Cheaterpants

For purposes of morale, I have just tacked the afterword of O.T.M.A. onto the bottom of the Revise-O-Meter, instantly earning myself another 100 points on the satisfaction scale. I'm not sure if that's technically cheating-- I wrote it (months ago), I like it, and it's an essential part of the book. I even remembered to amend the total possible points from 4,400 to 4,500. But mostly, I wanted to top the 83% mark, and this did the trick.

Sadly, this does not change the fact that it's very nearly almost just about February and there are still TEN chapters in need of my ministrations. Eep. As Clementine would say, "Can I be done here now?"

Nope.

The shape of my space

The other day Kirby Larson posted a teensy glimpse into her writing space, putting out a request for "the things you keep on your shelves or on your walls that celebrate your writing self? That comfort you? That inspire you?" Here's some of the stuff that tends to attract my gaze while I'm sitting in my writing chair. For what it's worth, all these images were taken without moving my tushie from said chair:

1. Front and center, my framed autographs of Annie Sullivan, Helen Keller, and Laura Bridgman. Other interesting tidbits: a genuine sweetgrass basket filled with shells from the shores of South Carolina; a photo of my buddy Sarah Jean the Green Bean; a copy of Luther's Small Catechism stamped "Property of Sarah Miller" (my great-grandmother); and my first very first book, Ladybug, Ladybug and Other Nursery Rhymes.

2. To the right of that, my Romanov library. Which seems like it ought to intimidate me with the sheer scale of what I've taken on with this project, but I always seem to find it oddly pleasing. (Note the nifty Nikolai II matroyshka, direct from the Catherine Palace gift shop.)

3. On the back of my door (which opens directly parallel to my chair) original artwork of the kiddo from the Halfway Down the Stairs logo, presented on the day of the shop's Grand Closing party.

4. Below that, my bill/bookmark/scissors holder, adorned with four itsy-bitsy framed formal portraits of the grand duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia taken in 1914 -- the year O.T.M.A. begins. Regarding the size of those frames, see the section in Bird by Bird entitled, "Short Assignments" (page 16 in my hardcover edition).

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Currently reading:

The Walls of Cartagena

by Julia Durango

Poetry Friday

Which is worth more, a crowd of thousands.
or your own genuine solitude?
Freedom, or power over an entire nation?

A little while in your own room
will prove more valuable than anything else
that could ever be given you.

~Rumi

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Currently reading:

Because I am Furniture

by Thalia Chaltas

You likely know by now that I tend to turn up my nose at the notion that I deliberately use symbolism, but that might not be entirely so. The other day I as I prodded at Chapter 32, this line gave me pause:

Some small part of the fear I have been carrying dissolves. 

I almost added, "like champagne bubbles under my skin," but thought better of it. The physical sensation that phrase conveys is just about perfect, but champagne is all about celebration and excitement, and in spite of the relief, this moment is also weighed down with apprehension and uncertainty. Not an occasion that prompts most folks to pop open the bubbly. Though the rest of the scene makes it clear that this is no party, it didn't seem helpful to clutter up the mental picture with contradictory associations. So, no champagne-shivers for Olga.

I don't know what you'd call a move like that -- reverse symbolism, maybe? -- but it looks like I can't pretend I'm not aware of this stuff any more.

(Yeah, all that fuss over one lousy word. You see why I'm not done yet?)

I suspect I'm not the only person feeling this way, but so far I seem to be the only person admitting it. (Which is why I've taken so long to get around to saying so.)

Like most folks, I did my fair share of choking up on inauguration day. I am moved by President Obama's eloquence, his charisma, his humility, and his message of hope and change. Intellectually I understand and appreciate the significance of a black man taking the oath of office. But I didn't feel the same sense of gravity and history that others did on Tuesday.

My best guess is that witnessing the culmination doesn't mean as much when you haven't also witnessed the battle for equality. Because even though I was once thrilled to shake Rosa Parks's hand, I am a white girl who's lived her entire life within an hour of the Canadian border, and my experience of the Civil Rights movement comes entirely from social studies textbooks. 

 For as long as I have been alive, African-Americans have been able to eat lunch and go to school where they please. As far back as my memory reaches (and further), black people have been able to vote. Unless you count the time Luphia Brooks clobbered a kid on the playground for calling her "Chocolate," I've observed virtually no racism first hand. I didn't even realize my elementary school was smack-dab in the middle of the black neighborhood until I was in junior high. In short, although it was never something I took for granted, the notion of a black man in the oval office never seemed impossible or outlandish to me. Maybe that's something to be proud of, but at the same time I can't help feeling a little left out of this year's inaugural glee. That got me thinking -- what might become an equivalent inaugural moment for people of my generation?

The nearest thing I can come up with is a gay president. A female president would be a milestone of course, but consider that we currently live in an era where allegations of homosexuality can ruin a politician's career. Can you even imagine what would have to change for that phenomenon to completely reverse itself, how many people will have to re-evaluate their values and beliefs? To someone who in elementary school was shocked by a classmate's suggestion to go "nigger-knocking" but had no qualms about proclaiming, "That's so gay!" the idea of this country knowingly electing a gay commander in chief does seem far-fetched -- perhaps as far-fetched as a black president seemed to my parents' generation. But then I look at President Obama, and I remember how once upon a time, the institutions of slavery and segregation were defended from the pulpit, and racism was government policy, and I think, well, maybe. Someday....

HEART OF A SHEPHERD, by Roseanne Parry

HEART OF A SHEPHERD
by Roseanne Parry

(Random House)

When Brother's dad is shipped off to Iraq, along with the rest of his reserve unit, Brother must help his grandparents keep the ranch going. He’s determined to maintain it just as his father left it, in the hope that doing so will ensure his father’s safe return. The hardships Brother faces will not only change the ranch, but also reveal his true calling.

The understated ones are hardest to review, you know, and they probably get short-changed because of it. But there is something about this book -- it's still hanging with me after a week. Brother's story has a steadiness to it, and although the characters don't burst from the pages, they have a quiet, lingering intensity about them. This is not a book for everyone, but I suspect it's going to mean a lot to a special few. *coughcoughSherrycoughcough*

I thought I saw the end coming, but nope, not really.

State of the TBR pile

Finished:

A Map of the Known World, by Lisa Ann Sandell

Wintergirls, by Laurie Halse Anderson

Taking it easy on the TBRs this week:

Distant Waters: A Novel of the Titanic, by Suzanne Weyn

Yin and Yang

This just tickles me: Lois Lowry's 8-year-old grandson is reading...Goosebumps. More about the extended Lowry family's reading habits here.

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Currently reading:

Distant Waters
by Suzanne Weyn

Poetry Friday

In Need of the Breath

My heart

Is an unset jewel

Upon the tender night

Yearning for its dear old friend

The Moon.

When the Nameless One debuts again

Then thousand facets of my being unfurl wings

And reveal such a radiance inside

I enter a realm divine --

I too begin to so sweetly cast light,

Like a lamp,

Through the streets of this

World.

My heart is an unset jewel

Upon existence

Waiting for the Friend's touch.

Tonight

My heart is an unset ruby

Offered bowed and weeping to the Sky.

I am dying in these cold hours

For the resplendent glance of God.

I am dying

Because of a divine remembrance

Of who -- I really am.

Hafiz, tonight, 

Your soul 

Is a brilliant reed instrument

In need of the breath of the

Christ.

~Hafiz

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Currently reading:

A Map of the Known World

by Lisa Ann Sandell

MARCELO IN THE REAL WORLD, by Francisco X. Stork

MARCELO IN THE REAL WORLD

by Francisco X. Stork

(Arthur A. Levine/Scholastic)

Imagine for a moment what Erin Brockovich would have been like if Erin were a 17-year-old with Asperger's syndrome. Ok, Marcelo in the Real World isn't exactly like that, but I've got your attention now, don't I? Good, because Marcelo is worth you attention. The kid's got a voice that stands out every bit as much as Brockovich's boobs and scathing wit, and he will make you consider just how effortlessly you perceive the world. Even if you're accustomed to not seeing the forest for the trees, looking through Marcelo's eyes will make you aware of the leaves.

And by the way, it's Mar-SEL-o, not Mar-CHELLO.

(Speaking of names, Francisco X. Stork has to be the best name I've ever seen outside of my Spam folder.)

Getting a little snurpy

In light of the history behind my WIP, when I look at the four presidential daughters - Jenna and Barbara Bush and Sasha and Malia Obama - I can't help but think...

90-odd years ago, the Bolshevik party achieved regime change by gunning down a man, his wife, their son and four daughters, and four staff members in a cellar in Siberia. Today in America, the Democratic party did it with music, poetry, and prayer. No matter what you think about this president or the last one, that's the kind of change we can all take pride in.

Ahem

May I draw your attention to the fact that the Revise-O-Meter has crept over the 80% mark this last weekend?

Kudos from my "dirty rat friend"

(I can call her that because she said it first. Plus, she calls me "Geek Girl." And I like it.)

Anyhow, Barbara O'Connor went and walloped me with a Premio Dardos Award, possibly because she's trying to mess with my New Year's resolutions, but more than likely because she honestly believes this blog of mine has "cultural, ethical, literary and personal values." Golly. If I were a puppy, I'd be wagging my tail right about now.

Now it's my turn to share the love. And after this post, I can't think of anybody better than Linda of All & Sundry to bestow the Premio Dardos upon. I swear to God she's Anne Lamott's missing twin.

State of the TBR pile

Finished:

The Seance, by Iain Lawrence

Heart of a Shepherd, by Roseanne Parry

Marcelo in the Real World, by Francisco X. Stork

As for the TBR pile, this poor book has been on my shelf since I'm-not-telling-when:

The Order of Odd-Fish, by James Kennedy

I've got to at least give it a fair shot before I even touch anything else.

Enough already

It is widely believed (in my little universe, at least) that we've got the best darn Christmas tree in town. But let me tell you, come January, when that tree and the garlands and Santas and angels and all that STUFF comes down, wow. The house is so smooth and crisp and bright. Makes me want to sit right down on the bare floor and grin.

What not to do

Part of me says I shouldn't be drawing attention to this episode, but as usual I can't help myself:

Why authors should never challenge a negative review

Ouch. The more I see this sort of thing happen (both with kids and adults), the more I'm convinced that an author simply cannot respond to a negative review without sounding like a jackass. Not that we're incapable, mind you. The thing is, even with the best of intentions it's almost impossible to address a negative opinion without coming off as unprofessional, defensive, or just plain cranky. Don't believe me? Read that post again, and pay special attention to the author's response. He didn't say "Hey kid, you're wrong and I can prove it" did he? Not even close. It's actually a fairly neutral response when you consider it closely. But loads of people, myself included, are left hopping mad after reading it, and I think that's because it strikes most of us as implicitly rude to contradict someone's opinion, even indirectly. I once got an anonymous comment on a critical reaction that sounded suspiciously authory, and it raised my blood pressure a good 20 points on the spot. And I'm (allegedly) a grown-up. At any rate, it's sure not worth the backlash.

I honestly didn't post this to finger-point at the [now unfortunate] author in the hotseat. If I can play devil's advocate for a minute, I'd like to say that it sure would be nice if someone would take authors aside after they sign their first contract and clue them in about stuff like this. Goodness knows I've made my share of blunders -- fortunately none of them were this public or inflammatory. Lots of folks will probably holler about common courtesy and/or common sense, and I hear you, I really do, but I'll also remind you that this author's response was not overtly rude or challenging. He tried to deflect negative attention with positive press and now it's being taken out of his backside. As Caroline Ingalls would say, "Least said, soonest mended." (Which means I should probably shut up now.)

One more thing: there's a difference between a review and a reaction, but I've ranted enough for one day.

Thanks (I think) to bookshelves of doom for the link.

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Currently reading:

Marcelo in the Real World
by Francisco X. Stork

Poetry Friday

The Steep Ascent

She flew with him to farther stars
And reminisced in blithe memoirs
Of carefree youth. One tragic day
Her son was spirited away.

No one expects us to withstand
Pure evil with the upper hand,
But Time, wry keeper of our lives,
Taught her a certainty survives:

The terror when the living shred
Their hours of gold for hours of lead
Become, like her chaste pedigree,
A casual, worn nobility.

~ J. Patrick Lewis
from the fan-flipping-tastic Vherses: A Celebration of Outstanding Women

HOW TO READ LITERATURE LIKE A PROFESSOR, by Thomas C. Foster

HOW TO READ LITERATURE LIKE A PROFESSOR
by Thomas C. Foster

(Quili/Harper)

In spite of the ridiculous amount of time I spent dipping in and out of this book (let's just say the chestnuts were still roasting on that open fire when I started) I managed to enjoy it. The title may sound like a stiff proposition, but Foster's pretty laid back about the whole thing. He happily acknowledges that a story's got to work first and foremost on the surface or nobody's going to get anything deeper out of it. Or even bother looking, for that matter -- if you need a secret decoder ring to crack the plot, something's amiss. Besides, the point here isn't dissection -- it's about picking up an awareness of literary patterns and trends, and keeping an eye out for those inside jokes, so to speak. There's nifty stuff tucked into the crannies and undercurrents of stories, if you know what to look for. Foster's also got a knack for dishing out quick and dirty plot summaries that let you follow the discussion at hand even if you've never read the book he's spotlighting. I only wish he'd discussed the question of whether the symbolism and allusions and so forth that a savvy reader can extract from a text were put there by a conscious effort on the part of the writer. Because I can tell you there's no way all that stuff is deliberate; it sneaks up on authors, too. I get quite a kick out of the reviewers who claim I used the Perkins doll as a symbol in Miss Spitfire. Heh.

Why you're not hearing much about the Wendy House these days

Judging by the weather reports, this is going to look downright warm in the very near future.

HOUR OF GOLD, HOUR OF LEAD, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

HOUR OF GOLD, HOUR OF LEAD
by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

(Mariner Books)

So the other night I could NOT find something to read. Consecutively tried and abandoned two books by authors I've loved in the past -- one of them considered among the year's best YA novels, no less. In a fit of frustration and morbidity I picked up a book that'd been languishing on my library loan shelf since before Christmas: Hour of Gold, Hour of Lead, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, hoping maybe the lurid bits about the Lindbergh baby kidnapping would pacify me until bedtime.

Manalive, did they ever, though not in the way I expected. Anne Morrow Lindbergh's letters and diaries let you crawl way down deep inside her head as the tragedy and aftermath unfold, turning what began as ghoulish curiosity into one of the most affecting reading experiences I've had in a long, long time.

Kidnapping is bad enough, but I didn't know Anne Lindbergh's father had also died less than a year earlier. I didn't even know Anne was pregnant with their second child when Charles Jr. was snatched from his crib. And I certainly didn't know Anne was younger then than I am now. All that sucked me in and kept me reading long beyond the police investigation and the grisly discovery in the woods near the Lindbergh's home 10 weeks later. (A discovery made more disturbing for me when I realized I've seen the crime scene photo that Anne Morrow Lindbergh never did.) If ever you've wondered how people manage to find their way through horrors like this, dig in.

State of the TBR pile

Finished (!)

How to Read Literature Like a Professor, by Thomas C. Foster

The Molliwumps, by Cecil Maiden

Hour of Gold, Hour of Lead, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh*

Jacob Have I Loved, by Katherine Paterson (audio)

The Great Gilly Hopkins, by Katherine Paterson (audio)

Abandoned, much to my own consternation:

Impossible, by Nancy Werlin

Hurricane, by Terry Trueman

As for next week? Just take last week's heap and subtract the above. I have no idea where I'm headed after I finish The Seance. 

*Fine, I didn't read ALL of this one, but the chunk I did read? Holy cats. Now there's a book that doesn't leave you after you put it down. More on that tomorrow...

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Currently reading:

The Seance

by Iain Lawrence

Resolutions

1. No more purposeless surfing of the internet. Specifically:

• No more checking, rechecking, and double rechecking (ad nauseam) of the email.
  
• No more loitering on the Alexander Palace or Blueboards, waiting for fresh posts to pounce on.

2. Turn the effing router o-f-f, OFF when working.

Sounds simple, doesn't it? Heh.

Poetry Friday

The rest of my body knows
As I lay huddled
Under the covers
Trying to create
Trying to absorb
Warmth
But my fingers
(They so often get me in trouble)
Wanted to rub
my cold nose
Wanted to stretch
They felt cramped
Wanted to glide
Across the keyboard,
More curious
than my cold nose
can be
So they crept up
Past the boundary
Of the sheets
Rubbed the cold away
Stretched sinuously
Typed quickly
Warmed, despite the room's
chill
Then, as parts of me urged--
the shoulders now bared
and shivering
the arms
with hair on end
the nose
whose warmth was fleeting--
the fingers paused
compromised
slid away from the keyboard
grabbed the comforter
tugged it gently
re-created the cocoon

~by elle on 12/12/08
from her blog of "revelations and ruminations from one southern sistorian."

Galley lust: Winter '09 edition

Currently stalking the mailbox for:

Wintergirls, by Laurie Halse Anderson

Willow, by Julia Hoban

If I Stay, by Gayle Forman

When the Whistle Blows, by Fran Cannon Slayton

The Earth Shook, by Donna Jo Napoli

WINNIE'S WAR, by Jenny Moss

WINNIE'S WAR
by Jenny Moss

(Walker Books)


What's better than a story about the 1918 influenza pandemic? A story about the 1918 influenza pandemic with a tie-in to the Galveston hurricane of 1900 to make my little ambulance-chasing heart go pitter-pat. (Read the plot-oriented flap copy here.)

While waiting for the flu to come crashing in, Grim Reaper-style, the question of what happened to Winnie's mama during the storm of the century tantalized me enough to keep my eagerness for a rising body count at bay. Because really, with a story like this, you know from the start that it's only a matter of time until someone important gets laid out.

That said, Moss doesn't cheat the Reaper, but in deference to her youngish audience she doesn't go overboard with the death and wholesale panic, either. Small-town drama and family turbulence keep the plot kicking in the meantime, making for a nicely rounded story appropriate for kids who aren't ready to handle the intensity of Fever, 1793 just yet.


(Available in February)

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Currently reading:

The Molliwumps

by Cecil Maiden

James Patterson likes my book(?!)

And just when I'd begun to think Google Alerts were totally useless...

(I didn't even know James Patterson did this sort of thing. Nifty site. He's even got some of my favorite Keller bios listed as read-alikes. I'll be danged.)

State of the TBR pile

I read a book this week!

Winnie's War, by Jenny Moss

But I'm still plodding along with this:

How to Read Literature Like a Professor

by Thomas C. Foster

Meanwhile, all these are still staring me in the face:

Impossible, by Nancy Werlin

The Seance, by Iain Lawrence

The Devil's Paintbox, by Victoria McKernan

Hurricane, by Terry Trueman

Tales from Outer Suburbia, by Shaun Tan

The Animated Man, by Michael Barrier

Carolina Harmony, by Marilyn Taylor McDowell

The Order of Odd-Fish, by James Kennedy

The Lincolns, by Candace Fleming

All the Broken Pieces, by Ann E. Burg

The Beef Princess of Practical County, by Michelle Houts

A Map of the Known World, by Lisa Ann Sandell

Marcelo in the Real World, by Francisco X. Stork

The Tenderness of Wolves, by Stef Penney