books on film

It's Oscar week.  Meaning, that on Sunday night you should be able to find me on a couch somewhere with popcorn, Reeses Pieces, and a Diet Coke literally glued to a television screen while Hollywood celebrates itself and produces the most glamorous commercial ever for pretentious movies we might not otherwise have seen - as well as a few nods to those we all saw.  

In honor of that, my favorite night in television, I'm talking movies this week.  That may mean this is the only post you get, because it's not like I have it all planned out.

You may notice this is not a picture of a movie but of the book that birthed a movie.  I just read it as I loved the movie, and friends told me the book was so much better.  I assumed I would agree with them but also felt a little trepidation having seen the movie first and loved it so much.  Sure enough, in this case, I prefer the movie.  Now, I'm pretty sure there's a club I'm being kicked out of right now.  It's literary and writer-supportive and thoroughly convinced that the book is always better.  And I just totally shamed them.

I love books.  Love, love, love them.  I write them for goodness' sake.  And I read them, and I adore them.  This one is truly lovely.  The premise is absolutely beautiful, the characters are loveable, it's realistic and uplifting.  It's just very good.  Almost the only major plot difference is that the movie is set in America about an American who fell in love with an Irishman.  In the book, they are all, of course, Irish.  I really enjoyed that aspect of the movie - probably because I saw it that way first.  The relationship between Holly and her husband in the book is kind of plain in comparison.  In the movie, it is rich and poetic and unique.  Also, his letters to her in the movie just have more umph.  He is not just giving her a list of things to get done but a journey for finding herself again.  I think this was the point of the book as well, but it wasn't as poignant.  I missed the soundtrack, the gorgeous clothes, and the tighter humor that comes with the collaborative effort and condensed time frame of film.

Also, I missed the creative aspect.  That was the most relatable part of the film for me - the way she used to want to create things.  In the book, she simply finds a job.  In the movie, she finds a beautiful creative outlet you can't help but think she was destined for.  

I think the reason the book is usually better is because it is more.  It develops the characters more thoroughly.  It tells the story at a slower, richer pace.  It requires more imagination and therefore gets inside you in a way movies sometimes can't.  In this case, I felt the film gave me more.  It's possible that I was just swept up by the dreamy Irish guys, the moving music, and the pretty shoes.  Which are all things the film medium loves to give us.  There's another club that celebrates that.  I'm a member of it too, but you just can't always please them both at once.

I'd like to buy the world a book

I recently joined a Facebook cause. I don't usually join Facebook causes because I can't see that they actually accomplish anything at all. The last one I was tempted to join was my friend Den's. It was the Put An End To Facebook Causes cause. But before I could join that one, I found a cause I said 'yes' to before I even had time to think about it. The cause is "Buy a Book Save the World."

The premise is that you promise to buy at least one book this - huh, holiday season, year? I can't remember when you're supposed to fulfill it. But I'm thinking those of us who join it have every intention of buying more than just one. The publishing industry is just one of the many out there hurting from the economy trouble, and this cause is our way of helping to keep it alive.

Above is a picture of how much I love books. When I joined the Literary Guild a few years ago, this is the stack of books that I ordered first and which came in the mail in one big, very happy box. That was the best day ever - having all those brand new books delivered to my house in one box. I spread them out and took a picture of them like they were my children's artwork.

And you know how your kids come home from school about every week with bookmarks from the library, with safety instructions, or even homemade? There are two kinds of paper I always save when it comes home from school. Anything with sentences the children made up all by themselves, like "My brither and I like football because we just have a thing about football", and those bookmarks. They get tucked into a pretty, round vase I got for my wedding, because you just never know when you'll need a bookmark. Especially since I'm usually reading more than one book at once.

The boys have two book shelves in their room - the one for paperbacks and early readers and cartoon characters like Spongebob, and the one they can't reach by themsevles with fairytales and hardbacks and Winnie the Pooh collector's edition and any others that I can't bear to find orange marker throughout or ripped-off corners or gum. I really like books.

So I was really happy to join the save-the-world cause by buying a book. I really want this industry to stay in business what with hoping to be a part of it and all. And this morning I was thinking we should all feel free to purchase things deliberately from now on from any of the industries we don't want to live without. Books of course, cars I guess - if you can afford it (just think of the single mom secretaries and dad-of-five-kids mechanics out there instead of the CEO's who flew to the meeting in their private jets, and you'll feel more motivated I think) - but there are so many more as well: Shoes (can I get an amen, ladies?), being able to watch television on the internet on our own time with less commercials (last season of LOST, I'm talking to you - I have to watch you again anyway because your producers spread your seasons so far apart), children's pajamas (I can do Christmas without Nintendo, but I can't do it without new pajamas), chocolate (hello, that goes without saying). You get the idea? Buy what you love, save the world. And let it start with a book.

speaking of nieces

This is my favorite
picture of my niece,
Claire. I'm sure it's
because her blue eyes
match my husband's.

It's an old picture, though. (Click on Rare Rocks for recent ones!) Claire is six today.
Six years ago she and her twin were born premature. Claire's sister Ellery went to heaven after only nine hours on earth. But Claire kept fighting. We all hung around her bassinet in the NICU for days and days and days.
There was always beautiful music playing in her room, and it was peaceful and warm. I know it was the hardest time in Felicity's life, but I look back on Claire's little NICU room almost like a chapel where we escaped the crazy, misplaced priorities and silly stresses of regular life and could center instead on the big, important things like love and God and healing.

During this time I discovered this book, "Bear Snores On" by Karma Wilson. I love this book and the sequels that have followed it. The poetry is rhythmic and fun to read. It's the first time I realized that good children's poetry will often have a chorus - not just verse after verse.

In the book, the bear is hibernating and smaller animals enter his lair, start a fire, pop popcorn, make tea - they even dance. Eventually he wakes up and feels so sad that they had a party without him. The party continues after that until the friends can't stay awake any longer. After that, "the bear can't sleep, but his friends snore on."

I knew that would be Claire one day. While she slept, every bit of her energy used up in simply trying to finish the growth and development she should have been able to complete in the womb, we stood around her bed in daily, nightly vigils of prayer, tears, and sometimes laughter. We streamed in and out of the giant doors that led to the NICU, taking turns by her side, in the rocking chair near her, replaying the soft, powerful music in her CD player, tucking stuffed animals into her space, touching her tiny fingers and toes, reading the blinking numbers on her monitors as though we'd all gone to nursing school ourselves. And I knew that one day, she'd wake up. Just like the bear. And all that will power we'd been praying for would turn into a vivacious, happy little girl with lots to do. And I felt that at least for a while, the rest of us would probably need to sleep.

So happy birthday, Claire. I'm glad things have evened out. We've recuperated from our vigil. You continue to move forward from it with every single milestone. And we're all finally at the same party.

I love you Claire-Bear.

Through the Storm: By Lynne Spears

Where are the parents?

How many times have you heard (or said) that one while Britney was shaving her head, driving irresponsibly with her children, or beating paparazzi with an umbrella? I'll tell you where the mother was for that last one: Wishing it were her. Wishing there were less paparazzi out there and way more umbrellas.

And that's the beauty of this book. In all but maybe one chapter, it is not Britney's tell-all. It is the story of a mother. It's the story of a wife who had to navigate the troubling, not-so-easy-when-it's-you, waters of a spouse with alcoholism. It's the story of a very young bride who like many of us found complete and total fulfillment in her role as a mother.

Fulfillment, but not obsession. One thing I feel I learned about Lynne Spears is that her children matter more to her than anything else in the world, but they are not her identity. Her identity is completely her own, supported and encouraged by dear friends, and almost inseparable from her faith.

Lynne Spears's faith is one I can truly, deeply admire. It is vulnerable. It has answers, but not all of them for everything. It is un-shakeable but imperfect. And it grows but has always been.

All of these things are very clear in the book. The writing is simple and poignant. I was surprised to see it was actually a partnership, because Lynne Spears's strong, Southern voice comes through loud and clear in every paragraph.

I will probably still ask where the parents are with many of the troubled celebrities today. But not with her. I'll know exactly where she is, because she told me - and I believe her - that she is on her knees. She is praying, which is the only way to begin and the only thing with which you are left when the child grows up and gives you barely more than that as your role.

The most haunting paragraph in the book, for me, was when Britney was dating Justin Timberlake. They were having serious talks about life, and Britney came to her mother one day and said, "Mama, I just don't know if there really is a right and a wrong anymore. I mean, is there really a wrong?"

Lynne Spears says that she wrote this book for her children, and I believe that too. She gets a few digs in there, tells a few stories for our benefit so that we will know what she has to endure and what was really happening when we were making our own judgments about her - or believing the ones that were fed to us. But the strongest message in the book is definitely her love for her children, what she hopes and believes for them, how proud she is of their successes, and how hopeful she is that they will rise above their failures.

In the end, almost as if she has forgotten we are there, she prays for them that they will return to the faith she wishes she had practiced with them more. And I didn't wonder what her children will think of that or if they will feel attacked. I simply felt glad for them that they will at least know they are loved.

I appreciated this book, and I feel it accomplished its goal. Despite the unbelievable world Britney finds herself in, I think you'll believe Lynne Spears that at the level of the heart, we're basically all the same.

Journey Stuff

In book news, my agent is submitting my manuscript under the title, The Thank You Room. Don't get attached, as editors sometimes change these things as well. But that's the best news - some more editors will be looking at it soon.

She sent me a note today about some of the editors who will be considering it, and she referred to it by its initials. TTYR. This is my new mantra. I figure I'll say it over now and then like a prayer, willing this book into publication existence. TTYR. While performing the sign of the cross. I know this is wrong. And I know it actually crosses the border of sacrilege. And I know that I should be praying for His will and not my own. But I just have one thing to say to that. T-T-Y-R.

Thankfully I'm off to Omaha this weekend for my younger sister's baby shower. That will be the perfect distraction. After that, my agent says I should invest in a Wii.

Did I mention the list? She sent me an actual list of the editors who will be looking it over. Rejections have to be, like, what - ten times as tragic at this level? I'm sure I'll be able to get back to you on that.

In the meantime, I'm going to revel in the journey, right? And also read the memoir by Lynne Spears, mother of Britney and Jamie Lynn. Awesome Thomas Nelson sent me a copy to review. The offer was open to anyone. I figured since three of my top labels are motherhood, Hollywood, and faith - it was kind of in my genre. If I like it I'll put it next to the ones by Tammy Trent and Brooke Shields - a celebrity memoir I really loved - and I'll tell you all about how refreshing and thoughtful it is. If I don't like it, I'll put it next to Sydney Poitier's, which disappointed me.

So that's my Friday post. Kind of a hodge podge. Sort of like Jake's new bedtime routine. He suddenly graduated from getting out of bed and lying on the floor. Now he stays in the bed but he wants the door open and he calls me into the room at least three times for various things - the dog, the blanket - get the cat off my dresser - stuff like that. Then the last time he calls me in, he asks me to close the door. I do. And then I don't hear from him again until morning. Since he finally eased out of that last routine, I think I'll just enjoy this new one. It's kind of fun really. And that's my new thing - enjoying the ride.

TTYR.

A Book Review, A Friend Review: The Miracle Girls

I recently won this book on one of my favorite blogs, Anne & May.  I couldn't wait to devour it so that I could give them a glowing review.  I'm not exactly objective, because I love Anne & May.  By the end of this post, hopefully you'll know why.  And hopefully you'll know enough about their latest book to buy it for your nieces, little sisters, your daughters, and your friends. 

I learned of Anne and May back in 2005 when I saw a book listed in a magazine called Emily Ever After.  The title alone made me know I would love the book.  The premise had me hooked as well since it was about a small town girl trying to make it in New York City - with her faith intact.  Unfortunately, I got cancer and pregnancy shortly after, which really hampered my joy-reading.  Plus, my wish list for books to buy always exceeds my book-buying budget, and I let this one slip through the cracks.

Felicity found the Anne & May blog a couple years later (how did that happen, Lic?), and I was hooked forever.  

Their writing is a partnership, which fascinates me, and they say they wouldn't want to do it any other way.  You have to admire people who have learned to give and take so brilliantly.  Their writing is also deliciously witty.  Their blog makes me smile, relate, and feel I've made true friends.  The first few pages of their second book, Consider Lily, made me laugh to tears.   

Anne & May's first three books were chic lit while The Miracle Girls is Young Adult.  In The Miracle Girls and the three sequels to follow, they intend to explore the crazy difficulties of growing up.  The heroines are four teens trying to maintain important friendships while navigating high school and the sometimes tricky bridge between childhood and independence.  Through it all, each character searches out the relevance of their faith in an unbelieving world.

The Miracle Girls made me love Ana, Riley, Zoe, and Christine.  I was embarrassed when they were, traumatized by their Mondays, in love with their crushes, and so glad they had each other.  There were a few sanctuary moments in the book in which I felt I was there with them, remembering what it is I believe and how deeply it affects me.  The relationship between Ana and her parents grew beautifully throughout the book.  It was both realistic and miraculous.  

I love that Anne & May have taken on the dilemma of those terrible but wonderful years of high school.  I love that they have made it their mission to inspire girls and women, to relate to them, make them laugh, believe in their dreams, and help them apply their faith to this hazy, unpredictable life.  I love their Miracle Girls.  And I cannot wait for sophomore year.  

It happened in a book I read

I'm reading Chocolat.  I was sort of trying to cut back on sweets before I started that book.  But now I feel that any day that goes by without a petit four is a complete waste of existence.  I haven't finished the book, so I can't decide if I will love it until the end.  But for now, it's a pretty little literary treat I get to open in all my free time.  I love the way it feels like a fairy tale even though she uses words like television.  And I love the different points of view.  And the imaginary rabbit.  I don't remember the movie, so I can't possibly have seen it.  

One of my favorite Anne books talks about a Dickens novel.   A character in the Anne book says when she reads the Dickens one she always gets ravenously hungry because the people in it always seem to be eating good things.  Kind of like the fact that every time I think of Heidi I get a craving for cheese and milk.

Do you know what I mean by Anne book?  That's what I call the eight-part series by L.M. Montgomery that begins with the children's classic Anne of Green Gables.  It could really be bad for my literary future that I love those books so much.  I'll never think I've written a lovable  character unless she has red hair.  And a book will never be good enough unless I think my reader will want seven more in the series.  

But I'll push past those feelings.  Just like I pushed past the feeling that life wasn't worth living unless it was the late 1800s again.  Just like I pushed past the craving for the petit four.  I'll just write about regular old dishwater blonds and dull brunettes.  And then I'll go eat those chocolate donuts in the refrigerator.  Pre-processed, factory-packaged donuts.  It won't look or smell like it came from a chocolaterie, but my taste buds aren't nearly as picky as my soul.  

what to do while I'm waiting

So, I told you I have the end-of-
a-book blues. I haven't been able to shake them yet and move on to the next one. I glanced at Sense and Sensibility in its display corner today, though, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Ah yes, I thought, the old favorites. That will get me through this.

"This" of course is not just the end-of-a-book blues but the pre-publication impatience. As I said in an earlier post, for all I know Jesus will return before my memoir is ever actually published. But knowing this and resolving to be patient have not actually made me so. I wish I could be in that Sesame Street documentary about how crayons are made. I loved watching that wax roll around in the big old vats and eventually get wrapped into paper and put into that wonderful smell-good box. I wish I could watch every step of my book that way. Starting now and without any other responsibilities until its finished.

Mom says the thing to do once one book is out of your hands is move on to the next. That's what she is doing while her first is being edited. I know she's right. But I haven't done it yet. I feel too uncertain of who I want to be as a writer. It's not like I've found my niche with memoir - there's only so many of those in one person.

I think there is only one thing I know for sure. I'd like to write books that give people the feeling I had when I glanced at Sense and Sensibility today. The feeling that they can trust me to make them feel better. That would be a lovely accomplishment.

Thy word is a . . . really cool safari

Okay, this blog post is pretty much a personal email to my mother. (Hi, Mom!) Because it's my blog, and I can do that. And today's post is kind of - well - me bragging about me and my kids. Which you just don't do in public. It's tacky. So pretend you're just accidentally listening in, and carry on.

You know who I love? This guy: Johannes Gensfleisch zur Laden zum Gutenberg. You know why? Because all day today Drew has been begging me, begging me, to get off work so I could teach him more bible lessons. (From his own personal bible, originally made possible by zur Laden zum up there, if you follow). As it was, I had to stick little tiny ones into my work day because he was standing at my desk with his new bible open just tempting me with that new book smell and the crisp, thin pages (that was one of the lessons - bible pages are thin, turn carefully. Even as we speak, he is standing right over my shoulder saying, "One more lesson for the day? Please?"

We got the new bibles at Hastings today. (I love you too, Hastings. You and Johannes.) And I love them. The version is NIrV, which I highly recommend for kids. It's safari-themed gold. Today we learned how to find chapter and verse, we reviewed the first book of the bible and learned how to figure out who wrote each one (a feature of their bible). We started to learn the song that helps you remember the New Testament books, but it wasn't as brilliant as I remembered it. I learned that thing in fourth grade and still use it in my head when I'm supposed to turn to one of the Timothys or something. And yet, it's shockingly unhelpful. It's not like it rhymes. But anyway, we're up to Two Corinthians on that baby, and we'll get the rest eventually.

I taught the boys about Proverbs too (I know, I was all over the place, but seriously, begging they were.) About how it has 31 chapters and a lot of people like to read one chapter each day of every month.

"For instance," I said to Drew. "Today you would read Proverbs. . .?"

He thought hard before he came up with this doozy:

"Wednesday?"

That's right. Proverbs chapter Wednesday. He's learning so much!

Rilla-My-Rilla

At the moment, I am non-fictioning myself to death.  I'm loving every word - how to help your kids thrive in public school, (Going Public, by David and Kelli Pritchard), a Christian's perspective on filmmaking (Outside Hollywood by Isaac Botkin), and You Can Market Your Book by Carmen Leal.  They're all relevant, and I'm enjoying them.  In between these I also read both of Rosie O'Donnell's memoirs, and it was at some point after that when I started wondering just which wonderful story I'm going to pick up next.  I can't wait to get lost in a good piece of fiction again.  

While thinking of where I will turn first in choosing my next great read, I can't help but think about the Anne of Green Gables series, my previously mentioned favorite fiction series of all time.  When I found this picture online and discovered I could own these books for the small price of 55.70 per book, I practically ran to Michael with the news.  He informed me that our closets and shelves are already overrun by my many copies of the series.  The fact that these are HARD BACK fell completely on deaf ears.

So remember how I want to get a book published some day and wish I could be in a movie - at least ONCE - and hopefully go to the premiere?  Well, here's another one:  Book 8 in this series?  SHOULD BE A MOVIE.  And I want to write the screenplay.  I don't care what you think of the flowery sunsets or flights of imagination in the first several books, you can't possibly hate the last one.  It's based during WWI.  It has courage, sacrifice, comedy, romance, horrible sorrow, childish thrills.  It's completely awesome.  As I told my dad once - there's a scene with a dog.  Dude.  You will never get over it.  And it belongs on the screen.  I haven't even begun to summon the nerve to make the call to find out who owns the movie rights to this book, but I'm convinced when I find them I will in very few words be able to convince them that I am the perfect person to pen its screenplay.  No one could adore it more.  No one could be better versed in all the wonderfulness that led to this finale.  I want the job.  

At the very least, don't let the same person write it who did Anne of Avonlea (The Kevin Sullivan version).  I have yet to forgive them for squishing three books together that way and leaving out some of the best characters ever.  It was so uncool.  Mr. Harrison and Philippa Gordon deserved to be heard.  I want vindication, and I want an Oscar for it.

Hold on - that's a different dream.  

name that Judy Blume book

The new look is kind of serious, huh? The InStyle magazine helps things a little, but I really need a picture of a giant toddler head with Play-Do smeared on his mouth. Then all the sides of me would be covered I think.

I love that book in my header, though, Finding God in the Questions. I love the whole concept. I knew I wanted to read it as soon as I heard Dr. Johnson speak about it. He had been a very public, and respected, physician for a long time and now wanted to write about his faith. (Ah, the delicate balance between science and faith, Jack versus Locke, anyone?) I'm always intrigued when someone older than The Brady Brunch wants to tell us what they believe and why. And I wasn't disappointed. I loved his broad approach to the topic of God. He didn't assume he was writing to people who already believed.

I like questions. I think so many, many times, the answer is found within them. Humans are amazingly intelligent beings - and I marvel at all the things we have learned and invented and discovered and explained. But, and I think this is an actual scientific theorem sort of thing, there are many things we simply can't explain. Even about ourselves. And for me, that's where God is.

So, seriously, Play-Do, right? Or maybe spaghetti. I have the famous spaghetti-head shot for two of the three so far. The third one won't eat it. Play-Do and cat food? Absolutely. Warm pasta smothered in tomato sauce? Don't even try it, Mom.

an official tag

Anne Dayton on the Good Girl Lit site tagged me last night with these instructions:

(1) Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages)
(2) Open the book to page 123
(3) Find the fifth sentence
(4) Post the next three sentences
(5) Tag five people

Well. I hit the book roulette jackpot. This book sits by my desk waiting to be returned to Mom after I borrowed it and devoured it not long after I gave it to her for her birthday. Anyway. Sentence 4 tells us that Madeleine L'Engle says you know you are a writer if you can't help but write, if you feel like you must. Sentence 5 reads (because I don't really get by the instructions whether or not it is to be posted, but I feel you need it for the context):

I feel like I must.

(Now the next three)

I want to obey that calling. I'm not a genius. I would be content simply to do some good work.

Isn't it lovely? And just exactly how I feel.

I tag Jenny, Matt, Tracy, Zanne, and Mom, which means that Mom will simply have to post three sentences in my comments section, if she plays at all.

cancer and the meaning of life - or not

I've been wanting to plug this book for a while.  I read it when I was pretty well past the scariest days of my cancer diagnosis.  The scariest days are when you can barely breathe because you really don't know if perhaps you've been handed your death certificate only the date is all fuzzy.  I wouldn't have wanted to read this book then.  Even when I read it, I loved it, and I laughed OUT LOUD.  But I also clicked to the author's website in trepidation lest I discover that she had died.  It was funny, but not quite so much if she hadn't beat it.  

And sadly, she didn't beat it.   When you click on her website now, you will find a goodbye message, and it is heartbreaking.  

So I have hesitated recommending the book.  I just don't know at what point other cancer patients will feel that they can laugh at the disease.  But if it is at all possible for them to laugh, this book will make them do it.  I especially remember the part when she talks about the little aches and pains we get sometimes and dismiss as nothing.  But once you have cancer, you begin to think more like you're in a movie.  Because in a movie nothing means nothing.  No character in a movie points out an ache or a pain that won't eventually come back to haunt them.  Sometimes it's hard not to think that way after one of your little aches or pains has become the biggest mountain you ever had to face.

I love the premise of this book, the title cartoon.  She rolled her eyes at those who found new meaning to life because of their illness.  I know, I know.  If you've read this blog for even a millisecond you probably know that I'm one of those people, that I analyze splinters for goodness sake - there's no way I'm getting cancer without gold-mining for the answers to all of human existence.  But, going through the process of cancer, gave me another perspective as well.  The one in which I realized that I didn't receive any answers.  Not really.  Not one single one.  I had feelings and emotions, intense ones.  And I had thoughts - both deep and inspirational.  But at no point in my process could I have said, "This is exactly why I was diagnosed with cancer.  This is the reason God allowed it to happen while I was pregnant.  This is the ten-word hypothesis for what I learned in the process.  And here is exactly what I'm going to do about it."  No way.

I want to re-read my memoir in fact, with this in mind.  If it ever gets published, I want other cancer patients and their family members to be able to say that I have written how they felt.  That I have described their fear, their questions, and some of their thoughts.  But not that I have all the answers.  That's why I like her premise.  As one of her pages describes - when you're going through it, you don't always inspirationalize yourself through each and every day.  Sometimes, you just want to be be sad about it.  You want to blink your way through another day with cancer and watch Friends reruns in order to escape your reality.  It's not always a perfect process or a perfect result.  But as with this book, sometimes it really helps to realize someone else has been there.

A Tag-You're-It from the Good Girls

This post is a Tag-You're-It from the Good Girl Lit blog. Enquiring minds want to know: Where is my favorite place to read? So this is a picture of my corner. I like the chair with the throw draped on it if I want to feel particularly tucked into my little cottage-sized home, and the right-hand corner of the love seat by the window if I want to look out on my beautiful street and think beautiful thoughts (between chapters of course). This is where I read when I am purposefully, deliberately sitting down to enjoy a book. Otherwise, I grab my chances when I can, kitchen counter not excluded.

Lately I've been fantasizing about reading at Hastings though. It's the pseudo-Barnes and Noble for our small town, or up-scale Wal-Mart entertainment center, depending on how you look at it. I've heard Christians in my city say they won't step foot in this store because of the images that sometimes jump out at you - that's entertainment for ya. But I love it. Especially the book section. There are little reading chairs a la "You've Got Mail" ("You can sit and read for hours and no one will bother you . . ."). And through my work day, which is at home, which means that the little things that need done tend to haunt me and the little toddler that needs cared for can sometimes frustrate my work ethic, and often I fantasize about those little chairs in Hastings. I always think I will go there in the evenings so that I can read in the book section in the hopes that all those wonderful pages will somehow infuse me with literary gumption so that I can not only more thoroughly enjoy the read, but also be inspired and motivated to write well. But alas, I haven't gone even once yet. I generally stay in my corner instead because just on the other side of it are the husband and the sons. And even though, these are the very things that distract me most from both a good read and a good "write", they are just so terribly difficult to leave . . .

the connection of storytelling

Book report time. But first: A rant. Why are people picking on Jessica Seinfeld? She seems like a perfectly nice person who cares enough about her children to pre-cook and puree vegetables for them every week. Is this really worth fussing over? I'm not going to follow her plan myself. Mostly because I'm too lazy, but also because I kind of sort of agree that it's better in the long run if you just get them used to the idea that they gotta eat 'em and that they do sometimes taste good. But, seriously, the fuss to me is too much. She isn't harming us. No one's making us buy the cookbook, and certainly no one is coming into our living rooms force-feeding our children spinach brownies - and if they were, really, wouldn't we thank them? It's not cool to me, and I feel we need to let her be.

Okay, Felicity loaned me this book because it's smart and because the idea of it is so lovely - a memoir in books. Gotta love that. And I did. So many things to thank this author for. First, that she left me free to never actually read Lolita. Based on her description of it, I'm very grateful for that. On the other hand, she did make me want to pick up some books by Henry James. And she informed me that Sheherezade (of the 1000 tales) was a woman. I had no idea.

Most importantly, she made me care about Iran. Having written a memoir myself, I expected she would make me feel embarrassed about that. That I would feel shallow and terribly distant from the real problems of the world. But that wasn't the case, and I was grateful for that too. Instead, I saw my own problems staring back at me - just dressed in a long black cape and involuntary head scarf. I saw my own tendency to blame my decision-making, my unhappiness, or my loss of identity on something that happened to me rather than on my response to it. And I saw the familiar struggle of being in a situation you want to change, but not knowing how long you can stick it out and fight for the change, while failing. It was beautifully told. And very sad, although not in the way I expected. It is one of those wonderful stories that remind us we are all connected, which as Kate quoted in my comments section once, is why most of us read in the first place - to know we're not alone.

It's kind of my greatest dream that someone - anyone - anywhere in the world would read my own book one day and realize that. Maybe someday . . .

More . . . on writing of course.

I finished A Wrinkle in Time. I loved the concept about fighting darkness and how artists are people who have done this over the years - well, them and Jesus. Now I'm reading this book, Gilead, because I've heard it recommended more than once, and well - it won the Pulitzer Prize. I don't think I really know what a Pulitzer Prize is because I was surprised to find myself reading a book that had actually won it.
In Gilead, the writer says that when you write, "You feel you are with someone." I never thought of it that way. I thought I wrote to feel alone. Or at least, to thoroughly explore ideas with only myself listening, because myself is so agreeable and encouraging toward my ideas. Even this blog, which has proven to have a reader here and there, (hi, Mom!), I usually begin it with one sentence in mind. I think to myself, "I love Thursdays." And then I think, If I keep writing about Thursdays will I eventually hit on the ultimate meaning of life and perhaps solve all the world's problems and my own mood all at once?
I was alone for a couple of hours yesterday. And I just love being alone sometimes. The quiet is so restorative. But in those moments I always wonder if I only enjoy being alone then, because I don't usually have to be. And then I worry about getting old and my children moving away and my outliving my husband, as wives tend to do, and I wonder if I will hate being alone in those days. How typical of me to add the bitter to the sweet.
Anyway, even though I thought I wrote to be alone, I think I was wrong. I write here because I'm trying to matter. I write in a journal for my children because I hope they care one day. I write books because I want someone to read them. And even my journal - I'm not just writing to my future self. I think deep down I hope one of my children's children's children - you know.
I haven't read very far into Gilead yet. But it's a lovely book. Just a bunch of wonderful thoughts written lyrically and woven into a story. And I've been thinking that if I could write just one book in a lifetime that was so worth reading, I'd feel proud. "You feel you are with someone." I think maybe that is true. At least, when I write, I think I'm hoping someone would want to join me there, eventually.

My sister totally came through for me today. She arrived at my house with a stack of books. They include one that she feels every girl who grew up Christian ought to be able to say she has read (so I'm not sure why I haven't yet) some that will make me feel intellectual - you know, "Well I really enjoyed . . . .", and one because an author I admire says it is one of her favorite recent books. As soon as she handed them to me and told me all this, I added them to . . . the Nest. That's what Mom calls it. It's a trait I share with Dad - one Mom's had to deal with their entire married life. It's cool to realize you share something with your dad that sort of defines him for you - that is, if you like your dad - as I do. Dad loves to read, and when I picture him in his element, it's like a young Italian C.S. Lewis - (We are not even remotely Italian, but Dad's olive skin and dark hair just seem Italian to me) because he is surrounded by books - behind him on shelves, next to him on end tables, in front of him on a flat leather ottoman and open on his lap - or some more minimal combination of all that. He even has the reading glasses. It's very wonderful and Lewisy. The Nest is the stack of books and magazines he is currently reading, and it moves around with him from the bed to the living room to the office - so he can grab from it when the moments arise. My nest currently is in a big pink and lavendar gift bag from my birthday. It has two books I was working through that I now want to rush so I can move on to my sister's offerings, two InStyle magazines I haven't gotten around to yet, my journal, and a notebook in which I'm working on a novel - and by notebook I mean Mead - not Apple. I work on a computer eight hours a day for my paid gig, I can't bring myself to stay on it for the writing - not until revision time anyway. Although it's not the computer I tire of (that's a whole other post - my addiction to the computer). No, it's the chair and the home office. Those I just have to leave. So I'll gladly upgrade the Mead to an Apple when I can as I've finally outgrown the conviction that I can only be creative with paper and pen.
So anyway - The Nest is huge now, and I can't wait to get through it and then build it up again. That's one difference between Dad's nest and mine. He can remove a book from the nest and return it to the shelves if he feels he's read enough of it to get the gist. But once I've started a book I can't not finish it - even if I hate it. I rarely actually hate any book I pick up, but I have been bored by page 3 or apalled on page 27 on occasion. Still, I finish them every time. Well - there are a couple of exceptions. Those books take a break on the less portable nest - the little bookshelf by my bed. I still intend to finish them one day but, seriously, Billy Graham's autobiography is long.

It had me at hello

I stumbled onto a book being released in September of this year that is a memoir based on one woman's search for all things Austen and how it affected her faith. Um, canNOT wait for that. I've been tempted to go down that road myself - you know, instead of trying to write great, original fiction I could just write fiction (or nonfiction) completely based on the fiction I already love. So I really want to read and see how this woman approached it. But that's a side note - the actual point is that I hate to admit it, but I'm one of those people who probably did not really discover Austen until the movie Sense and Sensibility. I liked Emma possibly even more than that one, and that's when I started in on the books. Shamefully, I did not read Pride and Prejudice until, well, I can't even believe how much of my life lacked the sheer felicity of reading that book. So here is what I'm wondering, what other treasures am I missing? What other books are out there that could fill out my I-will-love-these-books-forever repertoire?

It's a literary fact so well-known that it's completely lame to even mention it, but all of these books have the best first lines. The moment I read them, I am there. And, that's right, I'm also one of those people. I read my favorite books often. A book I only want to read once is not a book to me. It's more like a really long one of those B movies that I rented once and of which I can no longer even remember the plot. I'm such a snob that way. I know lots of people just want to read a book once and move on. Their tastes are surely more eclectic than mine in that way. But anyway, I like my books to be friends, and I want them to befriend me from the very first line.

And here's the punchline for today. If you've only seen the movie of this one, you are missing out on one of the most entertaining reads of all time. "The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette." Read the rest. You'll love it.

When is this movie coming to my town?!

You know what I love about a good Austen movie? The silences. I love those parts where they sit around a table, or a sitting room, and all you can hear is the occasional clinking of silverware. In most Austen scenes you can also hear the less than graceful smacking of one of the comedic characters as they eat. There is so much said in those silences. I love it. I love it in books too - I've said it's all about the character for me. I like to enjoy the characters enough that I can sit in silence with them. I like to see the room in which they sit and know perhaps why the pillows rest where they do and how long that painting has hung above the couch. I like to hear clocks ticking, whether there are birds or late-summer locusts outside the windows. Does the room smell like it was just cleaned? Or like it never needs to be cleaned at all? I know a writer is supposed to leave quite a bit to the reader's imagination but I think personal descriptives are sorely lost in modern books. Maybe it lacks literary intelligence but I don't mind if you tell me exactly what a person looks like the moment they are introduced. In fact, you might as well, because if you dare to throw in frizzy hair or a chipped tooth in some later scene, you might really lose me.

If it were up to me, modern books would still begin with Once upon a time. In that first paragraph I want to be placed not just into a scene, but into a life. Hopefully, then, somewhere in the middle, I can sit at a table with the characters and thoroughly enjoy the silence (and the clinking silverware and the smacking gums).

I was putting some books I enjoy on my profile today, which got me thinking about books I like and why I like them. One of my favorite authors is L.M. Montgomery. I would never tell this to someone in publishing or someone in higher education or, say, print it on a blog for all the world to see (wait a minute . . . ). But anyway, she is. The reason I like her is because she wrote books that I want to live with for a while and read again and again. They're wholesome, a characteristic not necessarily considered a merit by true literary types, but I thoroughly enjoy a book in which I am not likely to turn the page and find myself in the middle of a crime scene or an illicit, adulterous affair. One of her characters, Emily, wrote a book once that was published, and a critic said it was, "A story that will not corrupt its readers." Even Emily's elderly family members in the book recognized the comment as less than favorable, and I have always wondered if some critic said that about one of Montgomery's books at one time. There is so much in the world to corrupt us already, plenty on the news to scare us, plenty in our daily lives to cloud us. Don't we want books at least sometimes that show us the best of life instead of the worst? Evidently I do - the books in my profile will prove it. There aren't many modern ones there. Although I grew up, my library never did. I'm trying to branch out but finding so far that I don't like the grownups very much. Maybe I haven't tried hard enough. Maybe, even though I switch toothpastes every time I go to the store and practically live for new things (see previous post), maybe when it comes to reading, I just can't change.