Things Fall Apart: Achebe and Tibensky

When I read Things Fall Apart as a sophomore in college, little did I know that the first African novel I ever read would share most of a title with a book of my own. A book about a white American suburban teenager obsessed with Sylvia Plath, another white suburban teenager.

I mean really.

The title of my book was not my idea. I had the lamest title ever, which means to say nothing useable. When my editor suggested And Then Things Fall Apart (STRONGLY suggested with much excitement and little room for me to say, er no) I brought up Achebe. And that I loved Things Fall Apart, that it is basically African Shakespeare, that it is not a book to toy with or allude to lightly. They smiled (over the phone) and nodded and said brightly "Isn't it just a great title!!!!"

All I could think of was my African Lit professor. He, like Achebe, was Nigerian. He had long fingers with unusually large nails. He brought cola nuts for us to try and took African literature very seriously. He would not be amused.

I also took a Russian Lit class (earth shattering) French Women Writers of Today (badass Irish professor who made use this new thing called "email" to turn in papers) and a whole semester of James Joyce. What if my book were titled The Mister and Margarita? Portrait of the Artist as a Young Teenager? The Giggle of the Medusa?

I read my ass off in college. Any and everything and my brain, when not grunge-rock obsessed and/or caffeinated within an inch of its life, was always ruminating on capital L literature. And loving it.

I just want everyone to know how much I love Achebe's book and how I know that Things Fall Apart, and And Things Fall Apart are only an "and" apart.

AND I ALSO want to say that I love the title and everyone I tell the title to says in a low knowing tone, "ooh, grrreat title!" So there's that. And I'm figuring that most of my book's target audience won't get to Achebe till college so they won't make the connection in the first place. If anything, they will get to MY Things Fall Apart and will think- wait- didn't I already read this? In high school? Keek was Nigerian?

Where's Your Spine?

My beloved UPS man, Ray (handsome, charming, sly and strong) keeps dropping off boxes for me. These are big boxes full of: books. My books? It is freaking surreal.

The first batch I got was ARCs which were great because I need to give them away and get people to review it, and read it early and what have you. They arrived with postcard notes for me to sign that say (are you ready for the genius of the marketing department of Simon & Schuster? Perhaps you should sit down...)

WHEN LIFE IS SOFA KING HARD... SOMETIMES YOU NEED A GOOD BOOK.

Which is as perfect a tagline for this book as is possible using the English language.

And then four days later I get 25 ACTUAL books. The ones that will be available for sale on July 26 at fine booksellers everywhere. Dear reader... They are beautiful. The typos are gone. The dedication page no longer says TK it says: For my parents... cue emotional tearing up and slow blinking/swallowing.

It's the spine that elevates the book from ARC to BOOK. Turquoise and red. With the cover heart in a circle like a saucy tattoo. I mean really.

I took them all and put them on a shelf, all in a row and it has created a wall of magnificence that I can see out of the corner of my eye as a sit at my desk and

bang out my next... er, book.

One.

Word.

At.

A.

Time.

!!

Thanks evesfangarden for the ARC pic!