to get the book when it came out and blog on it.

Maybe ten days ago, I was invited to join a Facebook (sorry) group called Junot Diaz Appreciation. After joining it with alacrity I noticed, over the next few days, people I knew - writers - appearing on the list of members, and realised I wasn't the only person I knew who had this Junot Diaz thing going on.

Diaz has been publishing short stories in the New Yorker etc in the meantime, including a long story that is the kernel of Oscar Wao, but it is hard to keep up with the New Yorker, especially the fiction - which regular readers will know I have a love-hate relationship with** - so I never even knew about it.

Rereading Maud's post, I realise that she wrote last March about this book, with many wonderful links and asides, which I recommend you to follow (especially this one, which I've imported for you). There was something about Junot Diaz when he gave that reading I went to. You just wish him well. And I loved Drown.

Last week in Borders, Manchester CT, with my mother, I asked if they had the novel yet - knowing it was unlikely, as the publication date was today, but I thought it couldn't hurt to try. I told my mother no luck and said I'd have to try again on the day.

You getting the picture?

Yesterday a kind, lovely friend whom I had asked whether Diaz might be reading anywhere in the City over this week or the weekend, wrote back to me saying Argh! He's reading on Thursday! and there is a party after, and in short my friend has offered to take me along to the launch party for Junot Diaz' novel. Can you imagine. To the launch party! Of Junot Diaz! Oh my God!

I immediately and simultaneously looked up bus timetables and called my beloved auntie to see how early she was going to be leaving today - but no sooner had I finished doing that than a second email arrived from my kind friend saying, SO SORRY, it's strictly "no guests." Much chagrin, horror at having offered before checking it out. But you know what? I felt fine, because the real thrill was in being thought of and asked. (Plus, of course, I had had the whole rich experience of the party in my head in about thirty seconds after reading the email.)

Anyway, I'm going to New York on Sunday, and will meet up with my lovely friend (as well as other lovely friends - did I say I was looking forward to it?), and will go to the shop in question and try to get a signed copy, and if all that fails I can still get the book and let you all know what I thought of it. So nothing is lost and everything is gained.

But argh. I was nearly there. I mean, how many publishing parties do I get to go to in New York??*** And it's happening right now. I imagine everyone I know in New York is there.

*Only today my revered, sainted uncle, on presenting me with a big box full of books, plus an Auden first, confesses that he also got hold of a signed Auden first in the same year - ahem - where's that one!? I'm chagrined to report that he was cackling.

** The list of people I would automatically go out and buy a new novel from is very short. Junot Diaz, of course. Edmund White, and I note he does have a new one out! Colm Toibin. Roddy Doyle. The list changes, grows and shrinks, but the point is I only read a few novels a year and at least one of those is usually by Henry James.

*** None. The answer is zero.