People always ask me how I hear about certain books, how I "know what to read." (which I think means, "how I don't waste time on things I don't like"). Well, I don't, necessarily. I still come across novels and story collections, some very highly recommended, that I just can't get through. And there was a time I would have finished them anyway, even if I didn't like a thing about the story. But, now I see the world as full of books, which means there are so many things to read, so little time. I do the obvious things when choosing books: an author I've loved in the past, a suggestion from my local bookseller or librarian, a recommendation from a friend (although this last is the trickiest because I'm a terrible liar and, when asked, I will tell you what I thought of the book you so loved). But I also read author's websites, and two that are particularly good with recommendations are Ann Hood and Monica Wood. On Ann's blog, you'll have to read each post to see what she'd reading (which is good reading, anyway) but on Monica's she has a whole section and you can just go right there.
Speaking of which, I just finished Kirsten Sundberg Lunstrum's Swimming with Strangers and I thought it was fabulous. I'm a big fan of family discord and these stories are done with rapt attention to details, and endings that are hopeful even in the smallest ways. Each of these stories is beautifully, cleanly written with characters you will not soon forget.
Someone asked me the other day what I was reading and when I mentioned this collection, she said "Oh, I don't like short stories." An opening which I used to explain that when done right, as Lunstrum does, stories are perfect little windows into the human condition. And, although I love novels, too, stories are, by their very nature, an economy of words. Nothing is wasted.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Peace Like a River, and trying to learn how to write
For as long as I can remember, I have been an avid reader and, as often follows, I have wanted to be a writer. And I am a writer...in the sense that I sit down and write nearly every day and I've had some small successes (which I celebrate like I've just won the Pullitzer). Everyone says that to become a writer, you should read--widely and voraciously. And this is excellent advice. But for me, I find myself terribly wrapped up in the story, no longer able to pay attention to how the thing got done. I just love books so much! When I was in the midst of hating my short story collection but not knowing what the heck to do with it, someone gave me the very sound advice to take apart a short story I've read before (this is key to the not-getting-wrapped-up bit). Look at descriptions, scene, how plot moves along, etc, etc. I have always been a good student, and I like a project, so I did this exercise with four or five stories and found it immensly helpful. So, I decided to try it with the novel. Why not? I chose Leif Enger's "Peace Like a River" because I loved it once. And, oh, I loved it again. I had to force myself to pay attention to the structure, the voice, the pace...I took notes, made an outline, wrote summaries as needed. And still I felt myself pulled into this story of family, miracles, the old-fashioned feel of a great adventure--it's a great book and I highly recommend it...even if you aren't trying to learn how to write from it!
Spell check isn't working tonight and I'm not near a dictionary...I hope this isn't too terrible...
Spell check isn't working tonight and I'm not near a dictionary...I hope this isn't too terrible...
Monday, August 13, 2012
We Need to Talk About Kevin
To say that I am reluctant to recommend Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk About Kevin is a vast understatement. Don't get me wrong, I loved this book. But, it is not for the faint of heart and I think it takes a certain kind of reader, someone not afraid to plumb the depths of not-kind humanity.
I don't think I've ever read anything so profoundly disturbing for its "honesty"--a truth told by a narrator who is not, despite what she has been through, likable. Or even necessarily forgivable. The novel is told through a series of letters written by a mother to her husband after their son has killed several of his classmates. Throughout, she tries to make sense of where she went wrong but yet, at the same time, her voice sizzles with anger. I had a hard time feeling sorry for Eva, which made the story all the more compelling for me. Too rich, too sure of herself, too focused on her work--she is prickly in a way that makes her heartbreakingly human.
Not an easy read, this is the first book in a very long time that has literally given me nightmares. And I don't even have children! So, you've been warned. But let me say also that this is a book that takes a haunting look at the small things we do, the lies we tell ourselves, the ways in which we get by. I will not soon forget it.
I don't think I've ever read anything so profoundly disturbing for its "honesty"--a truth told by a narrator who is not, despite what she has been through, likable. Or even necessarily forgivable. The novel is told through a series of letters written by a mother to her husband after their son has killed several of his classmates. Throughout, she tries to make sense of where she went wrong but yet, at the same time, her voice sizzles with anger. I had a hard time feeling sorry for Eva, which made the story all the more compelling for me. Too rich, too sure of herself, too focused on her work--she is prickly in a way that makes her heartbreakingly human.
Not an easy read, this is the first book in a very long time that has literally given me nightmares. And I don't even have children! So, you've been warned. But let me say also that this is a book that takes a haunting look at the small things we do, the lies we tell ourselves, the ways in which we get by. I will not soon forget it.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
When We Were the Kennedys
I just about devoured Monica Wood's memoir When We Were the Kennedys. It is so good. And, as I've said before, I'm not really a memoir-reader. As most people know, I'm a huge Monica Wood fan. When I had my bookstore, she was the first author I ever invited to read and sign. We never had very big turnouts in my little store in Oxford, Maine, but she was always gracious, and generous, and kind. And it is those attributes that shine through her work but not in a sappy, overly-sentimental way. Wood says what needs to be said but she always finds the light in people and it makes reading her novels, her stories, and now her memoir, an utterly luminescent experience.
I won't spend too much time on the memoir itself because it has already received much much-deserved attention. Suffice to say it's a sweetly-told story of a year that changed everything for a family, a town, a nation. It is a story of love and devotion, failures and triumphs. It's just wonderful even if you have no idea where Mexico, Maine might be (maybe especially if you have no idea).
While you're at it, I would suggest reading some of Wood's other books. My favorite, and a book I hand sold over and over, is still My Only Story. This is the story of hairstylist Ruth and a man named John whom she feels destined to save from his terrible loss. It is the story of mistakes big and small, and forgiveness, and really letting go. All of it written in Wood's uniquely breathtaking prose. I should say here that Monica Wood makes me feel like plagiarizing--her words are so beautifully strung together I often have the urge to just grab a pen and copy everything down--not so much to pass it off as my own, but to savor it, to look at it, to figure out how she did that with just ordinary words we all use.
A very close second is Ernie's Arc, a collection of closely linked stories. But Secret Language and Any Bitter Thing are wonderful, too (most people I've talked to rate the latter as their favorite so far). And, if you write, you should have The Pocket Muse and The Pocket Muse II as well as Description.
If your reading repertoire has not included anything by Monica Wood, you should change that. You won't be sorry.
I won't spend too much time on the memoir itself because it has already received much much-deserved attention. Suffice to say it's a sweetly-told story of a year that changed everything for a family, a town, a nation. It is a story of love and devotion, failures and triumphs. It's just wonderful even if you have no idea where Mexico, Maine might be (maybe especially if you have no idea).
While you're at it, I would suggest reading some of Wood's other books. My favorite, and a book I hand sold over and over, is still My Only Story. This is the story of hairstylist Ruth and a man named John whom she feels destined to save from his terrible loss. It is the story of mistakes big and small, and forgiveness, and really letting go. All of it written in Wood's uniquely breathtaking prose. I should say here that Monica Wood makes me feel like plagiarizing--her words are so beautifully strung together I often have the urge to just grab a pen and copy everything down--not so much to pass it off as my own, but to savor it, to look at it, to figure out how she did that with just ordinary words we all use.
A very close second is Ernie's Arc, a collection of closely linked stories. But Secret Language and Any Bitter Thing are wonderful, too (most people I've talked to rate the latter as their favorite so far). And, if you write, you should have The Pocket Muse and The Pocket Muse II as well as Description.
If your reading repertoire has not included anything by Monica Wood, you should change that. You won't be sorry.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Karin Slaughter
I love a well-crafted thriller and for that, I'm a big fan of Karin Slaughter. I just finished reading Criminal (which, if you ask me is a terrible title) and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Although, as I've said before, I generally prefer the lighter version of murder/mystery, stories where the gruesome details are left primarily to the imagination. And this book, one in a series, seemed much more graphic than Slaughter's other books. So much so that I actually skipped over some of the details. I used to read Patricia Cornwell but I stopped because I felt like she just kept upping the ante, going darker and more detailed, when what I wanted was more of the characters, not more unspeakable horror. I hope that isn't where Karin Slaughter is going, because I feel like she's an incredibly talented mystery writer and I, personally, feel that a good mystery is hard to find.
What I particularly loved about Criminall is that Slaughter, in parts, takes us back to Atlanta in 1975. For both women and blacks, being on the police force at that time was an act of will. I'm not naive like I didn't know things weren't always peachy (get it?) in the South in the 70's, but really, sometimes I forget the road that has been paved by strong women before me. I've been lucky, I know. I grew up white, middle class, in suburbia, with two parents who are still married to one another. It's hardly ever crossed my mind that I can't do something, especially because I'm a woman. It made me kind of breathless to think that such a short time ago, women had to endure humiliation and ridicule to be in jobs they felt were a calling. It was good to be reminded that I need to be more grateful.
The book is not written like a history lesson, in case I made it sound that way. It's a fast-paced, character-driven story that I hardly put down. If you haven't read Karin Slaughter before, I would recommend starting with the first in the series, Blindsighted.
What I particularly loved about Criminall is that Slaughter, in parts, takes us back to Atlanta in 1975. For both women and blacks, being on the police force at that time was an act of will. I'm not naive like I didn't know things weren't always peachy (get it?) in the South in the 70's, but really, sometimes I forget the road that has been paved by strong women before me. I've been lucky, I know. I grew up white, middle class, in suburbia, with two parents who are still married to one another. It's hardly ever crossed my mind that I can't do something, especially because I'm a woman. It made me kind of breathless to think that such a short time ago, women had to endure humiliation and ridicule to be in jobs they felt were a calling. It was good to be reminded that I need to be more grateful.
The book is not written like a history lesson, in case I made it sound that way. It's a fast-paced, character-driven story that I hardly put down. If you haven't read Karin Slaughter before, I would recommend starting with the first in the series, Blindsighted.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Story Telling
I read something in a home/decorating type magazine the other day that made me furious. It was an article about outdoor rooms and it said something about the flat screen TV that allows the family to spend time together outside. Are you kidding me? Because families don't already spend ample time gathered around watching TV? It being outside makes it somehow better? This isn't the first time I've ever heard of an outdoor TV, but the way it was phrased, the assumption it made--that families spend quality time parked in front of a TV, AND that there isn't anything else to do outdoors--oh, I was just so mad.
I remember the campfires we used to have when I was a kid. My dad, not the most talkative or imaginative guy, used to tell spooky stories. There was one about a wolf, and I don't remember all the details, but I remember being terrified to make my way back into the house--usually pleading with him to walk me in so I could pee.
And I remember floating around the lake in an inner tube, sitting on the porch, walking through the woods--in silence. I used to make up stories in my head, long epics about who knows what, but I'd spend hours by myself, in my head (this perhaps explains my somewhat difficult time with reality to this day).
My friends and I made our Barbies elaborate outdoor houses. We hosted outdoor "restaurants" for our parents where we served appetizers consisting of jarred pickles and sliced tomatoes sprinkled with salt and pepper. We sprawled on towels, read books and magazines, listened to music, talked about what we wanted to do with our lives. At night, we danced under the stars, lit sparklers, and told stories around those campfires.
Don't get me wrong--I'm not anti-TV. I have shows I watch faithfully (especially things that make people cook strange ingredients). And, as a kid, I remember watching Three's Company with my mom at the breakfast bar while she cooked dinner and I did homework. But I never watched much, and I wonder if I had, what would have become of my imagination?
For Lent this year I gave up all alone-time TV, meaning I couldn't have it on as just mindless background noise. Maybe not the world's hugest sacrifice, but I really did it as an experiment to see how much my head was getting cluttered. The answer turned out to be: a lot. I found the silence kind of nice, and when I didn't want silence, I turned on the radio for music or NPR. It made me feel less frantic. These days, I have the TV on more often, but I'm more mindful of it.
It's good to let the silence in, to let the stories grow.
I remember the campfires we used to have when I was a kid. My dad, not the most talkative or imaginative guy, used to tell spooky stories. There was one about a wolf, and I don't remember all the details, but I remember being terrified to make my way back into the house--usually pleading with him to walk me in so I could pee.
And I remember floating around the lake in an inner tube, sitting on the porch, walking through the woods--in silence. I used to make up stories in my head, long epics about who knows what, but I'd spend hours by myself, in my head (this perhaps explains my somewhat difficult time with reality to this day).
My friends and I made our Barbies elaborate outdoor houses. We hosted outdoor "restaurants" for our parents where we served appetizers consisting of jarred pickles and sliced tomatoes sprinkled with salt and pepper. We sprawled on towels, read books and magazines, listened to music, talked about what we wanted to do with our lives. At night, we danced under the stars, lit sparklers, and told stories around those campfires.
Don't get me wrong--I'm not anti-TV. I have shows I watch faithfully (especially things that make people cook strange ingredients). And, as a kid, I remember watching Three's Company with my mom at the breakfast bar while she cooked dinner and I did homework. But I never watched much, and I wonder if I had, what would have become of my imagination?
For Lent this year I gave up all alone-time TV, meaning I couldn't have it on as just mindless background noise. Maybe not the world's hugest sacrifice, but I really did it as an experiment to see how much my head was getting cluttered. The answer turned out to be: a lot. I found the silence kind of nice, and when I didn't want silence, I turned on the radio for music or NPR. It made me feel less frantic. These days, I have the TV on more often, but I'm more mindful of it.
It's good to let the silence in, to let the stories grow.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Trespasser
It's not often I start a book and don't finish it, but recently I started John Irving's In One Person and gave up on it. I love John Irving. But this new novel...I just couldn't get past that there are things I don't need to know, especially in great detail. I don't think I'm prudish--I read and appreciated Russell Banks' The Lost Memory of Skin--but I feel like Irving didn't give me enough of the characters to stay with the gory details.
I needed something light but not fluffy after that, so I picked up Paul Doiron's Trespasser. I don't know how Doiron manages to edit Downeast magazine and write really good, character-driven novels but he does. I thoroughly enjoyed his first novel, The Poacher's Son, and I am sometimes skeptical of second novels, but Trespasser is just as good, if not better. A mystery set in Maine and featuring Mike Bowditch, this is not an overly-plotted (at least, it doesn't come across that way)story with a perfect hero. Bowditch is flawed, and the story takes its time. And, most importantly for me, the ending is satisfyingly surprising but not completely out of the blue.
I needed something light but not fluffy after that, so I picked up Paul Doiron's Trespasser. I don't know how Doiron manages to edit Downeast magazine and write really good, character-driven novels but he does. I thoroughly enjoyed his first novel, The Poacher's Son, and I am sometimes skeptical of second novels, but Trespasser is just as good, if not better. A mystery set in Maine and featuring Mike Bowditch, this is not an overly-plotted (at least, it doesn't come across that way)story with a perfect hero. Bowditch is flawed, and the story takes its time. And, most importantly for me, the ending is satisfyingly surprising but not completely out of the blue.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)