But Where Will I Read? Part 2

We have moved. It is done. But...is it ever really done? The boxes are all unpacked and the furniture is all placed. I know where MOST of my belongings are and I can USUALLY find the right switch for the light I want to use. There is also, however, the never ending list of improvement projects that keep us busy and, let's be honest, I keep finding different ways of organizing. It's my spiritual gift.

In the midst of this process, I started teaching again, my sister had a baby, my cousin got married, and my kids went back to school and daycare. It's all been a very rich time, and filled my minutes and hours with exciting new experiences, and also a few three year old melt downs.

So I find myself, at the beginning of September, on a glorious almost-fall day, having planted my mums and swept my porch and sitting down without a favorite book to read or a favorite place to read it. I have not yet answered my question...where will I read?

I could read here..

Or here...

Or here...

But the routine still isn't there, the places don't feel right yet, and frankly I'm tired. So meanwhile I mostly read facebook and also these books to get me back in the brain of middle school girls again...

When I'm done with these, I hope to get back to my routine and joy of reading novels. I have this stack waiting for me. They haven't appealed to me much yet so I may take them back and start fresh. If you see one in here that you loved, please tell me and maybe I won't abandon it.

(By the way, if you came here looking for book recommendations, in July I really enjoyed A Man Called Ove by Fredrick Backman, I mostly enjoyed My Grandmother Asked Me To Tell You She's Sorry by the same author, and I devoured the new Harry Potter, which everyone will tell you is not the same because it is a script but I think a different Harry Potter is better than no Harry Potter at all. )

But Where Will I Read?

Our family is moving. This is a really big deal. For eleven years, we've called this house home. We have brought all three of our babies from the hospital to this house; we have loved numerous pets here; we are on a first name basis not only with many neighbors, but also the neighborhood goats and donkey. So while we are excited for the opportunities in our new house, we are understandably a little sad about leaving.

Each of us is concerned about different aspects of the move. When she lets herself think about it, my daughter is devastated to be leaving her best friend across the street. My little boys are worried that they will have to leave their things behind. I've assured them that we'll take all their toys and furniture. "Even my nightstand?" "Yes, we're taking your nightstand." "Even my bookshelf?" "The bookshelf too." It has helped to read The Berenstain Bears' Moving Day and witness Brother Bear go through the same emotions. God bless Jan and Stan Berenstain for thinking of everything.

Then the moment came for me to have my own little freak out about moving. I've been concerned about the logistics: packing, cleaning, changing our mailing address with umpteen companies. Then, as I was packing books, of course, I found myself asking: WHERE WILL I READ? Will the light be right from the built-in bedside lamp? Will the brown leather recliner fit in the living room? Can I read on the back deck and still see the boys playing?WHAT HAVE WE DONE?

I didn't have a Berenstain Bear book to show me that it would be all right, but I did remind myself that all my books and favorite reading chairs are coming with us. I'm sure there will be an adjustment period, but there may be even better reading spots than here, in our happy little house. I will most likely enjoy future writing by favorite authors just as much. And thank goodness for that.

Caleb's Crossing

Historical Fiction by Geraldine Brooks

I dearly hope that Geraldine Brooks will write more books for me to enjoy in my new home. This is the last of her current books that I hadn't yet read. It isn't my favorite; People of the Book earns that place in my heart, but it is the favorite of a friend. Brooks' books are intricately researched and this is no exception. The blurbs say this is the story of the first Native American to attend Harvard in the 1700's, but I think it's the story of his friend, Bethia. The two meet on their home island of Martha's Vineyard, but their experiences of their home are vastly different. What they share is high intelligence, open hearts to learn from each other, and a curiosity about the world that leads them far from their home. I find them both a little too perfect, actually, as characters go, but I do love their relationship and their purity of heart. I expected a bit of a different ending, knowing Brooks writing and her take on women's roles, but I think that is a gift, too, to be surprised. I hope to read and enjoy many more of Brooks' novels. I wish even more to someday write as well as she does.

And the Mountains Echoed
Novel by Khaled Hosseini

From another time-tested author, Hosseini's third book is just as intricate, disturbing, and beautiful as his first two. I'm always a little reluctant to start his books because I don't know how deeply they will affect me, what nerve or emotion they will pierce with arrows of truth. That is his strength as a writer, that he may write of a different country and time but it becomes real and personal and connected to me nonetheless. This story is actually many stories by many characters, all connected to the one devastating separation of a brother and sister in Afghanistan. As a result, I felt a different piercing with each story, a different truth about mothers or friends or personal failings or unexpected beauty. It added up to a rich experience but was less jarring and unsettling for me than his other books. I'll share one small arrow of truth; a character who left Afghanistan for the U.S. as a young boy, visits his homeland as an adult, after the war, as a kind of humanitarian tourist. He meets a little girl in need of a surgery that his home hospital can perform and goes home intending to get her this surgery despite all cost. Little by little, though, he forgets how deeply he felt about her situation and eventually goes back to his complacent life without helping her at all. Who among us can't think of a time we felt to our core that we must help with something, someone, but then let the fervor slowly die without taking action? It's so easy to do when the situation isn't clearly in front of us all the time. I'm thankful for good stories and good writers that can show us these truths again and again. The little girl in India that my family prayed for every night at dinner, how quickly her face went out of our minds when I had to pack up her picture.

I'm looking forward to unpacking in my new home in a month, finding new spots to curl up with new books, but also putting back up on my fridge the picture of that little girl. Who knows what other stories that house will bring us into?

Three books to take you away from it all

It's that time of year. Don't get me wrong; I love spring. But we're at the verge of spring becoming summer, when the number of activities for kids ramp up just about the time the kids are losing all motivation to even find their library books and cleats, let alone actually go to school and choir and t-ball and (heaven forbid) PE ON MONDAYS. These are the specifics in my house, but I know you have your own version of spring fever. Admit it. My recycling bin can't be the only one with too many chardonnay bottles clinking in the bottom. And to top it off, I am keenly aware right now that my complaints are only teeny tiny microscopic algae cell problems compared to some of the hardships facing some folks around the world, and some friends even closer to home.

We need an escape. Beach time is still too far away, but I've been enjoying some early beach reads anyway. Reading really is the best escape for me, especially these nice, relaxing, easy reads, where everyone ends up happy and no one has to breathe through rags because of dust storms (sorry, Tim Egan, I quit reading The Worst Hard Time. It was too much reality right now).

We Never Asked for Wings

Fiction by Vanessa Diffenbaugh

I saw this sitting on my sister in law's coffee table and immediately requested it from the library. Diffenbaugh's first novel, The Language of Flowers, was a surprise and a delight, so I was super excited about this. With such high expectations, it's no wonder I was a tiny bit disappointed. This story is similar to the first in the consistent use of theme and imagery (birds and feathers this time), the close look at how systems fail fragile populations (children of immigrants), and the faith the author demonstrates in individuals to do the right thing for friends or even strangers (a young mom, her new hipster boyfriend, and a teenage boy). I just never fell in love with any of the characters in this like I did in her first book. Diffenbaugh expresses in her comments at the end that this was a harder book to write, and as I'm working on my second manuscript, I understand, so I shouldn't be too critical. It's also a good story, a sweet story, that should probably be allowed to stand on its own.

By the way, this is one of those covers that does not match the book. I'm not sure the graphic designer even read it. Yikes.

Hello from the Gillespies
Fiction by Monica McInerney

I set very few expectations on this book, having never read this author and checking it out on the recommendation of a friend. If anything, I had the opposite experience as with Wings, being a little bored at first and then growing to care for the Gillespies. Maybe that's the author's exact intention. She starts with the mom of the family writing a Christmas letter full of bad news and honest evaluations of the family members' flaws. Not a great start for a character-driven reader. As they came together, though, and acted like a family instead of a group of selfish misfits, I loved them for their love for each other and misguided attempts to help each other through their domestic, romantic, financial, and hair problems. Plus, this book is pretty long, so it draws that mental escape out for a bit.

Actually, looking at this image, I realized that this cover doesn't exactly fit either. This is set in the Australian outback, and while there is a painted door with roses nearby featured in the story, I think these look a little too lush.

One Plus One

Fiction by Jojo Moyes

Ah, there's a cover that doesn't promise anything, except another Jojo Moyes book. Her covers are all pretty similar, which makes it handy for spotting them on the Book Club Favorites shelf at the library. Since I liked Me Before You and loved The Girl You Left Behind, this came with a pretty good guarantee, I think. And before you protest that those are not beach reads, this one is. It's a simple, road trip-unlikely couple-sweet troubled kids-one big drooling dog, kind of story. Happy ending, win win. The one thing that annoys me about Moyes is that it always seems to be the men who have the money to help the broke woman and the women who have the social skills to fix the emotionally stunted man. They do kind of save each other, but it seems like there should be a little more variety in who does what kind of saving. Maybe I'm just an idealist. And I am, I suppose, a writer, so I guess I should take that as a reminder to give my own characters a chance to break some gender roles.

So there you go, friends, mindless reading to get you through the rest of your school year/baseball season/finals studying/allergy season/whatever ails you. Love to you.

Author Study #2: Geraldine Brooks

When I've done something that I feel particularly proud of, but in an embarrassing sort of way, I fall into Bridget Jones Diary speak: Have accomplished great thing. Will be remembered forever. Suspect am something of a genius.

Which is ridiculous, but that's the point. I am not a genius, for simply reading two wonderful books in a row. In fact, I'm the lucky beneficiary of Geraldine Brooks' genius. This is truly an author to study and emulate.

From the (actually three) books I've read, it is apparent that Brooks has some personal themes she prefers to write on, and that she is a stunningly detailed researcher. Still, her books are more different than they are similar. The first one I read, The Secret Chord, demonstrated her aptitude for deep characterization, the long arc of a family narrative, and careful research about one point in history. Since then, I've seen her investigate not two, but six other time periods, and tell stories from a dizzying number of perspectives and voices. No wonder she won the Pulitzer. (Also, she was in college when I was born. So, I've got time.)

People of the Book (2008)
Historical Fiction

Reading a review of this book on Goodreads is what piqued my interest in Brooks to begin with. A book about a book, and all the people who were involved in its making and survival through the centuries? Yes please. Hanna, an Australian conservator of ancient manuscripts is called to consult on a famous haggadah, a Jewish book of Passover, when it emerges from the rubble of war in Sarajevo in the 1990s. The book and its rescue, by the way, is real, but the rest of the story is the fiction part. Using tiny artifacts from within its binding, she traces the journey of the book through that war, World War II, Vienna in 1890s, Venice during the Inquisition, Spain and Africa in the time of Columbus. While Hanna has an amazing knowledge of these varied times and places, and learns a great deal about the book through her investigation, the people of the book appear to tell us their own stories, giving the reader more details than Hanna could possibly know. The way the book traveled between the people it touched is often left a tantalizing mystery, though, to us and to Hannah.

One difference I noted in the writing of these three books is that this is the only one with multiple points of view and I think the characterization suffers a little for it. Perhaps it is harder for her to get into the mind of the characters as she switches back and forth, but they take a few pages to find their voice. It's a sacrifice that is worth making, though, to tell this story and immerse us so richly in the surroundings of the characters, as only that manner of story telling could do.

From this book as well as The Secret Chord, it's obvious that Jewish history is important to Brooks. She seems to endow the Jewish characters, the biblical and the historical and the fictional, with the most admirable and honorable qualities. However, she also gives them vices, and presents some honorable Christians and Muslims, despite the atrocities that most of the different religions commit against each other through the ages. That is a lasting impression, the ageless ability of humans to devalue each other, which is apparent in TSC and the next book I read as well.


Year of Wonders (2002)
Historical Fiction

This one is only set in one time period. I know, so lazy of her. This one time and place, though, is fascinating and repulsive and wondrous enough. Just as the haggadah is a real book in The People of the Book, the year 1668 and the village of Eyam in England really existed, and really did fall victim to a horrifying plague. The wonder, though, is that the village decided to close its borders so as to protect their neighbors from the plague. You can imagine the microcosm of humanity that occurred in that year and that place, from the very best of people to the very worst, including murder, witchcraft, love, learning, innocence, forgiveness, revenge, greed, and so many more facets of our intricate natures.

The narrator, Anna, is complicated and wonderful all on her own. A miner's widow who supports herself as a servant to the vicar and his wife, she learns from them as well as from the town herbalist. She is at times loyal, jealous, generous, courageous, and selfish, as we all are. The personal journey that Anna takes in one year, all while staying in the confining borders of her own tiny village, is the wonder of the book. And just as you think you know what the culmination of her journey will be, she surprises us again. This is the depth of character I expected after reading TSC and felt was missing in POTB. Perhaps it's because she had only one time period to study (and study she did, in amazingly specific detail), and only one cadence of speech to enter, and only one delicate psyche to enter into, that Brooks was able to develop a character of such depth.

Her Jewish theme was left behind in this one, but the glimpse of humanity's worst tendencies was present, tempered by slightly more emphasis on our saving graces. Anna points out in one instance that neighbors are more likely to help those they know than to help strangers, and possibly this is the main point of all Brooks' stories, that of extravagant grace for those we love and even more extravagant love required to save a stranger from the violence inherent in all of us.

By the way, I've advocated lately for quitting books that you're not engrossed in. Life is too short to read bad books. But I've been told that I quit one of Brooks' books, March, too quickly.  So after I finish the stack on my bedside table, I'll try it again.

Here's the stack. (I'm rich. Mwahahaha.)

Author Study #1 Plus some other stuff

In a library check out spree long long ago, I set out to read several books by the same authors. I had it on high authority that Timothy Egan is a great historian and worth my time, with at least two of his books being must reads. So I found those two plus his debut novel. At the same time, I found two books by Geraldine Brooks, whose newest novel I really enjoyed, but her fan fiction of the March family in Little Women left me utterly bored. 

I wondered, as I looked at my armloads of library books (which are now severely overdue, sorry NCRL), how would these authors stack up against, not each other, but themselves? What made me love The Secret Chord but hate March? Would I like Egan's nonfiction as much as fiction, since it's by the same guy, even though fiction is my first love? In other words, it was time for the ultimate literature teacher geek out: an author study.

I can now tell you, like with most things in my life right, my intentions were purer than the result. I am less than half way done, and I've detoured in the middle. 

First, the Egan. I read The Winemaker's Daughter  what now seems like eons ago. It's his debut novel after writing prize winning journalism. I love that it's set, like most of his work, in the Pacific Northwest. I could picture each bend in the road as the main character, a thirty something single woman with a vague career as an architectural consultant, travels back and forth between Seattle and her family's vineyard in north central Washington (ie Chelan). She also travels to Italy and Montana, which presents the stretch of my imagination I crave as well. I found the plot to be a little meandering; though there are several climactic moments, deaths even, they get lost in the well researched but overly detailed prose about the geographies of both regions and the concepts of wine making, sociological preservation, forestry and wildfires, salmon fishing, and of course, familial obligation. It's a rich and nuanced book, though it took me too long to finish because I wasn't enthralled. I was interested to see how it compared to Egan's nonfiction.

I started with The Big Burn, even though The Worst Hard

Time was higher recommended, because it also happens to be the Columbia River Reads book for this spring. It feels kind of fancy to be reading the same book as all the smart people at the library. Last time I read one of these, it was The Boys in the Boat and I felt pretty smart for reading it. I don't know why. I've heard that some people don't like reading on e-readers because others can't see what smart books they're reading. I would be that person, if I liked e-readers. However, I was not smart enough to enjoy this book. It was a slog. Egan used the same level of detail and intricacy to paint an elaborate picture of the lead up and fall out from a huge wildfire that burned parts of three states in 1910. About a third of the way through, I was still learning about Teddy Roosevelt's favorite sports, as a set up to his development of the National Forest Service, and therefore fire fighting, and so on. The part about the actual fire was more interesting to me, probably because it was more narrative, but still overly explained. I felt relieved at the end, though confused to not hear more about how this fire affected fire fighting policy today. I thought that's why Wenatchee was so interested in this particular story. 

As far as author study, I found that the parts I enjoyed least about Egan's fiction carried over into his non-fiction. He is a master of research and brings so many elements into his story, but I think it's too much for me, a character-driven reader. I still plan to read The Worst Hard Time but I needed an Egan break. I was watching too much TV because I was unmotivated to read. 

Thinking that I'd start with the Brooks, I was instead derailed by a recommendation by my nephew. There is just something exciting about reading the same books as the younger generation in my family. Whenever they want to share a book with me, I am eager to find out what they see in it and get to know them a little better through it. So instead of Brooks, I read the young adult book This is Where it Ends. I actual read with some nervousness because this is exactly not my type of book. Children die. It's about a school shooting, told from the point of view of four main characters and several social media accounts. In that way, and in the problems and personalities of the characters, it is clearly directed at a modern generation of young adults. The kids struggle with weighty things like abuse, sexuality, and family health problems, as well as with the more expected problems like grades, crushes, and college decisions. This layering of issues is very real for our kids and books like this make me long to be a support for the kids in my life. It's also obvious how this book appeals to the young adults reading it. One line at the end has a character wondering if we can every really know another person, even in a crisis situation like a shooting. I think it's at the heart of the issue, in the book and in kids--the need to be known. 

So I read Egan's books in over a month and Nijkamp in just a few days. We'll see how long it takes me with the two Brooks novels I want to read before I post again. Meanwhile, maybe I'll have some more of my own novel to share. And if you didn't catch the last post, the second excerpt of my manuscript, scroll on down. 

Novel Excerpt #2

August 1952

She bent to close the low windows in the sitting room as the wind picked up, pushing aside white curtains worn thin and soft from washing. The parching daytime heat of late summer was giving way to an evening storm. Hopefully the rain would be light; they didn’t need any damage to the fruit, nearly ripe on the trees.

William coughed in the boys’ room down the hall. He’d caught a cold and was having trouble shaking it. She was trying to keep him inside during the preparations for harvest so he didn’t get worse. Small luck of that, she sighed. The five-year-old’s adventurous spirit would be the death of her. Last month he’d tumbled off his uncle’s tractor; thank God he hadn’t been crushed under the wheels. When he was only three he’d fallen asleep in the barn behind a row of apple bins and they hadn’t found him until long after dinner hour. She loved every hair on his blond little head, but she didn’t know how much more she could take.

And now this. This new worry, pressing on her from the inside out.

As she went about the evening chores, her thoughts circled around like a dog chasing its tail. She washed, dried, and put away the dinner dishes and thought about it. She swept the wide planked wood floors of the back hall and tidied the pile of shoes and thought about it. Checking on each of her children in their beds, she couldn’t help but think about it.

She pulled the thin summer coverlet over James and Michael, who at eight and twelve still slept as actively as they had at Willy’s age, throwing the quilts back in their boyish dreams of running and climbing. It was early in the evening for them to be asleep, but they’d had a long hard day of helping in the orchard. It sometimes seemed too much to ask of them, especially since school had started before Labor Day this year; going to school on weekdays like boys and working in the orchard on weekends like men had to be hard, but it couldn’t be helped. Willy was curled up in his cot on the floor, nestled in a circle of sheets and blankets like a puppy. One door down, Mary was sleeping on her side in the big bed with her hands folded under her cheek, looked like an angel compared to her big brothers. She’d outgrown her crib, but didn’t have a bed of her own to sleep in yet. It worked right now for her to sleep in their bed but when John returned they’d all have to shuffle around again.

And the dog in her mind continued his ceaseless circling, coming back around again to her one big worry, constant and palpable.

Finally at leisure to sit in the front room, she reached over and turned on a lamp. Night fell quickly in the upper valley. She tore a sheet of paper out of James’s school notebook and leaned over the small table next to her chair.

What to say? How to write him? Her face, so carefully composed and even a little hard during the day, had begun to crack in places. The exhaustion, the worry, the loneliness began to show in the droop of her eyes and the lines around her mouth. She wanted to do right by her family, but it was becoming harder and harder to know what that was. When she was a little girl, it had been easy to know what was right. She would watch her mother and father work hard in their orchard, attend Meeting on Wednesdays and Sundays, share with neighbors and Friends what little they had during Depression years. Things were scarce but sureness, of faith and family and simple living, abounded. Even as her parents followed the Friends way of letting her learn about their faith through observation, depending on God’s guidance rather than their instruction, she’d found her way. She’d chosen a spouse from in Meeting, stood up to proclaim their vows together, felt the Spirit of the Lord move within her.

Now, though, the Spirit had been silent at Meeting for so long. She still believed that God was within her, as in every person, but He was hard to feel. Other emotions had taken over, more desperate and immediate and demanding. She tried so hard to practice peace and love to those around her. Life just wouldn’t be peaceful to her in return. The blank paper in front her was an unknowable future, shadowed by storm clouds at the window and her own doubts.

“Dear John,” she began.

Prologue: March 2013

I have something new today. Two somethings, actually. First, I want to try discussing a few books at once by the same author. I enjoy reflecting on how a writer's works are similar or not what I expected, but I often wonder if I remember correctly. I read too fast, and too lazily, to remember everything. So I'm reading two, or maybe three, books by the same author back to back and am going to wait to post about them until I've read them all. First up will be two books by Timothy Egan, The Winemaker's Daughter and The Big Burn (and if I can get it in time, The Worst Hard Time). I'm done with one and started the second, but it's a grown up book, so it may be a while.

Meanwhile, thing number two. I have a brave friend who is posting his some of his novel, chapter by chapter, on his blog. This is very very brave. I have been honored by a group of readers of my manuscripts, but to put it out there, where anyone who cares to find it can read it, is again, very very brave. Together, we can do hard things, according to blogger Glennon Doyle Melton (and also Jesus) so I will be brave too. Here is the prologue of my second manuscript. More to come, until I finish the Egan.

March 2013

Avery stared at the photograph. It had jumped out at her, almost biting her, as soon as her fingers found the worn wooden frame deep in the desk drawer. That it was framed at all, for one thing. That it was old, for another.

The scant other pictures Avery had found in the desk were scattered loose in the drawers and featured recent people and places in her mother’s life. The artist colony in Long Beach. Someone playing guitar by a fountain. A hand raised in the air with sunlight streaming between the fingers. They were transient images, not just because the moment they captured was carefree and fleeting, but as if the people themselves weren’t destined to stay long on the paper and would dance away at any time.

This picture, with its five solid figures, so classically arranged in an inverted V, had a sense of permanence that the others didn’t have. Their somber faces and mid-century Sunday best clothes, the gnarled old trees and low-slung front porch in the background, spoke of a past and a future. It was the furthest thing from what Avery associated with her mother.

Cold, damp air seeped in through the old loose windows, accompanied by the sound of cars sloshing through puddles. Portland in March, perfect weather by which to pack your dead mother’s things and punish yourself.  The Goodwill pick-up van was coming in four hours. Charlie had sparse furniture and kept few personal belongings, but she had left it all in such random order that it was taking Avery forever to sort and pack. Charlie would have found humor in that, her neglect forcing her daughter to make all her final decisions for her. It could not be over and done with soon enough. The four drawer wooden desk, smoothed on top by use but splintered underneath; the orange sling back chair; frameless double bed, potted plants, mismatched furniture. From thrift sores it came and to thrift stores it would all return.

Avery set the frame upright on the floor by the bottom desk drawer it had come from, and sat back on her heels. The strangeness of the photo was riveting, distracting her from her task. Both the photograph and the packing refused to be ignored. Her eyes darted back and forth from picture to packing. The woman standing stiffly in the center of the pose; a pile of random sketches bound for the throw-away box. Four children clustered around the central figure; car insurance papers peeking out of the take-home file. A grove of trees behind and to the left of the group; books on seabirds stacked on the desk chair. The scene became its own still life. Charlie would have appreciated that, too.

Avery put the picture in the take-home pile and moved on. That was something she could most definitely do, thanks to her mother: move on. But she would take the picture home and consider it. It may not even have belonged to Charlie—she could have bought it at a thrift store, inspiration for a new art piece. Lodged in her chest, though, was an unusual sense of sureness: it was Charlie’s. Years later, when the picture was matted and framed on the wall of her home, she would remember that decision with a sense of gratitude and a little bewilderment. Because the Avery of the Oregon years was not a woman of deep conviction.