Two Umbrellas

Monday Word Count

Mon, 20 Feb 2012 11:24:08 -0800

Last week’s total: 2692

This week’s count: 1508

Total: 4200

Not too bad considering I finished some quilting deadlines. Now, let’s just hope it doesn’t take me three weeks to finish reading Stoner. Although I’ve hit a wall with it - Edith is making me tense.

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers

Wed, 15 Feb 2012 13:00:33 -0800

Her name was Rita Achenbach. She was short and feisty with tussled brown hair. She walked and talked fast - in a hurry, very busy, and always purposeful. She was tough but emotional and always cried when we talked about the Vietnam War. She smoked - Marlboros I presumed. I saw her husband a few times. He drove an old Ford Bronco, wore white t-shirts and a cowboy hat and mustache without irony in a mid-1990s, Pennsylvania suburb. They looked like they were a couple that had always been together.

Mrs. Achenbach was my high school English teacher. I went to a small Catholic high school and I had Mrs. Achenbach for 10th and 12th grade honors English. I wanted to become a teacher because of her. I did become a teacher because of her. She told me not to do it. Years later I still wonder if I should have taken her warning personally. (I didn’t and still don’t even though she was right.)

She went to college in the South - the University of Alabama, if I remember correctly - and we read a lot of books from the South. She introduced me to Carson McCullers (Ballad of the Sad Cafe) and, most importantly, William Faulkner. In 10th grade it was As I Lay Dying, in 12th, A Light in August. And I knew where my heart was. It was in her class, in her books, struggling to show that I got it or at least that I felt it. Reading The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter was like being transported back all those years, sitting in an old wooden desk, with a plaid skirt hanging just to the knee, thinking and writing about the symbolism of the South.

What can I say? I’ve never been to the South. A weekend trip to Knoxville, TN doesn’t quite count as having the Southern experience. And yet. Each time I read Southern literary classics it is so familiar - almost like coming home. I am comfortable among those characters, lost in a continually changing and confusing identity and trying to find a way out of internal and external turmoil. The lost is my home.

I should have loved The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter. It is a beautiful book. I found it hard to put down. And, when I did, I found it hard to pick back up. Reading it felt like I hit my saturation point. It felt a little too textbook. I recently discovered it was her first novel and for some reason I feel like that explains a lot. I get it. I wish I would have read it in high school or college. And if I were still teaching high school (and had a choice), I would assign it.

While wonderfully written and beautifully sad (I’m not sure I can add too many more adverbs to describe an American classic without sounding too much like a high schooler myself), I feel there are reasons it is a classic besides how well it is written and it’s compelling characters - both Mick Kelley and Biff Brannon almost brought me to tears. Is it a criticism if the book is too good? I felt I knew the book before I finished reading it - as if I was back in Mrs. Achenbach’s class discussing Southern Gothic literature and religion (in Catholic school all literature goes back to religion - can anyone name the Jesus symbol?*).

*Funny, how we were never assigned the Bible - as literature, of course.

Monday Word Count

Mon, 13 Feb 2012 12:37:08 -0800

Last week’s count: 2008

This week’s count: 684

Total: 2692

In defense of my numbers, I am working with a few quilting deadlines…Oh, the excuses never end!

"In the University library he wandered through the stacks, among the thousands of books, inhaling the..."

Fri, 10 Feb 2012 19:02:44 -0800

“In the University library he wandered through the stacks, among the thousands of books, inhaling the musty odor of leather, cloth, and drying page as if it were an exotic incense. Sometimes he would pause, remove a volume from the shelves, and hold it for a moment in his large hands, which tingled at the still unfamiliar feel of spine and board and unresisting page. Then he would leaf through the book, reading a paragraph here and there, his stiff fingers careful as they turned the pages, as if in their clumsiness they might tear and destroy what they took such pains to uncover.”

- from Stoner by John Williams

A confession

Tue, 07 Feb 2012 21:46:07 -0800

I often think about my reaction to my writing after becoming a mother. This is how it felt. Thankfully, it no longer feels this way:

But now no music was in her mind. That was a funny thing. It was like she was shut out from the inside room. Sometimes a quick little tune would come and go - but she never went into the inside room with music like she used to do. It was like she was too tense. Or maybe because it was like the store took all her energy and time. Woolworth’s wasn’t the same as school. When she used to come home from school she felt good and was ready to start working on the music. But now she was always tired. At home she just ate supper and slept and then ate breakfast and went off to the store again. A song she had started in her private notebook two months before was still not finished. And she wanted to stay in the inside room but she didn’t know how. It was like the inside room was locked somewhere away from her. A very hard thing to understand.

-Carson McCullers, The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter

I understand. Time to finish those stories.

Monday Word Count

Mon, 06 Feb 2012 10:02:05 -0800

This week’s count: 530

Total: 2008

I’m not quite sure the point of this exercise other than to make myself feel badly for not writing more. I’m hoping public shaming* will force me to make more time to write.**

*As if anyone reads this.

**Yes, I’m going to put the blame not on me but the rest of my life. I don’t want to feel too badly about it.

Monday Word Count

Tue, 31 Jan 2012 15:18:00 -0800

To keep myself in check, I’m going to start documenting my weekly word count:

1474

(Not bad considering last year’s total was close to zero. And, yes, I know it’s Tuesday.)

Weekday reads

Mon, 30 Jan 2012 22:14:00 -0800

I’ve hit a bit of a wall with The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter and am in need of a good distraction. I’ve got a few tabs open in my browser just waiting to be read*:

A long article from The Atlantic on Joan Didion. It’s by Caitlin Flanagan. Could be interesting or enraging. I’ll try not to be too biased.
Guernica considers how book design will affect the future of the printed book.
I’ll admit I don’t quite get Gertrude Stein. I’m hoping Lynne Tillman will help.
Oh, and this, because I’m having a hard time not being angry at smart women pretending not to be or assuming the rest of us aren’t. I’m looking forward to this review.

*Sure, I could use Instapaper but I rarely go back and read things. It has become my reading purgatory.

Why I keep books

Thu, 19 Jan 2012 08:41:00 -0800

Recently, I saw that Granta had published a story by Jon McGregor. I instantly clicked on it because I loved both So Many Ways To Begin and If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things. I liked his books so much that I read them just about back to back, something I rarely do - there’s just too many new books to discover.* As I clicked over to Granta I realized that the story is a reworking of a story originally published in 2002. I also noticed the cover of that particular issue looked familiar. So I went over to my bookshelf and sure enough there it was. What a find! A long time ago I used to ‘collect’ Granta magazines, particularly if there were pieces by Milan Kundera. Not sure why I collected them (or why I looked for Milan Kundera above anyone else) other than they are always beautiful and have great writing. I subscribe now and then, when I feel like spending the money; but, mostly, if I’m at a used bookstore or book sale I find one or two and pick them up.

This particular issue is a treasure trove with writings from:

Milan Kundera
Rachel Cusk
Edmund White
Arthur Miller
Jon McGregor
Gary Shteyngart

I can not wait to go back and reread some of these pieces. Just when I think about getting rid of more of my books I realize why I keep them in the first place.** I am always discovering and rediscovering.

*A sentiment I no longer believe. I am now more concerned with reading whatever I feel is the right thing to read right now. If I want to read two books by Jon McGregor, one right after the other, then that is what I shall do.

**I understand that this could easily open a discussion on the physical book versus its electronic version. I have not formed a concrete position on this issue other than that it should always, always be about the writing.

Then Again by Diane Keaton

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 16:27:46 -0800

Diane Keaton’s Then Again had such great potential. I was very intrigued by the pairing of her mother’s journals with her memoir - what a tribute to her mother and an interesting way to gain perspective on her life. I’ve always enjoyed Diane Keaton’s persona in movies. I think the first movie I saw of hers was Baby Boom and of course I fell in love with her in Annie Hall. But she was just playing characters, right?

I don’t really follow celebrities, so the biggest reveal for me in the book was that she was Annie Hall (and not that she had bulimia, which was engaging because I had no idea how much bulimics can eat and that Woody Allen didn’t question it much). The character and her family were based on her life. Which brings me to why I wanted to read this book in the first place. Maybe it was because I had just seen Woody Allen and his jazz band and then Midnight in Paris and I was thinking about Annie Hall (one of my favorite movies) and thought, Wouldn’t it be fun to read a celebrity memoir?

It was fun. It was light. It was easy. It’s been a while since I’ve read a book like that. I wasn’t expecting much more than that and I really enjoyed the bits of the journals that her mother kept. She seemed just as interesting as Diane (and a better writer). And yet, it’ll probably be quite some time before I read another celebrity memoir again for two reasons: There were too many random mentions of famous people who I didn’t know or care about. And, and, there were too many random mentions of brands at inopportune times. I know I have a tendency to be cynical about things but I didn’t need to know what car Diane Keaton drives (repeated more than once); that as her mother was dying she went out to get lunch for everyone at Baja Fresh (whatever that is); and as they were taking out the body of her mother they walked by two chairs bought at the Pottery Barn. Seriously? The last one (and this is just a short list) was the most egregious. Maybe those chairs were significant, maybe there is a sentimental reason for mentioning Pottery Barn. It doesn’t matter. The experience was ruined for me by those little mentions.

The memoir is a collage of letters, journals, memoir, photos and it is obvious that Diane Keaton is artistic. The story of her life is interesting. Of course it is - she’s a movie star. I liked the juxtaposition of her mother’s journals. It was good. It just wasn’t great. And the editor in me isn’t completely blaming the author.

Where I'm Calling From by Raymond Carver

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 21:43:12 -0800

I loved this book.

I should probably end my post right now as to avoid embarrassing myself with how much fawning I may (will) do about Where I’m Calling From. I read this book knowing I would like it - I’ve read a few Carver stories in my years. I didn’t know that I would love this book, that I will probably read this book, and other Carver collections, over and over and over again. There is so much to learn. Why didn’t I have to read Carver in college or graduate school? Because I should have known better. Any literature or writing student, especially one with a focus on short stories, worth anything would have already had a deep knowledge and understanding of Carver’s stories. Right? I should have been rewriting his stories like a young Joan Didion copying Hemingway to understand the sentences, rhythm, and trajectory of a master storyteller. I couldn’t tell you now what I was doing instead.

After I finished each story, I wanted desperately to articulate what I loved about each story. And I loved every one. I really can’t say there were any stories that I didn’t like. Yes, there were some stories that seemed similar (and I’m still fawning so I won’t say overplayed) but each character was an individual and true to its own story. My attempts to articulate what made each story good, even to myself, failed. Even now, a week or so after I finished, I am having trouble truly understanding why Carver’s writing is pure and genius.

I do, however, know why I liked it. There was nothing extra in the writing, nothing poetic, just simple storytelling. Each story was intense, the characters often on an emotional precipice yet saying, “What could I say?” The bare, no-nonsense style gives it a masculinity that I’m always attracted to.

It’s funny. I don’t write like this. I will never write like this. I don’t even want to. And yet, I feel compelled to study it. I found myself catching my breath every few pages. So, of course, I wanted to know: Could I ever do that? Could I ever make a reader catch his breath? Fortunately, I let myself go and just read the goddamned thing and enjoy it. I made no notes in the margins or underlines in the paragraphs. There will be another time for me to study it. I just read. And now I want to write.

2012 Reading Resolution

Sun, 01 Jan 2012 15:51:02 -0800

I guess it’s fitting that I write about my goals for 2012 on New Year’s Day. After I’ve had a few too many glasses of Prosecco, I feel the need to cancel out the tired feeling of drink weighing me down, to restart, exercise, eat better*, and do something with myself. That something is to write more.

I can’t be a writer without being a reader or a reader without being a writer. I used to write a lot. I used to read a lot more. And this year I will be working on doing both. I have another hobby that splits my wealth of free time as a stay-at-home mom** but I can’t escape the desire, no, need to write. I have a non-blog project in mind but I’ll be blogging more as a way to get the words out and get my voice back.

My reading may be influenced by my writing project. I can only hope my writing will be influenced by my reading. (Oh, Raymond Carver, you are my new hero!) I’m also going to try to read more non-fiction particularly by women (I’ve got a great reading list from a friend that I’m going to try to tackle). But, for the most part, I’m just going to let the writing take me where I need to go. My current word count is zero. I want to be able to revisit this post a year from now and at least be able to count something.

*After today, of course.

**If you are not a stay-at-home parent, then please reread that last statement with heavy sarcasm. There is rarely free time as a SAHM with two kids under 4.

Design as Art by Bruno Munari

Sun, 25 Dec 2011 21:12:00 -0800

As I am becoming more involved in my other hobby, I am thinking more and more about design. It influences how I plan future projects or patterns I’d like to follow or imitate. As a quilter, the object itself is functional but to create it is (or, in my case, attempts to be) art. The question of form and function are always on my mind.

I think I was led to Bruno Munari by way of children’s books. His children’s books are beautiful.* And Design as Art is beautiful, too. (There are pages and pages of drawings of chairs.) It is a collection of essays, of which I didn’t know what to expect. They were accesible and fun. I thoroughly enjoyed the essay where he explains ordinary objects (orange, pea, rose) in design speak. Yet, what I appreciated most about his philosophy of design is his dedication to ‘form equals function’. In is his essay on “Fancy Goods”, he describes the ridiculousness of decorative objects that have no purpose or contradict the original purpose of an object (e.g. a lighter in the shape of a revolver, etc). He consistently reminds the reader of simplicity in objects and in life and often praises the simplicity of Japanese culture.

I didn’t expect to laugh. I didn’t expect to simply enjoy reading these essays. And I loved this book for its basic principle of simplicity, simplicity, simplicity - something I strive for but don’t always achieve.

*I am continually amazed by the differences in taste between me and my children. Most of the books that I love (for them) are ignored (by them). There are some children’s authors who have retained the mind of a child, who can completely empathize with their development. These books, to me, are usually the least appealing to my adult senses and random. There are few exceptions: George and Martha books by James Marshall (my favorite), Madeline, and just about anything by Eric Carle and Leo Lionni.

My year in reading

Thu, 22 Dec 2011 21:23:17 -0800

I used to relish end of year lists, but now I just skim the NYT 100 book list and do my best to keep up with all of the excellent ‘A Year in Reading’ posts at The Millions. I decided to check out my goodreads page and take a look at the books I’ve read this year - a shameful few. And now, because I can’t help myself, I’ve been thinking of that typical December question: what has been the best book I’ve read all year?

I didn’t read many books this year. I started 13 and finished 10 (although, to be fair I’ve got two books I’ll probably finish before the year’s end*). Despite so few books, I read some really great books. A Handmaid’s Tale vs. Invisible Man? Blue Has No South vs. Someday This Will Be Funny vs. The Boat? Then where does that leave Fair Play? And if I finish Where I’m Calling From, I’ll be forced to choose between classics and new classics and then I realize that there are too many to choose.

So will I choose?

No. I can’t. My year in reading this year has been a restoration in my faith, yes, faith in books. I’ve enjoyed my reading. I read for pleasure. Shouldn’t I always? Yes. But I easily get caught in the trap of the Internet, the reviews, the twitter, the whatever. This year, I (mostly) kept to my reading resolution and rediscovered books on my bookshelf that have been waiting patiently to be read - there are quite a few left. I’ve relished this discovery. I enjoy choosing the next one and not thinking about it, letting the leftover emotions guide my choice. Invisible Man was beautiful and intense and I was grateful to follow it with Someday This Will Be Funny but even more grateful to find Fair Play at the library after that. I needed some calmness. And I enjoyed every minute of this ebb and flow.

Now, I’m back with some intensity in Carver’s Where I’m Calling From** and I’ve got some books lined up after that but maybe I’ll read those or maybe I’ll read something else. I’ll see where Carver takes me. And there, in that movement, is my joy.

*That leaves a lonely book I did not finish this year (sorry, Big Machine). I’ve decided that I will not waste my time reading books that I don’t like. That may limit my reading landscape but it makes for a much happier reader.

**Holy shit, this book is awesome. I’ve read a few Carver stories here and there but never a full collection. This book is rekindling the writer in me. I do not want this book to end. It will. I know it will. And then I know I will have to write again.

The ones I will keep

Sat, 10 Dec 2011 08:21:00 -0800

As I reflected on my previous post, I started thinking about the books that I will never give up. What makes them shelf-worthy? This isn’t a list of my favorite books. Some of the reasons I would keep books are purely sentimental: books that I read as a child or, later, books that opened my reading (and sometimes myself) to adulthood.

my childhood Roald Dahl collection
my high school copy of The Great Gatsby. I kept it through undergrad and highlighted so many times in so many colors that to read it again, I think I’ll have to get a new copy. Maybe one of those beautiful Penguin classics.
My William Faulkner collection. I don’t have all of his books, although it’s pretty close. Some day I will have them all and I won’t get rid of those either. Reading Faulkner for me is like listening to Charlie Parker - there is always a moment when I think Holy shit, I didn’t know that could be done. Beautifully.
Just about anything I have by Joan Didion. If I had to choose it would be my copy of Slouching Towards Bethlehem that I bought at a used bookstore in London on my honeymoon (you know you’ve married the right man when he’ll travel to another country with you to go into used bookstores to buy American authors) and The White Album (of course).
Ulysses
Infinite Jest
The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. I have so many of his books but I would choose this one for sentimental reasons.
On the Road (also for sentimental reasons)
From Here to Eternity by James Jones because it will always remind me of Bill and Pat.
My Norton anthologies. I have a few from undergrad and there is just so, so much in these texts.
My Eudora Welty and Flannery O’Connor collections from Library of America

I may be missing some. I know it would be hard to part with my old Granta magazines but I think I could if I had to.

I know this list will say a lot about me. There are no rare gems here - all blockbusters (but maybe they’re that way for a reason). No matter, these are the ones that mean the most to me.

Book Purge

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 20:57:31 -0800

For most of my life I’ve been collecting books. Maybe collecting books isn’t the right word - it’s more like hoarding them. My collection of books isn’t too bad, not in the thousands, but definitely in the hundreds. I still have some of the books that first made me a reader: a real, ‘this is who I am’ kind of reader. A faded Matilda by Roald Dahl is patiently waiting in my three year old’s closet for when she gets to be a bit older.* If only I still had all of my old Babysitters’ Club books! (See, it’s a sickness!) Why do I need all of these books when most of them I’ll never open again. (See aforementioned Babysitter’s Club books.)

I keep them because they are old friends. Books started out as an escape. They were trusted friends and then stayed that way for the rest of my life. I can’t remember living in a room that didn’t have some books with me. Why is it, then, that I would want to part with the warmth and comfort that my books provide?

I am in a state of transition. Yes, these old books are old friends, good friends. But I must move on. First and logistically, I just have too many of them. I even have some in storage. I don’t know what books they are. I don’t know why I have them. Maybe some day I’ll look at them again. Maybe my kids will. Or neither will happen. Currently my house is filled with the kids’ toys. It’s a happy and chaotic filled; but it’s still filled. I don’t need books to add to my daily chaos. Especially that book by that author, the one that I liked a few years ago, that had a decent book about that guy, that I’ll never read again. I don’t need it. Therefore, I don’t want it. Second, my style of reading has changed. There was a time when I read what I was supposed to read (i.e. in school or books that were undoubtedly good, probably recommended and blogged and hyped about) and did or didn’t read. I can’t (won’t) count how many books I have that I haven’t read. Therefore, I’m starting to choose books that I want to read. Meaning, if it sounds good, I’ll read it. If I get 50-70 pages into it and I don’t like it, it goes.

At first my inclination to purge my books felt like a bit of a betrayal. Who am I to make such decisions about literature? I’m a failed (so far) writer, ex-English teacher, and lover of words and art who just wants to enjoy reading again. I find I get so much more out of reading and writing when it’s for myself right now. The immediate connection or drive to write or read certain books makes my literary journey of sorts much more enjoyable and worthwhile. My old books are not where I’m at right now. In a sense, I’m starting my reading journey over. Who knows, I may even write again.

*Will my kids treasure books as much as I do? I hope but that is a question that I’m not sure I want the answer to. However, I have three full bookshelves in our living room (also their play space, which is quite limited in our Seattle apartment), and Claire’s new hobby is taking down books and ‘reading’ me stories from them. Her favorites: my old Granta copies with the white and color blocked spines. I am starting to believe that just having books in the house is a good influence for a love of reading.

Some thoughts on Seattle after reading In Utopia by J.C. Hallman

Mon, 21 Nov 2011 21:11:00 -0800

In October of 2009 my family and I moved from Philadelphia to Seattle. It’s been two years and I still feel a bit in limbo, as though it’s been my first day here for years. I was excited to move to Seattle because of the novelty, its newness. Although, I’m not sure why I wanted to leave Philadelphia. I loved Philly - I still love Philly - although it’s very easy to say that when you are 2800 miles away from home. And yet where is my home? Home is such a strong word, rife with cliche, metaphor, and too much sentimentality. Shouldn’t it be simpler than that? Shouldn’t it be where you are now? Does it have to be fabricated? Or even intellectualized? Seattle was my idea of utopia. It was exciting that Seattle was not Philadelphia. Seattle was thousands of miles away. Moving to Seattle felt like moving to a new country without having to learn a new language and I moved here with only seeing Seattle once for about 24 hours. I spent the six weeks we had between deciding to move and actually moving creating my own Seattle Utopia. When I got here, I realized I wasn’t the only one.

I couldn’t help but think of my transatlantic move when reading J.C. Hallman’s In Utopia, which describes six different modern utopias. From pleistocene rewilding, which intrigued me the most especially because Ted Turner was indirectly involved, to Front Sight, a civilian combat training facility, as well as a few less extreme utopias: a megacity in Korea; the origins of the Slow Food movement, which is not only a novel way to approach the idea of a modern utopia (through food) but also just a fantastic piece of travel writing; a cruise ship where you can own your own apartment; and Twin Oaks, a 40 year old ‘intentional community’. What stuck with me is the idea of an intentional community and left me with a lot of questions: What exactly makes a community intentional? Why should a community be intentional? Can it be a community if it is intentional? What, then, is a community? I am no anthropologist (although I took an anthropology course in college from a professor who looked eerily like Kevin Costner) and I haven’t read More’s Utopia and, therefore, may not be the best person to answer my own questions.

Hallman wants to believe in the intentional community, that a utopia can and should exist. And, yet, in the end he questions whether More’s Utopia was a joke for those who wanted a utopia. For shame if you wanted to believe in a utopia! (Shame on me for not reading it!) While I like the idea of an idealized community - a happy, cohesive lifestyle - I don’t believe in it. Maybe I’m too much of a cynic but ‘intentional’ communities, and I don’t just mean Twin Oaks but all utopias, lack authenticity. Twin Oaks has been around 40 years; you could imagine some authenticity, history, roots in a thriving commune. But intentional communities don’t make room for the two most important aspects of a community: freedom and diversity. Free will - diverse free wills - lead to the organic growth of a community which, in time, makes it cohesive. While that may seem an obvious conclusion, it doesn’t seem apparent to those within ‘intentional’ communities. To me, the idea of an intentional community is an oxymoron.

How is that related to my moving to Seattle? It may not be related at all. And then maybe I just can’t get my head out of the East Coast. Seattle seems like a young city. Everything is new: homes, architecture, infrastructure, laws, sports teams, even much of the populace. Many of the city dwellers are transplants like myself. We’ve moved here to create a different or better life for ourselves and families. For me it feels as though everyone had the same feelings as I did before we moved: a new place, a fresh start, with like minded people. Sounds nice and safe. Instead it can be very isolating (Seattleites know all too well the infamous “Seattle Freeze”.)

I do think that since Seattle is a city of transplants, it creates a city with short roots. We came to this beautiful city (I will always be amazed at how beautiful Seattle is) with similar ideals but I don’t feel like I’m a part of anything greater than my own ideals. (Key word, here, being *greater*. I have a wonderful circle of friends - people I’d like to stay friends with even if we (or they) don’t stay in Seattle.) But I’m not sure how to become a part of the collective ‘Seattle’. I recently read an op-ed piece in the NYT about how individual actions (i.e. using reusable grocery bags, etc.) will not help the environment only collective actions (i.e. changes in economics, Congress, etc.) will. The article reminded me of my conflict with Seattle: “So why bother recycling or riding your bike to the store? Because we all want to do something, anything. Call it “action bias.” But, sadly, individual action does not work. It distracts us from the need for collective action, and it doesn’t add up to enough.” This is why I don’t believe in utopias. Individuals create utopias where as people - collectives, if you will - create communities.

Reading Round-Up

Wed, 11 May 2011 18:03:44 -0700

It’s been so long since I’ve read these books that I can’t quite give them a proper review. In fact, I’m not sure why I’m writing about them at all. Two reasons, really. One: I need to write. About anything. I’ve fallen out of the habit of writing and I need to force myself back in. I don’t want to lose my sense of language and its connection with my hands. (Is it strange that I find writing to be so physical?) Two: I read some really good books. If there’s anyone reading this, which I highly doubt, I know you’ve already heard of these books. But there comes a time when you read something and you just have to tell someone about them. Isn’t that why I have you, dear blog? So, here you have it, truncated notes for books that deserve much, much more.

Blue Has No South by Alex Epstein is a lovely little book. It is a collection of short shorts or flash fiction. It was an impulse loan from my library - I wanted something short and sweet - something to just get through (I’m not sure why but I think Freedom had something to do with it). This tiny collection took me at least two weeks to read. Each story, which may have been only a paragraph or even a sentence or two, was so rich, thoughtful, and lovely. I’m making them sound like a Hallmark card but I was left with a feeling from the collection: empathy, tenderness, and - most importantly - depth.

I had such a long post planned forThe Jokers by Albert Cossery. What a wonderful, wonderful library find! Of course, had I been paying attention to the Internet, I would have already known about the brilliant Cossery and his band of jokers. Set in an unnamed Middle Eastern city, The Jokers tells the story of a group of men who plot against their government through ridicule. They do this through sarcastic praise instead of traditional revolutionary tactics. The revolutionaries think they’re being mocked, the government doesn’t realize they are, and we discover how naive we all can be. Let’s just say I wish I had read this book in 2004.

Finally, The Handmaid’s Tale. What can I say about Margaret Atwood’s brilliant novel that probably hasn’t already been said before? I will say that it has become one of my favorite books - one that I will reread. I can still replay scenes in my head and my stomach still turns at the prospect of such a dystopian life. Yet, the book was beautiful. Oh, the sentences! However, reading it a few weeks after having a baby was probably not a good idea. With hormones running high, there were many nights of tears and nightmares. (I am, unfortunately, prone to literary inspired nightmares.)

2011 Reading Resolution: A little late to the party

Wed, 16 Feb 2011 01:03:55 -0800

So I’m two months late, which shows you how dedicated I am to resolutions. When I get to them, I’ll get to the them. I am somewhat determined to keep my 2011 reading resolution, however. For quite some time I was a book hoarder. I have since given up on buying books for the sake of buying them. In fact, I’ve given away a lot of my old books (sorry, non-fiction, your always the first to go when space is needed). In my recent purges I’ve realized how many books I own that I haven’t read. Many books that I’ve recently read have been library books, which is good for my bank account but not so good for my backlog. So that is my reading resolution for 2011, to whittle down the backlog of books that have been waiting patiently to be read like sad kittens in an old pet shop.

This means that I will be reading a lot books that I missed out on when they were first published or classics that I should have read in grad school, college, high school - even. Yes, that means you, Moby Dick! This also means that I will not be jumping on the literary bandwagon this year (after Freedom, I’m glad for it). I know I’ll miss out on some good books this year. But there are always new, good books. Although a few years from now, I’m sure I’ll be revisiting the “A little late to the party” section of my bookshelves because I know I won’t be able to resist buying at least one new book this year.

First up is The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood - it’s not my first reading of Atwood but it should have been.

Freedom by Jonathan Frazen

Wed, 19 Jan 2011 23:10:22 -0800

Ahh, Freedom! What to say about Freedom that hasn’t been said already? Truthfully, I don’t really know what was said about it since I’ve given up on reading book reviews. (I barely have time to read books let alone articles about books.) But I do have this to say about the book: I didn’t not like it. Yes, I know, quite passive - a non-statement, really just a state of ambivalence. I don’t regret reading it; but, if I hadn’t read it, I wouldn’t be upset. (That’s a telling statement since I wouldn’t be able to say that without reading it.) All in all, I think my most definitive feeling about it was that I thought it could have used a more discerning editor. Does that mean I didn’t like it? Yes and no.

While the novel is seemingly the story of the Burglands, it is really a story about Walter and a story about Joey. More simply, a story about two men and the women they love. Yet, how or why they love the women they love is elusive. Of course, there is no rhyme or reason for why people fall in love (that’s why there’s literature). Franzen’s characters just seem to be in love. As readers we must accept it. (In great novels, it shouldn’t matter. We happily accept it.) But in these cases, Walter with Patty and Joey with Connie, love plagues the men and left me wondering why - what is it about these women? Franzen had a word for it: interesting. I wish I had the energy to count how many times interesting was used to describe women. The editor in me almost did until I realized what interesting really meant. Sexy. So the women are sexy? That’s it? That’s it? Thinking back on the novel, I could be willing to accept that - chemistry is hard to explain. However, Franzen spends two sections from Patty’s point of view in an attempt to round out her character. Unfortunately, most of that leaves Patty an empty character not knowing who she is, which is acceptable, but ultimately leads her to becoming even more sexy through her affair with Richard. And this I found weak.

Admittedly, I’m overanalyzing these fictional characters. They are there to drive the story, and they do; but to what end? Reading Freedom has me questioning what it means to be a literary novel. Franzen is considered a literary author. But why? I can’t recall a sentence from the novel that moved me. I did feel for some of the characters but not as much as I could have. I found Freedom to be a missed opportunity. It is certainly not the novel of our time. Throwing in some popular band names and mentioning the iPod makes the text sound like it has product placements rather than being entrenched in our culture. Add some references to 9/11 and the war in Iraq and the 2000s are covered. I wonder why Franzen treated differently than, say, Nick Hornby.

Yet, it was easy to get sucked into the hype that is Franzen. I fell for it with The Corrections and again with Freedom. (My thoughts on The Corrections are similar to those on Freedom.) I enjoyed the hype. It was fun to buy the book in hardcover. It was fun to avoid the reviews. It was fun to actually read a book right after I purchased it. My apologies to the dozens of books on my shelves that I purchased years ago and still have not read*. It was fun to just read the book. And that’s what I liked about it. It was fun to read. It felt like one step above a beach read: easy, light, interesting story - a little sex, a little politics (but not too much of either). But that is also one thing I didn’t like about it. For a novel over five hundred pages, I was expecting a little more depth. Although, to be fair, maybe I was just hoping for it.

*I’m hoping to change that soon with a 2011 reading resolution.