The Writing Life by Annie Dillard (26)
I started this book during this "let's read other writers talking about writing" phase. I'm pretty much over that. It's not that I don't appreciate the little nuggets, but no other writer can offer much advice to any other about how to get your ass in the chair-- the best they can say is "get your ass in the chair. And write."
But a book on how writing is daring, how it changes you, how you have to love writing to be a writer? As a memoir of the craft, it works fine. As a guide to other writers, it's a bit pretentious. So, I'm not sure who, exactly, this book is for. Would anyone other than writers even pick it up?
I did particularly enjoy this paragraph:
"On break, I usually read Conrad Aiken's poetry aloud. It was pure sound unencumbered by sense. If I ever caught a poem's sense by accident, I could never use that poem again. I often read the Selin poems, and 'Sea Holly.'"
I am Legend by Richard Matheson (25)
Brandon loaned this to me, since I got him addicted to Buffy (at least, I think that's why). Anyway, I read it over the course of two nights, and it was quite creepy. I'm not sure I understood the whole "living" and "dead" vampires thing until the end, and that was frustrating, but it was an important distinction, for the ultimate plot hinges on that.
I was very sad about the dog.
A classic, well-written, and yeah, you can totally see that Stephen King was influenced by this guy a lot.
The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley (24)
Such a great book. I finished re-reading it at lunch today, and I was humming with happiness. Last night, Julie was saying it's just her favorite book ever. I hemmed and hawed, but I have to think about that: do I ever hum when I read my other long-time favorites? Not so much...
If I ever write a book half as good and a tenth as loved, I will be content with my life.
edited to add: the Amazon link shows the cover of the book I knew and love and wore to shreds whilst growing up. I have a new cover. It's not nearly so cheesy. But I don't like it nearly as well.
I had a "S'more S'moothie" at Write Club tonight, purchased with the $5 gift certificate that I won back at Christmas. That seems about a hundred and fifty years ago, by the way (Christmas, not the S'more S'moothie).
Something about the whole endeavor made my stomach ache; I'm kind of rumbly as we speak, in fact. I did not manage to finish said S'moothie (which was really just a mocha-freeze with marshmallows and whipped cream and fudge sauce).
When I left Write Club, I obediently got in the turn lane for the highway, knowing that this is usually the fastest way home. Forgetting, of course, that any sane person should entirely avoid the Ann Arbor stretch of 23 for the rest of the summer.
Construction barrels; a yield sign; those incredibly bright lights for night road construction; smoke/steam from laying asphalt. There was ethereal madrigal-esque music playing on the radio; I'd paused on a station I don't usually listen to, because it sounded like the music on that one car commercial, but better. Plus, madrigals make me think of Peg and Liam, and I usually pause just for old times' sake. Incedentally, I had been searching through the radio stations because the muscle car that had pulled up next to me had been blasting the Dixie Chicks, and I thought I should be able to find that on the radio, as preferable to noxious late-night chat.
So, the smoke, steam and white lights against the inky night combined with the labyrinthine feel of the construction barrels and the soaring sopranos on the radio, felt otherworldly.
And the car in front of me pulled out in front of a big ol' semi that was going way faster than it should have.
And the semi bashed right into the construction barrel in front of me, sending it flipping up and out. I was so prepared for it, that I was actually amazed when it didn't hit my car.
My stomach flipped its flop; I saw a break in traffic, and drove around the barrel and tried not to die; none of the traffic was slowing down even a smidge, it seemed, even though we had far less than a full lane to work with.
And because there was less than a full lane, I bounced down and then back up onto the asphalt, and then hit my stride on a bunch of that "wake up" pavement. The jarring made my front right headlight come on. Apparently, the bulb wasn't burned out; it was just a loose wire.
And thus I drove home.
And to think, I'd just been talking about the Celtic Fourth Dimension with Julie and Lisa. Little did any of us know I'd be taking it home.
It was the perfect hero's journey. The call to adventure, the crossing the river (entering the highway), the challenges, the reward (my headlight coming on)... Joseph Campbell would be proud. I am the Hero with the Thousand Faces.
Just for today.
I really wanted to read The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley the night before I got married.
I thought about it on the 12th, but my mom was already in bed in the guest room, so I didn't go get it. I forgot to retrieve it on the 13th, so at 11:30 at night, mom (again in bed) barred the way. Dann says "Why didn't you just sneak in?" but that seemed rude.
So, at 1:45 AM on the 14th, after finishing the last chore before the wedding (I believe I was writing out the picture list), I found myself telling myself the story.
I haven't picked it up since then, by the way. But I'm pretty sure I remember about 85% of the book. From orange juice to Corlath walking through the wall, to "Harimad-sol" and the little house tiled with blue, to sneaking away and the flavorful potatoes and the final victory.
I mentioned all of this at some point to Dann, who was kind of mystified by the whole thing. Can I explain it? Can I explain why, of all my best-loved books, I wanted to read this particular well-loved favorite on the night before my wedding? I think it has something to do with Corlath-- Dann's eyes don't turn yellow or anything, but they're both sexy to me in similar ways. I also think it has something to do with what words we selected at our ceremony. We affirmed that we are individuals making a choice; we have not become one entity. Like Corlath and Harry, though that was never my most immediate thought when chosing things. Harry informed a lot of my personality as I was growing up.
Considering that I read the book first in 1987 or 1988ish... and that I've read the book, on average, twice a year, I've read the book at least 30 times. Probably more. It served me well, when I was unable to read it last week.
The Lady is Tempted by Cathy Maxwell (23)
Very enjoyable, though I think it was the setting and my mood as much as anything. Everything tastes better on your honeymoon, official or otherwise. I had no complaints about the book, but no specific praise either... the conflict came entirely from the main characters' perceptions about honor, and frankly that was refreshing. No one tried to kidnap the female character, there was no back-story so convoluted that you wondered why you were even bothering to try, and I was altogether very glad to have read it.
Meme
Choose three books from your personal library that as a set of three would allow most of your friends to guess with reasonable certainty that they came from your house, and explain why if necessary. The aim is to pick books if possible such that any two of the three don't necessarily uniquely define you.
Selected Poems by Conrad Aiken
Hawk of May by Gillian Bradshaw
The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley
Then choose three more that people would be surprised to find on your shelves (Terminal damage to your street cred is optional).
Ten Stupid Things Women Do To Screw Up Their Lives by Dr. Laura (it was passed on to me, and btw, I've done a lot of those things)
Flatland
The Gas We Pass
(Note: I chose to answer with fiction/poetry the first one; I think that I have a better chance to be defined by non-fiction, amazingly enough, but it seems less fun that way. As for the second, I don't know what is meant by "people," since a lot of people would know that I have read Flatland, even though it's all mathy, and no one who reads this would be surprised about the young adult or romance novel obsessions...)
You've gotten moldy in your old age,
Sitting there and staring,
And when you think about me,
I know it's as a toddler
Trying to eat plastic fish
And peeling a phone like a banana.
And you grew up moldy;
Did you ever think to challenge,
To embolden, to go out on that limb,
To dance though it's forbidden,
Or to toast even with ginger ale,
Out there in public, with all the eyes?
You stayed moldy;
You kept your rebellions private,
And prayed your prayers aloud
For all to hear... And you
Shook your fingers at us,
And tried to raise us moldy too.
But here we are;
You cannot mold today.
The sun is too bright and
The world too young,
And I know soon you'll hear it too--
Your banana is ringing.
And when you've heard that ring
Other sounds will come to the fore:
The sonorous friction of the spheres,
The language of wood ducks,
The stroke of my poetry-pen
Stirring this ancient mold...
Ampersand Project, June 2003
"stir up the dust"
The doorbell rang half an hour ago. A little blond boy was at the door.
"Hey. There's some kid who lives here. Can she come out and play?"
Startled, I said, "Uhm, Kayla's not here today."
"Ok, thanks!" And then, as he jogged away, "Kayla. Kayla. Kayla." Muttered to himself.
Queen of Attolia by Megan Whalen Turner (22)
re-read
I read The Thief about 2 or 3 years ago, and then this one. I remember loving this one to pieces at the time, and so when I was looking for something good and calming to reread, I chose this one... but I think the experience is enhanced by reading them both. This one was still nice, but the impact wasn't as great.
Something about this book really reminds me of Cynthia Voigt's "The Kingdom" series... perhaps because the darkness and complexity increases in each book. I can't imagine what book 3 would be like (though I don't believe a book 3 would be a good idea here...). Still, very enjoyable, with lots of the little details that just make for good reading. The exchanges between Eddis and Attolia about Eugenides are hilarious. The relationship between Attolia and Eugenides as viewed from the outside are fab, as well (in essence, "don't make me cut off your other hand!" Shocking and appalling all around them, and for them, it's practically foreplay).
Overall, I find it a little hard to swallow that this book is meant for ten-year-olds. Not an average ten-year-old, I'm sure! I think I would have liked it, but I was also devouring things like Clan of the Cave Bear, which I now re-read and scratch my head, going, "Really?" Because Kayla is 8 & 1/2, and I can't imagine her reading this or Clan of the Cave Bear in a year and a half.... but by my 8 & 1/2, I easily had 100 books under my belt, I bet-- Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, Little House, all the sequels, Alice in Wonderland, The Incredible Journey, all the Beverly Cleary, most of Judy Blume... and let's not forget, Brighty of the Grand Canyon... What strange memories I'm conjuring. Trying to figure out what happened by 8 & 1/2. Do I remember reading it in Sault Ste. Marie? Do I remember reading it on Hart Street? At Denny and Ernie's house? At the new house? Well, if it happened at the new house, I was 9, so I can't count it. Memory is such a strange place.