Matilda

I love Roald Dahl. Love, love, love him. I’ve loved to read his books ever since I was a kid, and not just the standard Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I read everything of his that I could get my hands on when I was younger. However, since my book availability was limited to what was in the library at school and the public library downtown (you know, it’s hard to drive that buggy all the way to the bookstore in South Bend) I actually didn’t read that many of his books until recently. But, last year I found a great boxed set of his books that were all illustrated by Quentin Blake so I nabbed it. It is full of gems that I didn’t even know existed. I’m sure there’s many, many more books of his out there that I haven’t found yet, but, well, I’m too lazy to actually go find them. My reading habits are still rather dependent on what’s really within arm’s reach. And my horse gets tired when I take him on long trips down to Powell’s.

So anyway, I just read Matilda for the first time and it didn’t disappoint. The thing that makes Roald Dahl’s books so enjoyable is that he has a ridiculous and impossible imagination. He’s always putting normal people into fantastical situations- not fantastic worlds, but fantastic situations within our regular, every day world. When you read a Dahl book you always end up wishing that you were one of the characters in the book rather than stuck on the outside looking in. This book is exactly like that- it’s so engaging that it seems perfectly acceptable to the reader that a brilliant five-year-old discovers she has telekinesis and thus saves the lives of everyone around her. Why not, right? In fact, why not just go a step further? Since this five-year-old can do it, why not just believe I have telekinesis myself? I bet I can put those books away back on the shelf just be thinking on it real hard. I can scrub the upstairs bathroom from the couch downstairs just by concentrating a bit. Why, I can lift that glass right off the counter and put it into the dishwasher with my mind!

Yeah, as the books strewn all over my floor, the shower door covered with water spots, and the dishes hiding my kitchen countertops can bear witness to, I have no such powers. But it’s still fun to imagine I do, and that’s what makes this book so cool. I’m a grown woman (well, almost) projecting myself into a five-year-old’s world thanks to one of the world’s greatest storytellers. So if you haven’t already, go read the darn book. Or, if you’re too mature to read a kids’ book, go buy it and give it to some kid who isn’t so old and crusty that they can’t enjoy a good story.

Baker Towers

Well, here we go. A new year, a new snark-fest. I’ll try not to disappoint.

Except, disappoint I will, because… well… I got nothin. I mean, really, nothin. This book was okay. There wasn’t much to it. It was sort of interesting, sort of boring, and sort of…long.

I don’t actually know exactly how long it was. It was a couple weeks worth of walks with the dog, as I was listening to it on my iPod instead of reading it on the page. Usually I find listening to books quite stimulating while I’m walking. Often I’ll walk an extra round around the block just because I want to know what’s going to happen next. But this time… meh…

I’m not going to deny it was an okay story. The book documented a couple generations of lives in a coal mining town in Pennsylvania. The theme was predictable- tiny town, no place to work but the mines, everybody tries to get out, nobody really makes it, the mine (the heart of the town, blah, blah, blah) ends up keeping everybody together, but not in ways that are really all that positive. We’ve read this story a million times before, right? Right. Nothing new here.

So here’s the thing that I can’t figure out about authors. They write these long epic tales about these horrible little towns that everybody in their right mind would try to escape because they’re, well, horrible. So authors, my question is: if everybody in your books is trying to leave your rotten little town, what makes you think WE want to go there? Why do we really want to spend days, weeks, whatever, investing our time in all these people that just waste away? October Sky, I get. Good job, Homer, you made your mark. But this- hey, dad dropped dead of black lung and older son skipped out and married a leech and younger son gave up altogether and daughters alternately had to take care of the family remnants, went crazy, and became a nurse that took care of more old men dropping dead of black lung. Grandson became a Hell’s Angel and then married dad’s long-lost love’s daughter, and oh, did I forget to mention mom went blind because she ate too much sugar? I mean… it’s just sort of depressing.

So why did I read it? Well…nothing better to do. Authors may be too lazy to write an original book, but I’m too lazy to go to the library and try to fish out one.

2010... I did it, I really did.

So, I could have been all responsible and whatnot and blogged about all the books I read this year, too. But for some reason that started to sound more like a book report than a blog, and really, who wants to read all of my ramblings on other peoples’ writings? I think we all know the truth- my ranting (and/or raving, but mostly ranting) about what other people have written is nothing but an attempt on my part to disguise the fact that I am jealous as all get out that these people have discovered the secret of publishing their written word whilst I whittle my life away on a virtual farm and moan about the fact that I’ll never amount to anything.

Well, it’s true, sadly, but I’ve come to accept it: I probably never WILL amount to anything. While I will always be grateful for both the gifts and the talents that my Maker has bestowed upon me, I have come to realize that making my once-desired mark upon the world is indeed impossible. Gone are the fantasies of sold-out stadiums and Broadway theaters, no longer do I dream of replacing my paper-mache Pulitzer with the real thing, and I know now in my heart of hearts that I will never be the official Scrabblemaster of the World. (Thanks, Dawn, for cementing that last one for me. ;) ) It’s true, world, hold your screams of horror: I am mediocre. I have come to accept it. You should too.

However, just because I will never mean anything to the rest of the world doesn’t immediately lend itself to the fact that I am completely and utterly useless. You see, I still mean a great deal to myself and to the small circle that surrounds me. It’s possible that that circle includes only my husband (bound to me by law) and my dog (bound to me by his perpetually emptying food-dish), but by golly, that circle is my life and I mean to make the most of it. And as both my husband and my dog are a lot happier when I myself am happy (you’ve all heard the saying), therefore I must take it upon myself to engage in those activities which contribute most effectively to my own happiness. Henceforth- I shall continue to write my ridiculously unimportant but immensely satisfying (to me) thoughts about other people’s books. And those of you who are silly enough to continue clicking onto this blog will therefore subject yourselves to reading them. Lucky you! Whee!!

Make no mistake- I don’t fancy myself in any way a real critic, or someone whose opinion matters in the slightest. I just like to watch my thoughts take wordshape, and since I’m a pretty darn fast typist, this is a fun exercise for me. So keep reading if you like, but don’t be hatin’ on the hater… I’m just having fun. (However, I mean every word I say in this blog. It is up to you to decide whether or not those words drip with sarcasm. But if I’ve taken the time to craft a sarcastic comment, then I REALLY mean it, so either way…)

As for never making my mark upon the world… well, accepting mediocrity is a very liberating experience; I highly recommend it.

Here then, is a list of books that I read in 2010 but couldn’t be bothered to blog about. Doubtless I will visit a couple of these in future posts because they were just too good (or too bad) to not mention… but just because I feel the need for the blogosphere to know that I did (of course) accomplish my 52-in-52 challenge again, here’s my list:

1. Twilight
2. New Moon
3. Eclipse
4. Breaking Dawn

(Yes, that’s right, I started the year off with a vampire bang! Oh, we’ll be hearing about these later…)

5. The Color Purple (finally!)
6. How shall I tell the Dog (This one you HAVE to read, I won’t say any more about it)
7. O Pioneers! (Trying to cover some “classics”)
8. Ash Wednesday (a tasty little novel written by Ethan Hawke, I am a sucker for celebrity writers)
9. One Door Away From Heaven
10. Attack of the Theater People
11. Wake Up, Sir! (I have never read a more sarcastic book in my entire life. Every page begs you to roll your eyes, toss your head, stare daggers, and curl your lip in contempt. I loved it.)
12. Jane Eyre (now I get it…)
13. Heyday (this one’s coming up in a future blog. My, what a suckfest.)
14. jPod
15. Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Stone
16. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
17. Harry Potter and the Prizoner of Azkaban
18. HP/Goblet of Fire
19. HP/Order of the Phoenix
20. HP/Half-Blood Prince
21. HP/Deathly Hallows

(Yeah, I’ve read them all before, but it still counts! Reading again is just as valuable as reading for the first time! And I had to list them one by one so I have the number 52 at the end… I am very, very anal about reaching my goals. And at this point in the list we’re only into August, so I got a lot of reading to do…)

22. Charlotte’s Web
23. Holes
24. The Twits
25. Boy (Roald Dahl’s “memoir,” highly recommended.)
26. The Fantastic Mr. Fox
27. Nothing But a Smile
28. Now and Then
29. As Simple as Snow
30. One Door Away From Heaven
31. Skeletons at the Feast
32. James and the Giant Peach
33. Anna Karenina
34. Unveiled: Tamar
35. Unashamed: Rahab
36. Unshaken: Ruth
37. Unspoken: Bathsheba
38. Unafraid: Mary

(those were actually five books packed into one binding. It was quite thick.)

39. The Hobbit
40. Tipperary
41. Danny, the Champion of the World
42. George’s Marvelous Medicine
43. The BFG
44. The Hour I First Believed
45. Going Solo (another Roald Dahl memoir, I can barely believe he’s still alive)
46. The Bookwoman’s Last Fling
47. Buck Naked Faith
48. The Wizarding World of Harry Potter
49. Mary’s First Christmas
50. The Secret Garden
51. A Girl From Yamhill (still a sucker for this one)
52. My Own Two Feet (part two of Beverly Cleary’s memoir)

And there you have it! I made it to 52! Actually, I had to work really, really hard on that this year because I didn’t have nearly as much time to read as I normally do. Plus, I started reading a little bit more on my Kindle rather than on actual pages, and all the books I have on that device are free “classics” (read: giant huge books with thousands of pages) that take for-freakin-ever to get through. But all are on the list of the greats that every book lover should read, so in between revisiting all those Judy Blume quickies from the library that allow me to relive my adolescence in deliciously painful style, I fight my way through a Tolstoy or Shakespeare and call myself literate.

Currently I’m in the middle of the Lewis and Clark Diaries. The original ones. Spelling errors and all. So… it might be a while before I post the first finished book of 2011…

Last weeks in (non) review

Okay, who are we kidding? I’ve got a list of books stockpiled that I haven’t given my little book report on, and I think we all know there’s no way that I’m going to be able to write pages upon pages about each of them, not to mention that nobody really cares what I think of them anyway! This blog is more for me to rant just for the sake of hearing myself rant, right? Right. And so since I see that I have logged over 52 entries this year, that means I have accomplished my one book per week minimum quota. I know I read more than that because some of those entries were for multiple books, so let’s face it, we’ve confirmed: I’m a speed-reading genius. HA! Speed-skimming book whore is more like it, but hey… a spade by any other name is still a speed-reading book whore. I like myself. I can live with it!

So here is a list of books that I have recently devoured that I am not going to bother blogging in detail about. I’m saving four or five that I found something interesting to talk about, so perhaps we’ll see those entries in the new year. But for now, here’s what I’ve been spending my literary time on:

Bud, Not Buddy- a Newbery winner, very well-written and with major historically accurate gems hidden in the subtext

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory- not a Newbery winner, still well-written, and with major scientifically accurate gems hidden in the subtext

Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator- not even a winner, not really well-written, and with absolutely no historically, scientifically, or even interestingly accurate gems hidden in the subtext. In fact, nothing hidden in the subtext at all… just one stupid pun after another. Whew, that one is always hard to make it through.

Your Heart Belongs to Me- interesting, but not interesting enough for me to completely buy into it. More on this particular author later. Much, much more. Patience, grasshopper.

1776- Ridiculously interesting. However, also ridiculously annoying. I realize that 1776 was a pivotal year in the Revolutionary War, but would it have killed you to actually TELL US HOW IT ENDED? I mean, I know we're not all pausing every afternoon for tea and crumpets. If we don't know how the darn thing ended we're idiots. But still, just because it happened to be December 31 doesn't mean the action stopped. 1777 was sort of important, too... just a thought. Oh, and this author could not have a more monotonous, boring, painfully dry voice. Sheesh. (This was a book on CD.)

Thirteen Moons- I… can’t… even… talk… about… this… one…

Some William Faulkner collection of short stories. Now I know what Flowers for Emily was all about, and can I just say… disturbing?

And that’s my end of year I’m-too-lazy-to-write-about-them list. Aren’t you glad you stopped by? Now I give you fair warning, the next few weeks are going to be ridiculously full of reading but ridiculously short on blogging because I will be busy attempting to detach my face from my new Kindle! (This is what happens when you’re married to a geek- in order to appreciate literature you must appreciate it through some gadget, thus enabling us to have conversations about the UI rather than the subtext. Ah, whatever brings us closer together…)

The Tale of Hawthorne House

This book is seriously cute. It’s part of a series from Susan Wittig Albert, who writes mystery novels for women. I’m not sure what those particular novels entail, as I’ve never read one. I’m very anal when it comes to series (this is all-inclusive to all forms of media and entertainment) and I have this inability to read or watch anything that belongs to a series out of order. And since the very first ever China Bayles mystery has never been in the library when I was there, I’ve never read any of them. But we can talk about my ridiculous anal tendencies later, how about.

This series, The Cottage Tales of Beatrix Potter, is fairly new so I snatch them off those freebie shelves every time I see a new one. It combines mystery and historical fiction. It’s about Beatrix Potter when she was unmarried and writing all of her “little books.” (If you don’t know who Beatrix Potter is, I recommend you stop reading now. The remainder of what I have to say will be completely useless to you.) Beatrix has bought a farm in the English countryside and loves her independent life, the villagers, and the animals that surround her. Every once in a while a handy little mystery arrives in the village for “that Potter woman” to solve.

The reason these books are so fun is that they are written in the style that Beatrix Potter wrote her own books, just with more pages and thicker plot lines. There’s two major ways the author does this: first, she continues to refer back to the reader with secret little winks and nods, making us a co-conspirator in the whole thing. We are nearly omniscient because we see the whole mysterious incident occur from the beginning. To be kind, she saves a teeny little plot twist for the very end just to surprise us. It’s always completely out of the blue, which is nice for those of us who don’t like mysteries because we always figure them out by the end.

The other (and most awesome) way Albert mimics Potter is by including the animals in on the fun. The animals in the village are (of course) the only ones who really know what’s going on, and we listen to their conversations with each other. There’s almost always a secondary mystery going on that is only about the animals, and is most often an elaboration on one of Beatrix’s stories, as in, the “true” story of Jemima Puddle-duck. It’s hilarious, hokey, and adorable.

Reading these books is like watching one of those PG Disney movies. You know what I’m talking about- the kind that stars Tim Allen or John Travolta, doesn’t necessarily have that interesting of a plot, but the few one-liners and funny situations make it enjoyable enough to watch. That’s what I call these Cottage Tales- they are an interesting and funny way to entertain yourself for a while. When you’re done, you’re very glad you’ve spend your time on them. They are, however, much more brainy than those lame Disney movies. The author captured Potter’s literary nuances perfectly and really did her research into her life. Many of the characters are real people who interacted with Beatrix in her younger days, whose attitudes and influences are taken directly from her journals. All in all, totally enjoyable. So next time your family is watching the annoying Disney flick where Danny DeVito gets attacked by porcupines, if you want to feel intellectually superior just read through this book instead. You’ll probably enjoy it.

Esio Trot

This is the next out of the Roald Dahl boxed set that I picked up at Costco… there’s not too much to say. It was adorable and cute and predictable and hilarious and I loved it. Awful darn cute, but very short, so my blog is going to represent that. Go out and read it, it’s fun. It will take you ten minutes. You will feel warm and fuzzy. Warm. Fuzzy. Read it.

The Magic Finger

You know, the more nasty I feel, the more I read. And the more nasty I feel, the less I feel like writing. Oy, I’m having a bad month. I caught some annoying cold again. It’s been a few weeks and it just won’t go away. I’m sick of it. Sick of sick. So there’s a really good chance this very short, very boring blog will be followed by about twelve more really short really boring blogs, all because I’m grumpy and sick. And MarioKart is waiting. But for some reason, I have this weird compulsion to keep logging these silly books… as though anybody cares! It’s like I’m back in elementary school and if I don’t do my book report I might get in trouble and the teacher will tell my mom and I’ll get in bigger trouble and the kids will make fun of me on the playground because for some reason they loved nothing more than to run by me and yell, “Jocelyn missed one on her homework!!!” when I got a less than perfect score, which was really mean because it’s not like I could help that I kept getting perfect scores on everything, it just happened because I seemed to know everything without trying and they didn’t know how to add or spell properly yet and they were just jealous but of course when I was nine I didn’t understand that they were just jealous but figured everybody hated me (which they did) and they thought that I sucked up to the teachers (which I didn’t) and that they only gave me good grades because my mom worked at the school (which definitely wasn’t true but I was afraid might be true) and so all their meanness and teasing and picking on me just made me hate myself and my stupid brain (which apparently was smarter than all the trailer park dunderheads I went to school with) when all I wanted to do was hurry up and graduate so I could be a vet until I figured out that you had to dissect cats in veterinary school and then I just wanted to be a lazy bum, which I am now, so I guess my annoying giant brain served me well and the dunderheads are now doctors treating poor innocent Amish in substandard Midwestern medical centers. Pant, pant.

Okay, that was just an attempt to win the longest sentence contest, let me know how I did. (You know who you are.)

Okay, so anyway, after that rampage, I’ll tell ya about one of the books I read. Um, it was called The Magic Finger. It was adorable. It’s a kids’ book, since I recently came across a gem of a collection at Costco- 14 Roald Dahl books packaged all prettily together and illustrated by Quentin Blake. I have always loved Roald Dahl books, both the crazy and the merely quirky. (Danny, the Champion of the World has always been on my all-time favorite list.) Anyway, The Magic Finger was really funny. It’s one of those books where you never learn the name of the narrator. And absolutely nothing happens to the narrator the entire time. She tells the story of her next-door neighbors, who love to hunt. But they make her mad, so she accidentally shoots her “magic finger” at them and all sorts of mayhem ensues. It’s one of the silliest books I’ve ever read, but I read it in 20 minutes whilst enjoying my Costco ice cream and it made my day completely delightful. The book’s great, read it, and be happy.

And I’m still grumpy, so I’m pretty much done here. Bye-bye-bye.