Tag Archives: Wendy Welch

Critic on the run after trashy Review

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photo (2)Fur is flying after numerous catty responses to the handling of a recent book. (For the full review from Lucy, pictured at left, please visit yesterday’s blog post.)

“I trusted my instincts and did what came naturally,” insisted Lucy, the literary agent in the doghouse. “Yes, I trashed the book, but that’s part of my job.”

Not so, said well-known publicist ValKyttie (shown here with the book in question). “What would a bitch like that know about good writing? Crap. That’s all she produces, is crap.”valkyttie with her cover

Speculation has arisen that ValKyttie, who is CEO of the book’s subject (a second-hand book store in a small town somewhere in SW VA), may be personally motivated in her criticism. However, several other voices have joined the caterwaul of protest.

Tallulah, a Southern Literature expert, dismissed Lucy’s comments with a sniff. “This is nothing more than a dogged determination to leave her mark. But I tell you one thing, that pup has ruined her career. This review will dog her every step from this day forward. Her boss will shriek protests if she so much as approaches another book this year.”tallulah

Tallulah is currently visiting The Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap with her children: (from top) Clyde Edgerton, Amy Clark, and Silas House.

clydeAmy Housesilas house

Of the trio, House was most sanguine. “Meh,” he was overheard to say.

When she heard of House’s dismissive remark, Lucy suggested they meet face to face to settle their differences. House has not yet responded.

Perhaps the final words on this dog-eat-dog saga belong to Starbuck, a veteran newshound from Richmond, VA. Those who follow the literary world’s movers and shakers may remember when Starbuck made news herself by becoming the first dog under the age of six months to learn to read. starbuck

The Buckster howled with delight when told the story, then sobered to growl, “Lucy better be careful. Biting off more than one can chew is dangerous. These young pups,” she said, shaking her head and returning to her drink. “You try to train ’em, but…”

Editor’s Note: Louise Malpas, normally all ears regarding reviews of Welch’s book, is vacationing in the Hamptons and could not be reached for comment. Friends suggest she would have bounced with enthusiasm at the publicity.

Senile, My Ar(hem)

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For the past year Jack and I have tiptoed around our CEO. Our oldest cat ValKyttie is Scottish, 17, and senile; since our opening she has ruled the roost with an iron paw, demanding wet cat food, specially purchased Catsip milk, and obsequious obedience from the foster cats.

She, who used to jump from six-foot bookshelves, now rubs my ankles to be picked up and nestled in my lap. Dr. Beth says her hips are “delicate.”

In her senility, she chases Beulah–her sister for the past eight years–from the shop with hisses, flattened ears, and extended claws. She swipes at any dog silly enough to get within range. She tolerates young Owen, the newest staff kitten, because he does obeisance before approaching, and cuddles her as he takes nips from whatever delicacy she’s getting that the others are not.

It’s good to have a boy toy. Owen has great muscle structure.

When she wants to be held, I stop writing. The other day I was sitting in the wing chair working on a laptop balanced on my knees, and she rubbed my ankles. I explained the geometry to her, and she rubbed my ankles again. With one hand, I gently scooped her around the middle and swung her into the chair next to me, warning her away from my fully-occupied lap. She put out one delicate paw and with surprising strength shoved the laptop sideways, sauntered into the space, and sat, her head resting just under my chin, leaning against my chest and purring.

What could I say, except, “Well-played, Madam.”

Jack got it before I did. As we chased her down one evening, snatching her up just before she slashed Beulah through the cat flap into the snowstorm outside, Jack said, “She’s Great-aunt Ada.”

Those of you who saw my essay in December on NPR Books (3 Great Small Town Reads) will recall that Cold Comfort Farm is one of my favorites. In it, Great-aunt Ada lives a life of reclusive luxury upstairs, waited on hand and foot because, as a child, she “saw something nasty in the woodshed.”

“ValKyttie’s not senile at all,” Jack persisted. “And she’s not delicate. See how fast she moves when she’s chasing Beulah. Look at that jump she just made to the dresser. If this cat’s confused, I’m a Marx Brother.”

“Cut it out, Harpo,” I said, scooping ValKyttie against my shoulder, where she snuggled down and purred. “You know she’s 17 and fragile.”

“And getting her every whim catered to,” he said. “You hold her if she so much as mews. She gets a heating pad to sleep on, carried everywhere she wants to go. Look,” he said suddenly, turning me toward the bedroom vanity’s three-sided mirror so I could see ValKyttie’s face over my shoulder.

Gosh darn it, she was smirking.