A Random Self-Help Title

I read a self-help book, but I don't feel like telling everybody what I wanted help with. So I'm just logging it here... there, I read it.

It didn't help.

The Help

So I finally broke down and read The Help. Everyone was doing it. How could I not? I’ve always been desperate to fit in with everyone, so this just seemed inevitable. (My pathetic-ness is even worse when you find out that the only reason I read it was because I got wind of an upcoming chick-movie outing that I wanted to be a part of, so I had to hurry up and read it so the movie didn’t ruin the book for me.)

Anyway, so what did I think? Not bad. Pretty good. Actually, I thoroughly enjoyed the book. I started reading with a purpose (get it done as quickly as possible so I can go see the movie) and ended with a much more enjoyable purpose (get to the end as quickly as possible because I want to know what happens, darn it!). I thought it was well thought-out and the voices of the three narrators were realistic and clear. It was especially impressive as a debut novel from an unknown author. I was impressed by the Stockett's creativity (although there are rumors that some of her episodes were “borrowed” from real-life incidents) and was impressed by her willingness to beat her characters up a little bit.

It gets tiresome to read the same story of the heroine over and over again- you know, the one who tries, tries, tries, only does the right thing, but the world just keeps screwing her over and just when she thinks she’s as far down as she can get the clouds open and boom! Happily ever after. This story isn’t like that. The characters are a part of the action rather than merely being affected by it. What I liked most about them is that even though they were likable and crusading to do a good thing, they were each nice and flawed. They did good things, they did bad things. They were strong, they buckled under pressure. They were brave, they were chicken. You get it. Really, it’s not hard to get.

And there’s the rub. Really, it’s not that hard to get. Because what we have here is a story- a very good one, don’t get me wrong- about racial relations in the 60s in the south. Stories of which, point of fact, we have many. So I’m going to just be a complete snob here and say that I honestly didn’t think it was that groundbreaking of a book. Sorry, reviewers and ladies and socialites and maids- but really, did we honestly learn anything that new here? I don’t think so. We learned that some rich white ladies in the 60s were small-minded, manipulative witches. Oh, wait, we knew that. Okay, so we learned that some rich white ladies in the 60s were actually human and treated everyone they met with a standard degree of respect. Oh, wait, we knew that too. Okay, so we learned that some black ladies that worked as maids got pushed around, some were treated like queens, some actually ruled the roost at the house they worked at, some did indeed rip off their rich white employers, and some were falsely accused of doing such a thing. Oh. Wait. We knew that. Bottom line is, we know that the south was racially charged back in the 60s. (Truthfully, it still is, but of course nothing like it was back around the beginning of the civil rights movement.) This book- let’s be honest here- didn’t really shed any new light on an admittedly ugly subject.

There’s been a lot of talk about this book: “It’ll change your life…”, “You’ll never see a housekeeper the same way again…”, “It’s just as controversial as To Kill a Mockingbird was…” Come on. None of that’s true. If it changes your life, you were living in a bubble. If you never look at a housekeeper the same way again, you were definitely looking at housekeepers in the wrong way to begin with. And comparing this book to To Kill a Mockingbird? Nonsense. Harper Lee probably wrote To Kill a Mockingbird just so that books like this would eventually be commonplace on our shelves. It was written back in 1960, when most people had never even heard of Martin Luther King, Jr. and black skin was considered diseased by the most enlightened of society. It was bold, daring, and made a huge impact on society and literature that we still compare other works to today. And then…The Help hit the shelves fifty years later. Wow, way to stir things up. Really. If we haven’t heard and learned from the tales of the civil rights movement by now, fifty years later, well, there’s just no hope for us. We didn’t need another story to teach us a valuable lesson. History should have already done that.

So, groundbreaking? Meh. “Most important piece of fiction since To Kill a Mockingbird?” Hay-all no. But a great book? Definitely! Really! It was a great book! I highly recommend it! Just… don’t go casting your votes for the Pulitzer just yet. I’m sure we’ve got another story about holocaust survivors on the way that should take that impact-on-society award hands down…

Where the Red Fern Grows

I’m not sure what it is about certain books that makes me keep going back to read them over and over, but this book is one of those. I first met this book back in elementary school when at some point a teacher read it aloud and then showed us the movie. I’m not really sure why people thought this was a good book for kids considering all the blood, gore, and violence, but whatever- I liked it. Loved it, in fact, and read and re-read it over and over again despite the ending which, to this day, will still get me a little choked up and make me go hug my dog.

In fact, I pretty much have to read the whole book cuddled up next to Old Dog (who turns 13 this week) because the main character’s relationship with his dogs is just as dysfunctional as mine. Billy is one of those people who has an unnatural symbiotic attachment to his canine friends, as do I, so now I relate even more to the story than I did when I was a kid. Just a boy and his dogs, making their way through the big bad woods of the Ozarks… ah, poetic. And then there’s me- just a girl and her dog, making their way through the big bad wilderness of the Pacific Northwest… ok, there’s nothing poetic about my life or about my unhealthy attachment to my dog, but still- those of us who are dog lovers love books like this. The boy is telling us the story, but the heroes are the dogs and we all know it. First the dogs teach him how to be a (miniature) adult- he is only 12 after all, then they give him something to live for, and then when they will get in the way of the better life they’ve helped create for him they do the hero’s thing and step aside for the greater good. Wow, what a story. You can almost hear the inspirational music.

But it’s a book, so no music- but luckily we have an even more epic indicator of our heroes’ awesomeness: the striking visual of a red fern. Ah, there it is, the payoff we’ve been waiting for. Was it all for naught? Will their struggle, suffering, and perseverance pay off? Will it be worth it in the end? Of course it will. Here’s a plant for your trouble. Makes it all good, right?

I should probably be poking fun at this, but I just can’t. This was one of those definitive childhood books for me, so I’m not going to mess with its memory by picking apart the goofiness of it all. It’s a kids’ book, after all, so let’s give it some license. I better just stop and say, if you haven’t read this book, you probably should. It’s no Nobel winner or anything, but you’ll like it. If you don’t, I’m guessing you probably just have no soul. So read, enjoy, and go hug your dog.

Library Cat-a-Log

Don’t worry, I don’t always pour buckets of self-righteous complaints upon the books that I read. Sometimes I even enjoy the books that I read. (I’ll write about those, too, I have a couple in the queue that I can’t wait to talk about.) This book, however, is NOT one of those lucky few that makes my awesome list. In fact, I’ll just tell you right now: I have nothing nice to say about this book at all, I’m about to rip it to shreds, there will be spoilers, there will be smug self-assured criticism, and if I have my way, there will be blood. Ok, probably not blood. But you’ve heard the term bleed onto the page? Well, this author did not bleed onto the page. But I did. While reading it. It was so bad my eyes literally bled. Right on the page. That’s right. I said literally.

There are many reasons I hated the book. I can’t share them all, because I believe this is a storage-restricted blog. But I will sum up my loathing for these pages in one simple, always-true concept: Just because you can does NOT mean you should.

Period.

That’s it. Anybody, yes, ANYBODY can write a book. All you have to do is put enough words in order to create a length that can be considered a novel. But just because you know how to string a sentence together does not give you the right to stir up some tripe with a side of nonsense, self-publish it, and wave it in front of my face under the guise of an actual literary achievement.

Now, don’t get me wrong here- I’m all for creativity among the masses. I know and enjoy reading many, many an amateur writer who can create short stories, novellas, and novels that are both spellbinding and worth reading. (They are also, incidentally, punctuated.) Heck, I myself celebrate the NaNos and threw in my 50,000 words with the best of ‘em. I have a T-shirt that loudly proclaims my status as novelist, woo hoo! But know why you don’t see my book on the shelves? ‘Cause it sucks. That’s right, sucks. I know suck when I see it, and that bit of nonsense that I babbled onto the page wasn’t even worthy of finishing, so I didn’t. See what I did there? That’s called discernment. It is the act of exhibiting good judgment. I had it. It’s something that every professional anything should really attempt to use in their day to day activities.

So. Just because you have the ability to write a novel does not mean that you should. But even if you do go ahead and write something that you arrogantly believe to be an amazing novel, well, you still have to get it published. And if you get rejected by five publishing houses, perhaps you should, I don’t know, consider the fact that your book may not be the literary treasure that you think it is? And if you are doing all that waiting for your rejection letters, perhaps you should, I don’t know, spend your time editing your piece of junk, er, literary treasure? Heck, screw the editing, maybe you should just proofread it, eh?

Here’s a side bit: when I was a kid I used to notice typos in the books that I read. (Okay, maybe “notice” is a little too light of a word, I actually sat there with a magnifying glass and a notebook to document all the errors I found in the final printings.) I found an average of one typo per book, which I considered to be an excellent ratio. After all, I type documents that are only 20-30 pages, and I’m certain that I myself have never caught every single typo in my work. Typo per book? Perfectly acceptable.

Back to it: therefore, the first typo in this book didn’t faze me all that much. Nor did the second. After all, after about 47 references in the first 20 pages to downtown Portland, it was clear I was reading a self-published book from a local author that was being supported by the local library, which is where I picked up this gem. After the 117^th typo, however, I stopped keeping track. Yes, I was keeping track. I started making tick marks after the 10^th or 11^th because I was so blown away by how bad these things were. I’m not just talking about a random capitalization here or a semicolon instead of a colon. Those are annoying, yes, but not nearly as confusing as, say, quotation marks around entire paragraphs that weren’t actually speeches- or quotation marks that started in the middle of a sentence. (Yes, both of those happened.) Or perhaps dialogue between two people that isn’t broken into paragraphs or sentences or makes any use of quotation or punctuation marks whatsoever. (See how confusing that not-a-real sentence was to read? Imagine a whole book like that.) Or my favorite how-the-heck-did-they-miss-this-in-the-read-through moment: seven, count ‘em, seven pages of reversing italics with standard font. How does one confuse those, you ask? Well, see, it’s simple. When the cat is communicating telepathically, his voice is in italics. When there is regular dialogue or narrative, we’re back to standard font. Except when you haven’t PROOFREAD your BOOK and you REVERSE this, so the reader spends SEVEN PAGES trying to figure out why “she walked down the hall, waiting for Milo to follow her” is in super-mysterious italics. Not annoying AT ALL. Perhaps you notice my frustration? Good. I’m trying to communicate emotion in print.

So, to write a novel you should probably first at least consider your grasp on the English language. If you don’t know the difference between a comma and a period, go back to elementary school and learn why Yoda didn’t understand the basics of SVO.

Second, perhaps you should consider your story. Caught that up above, eh, about the cat communicating telepathically? Yeah. I can see how that might actually be a good story. But, you know, if the cat communicates telepathically, maybe you should make that the story. Maybe you should forget about the weird guy that we’ve never heard about in the first 170 pages who kidnaps someone on page 171 and then just disappears when kidnappee wakes up a page later no worse for wear. Or maybe you could do without the mysterious meanie who is a dog-lover and the worst red herring ever. You definitely need the alien race, of course, because someone (here, kitty, kitty) has got to communicate with them, but you could skip the page-long description of the mysterious ceremonial circle on their floor (since you never bothered to explain what it was) and also the strange love affair that Mr. Cat seems to be having with his human- really, no one needs that mental picture. To sum up- maybe trim the fat just a tad.

Third. This is important. Very important. To write a novel, it is highly recommended that you have just the teensiest bit of follow-through. Don’t just slap your story down, bind it up, pick a UPC, and call it a day. For goodness sake, author- take some pride in your work!! Proofread! Edit! Get feedback! Yes, have someone else (not just your mom) read this thing!! Then go back and hack according to their directions! And then go back and hack again just because you probably should!! Seriously! Do not make it crystal clear to your reader that you were so excited by the action in a particular scene that you never bothered to a. spell check, b. grammar check, c. proofread, and d. pick a bloody font and stick with it. Really. These are basics. You would never turn in a paper without going through the necessary end-check and expect to get a good grade. What kind of grade would you expect from this giant work that hasn’t even been looked through? Don’t waste your novel debut on this. Please. You end up looking foolish. You lose all your credibility. Bloggers whine about you.

Yes, you. I am addressing this entire entry to one person: You, A. P. Adams. You, who are probably very capable of writing a good book, but just didn’t take the time to do it. You, who bound up this crazy book without even reading it from front to back yourself. You, who wasted so much of your time self-publishing something that might have had a chance, but you were too lazy to give it one. You, A. P. Adams, you must do better!!

I fear these pleas are falling on deaf ears. I’ve just spent a few minutes researching this author’s website, FB, etc…whoops. If the misspellings and inability to punctuate on all those sites indicate anything about Ms. Author’s competence, well, I guess the book probably was proofread. Just not very well. And I’m pleased to see that Ms. Author is now to become Ms. Filmmaker- congratulations on deciding to venture into the realm of amateur film making! I’m pretty sure your plan to make your own movie brings me right back to where I started: just because you can make a film does not mean you should.

I’m sure there are a few (Ms. Author probably included) who are right now saying to yourself, well, just because you can blog, Ms. High Horse, does not mean you should.

I agree. And to that I answer: Just because you can read my blog does not mean you should.

Say You're One Of Them

I know better than to read anything off of Oprah’s booklist. I really do. And yet… there was this nice innocent looking book on the shelf… it was in the As and I hadn’t read it yet… it was a collection of short stories… and that’s what did it. I’m a sucker for short story collections. I don’t know why. I mean, short stories aren’t any better than long stories. In fact, they’re usually a whole lot lamer because authors consider it a lost genre so they cram as much “artistry” into as few words as possible- generally we’re treated to at least 20 pages with no dialogue and a staggeringly obvious political statement at least once per collection- but I still like them. Maybe it’s because I have a really short attention span, which is just another way of saying that I’m too lazy to commit to reading an entire book in one sitting. Take now, for example: I am currently in the middle of reading eight, count ‘em, eight separate books and- hey, why not?- one magazine. I’ve got a book out on the bathroom counter for reading while I get ready in the morning, one by my bedside table for reading before I go to sleep, one in the car to read when I go buy myself an ice cream treat and have to eat it before I get home and it melts (and I have to entertain myself while I’m eating), one in my purse just in case I get “stuck” somewhere without a book (and yes, I realize that the car book and the purse book really could double up), one loaded onto my phone to read in case I ever get stuck somewhere without either my purse book or my car book, one loaded onto my iPod for listening/reading while I’m out hiking or walking or just cleaning the house, a nice little self-help book for reading about something that I need help with (which only gets me annoyed because I don’t find it helpful so I put it back down), and one that I’m reading along with a group of people from church (although they don’t know I’m reading along with them because that would invite conversation about said book, which would only reveal that I’m not keeping up with them because I’m too scatter-brained to do the required reading every day). So yeah, I guess you could say that the finer points of a novel might get lost on me considering I’m bouncing from finer point to finer point at any given time of the day.

It’s possible I digress.

So anyway, I fell a sucker to the short story and took this book home from the library despite Oprah’s endorsement. Sigh. I know better. Hated it. Hated it with the passion of a thousand boy dogs deprived of fire hydrants in their neighborhoods hated it. It was ridiculously awful.

I’m sure on many levels it was a good book… just not on any of mine. And so I find myself unable to withhold the negative thoughts that I so strongly hold in my heart about this depressingly horrific piece of literature.

Here we have a few short stories, all told from the eyes of children, all based in different countries in Africa. Okay, I get it. There are bad things happening in Africa, things that our spoiled and over-privileged little American minds can’t even begin to comprehend. The world would be a better place if we were all aware of these atrocities and set about finding a way to stop the madness. What a marvelous sentiment.

Here’s the thing though: I have a spoiled and over-privileged American mind. Now, I recognize that this is a flaw in me. I should be outgoing and generous and willing to give of myself every second of every day in order to benefit those in need. I should forego my ice cream treat with novel entertainment and travel to Nigeria to stop the child trafficking instead. But I don’t! Because I can’t! And not only that, because I don’t want to! That’s right! I! Don’t! Want! To!

I recognize the fact that I am naught but a miniature human being in the grand scheme of things. I personally am unable to do anything to affect the child trafficking in Nigeria in any way, shape, or form. I will not be taking on the drug lords that ravage the streets of Rwanda because, well, that would be dumb. Instead of trying to make huge waves in a world that is too big for me, I recognize the fact that I am limited in my capabilities and choose instead to put my best helps out into my own little circle of influence. You know, I support a missionary here, bag the pregnant lady’s groceries there, support a friend going through a hard time here, buy the hard-pressed-for-cash stranger’s meal there. I do what I can when I can.

Is that so wrong? Am I just completely lazy because I have no Worldwide Social Cause? I really don’t think it’s THAT bad… and if it is, the last time I want to be told about it is when I’m trying to relax and read a book! C’mon, people, even God rested on the seventh day! Shouldn’t I be able to take a few minutes to lose myself in something restful- a nice little story about mermaids or bunnies or teenagers going to prom- in order to refresh my mind for the next day’s hard work? What’s the big idea, sneaking stories about Hutus and Tutsis and genocide into my happy reading time?

Call me ignorant, call me lazy, call me oblivious, call me whatever the heck you want. Just don’t call me when I’m reading. That’s when I’m allowed to be ignorant, lazy, and oblivious. Welcome to the American dream.

I Feel Bad About My Neck

Okay, so a few posts ago I made a comment that authors should never read their own audio books. Now it's time for me to eat my words. Authors are allowed to read their own audio books if the author is also a stand-up comedian. (Do not confuse that with the idea that all stand-up comedians are allowed to write their own books. One of these things does not equal the other. Trust me.) But my point is, if the author has some pre-recognized performing ability, well, I can stand listening to that. And this book was funny! Nora Ephron is funny! Hallelujah! Something funny! Finally! Enjoyment of the written word!

Darn it. The spoken word.

Close enough.

Bottom line, Nora Ephron is pretty funny. I may not like her politics, but she tells funny stories. However, I feel that to share these funny stories would be sort of like giving the magician's secrets away- if you know going into the show how the lady is sawn in half, then you're pretty much bored the whole way through.

So I'm not going to spoil the secrets. I'll say that you're going to read a bunch of funny stories about everything from the Kennedys to Kelly bags and turtlenecks to terminal illness and you'll probably enjoy most of them. Well, the one about her love affair with Bill Clinton is a little less than amusing, but that's just because I was bored with the White House stuff by that time.

So, this has nothing to do with the book, but my dog has been barking behind me for the past five minutes and not only is the noise maddening, but his doggie bark-breath is filling up the room with an intolerable stench. Yeah, so I'm going to go see who was at the door and end this entry. But the book was pretty fun. I recommend. And for the first time, I think I can comfortably say it's probably better to listen to this one than to read it.

Dog, be QUIET!!! Oy.

Raven Summer

David Almond is an interesting writer. Since his last name begins with A I am acquainted with quite a few of his novels. (That’s right, I just keep reading.) Anyway, he writes these young adult novels that always have a small element of the fantastic in them- a fallen angel, a magic cave, or in this case, an abandoned baby. True, there isn’t anything that other-worldly about a baby lying around in a park, but the way everybody in the book acted, there was. This brings me to my only real problem with the book. It’s a good story and all, save the baby, boys grow up, yada yada yada, whatever. But these pre-teens are kids that are filled with such angst and drama that I just can’t really buy into anything that happens.

It’s probably just because I can’t relate to them. Apparently I had this carefree easy childhood and I just didn’t need to behave or speak or think the way these kids do. I mean, I don’t remember ever playing war games that escalated into somebody actually trying to kill one of the players. Sure, I remember playing war games; everybody did that. But we didn’t use real knives, and we didn’t end up stabbing each other. If somebody got a scratch from one of our sticks-that-was-a-fake-knife, it certainly wasn’t because our little pre-adolescent brains took a moment to process the complexities of whether or not actually killing our friend was a good idea. And we definitely didn’t do it with this really artful, multi-syllabic language that belongs in some enigmatic Oscar contender that no one understands.

My real question is: are kids really like this now? Do they wander around poetically designing in their own heads their own individual meaning of life? Do they find the skies so glamorous that they have to consider each cloud and what it might be speaking to them? Do they look at a tree and see a gallows, or imagine the butterflies woven together in a net that flutteringly smothers their enemies? Do they even have enemies?

Wait, I had enemies. There were bullies and such, sure, but I didn’t lay awake at night dreaming up new and creative ways to kill them. I was a kid! I just wanted them to quit making fun of my big nose! The most creative way I had of dealing with my “enemies” was learning what corner of the playground they hung out in and staying on the other side.

Don’t kids like bikes and dolls and video games and books anymore? I mean, really. How old am I that these silly John Hughes wannabes are so much older than I am? Because that’s how I feel when I read young adult books these days… there’s no kids anymore. There’s just a bunch of old souls wandering around in awkward bodies.

Rescuing babies.

And then murdering the bullies.

And then escaping to Nigeria.

Nigeria? I’m lost. This is crazy. Somebody bring me my Ramona, I need a break.

Five Skies

I hear, this is a good book. At least, reviews say it is, so it must be, because they say so. The problem is, I didn’t read this book, but listened to its recording instead. So what happens is, when an author reads his own book, it sounds really terrible. That’s because, an author is good at writing, and not so much at reading. So they have this terrible habit of reading, just a few words at a time, in order to make it very slow and clear, and easy to understand. What they don’t get is, when they pause, they just make our brains pause, and when they pick up in the middle of, the same phrase, we shake our head trying to figure out, what it was they said, and we miss most of the sentence.

Therefore, it is very difficult, to listen to an audio book, that is read by the author. It is sort of like reading paragraphs, that have commas stuck throughout the sentences, in weird and awkward places. Authors, take note. Leave the reading to the actors, and take the time you save, to write us something intelligible.

The Room and the Chair

To recap, when I want books from the library, I don’t go in search of a book. I go to the adult shelves, the young adult shelves, and the children’s shelves, start at A, and take home the first two or three books on each shelf that I haven’t read yet. I use pretty much no discernment except that I skip major fantasy in the adult section (because I find it forced and usually full of underlying moral “lessons”) and I’ve had enough of that one author who is just TERRIBLE (whose name I’m not going to mention because I think that might be mean and we all know I don’t want to be mean).

Well, I’ve given it a few tries, but I have officially knocked one more genre off my list of what I will read, and we have this book to thank for it. So: no more contemporary political/mystery/subtle-statement "thrillers". I thought perhaps I might eventually warm up to these newspapermen, army bigwigs, political underlings, and statesmen’s wives if I read enough of these books.

Nope. Sorry. Just couldn’t do it. Bored silly. Ain’t happening again.

Call me lazy, but if I just don’t care that much about politics in real life (hey, I research candidates, I vote, and I consider my part done) then why would I want to flood my imaginative life with them? I wouldn’t! These people bore and annoy and frustrate me on a daily basis. They flood the news and semi-intellectual conversations all around me. I don’t like it in my daily dealings and I don’t like them getting in the way of my reading enjoyment. So enough! No more politics in books! I’m not listening to their subliminal messages anyway! Bring me a nice unicorn and a clever caper by a kid named Zach, because that’s all I want when I read! Entertaaaaaaaaaaain me!!

Oh, so about this book (yeah, I forgot)- it’s one of those that has about ten major characters and the scene cuts from character to character to follow their part of the unfolding story. I didn’t really like any of the characters and I certainly didn’t care about the unfolding story (secrets in DC, of course), so I just kept skipping around to the parts that were following the only character I found interesting, which was the opening USAF pilot who ended up in a tree. That was sort of interesting. Then one of her friends died when they all went AWOL for sledding in Afghanistan or something like that… semi-interesting… and then I’m pretty sure she ended up dying. In this room. With a chair.

Not sure. Didn’t care.

Heyday

So here’s the thing about this book. I have no idea what it was about. Wait, I remember what it was about. It was about something… something… uh, think it was early America or something like that, maybe these people were early Americans, or maybe they came from Europe, possibly Americans in Europe who came back to America, I really can’t remember. It’s, oh, wait, it was gold rush time! I remember that. They wanted gold. I think they panned for it. No, they dug for it. No, they panned. They definitely panned. Yeah, that’s it. I’m sure of that. And they made their own little community, some sort of Utopia-commune-thing, but that was after mostly everybody died. And then I think everybody else died. Maybe not the last person. Uh, somebody had to live, right… somebody was telling the story… no, that was just an omniscient narrator, never mind. Everybody died.

So just to clarify, I hated this book. It was ridiculous. It was silly. It was stupid. I will give the author kudos for one thing, however. He really did his research on the time period. He definitely knew who all the major players at the time were. In fact, he knew them so well that he made sure his main characters ran into each and every one of them. Never (since Forrest Gump) have I met an entire cast of characters that was so lucky as to run into every famous contemporary on the globe. (And just for the record, Forrest Gump did it better.) Don’t believe me? Here’s a short and incomplete list of mid-century celebrities that our heroes (who all die, I don’t even feel guilty about spoiling that) encounter:

1. Charles Darwin (who apparently suffers from a severe case of indifferent flatulence)
2. Mr. Proctor (of Proctor and Gamble fame)
3. Cassius Clay (the first one)
4. Robert E. Lee (20 years before the war)
5. Stephen Foster (who conveniently hears them mention something about coming around the mountain)
6. John Deere (really?)
7. Noah Donner (a convenient survivor)
8. Joseph Smith
9. John Jacob Astor (thought he drowned)
10. William Tecumseh Sherman (I repeat… really?)
11. Prince Albert (sigh)
12. Brigham Young
13. Edgar Allen Poe (who initialized the Big Bang theory, did you know?)
14. Kit Carson
15. Allan Pinkerton
16. Horace Greely
17. John Charles Fremont
18. Abraham Lincoln (yep, just hanging out in a bar)
19. William Herndon (sharing a drink)
20. Charles Dickens
21. Walt Whitman
22. Alexis D. Toqueville
23. James Sheridan Knowles (look him up)

…And that’s all I can remember off the top of my head, and let’s all remember one thing: I have a very bad memory. So my hat’s off to the author. Congratulations on elevating your ridiculous, time-wasting story into a completely unbelievable piece of tripe. I look forward to ignoring your next literary installment. But not really.

The Accidental Adventures of India McAllister

This book came from one of my library-dash-to-all-the-shelves-and-grab-the-first-book-I-see trips. It's a kids' book that was sort of fun to read, but it surprised me a little bit. See, I grew up reading about Peter Rabbit and Ramona Quimby, who taught me such essentials as not to steal from my neighbor's farm and that toothpaste should remain in the tube until I'm ready to use it. This book was a little different. It introduced us to India (who was named after the ink, not the country, by her bohemian artist mother) and her (as we would call it in the Midwest) non-traditional family and lifestyle. So we've got the artsy mom (who leaves India to fend for herself when she's in the middle of a painting jag), the long-distance dad (whose new boyfriend makes India a little uncomfortable because of his Swedish accent), the boy who's her best friend (Ramona never got jealous when her friend Howie played with other girls) and the myriad of schoolmates and neighbors that make up her topsy-turvy life. Aw, that's sweet.

Hey, whatever, it was cute. It was just quite a far cry from the books I read when I was a kid where the most dramatic thing that happened was the kids got caught out in the rain while playing with their tin-can stilts- so it was sort of sad for me to realize just how far behind the times I really am. God save my poor children if I ever have any- they'll be stuck reading things like The Babysitters Club and Sleepover Friends and will miss out completely on all the enlightened books they could be checking out that would help them understand this new world we live in...

The Gift

One of my favorite “Chick Lit” authors is Cecelia Ahern. I read Chick Lit semi often just because I can blast through those pages like lightning and it’s a fabulous escape. It’s sort of like watching a sitcom on TV- just a distraction from the real world purely for the sake of being entertained. As long as there’s something more than just shoes, shopping, and sex in the plot of a girlie book, I usually enjoy it. Of course, finding quickie reads in the Chick Lit section that contain more plot elements than just shoes, shopping, and sex is pretty difficult since for some reason female authors think those three things all by themselves make up a riveting story… and I digress.

So enter Cecelia Ahern, because when it comes to Chick Lit, she’s pretty fresh. She writes very creative stories. Her characters are well thought out and believable. I haven’t yet found a *ahem* love scene that lasts more than a paragraph. Plus, she’s a very young woman and that tickles me a bit, because I’m sure that half of the things she writes about she hasn’t even come close to experiencing in her so-far short life. Her first novel was about a woman who had been married for 15 (ish? I can’t remember how long) years, had just lost her husband, and was probably one of the most believable characters I’ve ever read in a chick book. Watching this young author develop that character was sort of the equivalent to watching 16-year-old LeeAnn Rimes sing “How Can I Live Without You”… only Ahern actually pulled that character off and was a LOT less annoying. And I digress again.

So! I just finished The Gift, a book I got from the library because all the Christmas readers had finally returned it. Yep, it’s a Christmas book. Yep, it’s chickie. Yep, it’s got a moral. Yep, it’s basically It’s a Wonderful Life meets Tuesdays With Morrie meets Eat Pray Love. Yep, we’re supposed to read it around Christmas time so that we remember what we have, understand the true gifts of both the season and life, change our way of thinking, become all around better people, blah, blah, blaaaaahhhhh… Yep, it was still an entertaining book and whadevah, it was a good time-killer. This one is not going to win a Pulitzer, but every author (apparently) has to write themselves a nice little seasonal lesson-learner, so I’ll give Ahern hers. As long as she goes back to writing the usual distracting non-moral-preaching stuff soon. Please. More story. Less preaching. (And yes, Cecelia… I did know exactly how it was going to end within the first ten pages, but you did mean for that to happen, yes? This wasn’t exactly Hercule Poirot…)

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…