The Nobodies Album

by Carolyn Parkhurst Narrated by Kimberly Farr

Overview

From the bestselling author of The Dogs of Babel comes a dazzling literary mystery about the lengths to which some people will go to rewrite their past.

Bestselling novelist Octavia Frost has just completed her latest book-a revolutionary novel in which she has rewritten the last chapters of all her previous books, removing clues about her personal life concealed within, especially a horrific tragedy that befell her family years ago.

On her way to deliver the manuscript to her editor, Octavia reads a news crawl in Times Square and learns that her rock-star son, Milo, has been arrested for murder. Though she and Milo haven't spoken in years-an estrangement stemming from that tragic day-she drops everything to go to him.

The “last chapters” of Octavia's novel are layered throughout The Nobodies* Album-the scattered puzzle pieces to her and Milo's dark and troubled past. Did she drive her son to murder? Did Milo murder anyone at all? And what exactly happened all those years ago? As the novel builds to a stunning reveal, Octavia must consider how this story will come to a close.

Universally praised for her candid explorations of the human psyche, Parkhurst delivers an emotionally gripping and resonant mystery about a mother and her son, and about the possibility that one can never truly know another person.

Editorial Reviews

AUGUST 2010 - AudioFile

Fictional bestselling author Octavia Frost says, “There are some stories no one wants to hear. Some stories, once told, won’t let you go so easily.” For her new novel, Octavia has rewritten the final chapters of all her published stories, changing painful details as she attempts to rewrite her past. Kimberly Farr gives form and substance to Octavia’s first-person narrative and novel excerpts. When Octavia’s estranged son, Milo, a rock star, is accused of murdering his starlet sweetie, Farr’s voice is coolly objective, seemingly unemotional, yet boiling beneath the surface. Farr is attuned to every subtlety and self-recrimination as Octavia looks into the murder and reflects upon writers, writing, and relationships. Beautifully performed by Farr, Carolyn Parkhurst’s compelling narrative is a story that “won’t let you go so easily.” S.J.H. © AudioFile 2010, Portland, Maine

Liesl Schillinger

In The Nobodies Album, with a light but sure hand, Carolyn Parkhurst joins together four disparate literary forms: the family drama, the short story, the philosophical essay on language and, yes, the whodunit. Her weave is smooth, a vigorous hybrid of the old-fashioned, the modern and the postmodern. She reminds us what an act of will and imagination it has always taken for a writer to convert nobodies into somebodies in any genre, whether at the desk or in the world.
—The New York Times

Art Taylor

A number of ambitious and winning novels have been written about novelists themselves, from Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin to Ian McEwan's Atonement and Carol Shields's Unless. Add to the list now D.C. author Carolyn Parkhurst's The Nobodies Album. Not just a book about a novelist in action, it's also a meditation on writing itself and on the curious intersections between the imagined world and the real one.
—The Washington Post

Publishers Weekly

Parkhurst (The Dogs of Babel) returns with the story of Octavia Frost: widow, successful novelist, and estranged mother of Milo, lead singer of an up-and-coming band. Milo and Octavia haven't spoken in almost four years, but their separation ends when Octavia learns (from the Times Square news crawl) that Milo has been arrested for the murder of his girlfriend. In short order, Octavia travels to the West Coast, determined to find out who really killed Bettina Moffett. Octavia's quest is peppered with short excerpts from her novels—in original and revised form—though the bits and scraps sometimes come off as filler instead of metafictional excursions into stories Octavia revises for publication and for her own purposes. (Not insignificantly, Milo's band is called Pareidolia, after the human compulsion to see, for instance, the Virgin Mary on a piece of toast.) Parkhurst's voice sucks the reader in immediately—the gift of a real storyteller—but the mixed genre structure will turn off as many readers as it works for, and the mystery plot is thinner than it should be. (June)

From the Publisher

 
“An ingenious, intricately structured story. . . . This is not a conventional murder mystery.” —The Boston Globe

“[An] affecting, intricate novel.” —The New York Times Book Review

“A pinhole glimpse into the mind of a fascinating woman for whom life and fiction are stitched tightly together.” —Entertainment Weekly
 
“A fascinating, can’t-put-it-down murder mystery.” —Redbook
 
“Parkhurst is wildly gifted at depicting mother-and-child moments, and they lift her entertaining new book above the fray.” —The Plain Dealer
 
“Ambitious and winning. . . . Brisk and engaging.” —The Washington Post Book World

“A mystery, and so much more. . . . Finely crafted.” —The Philadelphia Inquirer
 
“All [The Nobodies Album’s] pieces—the recurring patterns, mirror images and multiple allusions of Octavia’s history and fantasies—seem to shake together like a kaleidoscope, settling into place in a satisfying manner both predicted and unexpected.” —San Francisco Chronicle
 
“The great pleasure of reading The Nobodies Album arises out of keeping track of the constantly shifting relationships among a small group of paranoid people quarantined from the rest of society by their fame. . . . Parkhurst, who clearly revels in language (Milo’s band is called ‘Pareidolia’), gets maximum mileage out of her cast of novelists and rock star poets.” —Maureen Corrigan, NPR 
 
“As she did in The Dogs of Babel, with its human protagonist trying to coax forth information from his dog, Ms. Parkhurst once again proves that she writes with crisp precision but can also make heads spin.” —The New York Times

“Like any good mystery, Parkhurst offers us suspects without ever calling them such. . . . The Nobodies Album succeeds as a mystery, but also as a work of psychological realism. . . . [Parkhurst] is a writer of undeniable literary talent, concerned with meaning and character and all that good stuff, but she also tells one hell of a story.” —Bookslut.com  
 
“Creative and unique. . . . Elegant and gripping.” —Bookreporter.com
 
“Carolyn Parkhurst . . . [has] an innate grasp of the fatal power of words. She understands the power of language, and how one misconstrued sentence, or a confession never uttered, can be devastating.” —USA Today
 
“The Nobodies Album is a family drama, psychological inquiry and literary mystery, offering something for every reader. . . . Parkhurst has an uncanny knack for truly inhabiting her characters, laying their inner workings bare, yet here she cleverly uses this introspection to question the extent to which we can ever truly know another human being, even one bound to us through blood. The Nobodies Album opens with the audacious first line, ‘There are some stories no one wants to hear,’ but when Parkhurst’s stories are the ones in question, nothing could be further from the truth.” —BookPage
 
“A mystery well worth investigating. . . . Sharp and engaging. . . . A confident novel that has plenty of narrative muscle.” —The Independent (London)
 
“All of Parkhurst’s novels fairly burst with plot, and The Nobodies Album is no exception. . . . Few authors are as adept at infusing page-turning storylines with emotional depth, both tragic and redemptive. . . . Packs its own resonating punch.” —The Onion’s A. V. Club

Library Journal

Parkhurst's (www.carolynparkhurst.com) third novel, following Lost and Found (2006), is a literary murder mystery about a best-selling author whose latest endeavor re-imagines all the final chapters of her previous books. As she delivers this new creation to her editor, she learns her estranged son has been arrested on suspicion of murder. The story alternates between her reunion with her son and both her original and revised story endings. Actress Kimberly Farr skillfully renders the protagonists and provides enough variation in the other numerous characters to give narrative clarity. Although the murder mystery aspect is only a small component of this tale, there is enough here to appeal to mystery lovers. Appreciators of experimental fiction, however, are most likely to enjoy. ["Like an indie band with crossover potential, Parkhurst's Album delivers the goods," read the review of the Doubleday hc, LJ Xpress Reviews, 6/10/10.—Ed.]—J. Sara Paulk, Wythe-Grayson Regional Lib., Independence, VA

Product Details

BN ID:	2940172048494
Publisher:	Penguin Random House
Publication date:	06/15/2010
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

The Nobodies Album

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By Carolyn Parkhurst

Doubleday

Copyright © 2010 Carolyn Parkhurst
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780385527699

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Chapter One
 
There are some stories no one wants to hear.  Some stories, once told, won’t let you go so easily.  I’m not talking about the tedious, the pointless, the disgusting: the bugs in your bag of flour; your hour on the phone with the insurance people; the unexplained blood in your urine.  I’m talking about narratives of tragedy and pathos so painful, so compelling, that they seem to catch inside you on a tiny hook you didn’t even know you’d hung.  You wish for a way to pull the story back out; you grow resentful of the very breath that pushed those words into the air. 

Stories like this have become a specialty of mine.  It wasn’t always that way; I used to try to write the kind of story everyone wanted to hear, but I soon learned what a fool’s errand that was.  I found out there are better ways to get you.  “I wish I hadn’t read it,” a woman wrote to me after she finished my last novel.  She sounded bewildered, and wistful for the time before she’d heard what I had to say.  But isn’t that the point—to write something that will last after the book has been put back on the shelf?  This is the way I like it.  Read my story, walk through those woods, and when you get to the other side, you may not even realize that you’re carrying something out that you didn’t have when you went in.  A little tick of an idea, clinging to your scalp, or hidden in a fold of skin.  Somewhere out of sight.  By the time you discover it, it’s already begun to prey on you; perhaps it’s merely gouged your flesh, or perhaps it’s already begun to nibble away at your central nervous system.  It’s a small thing, whatever it is, and whether your life will be better for it or worse, I cannot say.  But something’s different, something has changed.

And it’s all because of me.
 

The plane rises.  We achieve lift-off, and in that mysterious, hanging moment, I say a prayer—as I always do—to help keep us aloft.  In my more idealistic days, I used to add a phrase of benediction for all the other people on the airplane, which eventually stretched into a wish for every soul who found himself away from home that day.  My good will knew no bounds; or maybe I thought that the generosity of such a wish would gain me extra points and thereby ensure my own safety.  But I stopped doing that a long time ago.  Because, if you think about it, when has there ever been a day when all the world’s travelers have been returned safely to their homes, to sleep untroubled in their beds?  That’s not the way it works.  Better to keep your focus on yourself and leave the others to sort themselves out.  Better to say a prayer for your own wellbeing and hope that, today at least, you’ll be one of the lucky ones. 
It’s a short flight: Boston to New York, less than an hour in the air.  As soon as the flight attendants can walk the aisles without listing too much, they’ll be flinging pretzels at our heads in a mad effort to get everything served and cleaned up before we’re back on the ground, returned to the world of adulthood, where we’re free to get our own snacks. 

I have in my lap, displayed rather importantly, as if it were a prop in a play no one else realizes is being performed, the manuscript of my latest book, The Nobodies Album.  This is part of my ritual: there’s my name, emblazoned on the first page, and if my seatmate or a wandering crew member should happen to glance over and see it—and if, furthermore, that name should happen to have any meaning for them—well then, they’re free to begin a conversation with me.  So far, it’s never happened.

The other rite I will observe today concerns what I will do with this manuscript once I arrive in New York.  This neat stack of white and black, so clean and tidy; you’d never know from looking at it what a living thing it is.  Its heft is satisfying—I’ll admit that to hold its weight in my hands gives me a childish feeling of look what I did!—but the visuals are disappointing.  Look at it and you’ll see nothing more than a pile of paper; there’s no indication of the blood that circulates through the text, the gristle that holds these pages together.  This is why, when it comes time to surrender a new book to my publisher, I make it a rule to do it in person; I want to make sure no one forgets the humanity of this exchange.  No email, no overnighting, no couriers; I will carry my book into those offices, and I will deliver it to my editor, person to person, hand to hand.  I’ve been doing it since I finished my second novel, and I have no intention of stopping now.  It makes for a pleasant day.  I will have a fuss made over me; I will be taken to lunch.  And when I leave, I will keep my eyes turned forward so I won’t see the raised eyebrows and the looks exchanged, the casual toss that will land my manuscript in the exact place a mailroom clerk would have dropped it, had I saved myself all this trouble.  My idiosyncrasies are my right, and as long as everyone does me the courtesy of not mocking them to my face, we’ll all get along fine.

Not that any of these people has ever been anything less than lovely to me.  I suppose I’m a little more attuned to these kinds of thoughts today, because I know that there have been a few…questions about the book I’m turning in.  This book is different from anything I’ve done in the past; in fact, I’m going to puff myself up a little bit and say that it’s different from anything anyone has done in the past, though there isn’t a writer alive who hasn’t thought about it.  The Nobodies Album isn’t a novel, though every word of it is fiction; do you see me talking around it now, building up the suspense?  Can you hear the excitement creeping into my voice?  Because what I’ve done here is nothing short of revolutionary, and I want to make sure the impact is clear.  What I’ve done in this book is to revisit each of the ten novels I’ve published in the last thirty years, and to rewrite the ending of each one.  The Nobodies Album is a collection of every last chapter I have ever written, each one tweaked and reshaped into something completely new.  Can you imagine what happens when you rewrite the ending of a book?  It changes everything.  Meaning shifts; certainties are called into question.  Write ten new last chapters and all at once, you have ten different books.

It’s possible, though, that not everyone sees the beauty of this idea as clearly as I do.  When I first mentioned my plans to my agent and my editor, they were not entirely enthusiastic.  “People love your books the way they are,” they both told me in their own separate, ass-kissing ways.  “Readers might get angry at you for messing with these novels they care about so deeply.”  Oh, they were so concerned, so solicitous of me and my legions of fans…it was almost enough to make me reconsider.

But of course it’s all bullshit.  It’s true that people come to feel proprietary about certain books, and once the author has done his part, they want him to back away politely; otherwise, he’s an embarrassing reminder that these stories didn’t spring to life full-formed.  I suppose that if Shakespeare were to reappear and say, “I was wrong about Romeo and Juliet; they didn’t die tragically, they lived long enough to get married and lose their teeth and make each other miserable,” there might be hell to pay.  But I’m not Shakespeare, and nobody involved with publishing this book is afraid readers are going to care too much.  They’re afraid they’re not going to care at all.
 

I’ve planned to arrive early—I don’t love New York, but I respect it, restless beast that it is, and it seems rude to me to pass through it too quickly.  So from the airport, I take a cab to the 42nd Street library; I like to poke around their collection of early 20th century photographs and stereographic cards.  A crucial scene in my seventh novel, in fact, was inspired by a 1902 postcard I came across here several years ago, though I can’t get too nostalgic about it, since the new version in The Nobodies Album wipes that scene clear away. 

My favorite picture today is from the same era.  Entitled “Morning Ride, Atlantic City, NJ,” it depicts several couples (and one standard poodle) being pushed down the boardwalk in a fleet of odd three-wheeled wicker carriages.  The women are all wearing extravagant hats; the dog, wind in its fur, looks happier than anyone.  I doubt I’ll ever use it for anything.  I don’t expect to do any period writing in the near future, and the idea of the sheer research that would be necessary to write a single paragraph about this image—are they riding in surreys? landaus? rickshaws?—exhausts me.  But I spend an hour making disjointed notes anyway, because you never know where ideas are going to come from, and as my eighth grade Latin teacher used to say, “muscles train the mind.”

I’m a little uncertain, actually, about what role writing will play in my life from this point forward.  Working on this last book has allowed me to see certain uncomfortable truths about the whole process.  I’ve always known that the best part of writing occurs before you’ve picked up a pen.  When a story exists only in your mind, its potential is infinite; it’s only when you start pinning words to paper that it becomes less than perfect.  You have to make your choices, set your limits.  Start whittling away at the cosmos, and don’t stop until you’ve narrowed it down to a single, ordinary speck of dirt.  And in the end, what you’ve made is not nearly as glorious as what you’ve thrown away.

The final product never made me happy for very long.  A year out, and I was already seeing the flaws, feeling the loss of those closed-off possibilities.  But I always figured that once a book was published, my part in it was done.  Finished; time to move on.  But The Nobodies Album shines a light behind that scrim.  It turns out, there’s no statute of limitations on changing your mind.  You don’t ever have to be done.  And if you’re never done, then what’s the point in beginning?  I drop my notes in the trash on the way out of the building.

It was my son Milo who came up with the phrase “The Nobodies Album.”  He’d just turned four.  He’d developed an interest in music and often engaged in games to stretch our extensive but finite record collection into something that could match the breadth of his imagination.  The Nobodies Album was, simply enough, an album containing songs that do not exist.  Have you ever heard the Beatles’ version of “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad”? he’d ask me, walking around our living room in a wide circle.  No, I’d say—I didn’t realize they ever sang that.  Well, they did.  His face would be serious, but his voice would swell wide with the excitement of creating something new.  It’s on the Nobodies Album.  Oh, of course, I’d say, I love that album, and I could see my words travel through his body, so happy I was playing along he’d almost vibrate, until it seemed like he might just crack open with joy.

Milo is now twenty-seven and the lead singer of a band whose songs most certainly exist, even if they’re not always entirely to my taste.  We haven’t spoken in almost three years.  My use of this childhood phrase of his is one part appropriation—the writer’s narcissistic view that everything I come across is mine, mine, mine—and one part transparent stab at reconciliation.  If I were being honest, I would have added a subtitle: See, honey? See what Mommy remembers?

I walk down the steps, past the lions, to Fifth Avenue.  It’s a dim day, early in November, and the sky is entirely without color.  The air tastes cold and burnt.  The sidewalks are crowded, and I join the moving swell. 

Milo’s band is called Pareidolia, and they’ve had a fair bit of success, though whether they’re here to stay or are simply the taste of the moment remains to be seen.  I can never be certain when I open a magazine that I won’t come across his face somewhere inside.  Not that it’s unwelcome when it happens—of course, it’s most of the reason I buy those kinds of magazines—but it’s jarring, and it leaves me feeling hollow and unsettled for the rest of the day.  Still, it’s allowed me to keep up with him, after a fashion.  I know that he’s bought a house in San Francisco, and that he’s been dating a pointy-faced little mouse named Bettina something.  I’ve seen them dancing together at a club he owns a piece of; I’ve seen them walking on the beach, throwing sticks for dogs whose names I may never know.   

I turn right onto Forty-Second Street.  It’s almost time for my meeting, and I should get a cab soon, but I’m feeling suddenly apprehensive, and I’d like a few more minutes on my own before stepping into my public skin.  A few minutes in the visual chaos of Times Square, where I am nobody to no one, and this brick of a book I’m carrying holds no more significance than a pile of handbills.  Perhaps less, because who can really say what’s worth more in the cool of the day: a parcel of story fragments, or the promise of remarkable prices on electronic goods?

It’s extraordinary, this assault of color and light, this riot of information, though the people moving through it seem barely to notice.  I try to absorb it all—the neon, the colossal ads, the day’s news moving past on the side of a building.  I dabble in a bit of time travel: if I were a woman from the 18th century (or the 17th or the 5th), and I found myself suddenly in the middle of this tumultuous place, how would I respond to a landscape so terrible and bright?  For a moment, I’m able to fill myself with wonder and fear, but I can’t maintain it for long.  My 21st century eyes are jaded, and in the end, this is nothing I haven’t seen before.

Several of my novels have had their origins in game playing of this sort.  My last book before this one, a spectacular failure entitled My Only Sunshine, came into being when I had occasion to hold a cousin’s new baby and I began to wonder what might be going on inside his soft, slightly conical little head.  The most basic of human mysteries—how do we think when we have no language, when we know nothing more than how to swallow, how to suck?—and yet every person on the earth has the answer stashed away in some jellied gray furrow of brain.  Not such an original thought (quite a banal one, really), but on that day it seemed as if I had discovered something new.  What if, I thought, which is the way books are always born.  What if I wrote a novel from the point of view of a newborn baby?  Start in the womb and carry it through the first six months or so.  Finish before she can sit without toppling, before she can lift a cup or blow a kiss.  What will she make of the family she’s been born into?  What will the reader understand that the protagonist herself cannot?  

Not much, according to critics and consumers alike.  Except for one reviewer, who said a few nice things about the way my books succeed at capturing “the texture of life,” the response was fairly tepid.  I’m sure that people will see a link between the failure of that book and my decision to write The Nobodies Album, and it’s true that My Only Sunshine was the first book I thought about revising post-publication.  But I’m not that easy to sway.  If writers ran to change their books every time they got a few bad reviews, then libraries would be very confusing places.

I check my watch; it really is time to get going.  I hail a cab and get inside, tell the driver the intersection I’d like to go to.  As he’s pulling away, I happen to turn and look out the window, and the news crawl catches my eye.  The tail end of a headline pulls at me, but I can’t be sure I’ve read it right, and then it’s gone around the side of the building.
“Wait,” I say.  My voice is strange.  “I need to get out.”

The driver makes a noise of disgust and pulls over to the curb.  Even though he’s only driven me thirty feet, I take a couple of dollars from my bag and drop them through the slot in the plexiglass partition.  I notice with some surprise that my hands are shaking. 

I get out and stand on the sidewalk, watching the news stories slide by.  People push around me; I’m touched on every side.  There’s a headline about the salaries of professional basketball players and one about wildfires in the Pacific Northwest.  And then the one I’ve been waiting for comes around again, and the world changes in a series of cheery yellow lights: “Pareidolia singer Milo Frost arrested for the murder of girlfriend Bettina Moffett.”

In the moments that follow, as I stand mute in the middle of the humming crowd, the thing I’m most aware of is my own response to this news.  I don’t scream or faint or fall to my knees; I don’t burst into tears, or lean on a wall for support, or worry that I’m going to be sick.  I feel utterly, pervasively blank.  I’m consumed with trying to understand what I’m supposed to do.  If I were writing this in a book, I wonder, how would my character react?  But this isn’t fiction; apparently, if my senses are to be believed, this is life.

For a blink of a moment, I think about getting another cab and continuing on my way to my meeting.  But of course, I don’t.  I find my phone in my purse and call my editor; I tell her that something’s come up and I won’t be able to make it to lunch.  I don’t say what’s wrong, and I can’t tell if she already knows or not.  As for the manuscript—which I suddenly resent for the weight it’s exerting on my body, the way the straps of my bag bite into my shoulder—I tell her I’ll drop it in the mail.

And then I’m free and lost.  I force myself to begin walking again, though I have no idea where I’m going.  Sometime soon, I’m going to feel this blow, and I’d rather not be standing on this radiant bruise of a street corner when that happens.  I count out the things I’m going to need: solitude, a telephone, access to a computer where I can read the rest of this story.  Someplace soft to lay my body when the spasms finally hit.

I see a hotel down the block, and it gives me something to work toward.  Don’t crack apart here in the city’s guts; it’s not going to be much longer.  Keep it together for the length of time it takes to talk to a desk clerk, ride an elevator, walk an anonymous hall.  Swipe the card and feel the door click open.  That’s all you have to do.

This is happening; this is not fiction.  And the thing about life?  It doesn’t have texture at all.  Go ahead, feel the space around you.  Do it now.  See?  It’s nothing but air.
 
 
 
 
 

Continues...

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Excerpted from The Nobodies Album by Carolyn Parkhurst Copyright © 2010 by Carolyn Parkhurst. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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