Turn-Taking in Email Correspondence

Recently I was thinking about “turn-taking” in email correspondence among colleagues or friends. (I am not talking about business correspondence here). After all, email is a kind of reading and writing that most of us do daily. Linguists talk about “turn-taking” in spoken conversation, which involves the ways in which people decide (mostly unconsciously) when it is time for one person to stop talking and another to start. Much has been written about how and when this is done, how it is different in different cultures, how it differs by gender, what happens when someone speaks when it isn’t his or her turn, and much more. Here I write about my own feelings as I decide if, when and how quickly to reply to an email. Obviously if it is a mass mail, or spam, I don’t answer, but otherwise I generally do. If it is a simple query, I try to answer immediately. If it will require my checking something or finding some information, or further thought, I make a note to myself and answer within a day or two if possible. If it is a personal email from a colleague or friend just keeping in touch or sharing news, I also usually answer within a day or two or three. A question arises, though, when a friend and I have the kind of relationship and correspondence that takes place either sporadically, or at widely spaced intervals (maybe every month or two or more, for example). If I answer immediately, am I violating our unspoken agreement regarding frequency? Usually, though, there is an email, an answer, and THEN a break of a month or more. But sometimes the answerer asks a new question, or provides news that seems to require a response, and then I want to answer the question or to comment on the news (congratulations, condolences, etc.), so I add a third “turn.” Is the other person expected to reply to that third email? Or, if I am the one who receives the third turn, should I reply? Sometimes the solution is that the last email becomes very brief, signalling the end of the current round of correspondence (e.g., “Thanks, I appreciate that!” or “That’s great to hear!”). The crux of the matter is that at some point, someone has to stop the exchange, whether for a few days or weeks or months, and the other person has to feel OK about it. No one wants to feel they are pushing the other person into more frequent correspondence than they want or than is appropriate at their level of acquaintance or friendship, but they also don’t want the other person to feel one has suddenly gone silent on them, or to think one is being rude or neglectful. Fortunately all this is usually intuited unconsciously, and doesn’t take as much thought as I am giving it here; we can usually “feel” when the timing is right. But there are occasional hiccups or mismatches. Who hasn’t ever wondered “Should I reply to this email right away, or wait a while?” or felt “I wonder why XXX didn’t answer my last email”? (I don’t think I am the only one!)

Three Wonderful Finalists for the Story Prize

I was very pleased to learn today that the three finalists for this year's Story Prize, a prestigious prize for short story collections (former winners include Edwidge Danticat and Tobias Wolff), were all books I had read and posted about here this past year. Often when I see lists of finalists for literary prizes, or “best books of the year” lists, I am struck by how many books on the list I haven’t read, often because they just didn’t appeal to me. So to discover this prize finalist list with its three wonderful choices is a real pleasure and feels like a sort of validation of my preferences in short stories. The three collections (with the dates I wrote about them here in parentheses) are: “Bark,” by Lorrie Moore (3/21/14); “The Other Language,” by Francesca Marciano (7/26/14); and “Thunderstruck,” by Elizabeth McCracken (10/10/14). I recommend them all to you. Which would I choose if I were the judges? It is hard to say, but if pressed I would perhaps choose “The Other Language” for its sheer originality. The prize will be awarded on March 4th in New York.

"The Land of Steady Habits," by Ted Thompson

I finished reading Ted Thompson’s novel “The Land of Steady Habits” (Little Brown, 2014) a few days ago, and since then I have been pondering what I think about it, and how to write about it. What I keep coming back to is gender issues. The novel is not “about” gender, but to me the main character deals with an intriguing mixture of gender concerns. Anders Hill, in his early sixties, suddenly decides that after working hard all his life, he is going to retire from work, leave his wife of forty years, buy a condo, and enjoy his freedom. The classic male midlife crisis, right? But somehow his “freedom” is not as satisfying as he thought it would be. And there are complications – financial, familial, social, and emotional. He still has to deal with some typically “male” responsibilities, and at the same time he worries about more stereotypically “female” emotional and relational issues, such as missing his wife and being jealous when she starts dating an old friend. Of course it is a given that these concerns are not so easily categorized by gender (thank goodness!), and I don’t want to deal in stereotypes, but in fact in literature the focus is often more on one or the other of these. The setting in suburbia, and the balancing of work and home concerns, echo Rabbit and even – to an extent – Babbitt. Anders is also an example of a fairly common type of character in contemporary American fiction, especially in novels by male writers: a crotchety, complaining middle-aged or late middle-aged man whose genuine emotions and questions are made slightly foolish by his self-preoccupied, whiny persona. The story is engaging, tracing the arc of Anders’ and his wife Helen’s lives from the time they met in college to the present. Their college friend Donny is a major character too, as are Anders’ and Helen’s two sons. There are problems, there is unhappiness, but there is also much connection. Still, as mentioned at the beginning of this post, what I find perhaps most interesting about this novel is the questions of gender that it indirectly raises.

"Lessons of Love in Afghanistan," by Suzanne Griffin

My friend and former colleague, Suzanne Griffin, has written a wonderful, inspiring book about her work in Afghanistan. “Lessons of Love in Afghanistan: A Lifelong Commitment to the Afghan People” (Bennett and Hastings Publishing, 2014) describes her decades of connection to Afghanistan. Originally this came about through her husband Michael’s work in the Peace Corps; when they got married, she joined him when he went back there. She grew to love the people, the culture, and the language. When she and Michael went back to the United States, Suzanne became an educator. The couple always wanted and intended to go back to Afghanistan and help in any ways they could. Years later, when her husband died too young, Suzanne, by then a college dean, took a leave of absence to help with setting up programs and schools, especially for girls and women, in Afghanistan. She ended up spending more than a decade, with brief breaks, in Afghanistan, and was involved not only in education but also related matters such as women’s health. All of this was not at all easy; it was dangerous, strenuous, and frustrating at times, but Suzanne loved the work and persisted. In fact, she is still involved with programs in Afghanistan. This book is a combination of a memoir and a description of the situation in Afghanistan. The author’s devotion to the country and the work is clear, yet she writes in a way that is modest and matter-of-fact. This reader shuddered at some of the dangers Suzanne faced. But most of all, I admire so much what she has done. The serious nature of the book, although important, is leavened in a welcome way by the author's sharing her feelings, and weaving in stories about her family and friends and people she meets through the years. The book is very readable and engaging, and I learned much from it as well.

Does the Space Make a Difference?

I have always believed that punctuation makes a difference and has significance. But a difference I hadn’t thought about until fairly recently was whether to leave one or two spaces after a period. I grew up learning, in my high school typing class and elsewhere, to leave two spaces, and I never questioned that. It became absolutely automatic for me. But more and more I have realized that now the standard is one space. The point that jolted me was in a recent article about job applications that stated that for older applicants, leaving two spaces after periods can be a signal of their age, and by proxy, a sort of sign of being outdated or behind the times. I am fortunate not to have to apply for jobs, but I still don’t want to be thought of as behind the times! So I have been trying to remember this, and now I often go back through something I have written to delete one of the two spaces. I actually had to do it for this very blogpost. Such a small matter to be fraught with such possible significance!

"Florence Gordon," by Brian Morton

Brian Morton is a male author writing about a (fictional) leading feminist scholar and author. I initially did a slight double take when I realized this, but then thought “why not?” After all, I tell my students that men can (and should, in my opinion) be feminists too. And I believe that good writers can write about anyone and anything, and should not be limited to writing about their own gender, race, experience, etc. Morton’s novel “Florence Gordon” (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2014) focuses on an aging (75-year-old), rather grumpy, uncompromising, fearless woman who refuses to admit any weaknesses, and who is hard on her family and others around her. It could be said that she is missing some basic social skills. But it could also be said that she doesn’t feel the same socialized need that so many women do to always be aware of and cater to the needs of those around her, and always speak diplomatically. For Florence, her work -- her research, writing, and activism -- is paramount. The only other character that gets her attention and with whom she develops a rapport -- albeit slowly and very undemonstratively -- is her granddaughter Emily. Florence is a forbidding character, yet one that obviously cares about making the world a better and more equitable place for both women and men. I admire Morton’s creation of this character, one who is not easy to like, yet is clearly a good person who makes a difference. But the author resists doing what some authors too obviously do: sentimentalizing by making a slightly difficult character one with a "heart of gold." I also admire his choosing to focus on an older person, which is not very common in modern fiction (as I have discussed here before). The story takes place in New York City, where Florence lives and teaches. The events of the story arise largely out of the interactions among Florence and her son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter, the latter three of whom have recently come to New York for various reasons. Each of the main characters -- Florence, her son Daniel, her daughter-in-law Janine, and her granddaughter Emily -- has her or his own secrets. There are flirtations with infidelity, entanglements with disturbed others, illness, and more intriguing plot points. Morton tells the story in quite short chapters, which makes the novel very accessible and reader-friendly; at first I felt it also somehow oversimplified it, but I got over that feeling after a while. For those who like portrayals of strong women, for those who care about feminism, for those who appreciate novels that include or even focus on older characters (for a change), for those who like to read about family interactions, and for those who like novels set in New York City, this novel has much to offer.

The Reading Glasses Bookshelves Shuffle

As a person who wears contact lenses and reading glasses over them as necessary (and they are often necessary for a frequent reader/writer/computer user such as I am), I am probably an odd sight when looking at books on shelves in bookstores or libraries. There is already the awkward sideways turn of the head and leaning of the body to see the titles printed along the books’ spines, and the slow shuffling along the length of the shelves to see more and more books. Then there is the constant putting on and taking off of the reading glasses. They need to be off for books on higher or lower shelves, but on for those at eye level. Further, they need to be on when taking a book off the shelf to look at it more closely, inspecting the front and back covers and perhaps leafing through it. Then back off they go, either to be held dangling from my right hand, or pushed on top of my head. Finally they end up back in their case in my purse. But sometimes as I am walking out, the reading glasses have to be fished back out one more time (or two or three) so I can look at another shelf of books, or a display that has just caught my eye. And if I am buying or checking out books, the glasses come back out to facilitate the process of signing the credit card slip or navigating the self-checkout machine. Many years ago I said (with the arrogance of youth) that I would never be one of those people with my reading glasses on a chain around my neck, but I may have to rethink that. On another note, Happy Holidays to all!