by susan | Jan 14, 2013 | what I'm reading
while searching for a gift for my step-father this past holiday season I bumped into a book by sam kean called The Violinist’s Thumb. I was looking for a different book, but something about kean’s book jumped out at me and I pulled it from the shelf to look at the cover.
I still think I can judge a book by its cover, one of publishing’s great (and most likely, terribly frustrating) hurdles. many images, designs, and typefaces will stop me from opening a book, as will certain titles. some might say I’m too quick to judge, but I will argue that as one who’s been choosing books to read for over 45 years, I’ve come to understand the messages sent by those tens of thousands of covers to which I’ve been exposed. sometimes a book’s cover tells you exactly what you need to know.
the violinist’s thumb has a fabulously designed cover: the background is a rich red image of a weighty, velvet stage curtain, and an artistically stylized violin is smack in the middle of the cover. the typeface is reminiscent of victorian apothecaries, and the subtitle pulled me right in: and other tales of love, war, and genius, as written by our genetic code.
now this might not appeal to you, but it was exactly the kind of salesmanship that hooks me. it had a dramatic flair, it incorporated music (which flows in my dna), and it promised entertaining stories that would educate and expand awarenesses. my kind of book! and, hopefully, as I was buying it as a gift, it would be my step-father’s kind of book as well.
on the back cover was the statement that sam kean is the author of a previously published book, the disappearing spoon. okay, that’s another darn good title, and I decided I needed to read that one first before digging into the thumb book. I started reading it yesterday, and found my imagination and soul captured within the first three pages. how can you not fall in love with a book whose author writes a sentence like this:
In fact, mercury is one of the more cultish elements: its atoms want to keep company only with other mercury atoms, and they minimize contact with the outside world by crouching into a sphere.
yes, the disappearing spoon is a book about the periodic table, with a sub-title “and other true tales of madness, love, and the history of the world from the periodic table of the elements. how can you resist? as with david brooks’ the social animal, and bill bryson’s the history of nearly everything, kean’s book conveys information with humor and delight: the reader can easily tell that the author is enraptured with his subject matter. who better to learn from? who needs a dry lecture when a teacher full of energy and excitement is eager to impart his knowledge?
I expect to learn a great deal from reading sam kean’s two books. not sure how much I will retain, but I’m certain I’ll be entertained along the way, which is a terrific way to learn anything, and a terrific way to while away hours on the couch while winter wages its war outside my window.
by susan | Jan 1, 2013 | what I'm reading
I love research, whether it be the origin of a phrase, the date of a birth, or the history of a person or event. I’m a dedicated fact-checker, a punctilious speller, meticulous in my efforts to state things correctly. I love learning causes and explanations and silly little facts, and I find digging into the why’s and where’s to be an intriguing challenge. while my greatest joy in writing is to be in that place of “flow” where the words come flying through my fingers with very little conscious participation, I find the researching aspect of writing to be a challenge that when answered brings me incredible satisfaction.
another form of writing research is possibly even better, though . . . and that would be the times I research the writing styles of other authors.
stephen king has been credited with the following words of wisdom: If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others:read a lot and write a lot.
darn, I have to read. a lot. what drudgery.
I pretend it’s work, while I’m singing inside.
these past few days I’ve been rereading a book I read nine years ago, a book I love, the time traveler’s wife (if you haven’t already, please read this book. skip the movie: read this fabulous book). it’s research, you see, as my latest project has a vague connection to issues written about by ms. niffenegger. I snuggle into my corner of the couch, a chenille throw draped around my knees and toes, and dig into my research. serious countenance aside, I am inwardly grinning and happy as a clam.
to be honest, though, I often end up reading works I don’t care quite so much for in attempts to be “aware” and on top of the literary scene. (no, haven’t tried fifty shades of anything, yet.) I have forced myself through pulitzer prize winning books, and books on top of “everyone’s” must-read lists, classics, and even those suggested by friends, all in efforts to broaden my experiences and taste. to increase my exposure, to stay current. I am too kind to make a list of Books I Couldn’t Finish, or even Books I Wanted To Stop Reading But Didn’t Because They Won Prizes. but I will share those titles in close company, and shake my head in amazement that I am so uneducated? dense? narrow? as to think little of them.
but fortunately, most of my reading-research involves books I actually enjoy reading. from each book, story, or essay I read I pick up ideas. phrasing, methods, new words, craft . . . there is always something for a writer to learn from another written work.
so please excuse the brevity, but I must return to ms. niffenegger’s book because it seems that I still have work to do.
by susan | Dec 18, 2012 | Uncategorized
a close friend of mine earned her executive MBA recently, attending a highly ranked program and working harder than you can imagine to do so. she had to do some group work, she had to write papers. she assessed case studies and performed calculations, and had to submit all of her work to professors for their critique and grade.
ugh. I shudder just thinking about it. I’ve had my turn in grad school, but it was long enough ago that the memories (and anxiety) have faded.
talking with my friend today, though, brought back those moments of stress, those uncomfortable times when I had to subject myself to someone’s assessment of my work.
and here I am again.
I created a written work, poured hours and days, weeks, months, years into this manuscript, then spent weeks formatting, proofing, tweaking it into a form I liked. I then pushed the “yes” button and ordered printed copies, and made them available for sale. I eventually created an email campaign to send to close friends and loved ones letting them know about my milestone.
it’s like I’ve written term papers for all my classes, handed them in, and have to now suffer the consequences: I feel like I’m back in school. being graded. scrutinized. having opinions formed about. waiting for word of whether or not I’m going to pass.
I’m astonished by how uncomfortable this all makes me. I’ve been posting to blogs for over 4 years now, so I have apparently become comfortable with “putting myself out there.” why, now, do I suddenly feel such great discomfort when discussing my book with people? the only reason I can find is that I am nervous about the grade. I’ve sailed through 19 years of education with terrific grades: I now am surrounded by fears that what I most love, what fuels me and makes my soul sing, is not going to earn an “A” out in the world.
so, here I am, back in school. author school. manning up, remembering that I have the right to create what I create, to work the way I want to, to express myself in ways that work for me. learning the ropes, learning to subject myself to the feedback, opinions, and grades of others. my friend did it, even graduated and is now succeeding in the real world. she did it, she survived . . . guess I can do it, too.
I think I’ll give myself an A.
by susan | Dec 6, 2012 | Uncategorized
life shifts in subtle ways daily, most so minor we can neither see nor feel them. we age, our bike tires wear thinner and thinner, dust collects on our bedside stack of books.
and then there are larger shifts: we give birth, we change jobs, we move. we choose a new school, a new career, a new partner, we take up a new sport.
I’ve been through so many shifts and changes in the past 10 years I don’t know that I could ever list them all, but today’s is momentous, so I am sharing it here: my first book is in print! (well, it’s not my first book, but it’s the first of my books to be in print.)
released yesterday, Faith Greater Than Pain is available on amazon.com, createspace.com, and on FaithGreaterThanPain.com.
Doc Cleland and I have been working on this project together since june of 2010, and we are thrilled to be where we are, with a real book in hand. we are in the midst of marketing madness, working on mailing lists and store contacts and bribery lists . . . asking everyone we know to help spread the word, using every tool we have to get the information out.
I, of course, would rather just be writing away on my next project (stay tuned), but for the last chunk of time I’ve been editing, proofing, and formatting, and now I’ve plunked my marketing cap on my head. writing me is not pleased, but realistic me knows that as gratifying as it is to write, it’s even more gratifying if someone actually reads what you write.
so, if you’re intrigued, here’s a link to doc’s great video that tells you about the book, and if you have a spare moment in your day today, wish me well. wish me sales and positive reviews, wish me fulfillment and encouragement to keep on with the next project.
because as sure as my tires wear thinner and those wrinkles around my eyes deepen, I dream about spending the rest of my life writing, and–ideally–being read.
by susan | Nov 25, 2012 | Uncategorized
I need to apologize to everyone who knows me. apologize, and ask forgiveness.
I live in this world with everyone else, but my version of the world is also populated with every character and story I’ve ever written (or thought about writing), and it is a very full place. these people and situations live with me, I think about them, these people travel with me and have existences within my own. they’re seductive; they call to me, plant seeds, send me messages about how they’d like to appear in the next thing I write about them, remind me of what I could do differently, sometimes tell me jokes.
thus, I seem to have less need for movies, television, and communication with other humans: too much is already going on inside my head and I don’t need more noise. I like silence, I contemplate, I let things marinate and germinate and grow . . . too much outer stimulation sends me mentally reeling in discomfort.
I’m not quite a recluse, but I am not as socially active as many. I love my friends and family–they mean the world to me–but I rarely “do lunch” or meet for coffee or even gather for parties, dinner, or sunday brunches. the wonderful–truly amazing–thing is that most people who know me forgive me this. but they need to know that I am aware of the gifts they give me by letting me be me.
without quiet time, without hours of solitary silence, I become antsy, irritable, anxious. cycling helps, but as the winter creeps closer and the air turns cold and darker, my outdoor, solitary cycling hours are lessened. indoor cycling is a group experience, full of conversation and music, not nearly as soothing to my soul.
thus I beg forgiveness from all I know and love: I am the quirky person I am, I live with more people inside than seems possible, and the greatest gift all of you solid, human people give to me is the gift of space. I love you for it.
merci et je’taime, toujours.
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