Maybe I Really Am a Writer!

I've found that, increasingly, I wake up during the night or early in the morning with fully formed blog posts written in my head. I can't wait to get to the computer but it isn't fair to put down whatever thoughts are floating about my consciousness - not fair to readers who come here expecting to read about books. I simply can't read fast enough to keep the theme of "reading around the world" going, though you'll all admit that I try like hell!

Don has had an idea that I should create a second blog to deal more with my political and societal musings, which can be triggered at a moment's notice by an off hand comment from a customer at the library, an observation of human interactions that sometimes feed my soul but more often tend to confirm my opinion that living in another country might be the way to go.

 Just today, trying to make a dent in my Sunday papers, (I begin with The Week in Review in the Times so that I can concentrate on Frank Rich, Maureen Dowd and the guest essayists) I came up with about three different rants that I could write in a heartbeat. Let's see, Afghanistan - follow the money; Education - we're lost; Health care - why won't people admit that we're no longer number 1, not even close (unless of course, you've got the money to buy the best).

 Later, I'll peruse the News-Press while watching the US Open men's final since concentration isn't really called upon to scan the latest murders, drug busts, etc. Yesterday the sheriff's office was so proud of the garage full of marijuana it discovered after, I believe 10 hours' of men and equipment - for what? Legalize it and get it over with for heaven's sake!

You'll be glad to know that I've lightened up my ride to work with the latest from Alexander McCall Smith. I just adore the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series and have found myself falling in love with Smith's version of Botswana even if I may not get there when I take my big Africa trip next year. The continent is simply too big and choices have to be made. Three weeks may seem like a long time but the itinerary we're putting together is ambitious and Gabarone just doesn't have a draw like DuBois's Ghana or Don's previous home in Senegal.

Since we plan to end our stay in the Sudwala Safari Lodge outside Kruger Park I thought it only fitting that I listen to The Double Comfort Safari Club which is, if you're familiar with the series, a slow, languorous read that can lull you to sleep on the road if you're not careful. But there's a place for this kind of novel, the sweet, insightful musings of Mma Ramotswe, McCall-Smith's alter-ego, and the delightful, quirky side kick, Mma Makutse. I feel that I know them personally, especially after watching the HBO special last year.

The plot is certainly far-fetched - a woman in the states has died and left a considerable sum to a safari guide in Botswana who treated her kindly while she was vacationing there. The attorney who writes from St. Louis to Mma Ramotswe doesn't know the name of the lodge or the name of the guide - hmmm - but will foot the bill for Precious and Grace to track down the guide, travel to the safari lodge and hand him the inheritance. You doubters will say, "oh yeah, we'll see how that works out," but I, as a reader of the series, am fully confident that it will.

By my bed I have a much sought after advanced reader's copy of Nicole Krauss's new novel The Great House. I plan to ignore the "rule of 50" on this one and keep going though it seems very dense. The reviews have been glowing from every quarter, I loved her first novel The History of Love, and the premise, though done before (remember The Red Violin?), intrigues me. Then too, how can I not admire a novelist whose protagonist relaxes by leaving the city and driving through the Berkshires - mentioning my hometown of Gt. Barrington by name?

One of the primary characters in Ms. Krauss's book is a desk. There's something mysterious and exciting about a big old desk. I remember one in my great aunts' house that intrigued me so much with it's creaky roll top, its nooks and crannies, drawers big and small that often stuck, reassuring my young, imaginative mind that something wonderful was hidden there.

The desk in the novel belonged to a revolutionary, a poet who bequeathed it to another writer when he decided to return to his own country to continue the fight against the dictator Pinochet. The writer produced novel after novel - though Krauss's description of the writing process sounds more like hell than heaven - from this cherished desk for 25 years. Then, one day a stranger calls claiming ownership of the desk and the writer's life seems to cave in on itself.

I intend to spend a lazy afternoon reading and will let you know if this novel lives up the the hype.

Sometimes we're right to be angry!

OK, don't laugh, it's not my fault that I live so close to work and rarely drive anywhere anymore, but I finally finished So Much for That and Lionel Shriver gave me the most satisfying ending to a novel that I think I've ever encountered - and that said after all my complaining about her. Oh, I wanted to jump out of my driver's seat with a fist pump when Shep made his final visit to the oncologist's office to discuss his wife's prognosis.

Shep had done all his homework and had known all along that mesothelioma had a very low, read no, cure rate, but with that guilt that is so understandable and which doctors can beat you with every time, he had continued to fork over the bucks for one experimental treatment after another. The latest one that the good doctor recommended would cost $100,000 per dose and Glynis's life expectancy was three weeks, give or take!

From my research into this amazingly angry writer, Lionel Shriver, I have discovered that she has had her run ins with the medical profession and their infuriating insistence upon prolonging life at all costs. Sure, each of us has a different sense of what constitutes quality versus quantity but I learned the hard way that our good common sense can often be overruled by well meaning families and doctors who see research opportunities and a healthy insurance reimbursement.

My mom was only my age when she was diagnosed with liver cancer. It was more than a shock to our family as my mom was one tough nut. She was rarely sick that I can remember and I had never known anyone who had had cancer and hadn't recovered, so talk of death was not an option. Within six weeks she was gone, a bald, skinny, shrunken shell of the vibrant, brilliant teacher, reader and conversationalist extraordinaire that she had been. I was so angry! Why didn't she fight it, I wondered. Where was all that spunk she used to show when she taught Shakespeare to the high school boys who were one more offense away from jail?

I overrode my dad and got up the courage to call her doctor a few weeks after her funeral for a talk. When he told me that she had known that she couldn't be cured and that she had opted for the full load of chemo anyway, I was devastated. To think she had ruined her final days, a woman who loved eating out more than anything,  no longer even able to swallow, in a futile attempt to "hang on" a little longer, for us? I wrote my living will shortly thereafter.

This all brings me to Barbara Ehrenreich's Bright-Sided; How Positive Thinking is Undermining America. Some might say that this is a radical idea but I love Ms. Ehrenreich's courage to tell us the things we don't want to hear. Maryellen and I were first introduced to her at a long ago ALA conference in Atlanta where she was a keynote speaker about her first  big book Nickel and Dimed. She was angry then and she's angry now. There's a lot going on in this book but one chapter really spoke to me.

Ms. Ehrenreich had been diagnosed with breast cancer. An educated, research oriented person, she naturally went to the doctor's office with all the answers before she asked the questions. Then she got caught up in this relentlessly PINK, cheerful business (the ribbons, the hats, the tennis balls for pete's sake - even kitchen utensils) which personally drives me bonkers and trivializes the disease. Did someone forget that men get breast cancer too?

She talks about how doctors use the military metaphor for dealing with illness (we peaceniks resent that), the battle, the fight, the long haul, etc. She examines the guilt that one feels for getting ill and the subtle ways that one is made to feel that it's all their own fault when, hey, sometimes it's just the luck of the draw. But worst of all, and most damaging, is this implication that one can get better by positive thinking and that, is all the drug cocktails and radiation fail, it's somehow the patient who isn't "trying" hard enough. GRRR - This is one of the huge issues addressed by Lionel Shriver as well. Funny how when you're reading one thing it always links to another.

Lest you think, dear readers, that I'm some kind of a crank, nothing could be further from the truth! In fact, if I do say so myself, I'd guess that most people who know me would say that I have one of the sunniest dispositions around - and they'd be right. But, as Judge Judy once said, "don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining!"

The Mystique of Steig Larsson

So what is it, will somebody tell me, about this fascination with the Steig Larsson trilogy? I've never seen customers (at the library) go so crazy for a series of novels, by a European no less, that are so full of violence and disturbing sexual images. Well, sure, there's James Patterson, but with him, you've read one, you've read 'em all. I understand that the Larsson books are at least well written. I'll find out soon enough as a friend just gave me her three books after she finished them.

I crack up when these sweet little ladies with their permed hair and sedate demeanor come in complaining that they've been waiting so long for the books. I wonder if they know what they're in for. But then, who knows, maybe they see me as that sweet little librarian who loves her work so much and would never have an inkling into my love affair with the dark side either.

A couple of weeks ago as we spent most of Saturday in the waiting room of the Florida Skin Center with all the other ex-sun worshipers, I got a real kick out of seeing what the others were reading. We all know the drill and come prepared with plenty of reading material, laptops, snacks, etc. Don was lost in his electronic chess game and I was with Obama's family in The Bridge, but looked up to see an older couple - ha! - probably our age - come in and settle in with their books. What was she reading? You guessed it. Steig Larsson.
Pretty soon the whole waiting room was in a discussion about the films vs. the books, the upcoming American version vs. the European one, and with one leading comment a room full of strangers had found a meeting of the minds. Jeezzzz - I love it when that happens!

True confessions, I did try to listen to the first in the series, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, a couple of years ago and for whatever reason - we all know sometimes its just a temporary mindset that keeps us from enjoying a certain novel at a certain time -  I just couldn't get into it. I doubt I gave it the patience that it deserved and now, having Netflixed (can that be a new verb like "googled"?) the film, I do intend to go back and read them all. Don and I watched the original European version with subtitles and plan to watch the next one soon.
Rape scenes are especially disturbing to me but I've come to love the fierce, tough gamin, Lizbeth Salander and when she gets her vengeance - well, let's just say I was ashamed of myself for the thrill of it!

Meanwhile, I had read at one of the hundreds of book blogs I subscribe to ( Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind) that there was another famous couple before Larsson and his partner (who I really hope has another novel on that laptop she refused to give up to his greedy family), who were the Swedish precursor to the Girl trilogy. Ten titles, considered masters of the police procedural, were published by Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo and, wonder of wonders, my library has them all. Last night I began The Laughing Policeman and it got me from page 1. Will keep you posted.

Labor Day

Yes, the title is apropos, isn't it? Once again I've been eyeballing this novel because of the gorgeous cover art and because I've read much about the author Joyce Maynard, but had never read her work. (great interview with the author on Amazon!) I'm listening to this book and admittedly, I've been lax in my walking lately because of the ferocious heat and my new found love of my pilates video.

This novel is disturbing in a deep, visceral way that makes one recall the Stockholm Syndrome that afflicted Patty Hearst and that was handled so well in literature by Ann Patchett in Bel Canto. It's psychologically fascinating to me how easy it is to come under the spell of a person who treats us with whatever it is we're missing in life and how certain personality types are adept at sussing that out right away.

Escaped convict Frank is one of these types, deftly singling out 13 year old Henry and his mother Adele as they make one of their infrequent trips to the Pricemart in a small town in New Hampshire. Adele suffers from a worsening case of agoraphobia and relies overmuch on her young son to be her lifeline to the "real" world. Divorced and incapable of leaving home to hold any kind of meaningful work, Adele lives in a somnolent dream world, reminiscing about her past as a woman who loved to dance and style and get out in the world.

Frank has injured himself in a plunge out of a hospital window and needs to lay low over the Labor Day weekend, convincing Henry and Adele to take him home with them. Once there, Frank begins to open new worlds for both young Henry, whose self-esteem is at an all-time low, and for Adele with whom he falls in love.

Slowly, over the course of the weekend, the author unveils Frank's story, how he came to be imprisoned and plotted to make his escape, so that empathy for him is not only plausible but acceptable. This allows the reader to understand how both Henry and Adele begin to see Frank's entry into their lives as a saving grace. There's little that Frank can't do, his cooking that he learned from his grandmother, teaching Henry how to throw a ball, household chores that have gone undone for years take shape in his hands.

But the most eventful transformation is the one in Adele as she blossoms under Frank's  love and care and the renewed power of sexual fulfillment. The problem is that Henry, at 13, is also beginning to feel the power of puberty, and we can all remember how creepy we used to think it was that our parents actually "did it!" Henry is no exception and the mixed feelings of sexual jealousy, being on the outside looking in as his mom and Frank become more and more intoxicated with each other, skew his thinking to the point where he contemplates the ultimate betrayal.

This is an incredible novel that would be great fodder for book groups. The pace builds so slowly that the heart pounding worry about what's going to happen next sneaks up on readers almost without warning. As you're reading you have this constant feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I recommend it!

Meanwhile, Swamplandia has proven to be a delightful place to hang out for a week and my review for LJ just kind of wrote itself.  Sometimes they come so easy and other times not so much. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to it but I love the challenge. Off to work guys, have a great holiday weekend.

The Lovers

Have you ever seen a book on the shelf that just screamed out to be chosen? One of the things that I absolutely love about the configuration of the reference desk at my library branch is that it sits directly across from the new book section. Not only does it make it easy for us to do double duty, shelving and answering questions as the same time, it also allows us to really examine all the scrumptious new novels that come in under the radar - the ones that don't go right back out to fill holds.

Long before the review appeared in the NYTimes book review I had spotted Vendela Vida's gorgeous little novel, The Lovers. It caught my eye for a couple of reasons, one of which is that the title has been used so many times before (one wonders why book titles aren't copyright protected) but also because of the simplicity of the cover art - the silhouette of the young boy wading into the becalmed sea - which doesn't become relevant until you're well into the book.

Upon opening the book the reader is greeted by a page of black and white intricate paisley kind of design reminiscent of Turkey where the novel takes place. These little things of beauty that a publisher accomplishes are missing to the reader of an ebook. One of the few drawbacks but, alas, there it is.

The story revolves around Yvonne, a young widow, a former school teacher, who hasn't fully mourned the death of her husband in an automobile accident back home in the states. She decides, quite courageously, to travel back to the tiny seaside town of Datca, where she and her husband spent their honeymoon. Readers understand that "you can't go home again..." and that memory has a way of being superior to reality.
This turns out to be the case as Yvonne walks the scruffy main roads, littered with trash and patrolled by stray animals. She realizes that she was blinded by love the first time she was there and that nothing is as she remembered.

In her loneliness she befriends almost anyone who will talk to her, including the spurned ex-lover of her mysterious landlord, a pair of tour boat operators, and a young boy who haunts the beach collecting shells to sell to tourists. She and Ahmet communicate using smiles and gestures while one gets the impression that she sees in him every student that she couldn't reach. Oddly, she yearns for his approval, paying him to paddle out on his surf board, scanning the ocean floor for the perfect shell.
Like many Americans Yvonne has good intentions tied up in helping this boy, but based on faulty information. When things go tragically awry, Yvonne is left to mourn once again.

The Lovers is a very unusual, haunting, spare novel. Things happen in this book that defy reality but, as a reader, I tended to just accept what Ms. Vida gave me, going with the flow. I don't normally do that. I usually talk to myself throughout a book saying "that wouldn't happen, that couldn't happen," but for some reason, the beauty of the author's prose forced me to suspend disbelief and succumb to the story.

Talk about suspending disbelief! I can't believe the wild book I just received from Library Journal for review. It appears to be a literary fantasy piece called Swamplandia and it takes place, you guessed it, in the Everglades. It doesn't appear at first glance to be anything like what I'd normally read, yet the author, Karen Russell, has accrued a daunting list of credits in her very young career so I will have to give it much credence. Eight days to read and review. Guess what I'll be doing this weekend?