What I’m Reading

I’m doing a shitty job of hitting my goal of writing weekly blog posts. We’re 12 weeks into the new year and I’ve only written eight posts (including this one) so I’m at 67%, which is like a D+. Gotta step up my game.

Anyway, I may not have been writing but I have been reading. I’ve finished 21 books so far this year! And even better than reading a lot, the ones I’ve been finding have all almost magically been great books. Here are some of the highlights:

  • The Line Becomes a River by Francisco Cantu: My book club decided to read this one, or I never would have picked it up. And I’m so glad we did because it’s fantastic. It’s a memoir written by a very bright young man who is obsessed with the US-Mexico border and becomes a border agent. It’s very good. There’s some controversy around but because apparently it doesn’t reflect everyone’s experience with immigration, but how could it? The criticism is wasted, I think, because this is a thoughtful look into a problem I think lots of us have opinions about with very little actual experience.
  • An American Marriage by Tayari Jones: This is Oprah’s latest pick for her newly revived book club and a very solid novel, telling the story of a wrongfully imprisoned man and the struggles he and his wife go through as a result. This is much more about the human reactions of two well-intentioned people than it is about big issues like race and politics, but of course those come into play as well. It reminded me a lot of Toni Morrison’s Jazz, one of my favorites.
  • The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah: This is one of those books that I read and thought, “Hmm, that was a very nice novel,” but didn’t really rate it very highly at the moment I finished. It has however, really stuck in my head, and I find myself thinking about it and referring to it often in the weeks since I read it. It’s an intriguing story of a girl growing up in the shadow of her father’s uncontrollable anger, and is incredibly evocative of place — very rural Alaska.
  • The Heart’s Invisible Furies by John Boyne: Is there a name for a novel that follows a person’s story from birth to death, showing the full arc of their life? That’s one of my favorite types of books, and that’s what this book does for Cyril Avery, born to a 16 year-old unwed woman in post-war Ireland and eventually is a gay man living through the AIDS crisis in NYC. It’s beautiful, and heart-wrenching, and very reminiscent of the best John Irving novels.
  • The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas: This was the first book I read in 2018 and it was PHENOMENAL. Beautifully written story on a difficult but important topic — the 16 year old African-American narrator’s friend is shot and killed by a white police officer. Thomas does a great job getting a wide range of perspectives and does an amazing job tackling a difficult subject in a voice targeted to young adults.

PS: Speaking of young adults, don’t those kids from the Parkland Florida shooting just inspire the shit out of you? Everytime I see Emma Gonzalez speak I get a lump in my throat. It makes me think of this great Tweet I saw a few weeks ago: I’m not sure why people are so surprised that the students are rising up — we’ve been feeding them a steady diet of dystopian literature showing teens leading the charge for years. We have told teen girls they are empowered. What, you thought it was fiction? It was preparation. @JenAnsbach (A Douglass College alum, what-what!) That last line just gives me the fucking goosebumps.

Once Is Never Enough

One of my reading goals this year is to reread some old favorites, so I was pretty stoked when I found out that this week’s Top Ten Tuesday topic (from thatartsyreadergirl.com) is Books I Could Reread Forever. Because I’ve already got a list of those going! But it was also a good excuse to go and peruse my bookshelves, looking for my literary comfort food—those books I can pick up and read again and again, in whole or in part, and never, ever get tired of them. Some because they’re so meaningful to me or remind me of where and who I was when I first read them; some because they make me laugh; some because they’re just plain beautiful. I’ll let you guess which one is which—here is my list, in no specific order:

  1. The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton. I might have mentioned this a hundred times already, but this is the book that made me want to be a writer back when I was thirteen years old, when I first read it. And since then I’ve read it so many times, I’ve lost count. It’s probably, for obvious reasons, the book that means the most to me in the world, which I guess is why I have so many copies of it.
  2. Collected Stories by Tennessee Williams. I had such a thing for Tennessee Williams when I was in high school, and reading this book takes me right back to senior year, to cutting class to hang out in Mr. Buhtanic’s office—the head of the English department who turned me on to the wonders of Tennessee and other authors I probably shouldn’t have been reading. (I remember him recommending Last Exit to Brooklyn by Hubert Selby Jr. but telling me not to let anyone know he told me about it. He was the best.)
  3. Bridget Jones’s Diary by Helen Fielding. When this book came out I put off reading it for a long time because it was so popular, and I thought it was just more dumb chick lit. But when I finally picked it up, I was hooked because I was Bridget Jones. In my twenties I smoked too much and drank too much and often found myself getting involved with good-looking but highly inappropriate men. I was clumsy and awkward, always ready with the wrong thing to say. I’m older and married now, but I still relate to Bridget probably more than I should, and rereading this book always brings back some entertaining if not blush-worthy memories.
  4. The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. I reread this one last year for the third or fourth time (listened to the audiobook, actually, and it made my best-of-the-year list) and was still incredibly impressed by it. The story is so immersive, so sweet and scary and so, so tragic all at the same time. Every time I read it’s like I’m getting to know Clare and Henry all over again, and their story fills me with a sense of wonder and longing and hope that it will work out for them, even though I know how it’s eventually going to end.
  5. The Secret History by Donna Tartt. Another one I reread last year, this one for I believe the fifth time. At 524 pages, you’d think once or twice might be enough, but I feel like I could read this one every year and still enjoy it. Tartt is a queen of world-building, and her characters are insanely flawed but flawlessly executed; I love that all of them, even the ones you’re supposed to like, have something vile about them. No one is completely likable here, and I just love that.
  6. The Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice. Particularly The Vampire Lestat (one of my personal classics). I was so obsessed with these books when I was fifteen-sixteen. I had never read anything like them: the florid language, the epic story lines, the beautiful but damned characters. The fact that Interview with the Vampire didn’t have a happy ending was a complete revelation to me the first time I read it; it seriously turned my literary world upside down. These books had such an influence on me, everything I wrote in my mid- to late teens sounded like Anne Rice (and I think sometimes, to some extent, it still does). I’m currently listening to the audiobook of Interview and loving every overdramatic minute of it.

Thoughts on Fiction

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My coworkers and I were chatting about books earlier this week and I found myself trying to explain my love of fiction, maybe for the first time ever. I’ve never had to explain this to anyone before. I assumed most people read fiction for fun. Maybe they do. I probably read more fiction than any other category.

I’ve always worked with smart people, and of course smart people come in all shapes and sizes with varied interests and concerns. Some smart people like business books, some like romance novels. But the people I work with now are, without exception, much more intellectual than I’m used to. There is no one on my team who will admit to reading mysteries on a cozy weeknight; they’re all reading about cognitive science or global economics.

So over beers my coworker is telling me about the book he’s reading now, Violence & Social Order: A Conceptual Framework for Interpreting Recorded Human History. I could tell he was really enjoying learning from it and hadn’t just name-dropped it to sound impressive or superior. He was meeting a woman for a date the next evening and I had suggested he bring her a book as a way of starting a good conversation. When he told me what it was he was reading though I changed my mind. (I’m no expert in dating but starting off with a book about violence is probably not a great way to get laid. But I suppose I could be wrong. Who knows what those crazy millennials are into?)

I, meanwhile, was loving The Heart’s Invisible Furies by John Boyne. A great thick multi-decade novel about the life of a man called Cyril Avery, set mostly in Ireland. The story opens with his 16 year-old pregnant mother being exiled from the church and her family and follows Cyril as he grows and experiences many different types of love and loss. “Maybe there are no villains in my mother’s story at all. Just men and women, trying to do their best by each other. And failing.” SO. GOOD. It’s definitely the best book I’ve read so far this year and I’ve been reading some great ones (I also loved The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie and The Best We Could Do by Thi Bui).

Anyway, my coworker was explaining that the thing he liked about his book on violence and social order was that the author created a clear framework and helped him understand the impact of one on the other. I started a friendly little argument with him about it — how could you trust this author? Don’t you feel like you need to read another book with a different perspective in order to know whether the first guy knows what he’s talking about? Arguing with him made me realize that one of the reasons I love fiction is that you very rarely get the perspective of just one person — it was written by a single person, of course, but in order to make the story work, it’s imperative that other characters have different perspectives. And when it’s done well — like in The Heart’s Invisible Furies — you end up with a fuller and more nuanced view of the world. I’m not gay, I don’t live in Ireland, and my mother was much older than 16 when she had me. I have literally nothing in common with Cyril Avery. But after reading his fictional story I feel like I know something about what a person like him might have experienced. I know just a little bit about what it’s like to be cast out of your family and church, about what it might be like to love parents who don’t understand children, what it might have been like to be in love with someone you could never tell.

To be clear, I try to never judge what anyone’s reading. What you read is your business, and you don’t need to justify it to anyone. It doesn’t make you a better or smarter person to read one thing over another. It’s just a matter of personal taste. And I’m glad my friend is reading about violence because lord knows we could use some people to figure out how to solve it. My point is just that sometimes getting into a friendly argument with someone who sees things differently than you helps you better understand why you love the things you love. And I unabashedly love fiction.

LGBT YA Sci-Fi/Fantasy: It’s a Thing, and I Love It

Toward the end of 2016, I was browsing for something to read—something to finish out the year right, to carry me through the holidays and into my weeklong staycation between Christmas and New Year’s. I hit all the usuals—the Kindle new releases and daily deals pages, my Amazon “to read” wish list, my Goodreads “Want to Read” shelf and posts from friends, my Audible wish list….

And that was where I found it, a book I’d saved some time ago thinking it sounded intriguing, but I wasn’t in any rush to listen it: We Are the Ants, by Shaun David Hutchinson. I read the description—Henry Denton has spent years being periodically abducted by aliens—and knew I had found my title.

I immediately downloaded We Are the Ants and started listening to it on my drive home from work that day. About thirty seconds into main character Henry’s opening monologue, I was hooked. Part of it was Gibson Frazier’s narration—deadpan and monotone and totally teenager but awesomely passionate at the same time—but mostly it was the writing. So good, so honest. Full of teen angst and vulnerability and…aliens? Yes, but it totally makes sense. Henry talks about being abducted by aliens like he’s talking about what he did at school that day, like it’s just something that happens in the normal course of his life (which, in fact, it is).

And that’s how the story approaches the fact that he’s gay as well. It’s what I love most about We Are the Ants and most of the other books in this genre that I’ve read: In them, being LGBT (any variation thereof) is not a big deal. It’s not something to be overcome or outed but just part of the normal everyday lives of the characters. Just like their height and hair color, they are gay, or trans, or asexual, and it’s not a big deal. I mean, it is a big deal that books like this exist. But as part of the storyline, it’s really just another character trait, and I can’t tell you how much I love that.

That said, here are five great LGBT YA sci-fi/fantasy novels I’ve read and/or listened to:

  1. We Are the Ants by Shaun David Hutchinson. The book that started it all for me and the one to which I compare all other LGBT YA sci-fi/fantasy novels. It is the bar. It is perfection. It is a gay John Hughes movie with aliens.
  2. Wonders of the Invisible World by Christopher Barzak. This one made my top seven favorites list for 2017, and with good cause. The writing is amazing, the story so deep and sensitive and sweet. And I might have mentioned this before, but Jarrod, the love interest? Totally dreamy.
  3. Carry On by Rainbow Rowell. This was the first Rowell book I read, and I didn’t realize until I was done with it that I had gone about things a little backward. See, she has this other book called Fangirl, where the main character writes fan fiction about this character called Simon Snow—a sort of Harry Potter knockoff. Well, Carry On is the fan fiction novel she is writing throughout Fangirl. I didn’t know this when I read Carry On, so I just took it at face value—and loved every word of it. A gay wizard and a gay vampire with a searing love/hate relationship? Yes, thanks.
  4. More Happy Than Not by Adam Silvera. The way this one starts out, you think it’s just a good, solid urban coming-of-age story, but then that sci-fi stuff sneaks up on you. It’s worked in so seamlessly, it makes it a totally believable part of the story.
  5. The Rest of Us Just Live Here by Patrick Ness. The genius of this novel is that it really is about the rest of us who just live here—while the heroic kids are off saving the world, this story focuses on the other kids who are just living their lives, with all the requisite teen angst, confusing love…and a guy who’s actually a god worshiped by cats. It’s kind of awesome.

Bonus book: At the Edge of the Universe by Shaun David Hutchinson, who has become the Brad Pitt of the YA literary world for me: Just like I will see any Brad Pitt movie without even knowing what it’s about because there’s no such thing as a bad Brad Pitt movie, I will read anything Shaun puts out, because I can trust it will be good. Also looking forward to his upcoming title The Apocalypse of Elena Mendoza, due out on February 6.

How to Talk (and talk and talk) About Books

I love to talk about books. When it was my job I used to talk about books all day every day. Now that I don’t have that luxury I try to find other ways to scratch that itch.

Of course there’s this blog, where I can talk to Elise and to the rest of you about what I’m reading. It’s awesome and I love it but it’s not enough.

I’m in a book club (shout out to Quitters Club Book Club!) and I love it but we only meet once a month and talk about one book at a time. That’s not enough.

There’s also Goodreads, where I can see a steady trickle of what my friends are reading and rate and review my own stuff. I am a superfan of the Goodreads Reading Challenge and obsessively track what I’ve been reading. I also try to write a review of each book I read. A friend inspired me to try to write 25 word book reviews — long enough to be interesting, short enough to keep a reader’s interest. It’s fun but also not enough.

There’s also Round Robin Reading, a book sharing thing I do with one or two friends. Each of us buys a hardcover book that the others either want to read or are curious about. You open the book to the first page and write your name and the start date. Then you read it and you mark the hell out of it. You talk to your friends as though they’re right there with you. You underline passages, make notes about what the text says, make notes that have nothing to do with the text, draw smiley faces, exclamation points, hearts. You dog-ear and add post-it notes. Then you pass the book to the next person for them to do the same. And so on. Eventually the book makes its way back to the original owner and that person has a beautiful, well-read and marked-up object that is kind of a self-contained book club, sitting right there on your shelf whenever you might want to dip into it. It works best if each person sticks to one writing implement so you can tell who wrote what — maybe I’ll use a blue pen and the second reader will use a pencil and the third, a green marker. [Obviously this doesn’t work if you are one of those people who think books are sacred objects and need to be preserved in plastic — that’s not my thing, but you know, you be you. I like my books marked up and well-loved.]

Another option is to pick a book to work through with a bunch of people, sort of a one-time-only book club. My team at work is awesome, and all four of us are in places where we’re thinking about what comes next, whether it’s a new project or a new job entirely. We all read Do More Great Work and for a month we met every week over breakfast to discuss and do the exercises together. It was great, and I definitely got more out of it than I would have alone.

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But it’s still not enough.

(There might be something wrong with me.)

Ten Books I Meant to Read in 2017 but Didn’t Get to (and Totallyyyy Plan to Get to in 2018!)

Thanks to The Broke and the Bookish for the title and topic as part of their Top Ten Tuesdays!

As I’ve probably mentioned on this blog a few times already, time is at a premium in my life. I know, whose isn’t? But for real, I just don’t get a lot of time to read in an average day. Listening to audiobooks has helped with this a lot—I have at least an hour in my car a day when I can listen, and sometimes I can even get away with listening while I work—but still, in 2017, I just couldn’t manage to get to everything on my (lengthy) to-read list. Here are a few I didn’t read/listen to but totally plan to in 2018, in no particular order.

  1. We: A Manifesto for Women Everywhere by Gillian Anderson and Jennifer Nadel. Dana Scully, the TV role for which Gillian Anderson will probably forever be best known, is my spirit animal: skeptical, stern, and takes no bullshit from anyone. And I went to a women’s college, so I’m definitely a feminist from way back. So how could I not want to read this book?
  2. Memoirs by Tennessee Williams. I have had a soft spot for Tennessee since my favorite English teacher/mentor in high school introduced me to his short stories, and I actually have two or three memoirs/bios of him on my to-read list. I actually started this one but just didn’t get to finish it yet. Bonus: a fantastic introduction by John Waters in which he says things like “Was Tennessee nuts when he wrote Memoirs, or just high?” As you read on, you see this is a legitimate question.
  3. A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle. Can you believe I made it through my seriously book-obsessed childhood without ever reading this one? Neither can I. Decided to give it a go now on Vicky’s recommendation.
  4. The Upside of Unrequited by Becky Albertalli. I was a latecomer to Becky’s awesome first book, Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda, but I finally read it and loved it. Looking forward to catching up with this one in 2018 and the Simon sequel due out in April, Leah on the Offbeat.
  5. The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas. Everyone—everyone—loved this book, but I stayed away because (and I know this makes me a wuss) it seemed depressing, like “awful, terrible subject matter I can do nothing about and that makes me feel helpless” depressing. But Vicky says Angie Thomas is the next Toni Morrison, so now I’m in.
  6. From Cradle to Stage: Stories from the Mothers Who Rocked and Raised Rock Stars by Virginia Grohl. Yes, Dave Grohl’s mom. I like memoirs, and I like music, and I am a mom of a boy who wants to be a Skrillex/Deadmaus-style DJ when he grows up, so this one seems entertaining to me.
  7. Pep Talks for Writers by Grant Faulkner. I may be anti-NaNoWriMo, but a book of inspiration and motivation from its founder? That I can do. I need all the motivation and inspiration I can get, tbh.
  8. Uncommon Type by Tom Hanks. I generally give fiction written by actors the side eye, but come on, it’s Tom Hanks. You can’t side eye Tom Hanks. (Let’s just hope it’s not as painfully boring as fellow actor/my idol Molly Ringwald’s When It Happens to You.)
  9. Manderley Forever by Tatiana de Rosnay. Daphne du Maurier has been one of my favorite writers since I was assigned Rebecca for summer reading before my freshman year in high school, but I don’t know much about her life. Her own daughter said this is a good biography, so I’ll give it a try.
  10. Release by Patrick Ness. He got me with A Monster Calls. Also loved The Rest of Us Just Live Here. This one is supposedly inspired by Judy Blume’s Forever…—how could I possibly pass it up?

 

Goals for People Who Hate Making Goals (Namely, Me)

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 This quote pretty much sums up my relationship with goals of any sort—work-related, personal, deadlines, resolutions, all of it. I’ve never been good with them; I’ve always seen them more as loose guidelines that don’t necessarily have to be followed than hard-and-fast rules for how and when something needs to get done.

At least, that was how I was in my younger years. The older I get, the more respect I have for goals and deadlines. Not respect meaning I revere them, just that I understand why they’re sometimes necessary and can force myself to meet them when I have to. Which is more than I can say for my twentysomething did-forbearance-on-her-student-loans-six-times self. My current job, where I have daily and sometimes hourly deadlines, has done a lot to help me improve in this area. And in the coming year, I’ve decided, I’m going to try to let that bleed over into the rest of my life.

And that means…New Year’s resolutions. Not to go to the gym more (already working on that one from last year) or to spend less money (just to budget it better, thanks to You Need a Budget) but to do more things that I enjoy, because that’s what’s really missing from my life. And the two things I enjoy most are reading and writing, so I suppose it makes sense that the majority of my goals for 2018 relate to those two topics in some way.

First, for my reading goals. I tried to keep them simple but still ended up with quite a few. Common sense tells me I should cut some out, but what the hell. I’ve never been one for subtlety; if I’m going to do something, I’m going all in. So, they are:

Read/listen to four books per month. In 2017 I read forty-three (out of a goal of forty, go me!) books in the Goodreads Reading Challenge; this year I’ve upped it to forty-eight.

Read more new releases. Despite my recent declaration to the contrary, I think it’s time to at least try to start keeping up with the times.

Reread at least three favorite books. I already have a list of seven contenders, so we’ll see how this one goes.

Read all the unread books on my to-read shelves/in my Kindle library. This one is steep—there’s a lot of titles there—but I’ve already jumped in with a 495-page novel. Feeling ambitious.

Read more print books. The previous goal is going to help with this one.

Read more motivational books and actually do what they say! Not like cheesy self-help books, but books about positivity, mindfulness, and how to live a better life. I am a negative person by nature, and that’s gotta stop. (Short version of this goal: This year I will stop rolling my eyes at Brene Brown.)

And my writing goals. For most of my writing life—and it’s been a long one—I’ve written because I enjoy it, with the thought of publication only a “maybe someday” thing in the back of my mind. That changes this year. It’s been a long time coming, but it’s time to get serious about this craft I’ve been working on since I had braces. This year I will:

Finish a first draft of a book. I have a few ideas, some I’m working on, some not yet. I’m not sure which I’ll go with yet.

Get something published. A short story, a chapter of my memoir I’ve been working on, even a flash fiction piece. Something.

Try out a writing group. I know of a local one that meets weekly; I’ll try for once a month if it seems like a good fit. I just need to network. I need to know other writers.

Write more than once a week (which doesn’t even happen regularly now). I’m aiming for three times a week, hoping realistically for two.

Write in a journal every day. Inspired by Vicky’s recent post, I pulled out a new blank journal and started on it today—a week late, but hopefully I’ll keep up with it every day until December 31.

 That’s all I got. And it’s quite a bit, to be honest. I feel like I’m going from zero to sixty in about a second here, but it’s gotta happen. I’m going to make it happen. This is the year I start taking goals seriously, starting with reading and writing. Wish me luck!