tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278360262024-03-12T23:05:50.749-04:00Sweet Divapriscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comBlogger418125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-29159735440988617742009-02-28T19:54:00.003-05:002009-02-28T20:00:43.236-05:00Moving to New Location!Hi Everyone! All book-related content and posts have been moved to my new blog, <a href="http://eveningreader.wordpress.com">The Evening Reader</a>. If you have linked to this blog or saved it in a feed, please update the location to the following:<br /><br /><a href="http://eveningreader.wordpress.com">eveningreader.wordpress.com</a><br /><br />I'll be posting regularly there starting Sunday, March 1.<br /><br />Sweet Diva will remain online as a perfume blog. All other links and info will be moved to the new blog over the following week. <br /><br />Thanks for reading!priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-68209763799897479352009-02-27T16:10:00.002-05:002009-02-27T16:28:47.508-05:00Reader’s Journal: Isabella Moon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLAS20VAHokRvgZnIG-lyIAczHF_ejW4JaTqhtiRN6e6U2CnOnTcq6gHqZPkieJiNozkciVfpU9-FDTWLsKEgO9Zwjfmm79lUtyuBn-eP0r0H982nivbXts1UDqe3vqpDn20jL-w/s1600-h/IsabellaMoon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLAS20VAHokRvgZnIG-lyIAczHF_ejW4JaTqhtiRN6e6U2CnOnTcq6gHqZPkieJiNozkciVfpU9-FDTWLsKEgO9Zwjfmm79lUtyuBn-eP0r0H982nivbXts1UDqe3vqpDn20jL-w/s200/IsabellaMoon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307587813527643714" border="0" /></a>Being somewhat new to the thriller genre, I want to say first that I realize I might not be this author’s ideal reader. Authors, of course, don’t really get to choose who their readers are, unless they publish and distribute their books themselves. Even though I was hopeful--I really wanted to like this book--I find myself disappointed. I found <a href="http://www.powells.com/partner/33780/s?kw=Isabella%20Moon"><span style="font-style: italic;">Isabella Moon</span></a> through Laura Benedict’s blog, and she seems so nice, like someone you’d want to have in your circle of friends. All the time I was reading this and thinking about composing my thoughts, I wondered: if one of my friends wrote a book (actually, some of my friends are writing books) that I read and didn’t exactly like, would I tell him or her the truth? Well, yes.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Isabella Moon</span> tells the story of a woman visited by the apparition of a young girl who has been missing for two years. Isabella Moon appears in Kate Russell’s dreams to tell her where she’s buried, information Kate takes to the town’s sheriff, an incident which kicks off a series of murders that reveal secrets hidden beneath the town’s quaint, friendly veneer. We meet a lot of characters and witness a lot of twists and turns.<br /><br />I suppose that’s my main problem with the book: it never focused on any one thing long enough for me to feel invested. It seems at the beginning like this will be Kate’s story, that she has some connection with the girl, either real or psychic. Most of the first half of the book does focus on her, unfortunately in flashback. I say unfortunately because these flashbacks, which tell the backstory of Kate’s relationship with her abusive husband Miles, detract from the present story. They’re too long, and instead of making us understand her better, they serve to make her seem like a stock character, and sort of an aimless, empty-headed one at that. We never get a real sense of what keeps her with Miles--the money? Her desire for stability? She doesn’t come across as insecure so much as apathetic, which makes her come across as flat. Of course, the abuse is terrible, but beyond not wanting to see her suffer, she’s hard to care about.<br /><br />Another thing that bothers me about the flashbacks--they’re in italics. To authors and editors everywhere: please learn to write (or edit) solid transitions between the past and present, and assume your readers are intelligent enough to follow along with you. Plenty of writers have done this quite successfully. Also, if you must use italics to show us when you’re going into the past or into the head of one character, don’t suddenly start using the same technique for other characters. About two-thirds of the way through the book, Benedict gives Miles a flashback chapter, and then she goes on and gives other characters flashback chapters. I was left wondering, why the transition from Kate?<br /><br />And speaking of that, the whole book transitions from Kate, but it’s unclear why, except for the fact that Benedict has placed all these other characters in the story, and she has to somehow wrap up everything that’s happening with them. Even though it does come back to Kate in the final chapter, we never get a sense of why Isabella Moon chose her to communicate with in the first place. In fact, Isabella Moon seems to be nothing more than a plot device (and a title). She appears only to a few characters, but why? And another character who dies also appears several times, but that’s never explored either. I’m not sure if Benedict had ideas about making this a paranormal thriller and then she got caught up elsewhere, or what.<br /><br />The book also focuses on the relationship between Kate’s best friend Francie and her secret lover, Paxton Birkenshaw. Francie is black, from a decent family, and Paxton is white, from one of the town’s best families. Francie and Paxton themselves are dull characters (usual small Southern town racial tension, and they both like coke--not the drink), but their mothers are both interesting characters, and I wanted more of them and less of their children. Delving more into the town’s past--and less into Kate’s--would have made for a more interesting book. And one nitpicky thing: at one point, Kate, who’s from South Carolina, seems puzzled that the little Kentucky hamlet in which she lives has an area still called “Darktown” by some of the town elders. Nobody who lives or grew up in the South would bat an eye at that or need to have it explained. The vestiges of racism still exist all over the South. (I live in Georgia, by the way.) To say she looked offended, yes--but puzzled? Hardly.<br /><br />I’m finding it hard to write a focused review about such an unfocused book, especially without either giving something away or having to go into detail about the various plotlines, which would make this post way too long.<br /><br />The writing itself is okay. Looking for passages to quote, I tended to notice things that bothered my internal English teacher: lots of “wryly” and “idly,” lots of unnecessary intricate description, wordiness. The one sentence that bothered me more than any other in the book (seriously, I kept thinking about it): “His skin wore a healthy-looking tan and there were faint, whitish lines at this temples where his sunglasses had been.” Skin does not “wear” a tan. Skin is tanned. It’s a process that occurs that changes the skin--not something that one puts on and takes off. Grr. I know I sound like a picky bitch, but I hate when writing detracts from the story, when I feel like I want to get out a pencil and start marking things up. (I have a friend whose mother actually does this, by the way.) I know many people don't notice this sort of thing. I've been in a book club for five years, and not once have we discussed the language in a story. (I tried, and I gave up.)<br /><br />Honestly, I don’t mean to pick on Laura Benedict too much. After all, this is her first novel, and as I said in my post about <span style="font-style: italic;">Goldengrove</span>, writing is difficult, and I think writing a mystery is doubly so. The author must keep the reader guessing--and Benedict did this pretty successfully--and that’s not easy. This book had great potential, and I still would like to read her latest book, <span style="font-style: italic;">Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts</span> (although if she reads this, she may write and ask me not to, or at least to keep my mouth shut). I feel here like she must have had a book with so much going on, she and her editor ended up doing the best they could. Then again, as I said at the beginning, I’m not the target audience, not a person who usually reads thrillers, so the fault could be mine. I may be too blind to the conventions, or simply not understand what the audience wants.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*image from powells.com</span>priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-30955815911123488972009-02-25T09:37:00.003-05:002009-02-25T09:58:06.426-05:009 for '09 Challenge: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.powells.com/partner/33780/s?kw=Jonathan%20Strange%20%26%20Mr.%20Norrell"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVTGHZlVtRBMPhDVw1Q8lVy5gFlWHLkIwjFpitJxBbAlMj6NRJzqHM7qrMWY5ih_tJp4jlUEj2EGLhPO3TH3BJAa3tp7Gz2Lxc6LfBOiB9YpQ35fDhV7qVlB0E9K5yOezTyhoH_Q/s200/JonStrange.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306745568789175698" border="0" /></a>My first pick for the <a href="http://9for09.wordpress.com/">9 for ‘09</a> challenge was in the category Long, which had to be a book longer than the books one usually reads, and for that I chose <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.powells.com/partner/33780/s?kw=Jonathan%20Strange%20%26%20Mr.%20Norrell">Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell</a>, by Susanna Clarke. I remember very well reading the review of this in the <span style="font-style: italic;">New York Times</span> and thinking it sounded intriguing--although not for me. My mother-in-law was an avid reader of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Harry Potter</span> series, so when I saw the headline “Hogwarts for Grown-Ups,” I scribbled down the title and resolved to give this to her as a Christmas present, which I did. And I never heard a word about it until she handed it back to me two years later, in a shopping bag full of books she thought I might want to read. Well.<br /><br />Now, I myself have no basis for comparison, because--brace yourself--I’ve not read any of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Harry Potter</span> books. Yes. It’s true. About eleven people in the Western world have not read the <span style="font-style: italic;">Harry Potter</span> books, and I am one of them. I resisted them at first because they were too popular (Have I talked about that yet--about how I’ll avoid something just because it’s popular?), and now I resist them because my TBR list is already too long and the commitment seems too daunting. And because they’re still popular, and I am stubborn. I’ve seen the movies, but movies aren’t books, so I’m not going to spend any time comparing the two.<br /><br />Where was I? Oh, the book!<br /><br />Giving a summary of this tome seems next to impossible, but I’ll try:<br /><br />The first part of the book is dedicated to the introduction of Mr. Norrell. Some members of a Yorkshire society of theoretical magicians learn of a great library of rare magical books, all kept by Mr. Norrell. The theoretical magicians would like access to the library, but Mr. Norrell is reluctant. He makes a bet with them: if he can perform an act of practical magic--practical magic had disappeared from England hundreds of years before--then they will retire from their studies and cease to call themselves magicians. Mr. Norrell is successful, and all of the magicians save one are forced to retire. Upon Mr. Norrell's success, he determines he should go to London, and we learn that Mr. Norrell hopes to use magic to curry favor with the government, and also to help them end the war against France.<br /><br />Upon arriving in London, although Mr. Norrell is welcomed by society (although they find him rather dull and are disappointed that he refuses to perform any tricks), he finds that the government wants no part of what he has to offer--until, that is, he is able to resurrect the fiancee of a powerful man, Sir Walter Pole. The problem: upon resurrecting the future Lady Pole, he calls forth an evil faerie, the man with the thistle down hair, and is forced to make a bargain with him for Lady Pole’s life. Mr. Norrell offers the faerie half of the next seventy-five years of Lady Pole’s life (assuming that Sir Pole will have passed by then, as he’s quite a bit older than Lady Pole). The faerie agrees, but what Mr. Norrell does not know is that the faerie places her under an enchantment to take her nights (as his half), leaving her like the walking dead during the day.<br /><br />In the meantime, Mr. Norrell has great success helping the British defeat the French, and all of England celebrates him as a hero. Mr. Norrell, however, finds himself with a real conundrum on his hands, because with every successful magic act he performs, the more curious people become about magic itself, including the practice of magic. Nothing frightens Mr. Norrell more than the idea of other people besides himself--with one exception--practicing magic, because he believes people are incapable of controlling the outcome.<br /><br />The exception, of course, is Jonathan Strange, who, on his way to propose marriage to his beloved, is stopped along his journey by a man named Vinculus (a shadowy street magician cast out of London by Mr. Norrell) who prophesies that Strange will be one of two great magicians in England:<br /><blockquote>“Two magicians shall appear in England,” he said.<br />“The first shall fear me; the second shall long to behold me;<br />The first shall be governed by thieves and murderers; the second shall conspire at his own destruction;<br />The first shall bury his heart in a dark wood beneath the snow, yet still feel its ache;<br />The second shall see his dearest possession in his enemy’s hand…”</blockquote>Vinculus also gives Strange two spells, and that very evening Strange performs one of them, “One Spell to Discover what My Enemy is doing Presently,” which conjures for him an image of Mr. Norrell:<br /><blockquote>Well, Henry, you can cease frowning at me. If I am a magician, I am a very indifferent one. Other adepts summon up fairy-spirits and long-dead kings. I appear to have conjured the spirit of a banker.</blockquote>The second part of the book deals with Strange and his wife, Arabella, moving to London so that Strange can study with Mr. Norrell. Strange’s comment about having conjured a banker sets up the difference between these two, because Strange is more charismatic, more curious and eager to perform spells than simply to study them, as Mr. Norrell does. But this section also sets up the relationship, because Mr. Norrell is eager to have someone with whom he can discuss and share magic. Even without all the fundamental texts--Mr. Norrell keeps the choicest selections of his library at his Yorkshire estate, and never lets Strange see it voluntarily--Strange proves to be a better, more adventurous magician, as we learn as he travels with the British army as they work to defeat Napoleon. He becomes more and more independent of Mr. Norrell, and eventually, he decides to part, for they disagree over one fundamental aspect of English magic and its practice, and that is the summoning of the last King of the North (the "human" King of England ruled the South, or the area around London), a Faerie king named John Uskglass, who was said to have control of all the realms of the world, of Faerie, and even of Hell. Strange believes that they can uncover the spells and the origins of magic by this summons, and Mr. Norrell believes it to be too dangerous, which is the crux of the entire book.<br /><br />The third part of the book is called “John Uskglass,” and it deals primarily with Strange working to call forth John Uskglass as a means to release Arabella from the same faerie enchantment that grips Lady Pole. I’m oversimplifying this part because it contains all the answers, and only as events unfold does it become clear who is performing what magic and why. Of course I cannot give away the ending, but nothing is revealed until the very last few pages, and Clarke does a terrific job of keeping up the pace, of keeping the reader guessing. Many other characters play a part--a large part, even, but they are too numerous to list here, their stories too involved to tell. Clarke also provides generous footnotes to educate us about the “history” of English magic, and these are both necessary and as interesting as the story they support.<br /><br />This is a terrifically enjoyable book, and I had a great time reading it. The language is wonderful, and the detail is stunning. Some reviewers seemed to think all the detail detracted from the action (Janet Maslin described it as “[both] action packed and unhurried”), and here I have to disagree. I think the “get to the action already” attitude is a modern one. While I assume that Ms. Maslin would make allowances for “old” books, her annoyance stems mainly from the fact that this is a modern author, but she’s not doing a modern author’s “thing.” In other words, she hasn’t written something literary that could be easily adapted into a screenplay, without having to cut too much of the story. I think it would be next to impossible to make this into a film (although apparently they are trying, and perhaps I‘ll stand corrected), but I also think it would be completely unnecessary to do so: something about the way Clarke tells the story makes it completely visible to the mind’s eye. Her descriptions of places and people are so straightforward that they both reveal the scene and allow the mind to dress it up a bit, as it likes.<br /><br />Also (and here’s where I geek out completely), I loved the tension between Norrell and Strange, because it reminded me of Plato and Aristotle. Plato believed that writing should not be taught, that people could only do more harm than good for themselves by practicing it, that it could lead them morally astray. Aristotle believed writing was a tool, that poetics (drama) and rhetoric were necessary for man to understand and live life. I’ve no idea if Clarke intended this parallel, but it stuck with me throughout the book.<br /><br />Finally, even though the book deals with magic and some sections are rather dark, only one part really scared the pants off me. It was the very last sentence on the next to the last page: “This is her first novel.” Terrifying. I can’t wait to see what she does with the next one!<br /><br />Read an interview with Susanna Clarke <a href="http://www.jonathanstrange.com/copy.asp?s=3">here</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*book image from <a href="http://www.powells.com/partner/33780/s?kw=Jonathan%20Strange%20%26%20Mr.%20Norrell">powells.com</a></span>priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-42613497163535380672009-02-24T11:22:00.009-05:002009-02-24T13:43:50.233-05:00Ten Random Tunes 02.24.09<span style="font-style: italic;">Still working out player issues. If anyone has suggestions, please leave a comment or contact me at the email address listed in the sidebar.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Purple Haze,” Jimi Hendrix</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Experience Hendrix - The Best of Jimi Hendrix</span>. This is a track I actually own already (on <span style="font-style: italic;">Are You Experienced?</span>), but I bought it as part of a playlist created by Patti Smith. Other people’s playlists are fascinating to me because I like, well, to hear through other people’s ears, to hear how they connect the songs, and what the elements are. It gives me an aural “vision” of the person’s world and outlook.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0002PD3HU?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzcMo_yqoC8a0jcxCao_1sQVtrVY0IP3xlYJgc0O-fVOn1ldXOeptzAjerQPyzr0bVr3t4-YUOC88xmKOXLPpGB_tIDxmLj359VPkBfVT2gVW3aZ5ZG0ESlQNOeGmbrUYn7oSEA/s200/antics.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306403309749054450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Not Even Jail,” Interpol</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Antics</span>. My favorite song on this album. I love this album. I don’t care about any of the criticism I’ve heard about how they’re trying to be Joy Division or blah blah. I like Joy Division, too, but I can only take so much, whereas I can listen to this over and over again.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Farewell to Earnest” (From Merchant Ivory’s Film “The Householder"), Jyotirindra Moitra & Ustad Ali Akbar Khan</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Darjeeling Limited Soundtrack</span>. Has anyone ever seen <span style="font-style: italic;">The Householder</span>? They have it at Netflix. It was released in 1963, apparently. I feel dumb, because to me, Merchant Ivory films entered my consciousness with <span style="font-style: italic;">Passage to India</span>. I had no idea.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B000VAT032?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsE_UNBouKZA8dGsroowXZiIsycTEE0a77WSjdUYLAeLd0exNWe8a9_P4A7mSYHbDrQ-t5cJN_YAXw3UEbcPvNheVAEhhSYLH7DtM12YVmihzePcBU8eES2AxI7OALCkOlBY2EEA/s200/DarjeelingLtd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306404201415705954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Where Do You Go to (My Lovely),” Peter Sarsdedt</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Darjeeling Limited Soundtrack</span>. This is one of my very favorite movies, and one of the ways I knew was this song, which plays during "The Hotel Chevalier," the “prequel” to <span style="font-style: italic;">The Darjeeling Limited</span>. I love the literary feel of this movie, the three brothers, and all the colors of India.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Vampira,” Misfits</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Walk among Us</span>. “Come a little bit closer…” This album gives me so much energy, I like to listen to it when I run on the treadmill. I hate running, but this makes it go by faster.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Walk You Home,” Super Furry Animals</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Love Kraft</span>. I have no idea where I got this song. Probably off another playlist years ago. It’s kinda lounge-y, kind of modern 70s fern bar music, at brunch with a bloody mary, after Saturday night at the disco. Where’s my eggs benedict?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Close to Me,” The Cure</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Standing on A Beach: The Singles</span>. Speaking of soundtracks and such, I’ve always thought this song would be perfect for a movie ending. Maybe not as perfect as the next song, but I’d have to see the movie first.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0001I1K32?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWP9D6C9A1cKcUevMAGiruB-mgskBh0ecPTHQ5EuDaTsLIKQ4RkzWYcVe7v20lZ9wiwiTHoQ-aHpzarns39OjTrYn2nzbSRRqkm8XtB5pWCc7DaFAe-aOnOrJ4Y5o0220YZKzVbQ/s200/LostInTrans.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306404743430800578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Just Like Honey,” Jesus & Mary Chain</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Lost in Translation Soundtrack</span>. Tokyo is in my top three places I want to see. Sofia Coppola must have done wonders for tourism, because the movie is so beautiful. I actually just like to look at the city’s night sky on the DVD menu. This song sets the perfect tone, the melancholy feeling of leaving some extraordinary place to go back to ordinary life.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Freaky Styley,” The Red Hot Chili Peppers</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Freaky Styley</span>. This reminds me of college, of crushes on guys on skateboards, of going to see this band at Club Clearview (In Dallas. In March, 1989. Wow.) and having the crowd dancing and moving so much, the stage was bouncing. I also remember thinking back then that I got more information about what was inside men’s heads from listening to this band than from any article in a woman’s magazine. After all, the refrain is “I f#%k ‘em just to see the look on their face…”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B000001ANZ?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 159px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvFf_gbu9SfDz16xOzYm3Gwq87-bZcTtRqZFIRfVLevM6Ks1ksTapzp7e9jqqnVYjGO99xgdhuC7SntjwgQEibPpZ_UmPv1SFMI0hPRPki3weeOqB5RGZrnKPqq5hLs-MNAgt5dA/s200/Supremes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306405185955503266" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Where Did Our Love Go,” The Supremes</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Ultimate Collection: Diana Ross & The Supremes</span>. Oh, Miss Ross. Could this be a more perfect juxtaposition to the last song? Baby, where did our love go? Well. Oh, folks, I’m not that cynical. I have the greatest husband in the world. But you could do a mash-up of these two songs and have a <span style="font-style: italic;">Sex And The City</span> episode…of course, it might be Samantha singing “Freaky Styley,” and not one of the guys. Ha!<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*images from amazon.com</span>priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-1028421998820246962009-02-23T10:52:00.002-05:002009-02-23T11:07:00.421-05:00Catching UpToday I am working on my post about <a href="http://www.powells.com/partner/33780/s?kw=Jonathan%20Strange%20%26%20Mr.%20Norrell">Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell</a>, which I completed for the <a href="http://9for09.wordpress.com/">9 for '09</a> challenge. I'll probably also spend some time looking at a terrific new (to me) blog about books and music that I found this morning: <a href="http://blog.largeheartedboy.com/">Largehearted Boy</a>. It has a feature called <a href="http://www.largeheartedboy.com/blog/archive/book_notes/">Book Notes</a>, where authors discuss music they associate with their books, as well as a section called <a href="http://www.largeheartedboy.com/blog/archive/note_books/">Note Books</a>, where musicians discuss books. How cool is that? A large chunk of my day just disappeared, I can already tell.<br /><br />I'm also dedicating some time this week to read about and research the wonderful world of freelancing. I've got a couple of books, <a href="http://www.powells.com/partner/33780/s?kw=four%20hour%20work%20week">The Four Hour Work Week</a> and <a href="http://www.powells.com/partner/33780/s?kw=my%20so-called%20freelance%20life">My So-Called Freelance Life</a>, that I hope to talk about next week.<br /><br />In reading, I've moved onto <a href="http://www.powells.com/partner/33780/s?kw=Isabella%20Moon">Isabella Moon</a>, and after that I'll be picking up <a href="http://www.powells.com/partner/33780/s?kw=Falling%20Leaves">Falling Leaves</a> for the <a href="http://worldcitizenchallenge.wordpress.com/">World Citizen</a> challenge.<br /><br />Happy Monday!priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-57603051135116353672009-02-22T12:00:00.007-05:002009-02-22T12:42:05.610-05:00Sunday Salon: Favorite Books, vol. 1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJYozrh1XdtK_65OCMIeD5mCdw9ANozLgQuNNTjmsfGwG_98TatEeG5bFgVbYtu6SEKZ3UIqBp3GCtrb58uclgf8Fiwuq8KAAIL5c3KAkB1riN7TsB1YvPf8t4TVuGFIgsdWj3g/s1600-h/SunSalon.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 66px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJYozrh1XdtK_65OCMIeD5mCdw9ANozLgQuNNTjmsfGwG_98TatEeG5bFgVbYtu6SEKZ3UIqBp3GCtrb58uclgf8Fiwuq8KAAIL5c3KAkB1riN7TsB1YvPf8t4TVuGFIgsdWj3g/s200/SunSalon.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305668744167197074" border="0" /></a>When I dislike a book, even if I have plenty of reason to do so, I still feel bad about it. Last night I kept thinking about <span style="font-style: italic;">Goldengrove</span> and whether I had been too harsh, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was having the same feeling I get when I watch a film with a favorite actor or actress and I realize that person is just phoning it in. Had <span style="font-style: italic;">Goldengrove </span>been a first novel, I probably would have kept reading. Mind you, I would have continued to curse the editor, the agent, and everyone with whom the writer had shared the manuscript, but I would have understood the precariousness of the situation. With a seasoned writer like Francine Prose, I would think someone would tell her the book wasn’t up to snuff.<br /><br />I’m not here to dwell on that, though. Instead I want to talk about my favorite books--or one of them, at least. Favorite books aren’t necessarily the best books, the classics, the books that make “must read” lists, or even best sellers. They’re books that speak to our own experience, that seem to be a response, maybe, to the voices in our own heads. They are like glasses we don that make our view of the world clearer, sharper. They tell us their secrets, and they hold ours.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1400031702?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 104px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9UgozJ79XlJ3tqzaKuOyBNY2q0ssTi5Ks_98CVjcfzjaOYv07GSxegS1z94j70UGIWtbvmLfPuJ7oPO8wDDEMQdZucyXs3zQYZ48WOLBm0ErvRYDAx30l_iCwhizonKleKnEwuQ/s200/SecretHistory.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305669445949390722" border="0" /></a>One of my favorite books happens to be a first novel: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1400031702?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Secret History</span></a>, by Donna Tartt. I remember, very distinctly, reading an interview with Tartt in <span style="font-style: italic;">Vanity Fair</span>, just before the book was released. I was in my first semester of graduate school, and the notions I held regarding higher learning and teaching were as romantic as the notions Richard Papen, the book’s main character, has about Hampden College:<br /><blockquote>Hampden College, Hampden, Vermont. Even the name had an austere Anglican cadence, to my ear at least, which yearned hopelessly for England and was dead to the sweet dark rhythms of little mission towns. For a long time I looked at a picture of the building they called Commons. It was suffused with weak, academic light--different from Plano, different from anything I had ever known--a light that made me think of long hours in dusty libraries, and old books, and silence.</blockquote>Never mind that I went to a state university only thirty miles from home, that its library was an ugly brick rectangle situated in the middle of campus. I shared offices with the other teaching fellows in the musty basement of one of the oldest buildings on campus, from a time when the school had been a state teachers college. It housed an auditorium with a large pipe organ, and when music students would come in to practice, I would feel as though I were in New England instead of Texas.<br /><br />In <span style="font-style: italic;">The Secret History</span>, Richard Papen looks back to tell the story of his time at Hampden, where he is drawn to an elite, exclusive group of students who study Greek. As they slowly warm to him and accept him into their ranks, he discovers they have a secret. This is a mystery of sorts, less about the murder that takes place on the first page than about love and longing, and wanting to belong. The first part of the book deals with Richard’s journey to Hampden, his involvement with the Greek students, and the acts that lead them to the murder. The second part of the book deals with the eventual unraveling of this tight-knit circle, as they struggle to conceal what they‘ve done.<br /><br />Even as the horror of what they’ve done dawns on Richard, he remains so enthralled that even as he looks back to tell the story, his view of his friends remains gilded:<br /><blockquote>[I] have trouble reconciling my life to those of my friends, or at least to their lives as I perceive them to be. Charles and Camilla are orphans (how I longed for this harsh fate!) reared by grandmothers and great aunts in a house in Virginia: a childhood I like to think about, with horses and rivers and sweet-gum trees. And Francis. His mother, when she had him, was only seventeen…and, as Francis is fond of saying, the grandparents brought them up like brother and sister, him and his mother, brought them up in such magnanimous style that even the gossips were impressed--English nannies and private schools, summers in Switzerland, winters in France. Consider even bluff old bunny, if you would. Not a child of reefer coats and dancing lessons, any more than mine was. But an American childhood…an upbringing vitally present in bunny in every respect, from the way he shook your hand to the way he told a joke.<br /><br />I do not now nor did I ever have anything in common with any of them, nothing except the knowledge of Greek and the year of my life I spent in their company.</blockquote>Plot-wise, if Tartt were not so strictly in control of Richard’s character--his longing, his ambivalence--the events would seem implausible, but the characters are so well-drawn, and Richard’s vision is so clear that what happens seems not only possible but necessary. Almost everyone longs for exclusivity of some sort, to belong at the core of something, to be a part of a group that makes them more than the tiny individual soul suffering alone. This is the reason churches and political parties exist, why nationalism and patriotism are popular, why high school students become athletes and cheerleaders, why we spend our lives searching so hard for others with whom we identify.<br /><br />The book definitely has its flaws, the main one being that the second part seems to slow to a crawl about halfway through, as the characters begin to break down, and there’s a jarring character development and event at the end that seems to package things up in a way that seems to go against the book’s sensibility. Still, as a whole, it works. Like Richard, I spent so much time as a child and a teenager wishing for a life far different from the one I had, and books always carried me away, let me be somewhere else for a while. Like Richard, I only wanted to be somewhere beautiful and to belong. I’m not sure anymore if I love this book because it reminds me of who I was at a particular time, of if I love it for itself. I suppose it doesn’t matter.<br /><br />You can read the <span style="font-style: italic;">Vanity Fair</span> interview (from September 1992) with Donna Tartt <a href="http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/8543/dvf.htm">here</a>.<br /><br />More passages:<br /><blockquote>I honestly can't remember much else about those years except a certain mood that penetrated most of them, a melancholy feeling I associate with watching "The Wonderful World of Disney" on Sunday nights. Sunday was a sad day--early to bed, school the next morning, I was constantly worried my homework was wrong--but as I watched the fireworks go off in the night sky, over the floodlit castles of Disneyland, I was consumed by a more general sense of dread, of imprisonment within the dreary round of school and home: circumstances which, to me at least, presented sound empirical argument for gloom.</blockquote><blockquote>It was a beautiful room, not an office at all, and much bigger than it looked from outside--airy and white, with a high ceiling and a breeze fluttering in the starched curtains. In the corner, near a low bookshelf, was a big round table littered with teapots and Greek books, and there were flowers everywhere, roses and carnations and anemones, on his desk, on the tables, on the windowsills. The roses were especially fragrant; their smell hung rich and heavy in the air, mingled with the smell of bergamot, and black China tea, and a faint inky scent of camphor...Everywhere I looked was something beautiful--Oriental rugs, porcelains, tiny paintings like jewels--a dazzle of fractured color that struck me as if I had stepped into one of those little Byzantine churches that are so plain on the outside; inside, the most paradisal painted eggshell of gilt and <span style="font-style: italic;">tesserae</span>.</blockquote><blockquote>I was charmed by his conversation, and despite its illusion of being rather modern and digressive (to me, the hallmark of the modern mind is that it loves to wander from the subject) I now see that he was leading me by circumlocution to the same points again and again. For if the modern mind is whimsical and discursive, the classical mind in narrow, unhesitating, relentless. It is not a qulaity of intelligence one encounters frequently these days. But though I can digress with the best of them, I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.</blockquote><blockquote>We had so many happy days in the country that fall that from this vantage they merge into a sweet and indistinct blur. Around Halloween the last, stubborn wildflowers died away and the wind became sharp and gusty, blowing showers of yellow leaves on the gray, wrinkled surface of the lake. On those chill afternoons when the sky was like lead and the clouds were racing, we stayed in the library, banking huge fires to keep warm. Bare willows clicked on the windowpanes like skeleton fingers.<br /></blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;">*image from amazon.com</span>priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-13588252310576346342009-02-21T17:58:00.004-05:002009-02-21T19:33:56.433-05:00Reader's Journal: Goldengrove<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHAJqdBzxJVkrXgY6lRY6NmFMWDU11130nas_1Jw00EqBRsve-LgfFp0lkjgwjfydQIXCoJK_xAuZxR9B-puo7DfkZG_Qei2RGw7xXskLV26-N2zuOVzI5S_FeHGi7Oe7YhOgpg/s1600-h/goldengrove.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 107px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHAJqdBzxJVkrXgY6lRY6NmFMWDU11130nas_1Jw00EqBRsve-LgfFp0lkjgwjfydQIXCoJK_xAuZxR9B-puo7DfkZG_Qei2RGw7xXskLV26-N2zuOVzI5S_FeHGi7Oe7YhOgpg/s200/goldengrove.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305389050984215858" border="0" /></a>I very rarely abandon a book. Sometimes I will set a book down because I am distracted or not in the mood for it, but usually I have every intention of picking it up again. Abandoning a book, for me, is a deliberate and aggressive act. I do it because I feel like the author is wasting my time.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Goldengrove </span>is the story of thirteen-year-old Nico, who loses her sister (she dies of a heart-attack in the first chapter) and then over the following summer becomes involved with her sister's boyfriend. Blah blah blah what it means to be a grown-up. Blah blah blah art and life. Blah blah blah things aren't what they seem...heartache shall ensue, as shall wisdom.<br /><br />I abandoned <span style="font-style: italic;">Goldengrove </span>at the end of the second chapter. I'm trying to keep in mind the rule set forth by Updike: "Try to understand what the author wished to do, and do not blame him for not achieving what he did not attempt." Question: can I blame him (or her) for not achieving what he (or she) <span style="font-style: italic;">did </span>attempt? Let's assume I can, because that will make things easier. The number one problem I have with this novel is the fact that Francine Prose has created a first-person narrator, a thirteen-year-old girl, and her voice is completely inauthentic. Apart from the fact that Prose has created the cliche "wiser-than-her-years" budding teenager, she's also given her a prop vocabulary. She's sure to throw in references to the Internet, to BlackBerries, to global warming, to yoga, to Goth. For real? It sounds like someone, you know, trying to be "hip to the kids." Just listen, as Nico stands outside the cemetary after her sister's burial:<br /><blockquote>Who'd drunk that Diet Coke? A mourner? A cemetary worker? Cheating couples? Goth nerds who haunted the graveyard for fun?</blockquote>Yes, yes, Diet Coke: choice drink of cheating couples and "Goth nerds" everywhere. Even a young teenager knows that cheating couples would probably have been more likely to abandon a wine bottle than a Diet Coke can.<br /><br />Goth nerds? I have a vision of Prose hiring a teenager to guide her through a mall and asking questions like, "And those kids, with the black clothes and black nail polish and the math textbooks and the tape on their glasses? What do you call them?" And on that note, how about a Red Bull can, or Mountain Dew? Oh, I know, I seem off the point here, because Nico's just wondering who it was who left the can (because she's trying to distract herself from <span style="font-style: italic;">the pain</span>), but it just sounds so stilted and silly, I can't get past it.<br /><br />After the funeral, Nico explains: "My parents worked it out so I could skip final exams and get the As I would have gotten anyway." Well. It's a good thing Nico doesn't seem one-dimensional, like one of those precocious stereotypes you see in movies. I'm sorry, but someone struggling to pass science or history is just more interesting. Making her a straight-A student just seems to be setting up one of those "summer I bloomed emotionally" stories, where the heart catches up with the head. I don't mind those stories, but only if the character has depth. I started thinking that maybe Prose--who apparently also writes YA--needed to read more Judy Blume, so she could get a sense of an authentic teen voice.<br /><br />Oh, and the sister. The dead sister, the torch-singing seventeen year old, the great beauty with the flawed heart (literally--she dies of a heart attack), beloved of Aaron, master painter of the senior class:<br /><blockquote>Margaret was the singer, Aaron the artist. They were the glamour couple, their radiance outshone the feeble gleam of the football captain and his slutty cheerleader girlfriend.</blockquote>Oh yes, teen painters are revered in high schools all across America. We care little for sports. Still, way to play to stereotypes, even by way of comparison. And mind you, Margaret is no Britney Spears. Oh no. She makes grown men cry by singing the classics, like "My Funny Valentine." And still, the kids love her too! Revere her! Not an eye rolling in the house. I find it <span style="font-style: italic;">kinda </span>implausible, in case you can't tell.<br /><br />Let me not forget to point out the terrific use of cliched metaphors: "One thing happened, then everything else, like a domino falling and setting off a collapse," or "I nodded like a bobble-head doll." Bobble-head doll! The kids love those!<br /><br />But the part that made me finally just close the book and give up entirely was this:<br /><blockquote>One thing I would never tell them was that Margaret's last words were 'Smoke this.' That was her special present for me, the hair shirt she'd left me to wear until time and age and forgetfulness laundered it into something softer.</blockquote>Yes. Done in by the image of the laundered hair shirt. Until Downey breaks it down, she carries the burden that she mentioned to her fabulous sister with the heart problem that she <span style="font-style: italic;">shouldn't smoke</span>. Don't get me wrong. Writing is difficult. But if Prose dragged this into an undergraduate writing workshop, she would probably be called out. One wonders why or how the bar lowers just because someone's a recognized name, a published writer. She should fire her editor.<br /><br />If you want to read a <span style="font-style: italic;">good </span>coming-of-age story about two sisters, I'd suggest <span style="font-style: italic;">The Invisible Circus</span>, by Jennifer Egan.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*image from amazon.com</span>priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-26008978737576158522009-02-20T18:10:00.003-05:002009-02-20T18:12:46.865-05:00Miller Harris Fleur Oriental<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv5d7uMJeimRtyh4ZY2Ci0bdjY9-u92Het7V4yTZcLnvraWaEmGKN_QZO9zkLV0P-ZFTsq28SRhesjOsy8E3jurCZd3JUI_AnLkbIy-CAKdlntJqbJ5VClGmR6AEjuF2y8slR-qw/s1600-h/MH_FleurOriental.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 175px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv5d7uMJeimRtyh4ZY2Ci0bdjY9-u92Het7V4yTZcLnvraWaEmGKN_QZO9zkLV0P-ZFTsq28SRhesjOsy8E3jurCZd3JUI_AnLkbIy-CAKdlntJqbJ5VClGmR6AEjuF2y8slR-qw/s200/MH_FleurOriental.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305021015965042882" border="0" /></a>Today, for the first time in well over a week, I put on makeup and fixed my hair. Not to say I’ve been a complete slob, in my unemployed state: I shower daily, I wash and brush all the necessary parts and pieces. And it just so happens I love makeup. Even though I don’t pile it on, I love even the slightest transformative power it has: a shimmer here, a gloss there, a bit of color to liven things up. If I don’t wear it, it’s either because I’m too lazy to take it off, or because I want to be invisible. Lately, I don’t wear makeup due to the latter, for I don’t feel unemployed so much as untethered. Every morning I wake up and think not, “What am I going to do?” but “What am I going to be?”<br /><br />I realize that’s a bit deep for a perfume post, and all that is just to say, today I felt like being seen. I’m not any closer to having an answer, but I can feel the little gears whirring away in the back of my brain, running through the possibilities, calculating and tallying all the options, and it gives me hope. So today, makeup. Makeup <span style="font-style: italic;">and </span>perfume.<br /><br />The notes in Miller Harris Fleur Oriental are carnation, Turkish rose, Indian jasmine, amber, vanilla, sweet musk, heliotrope, orange flower. This is a soft, powdery oriental, perfect for a cold February day. The carnation lends it a bit of spice, but I find that the heliotrope and vanilla tend to dominate. Upon applying this, I was reminded immediately of Guerlain’s Shalimar, although I think Fleur Oriental is a bit more timid, less sensuous without the Guerlainade underneath. It has a faint whiff of a lady’s handkerchief, the smell of something distant, like spring. Maybe timid is a bad word, because to me Fleur Oriental has the quality of one of my favorite Miller Harris perfumes, L’Air de Rien. I think maybe melancholy is a better word. Melancholy and lovely. Like these days.<br /><br />You can find Miller Harris perfumes at <a href="http://www.luckyscent.com/shop/category/112/section/1/page/1/brand/Miller_Harris.html">Luckyscent</a>.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />*image from luckyscent.com</span>priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-89335005018343927142009-02-19T16:55:00.006-05:002009-02-19T17:31:04.165-05:00Reader's Journal: Delicate Edible Birds<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1401340865?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 106px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5DF7I831aV67Tpjt-lXrqsYMK2UxDJUM1bBLox1XpLGwjARggIiNWUvACt_VCrpbLSzOlhq-O-GpV_AXqCGqYv6t4tJq9AHtE6hm_-KbcPxQXsusK4jytNkySyI8Ckgrk0JBhTw/s200/DelicateBirds.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304630895403685570" border="0" /></a>Several years ago, bookstore shelves suddenly seemed crammed full of story collections about twenty- and thirty-something mini-skirted women who were unable to love, unable to hold down a job, unable to commit, unable to lose weight, unable to find a boyfriend. After tearing through four or five of these collections--all interchangeable, really--I found myself unable to read anymore. The characters in these books were little more than overwrought, angst-ridden, boozy versions of the girls on <span style="font-style: italic;">Friends</span>, and at some point I wondered if book publishers were starting to suffer from the same disease as record labels, the disease where they find one band or album that’s a hit, and then try to recreate it, over and over again. This formula works well for creating popular books that sell, but probably does not work so well for supporting art.<br /><br />What a shame, then, for Lauren Groff, because <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1401340865?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3">Delicate Edible Birds</a> is <span style="font-style: italic;">art</span>. The nine stories in this collection all focus on women at different stages in their lives, at different points in history, even in different countries. These stories read like tiny novels, self-contained worlds, even as ideas bounce and echo between them, so that the collection as a whole reads as a sort of palimpsest, a complicated history of women’s experiences that transcends both the personal (or domestic) and the political and enters a sort of nether region: these stories read more like allegories or fairy tales--an element Groff relies upon heavily--than traditional short stories. Groff reminds me of another favorite writer of mine, Margaret Atwood. As in Atwood’s work, there always seem to be darker forces at play, bits of magic shaping fortune.<br /><br />If I did not have to return this book to the library, I would keep it and read it again, probably more than once, because I can find no way to come at it head on. This collection is like some complicated piece of furniture from the Eighteenth century: it looks like a table, but flip that lever and up pops a set of shelves, some drawers. Open the drawers or pull another lever and find more drawers, little slots, secret removable boxes. It’s both wondrous and infuriating, because I feel as though I’ve taken it all apart, but I have no way to put it back together again so I can show it to you.<br /><br />So I’ll talk a bit about the stories. Although I enjoyed almost every story in the book and would like to talk about all of them, I’ve picked a few: “Lucky Chow Fun,” “Majorette,” “Sir Fleeting,” and “Blythe.”<br /><br />In “Lucky Chow Fun,” a young woman, Lollie, looks back to tell the story of a sex scandal that gripped the small town where she grew up; “The year,” as she puts it, “we natives stopped looking one another in the eye.” Like a lot of teenagers, Lollie believes herself to be wise beyond her years: “I imagined myself a beautiful Cassandra, wandering vast and lonely halls, spilling prophecies that everyone laughed at, only to watch them to come tragically true in the end.” In truth, Lollie is always looking in the wrong direction, imagining danger when there is none, and missing the most obvious signs. For example, her younger sister, Pot, owns an ever-expanding collection of taxidermied birds, but Lollie never stops to wonder how Pot--a fourth grader with no friends to speak of--is adding items to her collection with such regularity, even as she worries that Pot will be abducted or raped by someone in the woods. And at the Lucky Chow Fun, the Chinese restaurant at the core of the scandal, she thinks only of the greasy food and whether one of the boys on the diving team will ask her to the winter dance, missing altogether the signs of what’s really happening.<br /><br />After the town scandal breaks, Lollie tells her mother, “ ’…I don’t think people are made to take truths straight-on, Mom. It’s too hard. You need something to soften them. A metaphor or a story or something.” Lollie is the person who needs the fairy tales, the folklore, and the myths. She cannot face the truth of her father leaving, of what happened to her town, even as she looks back as an adult to tell the story.<br /><br />“Majorette,” my favorite story in the collection, outlines the life of a woman from birth into middle age. Such a simple thing, it seems, a life where nothing spectacular happens: siblings arrive; parents drink and fight; girl discovers a dream, dates, stops dating, studies, twirls, goes to college, meets a boy--meets the boy--marries, has children of her own. Everything about this girl--she has no name--is in the details, the moments Groff chooses to frame, from the banal to the resplendent:<br /><blockquote>“On Saturdays the girl pushed the littlest three in the swings at the park when her mother was in the church basement, waiting for a boxful of dented cans and dandruffy cake mixes. At home, there were endless projects, her mother bent over the sewing machine crafting trousers out of curtains, remaking some little Anabaptist’s dress into something the girl wouldn’t hate, perhaps even a skirt the other girls would finger with envy, wondering what boutique it was from.”</blockquote><blockquote>“She took that hollow ringing in her and twirled it away, twirled in the basement in the foulest weather, when her hands stuck to the metal in the cold and she could not practice on the lawn. In her bed at night, her fingers flicked imaginary batons in the air. She sent batons spinning up like whirligigs into the night sky, batons flipping around her body like ions to her atom, batons spinning about her like glittering wings. She twirled through her legs and over her body as if her batons were her very own limbs.”</blockquote>“Sir Fleeting” tells the story of a woman’s involvement with a rich playboy throughout the course of her life. The woman--we never know her name, only the playboy’s moniker for her, la bergere, or the shepherdess--meets Ancel de Chair on her honeymoon with her first husband in Buenos Aires. She says of her husband: “I knew my husband, knew he had always congratulated himself for seeing the allure of a farm girl he thought other men would overlook.” But the truth is, throughout the story, even through her second and third husbands, after she has dropped weight and gained money, after several--if you will, fleeting--encounters with Ancel de Chair, after she finds herself in a high rise apartment with a respectable art collection, preparing for her granddaughter’s wedding, she still thinks of herself as the farm girl, and it is her final visit with Ancel de Chair that releases her from the spell, enables her to see herself as she really was, really is.<br /><br />My least favorite story in the collection was “Blythe,” and I admit this is probably because the sort of dysfunction on display in this story holds no interest for me in life or on the page. In this story, Harriet, a lawyer-turned-housewife, attends a poetry workshop where she meets a fellow student, Blythe, and is swept up into a tumultuous friendship. Blythe resembles some sort of Anne Sexton feminist** nightmare: smoking, drinking, pill-popping, plagued by anorexia. She becomes a performance artist, in a very Cixousian “write the body write the blood” sort of way, and as she develops and performs her pieces, alienating her husband and her children, growing ever more uncontrollable, Harriet trails along behind her, picking up the pieces and putting them back together again, sublimating her own wishes to write for the sake of her friend, which she explains as "midwifery":<br /><blockquote>“I admired how Blythe used her body, the shock of her, there was too much Milton and Frost in me for my own stabs at such dramatics to be anything but undignified. While Blythe created new pieces at a fevered pitch throughout the summer and fall, I wrote of gardening and politics, of sense and memory, of things safely domestic. I saved the secret thrill of transgression for Blythe’s work, proud to help her birth her strange little creatures, because it <span style="font-style: italic;">was </span>midwifery. I was the one to contact the galleries, to drive Blythe to the theaters, to call the press, to organize. I was the woman behind the camera for the videos of her performances, Blythe’s very first audience. All the while I scribbled poem after poem in the ragged notebooks I salvaged at the end of my daughters’ school year, and only dared show Blythe the best.”</blockquote>She’s like a stage mother of the damned. Of course, I didn’t skip a page. The writing was too good, and the whole time I was reading these stories, I worried that I might miss something. I’m sure there are drawers I didn’t open, knobs I missed, buttons and levers overlooked. Read this yourself, and see if you can uncover all the secrets, scrape away the layers, find the magic.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*image from amazon.com</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">**I have nothing against Anne Sexton, by the way, or feminism</span>priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-5516344257221804982009-02-19T09:57:00.006-05:002009-02-19T10:34:53.741-05:00TBR List 02.19.09Time for more items from the TBR list, three fiction picks this week. Feel free to comment if you’ve read one of these and want to recommend it (or dissuade me). And, of course, feel free to add to your own list. I’m here to serve.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1846880556?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 101px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_UmZjCy05DoYwbiONUPzn1i5mKB9dpN8-l-6hJbpG8IPxyIVk-TuOAp8guPRo6CTOSojqJXjQloa14cmU6ACsla5kU6YjvQoAX_cF0ApTgz2CS1Jff7ZIW4eru2lAe9lkUx5I5A/s200/DearEverybody.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304525863389820626" border="0" /></a><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1846880556?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3">Dear Everybody</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">, by Michael Kimball</span>. From the author’s site: “Jonathon Bender had something to say, but the world wouldn’t listen. That’s why he writes letters to everybody he has ever known—including his mother and father, his brother and other relatives, his childhood friends and neighbors, the Tooth Fairy, his classmates and teachers, his psychiatrists, his ex-girlfriends and his ex-wife, the state of Michigan, a television station, and a weather satellite. Taken together, these unsent letters tell the remarkable story of Jonathon’s life.”<br /><br />The description makes me think of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Stone Diaries</span>, which wasn’t an epistolary novel, but still dealt with a character (a wonderful unreliable narrator) in charge of shaping her own story. Do you ever wish you could see the old letters and notes you wrote to people? Do you wonder if you really were the same person then that you are now? The idea of character through correspondence or diaries always gets my attention. The only epistolary novel I’ve picked up recently--<span style="font-style: italic;">We Need to Talk about Kevin</span>--I was unable to finish. I wished I could have written “Return to Sender” on the book and put it in the mail. That’s not fair to say without a complete discussion, I suppose, but it’s my gut reaction. Feel free to try and change my mind. I like to give books a second chance most of the time.<br /><br />You can watch the trailer for <span style="font-style: italic;">Dear Everybody</span> <a href="http://michael-kimball.com/DearEverybody.html">here</a>. Am I the only person who finds trailers for books a little bit strange? I’m an excerpt kind of person. I like to get a sense of the writing. I’m not going to “watch” the book, and I also don’t want any associations with other things, like voices or pictures, because it drives my impression. Seriously, am I weird? About this, I mean?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0393323579?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 107px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZY1swgaScYqVhODYO_V__HYXwOWLxkxpjyNouRZGrEgHk8VfywTNDkl39VyGPlg5ic2X71GZzctgJIqhHKOzg2Tu8lI8a3FpBzZBU0vrwnT488BF_aCYRFojjoW_GQUQM7vzXQ/s200/ServantsofMap.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304526732937857634" border="0" /></a><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0393323579?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3">Servants of The Map</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">, by Andrea Barrett</span>. Synopsis: “Ranging across two centuries, and from the western Himalaya to an Adirondack village, these wonderfully imagined stories and novellas travel the territories of yearning and awakening, of loss and unexpected discovery. A mapper of the highest mountain peaks realizes his true obsession. A young woman afire with scientific curiosity must come to terms with a romantic fantasy. Brothers and sisters, torn apart at an early age, are beset by dreams of reunion.<br />Throughout, Barrett's most characteristic theme — the happenings in that borderland between science and desire — unfolds in the diverse lives of unforgettable human beings. Although each richly layered tale stands independently, readers of <span style="font-style: italic;">Ship Fever</span> (National Book Award winner) and Barrett's extraordinary novel The Voyage of the Narwhal, will discover subtle links both among these new stories and to characters in the earlier works.”<br /><br />Ever since I read <span style="font-style: italic;">Ship Fever</span>, I’ve been meaning to pick up another Andrea Barrett book. This is another collection of stories, but I’d also like to read one of her novels. I love the way she blends science and history into the narrative. I’ll post about Ship Fever sometime, but just for the moment, I want to complain about the <a href="http://www.wwnorton.com/catalog/fall02/032357.htm">W.W. Norton site</a>. If I were an author, I don’t think I’d be too happy, because A) it looks like the person in charge of the site gave this project to their seventh-grade kid who was trying to learn HTML; and B) it contains no excerpts or author interviews. I cannot think of a better way to promote a book--even if it wasn’t recently published--than excerpts. Get people hooked on prose! Books cannot survive by synopses alone!<br /><br />Read a great interview with Andrea Barrett <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200201u/int2002-01-30">here</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0395859972?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 106px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2NcEoX994lR9QYjXPJbgPzQNn6EXWr1T4-ddQymmU8lQqaGyxq9TskpLPbMSx2q0HIfAuBZ6Sz-RNjyxuUu2ceQE4r45fXFBDu3yoa10RH9AvljZ9DuLMvxWq7-egzGUJZTyGpQ/s200/BlueFlower.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304527994270850338" border="0" /></a><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0395859972?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3">The Blue Flower</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">, by Penelope Fitzgerald</span>. Amazon.com review (the publisher’s synopsis is terrible): “[<span style="font-style: italic;">The Blue Flower</span>] is the story of Friedrich von Hardenberg--Fritz, to his intimates--a young man of the late 18th century who is destined to become one of Germany's great romantic poets. In just over 200 pages, Fitzgerald creates a complete world of family, friends and lovers, but also an exhilarating evocation of the romantic era in all its political turmoil, intellectual voracity, and moral ambiguity. A profound exploration of genius, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Blue Flower</span> is also a charming, wry, and witty look at domestic life. Fritz's family--his eccentric father and high-strung mother; his loving sister, Sidonie; and brothers Erasmus, Karl, and the preternaturally intelligent baby of the family, referred to always as the Bernhard--are limned in deft, sure strokes, and it is in his interactions with them that the ephemeral quality of genius becomes most tangible. Even his unlikely love affair with young Sophie von Kühn makes perfect sense as Penelope Fitzgerald imagines it.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />The Blue Flower</span> is a magical book--funny, sad, and deeply moving. In Fritz Fitzgerald has discovered a perfect character through whom to explore the meaning of love, poetry, life, and loss. In The Blue Flower readers will find a work of fine prose, fierce intelligence, and perceptive characterization.”<br /><br />I’m pretty sure I found this book through an interview with another author, but for the life of me I cannot remember out who it was. Something the author said about it must have attracted me, because it doesn’t sound like the sort of thing I would pick up without a recommendation. I love the fact that Fitzgerald didn’t get started on her writing career until she was 59 years old. That gives me hope for all us late bloomers out there.<br /><br />Read the archived <span style="font-style: italic;">New York Times</span> review <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/books/97/04/13/reviews/970413.13hofmant.html">here</a>.<br />Read a fun article on late bloomers <a href="http://www.gladwell.com/2008/2008_10_20_a_latebloomers.html">here</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*images from amazon.com</span>priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-72819840487283567532009-02-18T18:15:00.004-05:002009-02-18T18:22:20.664-05:00Just Pay The Ten CentsHello All. I know I promised a review of <span style="font-style:italic;">Delicate Edible Birds</span> today, but due to some interruptions yesterday (welcome) and this morning (unwelcome), I did not finish the book until this afternoon, and I need more time to gather my thoughts. Library late fees be damned! After all, the book deserves it! Let that be hint. Have a lovely evening!priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-23850400539596178532009-02-17T08:19:00.013-05:002009-02-17T09:58:27.495-05:00Ten Random Tunes 02.17.09<span style="font-style:italic;">I'm trying out some new MP3 players so you can hear the songs. This player may not work if you're using Google Chrome or IE. Try Firefox! I'll keep troubleshooting.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B000009QU0?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 157px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTtkXI3IbRR8d5D4QEV_oTDiylh26GGrq7TXF06VgGgzyk5xXZtZrc4566cX8jR3N3XbyFlKEb22EgM__lOA-WZYasovkFZz42xgQhaKhChzo8Y8So9FM6HN1R3OUE8tW-RGdOUQ/s200/NextStopWon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303755871120777634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Crossed Paths,” Arto Lindsay/Caludio Ragazzi</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Next Stop Wonderland Soundtrack</span>. First, this is a wonderful collection of Latin music. I remember going to see this movie in the theater. I wanted to be Hope Davis, in her amazing Boston apartment, being all sad and literary and wearing brown lipstick (the 90s!), searching for words in poems that would crack open the future. Have a listen:<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_gray.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://sites.google.com/site/sweetdivablog/Home/04CrossedPaths.mp3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" width="300" height="52"></embed><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Discotheque,” U2</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Pop</span>. I am pretty sure I’m one of five people who love this album. In fact, it’s my second favorite U2 album, right behind <span style="font-style: italic;">Achtung Baby</span>. I thought it was an interesting departure, and I admire U2 for not just putting out version after version of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Joshua Tree</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0000027RL?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwCaQNGykY4bmVbzGB0dyZFm7teukcxSGQMXBOdrQgb4Ud7R0KP1avtAAyNdBocyf2FtTMjTY31gMG99uCzhQ0Lv2zXKcsyUy8vVdsIJENSrfsbTgB3DBRN40uckxAGNf_2KcivA/s200/Ten.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303756582319581282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Deep,” Pearl Jam</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Ten</span>. I can’t get over the fact that this album is almost twenty years old. Sometime around 1998 I grew tired of Pearl Jam, but lately I find myself going back to <span style="font-style: italic;">No Code</span> and earlier albums and remembering how great they were. Just a note to radio DJs everywhere: “Daughter” and “Can’t Find A Better Man” are not the only Pearl Jam songs out there. Thanks.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Silver,” Pixies</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Doolittle</span>. I swear, I have bought music since the 1990s. Remember the other day when I said I could never remember my favorite things when asked? Let’s just put it on record: The Pixies are one of my favorite bands.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The Only Living Boy in New York,” Simon & Garfunkel</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Garden State Soundtrack</span>. I swear, my iTunes thinks the only music in my library is Beck and this soundtrack. I let this one play because it’s Simon & Garfunkel, whom I saw at the Cotton Bowl in August 1983, drenched in the rain from Hurricane Alicia. Paul Simon had just married Carrie Fisher, and he brought her out on stage to wave at the crowd. Princess Leia! Oh yes.<br /><embed src= "http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_gray.swf" quality="high" width="300" height="52" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars= "valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://sites.google.com/site/sweetdivablog/Home/10TheOnlyLivingBoyinNewYork.mp3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Invisible City,” The Wallflowers</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Bringing Down The Horse</span>. Jacob Dylan is not his father, but he does a fine job of being himself. “The imitation of good faith, is how you stumble upon hate…”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0012GN3SM?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPEXu87tS1f5GBrKVFvTTFsENNAc7wZ-M3hQTYo2w0FNA8qE9Kli7-ktUQ7QJ0x5C64dUO1_O1WBNdSUfV_SeeY_6y6xo3xEN2qHjv-QR70pK3XRtReadhH3l6whowaPXuQcoTA/s200/TruthAndSoul.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303757149520895890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Pouring Rain,” Fishbone</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Truth and Soul</span>. If I had a soundtrack for my college years, Fishbone would feature on it more than most. This is a pretty, sad, sad song: “He had one foot in the gutter/Another on dry land/ His ship had sailed without him/ Across life’s burning sands/He cried out in the distance/ And non one, no one heard a word…“ Back then it made me think of inequality and injustice. Now it makes me angry that things never seem to get any better. But maybe they still will. I have hope. They sing it better than I do:<br /><embed src= "http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_gray.swf" quality="high" width="300" height="52" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars= "valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://sites.google.com/site/sweetdivablog/Home/04PouringRain.mp3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Man in A Suitcase,” The Police</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Zenyatta Mondatta</span>. In middle school I had a friend who went nuts for Duran Duran in general, and John Taylor in particular. She bought every magazine and cut out every picture she could find, even teeny tiny ones from ads in the back of the magazine, and these would float out of her scrapbooks like confetti. Her walls were covered with posters. Me? I had two posters in my room in high school only: one of The Police, and one of Sting. <span style="font-style: italic;">Zenyatta Mondatta</span> is my favorite Police album, and they were another band I got to see, in 1983. Good grief. Fourteen was a good age for music.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B000008JV0?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5edFwR7wsjqI5LbeQu2yfPpx4Es9GsASFPgwc8i_1ZBeF8BCyBkP03qcac9QXLxhgOltRknyE6wr4FKlVijXXNoFHfjaoKP_hs52qX3HdPZJk1RNCeAz8I9IDy3Uw5bLpXLg7Xg/s200/OtisReddingStory.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303757585254174114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Try A Little Tenderness,” Otis Redding</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Otis Redding Story</span>. For my generation, this song will always evoke Jon Cryer serenading Molly Ringwald in <span style="font-style: italic;">Pretty in Pink</span>. My grown-up self now sees that Ducky should have been the man, but in all honesty, no one could beat James Spader. Sorry. Andrew who?<br /><embed src="http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_gray.swf" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars="valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=http://sites.google.com/site/sweetdivablog/Home/16TryaLittleTenderness.mp3" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" width="300" height="52"></embed><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“I Don’t Want to Know,” Fleetwood Mac</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Rumours</span>. Sorry. Can’t type anymore. Have to sing: “I don’t want to know the reasons why love keeps/Right on walking on down the li-ine…”<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*images from amazon.com</span>priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-22813000233913395152009-02-16T11:10:00.002-05:002009-02-16T11:17:45.543-05:00Repeat Performance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiku0CSdEJX8XaZ6Y2cbvasA9Eh8QdQoPkT-cMM-SuepF8EB-onyXC1ggz-_A_6J3IPBPQbqteXvCRJ891qkS7enRJu-sAddJEDYUxHJqVvU_GXYMRI9thdi3bLmP1i7ekCmEB/s1600-h/prep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiku0CSdEJX8XaZ6Y2cbvasA9Eh8QdQoPkT-cMM-SuepF8EB-onyXC1ggz-_A_6J3IPBPQbqteXvCRJ891qkS7enRJu-sAddJEDYUxHJqVvU_GXYMRI9thdi3bLmP1i7ekCmEB/s200/prep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5180578292539281058" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">This post, "The Promiscuous Reader," originally "aired" here on March 22, 2008. I'm almost through <span style="font-weight: bold;">Delicate Edible Birds</span>, so look for thoughts on that Wednesday of this week.</span><br /><br />How many of you out there are promiscuous readers?<br /><br />Not sure what I mean by that? Let's say you go to the bookstore or to your favorite online bookseller, and you carefully select four or five books that you've had on your wish list for a while. As you're driving home with your books, or as you're waiting daily for the books to be delivered, you develop a plan. You know, for example, exactly which book you will read first, and it makes your heart pound just to think about it.<br /><br />When you arrive home with your books, or when they are finally delivered to your door, you plan the best time to read, a time when you know you'll have minimal interruptions for the longest possible stretch of time. If you're the impatient type, like me, you may flip through several of the books and read the first few pages. But "the chosen one" remains in its virgin state, spine uncracked, until the appointed hour.<br /><br />Finally, the moment arrives. You're in your favorite chair, or propped up with pillows in some cozy reading spot. You have the right lighting; you have a cup of tea or coffee, a glass of wine or a Diet Coke. You open the book. You read the dedication and acknowledgments, just to make that divine suspense last a <span style="font-style: italic;">leeetle </span>bit longer, and then: There it is. The first page.<br /><br />As you settle in and start to read, you think to yourself, "This is so exciting. I'm finally reading this book! The use of language...oh, that phrase there! That dialogue!" But in the back of your mind, something else is happening. You notice that your enthusiasm feels forced. You keep reading and hope it will begin to feel more natural. After all, haven't you been waiting for this moment for hours, days, or weeks on end? Didn't you picture how great it would be a thousand times over when you finally settled in and started to read, how you would be carried away, forgetting work and chores and all the troubles of the world for a few hours?<br /><br />You keep reading, but the more you read, the more conscious you become of a most disturbing fact: You're faking it. Sure, you're looking at the words and turning the pages, but be honest. You're not really present. And why is that?<br /><br />Because you're thinking about another book, that's why. You might even be thinking about several books, or a whole other genre. "This book is so serious," you say. "Beautifully written. Amazing. But maybe I need something lighter. I had such a long day at work, and I just need something to help boost my mood." Maybe you're reading a novel and you realize you're more in the mood for short stories. Maybe you're reading fiction but you also bought a couple of new biographies you've been wanting to dig in to for a couple of weeks. Or maybe, just maybe, you got a new copy of your favorite magazine in the mail that day, and you can hear it calling to you from the coffee table.<br /><br />You put your bookmark (always use a bookmark, people!) in the book to keep your place and set it down. You tell yourself you'll come back to it tomorrow, or on the weekend, or next week when you're off for a few days and have more time. Then you start the search. You go through your TBR pile, your bookshelves full of things you've already read, your magazines. You think it's only going to be this one time, but it continues for days, weeks, this restlessness.<br /><br />You cannot commit to a book. The book you thought you wanted sits untouched where you left it, gathering dust. All over the house are books you've picked up and discarded, bookmarks noting the exact moment you abandoned them. You think maybe you should just stop reading for a while. You should watch movies or television. You should listen to books on your iPod. You should go for a run, clean out your closet, wash your car, or repaint the house.<br /><br />As you go on distracting yourself in any number of ways, something happens. One day, a book pops into your head. Maybe you hear someone else mention it, and like a word or song that suddenly seems to be everywhere, it's constantly on your mind. It makes you a bit nervous and concerned. What if it happens again? What if you pull the book down from the shelf, or make a special trip to the bookstore ("If they have a copy, I was meant to read it now," you think.) to buy it, and the same thing happens? You get so far, and then you start thinking about other books? You wait, but eventually you decide to throw caution to the wind. Maybe you and the book can make a go of it. Maybe this time will be different.<br /><br />Oh, sweet relief when it works! The book is just the thing you needed! You read and read it; you think about what will happen next when you're away from it. You recall your favorite scenes during boring meetings, think about especially well-turned phrases in chapter fifteen as you drive. You finish the book, and you can practically hear the <span style="font-style: italic;">Rocky </span>theme song playing as you snap the book shut after the final page. You did it! You finished a book! You are back on your game! Things will be different now! You will pick up other books and read them in full. You will be committed and serious. You will not cheat.<br /><br />Okay, so, I've been using "you," but I suppose you all know: I'm talking about myself. Perhaps you've noticed the <span style="font-style: italic;">Winesburg, Ohio</span> image that's been in the sidebar for--oh, I don't know--a month? Six weeks? I haven't changed it because at certain points it would have meant changing it almost daily. Here's a list of books I've started and stopped in the meantime: <span style="font-style: italic;">Conversations with Woody Allen</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Emporer's Children</span> (Claire Messud), <span style="font-style: italic;">Away </span>(Amy Bloom), <span style="font-style: italic;">Quakertown </span>(Lee Martin), <span style="font-style: italic;">Jenny and the Jaws of Life</span> (Jincy Willett), <span style="font-style: italic;">Rare and Endangered Species</span> (Richard Bausch), <span style="font-style: italic;">Remembering Ray</span> (essays about the late, great Raymond Carver), two current issues of <span style="font-style: italic;">Real Simple</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Domino</span>, plus several back issues, and <span style="font-style: italic;">Getting Things Done</span>, for work, by David Allen. I've also listened to Selected Shorts on my iPod, short story readings that go on at Symphony Space in New York, and I've actually listened to Ron Carlson's "Towel Season" and John Updike's "Walk with Elizanne" repeatedly. I also got addicted to <span style="font-style: italic;">Project Runway</span>, but as soon as it ended...well, let's just say it was difficult, and I seriously considered renting the first three seasons.<br /><br />The book that finally broke the spell for me, as you probably know because of the image on the post, was <span style="font-style: italic;">Prep</span>, by Curtis Sittenfeld. I read this when it was first released, as a "summer read," and I remember being surprised at how good it was, how solid and non-chick-lit it seemed. I've always meant to re-read it, and a week ago I decided to give it a shot. I had nothing to lose (as long as I ignored my ever-growing TBR pile). And I'm happy to say I'm finding it quite good the second time around, and I'm almost finished with it.<br /><br />Almost.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*image from <a href="http://www.powells.com/">Powells.com</a></span>priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-34798976178265311182009-02-15T11:49:00.006-05:002009-02-15T12:25:35.682-05:00Sunday Salon: I’m Reading As Fast As I Can!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmGcGLMLgnpQgpJ7GitjCG22GZrzuqLglZ-TZNI7jnyUTGzM8d6MH1_ZuKS6uPLSpbe3KTpGHdg79ZsH2uHBAtx27zGHN7EB3bbT7HstLZ_n2gbwm13cfE7BOEhT5-x90ewm3wvQ/s1600-h/SunSalon.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 66px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmGcGLMLgnpQgpJ7GitjCG22GZrzuqLglZ-TZNI7jnyUTGzM8d6MH1_ZuKS6uPLSpbe3KTpGHdg79ZsH2uHBAtx27zGHN7EB3bbT7HstLZ_n2gbwm13cfE7BOEhT5-x90ewm3wvQ/s200/SunSalon.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303075775725622706" border="0" /></a>Today I had hoped to talk about some of my favorite novels, but between Valentine’s Day and home improvement projects, I couldn’t pull it together in time. For me, compiling lists of favorite anything is difficult. When people ask me about favorite books or movies or bands, I typically draw a blank. Every title of every book I’ve read or movie I've seen, every name of every band I’ve heard, recedes like the taillights on a speeding car, and I end up saying something like “Nancy Drew” or “The Turtles.” Um, yeah. Still, because I’m new to Sunday Salon, I thought it would be a fun “getting to know you” post. I’ll try again next week. If you see Nancy Drew in the list, you’ll know I panicked. (Not that I don’t love Nancy! I do!)<br /><br />A small progress report: I have 130 pages left to read of <span style="font-style: italic;">Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell</span>, my first book for the <a href="http://9for09.wordpress.com/">9 for ‘09</a> challenge, and I’ll be posting my thoughts later in the week. Wednesday I have to return <span style="font-style: italic;">Delicate Edible Birds</span> to the library so I’ll finish and post thoughts on that as well.<br /><br />Most likely I’ll choose something for the <a href="http://worldcitizenchallenge.wordpress.com/">World Citizen</a> challenge next--I’m thinking <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0767903579?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span style="font-style: italic;">Falling Leaves</span></a>, by Adeline Yen Mah--so I get a good balance. I am amazed, looking at other people’s blogs, how far along some people are on these challenges. Of course, I’m only doing two (three, if you count trying to keep up with <a href="http://andrewsbookclub.wordpress.com/">Andrew’s Book Club</a>), so I suppose I have the leisure of spacing things out over the year, which is a fine because I have three other books to get through before I start the next challenge book. Taking books out of the library forces me to read the books I bring home instead of just putting them all over the house, so I’ll be reading:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mQqTWtKKh-k04ldwIgJEKLJsdf5FuxaIOJ-5ObozD6AEeinVuOn-Fn8hHM-Q0Z0MX4idB24LP92ty8bOVWjtq9H6MbpHNwImW5oDDJiXEfdUBifJHl_xMrA2PyLwSyqbWeAX_w/s1600-h/goldengrove.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 107px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mQqTWtKKh-k04ldwIgJEKLJsdf5FuxaIOJ-5ObozD6AEeinVuOn-Fn8hHM-Q0Z0MX4idB24LP92ty8bOVWjtq9H6MbpHNwImW5oDDJiXEfdUBifJHl_xMrA2PyLwSyqbWeAX_w/s200/goldengrove.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303073654677319362" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0066214114?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Goldengrove</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">, by Francine Prose</span></a>. I enjoyed <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0060882034?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span style="font-style: italic;">Blue Angel</span></a>, so when this was released last year, I added it to my list. <span style="font-style: italic;">Goldengrove</span> is a coming-of-age story about a girl dealing with the recent death of her sister. You can read the first chapter <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/20/books/chapters/chapter-goldengrove.html?scp=5&sq=goldengrove&st=cse">here</a>, and you can read a review <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/11/books/11maslin.html?scp=1&sq=goldengrove&st=cse">here</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgUV0IlpTbWvMn__8rriX6hY_XbOlEW9mEVkKxYedWbqgwU0NTD98WYPR5LNWHXb79AgpLkPmqsqK9pKSNECeW_WnKrOgtk4rLUSH_Lr2nG3knJlDIJh0CUlk2SmrZWf_5SUn07g/s1600-h/IsabellaMoon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 104px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgUV0IlpTbWvMn__8rriX6hY_XbOlEW9mEVkKxYedWbqgwU0NTD98WYPR5LNWHXb79AgpLkPmqsqK9pKSNECeW_WnKrOgtk4rLUSH_Lr2nG3knJlDIJh0CUlk2SmrZWf_5SUn07g/s200/IsabellaMoon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303074108161506962" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0345497686?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Isabella Moon</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">, by Laura Benedict</span></a>. Long story short: I found Laura Benedict’s blog <a href="http://laurabenedict.blogspot.com/">Notes from The Handbasket</a> through another blog I read called <a href="http://theswivet.blogspot.com/">The Swivet</a>. I liked her personality, so when it turned out she was a writer, I put her books on my TBR list. Also turned out that Laura happens to be a friend of one of my very best friends, <a href="http://michellespells.blogspot.com/">Michelle</a>. Small world! <span style="font-style: italic;">Isabella Moon</span> is a thriller about a woman with a secret past and how her arrival in a small Kentucky town unravels the mystery of a nine-year-old girl's death--and unlocks some of the town's darkest secrets. You can read an excerpt <a href="http://www.laurabenedict.com/book-isabellamoon.cfm">here</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmB7U33bkc_rFtWVnZ8Wns1Y6TvXb_YYlY_yaBG6ieejUledCW_EXyb6Dax7yduA-mDhCd3U_Y7O2uBdFuCarw4F-NO1nf_XkPES4HAuHWASEHPt5l40ToPyU7iLLnH1OC8Yo0Q/s1600-h/pact.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 99px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmB7U33bkc_rFtWVnZ8Wns1Y6TvXb_YYlY_yaBG6ieejUledCW_EXyb6Dax7yduA-mDhCd3U_Y7O2uBdFuCarw4F-NO1nf_XkPES4HAuHWASEHPt5l40ToPyU7iLLnH1OC8Yo0Q/s200/pact.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303074552529445634" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0061150142?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">The Pact</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">, by Jodi Picoult</span></a>. This is my book club read for March. Generally I stay away from these books because I hear they’re formulaic, taking popular controversial topics and spinning fictional stories around them with a twist. <span style="font-style: italic;">Law and Order</span> has been doing this for well over a decade, so what the heck. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Pact</span> deals with the always-fun topic of teen suicide. I’ve only read one other Picoult, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0743454537?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span style="font-style: italic;">My Sister’s Keeper</span></a> (also for book club, and it was entertaining), so we’ll see how it goes. You can read an excerpt <a href="http://www.jodipicoult.com/the-pact.html#excerpt">here</a>.<br /><br />Have a wonderful week, and happy reading!<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*images from amazon.com</span>priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-86642364782727274562009-02-14T09:59:00.007-05:002009-02-14T10:27:37.821-05:00Happy [Valentine's] Day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV53c760E7mA5ookXXjHsAOH68U1ElBgAm8DGumh6EmodJVe3_hfwYUpFJnmubc_jacrYm8R1fNFXUT5HlxhvQi_O1isDF1MtSaauu8HKEKiTEyJ7q5TKdAtFWFPkeCVtsVfovFw/s1600-h/valentine_marscrater.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV53c760E7mA5ookXXjHsAOH68U1ElBgAm8DGumh6EmodJVe3_hfwYUpFJnmubc_jacrYm8R1fNFXUT5HlxhvQi_O1isDF1MtSaauu8HKEKiTEyJ7q5TKdAtFWFPkeCVtsVfovFw/s200/valentine_marscrater.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302673900455123074" border="0" /></a>For fun, head over to NPR's Monitor Mix blog and see <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/monitormix/2009/02/songs_in_the_key_of_me.html?ft=1&f=15710080">what kind of Valentine's Day song</a> you are, or <a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/monitormix/2008/02/lets_get_it_wrong.html">what not to put on a mixtape</a> for a loved one.<br /><br />Or visit the <span style="font-style: italic;">Discover Magazine</span> blog to view images of <a href="http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/badastronomy/2008/02/13/have-an-astronomical-valentines-day/">astronomical Valentine events</a>. The image to the left here is the Mars Valentine Crater. Who knew Madison Avenue's power was so great?priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-2429069148083220982009-02-13T09:49:00.003-05:002009-02-13T10:06:11.184-05:00Lalique Le Parfum EDP<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhboL2IZpgVEtGlqcXY2Kjv2diZDnQdFMnImHeF_-Dc_OaElzz06TTm-Lz2obObweeyuRgdlLfo6BbV-7vOpSQgSaixAt_plEC1JMjWhKN-mmIzs5RqfQ5miFsge1EPGbkcq2s7Pw/s1600-h/lalique_leparfum.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 151px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhboL2IZpgVEtGlqcXY2Kjv2diZDnQdFMnImHeF_-Dc_OaElzz06TTm-Lz2obObweeyuRgdlLfo6BbV-7vOpSQgSaixAt_plEC1JMjWhKN-mmIzs5RqfQ5miFsge1EPGbkcq2s7Pw/s320/lalique_leparfum.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302294273204491378" /></a>This is the time of year I get anxious for spring, especially when we have such beautiful weather. I know it's a cruel trick, the spring equivalent of an Indian summer, lulling us all into complacency with slight warmth, bright blue skies, buds on trees. <br /><br />I find it impossible to wear anything too heavy on days like these. Instead I want to use perfume like a spell to call forth more fine weather. Lalique Le Parfum serves nicely for this, the way it seems to mimic spring deepening into summer.<br /><br />The notes in Le Parfum are:<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Top</span>: bergamot, bay leaves, red pepper<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Heart</span>: jasmine, heliotrope, almond<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Base</span>: patchouli, vanilla<br /><br />The opening is pale green and tender, and before I saw the notes I thought for sure I detected lily of the valley. After the first few minutes, though, the juiciness of the bergamot peeks through, and the bay leaves keep the young spring feeling alive underneath. I must admit, my nose detects very little of the pepper. As it moves through the heart, the scent sweetens with the jasmine and heliotrope, but the green remains and this is less powdery than you might expect, what with heliotrope and almond. The base is deep and lovely, sweetening further but remaining fresh. Le Parfum starts off as the palest blush of pink and moves into a deep fuschia. It's quietly elegant, and if you stood near someone wearing it, you might be tempted to believe someone had left the window open to let the spring breeze blow through.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">*image from <a href="http://www.aedes.com/">aedes.com</a></span>priscillahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06552861048189081742noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-9540386100230873002009-02-12T18:40:00.002-05:002009-02-12T18:54:52.228-05:00Big Giveaway! BIG!Random House has teamed up with Lisa at <a href="http://lisamm.wordpress.com/2009/02/12/100k-celebration-giveaway-from-random-house/">Books on the Brain</a> to sponsor a giveaway celebrating 100K hits on her blog! To enter, head on over to her blog and leave a comment by <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Thursday, February 19</span>. (And psst...if you have a blog and mention the giveaway, Lisa will give you three extra entries! That means four chances to win!)<br /><br />The books are:<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Welcome to The Departure Lounge: Adventures in Mothering Mother</span> by Meg Federico<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">American Wife</span> by Curtis Sittenfeld<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Gardens of Water</span> by Alan Drew<br /><br />Lisa has full descriptions and rules listed on <a href="http://lisamm.wordpress.com/2009/02/12/100k-celebration-giveaway-from-random-house/">her site</a>. She'll have TWO grand-prize winners who'll receive a copy of each of the three books, and nine more winners who will each receive a copy of a single title. (I want <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">American Wife</span>, myself. Who am I kidding. I want them all.) Go! Go now!<br /><br />And congratulations Lisa!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-65472977899902916882009-02-12T09:32:00.007-05:002009-02-12T10:15:52.108-05:00TBR ListEvery time I venture out into the vast vastness that is the "internets," I manage to find something to add to my TBR list. Mind you, my list is different from my pile. (Does that sound icky? My pile?) My list contains books I want to read but have yet to acquire, whereas my pile consists of actual physical books in my possession that are, well, piled around the house. While I’ve made a firm agreement with myself not to add to the pile, I am free to add to the list as much as I please. I thought I’d share selections of this list with you, so either you can add items to <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">your</span> list, or so you can say things like, “I read that. It sucked.” Then I can make space on the list for something else. Or maybe you’ll say, “You must read that now!” and then I can get it from the library, because we all know library books can never be part of the TBR pile because you have to return them eventually. I love loopholes.<br /><br />Without further ado, here are this week’s TBR list items:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtN6LeuSvgr56epQ8-sYBIF8O1F9-YouC01phXXjqLK-dTnix1S0fqXOhOdlplrgevXdCU5gEeNd862fESnd8N-yKOZWHtDZaGwR8fu1Bza4bX-pjTniR_kkVJ4Yuij0ZWTgAM/s1600-h/AnyBitterThing.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 104px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtN6LeuSvgr56epQ8-sYBIF8O1F9-YouC01phXXjqLK-dTnix1S0fqXOhOdlplrgevXdCU5gEeNd862fESnd8N-yKOZWHtDZaGwR8fu1Bza4bX-pjTniR_kkVJ4Yuij0ZWTgAM/s200/AnyBitterThing.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301919392307388594" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0345477685?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Any Bitter Thing</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">, by Monica Wood</span>. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Synopsis</span>: “After surviving a near-fatal accident, thirty-year-old Lizzy Mitchell faces a long road to recovery. She remembers little about the days she spent in and out of consciousness, save for one thing: She saw her beloved deceased uncle, Father Mike, the man who raised her in the rectory of his Maine church until she was nine, at which time she was abruptly sent away to boarding school. Was Father Mike an angel, a messenger from the beyond, or something more corporeal? Though her troubled marriage and her broken body need tending, Lizzy knows she must uncover the details of her accident — and delve deep into events of twenty years before, when whispers and accusations forced a good man to give up the only family he had.”<br /><br />It occurs to me that even as I’ve compiled a TBR list, I haven’t kept track of where I found these books. That might help me remember why I picked them, because I’m not sure what drew me to this one. I think I may have picked it because it has what sounds like a good story and also some suspense.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFuBwWhyJNkwiBL08ohYHzEMAGVG0E5fNnpziipAq4Y8X_M2axjynqpYjYkiiQcuW7m4huhprnS9QottZ1m_UfGVaa0WCvSuEUiDrqcV9LNTLxyOLf_WGsU3imJhlIRQJOFwrA/s1600-h/DartLeagueKing.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 102px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFuBwWhyJNkwiBL08ohYHzEMAGVG0E5fNnpziipAq4Y8X_M2axjynqpYjYkiiQcuW7m4huhprnS9QottZ1m_UfGVaa0WCvSuEUiDrqcV9LNTLxyOLf_WGsU3imJhlIRQJOFwrA/s200/DartLeagueKing.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301920739993593026" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0979419883?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">The Dart League King</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">, by Keith Lee Morris</span>. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Synopsis</span>: “An intriguing tale of darts, drugs, and death. Russell Harmon is the self-proclaimed king of his small-town Idaho dart league, but all is not well in his kingdom. In the midst of the league championship match, the intertwining stories of those gathered at the 411 club reveal Russell's dangerous debt to a local drug dealer, his teammate Tristan Mackey's involvement in the disappearance of a college student, and a love triangle with a former classmate. The characters in Keith Lee Morris's second novel struggle to find the balance between accepting and controlling their destinies, but their fates are threaded together more closely together than they realize.”<br /><br />As a former league pool player (Oh yes. It was quite fun and I was actually good at it, so naturally I had to quit.), the framework of this novel intrigues me. You always hear that everyone has stories, and I used to find myself sitting in the pool hall, wondering about the people I saw once a week, both on my own team and on our competitors’ teams. Morris actually took the idea and did something with it. Imagine! You can read an excerpt <a href="http://www.tinhouse.com/books/books_coming_dlking_ex.htm">here</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw3wnBJIM200fhPhyIAmDeaBkIVvgpWvTSylCh-O2mA2CdPxfvgqBNgrYWwIdS_VD68qR9w-dfyzVVaAVboFZNQblbuOf8bGSLvRMgS19-xHLwpeI16v64_6gzdJdY_GBDQCCu/s1600-h/ComedyAtEdge.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 108px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw3wnBJIM200fhPhyIAmDeaBkIVvgpWvTSylCh-O2mA2CdPxfvgqBNgrYWwIdS_VD68qR9w-dfyzVVaAVboFZNQblbuOf8bGSLvRMgS19-xHLwpeI16v64_6gzdJdY_GBDQCCu/s200/ComedyAtEdge.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301921335536008578" /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1582346240?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Comedy at The Edge: How Stand-up in the 1970s Changed America</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">, by Richard Zoglin</span>. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Synopsis</span>: “In the rock-and-roll 1970s, a new breed of comic, inspired by the fearless Lenny Bruce, made telling jokes an art form. Innovative comedians like George Carlin, Richard Pryor, and Robert Klein, and, later, Steve Martin, Albert Brooks, Robin Williams, and Andy Kaufman, tore through the country and became as big as rock stars in an era when <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Saturday Night Live</span> was the apotheosis of cool and the Improv, Catch a Rising Star, and the Comedy Store were the hottest clubs around.<br /><br />In <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Comedy at the Edge</span>, Richard Zoglin gives a backstage view of the time, when a group of brilliant, iconoclastic comedians ruled the world — and quite possibly changed it, too. Based on extensive interviews with club owners, agents, producers — and with unprecedented and unlimited access to the players themselves — <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Comedy at the Edge</span> is a no-holds barred, behind-the-scenes look at one of the most influential and tumultuous decades in American popular culture.”<br /><br />Back in 1986, between my junior and senior years of high school, I got the idea that someone--well, I--should write a book about <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Saturday Night Live</span> and the impact it had on comedy in America. At that time, I still thought I would be a writer for <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Rolling Stone</span>, you know, instead of a person who writes about books other people have actually written on thissere blog. I had this idea that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Saturday Night Live</span> was to comedy in the 1970s as Paris was to American fiction in the 1920s: it was the place all the talented people gathered to create. While this book is not exclusively about <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Saturday Night Live</span>, it is about the growth of a comedy culture that made it possible.<br /><br />So share if you like. Any opinions on these? Other suggestions?<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">*images from amazon.com</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-47529463264372995342009-02-11T13:30:00.004-05:002009-02-11T13:42:44.872-05:00Writer, Heal Thyself<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0385480016?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM-Vwk8TxDgy4sbbMnc1XWg8nVSP6DTU3PY3DzxfiJ0B6N_7kx2Na6HhDFd7YXGnQS-OrRcQ1sdEtAdHmyjW5MeJE2n4aG4-WJVp26RDQwPlX80RXIZYxsFS7D7IFyGHFbXieP/s1600-h/BirdbyBird.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 101px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM-Vwk8TxDgy4sbbMnc1XWg8nVSP6DTU3PY3DzxfiJ0B6N_7kx2Na6HhDFd7YXGnQS-OrRcQ1sdEtAdHmyjW5MeJE2n4aG4-WJVp26RDQwPlX80RXIZYxsFS7D7IFyGHFbXieP/s200/BirdbyBird.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301609638022978930" /></a><div>A few weeks ago I met a friend of mine for lunch, and she told me she wanted to write a book. We were co-workers long ago, but we formed a friendship because we discovered that we both loved to read. At some point, I told her that I also really, really wanted to write, that I had been trying to write for years, and would likely have something to show her even, in just a few weeks. She’s a kind person. She nodded and smiled and said, “That would be great!” Of course, as soon as I promised I would finish something, I froze. It was a bit like promising to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro and then finding myself unable to climb over a speed bump in the driveway. Probably she had accepted my offer of a story draft in passing, with pleasure but without much thought. Sure! Fun! A draft!</div><div><br /></div><div>I don’t think she knew at that point how very serious I was. It’s not just that I want to write, but I am obsessed with writing, not just with my own but with everyone else’s, too. So naturally, when I heard she was planning a book, I offered to help. Actually, I’m pretty sure I held a spork to her throat and threatened to poke at her jugular with it until she agreed to let me be one of her readers and editors. What can I say? We were at Boston Market. Their cornbread does strange things to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>She agreed. Consented. Relented. Whatever you want to call it. Like I said, she’s a kind person, and she had no idea what she was getting herself into. After I calmed down a bit and released my grip on the spork, I started bossing her around. She told me she was having trouble getting started, facing the blank page and all, so I told her--in all my great wisdom--to write 200 words a day. I told her, “That’s what Anne Lamott says. Two hundred words, and if you can keep going then that’s great. Stephen King writes 10,000 words a day, you know, but no reason to start there. Have you read <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Bird by Bird</span>? You should read it. You just write 200 hundred words without worrying about it. Don’t edit yourself. Just write.”</div><div><br /></div><div>I should note here that I give myself this exact same advice every day, but I rarely heed it. Or I should say, I heed it, but I can’t get 200 words on the page. I’ve read <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Bird by Bird</span> so many times that, well, let’s just say that if the number of times were a person, that person would be old enough to vote. Maybe even old enough to drink. Legally, I mean.</div><div><br /></div><div>But my friend? That very day, she put <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Bird by Bird</span> on hold at the library, and then she went home and wrote 200 words. And then she kept going. And she kept on every day writing her 200 words or more, and she hasn’t even read <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Bird by Bird</span>! What the hell is up with that?</div><div><br /></div><div>She called me a week after our initial meeting and told me she’d written two chapters. Two. Chapters. She wanted to know if we could get together over the weekend and talk about them. Of course! We met for coffee this past Sunday, and, as promised, she handed over her two chapters. She even had a good title and a little cover sheet with a picture. I suck at titles. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, before you start thinking that I might try to sabotage my friend just because she managed to produce something and show it to me all within the space of a week, you would be wrong. She has a terrific premise, a great story to tell, and by-gosh-and-by-golly, just because I can’t get my <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">own </span>words on the page does not mean I can’t help her get <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">her </span>story on the page. Oh no. I’m full of help. In fact, I was the most pompous asshole you ever heard, or at least that’s how I sounded to myself: “Just write the narrative part. Just tell the story. Don’t worry about the order. You can change that later. Don’t edit yourself, don’t leave anything out. It’s easier to take away than add blah blah blah blah….”</div><div><br /></div><div>And the whole time, I was thinking “Asshole! You can‘t even do that! How can you expect someone else to do it?” I was thinking of myself the night before, sitting in front of a mostly blank screen for several hours. I say “mostly” because the evening went something like this: </div><div><br /></div><div>TYPE TYPE TYPE TYPE. READ. DELETE. </div><div><br /></div><div>TYPE TYPE TYPE TYPE. READ. EDIT. EDIT. READ. TYPE. READ. DELETE.</div><div><br /></div><div>TYPE. DELETE. TYPE. DELETE. TYPE TYPE TYPE. DELETE.</div><div><br /></div><div>Leave desk, find husband, rant and cry. Drink martini. </div><div><br /></div><div>See how all those lines up there end with the word DELETE? Hence the blank page. Hence the martini. Hence my long stupid speech to my friend about <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">just getting it down on paper</span>! Why? Because even if I cannot seem to, I know others can, and do. Because I know it’s the truth and if I hear myself say it enough times, eventually it’s bound to work. After all, I wasn’t always like this. I actually used to write things that had a beginning, middle, and end (They were atrocious, but complete!), instead of just a beginning, beginning, and beginning.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I’m still trying to forgive myself for using the phrase “aspiring writer” in my post on romance novels. Gag! Not only is that phrase pompous and annoying, but it tells an ugly truth: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">aspiring </span>writer. Aspiring. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Trying</span>. Thinking about it and yammering about it and handing out advice, reading about it and giving it even more thought and consideration, but never <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">actually </span>writing. Never actually finishing anything. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I dug out my copy of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Bird by Bird</span>, and it’s sitting on my desk but I’m not going to read it. I’m going to write 200 words. I’m just going to let it sit there and remind me, “Two hundred words!” Because all I want to do is finish something. The goal is not to be published, to go on <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Oprah</span>, to have Sofia Coppola adapt it for the screen. It’s just to finish something that isn’t so horrible that I could at the very least put it in the share folder on Google Docs and hope I can swindle a couple of people into reading it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Of course I will continue to impart all this wisdom to my friend. I suffer, so she won’t have to.</div><div><br /></div><div>And by the way, you can buy <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Bird by Bird</span> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0385480016?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3">here</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*image from amazon.com</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-85639044730978483412009-02-10T10:41:00.008-05:002009-02-10T11:41:29.898-05:00Ten Random Tunes 02.10.09<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0002J58LK?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr6w-GbGIsFzLekTPtGbDQkENHARqqvnYXG2ycvWNiyiLeYGJ8qBySuEwzHR0cRYbNmvHO_oC8AKc_XW2jzRavTe_dHeUBrCtCHP1mEeSBrDZO7x7Wde6hxMYLq8VLS5BWMGLs/s200/GardenState.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301204645180480114" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">“One of These Things First,” Nick Drake</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Garden State Soundtrack</span>. I’m ashamed to admit, I didn’t discover Nick Drake until Volkswagon used his song “Pink Moon” as a soundtrack for one of their commercials seven or eight years ago. I went right out and bought the album of the same name, and I listened to it all the time for several months. I hate to admit, I haven’t listened to it in years. Maybe I’ll do that today. Music is like books that way--too many good things fall away from us, are easily forgotten in the light of something new.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Middle of the Road,” The Pretenders</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Singles</span>. So let’s see, this song was released when I was thirteen or fourteen. It cracks me up to hear her sing about being thirty-three: “I’m not the kid I used to be/I’ve got a kid/I’m thirty-three baby,” since back then that seemed so far away and so old, and now I’m older than she was. Back then I expected something like what Bridget Fonda’s character Janet expected in <span style="font-style: italic;">Singles</span>: “I thought people were going to be traveling in air locks, and I would have five kids.” Except in the movie, that character is only 23. I probably felt that way then, too. Hah! Tricky life.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2t6sCdZzs76niE1n6oq3DdUImiBwpkV1XAJZV6O4BAgUj05FW-5n5vmM-GYBvsNGDw5mScKSaLM_Nf_sn0J2RDW-9L4OCM9xCgPdGPcOynm86O6IE4pq0pn5pKWnO9uFydSJj/s1600-h/mad-men.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2t6sCdZzs76niE1n6oq3DdUImiBwpkV1XAJZV6O4BAgUj05FW-5n5vmM-GYBvsNGDw5mScKSaLM_Nf_sn0J2RDW-9L4OCM9xCgPdGPcOynm86O6IE4pq0pn5pKWnO9uFydSJj/s200/mad-men.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301206269821251986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">“All the Things You Are,” Ahmad Jamal</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Cross Country Tour 1958-1961</span>. If you are a <span style="font-style: italic;">Mad Men</span> fanatic like I am, then you would probably love this. I cannot listen to this music now without thinking of being in some Manhattan club, dressed to the nines, listening to Jamal play. Sometimes I think I was born in the wrong era. There was some real grace to being an adult then. Marketers weren‘t shoving wrinkle creams and toxins at us, the clothes were wonderful (a world without “business casual”--how nice!), children were children and not tiny tyrants, and adults were grown-ups. Of course, that show does a fine job of showing us the dark side as well, but I sometimes wonder if all that’s really gone, or we just got better and better at masking things.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oldest Story in the World,” The Plimsouls</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Everywhere at Once</span>. The Plimsouls made it onto the list last week, too, so the little man in my iTunes must have decided he’s tired of Beck (most days, every other song is off <span style="font-style: italic;">Odelay</span>) and that he likes these guys. This song is actually featured in <span style="font-style: italic;">Valley Girl</span>, if you remember--right after Julie breaks up with Randy and he goes back to the club where they went the first night with Fred and Stacey…Yes, this movie is burned on my brain. Want to make something of it?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“What We Do Is Secret,” The Germs</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">GI</span>. Nothing like a little Darby Crash to get your blood flowing on a Tuesday morning. I don’t have any Cramps on here with which to pay tribute to Lux Interior, so I’ll just say this is a general tribute to punk rock.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“The Love Cats,” The Cure</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Staring at The Sea</span>. Two words: high school. Oh, the Eighties. I remember seeing this parody on MTV of Robert Smith as a guest on “This Old House.” You may laugh out loud, so be careful watching this at work. You don‘t want people to think you‘re having fun.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/amZxl2qhdP4&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/amZxl2qhdP4&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“After You’ve Gone,” Eddie Lang & His Orchestra</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Woody Allen Film Music</span>. This song is from <span style="font-style: italic;">Sweet and Lowdown</span>. You might as well know if you don’t already: I love Woody Allen. Sean Penn is wonderful in the role of Emmett Ray. This one and <span style="font-style: italic;">Purple Rose of Cairo</span> (same time frame) are two of my favorites.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B000021Y7X?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 111px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtU4sv62bWJHpfAPa4vD2m-1xlFzW8v9Thly1MG6oAz0PawfZQhwzpsO6EQz9OKDuFp45Xq1CYnihV71y2QTZeYSQjrnyjCS6o8AhgdNFoFBdxqZhOaCO8eiyABVggIVokC70v/s200/StopMakingSense.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301208029297840530" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Take Me to The River,” The Talking Heads</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Stop Making Sense</span>. The first time I heard The Talking Heads was in the movie <span style="font-style: italic;">Times Square</span>, a movie about two teenage runaways living the punk life in New York City…a Robert Stigwood production! Old Robert Stigwood was responsible for, among other things, <span style="font-style: italic;">Tommy</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Saturday Night Fever</span>, and <span style="font-style: italic;">Grease</span>. The movie is terrible but the soundtrack is terrific. I think he must’ve seen something in the punk/new wave movement of the late 70s and believed he could do for it what he did for disco. It also featured XTC, Roxy Music, Patti Smith, The Pretenders (ha!), Lou Reed, and The Cure (ha!). It definitely made me a Talking Heads fan, just on the basis of one song, “Life During Wartime.”<br /><br />Strangely enough, even though <span style="font-style: italic;">Stop Making Sense</span> is one of my favorite albums of all time, I’ve never seen the film!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Gasoline Rain,” Moondogg</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">SLC Punk Soundtrack</span>. Okay, little iTunes man is clearly on a punk kick today. Truth be told, I don’t like this song and usually skip it when I listen to the whole album, which includes tracks from Blondie, The Dead Kennedys, and Generation X (you know--Billy Idol!). <span style="font-style: italic;">SLC Punk</span> tells the story of two best friends--punks!--in Salt Lake city in the mid-80s. Don’t tell anyone, but last I checked, you can watch the whole thing on YouTube.<br /><br />All this punk music. I’m almost 40, and I’m thinking you would laugh if you could see how preppy I am.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">“Let’s Get Lost,” Chet Baker</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Best of Chet Baker Sings</span>. Bringing it all back around to what seemed like a more civilized era, the 1950s. Were we talking about the dark side earlier? Poor Chet Baker, so silken-voiced, had a wee bit of a heroin problem (uh, it killed him in 1988). He sounds so melancholy, and I imagine that like a lot of artists he was too romantic for his own good, hence the need for escape. I leave you with this:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/BT6xmJxLe4s&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/BT6xmJxLe4s&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*videos from YouTube, images from tvguide.com and amazon.com</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-10643121917059952132009-02-09T14:56:00.003-05:002009-02-09T15:05:36.453-05:00Reader’s Journal: The Stone Diaries<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0143105507?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 107px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE3ya5XTCQ8XKHkBLQjNsdp7WPZz2RyqQftaCPMvFPbaAifqMv3Xx0wvB3dAKhFCfKpvHplzXdQCFCgIie3r-6-VzFuaVZhMvBduPAcp6XibJFLe-wM-OcAiVegk13sGuE3O6O/s200/StoneDiaries.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300889709830844402" border="0" /></a>Many years ago, I planned to write a dissertation centered around Lawrence Sterne’s <span style="font-style: italic;">The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy</span>, in which the main character tries to set down his entire life story, day by day, from the moment of his conception to the present day. Several conundrums face Tristram, not the least of which is the fact that he finds his history is inextricable from his relations and friends. To tell his story, he must also tell <span style="font-style: italic;">their </span>stories. Some of these stories he imagines, and some he knows but misconstrues, so he records them incorrectly. The other issue he faces is time: he literally plans to write down every day of his life, but for every day he writes, he loses a day. At the end of the book (which is approximately 900 pages long), he is only nine years old. He is unable to contain the narrative of his life.<br /><br />Some people consider <span style="font-style: italic;">Tristram Shandy</span> to be the first “postmodern” novel, and in recent decades several writers have sought to produce this same sort of self-referential loop-de-loop of personal history in novels and memoirs. Often these books are the literary equivalent of a child riding his bicycle without using his hands for the first time. (“Look Ma! No plot! No reliable narrator! And looky here--footnotes!”) The problem is that all the trickery often gets in the way of the narrative, and the reader simply tires of all the sleight of hand and verbal wowza.<br /><br />When a writer understands the finer points of such play, however, the results can be stunning. Carol Shields’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0143105507?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Stone Diaries</span></a> tells the story of Daisy Goodwill Flett, from beginning to end. Daisy herself is the narrator of this story, moving through her narrative both as participant and observer, changing point of view as necessary, sometimes even slipping into first person in order to give voice to other characters. Unlike Tristram, who brings in other people’s stories and gets caught up in them, losing himself as the point of reference, Daisy remains tightly at the center. She pulls the reader along through what seems like an objective account of her history, but will suddenly break through the surface of the story to let the reader know she’s still there, and even that she might not be giving the reader all the facts, or even telling the truth:<br /><blockquote>“Maybe now is the time to tell you that Daisy Goodwill has a little trouble with getting things straight; with the truth, that is.<br />…<br />[A] childhood is what anyone wants to remember of it. It leaves behind no fossils, except perhaps in fiction. Which is why you want to take Daisy’s representation of events with a grain of salt, a bushel of salt.<br /><br />She is not always reliable when it comes to the details of her life; much of what she has to say is speculative, exaggerated, wildly unlikely…Daisy’s perspective is off. Furthermore, she imposes the voice of the future on the events of the past, causing all manner of wavy distortion. She takes great jumps in time, leaving out important matters…<br />…<br />[Hers] is the only account there is, written on air, written with imaginations invisible ink.”</blockquote>She begins in the first chapter with her birth (and a sly wink to Sterne, for there is an adamantine clock keeping time through her birth and her mother’s death, and in <span style="font-style: italic;">Tristram Shandy</span>, the winding of the clock is a metaphor for Tristram’s conception). Subsequent chapters focus on life events: Childhood, Marriage, Love, Motherhood, Work, Sorrow, Ease, Illness and Decline, and Death. My favorite chapter is “Sorrow, 1965.” Daisy has fallen into a funk in this period, and she provides first person accounts from other people--her children, her best friends, her former boss, even remote characters from her childhood--as to why. What I enjoyed about this chapter is the idea that while we never know what other people actually think, we cannot escape our own idea of what we think they think. Other people’s ideas of ourselves always bear the impression of our own opinions.<br /><br />My other favorite part of this book is the narrative of Magnus Flett, Daisy’s father-in-law, which she imagines in full. In reality, Daisy has no knowledge of Magnus Flett other than these “facts”: he came from the Orkney Islands to Canada as a boy; he married and had three sons; his wife left him and took the baby Daisy to live with their son in Winnipeg; he stayed in Tyndall, Manitoba until 1936 when he returned to the Orkney Islands. In truth, nobody heard a word from him after that time, and Daisy knows nothing of him until she finds him in Scotland in 1977 (or so she says). Daisy fills in the gaps for us (for him), telling the story of his passage, his long walk across the U.K. to the Orkney Islands. She has him memorize <span style="font-style: italic;">Jane Eyre</span>. He even earns some local celebrity for it. Magnus’s escape to the Orkneys is juxtaposed with Daisy’s story of her first marriage in 1927. Such freedom set against such constriction, romance against duty.<br /><br />It’s no surprise this book won the Pulitzer (1995). I originally read this back in 1996, and when a woman in my book club suggested it, I was eager to read it again, and I’m glad I did. Shields gives Daisy such depth, and her additions and subtractions, her omissions and flights of fancy offer a singular, flawed life, beautifully told. In the end Daisy shares her physical impressions of death, but the most poignant thing to me is a simple list of addresses for every home she knew in her life. On paper these are numbers and streets, and no one can really know what each of these places have meant to the people who’ve lived there. Not even we can know what they meant to Daisy.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*image from amazon.com</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-3397290689301197742009-02-08T14:39:00.006-05:002009-02-08T15:08:34.137-05:00Sunday Salon: A Little Romance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQ-GjT6p2OwXibUyfud_VrdNP54VZWdNvw-kAz06VzgMxSkLniALnVnFx9-y8wc0UASv6aumA8fiJmO683A3OYQJAtlivii42ewSXBhYPgaWJe175kAS3zu-jsGsqBfKmQ5r6/s1600-h/SunSalon.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 66px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQ-GjT6p2OwXibUyfud_VrdNP54VZWdNvw-kAz06VzgMxSkLniALnVnFx9-y8wc0UASv6aumA8fiJmO683A3OYQJAtlivii42ewSXBhYPgaWJe175kAS3zu-jsGsqBfKmQ5r6/s200/SunSalon.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300514146357116354" border="0" /></a>In graduate school, I worked for a professor who told me she had an aunt who believed romance novels had ruined her life. Now I can’t remember if the aunt had been married multiple times or not at all, but I suppose either one could feel like ruin to the right person. Whatever she took away from those books, it was not anything that could sustain her in the real world. I still think about the aunt from time to time, especially when I cruise past the aisles marked “Romance” at the book store, and I wonder, how many other women are there like her?<br /><br />In junior high and high school, I read plenty of romance novels. I read Danielle Steele, Colleen McCullough, Susan Isaacs, Rona Jaffe, and Sidney Sheldon. As an English major in college I abandoned those books for the requisite Russians and other general Western lit fare, even though I still re-read some of them secretly. (<span style="font-style: italic;">Almost Paradise</span> by Susan Isaacs was a particular favorite of mine. Isaacs can be laugh-out-loud funny.) And then there was grad school. Most graduate students in English think romance novels are the lowest of the low, and not even up for discussion, certainly not in a writing class. By that time I'd sold the few romances I had left, and stuck to a strict diet of modern short fiction and novels as prescribed by my peers.<br /><br />Right after I moved to Atlanta, a co-worker learned I was an aspiring writer and invited me to a romance writing workshop at a Piccadilly Cafeteria. You had to pay a couple hundred bucks (not sure if this included any Piccadilly fare), and in return you got a sort of template for writing some series romance novels and a day-long workshop. Because I had a babysitter long ago whose idea of playing with me was to have me help her act out her Harlequin Romances with my Barbies, I could guess how this might work: a lonely heroine with mousy hair, a wallflower; a handsome mysterious stranger with a wounded heart and a past; a red-headed, man-eating rival. They’re in Italy, or a castle on the Moors, or perhaps on a cruise in the Bahamas. Lonely wallflower not only turns out to be stunning (sassy gay co-worker or best friend talks her into getting a makeover), but she beats the redhead at her game and gets the guy. I politely declined.<br /><br />While I’m still not interested in writing romance novels, I am much more interested now in why people read them. As an aspiring writer, I want people to read my work, but at what price? And how far am I willing (or would I need) to go? Although I suppose I’ll always gravitate toward literary fiction as my first choice as a reader (and a writer), I am trying to branch out and read some genre fiction: mystery, science fiction, and yes, romance. In the last month I’ve read three novels that could classify as romance in some sense, three novels that give me a sense of paths to take as a writer:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0553587668?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 97px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgveHaqtMb3Zy2vK1oKACUJp4zXjDmRBOuVofh8lRlXUP99pLvIoKjV9xj_U7WoJPIcqwvhE6CnUEsLejNmNUIvV8WuvaPN42cNYGVz63vNfFejglSG1DxJDJdcK9MZZ34c9tDX/s200/SumofRoses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300514893075230418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Luanne Rice, </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0553587668?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3">Summer of Roses</a>. I found a recommendation for this book <a href="http://laurabenedict.blogspot.com/2008/12/origins-nora-robertss-northern-lights.html">here</a>. This thriller writer said romance wasn’t her thing, but she thought this book was well written as far as romances go, so I thought I'd try it. (Confession: I don't read thrillers either, but I've put this writer's first book, <span style="font-style: italic;">Isabella Moon</span>, on my TBR list. I'm branching!)<br /><br />In a nutshell, the heroine has gone into hiding with her young daughter to escape an abusive husband. While she’s in hiding, she nurtures a relationship with a kind but wounded (both literally and figuratively) man, and together they find love. They are drawn away from their safe haven when the evil husband returns and tries to kill the heroine’s beloved grandmother. Another story intertwines with this one, as the detective who brings the heroine out of hiding develops a relationship with another woman who’s hiding (in the same place, just so happens) from the same abusive man.<br /><br />Truth be told, I couldn’t finish it. Still, this was some of the cleanest prose I’ve seen in a genre novel. Rice doesn’t even fall into the “-ly” trap. You know: “She said hotly,” or “He remarked disparagingly.” She also does a lovely job with the scenery, and the pacing and suspense were perfect. My main problem was the…well, it was the…I guess that it was just so…emotionally <span style="font-style: italic;">overwrought</span>. And a little bit contrived. Okay, a <span style="font-style: italic;">lot</span> contrived. The wounds are too large (and too many) and the recoveries are too pat, and it’s all very dramatic. I wonder, genuinely, what attracts readers to these types of books?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0451208684?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 107px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Sye7GpjLA8x1PX9STMwHkwFybHSFyA69E_g1JdtSGbnTnWQFvliuckL-tntIBfZ9VsDiWSHELArm5xzSdZ8SzfdMUemdopFNq1tteBIBUSZ1amII0QunRmvha85LTihk8nnD/s200/JulieRomeo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300515371828296834" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jeanne Ray, </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0451208684?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3">Julie and Romeo</a>. Probably you can work out from the title that this book follows along the same plot lines as Shakespeare’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Romeo and Juliet</span>. Julie and Romeo are two single sixty-somethings who own rival florist shops in the same small town outside Boston. Their families have been enemies since everyone can remember, and everyone’s more than happy to keep it that way--except for Julie and Romeo, who are in love and looking for a way to be together.<br /><br />I’m not sure where a book crosses over from romance into chick lit (a debate in-and-of itself), but this book works either way. Julie narrates the story in first person, and her voice is so convincingly real and humorous that the thin plot is not a problem. Instead, it’s more like having a girlfriend dish her relationship over a glass of wine. Her problems are real problems--a failing business, getting back into the dating game after thirty-something years of marriage, buying sexy underwear for a first date--so she’s relatable. I wonder if that’s the key for me: the situation in Rice’s book seemed so far-fetched, I simply couldn’t relate to it, no matter how well-written it was.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0316154385?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 107px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBSJrNfggpDBBzRKsYUbeeYh7Ge9XJqHBMWMDlWc1JJ0t8SsiYi-J5X7YOQcA9HSwL2YxSZIJxYwiZx0FFY0O8mBaMttJLwk95AOqHTektx_1XjCB5P711KeGeYQenhSVhG2h5/s200/IceQueen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300515879662256066" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Alice Hoffman, </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0316154385?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3">The Ice Queen</a>. Remember (you know, a few paragraphs ago) when I said that the plot for <span style="font-style: italic;">Summer of Roses</span> was too emotionally overwrought? <span style="font-style: italic;">The Ice Queen</span> could’ve easily fallen into the same trap, but for some reason, it didn’t. The story begins when the narrator is a child. She wishes never to see her mother again, and the same night her mother dies in an accident. The narrator comes to believe she has a strange power to cause harm to people through wishes. As an adult she wishes to be struck by lightening, and she is. The story follows her romantic relationship with another lightening-strike victim, and also her relationship with her estranged brother.<br /><br />In some ways, this plot is just as contrived as <span style="font-style: italic;">Summer of Roses</span>, but for some reason, it works better, and I think the simple reason is that the narrator is not a stock character, and the voice is unique. The main character in Rice’s book is interchangeable with any of the hundreds (thousands?) of characters in romance novels. The narrator in Hoffman’s story has a particular tale to tell, and only she can tell it. And also, the self-consciousness of the narrator (the character is unnamed throughout the book) and her situation:<br /><blockquote>“What was the difference between love and obsession? Didn’t both make you stay up all night, wandering the streets, a victim of your own imagination, your own heartbeat? Didn’t you fall into both, headfirst into quicksand? Wasn’t every man in love a fool and every woman a slave?”</blockquote>She <span style="font-style: italic;">knows </span>her ardor is overwrought, and this makes her believable in a way that Rice’s characters are not. The romance, the trouble, everything in <span style="font-style: italic;">Summer of Roses</span> is too stock--but then, perhaps that’s the point. With stock characters, it’s easier for the reader to insert herself in the story than if the main character is unique. Maybe that’s where my professor’s aunt ran into trouble: she wanted too badly to live inside a romance novel, and the books made it too easy for her to do so.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*images from Sunday Salon and amazon.com</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-44096258417788126562009-02-06T09:53:00.008-05:002009-02-06T10:26:10.088-05:00Betsey Johnson<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE7hqRnArTyWFJxEQbVyFL_jaa2OKxqMzBQhNqdFT7NEeOukFITiCl2Vuher0at0PjrQpZ3yxTwBALF6oDBuo0o8NApwq-l9vJiigAAn9Q-x_GTzMtdC0qIjlgsULomGnnHinL/s1600-h/BetsyJohnson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 167px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE7hqRnArTyWFJxEQbVyFL_jaa2OKxqMzBQhNqdFT7NEeOukFITiCl2Vuher0at0PjrQpZ3yxTwBALF6oDBuo0o8NApwq-l9vJiigAAn9Q-x_GTzMtdC0qIjlgsULomGnnHinL/s200/BetsyJohnson.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299697714716876290" border="0" /></a>A reader sent me a sample of Betsey Johnson perfume sometime last year. (Thanks Kim, if you're out there!) This week has been so cold (for Atlanta, and I'm a wimp), and the job search so bewildering, that I decided I needed a little kick. Originally I planned to wear Bandit today, but when I saw that vial of Betsey Johnson, I instantly though of the hot pink interior of her stores, her ruffly feminine dresses, so I pulled it out and set it on my desk. The news said Friday would be warmer, with temperatures near sixty. With a little boost, I thought I could help spring arrive early, at least mood-wise.<br /><br />The notes in Betsey Johnson are:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Top</span>: pear, tangerine, grapefruit, black currant<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Heart</span>: freesia, lily of the valley, red apple<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Base</span>: cedar wood, sandalwood, praline, amber, musk<br /><br />That Vegas showgirl of a bottle pretty much says it all: pink and sparkling, a little exotic (it's billed as an Oriental on the Betsey Johnson site), a little artificial. This is a "happy face" perfume, a costume (fitting, really, given her designs), something to wear when you need to fake it, when you need neon lights and a little glitz, however false. The opening goes from tart to sweet in a heartbeat, the juiciness is fresh but it falls away rather quickly. The red apple keeps the heart sweet and upholds the delicate freesia and lily of the valley, which would probably pale too much on their own. As it warms into the base, it has caramel-apple mixed with a pretty typical Oriental dry down.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPJuF0283lLPjkWF64mpEL-dk8pqDZPVDoXggFUBRA1ML4zEiV3Bxfi3TcOZZv4bcw9f3ShzpDKz8sSSDtYtaeg5NU_rNGaNDSlLqgnJiHQ_zVE8mZfe6dAbuOWlu9hDuIV5ZK/s1600-h/BJ_dress.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 101px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPJuF0283lLPjkWF64mpEL-dk8pqDZPVDoXggFUBRA1ML4zEiV3Bxfi3TcOZZv4bcw9f3ShzpDKz8sSSDtYtaeg5NU_rNGaNDSlLqgnJiHQ_zVE8mZfe6dAbuOWlu9hDuIV5ZK/s200/BJ_dress.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299704526927443778" border="0" /></a>Right now, all I want is a vacation. I want the middle of summer in searing desert heat, I want the singing and clanging slot machines, a fruity cocktail, and the Bellagio fountains. I want to put on this dress and some strappy sandals, spritz myself with this scent, and be someone else for a weekend, someone faking she has not a care in the world.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*images from <a href="http://www.betseyjohnson.com/">betseyjohnson.com</a></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-3183408735512997162009-02-05T13:20:00.002-05:002009-02-05T13:29:43.757-05:00Fifty-Two StoriesHarper Perennial has put up a site, <a href="http://www.fiftytwostories.com/">Fifty-Two Stories</a>, where they're publishing short stories every Sunday for a year. They are publishing both original and previously published works from all kinds of authors. Something to read during the lunch hour!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27836026.post-34205122229602899872009-02-04T12:49:00.003-05:002009-02-04T14:01:41.113-05:00First Step: Admit You Have A ProblemToday I got a library card, my first in over ten years. I needed to check out the book for my "real" book club that meets next Tuesday. All I had to do was go in, sign up for the card, grab the book, check it out, and go home.<br /><br />In some ways, public libraries sadden me. So many of the titles on the shelves look like they haven't been checked out in a decade or longer, it feels a bit like a government nursing home for books. I feel like I should check some of them out and take them to the mall or a movie, just to get them a bit of fresh air, let them see what's changed around the neighborhood.<br /><br />In other ways, public libraries remind me: I have a serious problem. I’m like one of those people who cannot stop adopting pets from the shelter, or like that woman who just had the octuplets even though she already has six kids under age eight at home. I am a book addict. Nobody would be foolish enough to suggest to an alcoholic that she attend parties with an open bar because THE DRINKS ARE FREE AND YOU CAN HAVE AS MANY AS YOU WANT. But time and again, people tell me, "You like to read so much, you should get a library card. I am surprised you don't have one!<br /><br />Sometimes an alcoholic stays off the sauce long enough to forget its power. So it was with me and the library. I walked in, calmly applied for my card, and went straight to the shelf to grab my book. Walking through the stacks on my way to check out, I thought it couldn't hurt to take a look and see what else they had. The next thing I knew, I'd spotted five more books I wanted to pick up and take home with me (these at a cursory glance--I knew there were more), along with a running list in my head of titles to check for at other branches so I could place them on hold.<br /><br />From the far corner of by brain came a voice: "Remember your TBR pile."<br /><br />Oh that. Right. The sixty-or-so some-odd books at home, books I own, waiting to be read. Bunch of party-pooper goody-goodies sitting quietly on the shelf, waiting for me to pick them up and read them. Your basic buzz killers, reprimanding me from afar.<br /><br />“Too bad,” I told the voice. “All these books are here, and <span style="font-style: italic;">I want to take them all home with me</span>.”<br /><br />But then I thought of Bob, of the look on his face when I arrived home with a giant stack of books. (The limit is twenty-five, people. Twenty-five!) I pictured the questions forming behind his brown eyes: “Where will you put them all? When will you read them? What about the other stacks of books <span style="font-style: italic;">all over the house</span>? Who will take care of <span style="font-style: italic;">them</span>?”<br /><br />For Bob’s sake, I stopped, took a deep breath. In the end I managed to get out of the library with only two books, my book club book (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0143105507?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Stone Diaries</span></a>) and one of the January selections for <a href="http://sweet-diva.blogspot.com/2009/01/support-short-story-collections.html">Andrew's Book Club</a>, Lauren Groff's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1401340865?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span style="font-style: italic;">Delicate Edible Birds</span></a>. I also placed a hold on one of this month's selections, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0811860760?tag=swediv-20&camp=15041&creative=373501&link_code=as3"><span style="font-style: italic;">Swimming with Strangers</span></a>. And I swear that's all. I'm not going to add more books to my hold. I swear. I will think of the TBR pile. I can do this.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com