A Light Inside

Top Ten Tuesday: Great Book Club Picks

2012-01-31T10:00:00.000-08:00

The short answer to this question: It depends entirely on the nature of your book club.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

The long answer:

For four or five years now, I've been part of a book club composed of Catholic girls with immense variety of taste among them. We've read everything from environmentalist treatises to Willa Cather to Chesterton to devotional works about Christ and faith and being a woman and Mary. It's hard to please everyone in the group, but over time we've learned each other well enough to pick works that reasonably fulfill the following qualifications:

Under 200 pages or a very fast read
Contains enough depth of thought to inspire some discussion
Appeals to a fairly broad audience

If you asked every woman in the group, they'd probably all differ on which books succeeded best at this, but here are a few of the most memorable. I've tried to pick ones that would appeal to groups not necessarily made up of Catholics. :)

1. The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho. A quick, dreamlike read, with lots to consider and discuss. Bonus points for giving me the chance to talk about alchemy.

2. Peace Like a River by Leif Enger. One of the few books that nearly everyone in the group actually finished.

3. Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather. While the tale reads very episodic, with little plot, it's a beautifully written, interesting and nuanced picture of Catholic missionary life among the peoples of the American southwest.

4. Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis. This book proved harder for some of the girls to finish, but contained plenty to discuss, which meant that we actually talked about the book for over an hour rather than drifting quickly into catching up on life.

5. Animal, Vegetable, Mineral by Barbara Kingsolver. I admit to only reading the first chapter—I think my head was too busy with my own book at the time—but the rest of the group loved it.

6. Dimiter by William Peter Blatty. Despite some of our getting creeped out by the torture scene, this relatively new release by the author of The Exorcist was moving, interesting, and most of us finished it.

7. The Lord Peter Wimsy mysteries by Dorothy Sayers. We've read the first two, which have always been good for a laugh and some conversation.

8. From Union Square to Rome by Dorothy Day. The testimonial of the former Communist who began the Catholic Worker Movement. Fascinating story, and a short, easy read.

9. The Shack by William P. Young. We tore it apart theologically, but it did have some good insights and was a very moving tale.

10. The Red Tent by Anita Diamant. Another one I didn't finish, this time because the pagan menarche ritual cost me my suspension of disbelief (Dinah talked as if it were glorious, but frankly, I think it would scar most young girls for life. Also, I think it highly unlikely that Jacob would have allowed his wives to remove his daughter's proof of virginity.) But I wish I had finished it, because the rest of the girls loved the bond between the women.

We're reading Utopia (Thomas More) this month, and though I've not yet finished it, I expect it to spark some great discussion.

What books would you recommend? After all, we've reached the time of year when I need to bring a list of suggestions. :)

Surely the Darkness Shall Cover Me: Dealing with Creative Block

2012-01-30T09:30:00.000-08:00

“Some must "stay drunk on writing so that reality cannot destroy you" (Ray Bradbury), others insist that "One ought only to write when one leaves a piece of one's own flesh in the inkpot" (Lev Tolstoy).”

"...to be an artist meant: not to reckon and count, to ripen like the tree which does not force its sap and stands confident in the storms of spring without fear lest no summer might come after." ~Rainier Maria Rilke

Source.

"Moonlight is dangerous, but beautiful, essential for artistic dreamings, which is why, this week, in the darkness of the moon, I'm bringing the discussion over to the lack of dreams. What happens when the artist loses sight of the moon and flounders for awhile?" ~Masha

The moonless, starless darkening of the creative power terrorizes most artists from time to time. Sometimes it's simply indecision in the midst of a work. Sometimes it happens because of distracting circumstances, and sometimes the soul shuts down its own productivity in an all-hands-on-deck attempt to heal some wound. Whatever the cause, we who create all eventually face Masha's question, wondering not only what to do when the moon disappears, but whether we dare hope it will ever return.

Says Masha, speaking for herself:

In the dark nights, I wait, words ripening within, for the moon to light a new path. Not forcing words or faking inspiration. But I'm a part-time writer at best, with no deadlines to follow, and I have the luxury of time.

Says Mr. Pond, responding to Rilke's words:

This creative desperation seems in itself a fertile ground [where] an artist can take root. The challenge [to] any artist is not to be too afraid in the dark, moonless nights, to learn to welcome winters, and doubts and questioning. To find and love the hidden lights of winter, the darkest nights of stillness and starlight. To learn to whistle in the teeth of despair.

No two artists will handle the absence of the dreamer's moon in quite the same way. Perhaps we may not handle it the same way twice within our own lives. But we may take encouragement from those who have tried to walk in that darkness before us.

Bradbury’s suggestion of staying ginned up on writing holds a surprising amount of meaning for me, perhaps because I’ve used creativity as a tool to stave off destructive sorrow. Now, alcohol makes me first dizzy and then sleepy; it doesn't seem to affect reality for me very much—perhaps because I've never drunk enough at one time to, as Mr. Pond put it, use the karaoke machine. Intoxication may not be the best analogy for me. All my life, though, I've dealt with the troubles of reality by turning to the pen. On account of which, total writer's block has rarely come over me.

Tolstoy’s quote, however, baffles me a little. Perhaps that is because for better or for worse, my inkpot adamantly refuses to give forth its contents unless a bit of my own flesh goes in. It’s hard and confusing and often even embarrassing, but it’s the only way I can make the pen leave any kind of mark on the paper.

On second thought, perhaps I understand Tolstoy after all.

Rilke is a little more obtuse—the prerogative of modern poets—but if I stare long enough, I think I get what he means. It’s a slow and steady gain, not forcing what cannot be forced, but holding firm despite the powers moving against you. A wise path, that.

Because every artist and every time of creative darkness is unique, it's hard to prescribe any one remedy. A word, an idea, a change of place, a song, some contemplation of unexpected loveliness—any of these may inspire. Better yet may be an experience of art that holds the sort of beauty and truth the artist most hopes to capture in his own work. But sometimes the artist simply needs rest and refreshment, and nothing else will do.

One never quite knows what winds will blow the clouds away from the moon. But some wind generally does.

“This place of which you say ‘It is a waste’…
There shall be heard again the voice
Of mirth and the voice of gladness.”
~Jeremiah 33:10-11

Songs of Praise and other stories

2012-01-27T11:09:00.000-08:00

Source.

Both the brothers Pazdziora linked this beautiful paean to Lewis, Tolkien and Chesterton yesterday, and I looked at the title and thought: wait, those are Neil Gaiman's favorite childhood authors? I am so reading this.

I read it breathless, sometimes on the verge of the best sort of tears. True, Gaiman seems to subscribe to the standard misinterpretation of Susan's fall from grace, and the various parallels between Narnia and Christianity have always seemed more to me like a love for the Biblical story of redemption rather than cold proselytic agenda, but otherwise, nearly everything he says about the authors and their works will delight anyone else who loved them. For instance, this:

I would read other books, of course, but in my heart I knew that I read them only because there wasn’t an infinite number of Narnia books to read.

And this:

I wanted to write The Lord of the Rings. The problem was that it had already been written.

And this:

Behind every Chesterton sentence there was someone painting with words, and it seemed to me that at the end of any particularly good sentence or any perfectly-put paradox, you could hear the author, somewhere behind the scenes, giggling with delight.

And there are others, but I'll leave some of the great lines for your discovery.

Read it, if you will. This is the sort of thing that reminds me why I want to be an author. Also, it made me want to read more Gaiman.

* * *

Further, it makes me want to write my own paean, which might or might not include Tolkien (whom I took awhile to discover and longer to love), but would definitely include Lewis and Chesterton (mostly for Orthodoxy) as well as L.M. Montgomery, Jane Austen, and despite my discovering them much later, Rowling and Card and Hale. It would be far too long for just one piece, I suppose. But when Gaiman talks about what each of the three authors meant to him, what they did for him, I know exactly what he means.

* * *

This week in the life of Maia:

Maia: I want to play in the toy room.

Me: That’s the laundry room, and like I’ve told you a thousand times, kitties aren’t allowed.

Maia: But there are toys in there.

Me: Those are potatoes.

Maia: They roll around when I bat at them.

Me: I don’t like finding them half-chewed and moldy under the couch.

Maia: OOH. And there’s water in there.

Me: Yes, in the watering can. Which I’ve seen you dump over by trying to climb on it. You’re not helping your case.

Maia: You’ll have to open the door sometime, and I’ll get in then.

Me: How many times do I have to trip over you before you realize that bolting in front of my moving feet is a bad idea?

Maia: I’m going to dig up your aloe plant while you sleep tonight.

* * *

Runner-up writers' link of the week: Nick Mamatas shares ten bits of advice writers should stop giving aspiring writers. Includes some bad language. Also, much brilliance. Via Mike Duran.

* * *

Music of the week: Eric suggested Morten Lauridsen the other week when I'd gone off on a rant against much of Christian music, so here's the O Nata Lux from Lauridsen's Lux Aeterna. It is quite beautiful.

* * *

Random amusement of the week: Condescending Literary Pun Dog.

* * *

Now, I'm off to work on rewrites of my novella, clean the house, finish reading Card's Xenocide because it's absorbing my mind and I need my concentration back, continue plotting a couple of important fixes to my second novel, and try to make some progress on dealing with my first novel. And get ready for tonight, because my beloved gentleman of a husband is taking me on a nice little date, because... because... because I'm thirty-four now.

Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: Battle of the Labyrinth (Percy Jackson, book 4)

2012-01-25T10:52:00.000-08:00

The last thing I wanted to do on my summer break was blow up another school. But there I was Monday morning, the first week of June, sitting in my mom’s care in front of Goode High School on East 81st.

Goode was this big brownstone building overlooking the East River. A bunch of BMWs and Lincoln Town Cars were parked out front. Staring up at the fancy stone archway, I wondered how long it would take me to get kicked out of this place.

“Just relax.” My mom didn’t sound relaxed. “It’s only an orientation tour. And remember, dear, this is Paul’s school. So try not to... you know.”

“Destroy it?”

“Yes.”

Author: Rick Riordan

Synopsis: All Percy needs to do is live to age sixteen so he can fulfill the big prophecy, but that isn’t as easy as it looks.

With Camp Half-Blood under threat from Kronos’ army, Percy accompanies Annabeth on her first quest, a trip into Daedalus’ Labyrinth. But Annabeth refuses to tell anyone, even Percy, the last line of the prophecy the Oracle gave for the mission. Besides having to fight for his life every few turns in the maze, Percy has to deal with Annabeth’s confusing behavior, another unexpected half-brother, a reckless son of Hades, a mortal girl who sees through the Mist and annoys Annabeth, Grover and Tyson’s troubled search for Pan, and a hard-to-control power that he didn’t know he possessed. If all that weren’t enough, his archenemy, Luke, is getting weirder and stronger, and unfortunately no less vicious.

Notes: Percy’s fourth book is darker than the second and third, partly owing to its passing almost entirely underground. Though Riordan maintains the humorous junior high boy voice, life in the Labyrinth cannot stay light. Particularly not when our hero stands opposed to an evil Titan rising from Tartarus, and spends a fair amount of time dealing with a son of Hades.

Now fifteen years old, Percy has begun to think and act just a little more seriously. Annabeth mystifies him; he cannot understand either her dislike of Rachel Elizabeth Dare or her continued bond to Luke, let alone her various charged responses toward Percy himself. Determined to take on the burden of the prophecy, Percy soldiers onward, but to his surprise, he seems unexpectedly capable of destroying not just schools, but parts of America. Influence over Nico, however, seems beyond him.

Nico's character progression is excellent. Hating Percy and desperate to revive his sister, he starts off under the influence of a vengeful minor god. His summoning of the dead will make some readers uncomfortable, though in the context of the story he has some right to communicate with the Underworld and even exercise limited authority over it. But the direction of his story is toward wisdom. It should be interesting to see where he goes in the next book.

Darker by far than Nico is Luke, who, having sold his soul to evil, begins to suffer its demands upon his body as well—though perhaps not in the way one might expect. It’s not a gory or visual horror, but it’s horror nonetheless. Though Percy has no good feelings toward his archenemy, Riordan maintains a limited, if suspect, sympathy for Luke. Or maybe it’s just this reader sympathizing with Annabeth.

Despite the darkness, the tale seemed slightly less Vegas-y and rather more beautiful than its predecessors. Calypso’s island and the cave of Pan are both intensely lovely, and Daedalus’ workshop has a beauty of its own. Percy’s dreamlike narration of the former two gave off a stronger sense of beauty than I recall finding in either of his trips to Olympus.

The environmental sermon from a certain character was interesting, and amusing and poignant enough to keep the rhetoric from being quite so tiresome as environmentalist moralizing sometimes is. It was also one-sided and therefore short on subtlety, but meritorious nonetheless.

The Greek words and concepts got a little overwhelming compared to the other books in the series. On the other hand, I read so quickly that this may have been more my fault than Riordan’s. A second read would probably clear up all that.

Recommendation: Highly readable, with much to like. I’m looking forward to book five.

Top Ten Tuesday: Favorite Book Characters

2012-01-24T10:49:00.000-08:00

It's a Top Ten Freebie this week, so I'm picking the seventh topic The Broke and The Bookish ever posted, which I missed by several months.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

All right. Limiting this to ten was a challenge; I had ten in a matter of minutes, and certainly could have kept going. Also, this sort of thing tends to change from time to time. But here are ten I absolutely love.

1. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. I have never known a more brilliantly drawn, fascinating character of the larger-than-life variety. (The Harry Potter series, J.K. Rowling)

2. Andrew "Ender" Wiggin. About whom I could say just what I said of Dumbledore, only "larger-than-life" would mean something less humorous and more introspective. (The Ender books, Orson Scott Card)

3. Lucy Pevensie. While we don't know Narnia's visitors as intimately as others on this list, Lucy's name means light, and she is just that—light incarnate. (The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis)

4. Anidori Kiladra Talianna Isilee. Crown princess turned goose girl, Ani has a natural goodheartedness that becomes grace through strength and wisdom. (The Goose Girl, Shannon Hale)

5. Jane Eyre. Brave and passionate and firmly principled and intelligent, Jane is nearly everything a woman could ever hope to be. (Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë)

6. Hermione Granger. Brilliant and brave, loyal and capable. Hermione is also nearly everything a woman could ever hope to be. (The Harry Potter series, J.K. Rowling)

7. Annie Anderson. Gentle, patient Annie, sensitive and sweet. I love her so much. (Alec Forbes of Howglen, George MacDonald)

8. Anne Elliot. Austen's mature heroine, who has learned greatness through sorrow. Anne is exquisite. (Persuasion, Jane Austen)

9. Anne Shirley. All "spirit and fire and dew", one of "the souls by nature pitched too high/ by suffering plunged too low." Anne is poetry personified, and we all love her for it. (The Anne books, L.M. Montgomery)

10. Mortimer Folchart. Young adult books are full of young male leads for girls to fall in love with... and not one of them holds a candle to Meggie's father. Now that's a man. :) (Inkheart and sequels, Cornelia Funke)

Why are half of them named Anne? This I don't know.

Honorable mentions to Ian O'Shea and Wanderer, Heidi, Rand al'Thor, Konstantin Levin, Benny Hogan, Peeta Mellark, Harry Potter, Lily Evans, Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Aravis, Old Parson, Miri Larendaughter, Elizabeth and Jane Bennet, Henry Tilney, Elinor Dashwood, Sofya Semyonovna, Bambi, Alec Forbes, Agnes Wickfield, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, Cosmo Warlock, and many, many others whom I simply haven't managed to think of at this moment....

Who would you choose?

Music of the Night: Dreaming in Fictional Worlds

2012-01-23T09:00:00.000-08:00

A masterpiece of fiction is an original world and as such is not likely to fit the world of the reader.
~Vladimir Nabokov

I probably tend to read with less charity and more criticism. When the worlds painted aren't as alive and richly colored as mine I grow dissatisfied. There are flaws I can't forgive, and generally they are flaws of attitude. I can revel in darkness with only the smallest flicker of light, but if an author gives the indication he doesn't recognize a character's personhood I'm gone. Stock characters are all well and good, so long as I can feel their humanity. I can embrace a world unlike my own, so long as it doesn't offend it.

Source.

Jenna, Mr. Pond, your charity impresses me, but do you draw a line where quality is concerned?
~Masha

The accolade of charity delights me, deserved or otherwise, but the format of blogging can introduce one critical confusion that I'd like to clear up right away. Blogging often mingles personal response with quasi-professional opinion a little too closely. I've actually (and very recently) begun trying to move away from that, to write objective reviews of the books I read rather than journaling about my own response to them—though I would argue that even the best and most professional reviews are somewhat subjective. Which contention is part of what got this blogalectic started in the first place.

Quality, however, matters to me as a reader, not just as critic and artist. I look for smooth sentences and prefer beautiful prose; I look for worlds drawn in imaginative clarity and strong detail, and for characters who show humanity in their joys and sufferings.

Most especially, though—and here is probably why I get along well with Meyer and Alcott and Rowling and Grisham despite their not-very-artistic prose—I look for a vision of light and life that resonates with our existence beyond the mundane. As Mr. Pond says:

A masterpiece is a world of night and shadows and moonlight, of wonder and anticipation and tears and laughter, that fits, and feels more homelike because it’s more true—even if it be more terrible and sad, or best of all more prone to laughter—than the capricious, flattening factual world.

What Masha calls charity is probably just that I find at least hints of this in almost everything I read. That fact is partly due to my optimistic tendencies and partly to my general refusal to read novels that will likely make me angry. Again like Mr. Pond, however, who calls Nabokov "one of the great literary charlatans" who "utterly wasted a talent for beautiful prose", I read with the understanding that just because I found nothing of value in a book doesn't mean that everyone will have the same experience. Mr. Pond continues:

I do not like Nabokov... But I like and respect Masha, who likes Nabokov. That tells me there is something about this man’s writings worth considering, something about his thoughts worth pondering. It tells me to remain open to the possibility that there may be something in these words that I cannot see.

Only a few problems ever thoroughly destroy a story for me. In Nabokov's case, it was a certain contemplation of the grotesque that I found particularly hard to put my mind through. But Masha hit close to my usual difficulty when she said this:

I can embrace a world unlike my own, so long as it doesn't offend it.

And with that, we move into the other two quotes she put up for discussion.

"A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world." ~Oscar Wilde

"I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day." ~Vincent Van Gogh

The Wilde quote occasioned rather different interpretations by Masha and Mr. Pond, so I looked it up. It comes from a dialogue titled The Critic as Artist, which I got caught up in reading—and in laughing out loud over, because Wilde is hilarious. After some acquaintance with the personality of Gilbert, who I believe stands in for Wilde himself, I had to smile at Gilbert's claim to be the moonlight dreamer whose punishment is the first sight of dawn. "His punishment?" says Ernest in response, in concert with my thoughts. "And his reward," Gilbert finishes.

Source.

Van Gogh speaks as an artist, and indeed as artists we spend much of our time in the night. The conflict is there, the struggle, the passion, the story. For us novelists, the goal—usually—is the dawn, but once we've reached it, the story proper has ended.

Of course, now I'm confusing the symbolism. Wilde's comment and Van Gogh's do not necessarily make the same allegory of night and day. They did, however, give me the same thought at first look, and that is that night as a better place than day doesn't really work as a metaphor. Not to my sensibilities, at least. If you will, it creates a world unlike my own, which offends the latter.

Such a response is a completely unfair interpretation of both quotes. I understand that, but I also have a strong inner resistance to the call to "Turn your face away from the garish light of day/ Turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light." It is true, as the earlier part of Hart's lyric goes, that:

Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination

...and more importantly to the artist, who seeks to disarm and soften the disbelief of the recipient, that "Silently the senses abandon their defenses." But to love the night too much, as the Phantom does, is usually to become its true child: a monster. Raoul may be cocksure and Christine over-credulous, but both of them still have a firm hold on their humanity, and must come out of the night to live in the day.

The story ends there, of course, but only—I suspect—because we are mostly too much children of night ourselves to fully appreciate the inside of happily ever after. Most of us are also human enough to hope for it, though.

For some of us artists, writing dark imaginative tales is a way of holding on very hard to that hope. So hard that though we dream by moonlight, our visions are ever of the day.

The Side Effects of Snow Days and other stories

2012-01-20T15:42:00.000-08:00

Today, I am grateful for this:

Meaning the snow, though I like the yard, too.

...as it cancelled nearly all of my normal errands and meetings and events this week. Which allowed me to sit down on the couch with blanket and computer and sometimes cat on my lap, and push out the last thirteen thousand words of my second full-length novel.

This story has been blood and tears, mental exhaustion, uncertainty, the setting aside of over fifty thousand lifeless words and starting over, and the general writerly idea—nascent to the efforts of the long hard middle pages—that I Suck At This. But it has a beginning, a middle and an end now, and though I'm still scrubbing up bits of the final chapter before I dare show it to alpha readers, I'm relieved at having my red-faced, wrinkled, but whole little baby in my arms.

* * *

According to Maia, we built the bookshelves for this purpose:

Everything belongs to the cat.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: I loved this post by Sean Ferrell on the Writer who never shows up.

* * *

Music of the week: This band may be as famous as all get-out, but I never heard of them till I saw this video and OH MY WORD.

* * *

Random amusement of the week: Not only am I rather delighted to discover a site called Geeks are Sexy, I thoroughly enjoyed this comparison chart for Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings.

* * *

I think it may be sleeting.

And though I've written the first word and the last and everything in between, I can't help longing to get back to making little polishes on that last chapter. Of course, I also have a house to clean, and it's getting dark, which means it will be hard to sweep the floor... the days are never long enough when I'm in full writing mode. But then, I never get bored, either.

Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: Anna Karenina

2012-01-18T13:17:00.000-08:00

Vronsky heard with pleasure this light-hearted prattle of a pretty woman, agreed with her, gave her half-joking counsel, and altogether dropped at once into the tone habitual to him in talking to such women. In his Petersburg world all people were divided into utterly opposed classes. One, the lower class, vulgar, stupid, and above all, ridiculous people, who believe that one husband ought to live with the one wife whom he has lawfully married; that a girl should be innocent, a woman modest, and a man manly, self-controlled, and strong; that one ought to bring up one’s children, earn one’s bread, and pay one’s debts; and various similar absurdities. This was the class of old-fashioned and ridiculous people. But there was another class of people, the real people. To this class they all belonged, and in it the great thing was to be elegant, generous, plucky, gay, to abandon oneself without a blush to every passion, and to laugh at everything else.

Author: Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy

Synopsis: When beautiful, charismatic Anna Karenina finally succumbs to Count Alexey Vronsky’s illicit attentions, she must sacrifice either everything she lives for—including her son and society—or the only romance she’s ever known. Meanwhile, shy nobleman Konstantin Levin searches desperately for happiness and meaning in life, pursuing pretty Kitty Shcherbatskaya, peace with the peasant laborers who work his land, and spiritual honesty. As Anna and Konstantin seek joy, separately but with similar passion, both must face matters of morality and the consequences of choice.

Notes: With a book of this magnitude, you don’t review it—it reviews you. But I’ll see if I can’t find something intelligent to say about it.

As someone with an armchair interest in all things Russian, this story interested me from the names on down. I wondered, and have not resolved, why Ekaterina was called by the English 'Kitty', and Darya 'Dolly', instead of Katya and Dasha. Likewise, why Alexey Alexandrovich Karenin was called by his Christian name and patronymic, whereas Alexey Kirillovich Vronsky (really, Tolstoy, were you trying to kill my favorite Russian male name? I’ve always liked Alexey) was generally referred to as Vronsky except for the one part where he was out on his estate.

More fascinating, from the etymological perspective, is that the surname Levin is closely related to the author’s own Christian name; the first of many similarities between author and protagonist, both of whom ultimately prioritized the spiritual search above all else in life.

Nineteenth-century Russia, as contrasted with twenty-first century America, also provided an excellent illustration of the fact that not all cultures think alike. While some of the conversations grew dull after a few pages, the different perspectives on class, poverty, society, religion and marriage were intriguing. Tolstoy covered early communism and hints of democracy among the nobility, and the ideas and consequences of Orthodoxy, Pietism and atheism. More specifically to the story, he discussed treatment of marital infidelity in three perspectives: as natural, as evil, and as acceptable if kept from the public eye. All of these offered themes and thoughts startlingly removed from quotidian Western ideologies.

And into all that mix were thrown the characters, the loved and the hated.

Anna could not but sometimes prove sympathetic, despite her adultery. The strong, sensitive longings of a woman for love and stability can save or destroy; in Anna's case, they tore her down the middle. Also, she suffered the injustice of a community that judges woman but not man. Vronsky’s pursuit of her was shameless and determined; her brother Stiva carried on one affair after another, deceiving his wife, equally without shame; both of them were in some sense worse than she, yet neither suffered from societal consequence as she did. It is nothing short of horrific to watch her treated as a 'lost woman' by those who welcomed Vronsky and Stiva at every turn.

Vronsky came off as something of an idiot, without much of weight to be said for or against him except that he had feeling but no principle. He had physical boldness, but not courage; generosity to those he liked, but not respect for anyone; passion, but little idea of how to give love. He was likable on rare occasions, but never admirable.

Alexey Alexandrovich, Anna’s husband, evoked respect and disgust and compassion by turn. Lidia Ivanovna's influence gradually ate away at his general respectability, but he retained strands of it by his compassion to little Annie. The tale of Annie's and Seryozha's growth to maturity in such a house would probably make stuff for another tragedy-laced great novel, however.

Levin, who apparently took strongly after Tolstoy himself, annoys and fascinates and sometimes delights. His character contained the myriad depths of the shy, serious, conscientious type: the way his concentration locked onto one project after another, his frustration over things not getting done right, his attempts to empathize with the peasantry, his bafflement over his own feelings, his inability to live life without first understanding it, and his constant devotion to the search for truth and goodness. The best part of the tale is his eventual thinking through ideas C.S. Lewis would later work through in the first chapters of Mere Christianity.

But then, that’s the focal point of the book. The central theme, the idea, is in the contrast between Anna’s choices and Levin’s, between her journey into despair and his into joy. Both of them wrestled with right and wrong, with passion; both of them were even suicidal in their desperation. The question and the resolution were alike centered in the spiritual.

If you haven’t read this book and don’t want spoilers, skip ahead.

In some cases, I prefer getting spoiled. I’m glad that I knew to expect tragedy. The foreshadowing of Anna’s death gave me chills, and I felt somewhat prepared to walk with her along the platform and face what, being only the reader, I couldn’t stop her from doing. It still hurt to watch. Her wandering mind was confusing to read, and her jealousy bewildering, but the moment on her hands and knees on the tracks made clear sense. She died praying, and it is not hard to believe that God hears such a cry.

Tolstoy, with authorial cruelty, took us immediately away from that climactic moment and dropped us into some drollery about Sergei Ivanovich and his publishing woes, which resulted—for this reader at least—in a couple of chapters of furious angst. Sergei Ivanovich led eventually to a glimpse of Vronsky, however, who did call forth some compassion. At last, the book returned to Levin, whose spiritual awakening made sense of the rest of the tale.

Spoilers ended.

It’s been years since I read Dostoevsky, but though I loved Crime and Punishment, I think I actually preferred Anna Karenina. Or at least, I loved them equally. Both novels deal with themes of sin and guilt, and both resolve toward hope and faith. The difference is that Sofya Semyonovna struggles in the darkness, eyes fixed faithfully on the glimmer far beyond the heavy shadow; Konstantin Levin trudges in the light, finally discovering that all he has to do is open his eyes.

It’s too bad Tolstoy himself couldn’t stay there; it’s a good place to be.

Recommendation: You may wish for a little vodka to get through a couple of parts, but the tale is absolutely worth the read.

Top Ten Tuesday: Science Fiction and Fantasy for Those Who Prefer the Familiar

2012-01-17T11:28:00.000-08:00

The topic for today: Top Ten Books I'd Recommend To Someone Who Doesn't Read X, where x equals a genre of the blogger's choice. Fantasy is my first love, but I'm including science fiction, mostly for my own convenience and the indulgence of a little hero-worship.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

Here are my top recommendations for people who have a hard time getting into magic, myth, futurism and life among the stars. Most of these are for young readers, but I've seen them all go over fantastically with adults:

1. The Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling, if you haven't already read it. It's mystery, schoolboy adventure, humor and heroism packed into a splendid tale with just a hint of romance. Magic is merely the backdrop, and it's mostly comic.

2. The Chronicles of Narnia series by C.S. Lewis. Every English-speaking reader should at least get through The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe at some point in his or her life. Adventure, beautiful prose, fun and a little poignancy, and besides, it's short.

3. Ender's Game and Speaker for the Dead by Orson Scott Card. They're psychological, intellectual, and powerful, as Card takes an intense and deeply empathetic look at humanity through the eyes of a child genius. Not to be missed.

4. The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho. A short and beautifully told adventure, magical but ecumenical. My book club doesn't do much fantasy, but everyone in our group loved it.

5. The Goose Girl or Princess Academy by Shannon Hale. Girls, you want a little pure-hearted young romance? No one does it better than Shannon, who also pulls off humor, artistic prose, self-discovery and magic so clearly described that it feels real. Also, you'll never have to sit through long expositions on ancient weaponry.

6. Beauty by Robin McKinley. It's a short and exquisitely written read, a lovely introduction to the world of fairy tale retellings.

7. That Hideous Strength by C.S. Lewis. The entire Space Trilogy is good, but this third installment stands well enough alone and features two basically normal protagonists. Science fiction and fantasy elements blend in a character-driven, relational drama. More character-driven and relational than Out of the Silent Planet or Perelandra, by the way, which is the short explanation of why I've always loved it more.

8. The Host by Stephenie Meyer. Didn't like Twilight? It doesn't matter. Don't like science fiction? That probably won't matter either. What you have in this story is two women with strong, differing feelings sharing the same body, dealing with both adventure and romance in that awkward state. The fact that Wanda is an alien doesn't particularly detract from her relatability. Highly recommended.

9. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. Classic Gothic romance all the way, but that entire story balances right on the verge of the supernatural—and at one point, it steps all the way in. If you bought all that, you're ready for a true foray into faerie.

10. The Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Everyone believes in otherworldly things a little bit around Christmas, right? This tale is so moving and expressive that it would take a reader quite hardened against the supernatural to get entirely hung up on the ghosts.

What books would you recommend to friends who don't usually go for science fiction or fantasy?

Once Upon a Midnight Dreary: Darkness in Fantasy Fiction

2012-01-16T09:30:00.000-08:00

In blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

When you go to bed, don't leave bread or milk
on the table: it attracts the dead."
~Rainer Maria Rilke

"I've heard again and again on the radio, in conversations over coffee after Liturgy, and at parties [that] the problem with myth and magic in fiction is the darkness, the spirits, and the sense of evil lurking that they feel in the background.... We've touched a bit on darkness before, is there a line that shouldn't be crossed? When does myth and magic become occult? When do fairies become demons?" ~Masha

Near the end of the Inferno, Dante and Virgil reach the tenth circle of hell at last, after witnessing the doom of Greek and Roman mythical characters, Florentine politicians, and popes who put self before God and avarice before the duties of the Church. There at the bottom of the pit, trapped in ice created by the constant fanning of his wings, Satan chews up Judas, Cassius and Brutus—betrayers locked in torment with the greatest betrayer of all. Virgil leads Dante on a careful climb around the fallen Lucifer, and they come out of the pit to the land before Purgatory, where at last they can see the stars.

Darkness and relics of old paganisms have long held their place in Christian supernatural literature; medievals like Dante had no fear of either. Today, we shudder at the pictures of the damned; Dante painted them vivid and garish. Today, we challenge pagan references surrounding Christmas and Easter; Dante drew images of classical myths on the terraces of Mount Purgatory.

Today, we argue over both what constitutes darkness and whether it belongs in our fiction. The conflict often centers upon fantasy, though not always—a Wall Street Journal piece about the darker side of teenage life in young adult novels started an enormous flame war in the blogosphere last year. Frankly, I find dementors and vampires far less troubling or frightening to read about than self-harming and suicidal and bullying teens; there's one step of removal between me and a dementor, and that is fictitiousness. But the question before us now primarily regards the fantasy.

Says Masha, in defense of the presence of darkness:

I don't know that I've ever found a story so dark that I didn't see the flickering light, a well-written book will always give a glimpse of redemption, because it is the nature of man to reach for the light. Even the ugly and terrifying will give way into beauty, given a chance by writer and reader.

Says Mr. Pond, in defense of compassion for the darkened ones:

The answer, as everyone knows what read a proper story, is that fairies become devilish when they’re angry, or threatened, or lonely, or afraid. Anyone can live comfortably with the Good Neighbours nearby, if you mind your own business and don’t go digging where you’re not invited. Or if invited, take nothing away with you unless bidden, bring nothing with you that isn’t asked, do not tell what you saw unless you are told to speak. In other words, be polite.

For those of us who would understand life or literature, we must look honestly and justly upon dark things. Dracula, for instance, scuttling down the outer walls of his castle like a lizard in a black coat. The beldam's disembodied hand chasing Coraline back through the trap door. Janner Wingfeather's coffin in the Fork! Factory! Gollum whispering to the magic ring in the caves, forever destroying the word precioussss. The gentleman with the thistle-down hair slick-talking Stephen into endless nighttime ballroom dancing.

Who will say where myth becomes occult, magic evil or fairies demonic? Was it evil when Bacchus and the Maenads turned up in Narnia, or when Ransom accepted the aid of Merlin? When Aragorn called forth an army of the dead? When Egwene put on her ouroboros ring? When Puck cast his love-spells on Demetrius and Lysander? When Hagrid broke down the door of the hut, gave Dudley a pig's tail, and said "Harry, yer a wizard"?

Was it evil when I swiped a minor Greek myth and a lot of astrological symbolism to tell a story that never mentions Christ or any God, but which—if I did my job right, and if you know what you're looking for—should give you not a justification for basing decisions on the newspaper's horoscope section, but various glimpses of the central truths and themes of Christianity?

I suggest that myth and magic and faerie become occult or anti-Christian when authors use them as occult propaganda, or for anti-religious or anti-God agendas. Which they are free of course to do—but this is not the default position of Western fantasists, and most Western fantasists would have to work a lot harder than they do to escape utilizing basic Christian concepts in a story that pits evil against good, darkness against light. Good fantasy is hard enough to write without attempting to subvert its very nature.

By that nature, darkness in English mythic fiction symbolizes a host of less-than-tangible realities. It reminds us that our struggle is not against flesh and blood but against mental and spiritual evils, including the darkness of our own natures.

The heroes and heroines of fantasy counter darkness with courage: so Harry battles Voldemort in the graveyard, wands locked in fierce contest, the shades of Voldemort's most recent murders climbing from the point of the yew wand to comfort and strengthen Harry.

They counter darkness with love: so vampire Edward clings to his conscience, to every remaining scrap of his humanity, refusing either to kill or to use the girl whose body and blood tempt him more than any other.

They counter darkness with humor: so Sophie Hatter bosses around the fire-demon, Calcifer, making something more human of both him and Wizard Howl.

I have never liked darkness, nor been comfortable with it. Yet I value it, in its place and fairly done. As a Christian or as a lover of light or both, I cannot write some things as good nor praise them if portrayed so in the work of others, but such temptations are extremely rare. Each author and each reader must decide what they can accept, what their consciences and their beliefs allow them to write of or to appreciate.

But we artists must be allowed to paint dark, else we cannot fully show the light.

“Let everything happen to you
Beauty and terror
Just keep going
No feeling is final”
~Rainer Maria Rilke

* Rilke quotes are courtesy of Masha's post. Masha, sorry I didn't get them all in. :)

The Cleverness of Other People and other stories

2012-01-13T11:26:00.000-08:00

After two weeks, it seems that alarm-setting does help me get more accomplished. Unfortunately, it has not yet consistently helped me to get off my computer by eleven or go to sleep before midnight. Ah, the force of bad habits. I suspect it's about to start me on a coffee dependency, too, despite the fact that caffeine in any quantity puts me through a weird cycle of energy—productivity—jitters—ache till I think I'm dying—go brain dead.

But I'm not giving up yet. Especially not while I'm two and a half chapters from the long-awaited end of my 2010 NaNoWriMo novel draft.

* * *

I love epigraphs. They connect the book you're about to read with its literary heritage, through shared theme or mood or idea. More than that, they often highlight some ultimate truth that comes forward in the story told, something recognized and cleverly expressed by someone else. Should I prove capable of convincing editors, I'd like to have one in every book I ever publish.

Which meant I thoroughly enjoyed Flavorwire's list of the 25 greatest epigraphs in literature (via George posting at The Hog's Head). Favorites included Gaiman's quote of Chesterton, Dostoevsky's and Tolstoy's of Scripture, and Lee's of Lamb. They weren't mentioned, but I also love Meyer's use of Genesis in Twilight and Robert Frost in Eclipse.

Hmm. Novel and novella have happily-matched quotes assigned, but I haven't picked anything for this nearly-drafted sequel. This could be fun. And distracting...

* * *

Writers' link of the week: Juliette Wade on managing the time-suck and distraction of the Internet. And yes, I recognize the irony of posting this on a personal blog wherein I ramble about alarm clocks and epigraphs.

* * *

Music of the week: This link sent me a long while back by Mr. Pond includes several videos by Brother and Bones, a UK band with dynamic membership. I loved this simple song most of the ones I saw.

* * *

Random amusement of the week: In case anyone wants to look pessimistically—and humorously—back over last year, there's always Dave Barry's Year in Review. I love these every year. Advisory: they're always a little dirty, and 2011 contained the Congressman Weiner story, which the straightest-faced journalist on the planet couldn't keep from sounding like a bad joke. But it's not all dirty, and the year isn't short on laughs.

* * *

And now my sister's coming to visit, which means I need to post this and begin straightening up. Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: Bella at Midnight

2012-01-11T12:38:00.000-08:00

But I ought not to judge my betters. They are highborn folk and educated, so if they think it wise to send their little ones away and leave them in the care of strangers, then I suppose it must be the right thing to do. And indeed, now that I think upon it, if those two precious babes had been kept at home, then Prince Julian and Isabel would never have met, and all the great and miraculous things that happened thereafter would not have taken place.

Author: Diane Stanley

Synopsis: When her mother dies upon giving birth, Isabel—now hated by her father—is sent to be nursed by the woman who was also nurse to one of the king’s younger sons, Prince Julian. Bella and the prince grow up as friends, until Julian is sent to live in a formerly enemy country and Bella’s father reclaims her to spite his new wife and daughters. Through a gossiping stepsister, Bella learns of a planned war that could cost Julian’s life among many others, and by her early knowledge, only Bella stands a chance of preventing it.

Notes: It took me a little ways into this book to realize that I was reading a Cinderella retelling. It’s hardly a typical one. It contains neither white bird and tree, nor singing mice; the godmother isn’t magical, and only one of the stepsisters is wicked.

Few stories have been more often retold in modern English-speaking countries than Cinderella, however, and this variant was downright intriguing. Diane Stanley builds her story around the myth of a long-awaited hero known as the Worthy Knight. As the prince's father and elder brothers war with a neighboring kingdom, the prince and the cinder-girl share a childhood love, hoping together for the Knight's coming and the end of the wars.

Cheers to Stanley for writing the characters as religious (Catholic, as it’s set in medieval times) without either making the story message-driven or treating the religion and its practitioners as inherently wicked. The Worthy Knight is thought of as a miraculous figure, and both that myth and the tale itself focus toward peace. The two lead characters are both heroic and lovable; likewise, the younger stepsister, who is silent due to tragedy but warm of heart.

The narrative mode inspired my one bit of grumpy-stepsisterly dislike. The author chose to use first person voice with a change of perspective at every chapter, which gained her the ability to show the emotions of important characters like stepsister Alice, but cost her in character development and reader investment. Perspective shifts easily become wearing or maddening, especially in first person, where it gives the impression that twelve people are trying to tell the story at once. None of the narrators could garner enough time to become very memorable, though Bella, Julian, Alice and the godmother came off strongest.

While the ending had a moment or two of sounding a shade too obviously like an attempt at subverting gender-role paradigms, Stanley managed the final twist beautifully overall, giving the young lady fair glory without demeaning the young man for the sake of girl power. I appreciated that.

The ending itself is shamelessly happy, a pleasant resolution to a good, clean, lighthearted fairy tale for the young.

Recommendation: Read it for cheer, relaxation and ease of mind.

Top Ten Tuesday: Authors I'd Like Another Book From

2012-01-10T10:59:00.000-08:00

This topic shames me a little, because when it comes to even my favorite authors—Lewis, Chesterton, Card, Hale, Montgomery—I haven't necessarily read all of their works. Heck, I haven't read Rowling's Quidditch book or her bestiary, and you know how I feel about Harry Potter.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

I have, however, read all the published work of one particular author, including a lesser-known novella and a fragment she never finished. And since the rules of this list allow us to include deceased authors, I'll begin with:

1. Jane Austen. Lady Susan is an interesting book, by the way, if it doesn't hold a dripping wax taper to Northanger Abbey, let alone the great Pride and Prejudice/Emma/Persuasion/Sense and Sensibility/Mansfield Park quintet.

2. C.S. Lewis. I've read all of his fiction, so I'll feel no shame in asking for more of that.

3. J.K. Rowling. More stories, preferably outside the Potterverse. I'm curious.

4. Shannon Hale. I haven't read her graphic novel, but I have read everything else of hers, I think. And am looking forward to the sequel to Princess Academy and to Midnight in Austenland.

5. Brandon Sanderson. I want a very specific book from him: the Wheel of Time finale. :)

Off the top of my head, I haven't any right to beg more from anyone else. I have too many of their existing works left to read.

Which authors would you like another book from?

Sleepy Post

2012-01-09T21:35:00.000-08:00

Masha's taking over kickoff posts for a while, blogalectically speaking, which means I have today off. I intended to come up with something to post anyway, but spent the whole day down at my family's catching up with them and talking over potential novella revisions and the direction of the current novel and things like that, and now it's nine o'clock and I have a book to write and I'm so sleepy that said book will be lucky to get any real attention.

Sleepy, yes. Does anyone besides me wake regularly half an hour before their alarm, then lie there tense, dozing fitfully, braced against the discomfort of being shocked awake by loud awful beeps? The only way I ever get properly back to sleep is by muffling the clock under the covers, so it doesn't give me such a jolt when it goes off.

Maybe I'll start keeping it under a pillow. Anyway, good night.

The Use of Pictures and other stories

2012-01-06T12:23:00.000-08:00

Ah, New Year's Resolutions. For the first time in my life, I've actually looked back at my goals folder over this week, worked on things, and added more. Successes include: dragging myself out of bed in the dark every morning half an hour before Lou's alarm, adding 5500 words to the draft I'd like to finish by the end of January, and using the curling iron on my hair every day.

I think it helps that in making my lists, I included pictures:

Not that I've worked on the garden yet. It's just one of my favorite pages.
And no, those aren't pictures of my actual garden.

Now I just need to go add pictures to the page that talks about getting on the rowing machine.

* * *

Lou and I discovered, after having to work very hard to get Christmas books onto shelves—his new commentary got stuck sideways on top of a packed row—that, once again, we were out of bookshelf space. So we built more:

Room to grow!

Just one more step toward my goal of living in a library.

* * *

Maia: Ooh, I like the little rocks in this dirt. My favorite!

Me: Maia, DON’T DIG UP THE PLANTS.

Maia: I LIKE THE LITTLE ROCKS IN THIS DIRT. MY FAVORITE.

Me: $%^*#^*&

Which of us is winning? You decide:

The cat who can't dig, or the crazy woman with masking tape on her flowerpot?

* * *

Writers' link of the week: quirks, with room to comment, over at Rachelle Gardner's. I enjoyed both video and comments, and wish I could claim coffee and Oreos—or more likely, chocolate chip cookies—as part of my must-have writing process so I could justify having them every day.

* * *

Music of the week: after Monday's post, all I can do is put up some good modern Christian music, right? Here's some Messaien, whom I can never decide if I like or not. I can't bear heavily dissonant or cacophonous music—which is yet another glass of Haterade—but at least he wasn't just throwing paint at canvas. Sometimes I almost feel as if he's making sense, as below.

* * *

Random amusement of the week: while we're still barely inside the Christmas season, Do-It-Yourself Star Wars Snowflakes.

For something less random and more amusing in the sense of getting the mind involved, check out Masha's blog for 50 Days of Self-Reflection. If the next 47 questions are anything like the first three, we'll all learn a lot of unique and fascinating stuff about ourselves and each other.

* * *

And now, having dumped the cat off my lap to fetch the camera and thereby guaranteed myself some ankle attacks later in the day, I'm off to clean house and write more story.

Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: Emily Climbs and Emily's Quest

2012-01-04T10:45:00.000-08:00

Of course Teddy was in love with Ilse. He had gone to see her first—had been with her while Emily waited for him in the garden. Well, it made no real difference. Why should it? She would be just as friendly as ever. And was. Friendly with a vengeance. But when Teddy and Ilse had gone—together—laughing and teasing each other through the old To-morrow Road Emily went up to her room and locked the door. Nobody saw her again until the next morning.

Author: L.M. Montgomery

Emily Climbs
Synopsis: Emily Byrd Starr goes to high school, where she experiences the odd mix of acceptance and rejection and mistakes that belong to a writer’s career. While pursuing her old dream, she turns down at least two suitors—even getting caught alone with one at night, albeit innocently; all the while yearning for her old friend Teddy Kent, who sometimes seems to love her.

Notes: I thought I’d read this book before; now, I’m less sure. If I ever did read it, I’d forgotten most of it.

Emily Climbs is darker than Emily of New Moon, but not unbearably. The Murray pride catches up with our post-adolescent heroine; the Starr independence makes her dislike the bonds of convention. In this tenuous and somewhat unsympathetic state, she endures having to board with strict, merciless Aunt Ruth. Worse even then her aunt are the sharp tongues and ill wills of a jealous classmate and Shrewsbury gossips in general.

As a writer, watching Emily progress in her career is interesting. It all seems somewhat different than the way things reportedly work now, but not entirely, and her emotional responses to acceptance and rejection are accurately drawn.

As both writer and romantic, I thought the scene in the old John house was perhaps the most beautiful in the series. Short, but sweet, and oh-so-lovely. Montgomery's portrayal of the passion between Emily and Teddy, expressed almost entirely in looks rather than words, is so hushed and splendid that I can't wholly forgive her for the torment she puts them through—and us with them—in this book and the next.

The book had a few humorous moments as well; Emily’s flippant comments regarding the suitors she did not love generally made me laugh. All in all, I enjoyed the book, and the moment I put it down I picked up its sequel.

Emily’s Quest
Synopsis: Teddy goes off to art school and Ilse into acting, leaving Emily lonely at New Moon. Misunderstanding develops over the distance between Emily and Teddy, and old friend Dean Priest proves his own love by caring for her during a dangerous illness, leaving her with a series of difficult choices. Meanwhile, her writing career takes off, and at last there is hope for the Disappointed House—only not like she imagined it.

Notes: This book actually evoked an angry response.

First, the previously likable Ilse lost both depth and friendliness. Her numerous insensitivities toward Emily were generally unintentional, but cruel nonetheless. Likewise, after years of being in love with Perry Miller, she could not find it in herself to soften to him, to leave off hounding him for a moment, until—well, for the sake of being unspoilerish, I won’t say what happens; I’ll just recommend, for enjoyment's sake, the scene where she finally goes to Perry. Even though her deed is positively awful.

The second cause of annoyance was the series of misunderstandings between Emily and Teddy, resulting in years upon years of agonized separation and depression. The only truly serious issue was Mrs. Kent’s interference; the young pair had no other good reason for being apart for what appeared to be something like a decade. It upset this reader so much that I was almost ready to root for Dean Priest, whom I liked despite his obvious unsuitability and his jealousy.

Emily’s trouble was pride; Teddy’s, an inability to man up and speak, and the two had me in a state of mad half-despair for over two hundred pages. And then the finale was so brief, so inexplicable, that it left me furious even though it was, in theory, a satisfactory resolution.

From Laura, commenting on my review of Emily of New Moon:

“The last book is a steaming heap of misery and self-doubt, topped off by a dubious maraschino cherry of last-minute romance.”

I can't improve on that summary. I can think of ways Montgomery might have saved her story without much effort. But, again following Laura’s lead, I make some excuses to myself for the book. Emily is a particularly fascinating heroine, owing in part to her skill with words, in part to the Murray-Starr conflict within her, and in part to her supernatural gift. The scene where she connects with Teddy across an ocean was breathtakingly believable despite its unlikelihood; it was also another sublime Teddy-and-Emily scene. The comparison between Emily and the Disappointed House comes as near as anything else to making something decent of the tale, and—well, Emily becomes a successful novelist. Which makes her, in some sense, a hero of mine.

Joint Recommendation: Not nearly as pleasant as the Anne books or Emily of New Moon, but containing some gems nonetheless.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books I'm Excited to Read in 2012

2012-01-03T10:42:00.000-08:00

If 2012 matches 2011 for great reading, I'll be happy.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

Between Christmas gifts, Kindle specials, interlibrary loan and series to finish, I've already got a good stack to start with:

1) Xenocide and 2) Children of the Mind by Orson Scott Card. Thanks, Lou. It's long past time I finish Ender's story. And then I need to look into the last two Shadow books.

3) The Giver by Lois Lowry, thanks to a Kindle deal which I learned about thanks to George. No, I've never read it. Yes, I plan to remedy that as soon as possible.

4) The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater, thanks to the library.

5) The Last Olympians by Rick Riordan. Just one book in left the Percy Jackson series! I might be sad when I've finished them, though perhaps I'll continue on to the Heroes of Olympus series.

6) A Creed for the Third Millenium by Colleen McCullough, thanks to Agnes and Elizabeth. Also thanks to those ladies: 7) Echoes and 8) Scarlet Feather by Maeve Binchy.

9) Crossed by Ally Condie, which I'm still in line for at the library and probably will be for a while.

10) A Memory of Light by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson—the final book of The Wheel of Time, supposed to be released sometime this year.

Perhaps The Silmarillion counts too, since I haven't finished it yet.

What are you most excited to read this year?

Mediocrity, Haters, and Christian Music

2012-01-01T22:48:00.000-08:00

It's blogalectic day, and Masha and Mr. Pond and I have not yet had time to regroup after the holidays. So I'm going to throw a wrench in the works: Rod Dreher's piece on haters, aesthetics and mediocrity.

And yet, thank goodness for aesthetic snobs. The alternative is mediocrity, is ugliness. You want Palestrina, or you want Marty Haugen?

Pause right there, sir. That's one point made in full.

No offense to Mr. Haugen, whose Mass of Creation isn't all that bad (it's "Gather Us In" that I find unbearable.) But in my opinion, nobody since Palestrina has created music more innovative and beautiful all at once. Certainly nobody in the last hundred years, and abso-freaking-definitely nobody in recent Christian music history.

I sparked this blogalectic by complaining about the artistic elitism that fails to recognize literary value in a book like Little Women. When it comes to literature, I tend to see the glory in the simple and innocent as well as in the complex and masterful, and I defend those works correspondingly.

But make the switch to music, particularly church music, and out comes a different perspective.

Now, I half-promised Laura a post about this subject, so forgive me if I wax tangential. I'll make it back around to the main point, I promise.

I have three very big problems with the bulk of modern church music: #1 is the "sheen" that Michael Gungor mentioned. Which seems due in part to an undefined and mistaken notion that being a Christian makes your life easier. Also, it owes to problem #2, likewise noted by Mr. Gungor: the failure of many Christian recording artists to realize that music itself actually means something, not just the lyrics. Most rock music means sex, anger or rebellious exodus, none of which translate well to attempts at worship.

My third problem with the generality of works written under any definition of Christian music in the past century is this: at its best it shows the immanence and love and nearness of God very well, but it fails with reverence. It shows the Great Love of God, and that's as close as it dares get. This owes as much to intimate, soulful vocals and instrumentation as to lyrics, if not more, which takes us back to problem #2. I don't think I've ever heard a song from the Christian record labels that expressed the fear of God convincingly.

No, I'm not talking about an "oh, God'll send me to hell 'cause I thought something mean about my sister last week" fear of God; I'm thinking more along the lines of "'Course He isn't safe. But He's good."

I've felt that good fear, that joyful solemnity, in my bones listening to Gregorian chant—or Palestrina (particularly, since we're talking art, in the acoustic spaces such works were designed for). And lest anyone think I'm praising the Catholics at the expense of the Protestants (a touchy subject for a Catholic who used to be an evangelical), the current Catholic state is worse than the Protestant one by far. Lucky Catholics with popular sensibilities get Protestant praise anthems. Anyone with traditional tastes goes begging for hymns by Luther and Wesley; chant is unloved and polyphony forgotten. Instead, our hymnals contain some of the worst schlock I've ever caught posing as music: lyrics that would make a cheap Hallmark card blush, syncopation that no one but Vince Guaraldi could pull off, and sentimental attempts at poetic expression that basically mean nothing or are bad theology.

There—look at me hating. I try not to do that. Most of the time.

So I'll give Masha and Mr. Pond this much: there is, in fact, a place in my heart that despises mediocrity. Most of it happens to be aimed at myself and my own work (at least, when I'm not taking potshots at Christian music). I'm not usually much of what Dreher calls a hater, and I hope I never will be. But despite my defense of the literary status of a handful of books written in unimposing prose, my ultimate convictions are in favor of refined art. When it comes to my own writing, however often I fail, I can't imagine striving for anything less.

EDIT: Thanks to a mild oh-really from Mr. Pond, I've corrected my haphazard claim that no one has since made "music as innovative and beautiful" as Palestrina's to say "music more innovative and beautiful." This sort of mistake always happens when I write sleepy. But perhaps I may be forgiven for being hyperbolic about Palestrina when I say that the song in the above video may be my favorite single work of art in existence.

Too Excited Not to Post...

2011-12-31T14:46:00.000-08:00

After pulling off three of my best writing days ever—a total of 11,027 words—I've finished the draft of my fairy tale retelling! And I couldn't resist sharing. [EDIT: I'm an idiot. The link won't take you to my story, as my wording suggests. It's just an image. It'll be an indie- or self-published book eventually, if I can pull it off, which I expect to be able to do.]

42933 / 35000 (complete!)

Happy rest of 2011, and happy New Year!

Happy 2012! And a few other stories...

2011-12-30T12:02:00.000-08:00

The new year is coming, I'm rather enjoying this week of vacation with my husband, and after writing 3700 words yesterday, part of me hopes I can finish this novella in 2011. So you get a short post today.

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If you've got a Kindle or Kindle app, you can get The Giver for $0.99 over at Amazon, December 30 only. I just bought it, meaning I will most likely get around to reading it one of these days, at long last. Thanks to George for the link.

* * *

For something like a decade, I swore off New Year's resolutions, but somehow this year I've wound up with a OneNote (ever heard of that MS Office program? I'd forgotten it existed) notebook full of them. Books to write and revise. Information on how to clothes-shop smart, rather than just grabbing the first thing off the rack that fits and is somewhere in the blue-green range that I know I can wear. An order to myself to warm up my voice gently and daily, so I can get over the vocal problems I've had. Stuff like that.

Down with the idea that all such goals are doomed halfway through January! I can do this.

* * *

Here's something for writers. Here's something for Harry Potter fans. Here's some Christmas music (yes, it's still officially Christmas. And yes, I linked LindseyStomp just a few weeks ago; she rocks.) And here's something funny (advisory: it's on Cracked. You've been warned.)

* * *

And now, I'm off. Thanks to all of you for spending time around me and my blog this year, and for your friendship and encouragement. I thank God for you all; I really do. Happy weekend, and may you have a very happy year!

Currently Reading: Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell

2011-12-28T12:09:00.000-08:00

...Mr. Canning complained that the nightmares Mr. Norrell had sent the Emperor (which chiefly concerned a captain of Dragoons hiding in Buonaparte’s wardrobe) would scarcely frighten his children’s governess let alone the conqueror of half of Europe. For a while he had tried to persuade the other Ministers that they should commission Mr Beckford, Mr Lewis and Mrs Radcliffe to create dreams of vivid horror that Mr Norrell could then pop into Buonaparte’s head. But the other Ministers considered that to employ a magician was one thing, novelists were quite another and they would not stoop to it.

Author: Susanna Clarke

Synopsis: Mr. Norrell is the first practical magician in England in centuries, and he’s ready to kick the theoretical magicians out on their ears. Jonathan Strange is the second practical magician, trained by Mr. Norrell, but he wants all England to understand all about magic. Mr. Norrell has little use for talk of the Raven King, a magician regent of an earlier age who is thought to still exist somewhere. Jonathan Strange believes the Raven King ought to be studied and perhaps convinced to return to England. With such opposite natures and goals, the two men cannot agree, but they have no one else who can truly share their great passion: magic.

Also, there’s a murderous fairy.

Notes: First, hilarity.

Working over the course of ten years, Clarke wrote this novel—which is over eight hundred pages long and contains a couple hundred footnotes—entirely in a sort of Edwardian drawing-room English, slightly more gentlemanly in flavor than Austen perhaps, but with a similarly satirical style. The jokes, which include sly jibes against novels, don’t leap off the page and attempt to flag your attention; they lie down in the text and disappear, and you catch them only if you’re paying attention. I suspect that a second read through would turn up far more wit than even the first did.

The difficulty, speaking right up front, is in achieving that second read through. It might seem entirely ridiculous for someone who read and loved something like nine or ten thousand pages of Wheel of Time to complain that an 800-page novel is too long, but if I hadn’t caught the flu and needed something reasonably non-demanding to do with two days, I might never have finished it.

Here’s the deal: the first couple of chapters fascinated me. Mr. Norrell, in the character of mystery, was actually interesting. Once we followed him to London and watched him shuffle through various political affairs with the dull and loathsome Drawlight and Lascelles planning his every move, he lost—for me—all interest and much sympathy as a character. I don’t read stories for the sake of conflict and resolution; I read them because the characters matter to me, and for the whole first part of the book—it’s in three parts—the only character I strongly pulled for was John Segundus.

But as I say, I was sick and bored. So I pushed through. As soon as Jonathan Strange came onstage, the story got my attention.

Then the “gentleman with the thistle-down hair” began to involve himself, and the story got creepy. The enchantments he put over people and his eerie lack of sanity kept me fighting chills down my spine for several hundred pages. I should mention that Clarke’s portrayal of humans as weak in magic but strong in reason, and fairies as the exact opposite, makes for an interesting study.

Clarke’s portrayal of magic, while we’re talking such things, was anything but that of Harry Potter. Rowling sets up the wielding of magic as morally neutral, and she shows its use as being subject to the moral law. Never in the Potter series is any kind of spiritual invocation used. Clarke, by contrast, includes the following in a footnote: “Magicians are chiefly interested in the usefulness of… supernatural beings; they wish to know under what circumstances and by what means angels, demons and fairies can be brought to lend their aid in magical practices. For their purposes it is almost irrelevant that the first class of beings is divinely good, the second infernally wicked and the third morally suspect.” This she compares to priests, who she says “are scarcely interested in anything else.” (Page 521)

This is not morally neutral, and you can make of it what you will in the context of the book. I will say it made me watchful, especially considering the grotesque aspect of certain spells. Neither demons nor angels were invoked by Strange or Norrell, but the fairy was, and the fairy was evil. And crazy. Did I mention that he was creepy?

Beyond all that, the mythology is intensely and beautifully developed, the voice never misses a note, and the themes of the Raven King and the nameless slave and the restoration of magic to England are all very thought-provoking. It’s a dark, shadowy sort of a story, full of unexpected turns, old-fashioned British humor, and a very long progression toward an unlikely but excellent friendship—and that last, more than anything, is the point of the tale.

Recommendation: Read it on a rainy day; it’s especially handy if you’re sick. But if you dream about frightening things in books, as I do, don’t read it before bed.

Top Ten Tuesday: Favorite Books of 2011

2011-12-27T10:41:00.000-08:00

For weeks I've looked forward to this list, for the delight of reminiscing about what felt like a year of honestly fantastic reading.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

For the sake of sanity, series count as one entry; otherwise, The Wheel of Time might have made an unfair share of appearances. Also, I've not counted re-reads unless I hadn't read the book since childhood. Re-reading a book as an adult is a new experience even if you remember the story.

Not necessarily in perfect order:

1. The Host by Stephenie Meyer. A tale of two souls in one body, the physical force of love, and what it means to be human. By far Meyer's best work, in my opinion. Review.

2. The Goose Girl by Shannon Hale. Beautiful on the first read and even better on the second. I loved this story with my whole heart. Honorable mention to Forest Born, the fourth Book of Bayern, as well. Review.

3. Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo. Artful prose, deeply empathetic character portrayals, and a warm, loving, thoughtful little heroine. Review.

4. Enchantress from the Stars by Sylvia Louise Engdahl. Sci-fi meets fantasy in a beautifully-written interplanetary tale. Review.

5. The Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan. These books finished what began with stories like The Chronicles of Narnia and No Flying in the House: they sold me wholly on speculative fiction. It's my favorite genre now. Review of book 1.

6. The Percy Jackson series by Rick Riordan. I liked the first one, but loved the second and third. It's brain candy, hilarious and suspenseful, but it sneaks a little bit of classical education into you when you're not looking. I've got the fourth out from the library right now. Review of book 1.

7. The Emily books by L.M. Montgomery. I greatly preferred the first to the second and third, but adored the heroine and truly did love her early days (and, admittedly, a few of her later days as well). Review of book 1.

8. Anna Karenina by Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy. Two moral and spiritual journeys: one toward despair and madness, one toward happiness and peace. I didn't expect to care much for it, and was very pleasantly surprised. Review coming.

9. Beauty by Robin McKinley. My first experience with McKinley's work, and as a fan of fairy tale retellings, I adored it. Lovely in every way. Review.

10. That Summer by Sarah Dessen. I loved this story for its splendid sense of place and character, and for how much I could sympathize with protagonist Haven McPhail. Review.

The Silmarillion may knock something off the list if I finish it in time (can I get through the last 2/3 in four days? We'll see...) It's beautiful so far.

What were your favorite reads of this year?

Two Turtledoves

2011-12-26T13:35:00.000-08:00

Happy second day of Christmas!

Lou has this entire week off work, so I'm declaring a holiday on the blogalectic. Masha and Mr. Pond can either post whatever they feel like on the themes of art and beauty and sacred time, or enjoy a break. I, in the meantime, am going to take my sister's family their gifts and use my new pruning shears to cut back the peonies for the winter. :D

Blogging should resume as usual tomorrow, mainly because I've been looking forward to this week's Top Ten Tuesday list too much to not participate.

Hope you're all enjoying your holidays!

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas... and other stories

2011-12-23T12:54:00.000-08:00

First Christmas decorating session in the new house!

Of course, Maia had to be involved in everything.

Except, of course, for the group photo. At least we got her in one shot:

* * *

Of course, the Christmas ornaments have been gradually migrating to one quadrant of the tree, high and away from tables the cat can climb upon. She and I keep having this conversation:

Me: "Maia, the Christmas ornaments are not toys... honestly..."

Maia: "If it rolls, it is a toy. If it swings, it is a toy. If I can liberate it from your absurd hiding places, it is a toy. Oh, and so are your Christmas cactus blossoms."

Me: "You... you are getting a lump of coal in your stocking this year."

Maia: "Cool beans. Aren't those just about the right size for batting around the floor? I bet they leave an interesting black trail, too."

Also, this week I found an avocado behind a chair in the living room. I guess I won't be leaving such things on the counter anymore, no matter how well I think I've got them tucked out of her reach.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: P.W. Creighton on the Holiday narrative.

* * *

Music of the week: Vivaldi's Gloria, with special thanks to Maria both for reminding me of the piece and for recommending this good recording.

* * *

Random amusements of the week: Merry Kitschmas parts one, two, and three, compiled and suitably punned by Eric Pazdziora.

* * *

I love Christmas.

A very merry one to you and yours!

Currently Reading: Auralia’s Colors

2011-12-21T16:21:00.000-08:00

Auralia lay still as death, like a discarded doll, in a burgundy tangle of rushes and spineweed on the bank of a bend in the River Throanscall, where she was discovered by an old man who did not know her name.

She bore no scars, no broken bones, just the stain of inkblack soil. Contentedly, she cooed, whispered, and babbled, learning the river’s language, and focused her gaze on the stormy dance of evening sky—roiling purple clouds edged with blood red. The old man surmised she was waiting and listening for whoever, or whatever, had forsaken her there.

Author: Jeffrey Overstreet

Synopsis: In the wilds outside House Abascar, a pair of Gatherers—criminals cast from the House—discover and adopt the abandoned Auralia despite suspicions that she is one of the feared Northchildren. Independent and comfortable with the wild, Auralia proves to have a talent more dangerous than the Gatherers could have imagined: an ability to create and work in supernatural colors, when no one outside Abascar’s palace is allowed to wear anything but drab. Amid the House’s internal turmoil and the external threat of approaching beastmen, Auralia’s unruly gifts enchant everyone from Gatherer to prince, and threaten those with the power to destroy both her and her people.

Notes: This, impressively enough, is original fantasy.

Granted, the beastmen basically resemble Jordan’s Trollocs, and I doubt Jordan originated the concept (they’re not that unlike Tolkien’s Orcs, after all.) And I seem to recall a moment or two when Narnia came to mind, though those instances were perhaps nothing more than a slight resemblance of names. But overall, the story didn’t seem much like anything else I’ve read.

Fantasy fiction comes in a lot of voices, many of which—at first glance, at least—are rather dry to the touch. Which is perhaps my biggest problem with the genre. I’m not attracted by letter-scramble names, medieval weaponry and blazing action; I want a tangible, emotive sense of place and character. If anything, I’d say Overstreet’s poetic prose did this too well. A sentence like “The child became twigs and burnt autumn leaves, thin and fisty fingers clutching acorns and seeds as though they were stolen jewels” contains lovely imagery, but the metaphorical structure annoys me. That’s just me. O ye of great love for poetry, you’ll probably adore it.

Despite my distaste for metaphoric sentences, however, I did appreciate the colorful, sensory use of language. I felt and knew the world; I knew and loved Auralia, Cal-raven, Scharr ben Fray, and the ale-boy.

The story never took an expected turn that I can remember, which was another surprise. There was a fair bit of head-hopping, and I didn’t necessarily know who would turn out good and who, not so much. Even the one plot point I was very confident in wasn't bothered with until the epilogue.

Like most first installments in fantasy series, the ending was anything but. I spent half an hour or better Googling, reading reviews of the next few books, trying to figure out if a certain very important character returned in the sequels. Weirdly enough, the answer proved hard to find. Eventually someone answered it in the affirmative, which is good, because I had no intention of reading any further if not.

Recommendation: Read it in evenings, with hot spiced tea or cider and warm colors around you.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books for Santa to Bring

2011-12-20T13:06:00.000-08:00

Actually, this one is surprisingly tough. Not because I don't want books—I always want books—but because my wish lists are always so carefully prioritized, and not necessarily identical two weeks running.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

Books I intend to get my hands on one way or another:

1. Everything by Shannon Hale that I don't already own. I have Princess Academy, The Goose Girl, and The Actor and the Housewife. The other Bayern books are first priority.

2. More of Orson Scott Card's work. I have Ender's Game and Speaker for the Dead. I'd like to get the rest of the Ender and Bean books, and the novel Pathfinder looks intriguing.

3. The Wheel of Time books I don't already own. I have #s 8, 10, and 11, which is what happens when you series-shop the paperback sections of your local used bookstore.

Books I'd like to get eventually:

4. The Emily books by L.M. Montgomery. I'm still miffed at book 3, but Emily was kindred spirit enough that I liked her story anyway.

5. The Percy Jackson books by Rick Riordan. I'm just enjoying them too much not to consider adding them to my shelves.

6. The first three Time books by Madeleine L'Engle. The only reason these aren't on my immediate list is that my sister has them, therefore I can read them any time I want.

7. Alec Forbes of Howglen. I've got it in free Kindle version, but I'd like it in hard copy.

And now we start getting into a broader list, in which I include every new thing I want to read. This list changes so frequently that the three included here are specific to December 20, 2011, 12:56 PM PST:

8. Matched and Crossed by Ally Condie. Loved the first one, dislike dystopian so much that I'm not wholly confident of loving the sequel. But I will read it.

9. The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater. It looks fascinating.

10. Something by Brandon Sanderson. To feed my love of good, thorough high fantasy.

What books are on your Christmas list?

Sacred Time and the Spice of Life

2011-12-19T22:23:00.000-08:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

Last week, Masha talked about her spaces-set-apart, and as it turns out, we share a love for making home sacred. As for Mr. Pond, he was apparently too busy publishing a tale called Bradie Law and the Grumpenmire to post; since I got a fair bit of amusement out of Bradie Law, I'll let that slide. On with the blogalectic, and the next concept involved in sacred time: rite.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: if spontaneity is the spice of life, routine and ritual are the meat and potatoes. Some people like more spice than others, of course, and whether we're talking about spontaneity or food, I tend to have the tastes of a nervous old Englishwoman. I prefer things a bit bland, thanks very much.

Reading other writers' rituals always interests me, though my own may not prove interesting. Inspiration can certainly hit anytime (and has a penchant for choosing the most inopportune times), but for the daily grind, I treat writing like work. That is, I get up with my hardworking husband, breakfast with him, pray Lauds, shower, dress, and get makeup and hair done. Then I check my email and Facebook to get rid of the immediate possible distractions, open up Blogger or Scrivener or Word, and set to.

Granted, this doesn't always turn into great productivity. But I generally work better when I feel neat and organized and together and—well, pretty.

It doesn't feel properly authorial, though. Surely I ought to be incapable of creative thought without a cigar handy, or some very specific type of tea. Or some elaborate process involving taking twelve steps toward the west, turning a cartwheel, drinking half a bottle of merlot and possibly tying my feet to the desk. None of it does much for me. I need quiet, a neat house, comfortable but not sloppy clothes, my hair out of my face, and plenty of eye shadow. And my little Dell.

It makes for a simple routine, if a time-consuming one—good eye shadow is itself a work of art—but it orders my days.

And if it's un-authorial to jump up at twelve o'clock sharp and say the Angelus, mid-sentence if necessary, well—I'll just say that such rituals are part of making time sacred.

Killing Off Lovebirds and other stories

2011-12-16T12:47:00.000-08:00

'Tis the season to... not talk about what I've been up to all week, because too many people I've been putting together presents for read this blog. :)

Suffice it to say that I've thought about almost nothing but Christmas prep this week, and now face this blog-post with an oddly disoriented feeling. Friday, is it? I didn't get around to posting on Tuesday, did I? What else have I not gotten done? Hmm.

* * *

Reading can be done even with sapped mental powers, so I'm now halfway through Anna Karenina. And I'm nervous. Somehow or other I do know how this ends for Anna, but hers isn't the only plot thread and it scares me silly when two people get really, really happily married halfway through a Russian novel. I'm not sure I trust Tolstoy not to kill one of them off.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: Shannon Hale on biting off more than you can chew. Despite not having four children and the attendant chaos, I know exactly what she means about "attempting to write a book that's too hard for me." I appreciate her spirit in tackling that task.

* * *

Music of the week: this glass harp duo has been around for a while, but I still find them impressive. And it's hard not to appreciate a little Tchaikovsky, even if it is overplayed this time of year.

* * *

Random amusement of the week, because it's getting harder to guarantee funny... though this is funny: the blog It Just Gets Stranger. I particularly recommend Snuggie Texts and Technology.

* * *

The cat just cuddled down on my lap, and I was about to get up for lunch. Dilemma.

Happy weekend, everybody!

Currently Reading: The Titan’s Curse (Percy Jackson, book 3)

2011-12-14T11:01:00.000-08:00

“Wow,” Thalia muttered. “Apollo is hot.”

“He’s the sun god,” I said.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Little sister!” Apollo called. If his teeth were any whiter he could’ve blinded us without the sun car. “What’s up? You never call. You never write. I was getting worried!”

Artemis sighed. “I’m fine, Apollo. And I am not your little sister.”

“Hey, I was born first.”

“We’re twins! How many millenia do we have to argue—”

“So what’s up?” he interrupted. “Got the girls with you, I see. You all need some tips on archery?”

Author: Rick Riordan

Synopsis: When a fight with a manticore ends in the disappearance of Annabeth, Percy will do anything to find her—even travel with quarrelsome Thalia and the more quarrelsome Hunters of Artemis. Even elude a dozen unkillable skeletons, endure Aphrodite’s soap-opera fawning and giggling, take a turn bearing an unbelievable burden, and stand trial before the gods.

Even if Annabeth still seems to hold out hope of saving Luke.

Notes: LOL.

I laughed more through this book than I can remember doing since the early pages of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The chapter titles had me snickering almost every time. Granted, Riordan played the dam joke so long that by the end only a junior high boy could appreciate it, but since that was his audience, and I’d gotten such hilarity out of the first part of it, I grinned and put up with the replay.

Part of me wishes I’d known my Greek mythology really, really well before reading the books; I’m curious how much I’d have been able to predict the storylines if I had. Perhaps not much, though. I actually am familiar with the villain of this piece, but I didn’t see the details coming. Of course, with this series it almost matters more who the various deities are related to than what they did.

As with the first book, I found some of Riordan’s characterizations over the top—the goofy Pegasus’ street lingo, notably—but mostly, they just amused me. As with the second book, I couldn’t put this one down. I believe I read it in a single Sunday afternoon.

Thalia and the Hunters made for interesting new characters, and I lost some sympathy for Luke in this one. I hope the son of Hermes straightens out, for his dad’s sake at least. But if he'd retained any right to Annabeth's heart thus far, I'd say he's lost it now.

The usual advisory applies: Riordan’s basically clean schoolboy voice neither glamourizes nor condemns the gods’ creation of numerous illegitimate children by mortals and other beings. A watchful parent can certainly aid a child’s moral discernment, should there be concern. And as always, there’s no one like Percy—or Rick Riordan—for making the characters memorable.

Recommendation: Hilarious, relaxing Sunday afternoon reading, and good for the Greek holes in your classical education.

Sacred Time and Making Space

2011-12-12T20:02:00.000-08:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

This past week, we covered the quest for silence. Masha spoke of going to the wilderness, and Mr. Pond of saying yes.

The making of sacred time involves other steps beside silence, of course, and one of those is creating a place—somewhere set apart, a space where things like silence and ritual can flourish, however idealized that may sound.

I admit I haven't put a lot of time and thought into creating my own space as sacred—not as set apart from the rest of my life, anyway. If anything, our home itself is that place. Lou and I live very quietly, and nearly everywhere you turn in our house, you can spot a crucifix, an icon, a statue, a piece of art. Here in the living room, Mary looks out from the shelf, St. Michael from the wall, Christ from the coffee table beside the Bible and breviary and, at the moment, the Advent wreath. It would all drive some people crazy, I suppose, but for me, it's easier to hold onto faith when I can touch some physical evidence of its enduring nature.

As for a place for art, I am surrounded by the evidence that others have believed and lived as I do, in the sense of being writers: many books. Shelves full. It's an inspiration like no other, if sometimes also a distraction. The Kindle has its strengths and weaknesses and on the whole I'm very glad it exists, but it will never replace that.

To my personality, both clutter and clean-freakery are obstacles to art. I'm comfortable in neither; neat and cozy and lived-in, however, set me at ease. But perhaps I'm just making excuses for the fact that while I truly can't bear chaos for long, I do tend to forget to dust.

There's at least one more crucial ingredient to home decor that serves as a place set apart for both devotion and writing, and that is lighting. Which is hard to come by in the Pacific Northwest, especially in winter—some gray days, when the clouds hang thick and low, it never gets beyond twilight. Sheer golden curtains, generous windows, old-fashioned light fixtures that diffuse the glow of incandescent bulbs, and lamps all get marshaled against the dark and the dingy. Candles, too. When it comes time for prayer, nothing will do but candles; a lamp simply couldn't substitute, not fully. Maybe it's the elemental nature of fire—a dangerous, almost a living thing.

Writing all this makes me want to pull out my notebook and write longhand, by candlelight. That would be an interesting experiment (I wonder if I'd come up with better first drafts, or whether I'd ever come up with first drafts at all). So says the blogger, typing by lamplight directly into the Internet, with the glow of a backlit screen reflecting off face and fingers. I can't deny that modern convenience has its place, not when I love and use it so much.

As with silence, the manner of making sacred space may differ from one person to the next. This is something of mine.

Many Moons and other stories

2011-12-09T13:37:00.001-08:00

To the delight of stargazers everywhere, there's a total lunar eclipse in the morning!

I stayed up late last night finishing the Emily books, so I'm tired. And yet I might just get up and try to see this. It won't happen again till 2014, and who knows whether we'll have a clear night then?

And on the stargazing note: my favorite event of this past week was Lou setting up our telescope down at my parents', so we could all look at moon-craters and Jupiter with two of its moons. Mom and Dad and sister and brother-in-law and niece turned out for it. My two-year-old niece was enthralled at the sight of the moon through the lenses.

* * *

I have never liked living with suspense. Which means that I read in bed a lot, pushing past the midnight hour to find out what happens. This has its challenges; there's no comfortable way to read lying down for very long. At least, not lying on your side with your head on the pillow. You can prop up the book and read one page, but then you have to prop yourself up to read the facing page. It gets annoying.

My favorite thing about the Kindle: it fixes that problem. Though I probably shouldn't stay up tonight blasting through Anna Karenina.

* * *

Early last year, my little city made Forbes' top five potential real estate trouble spots. Now it's in the news for having the lowest average sunshine amount in the nation (only because nearby Forks and Alger weren't counted, I'm sure.) And we won't even talk about the general tone of the bumper stickers around here.

Crazily enough, I love this little town anyway. It's immensely beautiful. Today, it's even sunny.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: Jon Morrow's 'Five Crippling Beliefs that Keep Writers Penniless and Mired in Mediocrity.' Important, thoughtful, interesting—but potentially dispiriting, so here's also a glorious little Sir Arthur Conan Doyle quote about books themselves, for inspiration.

* * *

Music of the week: I am so grateful to Michael Gungor for posting his thoughts on 'Zombies, Wine and Christian Music', I could just sing. He said much of what I've wanted to say for years:

"There are emotions and attitudes of different genres of music that are the soul of the music. You can’t remove the anger from screamo and have it still be screamo. It’s the soul of that music, whether that soul is good or evil is not the point, simply that it is the soul. So when you remove the soul from music and transplant the body parts (chord changes, instrumentation, dress, lights, and everything but the soul…) and parade it around with some more “positive” lyrics posing as Christian music, then what you have is a musical zombie."

I loved this article. I'd like to take it and write a very long post in response, enlarging on his thoughts and moving on to some of my own. And possibly migrating from music to fiction. Unfortunately, I haven't the time at this moment.

Anyway, that's not music, and what I promised you was music... so here's some Gungor.

* * *

And that's all from me... I know there's funny stuff on the Internet, but I'm out of ideas. Although you could always Google Dwight Schrute quotes.

Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: Emily of New Moon

2011-12-07T12:03:00.001-08:00

“Poor Ilse!” said Aunt Laura, sighing.

“Yes, her father doesn’t like her. Isn’t it dreadful?” said Emily. “Why doesn’t he?”

“He does—really. He only thinks he doesn’t.”

“But why does he think it?”

“You are too young to understand, Emily.”

Emily hated to be told she was too young to understand.. She felt that she could understand perfectly well if only people would take the trouble to explain things to her and not be so mysterious.

“I wish I could pray for her. It wouldn’t be fair, though, when I know how she feels about it. But I’ve always asked God to bless all my friends so she’ll be in that and maybe some good will come of it. Is ‘golly’ a proper word to say, Aunt Laura?”

“No—no!”

“I’m sorry for that,” said Emily, seriously, “because it’s very striking.”

Author: L.M. Montgomery

Synopsis: When little Emily Starr’s beloved father dies, her aunts and uncles cast lots for who will take her, and she goes home with spinster aunts Elizabeth and Laura of New Moon. Scolded by Elizabeth and coddled by Laura, she finds allies in ‘crazy’ Cousin Jimmy, atheist wildling Ilse Burnley, and a secret talent for the literary arts.

Notes: The impressive thing about Montgomery’s writing is that, though I only recall reading this once before, and that probably close to two decades ago, I remembered an impressive percentage of the story as I re-read it. Her descriptions are more effusive than is usually tolerated today, more poetic-prosy; her interactions get away with dialogue tags and adverbs more frequently, not to mention the passive voice; but things play out memorably, and with warmth and interest.

Emily had interested me when I first read her, perhaps in my early teens. This trip through, she won my heart. I found something of the kindred spirit in her, what with her penchant for scribbling and her rather lonerish way of looking at the world.

I enjoyed rediscovering a lot of other characters as well: Ilse, whom I'd always loved; Mr. Carpenter, whose unorthodox classroom rule made me smile; Father Cassidy, whose brief appearance was so packed with kindness and a love for all things faerie that I picked him out as a favorite on the spot. Jimmy, the gentle poet. Elizabeth and Laura, the grim aunt and the kind, yet both wholly human—Elizabeth proven to have a heart, and Laura to have weakness—and both ultimately lovable.

The book was darker than the Anne of Green Gables series, as introspective, passionate Emily is darker than laughing, sparkling, fiery Anne. I like a little darkness in story, provided it exists to set off light rather than to moralize or just be dark for dark's sake, and Emily passed the test in this her first book. I intend to get hold of the sequels immediately. Emily Climbs I’ve once read, but Emily’s Quest I have not.

Recommendation: A fantastic, wintery sort of book, especially good for introspective, writerly types.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books that were Childhood Favorites

2011-12-05T22:03:00.001-08:00

The only question is: when did childhood end? I'm nearly thirty-four, and I still like kids' books.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

For the sake of the question, though, I'll stick with the ones I loved as a child, starting no later than junior high. It's very hard to limit this to ten.

1. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. I still pretty well have half of it memorized.

2. Heidi by Johanna Spyri. One of the most sympathetic young characters I've ever known.

3. The Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. My sister Beth and I read one set of these entirely to pieces, and worked hard on a second.

4. The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. Someone got me a set of these when I was seven, before we moved from one end of the country to the other. I read nearly the entire series on the six-day drive.

5. The Anne books by L.M. Montgomery. Anne Shirley is probably partially responsible for how much I daydream.

6. The Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Sara Crewe was my hero. Of course, I loved The Secret Garden, too.

7. The Time books by Madeleine L'Engle. The first three, anyway; I've still not read Many Waters.

8. Patricia M. St. John's books. Particularly Star of Light, The Secret at Pheasant Cottage, Treasures in the Snow, Three Go Searching... I may be forgetting some titles, too.

9. 101 Dalmatians by Dodie Smith. Warm and vivid and well-developed. I loved this book.

10. The Pippi Longstocking books by Astrid Lindgren. She had a horse, which might have made the story for me even if she hadn't been utterly hilarious and lovable.

Beverly Cleary's Ramona books, Wilson Rawls' Where the Red Fern Grows and Summer of the Monkeys, George MacDonald's Wee Sir Gibbie and Alec Forbes, the Bobbsey Twins, the Saddle Club, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm... see, I knew I'd never be able to keep it to ten.

What were your favorite books when you were a kid?

Sacred Time and the Quotidian Roar

2011-12-04T21:29:00.001-08:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

From Masha:

These dark morning times of silence give the hours that follow a sacred taste. Surrounding myself with true silence in the early hours, I am better able to carry with me an interior cloister in the busyness of the day - a reminder that all these mundane tasks - repeated again and again - weave around me the sacredness of time given in love.

From Mr. Pond:

For Jenna, and Masha, and myself, these days of preparation and silence attract us to the place where our art is born. We create out of silence; the silence, not the sound and fury of the world around, gives us stories, and “the courage to stand up and die in order to utter a word or a poem.”

There is a time to delight in sound, but noise rules the modern world. It's not all auditory, either.

The roars and strident horns of traffic. The neighborhood garage band. The omnipresence of stereo and surround sound. Television's barrage of story, advertisements, story, advertisements with jingles, news, weather forecast, advertisements. Information on steady flow from the Internet. The vicious mania of political debate, where according to one bumper sticker, "If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention." The Mack truck of noise and shocking imagery and sexual brazenness that hit me last time I went to listen to Top 40 radio. Protests and counter-protests, and people who swerve or shout or throw things from car windows at protesters. Cursing. Vitriol. War. Newscasts that are a list of horrors. Online witch hunts, self-righteous and cruel, destroying the reputations of decent people who happened to say something that wasn't politically correct.

I don't listen to music much, just because it's so hard to find quiet in this world. But I look forward every week to King FM's Sunday night broadcast of Compline (night prayer) from St. Mark's Anglican Cathedral in Seattle. The prayers are sung, a mix of hymn and chant. The way chant is designed, at the end of each line the music reverberates off the great stone walls and then pauses for breath—an instant of silence.

No other music soothes me better than Gregorian chant. Everything about it proves that despite the thunder of our daily lives, somewhere there is silence and stillness and rest.

It's not enough for me to know that these things exist somewhere. It never has been. I have to find them, to befriend them, to know and live in them as much as I can.

Silence requires lifting a hand to stop the motion and speaking a simple word: no. No, I cannot have a television and still read a book a week. No, I cannot participate actively in Twitter and still put full artistry into my novels. No, I don't need to know why the two are mutually exclusive—I just need to know that for me, for now, they are. No, I will not attend the outrage party, nor will I join in its great mockery of charity; outrage grows from a culture that despises silence and reverence.

These are roads I have taken to silence. Your journey may cover different terrain. Be that as it may, the goal is well worth seeking.

From silence focused upward come stability, goodwill, and peace. Likewise, the quiet, solid conviction that allows for creation, for beauty and art. These things flourish with the step back, the bowed head, the echo of truth, the pause for breath.

Secondhand Wonders and other stories

2011-12-02T10:46:00.001-08:00

Momentous piece of news this week: thanks to George, who offered me a deal I couldn't resist, I now own a Kindle.

Thanks to the flu, I'm not very photogenic. The Kindle looks great, though.

George's old second-generation Kindle, in fact, which has traveled out West to introduce my bookshelf-loving self to the wonders of the handheld library. I've already downloaded both War and Peace and Anna Karenina, so I am looking forward to many happy hours with the device. But my first impressions are that it's awesome.

Maia, of course, took immediate possession of the packaging.

She sends her thanks to George for the thoughtful gift.

* * *

With the end of November, my goal was to have at least 26,000 words written on the novella. I came out over 27K, so—success! Of course, I'd also hoped that by this time I'd have caught the thrill of the approaching ending. I know how it should end, and in my opinion it will be lovely, but for now I'm stuck in the long slow slog of the middle. Ah, well. For the sake of the ending, I'm slogging onward.

* * *

Thanksgiving went off delightfully. I made five green bean casseroles. We had the best waffles I've ever had anywhere, enjoyed excellent dinners at both houses, gave a tour of our new house and yard, and spent lots of time with lots of family. Also, a glass pan exploded, which was rather exciting in a whoa-did-we-seriously-just-get-showered-in-glass-shards way. Fortunately, no one got cut and the turkey was still safely in the oven.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: Nathan Bransford's exploration of a few common writerly diseases. It's brilliant, I say. Brilliant.

* * *

Music of the week: Oh. My. Sweet. Ocarina. This is nerd heaven. And I've never even played Zelda, I've only watched others play it.

* * *

Funny of the week: Actually, Mr. Pond sent me this comic (from Over the Hedge) weeks ago. But sometimes, funny stuff is hard to find, so I pasted it into the file for such a time as this. I will say that the strip demonstrates exactly how I feel about the news.

* * *

November has ended, the trees have lost all their leaves at last, and I haven't gotten well started on preparations for Christmas yet. I may not get quite as much writing done this month.

Happy weekend, everybody!

Currently Reading: Forest Born

2011-11-30T10:35:00.001-08:00

Ma felt [Rin’s] forehead, her cheeks, made her stick out her tongue, prodded her belly, listened to her elbows for creaks, pulled down her earflaps to look for rash. “Seem fine. You not feeling fine?”

Rin shrugged again. She’d never bothered anyone about the spiny things in her heart. It did not seem right to complain, especially not to Ma, who worked from the moment her eyes opened until she groaned as she lay down at night. Maybe everyone felt knotted like that but it just was not something spoken aloud. Or maybe only Rin was all wrong.

Author: Shannon Hale

Synopsis: The quiet one in a large, active Forest family, Rin has always run to the trees for peace—until the day she wanted something for herself too much, and the trees began whispering horror back at her. Terrified, Rin leaves the Forest for Bayern’s capital, where her brother Razo’s girl gets her a job helping care for the queen’s little son. But the boy is in danger, and Bayern faces deadly attack from the nearby kingdom of Kel. Despite the horror, Rin’s connection with the trees may help save lives.

Notes: I’ve now read all the Bayern books, and loved all the heroines. The Goose Girl is my favorite, both the book and the girl, but I felt a unique and strong connection with Rin as well.

After taking us through wind, fire and water in the three previous books, Hale leads us to the forest, a realm of quiet, ancient thoughts. The heroine she places there is silent and tormented with a sort of tree-rot inside herself, an overwhelming and inescapable sense of her own wrongdoing. Rin’s self-loathing comes from the sort of memories that healthy young people in good families regret—a moment of verbally bullying another child, a powerful lie, a stolen kiss—and the torment of those memories takes over her life and personality.

Having given her protagonist the burden of guilt, Hale sets about using the symbolism of trees and the methodology of courageous self-giving to set things right. Goose girl Isi serves as mentor, with Enna as comic relief and Dasha as stranger-becoming-sister. Among the “fire-sisters”, so called because all three of them can speak elemental languages including that of fire, young Rin learns to face her own strengths and weaknesses.

Hale has called this an incredibly difficult book to write, probably her hardest, and I could understand that, particularly if spunky Miri (Princess Academy) is the character most like Shannon herself. Rin spends much of the book absolutely frozen in fear, terrified to speak or act, and maintaining interest in a protagonist who will hardly say or do anything is an immense challenge. Rin’s fears and darkness permeate the story, and though the book has its funny moments, it doesn’t have the romance or the sparkling thrills of Hale’s others. Rin’s journey and victory are like Ents, like trees: slow, still and quiet, internal.

Which, of course, is why I loved Rin so much. I felt like I was her, like I knew all of a sudden why I fall in love with big old trees, and what was happening when I said mean things to my sisters when I was younger or when I’d set myself to get my own way no matter what. I understood the secret the trees finally gave Rin for dealing with herself, and thought I could sense some way to try applying it in my own life, through faith in which a tree is centrally symbolic. A book is like a mirror, said Georg Christoph Lichtenberg; I’m not sure I’ve ever found one so clear. Of course, the best mirroring books will be different for everyone; this one worked for me.

As always, Hale’s imagination is vivid, sensory, her magic and her settings and her characters all alive and tangible. The only thing I missed from this book was the sweet romance she portrays so brilliantly; I had hoped we’d get to actually see Rin right a certain wrong. The book was primarily about Rin finding herself, and I understood that; I also understood why the last scene in the book was what it was. It was still a happy ending. It was just the kind of happy ending that makes me itch to write a scene of fan fiction.

I also suspect the book was subtly alchemical, and there seemed to be some ring composition/symbolism going on. I’d like to study the tree symbolism in it a bit, too, as I think that aspect is the first and potentially the strongest relief from what might otherwise have been just a tale of self-actualization (besides outright tragedy, there are few things more lonely or disappointing than just self-actualization.) Between the ancient elm in which Rin meets transformation, and the even more ancient aspen grove, there’s some interesting thought to work with.

Recommendation: Read it under a tree, and then go hug your family.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books on My Winter To-Read List

2011-11-29T03:09:00.001-08:00

Sometime in between writing three novels and attempting to get a finished one published, there actually are a few books I hope to read this winter. Fortunately for reading time, there's not much I can do in the garden these days.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

Of course, I read only five of my ten Autumn to-reads. We'll see how I do with winter's.

1. Emily Climbs and Emily's Quest by Lucy Maud Montgomery. I just re-read Emily of New Moon and must, must, must read the sequels.

2. The Battle of the Labyrinth (Percy Jackson #4) by Rick Riordan. Book three was too hilarious to not keep going with the series.

3. Lilith by George MacDonald. If I keep this near the top of my reading list, someday I might just get around to it.

4. The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater. While I've never brought home her paranormal romance series, her writing is lovely and the plot of this story looks fascinating.

5. Crossed by Ally Condie. Out of love for Matched, and despite my general dislike of dystopians. I'm simultaneously hopeful and terrified.

6. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. It keeps haunting me lately, reminding me that I meant to re-read it in autumn.

7. Something by Tolstoy. Considering that it took my getting the flu to finish the bulky, shadowy ramble that was Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, I think I'd better schedule a week of fever and sore throat and stuffy head for sometime after Christmas if I hope to get through Anna Karenina or War and Peace.

8. Something by Brandon Sanderson; maybe Mistborn. Recommendations, anyone?

9. At least begin Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. I keep telling myself I'm going to do this.

10. Brother Lawrence's The Practice of the Presence of God. I haven't actually read it through in years, but blogging about it yesterday made me want to.

Also, I've entirely forgotten what my book club's winter books might be. Fortunately, we give over responsibility and have a party in December. No one has to read anything; we just gather around and admire Agnes' Yule log. It's like something out of a magazine.

What do you plan to read during the snows and freezes and flu season?

Sacred Time and Murderous Fairies

2011-11-28T10:08:00.001-08:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

The holidays have arrived! Thanksgiving weekend closed with the first Sunday of Advent, in honor of which I caught the flu, unfortunately missing the first day of the new Mass translations and everything. But among the changes introduced by the season is the blogalectic's temporary shift into a discussion we can all more or less post freeform upon.

"Sacred time," said Mr. Pond, by way of topic suggestion. "In the quotidian," added Masha. And though we spoke of talking primarily as artists, as it turns out I can't think how to separate this idea from religion.

"O my God, since Thou art with me, and I must now, in obedience to Thy commands, apply my mind to these outward things, grant me the grace to continue in Thy Presence; and prosper me with Thy assistance. Receive all my works, and possess all my affections."—Brother Lawrence, The Practice of the Presence of God

If only I were close to making all my time sacred, to devoting the proper hours to work and prayer and not to futzing around on the Internet or marathoning through insanely creepy 800-page novels on the excuse that I have the flu. I confess I'm not. And it's hard to be sorry when I know that thanks to the novel-binge, I can now spend the hours before bedtime working on my own stories and not reading madly, convinced that I'm condemning myself to dream about murderous fairies.

But there's no time like Advent for remembering that I never regret having prayed morning prayer, that getting meals ready in reasonable time is a worthwhile act of love, that minimizing the Internet and maximizing Scrivener will nearly always leave me happier about my day. Or that all of these things can be done in devotion.

[Brother Lawrence] examined himself how he had discharged his duty; if he found well, he returned thanks to God; if otherwise, he asked pardon; and without being discouraged, he set his mind right again, and continued his exercise of the presence of God, as if he had never deviated from it. “Thus,” said he, “by rising after my falls, and by frequently renewed acts of faith and love, I am come to a state, wherein it would be as difficult for me not to think of God, as it was at first to accustom myself to it.”—from The Practice of the Presence of God

That book says some things better than I ever will. It's also short, and every bit as free and online as this blog.

There are, however, a few key things I'd love to talk about in regard to sacred time and the artist: silence and ritual, for instance. I'll save them for the next few weeks.... Masha, the floor's all yours.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-11-23T14:48:00.001-08:00

Lou and I have a busy one planned: two family gatherings, two packed-out and well-surrounded dinner tables, a grand tour of our new house for all the relatives who haven't seen it yet... We're going to devote ourselves to enjoying family time. This blog returns Monday.

I hope your holiday is filled with good things!

Top Ten Tuesday: Authors I'd Love to Invite to Thanksgiving

2011-11-22T13:15:00.001-08:00

Have you ever spent a full day with your face and fists and chest pressed against a brick wall, your feet trying to drive you forward, nothing to show for your effort but sweat and scrapes and grit-filled eyes? That's what trying to get anything done yesterday felt like. Apologies for not getting to the blog.

It's a holiday week! And The Broke and The Bookish have given us a holiday theme to go with it. It'll be very hard to keep it to ten, but after all, I only have twelve plates. (And only five chairs. But oh, let's dream.)

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

While we're fantasizing, I’m allowing for authors who have already died. Hey, maybe someday we’ll sit around heaven and talk.

In no particular order:

1. Jane Austen. Wouldn’t that be a night of hilarity?

2. Orson Scott Card. My literary hero.

3. C.S. Lewis. I’d love to call him Jack, but doubt very much I could get past a stammered “Professor Lewis”.

4. JRR Tolkien. He can teach me some Quenya.

5. J.K. Rowling. Not that I’d be able to open my mouth and talk sensibly.

6. George MacDonald. A gruff old gentleman who likes to talk mysticism and fairies. Sounds like fun.

7. Shannon Hale. Whose humor might rival Austen’s, and who could talk to me about publishing high fantasy for young adults.

8. Stephenie Meyer. I just think I’d like her.

9. L.M. Montgomery. Her Anne books have been part of my existence for as long as I can remember. And I think her Emily books may be part of my future.

10. Madeleine L’Engle. She sounds like a lovely person.

Who would you invite?

Endless Devotion and other stories

2011-11-18T10:00:00.001-08:00

Five years ago this afternoon, I sat in a coffee shop across from a reserved young man, sipping a mocha and hoping my green cowl-necked shirt looked cute enough. Lou seemed, like me, to be enjoying the fact that we'd progressed from his answering my questions about the Catholic Church—my ostensible reason for being there—to spilling life stories and talking over common experiences with sparkling warm eyes, which had much more to do with the real reason.

That day, I caught my first glimpse of happily-ever-after.

* * *

As of yesterday, I'm approximately halfway through my little novella—right on track to finish in early December.

Currently distracting me: my finished novel. It seemed wise to read through it again, since I worked on it for eighteen months without stopping, and golly... there's something about that story that makes me want to forget about food and sleep and the Internet and everything that makes demands on my time and devote myself to making every line perfect.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: Mike Duran on making the necessary sacrifices. On account of which, I have been thinking about deleting Tweetdeck from my computer. I tend to go to Twitter when I get stuck for ideas, and that's a dangerous wormhole straight to procrastination.

But that's another whole post, in which I go on debating whether Twitter is really worth my time as an aspiring author.

* * *

Music of the week: There's a free download of a Danny Schmidt song, all acoustic and poetic, over at the Franciscan Sisters of Christian Charity site. I don't know how long it will be up, but it's there as I write. H/T Mark Shea.

* * *

Funny of the week: If you watch more television than I do (shouldn't take much—I don't have a TV), you'll get more of these pairings of literature and pop culture than I did. But I still found some that made me laugh.

* * *

Now I've got a thousand words to write, more novel to read through, a house to clean and dinner to make and a bunch of cooked pumpkin to freeze.... that ought to fill the rest of my day.

Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: The Princess and Curdie

2011-11-16T10:47:00.001-08:00

“Have you ever heard what some philosophers say--that men were all animals once?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It is of no consequence. But there is another thing that is of the greatest consequence—this: that all men, if they do not take care, go down the hill to the animals’ country; that many men are actually, all their lives, going to be beasts. People knew it once, but it is long since they forgot it.”

Author: George MacDonald

Synopsis: With Princess Irene gone from the country, Curdie finds himself becoming rather dull and ordinary till he nearly kills one of Irene's great-great-grandmother's pigeons. Under instruction from the old Princess, he journeys to rescue Irene and the king from a city grown beastly with corruption.

Notes: All my readerly friends told me that this book, the sequel to The Princess and the Goblin, is better than its predecessor. I’m going to have to agree. The story reads more clearly, with a more straightforward progression of events, and I found it much easier to get into.

I loved the symbolism of growing toward humanity versus beastliness. It’s very obvious, but then, this is a children’s story. Irene’s great-great grandmother (whom, I suspect, is the Princess in the title; Irene herself doesn’t show up till late in the tale) carries on her role of guide and protector in the fight against corruption, both internal and external. Between she and Curdie and the creature Lina and Princess Irene, there is strength to rid the world of much evil.

Curdie, of course, is all kinds of heroic, which makes him quite lovable. He has some downright loathsome enemies to deal with, and does so with the same spirit we remember from the first book.

Irene is a little older, a little sadder and more womanly, and she does well in the little we see from her. I would have taken more from her character, but such was the nature of the story.

I delighted in this book all the way to the last page, and then, in my opinion, it was three paragraphs too long. MacDonald gives us more of this tale’s future than I thought we needed to know. I suppose he thought we needed to know, and it’s his book, but still. Overall, though, the book was a joy to read and two hours well spent.

Recommendation: Read it with the wonder of childhood, and maybe chocolate chip cookies.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books I Own But Haven't Read Yet

2011-11-15T10:46:00.001-08:00

They're on my shelf. They're ready and waiting. And yet I keep going to the library or the bookstore, and reading something else instead.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

To be honest, unless you count a lot of old family books I inherited, I don't have that many.

1. On Walden Pond (Henry David Thoreau). A book of unknown, uncertain interest.

2. Most of Mark Twain’s works. These are some of the old family books; I’ve read a few, but by no means all.

3. King Arthur and His Knights (Sir James Knowles). I’ve read half of it. One of these days, I'll make it all the way through... as a fantasy fan, I'm ashamed of myself for never having read an Arthur legend from start to finish. I've also bought, started, and not finished Tennyson's Idylls of the King.

4. Evelina (Fanny Burney). Every now and then I remember that I own this book, but I'm always in the middle of something else.

5. Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell (Susanna Clarke). The first few pages of this book captured my attention in spectacular form. The next hundred completely lost it. I don't know whether I'll make it to the end or not.

6. Linnets and Valerians (Elizabeth Goudge). After loving The Little White Horse, I couldn't resist this recent find at a book sale. But I made the mistake of picking up Jonathan Strange first (see above).

7. Chaucer's Poetry. This was Lou’s purchase, and he only just bought it, but I’ve been meaning to read Chaucer forever. After taking three years to get through Dante for the first time, I'm a little afraid of Geoffrey.

8. Cowper's Poetical Works. Another old family book, one I've only flipped through.

9. Some of Lewis' nonfiction: The Abolition of Man, The Pilgrim's Regress, and a couple of others.

10. Lilith (George MacDonald). I keep getting distracted, but this is definitely on my to-read list.

What books are sitting unread on your shelves?

Regroup

2011-11-14T20:59:00.001-08:00

So, Masha got her post in, but Mr. Pond had too many other deadlines going on. As for me, I've spent the last few days enjoying family time, which was totally fun—lots of niece and nephew time—but now Auntie Jen is ready to collapse on the couch and not move or think for a while. :)

As it happens, we three blogfriends also need a week or two to catch up and figure out what we're going to do with our long-running discussion over the next several weeks. Especially since those weeks take in the holiday season.

Pardon the blip in the blogalectic, if you will, and we'll be back.

A Plethora of Elevens and other stories

2011-11-11T10:34:00.001-08:00

11.11.11. I considered turning lunch into elevensies to celebrate, but forgot.

* * *

Also, Veterans' Day.

"We must dread it for a little while yet, I suppose," said Rilla. "Peace won't come—can't come—for some weeks yet. And in those weeks dreadful things may happen. My excitement is over. We have won the victory—but oh, what a price we have paid!"

"Not too high a price for freedom," said Gertrude softly. "Do you think it was, Rilla?"

"No," said Rilla under her breath. She was seeing a little white cross on a battlefield of France. "No—not if those of us who live will show ourselves worthy of it—if we 'keep faith.'"—L.M. Montgomery, Rilla of Ingleside

Love, prayers and thanks to all those who serve and have served in our armed forces!

* * *

Oddly enough, I just looked at my word count for the chapter I'm writing, and it was 1,111. Haha.

This little re-tale is shaping up, uncertainly but continuously, and I'm delighted to see the progress bar hit one-third. Between Thanksgiving festivities, a trip out of town this weekend, and various minor distractions, it's going to be a challenge to stay on pace from here on. But I intend to do my best.

* * *

Last weekend, I pulled down the tomato plants, and wound up with these:

Which I had to hide from Maia, who thinks they're cat toys.

I had no intention of battering and frying that many cherry tomatoes. Hence, salsa verde, which apparently you can make with green tomatoes instead of tomatillos.

Well, salsa verde y naranja.

It took me two hours to chop all that.

Needs beer.

Final verdict: sour, but good. And we have lots.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: We all hear about the Big Six publishing houses; have you ever wondered who they are? Steve Laube explains. Straightforward, simple, and informational.

* * *

Music of the week: I believe I put up a Kina Grannis video months ago, but she keeps moving up in the world. I like this song a lot. Also, this looks like a really hard way to make a video.

* * *

Funny of the week: The man who taught his cat to text message. Occasionally dirty, and it weirds me out a bit that the cat has the same name as my husband, but it's still funny.

* * *

I'm off to get down some more words, sew up a pair of socks, and chill with my husband and cat. Hurrah for Friday night. Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: Wuthering Heights

2011-11-09T11:19:00.000-08:00

What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff’s miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.—My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don’t talk of our separation again: it is impracticable; and—’

She paused, and hid her face in the folds of my gown; but I jerked it forcibly away.

Author: Emily Bronte

Synopsis: When Catherine Earnshaw’s father brings home an abandoned gypsy child, she doesn’t start off liking it. Before long, though, she and the boy—christened Heathcliff—become fast in a bond of crazed affection that dominates their lives, their separate marriages, the lives of everyone around them. Their passion will subdue everything but their own self-interests.

Alternate synopsis: A young pair fall madly in love, prove exceptionally selfish, and then go crazy and die.

Notes: After dragging my heels for years, and after numerous recommendations from George, I happened upon the right time and mood to read this book. It proved utterly perfect for a windy Halloween weekend. Heathcliff was the most terrifying human monster I’ve ever read in a book, perhaps excepting Achilles from Ender’s Shadow.

I’ve heard it said that the reader winds up not liking any of the characters in the story, but that must have been an exaggeration. A few weak moments aside, I wound up liking Edgar Linton rather well overall. His daughter and Hareton showed some decency in the end, too.

It never came clear to me whether I was meant to like Nelly Dean or not. For the most part she made good sense, but her harshness occasionally took me by surprise. But then, she grew up in a house with Hindley and Heathcliff around; who wouldn’t learn harshness?

Cathy Earnshaw mystified me a little. In Eclipse, Bella Swan calls her the real monster and the cause of all the trouble. I saw moments where such an accusation was perhaps justified, but for the most part she simply seemed like a common child who’d learned to dominate her authorities and was therefore used to getting her way. Not a good thing, but not entirely without redemptive possibilities, and certainly not entirely to blame for Heathcliff's sins.

Maybe I ought to read the book again once the main horror at Heathcliff wears off, so I can give her due consideration.

Actually, I probably won’t. I didn’t like it that much.

I didn’t hate it as much as I expected to, either. For a story so bent on portraying humanity working hard to become as awful as it could be, I found it tolerably readable. It dragged on a bit at the end, but I cared enough about the Cathys and Edgar and even Linton Heathcliff to stay engrossed throughout the bulk of the tale. Linton was despicable, but he was also suffering cruelly. And I’m just not confident enough of my own potential saintliness in similar circumstances to criticize.

As a matter of fact, Bronte’s strength in this novel lies at least partly in showing How They Got This Way. Even Heathcliff, who has segments of past that are ultimately mysterious and whose obsession with Cathy I found as heartless as everything else about him, has some early moments in which I really felt for him. Despite the darkness of his nature, his character was human and not caricature. Which is probably what made him so terrifying.

In Gothic ghost-story aspect, Emily Bronte reminded me perforce of her sister Charlotte. The air of the supernatural was as present in Wuthering Heights as in Jane Eyre. There are similarities between the two bitter and brooding leading men, as well. Rochester was only half monster, though, and had the fortune to love a good strong woman. Apparently these things make a difference.

Recommendation: If you want a spooky tale to read on a windy Halloween, you probably won’t find one more suited.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books I've Read that were Outside My Comfort Zone

2011-11-08T14:01:00.000-08:00

The great thing about books read from outside our comfort zones is that they can broaden our range of ease. Of course, they can also define the lines more firmly. I've got some of both on my list.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

Sometime around the end of high school, I decided to make a point of reading classics. Austen and Dickens proved a delight beyond words, but some authors gave me more of a challenge. Hence, about half this list. The other half is a bit more random.

1. Les Miserables (Victor Hugo). Hugo tried hard to bore me to death with about 900 of the 1200 pages, but I kept going; I had to know what happened to Valjean and Cosette and Marius.

2. For Whom the Bell Tolls (Ernest Hemingway). I knew Hemingway would be depressing in places, but I felt like I ought to face up and read him anyway. The point of this work seemed to be that a little romance and a lot of... er, getting the earth to move... is what makes this horrific life worth living, but I'm sure Masha can point out the more worthwhile aspects of the story. :)

3. The Brothers Karamazov (Fyodor Dostoevsky). This was an intentional stretch of personal taste. I liked it, or at least I liked Alyosha, but I had a hard time making much sense of it at the time and should probably re-read it. When I later read Crime and Punishment, though, I loved that.

4. The Divine Comedy (Dante). Shakespeare excepted, I find poetry extraordinarily difficult to read, but I've loved this work enough to read it more than once.

5. Wuthering Heights (Emily Brontë). George finally talked me into reading it. :) That's tomorrow's review post, so I'll maintain my silence for now.

6. The Hunger Games books (Suzanne Collins). I usually prefer to avoid books that are very violent, and while I saw some good in especially the first of this series, the third in particular was a devastating read.

7. Phyllis Whitney's books. My grandmother loved these, so I read a couple. Murder mysteries creep me out. Psychopathic murder mysteries really creep me out.

8. And Then There Were None (Agatha Christie). Along the same lines as the above murder mysteries. Possibly worse.

9. The Lord of the Rings (J.R.R. Tolkien). I read them after seeing the first movie, and found them occasionally dull, often wandering, and generally difficult to get through. A couple of years ago, I read them again and loved them. Some things just take time.

10. Jurassic Park and its sequel (Michael Crichton). I know so many people who have loved those books and the movies, but quite frankly, they're two of the books I'm most sorry I ever read. Horrifying. :P

What books have you read from outside your comfort zone?

Arches, Bells, and Supernatural Story

2011-11-07T11:09:00.000-08:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

Masha's latest installment, a celebration of comforting mythologies, contained this lovely statement:

The essence of myth is not something that can be studied, it can only be experienced. The stories and characters can be written down, studied, and known, but the essence is elusive, like a half-remembered dream.

Which tells me she doesn't entirely disagree with Mr. Pond, who wrote one of the more important posts that has yet come out of this conversation:

Mythology grabs us round the throat and tells us the way the world is. It demands from us sacrifices and rituals and prayers and traditions. If we accept mythology, we don’t have the luxury of choice. The world is in some way set. The stories are there. We can embellish them if we want. We can question them. We can, of course, walk away from them. But at that point we are no longer within the mythology. We have stepped outside of that story. This is laudable, or foolhardy, or despairing—it depends.

Mr. Pond quite fairly questions a certain sensibility in the way both Masha and I presented the word mythology; that is, the suggestion that we get to pick and choose which supernatural narrative we want, and how much of it. I agree wholeheartedly with Mr. Pond here. My use of the words "sampler platter" was meant (if rather opaquely) as a subtle jibe, not as support for the Western treatment of mythology as a giant free-for-all buffet. It's one thing to live in peace with beliefs other than our own; it's quite another to treat all belief with so much attempted scientific objectivity that we forget, ultimately, that it holds the right over us, not we over it.

This week's word is mythos, defined by the Oxford as (1) “a myth or mythology” or (2) “(in literature) a traditional or recurrent narrative theme or plot structure” or (3) “a set of beliefs or assumptions about something.”

Not so different from the words we've already discussed, really. But it emphasizes the narrative aspect. I tend to think of mythos as the overarching (usually supernatural) story or stories that define and shape a culture.

In the post that Masha and Mr. Pond were responding to, I spoke of fantasy fiction as a way to deal with big questions outside the clash of polarized modern mythologies. But there's another reason for loving fantasy fiction, and that's because it's a place where mythos is still allowed to exist and flourish.

Under a magical mythos, the beauties and the horrors are both greater than we often meet here. It's not just your life in danger; it's your soul—the dementors may suck it from your body, or the magic ring may waste it away, or the Myrddraal and the Black Ajah may come in thirteens to turn you to the Shadow.

But there are the feasts and songs of Elrond's house and the flowers of Lorien, and the magic and wonder of Hogwarts, and shepherd-boys may marry royalty. And at the end, there is light and the hope of salvation in Going On.

And all of it echoes against a bell inside of us, something that was made for more than lattes and ten-hour workdays, parties and television and stress and sickness and grief.

If I disagree with any part of Mr. Pond's rejoinder from last week, it's the plain (and quite possibly hyperbolic) statement that mythology is dead. I suggest, rather, that it has gone into hiding:

It is one of the ironies of history that classical models and pagan myths were so intricately intermingled with Christian themes that when the elite rejected Christian civilization, they implicitly rejected Classical paganism as well....

For all their fine talk of freedom and of dictatorships of the proletarian, the elite wished nothing other than to bar talk of modesty, decency, fortitude, honor, and self-sacrifice from the public square. They wanted to replace all reasoning about the nature of virtue with rhetoric and oration on feelings about values. To do so, not only Nuns and Knights had to be banished from the public imaginations, but also Vestal Virgins and Homeric Hoplites.

Whence, then, scourged and half-stripped of the golden plumes of their wings, did the trembling muses flee, when they fled from the scornful lashes of modernity?

Why, to the only ghetto that held no love for modernity: to us, we happy few, the sons of fantasy whose eyes were fixed with dreamy nostalgia on the things long past (including pasts that never were) and to the sons of science fiction whose eyes were fixed with mingled hope and fear on things to come. —John C. Wright, Harry Potter and the Christian Magicians, Part II: Baptizing Dumbledore

But there is one realm outside speculative fiction where mythoi still exist, for those who long for such things. I trust Mr. Wright, Mr. Pond, and Masha will all gladly agree that some of us still willingly live under great narrative arches, where the bell that echoes at the words of Harry Potter rings clear and true at sacred words and mysteries.

P.S. If you haven't read John C. Wright's treatise on paganism in literature, 'Harry Potter and the Christian Magicians', I highly recommend it. It took me 45 minutes to read, and was worth every second. The links: Part I, Part II and Part III. Enjoy.

For 'Tis November and other stories

2011-11-04T14:07:00.000-07:00

The frost came hard last night, almost certainly destroying the tomato plants beyond hope of recovery.

I hope it also destroyed the aphids. We got one lovely head of broccoli some weeks ago, which appeared to be aphid-free, but the stalks I cut this last week... suffice it to say that I put them in the freezer before throwing them in the compost. I hate aphids.

This weekend, I intend to clean out the vegetable garden. That's an enjoyable process in its own right. I can't wait to replant it in the spring.

* * *

Four days into November and I'm still a little jealous of those doing NaNoWriMo, but not totally, because a group of writerly friends are attempting to achieve serious writing goals alongside me. (Want to be one of them? Email me or leave me a comment with your email address.)

Also, because as much as I loved NaNoWriMo in 2009, in Rome, with a bright-and-beautiful new idea—last year, it was death by monstrosity.

Thus far, as per my own challenge, I'm 869 words ahead! Of course, if I want a thousand words out of today, I've got 500 to go.

Oh, and I got the progress meter I'm using in my sidebar from honorless.net.

* * *

Speaking of the sidebar, I have removed the Google Followers widget for these reasons. Natalie Whipple recently did likewise, which inspired me in the first place.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: authors don't usually have control over the cover art on their published book, but I probably spent half an hour or better on The Cover Girl's blog. This was my favorite post. Controllable or not, a good cover is beyond price.

You can also read Tina Francis' post about Dreamers who Do, which is not about writing, but still highly appropriate for those of us trying to accomplish big goals right now.

* * *

Music of the week: I'm short on ideas. But we can always use a little more Mozart.

* * *

Funny of the week: the speaker on the green side is a snarker after my own, er, heart.

* * *

Time to go see if I can salvage any of the half-ripe tomatoes, clean house, and write another 500 words. But first, don't forget: if you're in the US, daylight savings time ends this week!

Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: Circle of Friends

2011-11-02T11:32:00.000-07:00

Clodagh fiddled and draped and pinned.

“Put your shoulders back, Benny,” she ordered. “Stick your chest out.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I look like the prow of a ship,” said Benny in alarm.

“I know. Isn’t it great?”

“Fellows love the prows of ships,” Eve said. “They’re always saying it.”

“Shut up, Eve Malone. I’ll stick the scissors in you.”

“You will not. Those are my expensive pinking shears. Now, isn’t that something?” Clodagh looked pleased.

Even in its rough and ready state they could see what she had in mind for Benny. And it looked very good indeed.

Author: Maeve Binchy

Synopsis: Mary Bernadette “Benny” Hogan has been best friends with Eve Malone since they were ten, despite being little alike: Benny is tall, stocky, gentle, the only daughter of loving but confining parents; Eve is small and wiry and ferocious and was raised by nuns after her parents' mysterious deaths.

When they leave the little town of Knockglen for university at Dublin, they’re immediately swept up into a social life that includes class clown Aidan Lynch, good-looking charmer Jack Foley, and stunning, calculating Nan Mahon. The boys and Nan will wreak havoc for Benny and Eve, testing and proving their friendship.

Notes: My friend Elizabeth bought this book for me, saying that Binchy’s writing is peaceful, relaxing and enjoyable to read. It is that. But I also had to stay up reading it till three A.M. in desperate suspense.

It wasn’t due to relentless pacing or swift-moving prose. Binchy’s writing career apparently began before the modern outcry against things like the passive verb and the third person omniscient voice. Her brief sentences and snappy dialogue generally kept the scenes from dragging, though, and I appreciated the easygoing nature of the tale.

The characters delighted me. Taking the secondary cast for now, I particularly loved Mother Francis, Kit Hegarty, Heather, Aidan, Clodagh and Fonsie. I wound up liking Bill a good bit, too. He could be a touch tactless, but he seemed like a solid, good-natured guy. I rather wish we’d gotten more of him.

Benny is an incredibly sympathetic protagonist. Most women know the feeling of having some physical flaw that we fear will turn men away, and when that flaw is noticeable enough to be pointed out again and again and again by everyone, it turns to torment. Benny’s humor and grace throughout make her lovable, someone I couldn't help wanting to be like.

Eve is just as likable in her own way, primarily for her intense loyalty and sharp wit. She and Aidan share quite a few hilarious little dialogues; they and Clodagh and Fonsie provide much of the comedy in the story. And I’ve got to admit, I’ve made numerous re-reads of the scene where Eve confronts Nan, just for the satisfaction of her fierce defense of her friend and her home. Even though part of that defense was rather indefensible.

The friendship between Eve and Benny carries the tale, beneath the numerous perspectives and the sweet but doomed romance. Yeah, I suppose that’s a little spoilerific. But that “sweet but doomed” bit is exactly why I stayed up till three—it was all so tender, and I really wanted it to work out, but I had myself braced for an explosion.

I didn’t brace hard enough.

The ending itself was beautiful and admirable and exactly what it should have been, if you’ll grant me the nitpicky writerly whim of disliking the last two lines as used together. I knew just why Binchy ended it the way she did, and the reasonable half of me cheers.

Now, spoiler.

The unreasonable half of me—the half that took three watches each through the movies Sabrina and While You Were Sleeping to accept that the setup romances were not the payoff romances—had a hard time with it. When a heroine falls in love with someone who turns out to be a rake, there’s admittedly no good way to resolve that. Rakes are notoriously difficult to reform; it’s a case of powerful addiction. But like any fool girl, I always hope that just once, the one in this or that story will change.

And Jack Foley didn't strike me quite as a classic rake. At least, not at first. Binchy does an exceptional job at making the reader care about nearly every character, even the weak ones, and I really, really wanted to love the young charmer. Jack is handsome, lighthearted, very capable of being sweet, and falls in love with Benny for reals. He’s not messing around. Until, of course, he is. Benny can’t be there whenever he wants her, won’t go all the way in the back of the car, and along comes the temptress, and he’s toast.

But Nan played Jack, too. He deserved nearly everything he got, but a part of me still hopes he learned his lesson and proved reformable.

This book has been made into a movie—Minnie Driver’s first lead role, I believe, and with improvements enough to Jack’s character to pull off a classic happy ending. Both of which interest me in watching it; I am rather fond of happy endings and Minnie Driver. I like Chris O’Donnell, who plays Jack, too. On the other hand, the trailer makes it sound as if the movie’s theme is more “Catholic girls and sex” than friendship, which is unfortunate. Binchy does give an interesting and nuanced depiction of the former, but it’s a subservient theme and anyway, I’m not sure I trust the film industry to treat it quite so fairly.

Recommendation: It’s an ideal autumnal read—thought-provoking, funny and bittersweet, and soothing. Go for it.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books that Elicited Great Emotion

2011-11-01T12:23:00.000-07:00

I like this topic. Ten, though? That will require me to limit things.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

Great Emotion covers a vast range of happy, sad and infuriated response. I've organized the list from most-hated to most-loved.

1. Tess of the D'Urbervilles (Thomas Hardy). I have never in my life felt so cheated by a story.

2. The Hunger Games series (Suzanne Collins). Reading these books was, for me at least, an exercise in masochism. Not an entirely unredeemed one, but still.

3. Animal Farm (George Orwell). I went in the kitchen after finishing this book and cried angry tears for a while. Stupid pigs.

4. The Betrothed (Alessandro Manzoni). It took a lot of suffering to get to the happy ending, some of which was occasioned by the abysmal lack of sense the young pair sometimes displayed.

5. Circle of Friends (Maeve Binchy). This week's review book, actually, so I'll try not to spoil it. To summarize: it hurts a lot to love a character so much and watch them do something so horrible. I adored the book, though.

6. Bambi (Felix Salten). Not the cartoon version. I read this a thousand times as a kid, every time aching over the deep sorrow of it.

7. Because of Winn-Dixie (Kate DiCamillo). I didn't expect to find this book particularly interesting. It swept me up from the first page and left me all aglow at the end.

8. Little White Horse (Elizabeth Goudge). A lovely little story that makes me cry good tears every time I read it.

9. The Ender books (Orson Scott Card). Every one I've read has affected me powerfully. I've never come across more empathy from any other author.

10. The Harry Potter books (J.K. Rowling). These deserve to win just for covering the entire spectrum of emotion. Hilarity, weeping, fury, supreme joy....

What books elicited Great Emotion from you?

Pumpkin Pictures

2011-10-31T14:19:00.000-07:00

As Mr. Pond wasn't able to post last week, and as today is a holiday, we get another week off the blogalectic. And you get pictures of my first pumpkin-carving experience.

But first, Maia and her vanquished enemy (she knocked over the tall pumpkin several times).

Lou, who has some experience with pumpkin-carving, cut into the tall one and cleaned it out for me.

...and I, not being quite confident enough to replicate this sort of thing, drew a simple face on and proceeded.

It didn't turn out half bad, I think.

Also not half bad: the pumpkin spice lattes we made from the cut-out parts.

I'm live-podcasting with The Hog's Head tonight right during trick-or-treating time, so I'm not sure whether I'll manage to dress up or not, but here's Lou and I from last year:

Have a good and safe All Hallows' Eve, and happy All Saints' Day tomorrow!

The Trouble with Water-Obsessed Cats and other stories

2011-10-28T12:37:00.000-07:00

Need something to listen to on Halloween night? Tune in to Middle-Earth Radio! There'll be scary stories, music, and The Hog's Head Pubcast, which I've taken to co-hosting lately, will broadcast from 10-11 PM ET. Last week we talked about fear in Harry Potter; the plan for this week hasn't been finalized, but I'm sure it will stay with that theme.

* * *

NaNoWriMo may be out of reach for me this year, but I still intend to write a book before the year ends.

My goal: 1,000 words per day excepting Sundays, beginning Tuesday, November 1, and continuing till the draft is complete. It should take 35-45 days. This will certainly challenge me, but without too much likelihood of making my left eye twitch more than it already does.

Despite my 2009 win and its attendant glory, NaNoWriMo proved so arduous last year that I'm nervous about having a word count goal again. But I'm also excited about telling this little story. I can't wait to see what it grows to be.

* * *

Maia's exploit for the week: dumping a full vase of flowers into the drysink, which happened to contain our wedding pictures.

The little book my parents made for us got the worst of it, though fortunately only the cover and the last couple of pages took what appears to be lasting damage. The expensive album from the photographer survived with only a slightly damp cover, thanks to the heavy cloth case it was wrapped in and the fact that it sat atop the little book. Our marriage license and certificate weren't destroyed outright, but both got well dampened and the colors ran on the latter.

I'd like to blame it all on the cat, but I'm the breathtaking idiot who set the vase in the drysink in the first place. Of course, I intended to move it before Maia could get into it. Never trust a writer's brain.

* * *

Writers' link of the week, forwarded me by both my mom and George: Ellen Finnigan self-publishes with no shame, and champions Amazon.com as she explains why. It's a very interesting and hilarious set of thoughts. Now I want to read her book.

* * *

Music of the week: for Halloween, Kate Bush as the ghost of Cathy Earnshaw.

* * *

Funny of the week: an old clip of Bob Hope and James Cagney, forwarded to me by my blessed father-in-law. It's more dancing than hilarity, but totally wonderful.

* * *

To those of you who celebrate the holiday, Happy Halloween! I'm going to carve my first pumpkin this year, I think. My friend Elizabeth gave me a funny oblong one, which should make a great face.

To everyone: Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: A Swiftly Tilting Planet

2011-10-26T11:44:00.000-07:00

Gaudior pawed the lush green impatiently. “Not Where; can you not get that through your human skull? When. Until we know more than we know now, we will stay right here in your own Where. There is something to be learned here, and we have to find out what.”

“You don’t know?”

“I am a mere unicorn.” Gaudior dropped his silver lashes modestly. “All I know is that there is something important to the future right here in this place where you watch stars. But whatever it was did not happen until the ancient music of the spheres was distorted. So now you go to a When of people.”

Author: Madeleine L’Engle

Synopsis: When the president calls to tell Mr. Murry that the world is coming to an end, Charles Wallace goes to the rescue with the unicorn Gaudior. Meg joins him by kything as he attempts to right a series of ancient wrongs leading up to the production of a tyrannical dictator with the power to destroy the world.

Notes: As a matter of fact, I have read this book once before. Being quite young, I had a difficult time getting into the story. It’s easy now to see why I might have had trouble as a child; Charles Wallace basically becomes a whole lot of different people throughout the tale, which means getting used to one new character perspective after another. Meanwhile, Meg scarcely moves from her bed, and Gaudior gets a little metaphysical with some of his comments.

This time, though, I had no trouble at all keeping up. After a slow start of perhaps fifty pages, I got hooked and had trouble putting the book down till I’d finished.

I’ve always loved Charles Wallace for his unique combination of innocence, vulnerability and vibrant intelligence. He brought that with him into this story, despite nearly a decade’s advance on his age, and many of the characters he goes Within share in his gentleness. Characters make or break a story for me, so I appreciated seeing the young hero’s nature in the various people he became.

The concept of righting past wrongs was fascinating, and I enjoyed watching it happen. While the requisite chronology jumps made for a rather choppy feel to the flow of the novel, ultimately, it all worked.

I love A Wind in the Door best of the Time books, but this tale’s “in this fateful hour” theme had an especial power of its own. The rune, a psalm of intercession, gave me chills. And the ending made me cry, in a good way.

Recommendation: But of course.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books to Read for Halloween

2011-10-25T09:46:00.000-07:00

Of vampires and ghosts, of fluttering veils and things that go bump in the night...

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

I had a lot of fun making this list. And yes, it is a hodgepodge of genres and time periods and quality levels. I'm shameless about that.

1. Dracula (Bram Stoker). About the time the vampire is scuttling up and down walls and hovering over sleeping guests and turning into bats and infecting lovely young ladies with his disease, you'll find the hair standing upright on your neck. Terrifying.

2. Harry Potter (J.K. Rowling). Any of the books will work, considering that Harry's parents were murdered on Halloween, but Chamber of Secrets is the creepy-crawliest. Between Aragog, Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party, the basilisk, Riddle's diary, and what happens to Ginny, the book is Gothic nightmare from one end to another.

3. Coraline (Neil Gaiman). Maybe I should say The Graveyard Book, but I haven't read it. Coraline freaked me out, though. Anything by Gaiman would probably work.

4. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte). From childhood superstitions to macabre adult visions, from dark mansions to gloomy moors, from apparitions to a very real madwoman, Jane's story balances unerringly on the threshold between the physical and spiritual realms, with the wind ruffling the veil. Everything you could ever want on All Hallows' Eve.

5. Northanger Abbey (Jane Austen). A spoof on Gothic mystery, with Henry Tilney around to drive the ghosts away. I always liked Henry.

6. The Inferno (Dante). Nothing could be more horrifying than a vividly symbolic portrayal of Hell. (But seriously, don't stop with the brilliant but awful Inferno. Purgatorio is splendid, and Paradiso indescribably sublime.)

7. A Midsummer Night's Dream (Shakespeare). Liminality, fairy pranks, and people in costume. How much more Halloweenish can you get, without pumpkins?

8. New Moon (Stephenie Meyer). In Twilight, teenage Bella meets the supernatural in both its glory and its horror. In New Moon, the glory vanishes, leaving Bella alone with the horrors. It's an incredibly haunting tale, and my favorite of the series.

9. On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness and sequels (Andrew Peterson). Lots of monsters! But there's a funny side to it all. Hilarity and bone-chilling fright go hand in hand in the Wingfeather Saga.

10. Rebecca (Daphne du Maurier). With its wilting-flower protagonist and the (figurative) specter of her husband's dead wife hovering over everything, this story well qualifies for Gothic romance.

Honorable mention to Anne of Green Gables for the scene in which Anne confronts the Haunted Wood after imagining spooks into it with Diana.

What books would you recommend for Halloween reading?

Everyday Mythologies

2011-10-24T16:32:00.000-07:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

Saw the ghost of Elvis
On Union Avenue
Followed him up to the gates of Graceland
Then I watched him walk right through

—Marc Cohn, Walking in Memphis

In last week's discussion of mythopoesis, Masha had this to say:

When I think of our myth-makers, I think first of the Boss, whose lyrics make myth out of the mysteries of American life, out of factory work, long drives at night, out of trampled dreams and broken love.

And Mr. Pond had this:

We are not so much interested in events, but the people caught up in them; mythopoeia could arguably be the harmony of person and event, a specific combination which for one reason or another evokes powerful emotion, wonder, eucatastrophe.

This week's word is mythology, which, given the nature of classical education, means I think first of characters like Zeus and Athena and the Furies. Greek mythology. But I didn't come here today to discuss the quibbling, unscrupulous gods and goddesses of the ancient world. Bring out the Oxford!

¹ a collection of myths, especially one belonging to a particular religious or cultural tradition:
     Ganesa was the god of wisdom and success in Hindu mythology
     a book discussing Jewish and Christian mythologies
  a set of stories or beliefs about a particular person, institution, or situation, especially when exaggerated or fictitious:
     in popular mythology, truckers are kings of the road

² the study of myths.

I liked Masha's reference to Bruce Springsteen. His work builds and reinforces popular American mythology (definition 1), and it works so well because it goes in for Mr. Pond's point about the harmony of person and event and the evocation of eucatastrophe. (That word could have its own week for discussion.)

America, of course, is hardly a unified culture with a consistent, shared mythology. We have mythology by all the Oxford's definitions in wild variety—an enormous sampler platter both for use and study, not only of belief systems but of exaggerated tales by which we're all credulous about our neighbors and crazy relatives and Californians and Midwesterners and the Founding Fathers. We have New York and Washington and Hollywood. We have religions and the lack thereof in every imaginable form. We have playful nonsense about Chuck Norris, of whom the dark itself is reputedly afraid. We'll also buy into the most appalling rumors and lies about Barack Obama or Sarah Palin, depending on which side we're on.

Some of us study our myths with the detachment of a scientist, others with the passion of a lover, and still others with the apathy of young boys in their least favorite classes on the day before summer break.

And out of all this, we make art.

I firmly believe that mythology is a good and important thing, but like all good and important things it has dangers. And one of the reasons I love fantasy fiction is that it allows me to detach from the baggage of everyday mythologies, particularly the polarizing political and religious ones, and focus on the aspects I love and believe.

In our own little corners, in our own little chairs, fantasy writers dream of different realms. The exaggerations and fictions that humans believe about each other, that turn us against each other, that make it impossible to have some conversations without an eruption of conflict—these things take a night off existence, and we can take the tough questions one at a time.

We may not come up with magic solutions. Our art may not bring about peace in the Middle East, or heal the breach between Rome and the Reformation, or even convince Democrats and Republicans to stop calling each other evil morons. But it might take two people of impossibly disparate mythologies and stand them side by side for a moment, caught up in shared wonder and eucatastrophe.

And there's a lot to be said for that.

A Failure of Mystique and other stories

2011-10-21T12:52:00.000-07:00

So, I didn't get AK'd on Tuesday, and nothing else terrible or tragic happened. I just got so exhausted after several busy weeks that all my internal alarm bells went off. Word to the wise: when getting busy starts to hurt physically, it's time to extricate oneself from everything that can be escaped. Hence, no blog posts on Tuesday or Wednesday.

But it's Friday, it's raining, I got a decent amount of sleep despite one of my books and one of Maeve Binchy's both trying to keep me awake, and here I am.

* * *

Inspiration is never timely.

For a week, I've been trying to pause in drafting one novel so I can give my mind a break before writing another during November and December. It isn't working. Two days ago I finished a chapter and told myself to stop. Yesterday I wrote 1600 words, which for me, for one day, is fantastic. Ah, well. I suppose I can't complain.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: Roni Loren on whether blogging kills author mystique. Quite frankly I think it does, at least if you give out very much about yourself. Unfortunately, you'll notice I can't stop. I like blogging.

On the other hand, as Ms. Loren and some of her commenters point out, blogging can work in your favor, too. It's just wise, I think, to try and avoid getting on people's nerves.

* * *

Music of the week: Have a little Fauré.

* * *

Funny of the week: Sci-fi and fantasy on the Cheezburger Network!! Seriously, all my nerdy friends talk about Dr. Who. All of them. Maybe this'll be me one of these days.

* * *

It really is raining here. But the fall colors have started to brighten, and oh, are they lovely.

Happy weekend!

Mythmakers

2011-10-17T21:57:00.000-07:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

The week off has ended. Masha's installment, if you recall, covered myth's "half-hidden truths and beautiful mistakes." And Mr. Pond's last-Friday post directed the blogalectic naturally toward discussion of the word mythopoesis:

"Instead, I’m building on Kirstin Jeffrey Johnson’s suggestion that the essence of mythopoesis, or myth-making, is ultimately relational—partly between the characters within the myth, partly and perhaps mostly the tripartite relationship between the tale, the teller, and the hearers."

Myth is not made alone. It always entails one heart, one soul, one spirit going out to another or others.

As a writer, especially of fantasy fiction, I feel that truth as I go about making myths for imaginary worlds and people. I give my characters ideals, narratives, things to believe in and trust, because I have such things. But I can't claim even that act of creation as a purely individual event. The myths that set the parameters for my stories are formed in communion between me and the myths I love and live with.

The new myths grow with my development of and love for the characters themselves—my soul-and-ink-and-paper children, whose lack of fleshly existence I sometimes have a hard time remembering. It's frightening, sometimes, how dear those people are to me.

Slightly cuckoo writer's asides aside, however—perhaps the above is why, when I'm passing days at my computer with no one but me and the cat in the house, I rarely feel alone.

The Bottom of the Food Chain and other stories

2011-10-14T12:40:00.000-07:00

Despite the fact that I still get jealous every time someone else announces they've signed up for NaNoWriMo, I've decided to do something slightly less strenuous this year. Slightly. Details coming later, after I figure out how much of an event I dare make of it.

* * *

The problem with caring for a garden is that you're defending the bottom of the food chain.

Exhibit A: Maia broke five leaves off my peace lily one night this week, and has shredded or chewed the ends of several more. Theoretically, it's supposed to be mildly poisonous, but it has never made her sick and she keeps going after it. I've taken to locking it away at bedtime.

Exhibit B: A sleek and happy squirrel charged into my corn patch the other day, raced up a stalk, and ripped into an ear of corn. With Lou and I standing not an arm's length away. Squirrels will steal corn by the ears, carry the spoil to the picnic table, and party up. Not kidding. I've seen the leftovers.

Exhibit C: I had to pick green worms off every leaf of a bunch of kale a few days ago.

Thanks to that last ordeal, I later dreamed I was eating a bowl of cereal and found a green worm floating in it. I picked the worm out with the spoon and threw it into the sink, but then I found another... and another. Horrified, I dumped the entire bowl into the sink—and it was crawling with green worms, some of them enormous. After thirteen Wheel of Time books, of course, dream-Jenna knew she was headed for Tarmon Gai'don.

It's been a long week.

* * *

Dog caught in misdeed: "Oh no, I'm sorry, I know I was bad. Please don't stop loving me."

Cat caught in misdeed: "Two squirts with the squirt bottle? Well worth it."

* * *

Writers' link of the week: InkPageant. Instant overwhelming by blog posts on the art of writing. H/T Shallee McArthur.

* * *

Music of the week: my favorite old Over the Rhine song. I can't believe I've never featured this band before.

* * *

Funny of the week: Okay, I don't know where YA Highway got this, but... haha.

* * *

House to clean, books to write, dinner to plan, going-away party for my good friend Sarah tonight... *sniff*... I'm off.

Happy weekend, everybody!

Currently Reading: The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain, Book 2)

2011-10-12T11:26:00.000-07:00

"Doli!" Taran clapped the dwarf on the back. "I never thought I'd see you again. That is, really see you. Not after you gained the power to be invisible."

"Humph!" snorted the leather-jacketed dwarf. "Invisible! I've had all I want of that. Do you realize the effort it takes? Terrible! It makes my ears ring. And that's not the worst of it. Nobody can see you, so you get your toes stepped on, or an elbow jabbed in your eye. No, no, not for me. I can't stand it any more!"

Author: Lloyd Alexander

Synopsis: As long as the Black Cauldron exists, evil Arawn can continue making his army of animated corpses. Taran, Fflewddur Flam, Gurgi, Eilonwy, and a number of local nobles get caught up in Gwydion's plan to steal and destroy the cauldron. Before long, Taran is fighting Huntsmen outside his company and traitors within, taking more of the quest upon himself than he ought, and learning the harder side of what it means to be a man and a hero. For finding and destroying the cauldron will require greater sacrifices than he has ever imagined.

Notes: Lloyd Alexander's cast of quirky characters returned in full form for this second Prydain adventure. Faced with the enemy of his own pride, among other foes, Taran goes through some rather striking character development; his friends provide support, tonguelashing and comic relief.

The humor and Taran's character progression really make the book. Though a lot of the quirky personalities run dangerously close to gimmickry, the tale is short and fast-moving enough that it doesn't matter. I never quite got tired of Gurgi's whackings and smackings and moilings and spoilings, nor the twang of Fflewddur's harp strings. Best of all in my opinion, though, is Eilonwy, whose ice-pick honesty sometimes includes startling compliments mixed right in with the verbal whipping. Now that's good character portrayal.

The plot of this book moves more quickly and comfortably than I seem to remember from the first one, and I wound up liking it better overall. I read it in a couple of (comparatively) short sittings, and though certain plot threads were more predictable for an adult than they would be for the usual middle-grade audience, the story still engaged my sympathy and interest.

And, oddly, I could never quite dislike Ellidyr.

Recommendation: Read it on a crisp Sunday afternoon, with hot chocolate and dreams of heroism.

Further Notes and Top Ten Tuesday... sort of

2011-10-11T12:19:00.000-07:00

Note #1: If you have not yet bought Harry Potter for Nerds: Essays for Fans, Academics, and Lit Geeks, please wait a little while! Travis and I discovered this week that over half my essay never made it into the book. We're still not sure how it happened, and I do wish the publisher had gotten me a review copy before now, but so it goes. The book will be re-released with the full text soon.

If you've already bought it, stay tuned. We're looking into ways to remedy the situation for you.

Note #2: Internet Explorer versions 8 and 9 currently aren't speaking to Blogger's embedded comment form. I have tried to change my comment form, but without success. If you have IE and have been trying to comment, I apologize. Hopefully Blogger will have this fixed soon.

In the meantime, this is just one more reason why I recommend Chrome or Firefox or Safari... anything but IE. :)

And that's enough notes! Mercy... it's only Tuesday. I think I need coffee. Now, onto the fun stuff:

Top Ten Tuesday: Books I Wish I Could Read Again for the First Time

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

The only problem with this topic, for me, is that I'm a re-reader. I usually make my first trip through a book at top speed, and if there's much suspense, the first read can even be painful. As far as I can recall, I've never preferred a first reading to the second. Sometimes not to the twelfth.

I can only think of one book that I wish I could read again for the first time, not knowing what would happen in the end:

1. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (J.K. Rowling). The first time I read this, I knew what Narcissa wanted of Snape. I knew what Draco was plotting, and what Snape would do in the end. It killed most of the impact of the story.

That's what I get, though, for reading spoiler sections in reviews when I haven't planned on reading the book. Shame on me for both those things.

What about you? Do you have a list of books that you wish you could enjoy for the first time again?

Notes

2011-10-10T13:45:00.000-07:00

Briefly: I apologize for anyone who is having trouble commenting on my blog. Something seems to be wrong between Blogger and Internet Explorer, and I haven't quite figured out what. I'm looking into it, though.

Last week proved a little hard on both my fellow blogalecticians, thanks to the 'weather' that everyone's under this time of year. Masha got up a sweet post on myth as imaginative reality, a day late. Mr. Pond requested, and was granted, the week off, which means that Masha and I now get a break likewise. Look for Mr. Pond's post later this week.

If you want something to read, though, Eric recently forwarded me Philip Yancey's article on The Writer as Artist, which I've loved and considered one of the best available short works on writing since I read it in First Things. If I'd known it could be found on the internet, I'd have linked it before now.

"There is a time for goads, and a time for nails; there is also a time to recognize that artists are scribbling in the sand, filling the interstices of life, knowing that their creation will be stepped on, and washed away by raindrops.

In full awareness of its limited role, though, I am convinced that we need... now more than ever the kind of art that humbly fills spaces in our lives."

Enjoy.

Not Quite Shakespeare and other stories

2011-10-07T11:36:00.000-07:00

*assumes striking Hamlet posture, raises hand dramatically*

"To NaNo or not to NaNo? That is the question."

Reasons to:

The communal aspect and pressure to succeed helps get the job done like nothing else.
I like having finished drafts. A lot.
NaNoWriMo comes but once a year. Actually, that's not entirely true anymore. But November is when the spirit wakes fully.
I have an idea that I think I could write quickly, and it might be nice to have a break from A.D.'s universe.

Reasons not to:

After months of drafting, the thought of writing nearly two thousand words a day actually hurts right now.
I'm not entirely confident that my idea ought to stretch to 50,000 words.

Amount of time remaining to make up my indecisive mind, as of this writing:

Source.

* * *

A day in the life of Maia:

7:30 Wake people by meowing and jumping on them if they don't get up right when the alarm goes off.
7:40 Run as fast as possible around the house, at least ten times.
7:45 Find a toy and wrestle it into the ground.
7:50 Make sure people fill food dish properly.
8:00 Follow people around, throw self on floor and demand attention.
8:30 Watch world go by, nap in window.
12:00 Burrow under covers for six hours of beauty sleep.
6:00 Wake up, follow people around, throw self on floor and demand attention.
7:00 Make sure people clean litter box properly.
7:30 Get people to find a toy and throw it over and over again.
8:30 Knead red blanket and cuddle down on couch with people and computers.
11:00 Run as fast as possible around the house a few more times, investigate kitchen counters, try to get into cabinets.
12:00 Make further excavations in potted plants.
1:00 Search house for new toys to play with and throw around.
2:00 Commence top-secret operations that people shouldn't know about. When bored, get some more beauty sleep.

* * *

For those who wish to read about it: further thoughts on Pottermore Sorting from Travis, Mr. Pond, George, and yours truly are now available on The Hog's Head! Enjoy. Oh, and:

Yes, that's a badger chewing on a snake. To all my fellow Hufflepuffs: you're welcome.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: Jocelyn K. Glei collects 25 Insights on Becoming a Better Writer. From Kurt Vonnegut to Neil Gaiman, Jennifer Egan to Annie Dillard, a variety of helpful thoughts. My only suggested addition: Pick the ones that work for you.

* * *

Music of the week: I love finding great new girl bands on YouTube.

* * *

Funny of the week: Mr. Pond wrote a fairy tale and got it into the magazine Enchanted Conversation, and I laughed so hard at it that I thought you might, too. Here's "Royal Ball? Get Home Before Midnight or Magic Happens."

* * *

And now I have a house to clean and a couple of errands to run and novels to write and only 24 days, 12 hours, 34 minutes and 19 seconds to make up my mind about NaNoWriMo. I'd better be off.

Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: Austenland

2011-10-05T12:02:00.000-07:00

Jane turned her gaping mouth into a smile. "So, you can tell the worth, the merit, the nobility of a person at a glance?"

"And you cannot?" His expression held a mild challenge. "Can you tell me that within the first few moments of knowing each person in this room, you had not formed firm judgments of their character, which up to this very moment you have not questioned?"

She smiled ever so slightly. "You are correct, sir. However, I do hope that, in at least one regard, my first impression will eventually prove not to be completely accurate."

Author: Shannon Hale

Synopsis: After thirteen failed relationships and a hidden obsession with Mr. Darcy, Jane Hayes receives a gift from a wealthy relative: three weeks at Pembrook Park, a land where rich women can imagine themselves into an Austen story. Jane goes, hoping to kick the desire for her own Darcy for good, but it's just too easy to develop feelings for someone. Even when that someone isn't real.

Notes: I did a lot of laughing during this read. Shannon Hale is, as always, hilarious.

Oddly, the library copy of the book smelled like almond extract, the flavoring used in tea cookies. I'm pretty sure that wasn't part of the printing process, but it did enhance the reading experience.

As for the tale itself: I've never quite understood the concept of a Mr. Darcy obsession. Yes, I love Pride and Prejudice, and yes, Mr. Darcy is a superb hero, but what I loved most about P&P was Elizabeth and the work of her spirits and humor against the odds. And, of course, the happy ending.

But the idea of obsessing so much about Mr. Darcy and Austen's work that you'd compare all men to the former and try to fake an experience of the latter... I honestly had a bit of trouble believing it. Fortunately for the story, Hale's Jane proves too humorous and intelligent, even in her soul-searching, to fully succumb to the romantic fantasy.

The Regency dress-up and etiquette, just for itself, sounded like a blast. I'd absolutely enjoy that for a few days. Especially if it came with horse rides and a little time to practice the pianoforte.

The quests for something real and something permanent—which quests often battled each other throughout the story—won my sympathy entirely. I also loved Hale's Austenian banter, which brought up the pleasure of the novel decidedly. Chick lit isn't usually my thing, but there were times when I lifted my eyes from the page and thought that only Shannon Hale could so nearly pull off Austen's bright moods.

As for the ending, I read it so fast that the first time I had trouble buying into it. Upon a re-run, however, I rather enjoyed the way things worked out. Except for one thing, which I can't reveal because it would mean spoilers. Suffice it to say that it is grossly improper and awkward to ____ in an ____. That crazy little thing called decorum? There are good reasons for its existence.

Stephenie Meyer is making this book into a movie. I have every intention of seeing it. And taking my mom with me.

Recommendation: Read it for fun. With tea cookies.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books With Jaw-Dropping Endings

2011-10-04T13:49:00.000-07:00

This week's topic is a tough one for me, as I tend to prefer books with reasonably predictable endings. Make of that what you will.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

Here's my best shot at remembering the few really shocking endings I've come across. It's spoiler-free. I promise.

1. Every book but the last in a series, like the Wheel of Time (Robert Jordan). The authorial practice of ending volumes of an unfinished story with sudden cruel cliffhangers is annoying, but effective.

2. The Host (Stephenie Meyer). Actually, the real ending was perfect and fitting; it was the fake-out ending that left me muttering and crying and furious for a night. But I did drop my jaw when I discovered the real ending. And then sobbed in relief. It was a little pathetic of me, yes.

3. And Then There Were None (Agatha Christie). All the way through that book, I was utterly terrified and confused. And I never would have figured out the truth on my own.

4. Pretty much every other mystery novel I've ever read, too. My grandmother liked Phyllis Whitney's books, so I read a few of those, and was usually completely shocked upon learning who the psychopath really was. Chesterton's Father Brown mysteries always take me by surprise. Mary Higgins Clark novels take me by surprise. Heck, most of the Harry Potter books took me by surprise. Mysteries just do that to me. :)

What book endings have taken you by surprise?

Beautiful Disaster

2011-10-03T21:11:00.000-07:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

As Masha pointed out Wednesday, the blogalectic is taking a bit of a new direction and considering myth. Before I get into that, however, let me remind you to read Masha's lovely piece on the relation of the fairy tale to beauty, and Mr. Pond's short and humorous fairy tale about fairy tales.

The word myth has multiple definitions, so our best hope of starting this discussion on the same page is to get some help from a dictionary. Quoth the Oxford:

¹ a traditional story, especially one concerning the early history of a people or explaining some natural or social phenomenon, and typically involving supernatural beings or events.

The shades of definition two are more commonly thought of nowadays, leaving most people with the general idea that myth is the opposite of fact. After all, no one really believes the Greek and Roman myths anymore. But myth, by definition one, doesn't necessarily imply falsehood. Be that as it may, the three of us intend to deal with this concept of traditional stories, tales that—whether true or false in the details they relate—bring something to bear upon our reality.

For this week, our focus is primarily upon the word itself, and what it calls to mind. I think, among other things, of magic. And oddly, I find myself chanting an old Kelly Clarkson song:

He's magic and myth
As strong as what I believe...
Yeah, he's so beautiful
Such a beautiful disaster

The song doesn't have anything to do with myth, not really. It's just a pop tune about a girl in love with a charismatic guy who's too messed up to make a good match. I like the words beautiful disaster, though. Myth is full of that paradox. Examples from the Greeks: Zeus having a little fling—Zeus was always having little flings—by raining down on Danaë in a shower of gold. Artistically appealing, at least if you don't think too hard about it; morally and sensibly disastrous. The sirens, singing music so lovely that Odysseus had to have himself lashed to the mast of his ship to keep himself from sailing toward them, where they would have brought certain ruin.

Of course, the beauty and the disaster aren't always one and the same. Sometimes the loveliness is a reward reached only by avoiding the dangers on every side. But myth always seems to contain both peril and paradise.

How myth affects us, how it fills our lives and stories, and why it matters, are topics strictly reserved for future weeks. For now, it's enough to know that it informs our imagination, becoming the life and breath of our art.

A Bit of Earth and other stories

2011-09-30T13:41:00.000-07:00

So, after six years of identifying with Gryffindor, I got Sorted on J.K. Rowling's Pottermore (still in beta) site this week.

Turns out, I'm a Hufflepuff.

A Hufflepuff! Not overly surprising, actually—I've sometimes called myself a Gryfflepuff, because I couldn’t quite decide between the two. I like Hufflepuff's openness, its generosity, and the intense goodness and loyalty many of its residents offered Harry. And when you spend the whole Sorting process going "Not Slytherin, not Slytherin", it's nice to wind up in the house that has produced the fewest Dark wizards.

Also, the House description felt like a perfect fit. I never realized that a Hufflepuff could be strong-willed, but the House is represented by a badger. More on that, eventually, at The Hog's Head.

* * *

Having a garden brings to mind all kinds of literary references. Currently, I'm 'reaping where I did not sow,' in broccoli and tomatoes and kale. Also, I'm remembering the work Mary and Dickon and Colin went to in restoring their Secret Garden. The 'bit of earth' I've been given has definitely spent some time growing over with grass and weeds. It's both hard work and delight to restore.

I haven't found a good literary comparison for keeping neighborhood cats from digging in soft seed beds, or for building slipshod tomato shelters from bamboo sticks and twine and old sheets. Or for slugs and tomato worms and spiders. I've got a few good naughty words, though.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: Bob Mayer's "If I were an unpublished author, would I self-publish?" He makes a great point about the importance of having multiple works.

* * *

Music of the week: my new House theme song. I got such a kick out of all the little (properly spelled) icons in this video that I just went over to fanpop.com and downloaded a bunch of them. "No one ever suspects the Hufflepuff." LOL.

* * *

Funny of the week: OK, one more Harry Potter link, and then I'll stop. For today. But seriously, I love the snarky answers to math test questions, and this one made my day. And if you need more funny answers to test questions, well... I thought I'd seen nearly everything the internet had to offer, but was surprised to tears of mirth by a couple of these.

* * *

Time to clean house! According to the Sorting Hat, Hufflepuffs are "unafraid of toil." And hey, if we're talking about writing, I'm right there. With housework, however... I think I'm still a bit of a Gryffindor about that.

Happy weekend, everybody!

Currently Reading: Towers of Midnight (The Wheel of Time, book 13)

2011-09-28T16:54:00.000-07:00

"Rand... she has called me back to the Tower. I'll need to go today."

Rand looked saddened. "Well, I suspected she might try to do that eventually." He took Nynaeve by the shoulder in an odd gesture. "Don't let them ruin you, Nynaeve. They'll try."

"Ruin me?"

"Your passion is part of you," Rand said. "I tried to be like them, though I wouldn't have admitted it. Cold. Always in control. It nearly destroyed me. That is strength to some, but it is not the only type of strength. Perhaps you could learn to control yourself a little more, but I like you as you are. It makes you genuine. I would not see you become another 'perfect' Aes Sedai with a painted mask of a face and no care for the feelings and emotions of others."

Authors: Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson

Synopsis: As a suddenly different Rand tries to prepare the world for Tarmon Gai'don, Perrin faces attack from Graendal and Whitecloaks and works to keep from losing himself to the wolf. Mat and Thom prepare to enter the Tower of Ghenjei, hoping to free Moiraine from the Aelfinn and Eelfinn. Egwene and Gawyn try to work out their relationship as Egwene seeks to find and defeat Mesaana. And while Nynaeve goes through rigorous testing for the Tower, Lan raises the Golden Crane and rides to the first wave of the Last Battle.

Notes: Thirteen books. Between 675-1000 pages each. Two hundred fifty-plus words per page.

One more volume to go.

Well, two, if you count the prequel. For now, I'm overwhelmed at having gotten this far. I had to stay up well past midnight both last night and the night before to finish by today, so I'm sleepy and a little numb. But I'm glad I've done the reading.

Sanderson's writing is a little mellower than Jordan's. It comes across more peaceful, even more hopeful, though I couldn't say how much of that has to do with the voice and how much with the fact that what Jordan built to the heights of conflict, Sanderson has been given the task of resolving. Be that as it may, I've enjoyed reading both authors. Jordan pulled off poignant moments much better. I'd actually say that some of the scenes in this book came off a touch cheesy. But Sanderson's even pacing and quietness come as an immense relief.

The moments of resolution help, too. I won't spoil things, but the last two books have carried long-held suspense threads to their conclusion, though still prepping the reader for the Last Battle. I'm actually a little afraid of the next book. It's going to be gory, and there are some plot points for which I wish I didn't have to wait months to find out what happens. For those of you who have waited years, well... wow.

For now, the young people are ruling the world (mild spoilers):

Egwene al'Vere, 19, the Amyrlin Seat
Fortuona Athaem Kore Paendrag, 16, Empress of the Seanchan
Elayne Trakand, under 25, Queen of Andor
Rand al'Thor, under 25, the Dragon Reborn, king of Illian and in charge of both Tear and Arad Doman
Matrim Cauthon, under 25, Prince of the Ravens, leader of the Band of the Red Hand
Perrin Aybara, under 25, steward of the Two Rivers, married to the second in line for the throne of Saldaea, proving himself a great general
Galadedrid Damodred, under 30, Lord Captain Commander of the Whitecloaks
Nynaeve al'Meara Mandragoran, under 30, most powerful living Aes Sedai and wife to the uncrowned King of Malkier

This sort of thing rarely works outside of fantasy fiction, but practically defines the genre. It makes for a great story: the very young person generally has to face whole lives' worth of extraordinary challenges in a short amount of time, including contact with their own mortality, and prove themselves strong and sensible enough to handle great trials without becoming hell for the world. When most of us were teenagers, we couldn't handle the imposition of a curfew or a well-deserved punishment without becoming hell for the little world we knew. But it's nice to read and imagine what we might become.

It took me awhile to get into the book because I generally find Perrin and Mat less interesting than Rand, Egwene and Nynaeve. I did enjoy their journeys, however, and liked Perrin as much as I ever have. Mat was amusing, especially at the end.

As for Rand... I'll just say that it's good to have Rand back and better than ever. Those dark days were hard to read about.

Egwene continues to interest me, and I loved watching her work through things with Gawyn. His character progression fascinated me; I wound up liking him much more than I ever have.

Then there's Nynaeve, who I loved very early on, and who for a very long time seemed a bit stalled out in character development. Marrying Lan helped her out somewhat. But I took to loving her wholeheartedly again in this book. Maybe I just needed to hear what Rand said in the quote above. It's good to be reminded that there are kinds of strength that even we passionate types can aspire to.

Her belated testing for the shawl was one of my favorite parts of the book. I appreciated her conclusion at the end of it.

The last hundred pages of the book contained a great deal of creepiness and several cliffhangers. But then, it's the beginning of Tarmon Gai'don.

Afraid or not, I can hardly wait for the finale.

Recommendation: Well, yes.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books I Want To Re-read

2011-09-27T14:20:00.000-07:00

The trouble with this topic is... I just partly used it a few weeks ago. But I'll note my list down again, so you all can comment and tell me what you want to re-read. :)

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

Right now, one book a week is just about all I can manage, especially when those books are monsters like those in the Wheel of Time series. And with big books like Anna Karenina on the to-read list, my re-reading time is incredibly limited. But maybe I'll do a few weeks of Percy Jacksons and Prydains and the like this fall, to give myself some time for the following.

1. The Goose Girl (Shannon Hale.) My number-one Must Re-read Immediately. Maybe next week.

2. The Harry Potter series (J.K. Rowling.) I just got Sorted on Pottermore... more about that later... but for now, I would very much like to read the series with my new perspective. :)

3. Pretty much everything Jane Austen wrote. Pride and Prejudice first, I think, although Emma and Sense and Sensibility are both asking to come off the shelf.

4. David Copperfield (Charles Dickens.) It's just been so long, and I only read it once.

5. 101 Dalmatians (Dodie Smith.) I read it to pieces in about fifth grade and haven't picked it up since. But I'd love to.

6. Out of the Silent Planet (C.S. Lewis.) The only one of the Space Trilogy that I've never re-read.

Those are the books that come to mind right off. But quite frankly, any book on my shelves—and a number that aren't—could get re-read any day. Unless, of course, I haven't read it in the first place.

What books do you hope to re-read?

Cinderella's Tree

2011-09-26T14:40:00.000-07:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

Last week's topic of Beauty in Life brought out great posts from both of my sparring partners. Masha wrote a few poignant and poetic thoughts, with pictures. Mr. Pond wrote a hilarious little piece of meta-flash fiction. I highly recommend both.

This week's topic: beauty in fairy tale.

* * *

The thing about beauty in fairy tale as a topic is that, though it was Masha's idea, it's pretty much the center of Mr. Pond's blog's existence. So, theoretically I could just tell you, well, go read Paradoxes.

But for the sake of contributing something to the discussion, let me start by suggesting that what most North Americans think of when they hear the words "fairy tale" involves a guy named Walt and a lot of colorful little animated stories stamped with a very recognizable pair of black mouse ears.

Aladdin was my favorite.

Unbelievable sights, indescribable feeling
Soaring, tumbling, freewheeling through an endless diamond sky
A whole new woooooooooooooooorld (Don't you dare close your eyes)
A hundred thousand things to see (Hold your breath, it gets better)
I'm like a shooting star
I've come so far
I can't go back to where I used to be...

Of course, fairy tale may be more usually associated with Cinderella or Snow White or Beauty and the Beast. Aladdin should qualify after a fashion, though, as it's one of the One Thousand and One Nights tales. Of course, the original is only half recognizable in Disney's jolly adventure-musical version, but I suppose the name Badroulbadour would have been a lot to throw at small English-speaking children. And allowing the couple to marry halfway through the story would have been rather unusual in the happy-ending tradition. And apparently Disney thought it a bad idea to treat free wish fulfillment as a totally, shamelessly good thing.

I've heard it said that fairy tales are bad for young girls, and perhaps where de-horrified and commercialized stories are concerned that may be true, though for myself I can't think of any problem I've had that I can blame on Cinderella or Snow White. I know my mother kept me from some of the stories when I was very young, but I don't remember not knowing them.

But—and here we get to the point—Disney is a fairly recent invention, and fairy tales are not. I wonder what difference it makes in the thought processes of small girls when, instead of a catchy little story involving mice and pumpkins and songs and Fairy Godmothers, the Cinderella they hear of receives her dresses and help from a white bird living in the tree planted over her mother's grave, and her stepsisters mutilate their own feet to try on the slipper. That's the Grimm version.

And, you know, it is kind of beautiful. Well, except for the knife—and the part where the pigeons peck out the stepsisters' eyes. Gross.

The white bird and the tree outshine every last frame in the movie, though. If there's a single poignant moment in that particular Princess flick, I don't remember. But the haunting little ache, so well placed by the existence and nature of Cinderella's tree, is the very breath of beauty.

Ain't gonna lie, as it were—I like Disney movies. Especially the music. But while I think there is beauty in some of the oversanitized and übermarketed, it's something I take in limited doses. Like McDonald's cheeseburgers. I like those, too, dang it. Once in a while.

And I don't always love the Grimms. I won't lie about that, either. Some of the tales leave me shaking my head and tsking like an old biddy and muttering "Was there a point to that?"

When I think of fairy tales, though, I think of a pale young girl in a peasant's dress, walking through a dark wood, eyes bright in the moonlight. She's out to leave behind the horror she's always known, face the monsters of the night, do the impossible, and find bliss. Or at least peace. And somewhere in the same wood, a youngest son prepares to meet three times with Death, courage and wit and goodness his only weapons.

Will the two wind up married to the royal offspring of nearby realms? Or will they meet in the dark wood under the moon? Or will they simply wend their separate ways and search out their own resolutions?

Either way, it could be beautiful.

Something to Hide and other stories

2011-09-23T13:39:00.000-07:00

Maia's idea of a good hiding place in her new house:

Need a closer look?

At first I worried that she'd smother, but when I pulled her out, she went right back in. And after she proved she could survive for eight hours at a time completely buried in blankets, I quit worrying.

Friends and family, some of whom have never seen our cat because she refuses to visit with anyone but Lou and I, get a great laugh out of this. At least now they know she exists.

* * *

For the first time in eighty thousand words—fifty-five thousand of which, I threw away—I got properly swept up into last year's NaNoWriMo novel this week. Little things like food and sleep suddenly became a bother, an interference. I forgot to get bread at the grocery the other day; I've driven away from home without things I needed. I cheerfully double-booked myself for tonight, and if a friend hadn't asked me for directions, I might have gone out, entirely forgetting that book club was meeting at my house.

I've only made it a few chapters into The Wheel of Time book 13, which I have out from the library, and haven't even picked up Shannon Hale's Austenland. In a week. With both those books flaunting their probable awesomeness, begging for attention, and nothing else on deck for next Wednesday's post.

But my little story calls and yearns at me constantly, and I just have to know what happens next.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: For all our despairing, disconsolate, why-the-hey-am-I-crazy-enough-to-keep-at-this moments: Craig Robertson's Why Am I Still Writing? He gives what might be the best reason I've ever heard.

* * *

Music of the week: My sister-in-law Marie linked this on Facebook the other day, and I was floored. Behold the power of a capella.

* * *

Funny of the week: How to watch Reality TV, according to Savage Chickens. H/T Father Z.

...of course, I got to reading Savage Chickens, and discovered the Books tag, and the Literature one. Hahahahahahaha. Recommended.

* * *

I've got a to-do list and a half-written book vying for my attention. But I promise to try and finish reading something by next Wednesday, for the sake of the blog. In the meantime, Happy Weekend!

Currently Reading: The Sea of Monsters (Percy Jackson #2)

2011-09-21T11:58:00.000-07:00

"Found one. Thank the gods." Annabeth pulled out a gold coin that I recognized as a drachma, the currency of Mount Olympus. It had Zeus's likeness on one side and the Empire State Building on the other.

"Annabeth," I said, "New York taxi drivers won't take that."

"Stêthi," she shouted in Ancient Greek. "Ô hárma diabolês!"

As usual, the moment she spoke in the language of Olympus, I somehow understood it. She'd said: Stop, Chariot of Damnation!

That didn't exactly make me feel real excited about whatever her plan was.

Author: Rick Riordan

Synopsis: When Percy starts having dreams about his best friend—a satyr named Grover—wearing a wedding dress and begging for help, he expects trouble. And he gets it, in the form of attacks on Camp Half-Blood, a Cyclops for a half-brother, a competitive daughter of Ares, and encounters with Luke, who has diabolical plans of his own.

With a little help from his friend Annabeth, his embarrassing half-brother, and Luke's father (Hermes), Percy sets out to find the Golden Fleece and save Grover and Camp Half-Blood all in one. It's more than enough quest for a seventh-grader.

Notes: Riordan's middle-grade-boy voice is perfect and hilarious in this second installment of the Percy series. I laughed a lot, and I never got bored.

In fact, I'd go so far as to say this book improved upon the first. The Vegas-y version of Charon and a few other things in The Lightning Thief stretched my suspension of disbelief a little bit. But Annabeth's close call with the sirens, the ultrafeminist Circe, the monster Polyphemus and the amusing portrayal of the Bermuda triangle never tripped me up. Annabeth's experience was chilling and even poignant, and the threads involving Tyson and Hermes provided something to really cheer for.

Especially since a part of me is kind of attached to Luke. I don't get it; I never really liked Snape or Malfoy and couldn't rouse much sympathy for Saruman, but for whatever reason, I want to see Luke redeemed. If it comes to shipping, I'm all in favor of Percy getting the girl. But I still hope Luke doesn't end up in Tartarus with Kronos.

Percy got to develop a bit as a character and a hero in this one, and I enjoyed the time I got to spend with him. And I can't imagine not liking Annabeth. Her story got fleshed out a lot in this tale, and I'm eager to see more of her past and her fate.

As anyone might expect from a bunch of superheroes with Greek gods for parents, things like right and wrong and religion are a tad muddy. Be advised, if you will. But overall, the books are just rip-roaring urban fantasy adventures, and squeaky clean (so far) other than the possible need for a little basic explaining about typical Greek-god morality.

Recommendation: Pure escapist fun, and also helpful for learning the Greek myths (in perhaps the sort of way that the Veggie Tales are helpful for learning Bible stories). I especially recommend it if you have to go anywhere near the Bermuda triangle.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books I Feel as if Everyone has Read but Me

2011-09-20T10:57:00.000-07:00

Ah, I love this question. Everyone can make a list like this. Right?

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

I'll start with the world of classics, where we all have missed something or other. Well, all of us except for perhaps a very few English professors.

1. Moby Dick (Herman Melville). Someday, I do actually plan to read this, if only to say I have. And because the first line is awesome.

2. The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald). See above.

3. Wuthering Heights (Emily Brontë). I probably will read this one, too... I just expect to dislike all the characters, which usually makes me loathe a story and regret wasting my time on it.

4. Anything by Tolstoy, but specifically, War and Peace or Anna Karenina. Most people seem to have read one or the other. I devoted my attention for endless rambling tales of chill and despair to Dostoevsky, though. And yes, I do hope eventually to read one or the other, or both.

5. Hamlet (Shakespeare). Not technically a book, but still. Lou and I joke that we're together one good Shakespeare reader; he's read the tragedies, and I've read the comedies. Or a goodly number of them, anyway.

6. Anything by James Patterson. The only thing that makes me think everyone but me has read his books is the sheer number of books he sells.

7. Lord of the Flies (William Golding). And reading The Hunger Games didn't make me any more likely to pick it up.

8. The Shannara books (Terry Brooks). I'm afraid I won't feel like a proper fantasy reader until I've read at least some of them.

9. Lolita (Vladimir Nabokov). Surely I'm not the only person who got fifteen pages in and was too squicked out to continue. But it feels like it. I just... ewwww.

10. The Call of Cthulhu (H.P. Lovecraft). This is a short story, but when you're into fantasy fiction and nerd stuff and The Hog's Head... yeah. I feel like I'm missing a nerd credential without this. One of these days!

What do you feel as if everyone has read but you?

Vital Beauty

2011-09-19T20:24:00.000-07:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

Last week saw brief stories from both Masha and Mr. Pond, the former being—I believe—actuality, and the latter, I suspect, fiction; each of them were startlingly lovely in their own ways.

An unexpected little beauty.

This week's theme: beauty in life. Which makes me think, primarily, of two things.

The first is the movie Life is Beautiful—one of the best movies ever made, in my opinion—and its main character, Guido Orefice. I am not much like Guido, but though I only saw the movie once, he was inspiration from beginning to end and beyond.

The second is the book There and Back, by George MacDonald, which I've only read once and much longer ago than I saw Life is Beautiful. The inspiration in that came mainly from the character of Barbara Wylder. I am not much like her, either, but she has affected the way I look at life for as long as I can remember:

"She seemed to regard every one as of her own family. People were her property—hers to love! And her brain was as active as her heart, and constantly with it. She wanted to know what people thought and felt and imagined; what everything was; how a thing was done, and how it ought to be done. She seemed to understand what the animals were thinking, and what the flowers were feeling. She had from infancy spent the greater part of her life, both night and day, in the open air; and, having no companion, had sought the acquaintance of every live thing she saw.... She knew most of the stars, not by their astronomical names indeed, but by names she had herself given them. She had tales of her own, fashioned in part from the wild myths of the aborigines, to account for the special relations of such as made a group. She would weave the travels of the planets into the steady history of the motionless stars. Waning and waxing moons had a special and strange influence upon her. She would dart out of doors the moment she saw the new moon, and give a wild cry of joy if the old moon was in her arms. Any moon in a gusty night, with a scud of torn clouds, would wake in her an ecstasy."

I sleep with heavy dark curtains over the windows now, for the sake of rest and health, but it drives me a little crazy. Because I still rather feel that way about the moon.

The Strength of Samson and other stories

2011-09-16T14:13:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, a Very Tall Peasant decided that hair down to her waist was too much work to wash and dry, so she cut it.

* * *

Of course, the only thing to do when you cut off fourteen inches of hair is to send it to Locks of Love. Unfortunately, I couldn't take a picture of this because I forgot the packeted ponytail at my parents' house. I'll have to mail it next week.

* * *

As you may know, I've kept my hair long because of fantasy fiction. It's a lot of fun to attempt Danielle's hairstyles from Everafter, or Arwen's intricate braids, or Nynaeve's "wrist-thick braid to her waist" (my hair was that long; the braid itself came a little short, though.)

But then I realized that not every woman in fairylands and fantasy worlds has waist-length hair. There's always the brilliant and powerfully magical Hermione Granger:

"bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth"

...and I never got the sense that Moiraine Damodred or most other of the Cairhienin nobility had excessively long hair:

I couldn't make my blue pendant work, so I had to use white. Sorry, Moiraine.

And I know Aviendha didn't.

I had way too much fun taking this picture.

So, unlike Samson, I've decided that my superpower isn't entirely in my hair. I may go for waist-length again someday, but for now it feels just lovely to be able to pick up a blow dryer and finish in ten minutes or less. The Pacific Northwest is too cold for constantly wet hair.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: An interesting post on being realistic from author Athol Dickson. Favorite line, which has little to do with the main point of his post: "All I know is, like most writers I just want to write, and anything that interferes with writing is annoying."

* * *

Music of the week: Apparently it's Gryffindor Pride day! And while I've not gotten my letter from Pottermore yet, and have not been Sorted (and could end up anywhere... but not Slytherin, please not Slytherin, I don't want to live in a dungeon under the lake with skulls), I do love Gryffindor. Take it away, Jason Munday!

* * *

Funny of the week: Okay, I think I've linked Hyperbole and a Half at least two or three times lately. And everybody else on the internet has probably read every last one of her posts, but I'm still catching up... and I have to dedicate this to my best friend, MissPhotographerB. Spiders are scary. Apologies in advance for the swearing in this post, but spiders DO tend to bring out the worst in people.

* * *

To Do:

Clean house
Find a way to cover tomato plants before it rains tonight
Get some writing done
Go sing karaoke for a friend (I got out of it by fainting last time, but I think tonight I'll actually have to do it)

Happy weekend, everybody!

Currently Reading: Across the Universe

2011-09-14T16:33:00.000-07:00

The doctor starts straightening the pencils I dumped on his desk. He's seriously OCD. But...I wonder how much of him is real. He's as expressionless with me as he is with Eldest. I doubt he likes me—but he did stand up for me when Eldest threatened to throw me out of the hatch. As for how the doctor feels about Eldest...I thought he respected him, maybe even feared him, but he seemed to move closer to the door when I was trying to listen in on his conversation with Eldest. Did he do that on purpose? Now—is he trying to get me to ask the right questions? Or am I just playing mind games with myself?

"Last Season," the doctor says, "we had some trouble. But it has nothing to do with this."

"It might. How do you know?"

"Because the person who caused trouble last Season is dead," the doctor says. "Anything else?"

Author: Beth Revis

Synopsis: When Amy Martin was cryogenically frozen with her parents, she expected to wake up three hundred years later on a new planet. Instead, she wakes up still on the ship, her freeze unit unplugged by someone who left her to die, and she would have drowned in melting ice if the doctor and Elder hadn't found her in time.

Meanwhile, sixteen-year-old Elder expects to take over running the ship from Eldest; he was born and raised with that expectation. But as he studies with Eldest and does his own searches, he discovers that nothing about the ship and the carefully ordered society is quite what it seems.

Notes: I hesitated over reading this book for a long time because a lot of its buzz—and it got a lot of buzz—included descriptions of a ship called Godspeed, fueled by lies. Out of a general dislike for antagonism, I tend to avoid works that appear to be based on the assumption that faith is evil.

Of course, that avoidance can be based on me making a bad assumption. Arabella mentioned the book several times, with a warm recommendation, so I read it. And to my delight, I was proved quite wrong. The story isn't finished yet, but while Revis may not use the sequels to make a case for religion, I doubt very much that she'll use them to make a case against.

Apart from showing some value for faith, Revis works with some very common YA themes; celebrating differences, for instance. She focuses on appearance, opinion, gift and personality, championing the humanity of true diversity. All that, however, works toward the ultimate question of free will. That, more than anything, is what Elder and Amy must grapple with aboard the ship Godspeed.

I am very interested to see where she goes with those ideas.

My favorite part of Revis' writing is her detail. This meant I sometimes got more than was at all comfortable; the freezing experience, for instance, was well imagined and horrifying. Also, an advisory for parents of the tender-aged: there is some open sexual behavior (not between the main characters, however), and an attempted rape is described in more detail than I'd give, say, a twelve-year-old. Neither is portrayed as a good thing. Elder is in lust with Amy, but I don't recall his thoughts being particularly graphic.

Beyond all that, the detail meant that the book was very vivid, the sort of thing to stick in your mind. I felt as though I could see Amy and Elder, Harley's paintings, the stars outside the hatch. I loved the grav tube rides and the rare bright colors. Revis managed to pull this off without long distracting paragraphs of description, blending the visual with the action. It was well done.

Twice in the course of the tale I was more surprised by information than I should've been. In both cases, I think it would have been easy and necessary to either delete the twist or prepare the reader for it. It really startled me; it's a bit unusual for something like that to make it past editing. Other than that, the pace and flow of the story were excellent, carried by good strong prose.

I don't know if it was intentional, but there's a rather poignant echo of Lewis' The Silver Chair in chapter 27.

Also, the story gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "'Tis the Season." Ack.

Many a YA book is written and left open for a sequel, but this one demands it. It didn't end on a cruel cliffhanger, but there's definitely more to this story.

Recommendation: Read it under an open sky. You might find yourself glad and grateful for Earth.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books I Read Because of Another Blogger

2011-09-13T12:21:00.000-07:00

The big question for this week is: does it count if said blogger recommended the book in private email, rather than on their public blog? I'm going to have to say yes, since otherwise I might not make ten.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

Of course, the Blogengamot is going to get more than their fair share of this list. They recommend a lot.

Arabella is a true recommending champion, going so far as to actually mail me books. My favorites from her: 1) Matched, 2) Impossible, and she gets partial credit for 3) The Host, which might be my favorite book I've read all year.

George and Arabella both recommended the Prydain books; possibly others did, too. 4) The Book of Three definitely belongs on this list.

Mr. Pond recommended 5) Howl's Moving Castle and 6) Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy; he also talked me into re-reading 7) Alec Forbes of Howglen, which I'll count because I barely remembered it from childhood.

Travis's rave review of 8) On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness got me started on those books.

And yes, all of the above friends are Blogengamot members, with Travis at the helm.

Jana recommended 9) A Tale of Despereaux in a post on Silhouette.

And I can't count how many bloggers have talked up 10) Divergent. But I read it primarily because I liked author Veronica Roth's blog, and because Katy Upperman claimed to be "very close to being over-saturated by all the dystopian literature coming out nowadays" and still loved it.

Have you read any books on the recommendation of some random reader scrawling thoughts on the internet? Which ones? Did you like them, or were you disappointed? What were your favorites?

Author credits:

1) Ally Condie

2) Nancy Werlin

3) Stephenie Meyer

4) Lloyd Alexander

5) Diana Wynne Jones

6) Douglas Adams

7) George MacDonald

8) Andrew Peterson

9) Kate DiCamillo

10) Veronica Roth

Art, Obviously

2011-09-12T20:11:00.000-07:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

The Impressions series ended last week with technique, a word which Masha found uninspiring except perhaps as a calligraphic subject. Mr. Pond talked about subtle masteries and linked Victor Borge. (I love Victor Borge. God rest his soul.)

This week we have a theme to consider: art in less obvious places.

Which is a difficult concept for me, honestly. If you read my post The Influence of Art—a blogalectic installment from several weeks back—you know that for my family, art was everything from multi-layer glazing on walls to flower arrangements to cake decorating to painting and making music and writing. Blacksmithing. Gardening. Family traditions. Family itself. How to live.

I don't remember distinctions. Everything had its own technique. Each discipline involved a certain amount of craft. Head and heart and hands all went into the many processes (well, I won't claim to have loved wall-painting. But still.)

And then, there was Nature, God's great work of Art.

So what do I call 'less obvious?' I hardly know where to delineate between less and more. But I'm intrigued to find out what my fellow dialecticians and the rest of you have to say.

Little House with the Big Yard and other stories

2011-09-09T20:52:00.000-07:00

At last! As promised! House pictures. Forgive me for not having a full-on front shot of the house. Chalk it up to paranoia regarding revealing of locations on the internet.

I love it. None of the inside doors will stay closed, and the toilet runs, but it's comfortable and adorable and light and it came with gardens. The strawberries were a surprise, buried in a mass of clover and grass. And I made a cobbler the other day from blackberries, though none of the canes are anywhere I want them.

* * *

Maia's reaction to the new house has been to go nocturnal. In the day, she sleeps behind the couch or burrows into the bedclothes. At night, she rampages. On her first free night, she managed to throw the kitchen sink drain basket through a stack of glass Pyrex containers. Last night, she got us out of bed by playing with a cucumber in the laundry room. Then there's always cardboard to shred, which is startlingly loud in a quiet house.

I don't know what to do about this, apart from bury my head in the pillow and tell myself she can only do so much damage.

* * *

Callie Kingston tagged me with this, so in the spirit of sportsmanship, I’m going to tell you ten things about me. Ten more, because I’ve already done this sort of thing a few times on the blog. Ah, the internet... celebrating random acts of narcissism. I get such a kick out of reading other people's, though, that I don't feel too guilty for making my own.

I don’t wear a lot of jewelry. It’s just one more thing to put on in the morning, and I figure pants are more important.
I know how to card and spin wool, and in fact, have a spinning wheel.
Like a child, I tend to dream about scary things I read about or see on television. Most recently: cryogenic freezing. Last night. After reading Beth Revis’ Across the Universe.
Also last night: I woke up and fainted after apparently twisting my leg wrong in my sleep.
I’ve also fainted: while standing still to have my hair braided, while standing in line at school, off the back riser during a choir performance, under a parked car after bending my thumb backward, while standing around a family living room chatting, after hitting my hand wrong setting a volleyball, and after twisting my knee standing on the couch.
That’s not counting the times I’ve blacked out at a sudden fright, which number at least two: sledding into a six-foot-deep irrigation ditch lined with rocks and ice, and swimming a river rapid called "Suffocator."
When it comes to throwing things, I am a significant danger to anyone in the near vicinity.
I once threw a rock, aiming at the ocean in front of me, and hit my sister, who was standing a few feet to my right.
If I had all the time in the world, I’d join the Society for Creative Anachronism. It sounds like fun. It would be more fun if you could endow your character with magic powers, though. Maybe I should just get into RPGs instead.
I don’t understand why the world is so dismissive of rainbows and unicorns.

Tagging five people (no pressure, but you know I’d enjoy reading it): Masha, Mr. Pond, Shallee McArthur, Lindsey, Sarah... and you, O reader. Link back in the comments if you do, and I’ll read it. Or post in the comments, if you don't have a blog and still want to tell me about yourself. I'll gladly read that, too. :D

* * *

Writers' link of the week: Nathan Bransford's "On the internet there is no such thing as a brand. There is only you." His blogging philosophy is mine as well.

* * *

Music of the week: David linked this for my benefit over a week ago, and ah, readers... it gives me chills. There's not a lot of music I love better than a good book-based song. This is an arrangement of "The Hanging Tree" from the Hunger Games series.

As David noted, the video's a little distracting... you can listen and look at something else. :)

* * *

Funny of the week: as you might have noticed from the rest of this post, I didn't sleep well last night. So I'm finding myself staring vacantly at a lot of supposedly funny things on the internet. But you can try this.

* * *

New house to clean! I'm off. Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: The Princess and the Goblin

2011-09-07T16:37:00.000-07:00

"My name is Irene."

"That's my name!" cried the princess.

"I know that. I let you have mine. I haven't got your name. You've got mine."

"How can that be?" asked the princess, bewildered. "I've always had my name."

"Your papa, the king, asked me if I had any objection to your having it; and, of course, I hadn't. I let you have it with pleasure."

"It was very kind of you to give me your name—and such a pretty one," said the princess.

"Oh, not so very kind!" said the old lady. "A name is one of those things one can give away and keep all the same. I have a good many such things."

Author: George MacDonald

Synopsis: On a dull rainy day, Princess Irene gets lost upstairs and finds a beautiful huge old great-great-grandmother who no one else will believe exists. It is well she finds her, for soon little Irene and the miner's son, Curdie, are caught up trying to prevent a horde of goblins from stealing the princess to marry their horrible prince. And despite Curdie's bravery, Irene cannot be protected without trust in and help from her great-great-grandmother.

Notes: Generally speaking, I like MacDonald's realistic tales better than his fantasies. Which is odd for me, since I tend to think stories more fun if there's an element of magic somewhere.

On the other hand, I do like the fairy tales, and I enjoyed this one. It was a quick and simple read, lighter in nature than At the Back of the North Wind or even The Light Princess, and felt more obviously directed at children than I remember either of those being (granted, it's been awhile).

Irene's innocence and Curdie's courage set each other off in good old English fairy tale style, for Irene shows her own courage and Curdie works to be innocent. The king, the wise old great-great-grandmother, fearful Lootie, and Curdie's mother all make for interesting side characters, and the queen of the goblins has her own nasty-but-humorous role to play.

MacDonald is an unquestionably gifted storyteller, and like many of his works, this story holds up well to the passing of time. Also, it has a sequel, which would have been helpful information yesterday. I'm rather curious to find out what happens next to Curdie and Irene.

Recommendation: Read it aloud to your children, or silently to your inner child. Either way, it's worth the read.

Top Ten Tuesday: Sequels I'm Dying to Read

2011-09-06T11:16:00.000-07:00

Only one problem with this topic: I don't read a lot of series, at least not until most or all of the books have come out. Too many authors leave off with mean cliffhangers. :D

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

On the other hand, I'm not entirely proof against books that end but don't finish. Here's my list of sequels to read!

1. Crossed (Ally Condie). The sequel to Matched, a rare dystopian with a gentle protagonist.

2. Insurgent (Veronica Roth). Much as I drag my heels at reading dystopians, I couldn't help getting caught up in Tris' Dauntless world. Too many years of adventure-based education, I guess. That and the good writing and the fascinating Tris and Four.

3. The rest of the Ender and Bean books (Orson Scott Card). There are at least four I haven't gotten around to, and every time I read a Card novel, it blows my mind.

4. Forest Born (Shannon Hale). Not a true sequel, just the only Bayern book I haven't read. But I must read it. Must.

5. The last two Wheel of Time books (Robert Jordan/Brandon Sanderson). Can a world so based upon circular symbolism have a happy ending? We'll find out.

6. The rest of the Prydain books (Lloyd Alexander). Will Taran go on being a hero? Will Eilonwy kiss him or talk him to death? How many harp strings will Fflewddur Flan break with his compulsive stretching of the truth? I do intend to pursue this story eventually.

7. Percy Jackson and the Sea of Monsters (Rick Riordan). I just put in a request for this one at the library. The first one was a fun read; if I like the second, I just might read the third and fourth and fifth and... however many there are now.

...and that's all I can come up with at the moment. I'm probably forgetting something.

What sequels are on your must-read list?

Practice Makes Perfect

2011-09-04T22:41:00.000-07:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

It's Sunday night, but tomorrow is a holiday and we're still getting settled in our new house (pictures coming soon, I promise!) Fair warning, then: tonight's blog is going to get short shrift.

Last week's impressions word was craft, and Masha talked about the witch side of it. Which, combined with my knitsy-kitschy post, prompted Mr. Pond to wonder why the word "conjures with it a stereotype of—shall we say—ladies of a certain age".

Interesting question. And since I'm tired out tonight, I leave it to yourself to determine.

This week's word: technique. It's a word that gets used a lot in art lessons. And perhaps even more in piano and voice lessons. The images it raises for me consist of shading to dark gray with the side of the pencil lead... imagining that all my fingers were simply digits to raise and lower, so that strength and expression came from the wrist... hours of chanting dee, tee, day, tay, dah, tah, doe, toe, doo, too to strengthen my tongue for the consonants in the German songs.

Oddly enough, it's a word I've heard less frequently in the work of writing. Maybe that's just because I learned so much of what I know simply from reading and writing, rather than from classes.

The concept is as important to the writer as to the artist or musician, of course. There are the exercises: simplifying the convoluted phrase, learning to think in the active voice, creating mood without resorting to cheat words and clichés. Then there are the higher levels of practice. I imagine Lewis listening for the melody of the right sentence, and Hemingway cutting his phrases with an ear to the desolate rhythm; Chesterton watching the weight of every word so the lines would flow light as fancy; Austen aligning each thought, refusing to commit it to paper till it made her laugh.

There's more to this concept, but my mind is out of ideas for the night. What have I missed? Masha, Mr. Pond, anyone else who wants to add a thought—you're up.

Currently Reading: The Host

2011-08-31T09:25:00.000-07:00

When we thought of the new planet—Earth, so dry, so varied, and filled with such violent, destructive denizens we could barely imagine them—our horror was sometimes overshadowed by our excitement. Stories spun themselves quickly around the thrilling new subject. The wars—wars! our kind having to fight!—were first reported accurately and then embellished and fictionalized. When the stories conflicted with the official information I sought out, I naturally believed the first reports.

But there were whispers of this: of human hosts so strong that the souls were forced to abandon them. Hosts whose minds could not be completely suppressed. Souls who took on the personality of the body, rather than the other way around.

Author: Stephenie Meyer

Synopsis: After experiencing life on more than the usual number of planets, one ‘soul’—an alien creature who lives by finding a host body and possessing it—attempts life on Earth, where her kind have suddenly taken over. Given the name Wanderer, she is placed in the body of a young woman who attempted suicide rather than be caught and possessed. But Melanie, the host, is awake in the back of Wanderer’s mind—and faced with a common enemy, the two become allies and then friends as they run from the souls’ society and seek the man Melanie loves.

Notes: At the risk of sounding trite, I could not put this book down.

I powered through most of it in an afternoon, enthralled by Meyer’s beautiful ability to set two characters at opposite interests and give the reader total, wholehearted sympathy for the both of them. The only thing that troubled me was that I couldn’t see a way for it to end well.

So when I reached the blank page after Wanderer’s final decision, I was furious. That was how Meyer had chosen to end it? I was so angry that I went and packed two bookshelves. And then so sad that I cried. When I woke up two and a half hours early the next morning, still on the point of tears, I went to re-read the end and see if I’d missed a glimmer of hope. As it turns out, I’d missed two chapters.

Turn past the blank page, readers. There's more!

The Host was not Meyer’s first novel, and it shows. The tale reads more smoothly than Twilight or Breaking Dawn. It’s not perfect, either; Meyer doesn’t even track with the laws of genre prose, the little dictums of adverb use and dialogue tags and the like. There are also a few small inconsistencies tucked among the pages.

I sometimes wonder, though, if Meyer’s X factor would still work if she were a more nuanced or elegant prosist. Anyone who can read at all can blast through one of her books, unhindered by complex wording or cerebral meandering. And for those to whom the spirit appeals, the read is a passionate, irresistible high. You dream about the story; you lie awake thinking about it; you get up and return to it again and again to absorb its depths and find just what it is that pulls you. Then, along comes someone to whom the spirit did not speak, and they raise an eyebrow and say “You liked this? Are you mad? It’s terrible writing,” and you stare at them and suck in your lower lip and wonder how they missed all the light and the glory.

It’s even more awkward when you can stand on both sides of that conversation at once. Fortunately, I hardly noticed flaws until I’d read significant sections of the book multiple times. Suspense kept me turning pages far too quickly to bother with critique.

Suspense—and the characters. I loved gentle Wanderer, who is on the journey to becoming human, and fierce, strong Melanie, who is trying very hard to stay human. I loved the fact that I could sympathize with the protagonist, despite her alien nature. I loved Jared even when I wanted to hit him, and I loved Ian even when he frightened me. Doc’s conflict, Jamie’s earnest friendship, and crazy Uncle Jeb’s cheery sanity all roused my affection and empathy.

As a general rule I despise love triangles, and bodice-ripper kissing makes me laugh, but the dynamics of the uncomfortable quadrangle in this story were too fascinating to prove an annoyance. With the exception of one scene, anyway. The whole thing is tangled up in Wanderer’s process of becoming human mentally and physically, and I appreciated the different progressions.

The story is more than the characters and romance, however, as Meyer explores the concept of what it means to be human. The insights come from a subtle but strong LDS perspective, focusing on the fall and redemption and hope of humanity. It's under the surface—you have to know what you're looking for—but the storyline grows organically from it. And while my Catholic eyes look rather differently upon many a point of doctrine and practice, I often find sympathy with Meyer's spirit.

The name Wanderer is a fascinating choice, especially set alongside Melanie Stryder. Symbolically speaking, the Wanderer is a seeker, someone lost and searching for true life. Melanie’s surname conjures up the famous line from Bilbo’s poem about Aragorn, “Not all those who wander are lost.” The names fit.

Some of my favorite considerations involved what it means to be physically human—the blurred lines between the soul’s reactions and the body’s. Others involved the almost perfect connection I felt with Wanderer. Wanda, as she was later nicknamed, got too comfortable with deception for my comfort; other than that, reading her became like holding a mirror to the inside of my own soul. Who I want to be, if not who I am.

Despite a handful of rough lines and one or two rough scenes, I thought the book was fantastic. Orson Scott Card’s comment on the back cover is well spoken; I now trust Meyer, more than almost any other living author, to take the dark and the impossible and find a way toward light and hope.

Special thanks to Briana, who told me that if I wanted to read the book I could take her copy. I loved it.

Recommendation: Read it and enjoy being human.

Top Ten Tuesday: Books on my Autumn To-Read List

2011-08-30T10:40:00.000-07:00

The shift from summer to fall always makes me feel like re-reading my favorite books. The mood of the season also draws me more strongly than ever toward the tales of yesteryear.

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by The Broke and the Bookish! Do come join the fun...

This list is a mix of re-reads and first reads:

1. The Goose Girl by Shannon Hale. Re-read. I've been aching to go through this book again for months, but the Wheel of Time has taken up most of my reading time.

2. Towers of Midnight by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson. First read--the only WoT book currently available that I haven't read, other than the prequel.

3. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Re-read. I like to go through this one every year.

4. The Harry Potter books by J.K. Rowling. Re-read. It's actually been a couple of years since I read the middle of the series. Time goes fast....

5. Something by P.G. Wodehouse. First read; I read Psmith in the City and it made me want to read more by the author. His work seems like good autumnal comfort reading.

6. The Princess and the Goblin by George MacDonald. First read. As I packed up my workspace, I discovered my copy of this book with a bookmark in about Chapter 2. Whoops.

7. Lilith by George MacDonald. First read. This one was on my shelf, waiting for me to finish The Princess and the Goblin.

8. Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis. First read, and actually I'm about 2/3 of the way through it. It was my pick for book club this fall.

9. World's First Love by Fulton Sheen. First read. October's book club choice.

10. Fatherless by Brian Gail. First read. November's book club choice.

As for what I'll read to review on my blog, well—we'll see. From the above, I'm only likely to review Towers of Midnight, the MacDonald books, and possibly anything I read by Wodehouse. My picks for blog read-and-reviews tend to be more spontaneous, involving whatever catches my eye at the library. :)

What do you plan to read this fall?

Glitter and Buttons

2011-08-29T09:30:00.000-07:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

For last week's impressions, Masha wrote an illuminating post about her disappointment with the ideas she finds connoted by the word talent. And Mr. Pond wrote a magical little piece of flash fiction. Links enclosed for your reading pleasure.

This week's word: craft.

* * *

Maybe it's having grown up in Sunday Schools and art fairs, but the word craft first brings to mind ribbons and Elmer's glue and the innumerable possibilities of pipe cleaners and popsicle sticks. Or, on a more adult level, frilly handmade refrigerator magnets and knick knacks. Kitsch. The kind of stuff that's fun to make, but mostly just clutter.

My mind's next turn upon the word is more positive. The woodworker, shaping by saw and plane and chisel and lathe. The potter, forming cups from spinning wet clay. The quilter, stitching in curves and lines across her patchwork. The weaver, alternating treadles, passing the shuttle back and forth through the warp. The gardener, settling tiny green starts into the earth not for what they are, but for what they will grow to be. And so on.

The word is associated with writing in my mind, too, as published writers often tell aspiring ones to learn their craft. For me, that means endless hours of laying words into sentence forms and smoothing them over. It means reading, editing, re-reading, and re-editing everything I write until I can no longer see the words. And it means polishing a story or an essay until it reflects my gaze back at me, like a mirror.

The Pursuit of Sanity and other stories

2011-08-26T11:45:00.000-07:00

PSA: I've got a Tuesday and Wednesday blog scheduled for next week, during our big move. I'm planning to write up a Monday post if at all possible. For Friday and the following week, however, the blog depends entirely upon circumstance—which isn't known for guaranteeing internet access or free time.

* * *

Luckily for my sanity, we're about to camp out at my in-laws' for a few days, till we get possession of the new house. I am grateful. It's more than a little difficult to cook with all the cabinets emptied. I can't even find the peanut butter, and besides, I've scrubbed the oven.

Also, I've discovered that Maia doesn't mind chaos in the form of boxes, but she minds very much if we start packing all the normal house stuff into the boxes. She's alternating between hiding out and running madly about the place bouncing off of things. A restoration of sanity will be good for her, too.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: Gregory Wolfe on Divine Art, through the new online magazine Rayzd. Intriguing thoughts.

* * *

Music of the week: Since Wolfe mentioned several composers I'd never heard of, all of whom developed music from Gregorian chant, here's one of them. Arvo Pärt. Beautiful stuff.

* * *

Funny of the week: An Open Letter to the Cats of This Household. Thanks to Mr. Pond for the link.

* * *

And now I've got a shower to scrub, a Monday blog-post to write, a bit of packing to do, and so on and so forth. Happy weekend, everybody!

Currently Reading: The Gathering Storm (The Wheel of Time, Book 12)

2011-08-24T10:30:00.000-07:00

Standing in the doorway was a very angry Tam al’Thor. He glared at Cadsuane. “What have you done to him?” he demanded.

Cadsuane lowered her book. “I have done nothing to the boy, other than encourage him toward civility. Something, it seems, other members of the family could learn as well.”

“Watch your tongue, Aes Sedai,” Tam snarled. “Have you seen him? The entire room seemed to grow darker when he entered. And that face—I’ve seen more emotion in the eyes of a corpse! What has happened to my son?”

Authors: Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson

Synopsis: In a battle with Semirhage, Rand loses nearly all of his remaining sanity, terrifying Min, Nynaeve, and everyone else who meets him. Meanwhile, Egwene remains in the White Tower, where she refuses to back down from her claim to the Amyrlin Seat and seeks to heal the ever-widening rifts between the Aes Sedai.

Notes: Brandon Sanderson’s moving prologue set the stage for this book, which he took over after Jordan’s death. Jordan’s widow, Harriet McDougal, chose the bequest well. While I had a few moments of recognizing that the text was a different author’s work, the voices blended exceptionally well. I’m looking forward to reading more of Sanderson’s work.

Whether by Jordan’s decree or Sanderson’s, the perspective jumps mostly took place at the chapter level in this book. This proved decidedly less exhausting to read. It was also nice to spend very little time in Darkfriends’ heads.

Perrin and Mat took a few turns of action, with Mat decidedly more dull at separation from his new wife, and Perrin finally understanding the wrongfulness of his exclusive focus on Faile. Good man. I have loads of respect for Perrin Aybara.

But the bulk of the book alternated between Rand and Egwene, which—as they’re my two favorite characters—is part of why I loved it so much.

Egwene’s scenes were wonderful, one after another, including direct confrontation with Elaida, a dramatic battle with the Seanchan, and the receipt of a near-complete—and shocking—list of Black Ajah. I'm still appalled at the latter, by the way. Sure, I knew about Alviarin and Katerine and Galina, but... well, I’ll avoid spoilers. But the sacrifice it took a certain Aes Sedai to create and pass on that list was terrible and incomprehensible and powerful.

Rand’s scenes were horrifying. It’s hard to blame him for what he did to get free of Semirhage, but it turned him to stone—a nearly-heartless, incredibly deadly, almost irredeemable creature. The reader shares Min’s heartbreak and Nynaeve’s horror again and again, till the painful exchange with Tam and the subsequent events.

The progression of Rand’s relationship with the voice and nature of Lews Therin Kinslayer is brilliantly done and very sympathetic, especially at the end. Their final scene moved me to tears.

The Wheel of Time books have mostly ended on brutal cliffhangers. This one left the reader more satisfied than ever, yet longing for the next. Which I will have to wait to read till after I move. And then I’ll have to wait for the esteemed Mr. Sanderson to finish the final book.

Recommendation: This is my favorite of the books since about book eight. I recommend it.

Tuesday

2011-08-23T12:16:00.000-07:00

My living room:

The rest of the house is in more or less the same state. On account of which, I'm taking this week off Top Ten Tuesday.

I do have a Currently Reading written up, though, so you should still get a Wednesday post. :) In the meantime, enjoy your afternoon!

Every Star in the Sky

2011-08-22T11:00:00.000-07:00

A blogalectic with Masha and Mr. Pond.

In last week's conversation about our impressions of Art, Masha spoke of different images—the intellectual artist with the props of a student, and the art of living well, the "rich art that comes from the happy soul."

Mr. Pond took a different tack, reminding us by his example that at the word Art, most of us think first of visual art. He described a day in the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square, in which his experiences sound not entirely unlike my experience of St. Peter's. Then he, like Masha, contrasts different images—"Where Van Gogh had invited his viewers to laughter and delight, to friendship and the noisy business of life, Leonardo drew his viewers into the secret place of wonder, 'where all that is not music is silence.'"

Week three's Impression word: talent.

* * *

Since we've mentioned Little Women, here's the quote that came immediately to my mind at the word talent. Laurie is questioning Amy:

"When do you begin your great work of art, Raphaella?" he asked. changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he had been wondering if Amy knew his secret and wanted to talk about it.

"Never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air. "Rome took all the vanity out of me, for after seeing the wonders there, I felt too insignificant to live and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair."

"Why should you, with so much energy and talent?"

"That's just why, because talent isn't genius, and no amount of energy can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won't be a common-place dauber, so I don't intend to try any more."

"And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?"

"Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get the chance."

I won't deny it: I've had much the same thought myself. The trouble is that I can't imagine giving up writing, so my only option is to shoot as near genius as I can reach. Especially since being an ornament to society is not one of my talents. :)

Talent isn't genius—in some cases, it's a far cry from it. But regardless of my own go-big-or-go-home ideals, which I dream of but don't always practice, I hold a special respect for the responsible use of a perfectly good talent. Because after all, the world would be a poorer place if the only stars in the night sky were the brightest.

Right now I love to go stand outside and admire Vega, Deneb and Altair in their great triangle overhead. But the fun of stargazing is not just in the individual object, but in the patterns—the constellations; Lyra, Cygnus, Aquila, and others, all made up of stars of varying strengths. And there's joy even in the thick cluster spread across the sky. The faint and distant star is part of the glory, too.

The Feline Perspective and other stories

2011-08-19T12:49:00.000-07:00

About half of the moves I've made in my life have involved bringing a dog along. Dogs do not like moving; they, like people, are quickly stressed out by chaos and change. For further information, see this.

As far as I can remember, I've never moved a cat. We have yet to see how Maia will take the change, but so far she seems to be enjoying the chaos. The world is full of new toys and hidey-holes.

At least someone likes the packing process.

* * *

My book club met the other day to watch the new Jane Eyre movie. High-speed review:

The cinematography was so beautiful that I wished I'd seen it in the theater.

The use of flashbacks was intriguing but problematic; the shifts confused the only one of my friends who hadn't read the book.

The film suffered—as they all do—from the novel's persistent unadaptability, though I loved a lot of the scenes. Especially ones that stuck closer to the dialogue of the book. The first evening conversation between Jane and Rochester was excellent, which made me think that if the screenwriters had retained even part of the splendid dialogue in the last chapters of the story, the actors could have pulled it off.

The movie's time constraints were the primary culprit, though. Two hours just isn't enough to cover the story. The miniseries format perhaps works better; my friends strongly recommended both the Timothy Dalton/Zelah Clarke and the Toby Stephens/Ruth Wilson.

* * *

Writers' link of the week: John Mayer talking music at Berkley. He has some interesting cautions about social media and the artist.

* * *

Music of the week: Maria sent me this video a few days ago, and it's just so perfect. Now, how do I do my hair like Lisa Hannigan's? And is there any chance that in this life, I'll have time to learn the cello? Hmm.

* * *

Funny of the week: Cat versus Human. It needs no more introduction than that.

* * *

Now onto packing boxes and defending them from the cat, housecleaning, and writing books when I get a scrap of spare time. Happy weekend, everyone!