Category Archives: Reading

Seven Quick Takes (Vol. 3)

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Again, from Jen’s idea.

~ ~ 1 ~ ~

Jay’s talking about wanting a pellet-burning stove.  I’m asking where it will go.

I’m asking for a double bed with drawers.  It will take up less room (in our little room) than the queen-sized bed (we never use all that space anyway), and let us get rid of at least one dresser.

Both changes will make more room for book cases ;)  Eventually.

~ ~ 2 ~ ~

The cast list was sent out last week, and my name was by “doting mother,” which comes just before a list of “my” seven children (a boy, three girls and my own three kids).  This might have seemed really cool, except just a couple days before Jay had fielded a call while I was out, inviting me to play “the matron.”

Leaving aside the self-image rearrangement that I looked more like a “matron” than a lady (hmmm?) the description of the role he was given created some questions that have yet to be cleared up.

  • The role was described as comic relief
    • I’ve never actually done “comic relief” before.  My humor is more about situational stuff and wordplay.  It would be a new thing to learn.
  • Am I the “doting mother” or the “matron” who’s constantly dumping her seven kids on Cinderella (highlighting her helpless plight)?
    • The compatibility of the two alludes me
  • What is the behavior of these 7 children?
    • I have yet to see a comedy where the children behave properly
    • I e-mailed the director and said I would be willing to herd 7 children, but not 7 brats (I suppose that was horrid, but it’s true.)
    • I’ve often thought that more intimidating than unruliness (and less-frequently explored, perhaps because it’s more complex) is the “perfectly behaved” children who are positively devious and make their digs by cunning rather than brute-brattyness.
      • This possibility actually creeps me out more than spiders.  Or at least as much.

~ ~ 3 ~ ~

I have my latest project (with Christmas for the deadline): dollhouse dolls.

I was so excited to see Barbara Curtis‘s post about the hugely discounted M&D dollhouse that I bought it the same day (it’s still going for under-retail now, but then it was $47.99, I think).  Local retailers ended up being out of the little dolls, so now I am in the process of making little flexible family members to live in said house.

It may even turn into an “entrepreneurial opportunity” as one owner of a sold-out shop emphatically affirmed her store would be very happy to offer locally made dolls.

(We’ll see how interested I am after I finish our own bundle)

~ ~ 4 ~ ~

I was at Barnes and Noble yesterday, considering all the delicious ways to spend a gift card, and the oddest thing happened as I cruised the section of the children’s department where I read the most.

I felt a claustrophobic tightening in my chest.  Just standing and looking at books was making me dizzy, and not in a good way.

This I’ve noticed only once before: when perusing the Lloyd Alexander section in my local library.  Dude’s got a gobzillion books out!

I can only suppose the feeling is a goulash of emotions: anticipation (someday I’ll be there), anxiety (when will that be?  When will I be done?), overwhelmed-ness (at the prolific-ness of other writers), and maybe even jealousy (at the freedom they seem to have in order to be prolific…)

I had to make myself be still and pray, waiting for God settle my mind and emotions before I could finish looking for the book I wanted that day.

Unreal, but making me again thankful I have a God who’s bigger than my emotions.

~ ~ 5 ~ ~

Once that was over I propped myself in one of the cushy chairs by their circular fireplace and worked some more on the timeline of my novel.  I had two distinct packages emerge in the process, and solved a squished-time dilemma (I’ve needed an extra day and just found where it belonged).

So, I have to give Jay’s fireplace idea some credence.  There’s a lot to be said for watching the flames.  It’s like a shower for your brain.  At least for me, having something visual and real, but inconcrete, was very useful.

~ ~ 6 ~ ~

I’ve decided I like to eat too much for weights or Pilates to be enough exercise.

Not that I eat a lot (I imagine I’ve got that under control) I just like, a lot, to eat.  And the stuff I want to eat, that I’ve been eating, has maintained me 13-lbs above my target weight (trust me when I say my target is not unrealistic, or even low, for my height).

The trick, as with all exercise, is finding something sustainable.

Free weights and Pilates are doable because I can take from books and do them in my living room.  The walking with my dog has been put on-hold because sub-zero walks are far from the motivating delight “normal” walks are.

I’ve considered a step, as I like the space requirements and exercising to music, but I’ve not taken the plunge yet.

We did see one in the same place Jay noticed a pull-up bar he wanted, so we may end up getting both together.  Maybe for a new-year’s project.

~ ~ 7 ~ ~

After looking yesterday at all three furniture stores in-town, Jay decided he wants to build the bed frame himself.

His goal is to get the main support and frame built this weekend (so we can buy a mattress and get our bed off the floor) and to design it so that a later-constructed set of drawers may be slid under it whenever they are completed.

This was the design we liked best out of what we saw, only most of these drawers were simple “friction” drawers, where you needed to drag a wooden box out of a wooden hole.

Jay knows he can do better than that, though he/we might not even have bothered, truly, if it weren’t for the exorbitant cost of new furniture.  If I’m paying over a thousand dollars for an item (we’re pushing a house-payment here!) I expect to get *exactly* what I need.

I suppose we could be considered unreasonable consumers.  But there you are: Jay will take on a project, same as me, when he knows he can do it as well, or better, then what is otherwise available.

So the bed will come before the fireplace– but I expect the next time we’ve saved some house money the fireplace will be next.

In which I admit

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to being a book glutton.

Mostly this confession is to preface a rambling (?) extensive (!) list of my favorite finds this year.

I find myself buying in bulk (I’m nearly always buying from used-book stores, so at least this isn’t financial suicide) and who knows if that intriguing title will still be there the next time I come back….

Whenever I bring home books I write the month/year on the title page, so I always know the context and timing of the purchases.  This is meaningful to me for some reason.

I considered going to Amazon and linking all of these, but as this is one of those mostly for my own benefit posts, I figured I’d just have the list up for me, and if anything intrigues you enough, let me know and I”ll add the link for it.

And I suppose this could be a sort of bragging– about what my book-buying experience is like– but by the same token it could be to my shame as well; proving beyond doubt that there’s no way I can keep up with the number of books I’m buying.  Proving I should stop for a while. Even if I don’t.

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Books are Useful

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Today I stood in line an inordinately, unnaturally long time at McDonalds.

The children were climbing through tunnels like contented gerbils and I had a book to read, so I was able to wait more patiently than most.

While waiting (while reading!) my mind wandered to earlier in the afternoon where I left some of my soda bread biscuits with my hostess.  She had glowed about how delicious they were, and while I was surprised at her enthusiasm, I appreciated it enough not to question it.

About this same time, still standing near the counter, I also remembered a random Dooce post I’d read where she glowed about how good food tastes now that she’s pregnant.  The delicious idea of my plain bread being elevated by pregnancy magic struck me so hard I laughed out-loud (she is pregnant– I wasn’t laughing at the possibility).

An older gentleman waiting nearby looked at me questioningly and I smiled and went back to pretending to read my book, still fighting the giggles– this time brought on by imagining how this scene might have looked without the book.

Yes, I’ll admit I’m still riding high on a sleep deficit.

But here’s what I’ve gotten done:

Try Again?

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Don’t know if I should reattempt last-year’s resolution.

I made it four months last year without buying books… for me.  I had said I’d go all year, because I had enough to read that I doubt I’d run out.

I even started a “worth reading” page that linked to the reviews of the books I’d read.

The whole of it became an embarrassment (of sorts).

I found I didn’t really want to write about every book I read or re-read, even when I liked them (Coraline and Sport were two examples in one week), and some books I wanted to read but wondered how it would “look” to admit I had.

This is legitimate, I think, on something like LibraryThing where observers might get the wrong idea of your mind and character (i.e., if you have a book there you bought to dissect rather than to feed you).

The niggling that ate me was slightly less mature.  Especially considering Coraline and Sport were examples of books I wondered on.

The trouble is that, on the whole, I seem to have excellent timing (or else, people are constantly throwing away good books– which is probably true), and when I see a book I’ve seriously considered picking up at full price, it seems silly to pass on it at $2-$7.

I bought nine of  those today.  Nine $2 books.  (Two were even on my Amazon wish list!)

And this I’ve been doing all year.  I have more than enough (unless my consumption pattern dramatically changes) to make it through the next year… but it’s so fun playing treasure hunt it’s hard to tell myself I won’t do it at all…

Dunno yet, but I still have time to think about it.

To Write or to Read

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Apparently that is the question at my stage of life.

Except for last week (when I was totally focused on writing) I’ve been trying to do a bit of both, and it’s fairly unsatisfying.  Not enough continuity for either.

So I’ve going to see if I can refrain from writing for a week and start pecking away at the collection of YA fantasy that I’ve been accumulating.  I can’t promise I won’t write about them later, but I’m going to try to stay away from writing and just see what it feels like to shift focus.

I’ve often felt that reading makes me want to write the same way eating something fabulous makes me ask for the recipe: I want to do this! But I’m trying to remember that there are people “out there” perfectly content to just read.

To just eat.

And (while I think the latter are plain lucky and possibly in danger of over-indulging) I think the former experience a type of enjoyment I’ve been missing for a while.  So here I go…

~

One more note:  Semicolon posted an excerpt that perfectly encapsulates why I haven’t tried this for a while:

“But I too hate long books: the better, the worse. If they’re bad, they merely make me pant with the effort of holding them up for a few minutes. But if they’re good, I turn into a social moron for days, refusing to go out of my room, scowling and growling at interruptions, ignoring weddings and funerals, and making enemies out of friends.”

–Vikram Seth in A Suitable Boy

To resist this common result, my goal at the same time– though it seems at first to be contradictory– is to experiment again with finding patterns in my daily life, and seeking how we might tie that pattern to day.

The alternative is tying the day to the activities, which invariably results in a less purposeful day, and usually ends with less accomplished.

Some might try to call this exercise scheduling, but I resist that label as utterly stifling and useless to me.

So, wish me luck.  I’m off to find out if I can mix some new things into my life.

The Big Confession

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Until tonight I have not finished a “fat” novel since Thanksgiving vacation.

(I feel nearly as though I just confessed a venal sin.)

~

I have mentioned before I am not the sort of reader to stick with a book out of sheer loyalty if I have a bad feeling about it, so I’ve finished far fewer books than I’ve started.

Yes, it comes of having less time to shut out the world, and some of it is a protective instinct toward my family: that if I once surrendered to another world I would be unwilling to leave it until the story was concluded.

This one I trusted and was glad to finish:

East, by Edith Pattou, is definitely a keeper.

It is (as I guessed by the title before I saw the cover) a novelization of a complex folktale involving a prince enchanted into the form of a white bear.  The heroine agrees to leave with him and lives with him almost a year before she brakes the conditions of his disenchantment and must go on a further quest to free him.

I bought it, hoping against experience that I might have found one of those stories that I still wish to write: One that honors the magic of the original story while expanding and weaving in the significance of real life for an audience that is still developing their views of the world.

That is a tall order for myself or anyone, so I shouldn’t be surprised that I find so few stories that fit; but this is one that does.

~

To summarize, I am looking for (and to write) stories that are:

  1. Based on real folktales
  2. Novelized in a believable way that make me feel the addition or rearrangement of details mesh with the original (honoring and building on the themes present, rather than lampooning them)
  3. Written for a Young Adult audience.  Emphasizing the values and virtues I desire to see grow in the young people I meet.

(My limited list is at the bottom of this post.)

East met these criteria.  I was happy to see marriage both valued and modeled, chastity and respect the norm, and music (my perennial gripe usually sits here) actually included along with the work of daily living.  Time is also well-portrayed, and as someone who lives in “Northern Lands” sometimes similar to those she describes, I appreciated the amount of care and research that went into this work.

I’ve looked up a contact address for her, and plan to send her a note of thanks as this book, in it’s own way, is exactly what I’ve been looking for.

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Questioning

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I read a handful of articles before sitting at the Right to Life booth yesterday afternoon.  The timing (I’d been sent them just that morning in an e-mail) was impeccable (thanks Becky) and as I thought on them, I started having imaginary conversations where I integrated the information I was assimilating.

Inevitably the “conversation” would veer into “personal” territory and (after one awkward– imaginary– ending) I established a policy: no personal questions in a public place.

It’s not that I am secretive (HA!) or that I’m not willing to offer myself as an illustration.  It’s mainly that answering one personal question gives permission to ask another and so on until you make another statement (by implication) at the point you quit answering. (The worship leader in this clip is a great example.)

~  ~  ~

In a similar way I think claiming to answer questions about God can become a “slippery slope,” because there is a point at which our human ability to explain or understand just fails, and part of faith is accepting that limitation.

~

Apparently there’s this big-selling, self-published book out there called The Shack.

I had never heard of it before Boundless started discussing it and its questionable theology a while back, but apparently it’s not going away and they have a new article up this week discussing the implications of a part of the book.  One of those is the idea we humans have the right to question God and call him into account about the stuff we don’t like (even Job– God’s “pet”— got an earful when he tried to insist on that).

To quote from the article, God’s not the Defendant, by Gary Thomas:

For 2,000 years, Christians have believed that God sent His Son because He put us on trial and found us wanting. The proper response of humans is, “I have sinned and fallen short of Your glory. Have mercy on me.” Today’s believer and non-believer is far more likely to respond, “There’s evil in the world; God, if You really exist, explain Yourself!”

As a man who has sinned and who continues to sin, how dare I judge God for allowing sin? To destroy all sin, He would have to destroy me, as I continue to sin on a daily basis. At the very least, He would have to remove all whispers of any notion of free will; and without free will, would I still be made in the image of God?

So many people who “question” (or accuse) God concerning evil assume that they are talking about something outside of themselves, either forgetting or never realizing that God doesn’t have a continuum of tolerances for the varieties of sin.

God’s mercy to the liar or coward requires the same provision from Him as his mercy to the abuser: the sacrifice of His son, Jesus.

I love how Thomas points out the sufficiency of God’s plan: how those who wish to leave their sin now have a way, how those who don’t want to change are also provided a place for eternity.

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“Classics” Meme

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From Bluestocking

I must be growing weak. Two memes in one week.

What is the best classic you were “forced” to read in school and why? I can barely remember what books I read in high school.  I enjoyed Bean Trees, though, in my 10th-grade Analysis of Literature class.  Can’t say if it’s generally counted as a “classic” since it was written within the last century.

I couldn’t articulate it then, but thinking on it now I believe my growing writers’ mind was fed by the multiple points of view and complex characters.  At least, I think they were complex.  I was 16, so if I re-read it I might be embarrassed now by how much it impressed me then.

What was the worst classic you were forced to endure and why? Julius Caesar (sorry, Blue).  Another assignment from my Analysis of Lit  class.  This was the honor student’s rite-of-passage: Analysis with Ms. Stitham.

She made us keep a log-book (anybody else know what that is?) which we all abhorred, and as an experiment she offered my class a complete waiving of the JC-unit logs if we were willing (before we took it) to accept our grade on the JC test as our unit grade.

Otherwise we would be graded on the thoroughness of our log entries as usual.  I *hated* writing.  I would have taken the out in a heartbeat if there weren’t all the dire warnings about how *nobody* got higher than a C on the Julius Caesar test.

I hedged my bets.  Then got a B+ on the test.

Mad enough to spit nails, I informed my informants that actually *reading* the text was a wonderful first-step toward doing well.  I think I scraped a C+ out of my logs, and hated every minute of them.  Definitely a negitive association there.

Have to comment on this, Blue (your “worst classic”):

Silas Marner. It was boring. Was there an actual plot? It’s on my shelf of books to re-read. I guess that means I’ll get to it in 5 years. LOL!

I never read this one, but, like most of my classics, I listened to my library’s Recorded Books version.  I was *fascinated.*  Yes, it moved slowly ( I was quilting as I listened, so my life was moving even slower at the time), but I found the commentary on fatherhood intriguing.  I’ve come across much discussion and commentary about motherhood, but less-to-none on fathers, so maybe this struck me by its contrast.

I also hated Frankenstein. Only got through that one thanks to my library and Recorded Books, Inc. Spent the second half of that book trying to decide if the ceramic kitten I was painting looked better as a calico or a Siamese.  Then changing it back again.

My parents wouldn’t let me have a real kitten.

In case anybody cares, I did really well on all my literature tests that weren’t essay-based (my only D was the essay test on Romeo and Juliet in 9th grade).   Apparently my brain absorbs the same amount from the page as from my ear.

Sometimes I think my ears get more, because the rhythm of the line adds sticking power.

I feel a high measure of satisfaction (we Christians aren’t allowed to say pride) to note I got a 98% on my Senior English essay.   So I have the delight of knowing my mind matured during my time in high school.  Sometimes I wondered.

We had the *insanely* floppy option among the essay questions of tying together all of the previous semester’s survey of American literature, from the pilgrims on.  I had the flash (because I’d talked with a classmate mere days before) of using “attitudes toward nature,” and my teacher loved it.

Which classic should every student be required to read and why? I can’t say I think any classic beyond the Bible should be read by *everyone*.  There is so much variance in personal failings and needs that no other book is going to speak to everyone.

Which classic should be put to rest immediately and why? I have several candidates, but the one I’ve read the most of is Whuthering Heights.  Felt the same about this as Bluestocking did about Silas Marner, and  it was creepy/weird enough I didn’t even finish the recorded book.
Bonus: Why do you think certain books become classics?

Classics are well-written books that expose a part of humanity that has (usually) not been addressed before (e.g., Adultery, in The Scarlet Letter).  They should make people think, see reality with new eyes, and (often) new sympathy.

Literature frequently allows us to see into the minds and motivations of others; to understand them more than we sometimes understand the people we live with every day.  And as we observe these others with a wise guide (the author) we imagine we have gained a deeper insight into the real people that surround us.

It is some species of arrogance to assume that imaginary characters could have any reflection in real life, but the piercing accuracy of the author’s depiction of those like us, the reader, cause us to trust their analysis of others.

~

I was 18, that “classic” age of revelation, when I “read” (listened to) both White Fang and Jane Eyre in immediate succession.

I was struck uncomfortably by the mishmash I was of those two title characters;  how accurately the authors showed parts of me I preferred to ignore.

It was convicting and revealing.  I got more out of those two “classics” in two weeks than from all I had read in high school (or even later, in college).  Re-read them more, too.

~

A classic fits a person when it explains a reaction or a missing motivation that (re)connects us with ourselves or the world around us.

We humans were designed for relationship.  Ultimately with God, but not-unimportantly with each other as well.  Literature (or Story of any type) can be a substitute for that, but it can also be a help and a guide.

For me, those books that have spoken to my “gaps,” or affirmed those things most important to me, articulating them better than I’ve yet seen, those count as my classics, and are among the first books I’ll encourage my friends and (someday) my children to read.

What is a *Reader*?

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This started as a comment to Bluestocking’s answer to a question, and got, well, long, so I moved it here and it got longer.  I don’t do the meme she’s responding to, but it got me thinking and writing…. so there you go.

I must have a… gentler definition of “reader,” most likely because I wish to include myself in the categorization.

I think anyone who loves to read, can get lost in a story, can draw connections between stories, and between stories and life, can be described as a Reader (with a capital R, since I understand this isn’t a discussion of mere ability).

Now, I’ve never tried reading “chick lit” or “romance” much, but I believe there are smart people who write both, and they write well and what they know will sell (part of being smart and making a living.)

Should one argue, from experience or stereotype, that those genres are “shallow,” that would be irrelevant even if it were true.  If it provides an alternate world, an escape, and builds a vascular system (i.e. those connections I tried to allude to above), it has served its purpose: both to entertain and cause the reader(s) to think.

I’ve just started reading a textbook (for pleasure.  Yes, I was the kid who curled up with encyclopedias): A Critical Handbook of Children’s Literature, by Rebecca J. Lukens, and I love how she talks about “classics.”

The sacred terms “classic” and “award-winner” frequently get us into trouble.  Perhaps it is wise to remember how as children we were sometimes bored by the classics of our parents’ generation.

I’ve mentioned a couple times how some of my favorite books would have no chance of getting published if they were submitted this century, and that I have never been able to work up the interest in some of the most basic “cannon” of femininity (namely, Austen, Alcott and the Little House series).

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My Last Poem

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The third of three poems I’ve written on-purpose.
(First two here.)

~ ~ ~

This is the vastly improved version. Which might indicate the quality of the original.

I realized (maybe) why I never write poetry: I had a start here with a series of images, and my mom had the kids (’cause I’m sick and she gave me the morning to rest).

With those prerequisites I resurrected the idea and gave it a body in this poem.

Just one poem in a chunk of time all to myself (I might have finished a chapter in that same time). Little wonder I don’t do poems in my real-life.

Poetry definitely appeals to me, though. I am hooked on imagery and economy of language.

What’s Wrong

A hand came.  You may or may not
remember.  Inserting a hellish
needle it inoculated you

Against peace, against trust.
Things you now pretend
not to need, because your system
fights them.  You think
you’ve learned to live
without them, and you call this
strength.

Why is your pain
a precious thing?
It’s as natural as Lake
Iliamna— maybe even as huge—
but it’s as putrid
as old
cream
cheese.

That’s gangrene you’re ignoring
while it can only spread.

You are not so unique; we all know this
agony: a blanketing burn
that makes any touch ungentle.
And as much as I ache
to bring you to the healing hands
you must first agree you need them.