On Sequels

Does anyone else agree that sequels are NEVER as good as the original? I know this is kind of a truism, a thing most people think, but it seems like it can't be completely true. There must somewhere be a book or movie that surpasses the one before. 

Not for me. Not ever. And here's why. One thing I love about a book (or movie) is the very newness of it. Even for authors I read extensively, each stand alone story has the promise of new characters, new places, lovely new phrases and patterns of ideas. It's a romance between me and the story, full of tingles and possibilities. 

This isn't to say I don't sometimes love the sequels. I mean, Harry Potter? I ripped the seventh book in half because my husband wasn't reading it fast enough to give to me. Yes, I can and do devour some series, all the way through. It's just that the dewiness is gone, the exhilaration of finding something amazing and feeling like I won the reader lottery. The second (or seventh) just can never be as perfectly wonderful as the first. 

Now, please don't read into this too much. I don't love my first child more than my second or third, and I'm not looking to be set up with any first dates, thank you very much. This is a book thing, and somewhat contrary to my small comfort-zone, routine-loving nature (I married a man I'd known since we were eight years old). Just a book thing. 

The books that bring all this to mind, by the way, are the second and third in the Peculiar Children series. I first loved them here and was delighted that they pick up right where the first, and then second, leave off. It's a quick trip through the time loops to a pleasant ending for all, with lots more peculiarity along the way. Enjoy. Just don't expect me to rave like I did for the first one. 

The Lake House

The Lake House

Novel by Kate Morton

I made a very important phone call this week. One that's been on my to do list since October. (Really. Written in green marker on my white board.) As you can see, it's also kind of a scary phone call, or I wouldn't have put it off so long. I called a church. Not just any church-- a Friends church. You might know it better as a Quaker church, but the sign outside says the Entiat Friends Church.

No, I'm not changing my religion. But I am very interested in the Friends church, and this branch in particular, because I'd like to feature them in my new manuscript. I should really be more judicious with that word "new," because actually I've been working at super slow speed on this thing for over a year, and I'm only 50 pages in. I'm also a bit stuck, waffling between some big ideas and sort of getting to know my characters still. So meanwhile, I'm going to do something big and brave, and visit the Friends church, as well as interview their pastor.

With all that on my mind, it may not surprise you that I read this novel with my writer eyes more than my reader eyes. I really love Kate Morton. Her Anglophile settings and happy ending mysteries are comfortable for me. I think I've modeled my writing after hers in some ways. The Lake House is her newest and I was at the very beginning disappointed in the title; it seemed so unoriginal. And, as I read on, so did the rest of the book. The dual time frames of 1930's and early 2000's, the disenchanted young women in both eras, the case of a missing or unidentified child. These are all hallmarks of her writing and while I really enjoyed the story, it was all terribly familiar. Possibly that's another reason why I could examine the writing at the same time. I didn't have to pay too much attention to know what was going to happen. Morton is very skillful in how she weaves her two stories together, revealing just enough in one time frame to cast suspicion, and then prove the innocence, of a character in the other time, until eventually all is revealed. I like her timing and can learn from it. The ending, though, was predictable and even TOO happy for me, which I didn't think was possible. It was too neatly tied up. The description of scenery ran on and didn't evoke character as much as it could. The characters themselves seemed a little flat and predictable. I liked reading this, don't get me wrong, and will read her again, but I wasn't overawed. Instead I was invigorated. I came away with the sense that I no longer want to write just like Morton. I want to write like me.

Thank God for books

Three out of five people are sick in my house, with one recovered already and one soon to bite the dust. There are used Kleenex, bottles of Clorox wipes, and various cold remedies and essential oils everywhere. My to-do list is growing in reverse proportion to my will to move. I did rouse myself this afternoon and wipe all the surfaces, fold some of the mountain of laundry, and vacuum up the daggers of dried up Playdough. But now all I want to do is read myself to sleep with Vicks on my chest.

Thank God for books, and for the North Central Regional Library mailing system. If you've read here before, you know my love for them. When I made myself to go to the mailbox today (it's halfway down the street, don't judge), I found three fat purple envelopes crowding my box. Sorry, postal worker, but man, was I excited, especially because it was the sequels for today's blog books, and because I have a date with my bed, probably for the next four days. 

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

Young Adult Novel by Ransom Riggs

This book was the beginning of my sick reading spree. January seems to be a bad month for my family, as this is the second year of multiple illnesses in a row. Two weeks ago, one of the current sickies was sick for the first time and I was stuck at home, much as I am now (but this time I'm sniffly and don't really mind). All that extra time, plus the fact that this is an easy read, plus its extreme goodness, led me to read this whole book in a DAY. Gobble gobble. 

One thing I loved about this is it's exactly what it seems to be. Creepy, yes. Childlike, yes. Captivating, yes. A teenager loses his grandpa in a mysterious way and sets out for the remote British island that his grandpa described in childhood stories. There he finds exactly what he's looking for--an orphanage of sorts where his grandpa lived. But how he finds it is, well, peculiar. And why grandpa left, and what the grandson will do with his new knowledge, is the rest of the story. 

You might be wondering if I'll let my daughter read this series, since we've enjoyed reading the same books lately. Not yet. The language is too adult, as is some of the psychology. I don't think it will be long, though, and meanwhile I get to devour the next two in the series.

The Secret Chord 

Historical Fiction by Geraldine Brooks

You might consider this the opposite of Miss Peregrine. It took me two weeks to read and was not easy, in vocabulary or content. I actually quit a book by this author a while ago, but she was coming to read from this one at our library, so I was intrigued. I finished just in time for the reading (it's happening right now) but I was not going to inflict my germs on the general population, so I missed it. I'm glad I didn't miss this book, though. 

I was surprised to see that this is the story of King David of the Bible. It's definitely more of a literary and historical David than a biblical representation. I reread some of my Old Testament trying to remember the Bible's version, and also to figure out who was who (Brooks using more historical interpretations of the names, like Shlomo for Solomon, David's son). I still couldn't tell you if it's accurate to the Bible in events, but it is ever so much deeper in relationships, descriptions, and characterization. It's even too graphic at some times, in the battle scenes and the horrible things David's sons do to each other. Much like The Red Tent brings to life biblical characters, this one makes David even more human. He is a man after God's own heart but incredibly flawed at the same time. That idea followed me throughout the book, how God could love each human, and indeed the human species, through some of the devastating choices we make, both in ancient times and now. It was kind of a backwards way to realize that as messed up as our world is, and was in David's time, God loves us anyway. 

See? Opposite of Miss Peregrine, in time and contemplation and content and audience. But still, both were such a relief to read in times of sickness. And I have more to come. Thank God for books. 

Am I a Serial Killer?

This post is going to be short, sweet, and to the point because A) I'm still going for transparency here and B) I want to watch more Gilmore Girls on Netflix. Oh and C) I haven't finished any new books.

Wait, what? Why am I writing, then, you ask? I said I hadn't finished any NEW books. I've read two and a half books since we last talked but only the half was a new one.

Here's what happened: my nine year old daughter received the first two Percy Jackson books for
Christmas and, in our typical style, tore through them in a few days. Then she wanted to talk to me about them, but of course because we read too fast I couldn't remember what she was talking about. So I just HAD to reread. Conveniently, the book I was reading was so boring to me that I was more than willing to take a break. More on that soon. But let's pause here a minute and appreciate the nuance of what I just said. I read a book so my daughter and I could talk about it. That means...my little girl is now my book club! The best thing ever! For years my mom and grandmas and sister in love and aunties have been my book club and now my own sweet girl. Love love love. There are limits, though. I'm not going to read The Cupcake Diaries or any of that sissy stuff, but I think soon she'll be reading more of my stuff anyway. Yeeeesss.

As for the half book, the one I took a break from, I decided last night to quit. This is becoming more of a habit of mine, and I hope it doesn't reveal some horrible personality trait, like all serial killers are also book quitters. I'd like to think I am more cognizant of what I like and don't like, despite book covers and appearances, and also that I am more protective of my time and doing what I really want, like spending more time watching Gilmore Girls. Because seriously, that's the moment I realized I wanted to quit. Last night I was watching TV and my show ended but I had a little more spinach dip and carrots left in my bedtime snack bowl. I couldn't go to sleep yet, obviously, but I so badly didn't want to read my book that I watched a whole other episode instead of reading for three minutes.

Anyway, the book is Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker, historical fiction by Jennifer Chiaverini, and I've heard good things about it from my mom and the people who belong to real life book clubs, but I haven't liked very many Civil War books and a little boy died and I'm just bored. The end.

Transparency

Today, my friends, I am really taking this book club seriously. I'm sometimes envious of the non-virtual book clubs. (Their hair is done nicely! They're out of the house! They're drinking wine from glasses with stems!) This book club is just as real as the pretty ones, though, because I think about you as I read. What will I say about this book? Do I like it? Do my friends like it? Where does this intersect with me? You deepen my reading and share the experience with me. Sometimes, however, I must admit that I hold back a little when I write to you. Sometimes I don't want to offend someone who recommended a book. Sometimes my thoughts aren't 100% shareable, with you or with the rest of the internet reading world. Tonight is different. I don't have any big secrets to reveal, just a commitment to write what I'm thinking, unfiltered. A friend of mine has a blog about surviving with twin babies and she is modeling real transparency for me. She is not holding back and I love her for it. Transparency is where real connection happens. Yes, even over the internet.

The Rosie Project

Novel by Graeme Simsion

The main character of this book (whose name I can't remember: keeping it real) has Asperger's. That's like having a mild form of autism, in which people struggle to understand other people's emotions and social cues, and have rigid adherence to schedules and rules. I have had several students with Asperger's and I have failed to love and understand them as well as I wish I had. This character is written in the first person with an amazingly specific voice, such as using few contractions, words like "correct," and a great deal of analytical language. Because we hear his thoughts, he's also lovable, in that he doubts himself and struggles to identify his feelings. He may identify people by their BMI but he is searching for love. That's the premise of the story, his use of a survey to try to find the perfect spouse, which is hilarious and heartwarming. Mostly, though, it makes me wish I could see more people's real intentions and therefore love them better. In that way, I'm like a person with Asperger's, I guess. 

Still Alice

Novel by Lisa Genova

I'm late to the party again, this time so late that the book cover is the same as the movie poster. I thought I had read this one but I looked again and I guess not. Then I accidentally stayed up until midnight finishing it. Alice has early onset Alzheimer's, a devastating diagnosis to anyone but especially to this Harvard professor of psychology. As soon as she learns about her diagnosis, she knows exactly how her mind will decay, she just doesn't know how soon. Or what she is going to do with the information. The end of this book came fast, which was a relief in more ways than one. It's unnerving to read about someone who is losing her memory, as we all have memory slips (Didn't I read this book already? What's that character's name? How many continents are there again?) that make us feel crazy. I also have had a recent diagnosis with degenerative disease, rheumatoid arthritis, that is infinitely more treatable than Alzheimer's but terrifying in my worst moments. Can I not open this jar because of RA? Can I keep doing yoga? Will I be able to pick up my nieces, nephews, grandkids? The crazy train keeps coming back to the station, and most of the time I don't get on board, but reading this book punched my ticket a few times. 

Late to the party

In recent years, I have come to admire that expression: late to the party. As in, "I know I'm late to this party, but I really love the new Adele song." I actually haven't even heard the new Adele song yet, but when I do, I know that I WILL love it and I'll be able to sing right along and still take as much joy as everyone else in its apparent wonderfulness. That's the party; you can be late but still jump right in and have an amazing, memorable experience.

I often feel late to the party with books and authors. I think it's because I rarely buy books, or even choose them for myself, but just sort of stumble upon them on library shelves, or have them pressed on me by family who likes the same authors and styles. I also blame my children. I can find a way to blame them for most things, in this case for not letting me read as much as I want (all the time). Either way, those bestsellers at Costco take a while to find their way into my hands, sometimes a decade. Here are two not-so-new books (both published in 2010) that I crossed paths with recently.

How Did You Get This Number

Essays by Sloane Crosley

I didn't understand the bear on this cover and thought I was too late to the party, until A) I read the essay about Alaska and B) I understood that Crosley practices a level of satire and irreverence that makes her the spirit animal of 30 something women everywhere. If you are not a 30 something woman, maybe don't read this book. If you are, read it soon, if only for the essay featuring the board games Girl Talk and Mall Madness, to which I was mouthing "Yes" because Crosley nails on the head our mid 90's adolescent girl culture. It was as if she had been in the rec room of my family's home, sitting on a leaking bean bag chair and applying zit stickers to her forehead with my own friends. There's also her take on living in New York City, which I don't relate to at all but enjoyed hearing about from her bright, acidic, self-deprecating view. I look forward to discussing this with my irreverent friends everywhere. Message me.

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand
Novel by Helen Simonson

I feel like everyone read this book before me. Yes? Did you? So did you like the Major at first? I did, and then I didn't, and then I really did again.

Major Pettigrew is a very classic Englishman living in a rapidly  modernizing England. His wife is dead, his son is a greedy corporate yuppy, his village is changing all around him, and he's sometimes stiff as a board about it all. But he also is falling in love with the local shopkeeper, a Pakistani widow. He seems simple, but as you get to know him, you learn the depth of his humorous side and his good heart. He's what English teachers would call an unreliable narrator, because you realize part way through that he's lying to himself about something. I think I fell in love with him at the same time Mrs. Ali does. I also relate very much to his frequent crises of indecision and decorum. He is often "in horror" because he thinks he has offended someone. Me too, Major, me too. It's amazing, really, that I should relate to this man as much as to Sloane Crosley, since she is so much more like me in reality. But I think the traces of Jane Austen, James Herriot, and Maeve Binchy that appear in this novel point to how much my reading has made me who I am.

By the way, if anyone is wondering, there ARE a few books I have my eye on and would consider buying IF no one gives them to me for Christmas. I mean, I don't completely rely on the vagaries of the library book club choices to determine my own reading list. People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks still sounds promising, and I always love books by Kate Morton, even if her newest is boringly titled The Lake House. Just in case you were wondering (wink, nod, knowwhatimean).

Reading What I'd Like to Have Written

Friends, I am struggling. It's NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and I'm feeling a little more than the usual self-imposed pressure to write. It's my civic duty to write this month! Ok, I don't really care that much, but I would like to be cracking along a little faster on my new manuscript. I'm having philosophical issues with what I've learned recently about writing, both in large and small scale. I heard some great advice at a writing conference and some of it is inspiring, but some is weighing me down. I can take out most of the adverbs in my writing easily and gladly, but can I change something fundamental about what I want to say and how I want to say it? I'm not sure I want to, and thanks to these books, I'm not sure I need to.

The Ice Queen

Novel by Alice Hoffman

First of all, look at that cover image. Now look at the title again. Cover. Title. See what I'm seeing? While this novel has several different covers, this is the one that I read from (was given by a thoughtful friend, actually), and I like to include the image here that I saw when I picked up the book each time I read. Do you see it? The incongruity? There's a butterfly on the cover of a book about ice.

This unexpected juxtaposition is actually congruous with the book. This is a story that is brimming with images and motifs--the ice and the butterflies, and also lightning, fairy tales, oranges, and moles (yes, moles). It almost doesn't leave room for the story. Definitely, the plot is slower and more subtle because of it. It's mostly about a woman and her brother. Their mother dies young, they grow up and move apart, and then the suddenly the woman moves from New England to Florida to live near her brother again. There she is struck by lightning and then her life truly begins to change. It's all told in a dreamy, ethereal tone that contributes to the fairy tale motif, but leaves room for the science of weather and math of chaos theory (famously described by butterflies). What it doesn't leave room for is the fast pace and snappy dialogue expected by so many readers, and publishers, today.

It's true that the leisurely, dense story telling style was a little discomfiting to me at first. I didn't rush back to this book every spare minute I had. Eventually, however, I was engaged and entertained and also enriched by reading it. I was also given hope that my writing, described by an editor as "a quiet story" can be just what someone is looking for, even without a gasp of suspense per page.

The Truth According to Us
Novel by Annie Barrows

If the previous book gave me pause about grand writing ideals, this one made me laugh and forgive all the adverbs again.

Let me explain. Some quick and seemingly excellent advice I received was how to tighten up dialogue. Specifically, I learned to cut out adverbs, slashing juvenile words like "retort" and "snap," reduce "said" altogether, and NEVER EVER write "replied" or "asked." Basically, I should use fewer stupid words for talking and use more actions showing what the characters do as they talk. That seems reasonable and I'm enjoying putting it into practice.

This book, however, completely ignores that advice and still has some of the best dialogue I've read. It's all about the characters. They are witty, true, and they love each other, even though they also lie, kick each other out of the house, and sneak food out of the kitchen. I love them and I want to visit them in real life.

The Romeyns are a formerly grand family in a small, genteel but Depression-shabby town in West Virginia. They take in a boarder who was hired to write the town's history. Hilarious anecdotes pop up, along with all the family's secret yearnings and secret doings. It's just the kind of story I love, and I will work hard to include many of its elements in m own book. I'll also continue to leave out "replied," since an awake reader can tell the character is replying. Unless, of course, a character must reply snappily as the Romeyns do.

Confession: I quit March by Geraldine Brooks. I guess I didn't want to know the story of the dad from Little Women. There's nobody like those sisters. And now I'm reading How'd You Get This Number, the most bizarre and spit-laugh inducing collection of essays from a New York twenty something. It's good for a change.