by susan | Aug 7, 2015 | what I'm reading
everything I encounter changes me in some way ~ from hummingbirds pausing to sip at my feeder, to a daughter’s tight hug, to that first stimulating cup of coffee each morning ~ but these five books changed me in deep, provocative ways, and though I first read all of them years (sometimes decades) ago, threads of their offerings have woven themselves into my core self.
they enticed me to see the world differently ~ by offering ideas foreign to me, by validating my own experiences, by encouraging me, by widening my views. and, in each one, through the magic gift of storytelling. by letting me into the author’s world, either directly through experience, or more subtly, via the lives of their characters.
here are five:
a tree grows in brooklyn, betty smith
angle of repose, wallace stegner
atlas shrugged, ayn rand
bird by bird, anne lamott
the artist’s way, julia cameron
I’d love to read five of yours!
by susan | Apr 3, 2014 | what I'm reading
if there is an art of critiquing the writing of others, it is a talent/skill/ability I fear I do not possess. I am a terrible critic. I like what I like, obscure and sometimes irrelevant segments of a work often make me deliriously happy, I react subjectively to the entire experience of reading a work, and I am not skilled in justifying my reactions. I like books or I love them or I consider the experience of reading them good training, and I cannot always explain exactly why.
the other day I read a review of cheryl strayed’s wild. it was detailed, provided examples to explain the author’s critique, and was in itself a work of art. I read it, silently agreeing and cheering the reviewer on, yes, yes, I agree, you’ve got it! he was able to put into words what I experienced while reading the book; he helped me understand my reaction to the book. he read the book, reacted to it, and put great thought into explaining his reactions. wow; I was impressed. I—on the other hand—read, feel, experience, and don’t really want to have to work that hard to explain my feelings.
a friend gave me two cormac mccarthy books to read a while back, the road, and the crossing. I read the road (I know, many years after the rest of the world did), and am now making my way through the crossing. while the setting and story of the road weren’t easy to love, I was from the very beginning awed by mccarthy’s storytelling skill. I moved quickly into his style, his way of describing sights cleanly and artistically, of explaining experiences in such detail that the reader falls into the scene with the characters. I read the book both to learn the story and to be immersed in the style, mccarthy’s incredible talent leaping from pages and swallowing me.
reading the crossing feels somewhat the same, though it’s settings are rounder, richer, more varied, less–usually–bleak. mccarthy has more to say in this book than in the road because the world is more full. but his style, his talent, his view, are what remain consistent and are obviously a gift he was given at birth, one he has honed and perfected. no one will write as he does for no one sees and experiences as he does. I picture mccarthy at his writing table, paper and pen (or laptop or keyboard) at hand, and I know his mind swims in a river most of us only hope to one day dip our body parts in. I see him lost in other worlds, visiting ours only to write down the words, draw us pictures, spin us into lands and stories we would never by ourselves find.
and that is the kind of thing I have to say about books I read. I don’t want to speak critically of word usage, semantics, grammar, metaphor, symbolism, themes, setting, plot, characters . . . I want to tell you how I felt. what I experienced. how I got lost or how I didn’t truly care. how I fell into scenes with characters or how I was left alone on my couch as the characters woodenly went through the motions. I’m not willing to work hard to critique what I read because I have so many, many more books in my stack that I still need to experience . . . my time is precious, and I’m happy to stop with just feeling what I feel, acknowledging it, and moving on.
so I’ll leave the book critiquing to the book critics. I’ll keep on writing my meagre reviews that say I loved it, I got lost in it, the characters still live within me, I learned a million and one things, I want this book to be part of my collection forever and ever . . . and leave it at that.
because a book critic I am not.
by susan | Jan 7, 2014 | what I'm reading
I am writing a book about wolves. about people and wolves. about what people think, feel, and believe about wolves. about what it’s like to be a human in a world where there are wolves. it is an awesome book, one I’m extremely grateful to be writing.
currently I am working on a section about nature and its impact on us humans. richard louv has written a book about children and nature titled “last child in the woods” in which he suggests that much of our population suffer from what he calls nature deficit disorder, especially our children. this resonates with me. in a sentence I find particularly meaningful for its insight he states:
“Given a chance, a child will bring the confusion of the world to the woods, wash it in the creek, turn it over to see what lives on the unseen side of that confusion.”
it isn’t only children who benefit from that time in the woods; we adults, too, can take our confusion, wash it in the creek, and explore nuances and understandings we hadn’t yet discovered. the only one who won’t benefit from time spent alone in nature is the one who isn’t yet ready to face oneself. children–blessedly–are naturally open to this kind of exploration and will remain so until the world convinces them they’re not. the answers, the solutions and understandings, rarely come as lightning bolts ~ though they may ~ more often adjusting us minutely and softly, helping us to breathe more deeply and corral the strength that resides within.
often we aren’t even able to articulate a question, but have an awareness that we’re unsettled. taking that to the woods, to the river, to the mountain, is important therapy, inexpensive and wildly effective.
much can be learned from studying wildlife, and the way wolves live is especially instructive for us humans. they form bonds with others, and are extremely loyal and protective of the space they share with their family. they nurture and teach and play with their offspring. they persevere; they only give up when it’s necessary to give up. they roam and explore but always come home. they howl.
it’s possible they take their confusion to the creek, splash around a bit, and come away better.
when we listen to our hearts and souls and remember who we truly are, we are drawn to the land, to the wild. and it is there that we can embrace our truths and let nature work its magic on us.
by susan | Oct 1, 2013 | what I'm reading
every once in a while I am overtaken by the urge to help the real me feel loved and nurtured. sometimes I just take her outside, alone, and let her smell and feel the air and look up at the mountains. sometimes I light candles and spend time with oracle or tarot cards, sometimes I ask her to journal, sometimes I feed her donuts. sometimes I buy her clothes that make her heart sing, or yummy smelling candles or lotion, and sometimes I try to buy her books. books about creativity, books about living differently, books about being true to one’s soul, one’s inner artist, the deeper self that needs very very little to be satisfied.
the other day I bought her a book called the art of non-conformity. written by chris guillebeau and published in september of 2010, the book emphasizes being true to yourself and refusing to accept pressures to be what society seems to want you to be. it’s about charting your own course, designing your own life. choosing to play by different rules than those established by “the powers that be.”
reading it was like taking in great big gulps of fresh air: refreshing, clarifying, and reminding you to focus on the things that truly matter.
the book doesn’t tell me that I can become wealthy writing books, but it reinforces my belief that I will be happiest and most content when I am writing books, and that somehow, someway, I can find a way to make a living doing that which is most important to me. it reminds me that just because Others operate in certain ways, I am not obligated to operate in those same ways. the book encourages commitment to self, which is a beautiful way to let your unique light shine in this little world of ours.
one aspect of chris’s vision I find especially powerful is his suggestion that the things we do to create legacy are those things most important to our lives. he quotes stephen covey, “the need to leave a legacy is our spiritual need to have a sense of meaning, purpose, personal congruence, and contribution.” what this concept means to me is leaving a footprint behind when I go . . . hopefully a “footprint” that lives on through other people’s thoughts, lives, beliefs, and actions. part of this happens through our children–hopefully–but also through the other people we touch during our time here on earth. this isn’t about statues and wikipedia pages, but about heartfelt interactions with other humans, programs, writings, artwork, traditions, inspiration.
I hope to leave behind a number of books and essays and beliefs that people have considered, contemplated, and grown from spending time with. I also hope to be a positive part of some programs or organizations that work toward social parity. As for the rest of my legacy, I’m still working on that, and I expect new things to draw me in as I keep moving forward in life.
chris’s art relies heavily on listening to your inner self and finding ways to unleash your magical power, regardless of the situation you now find yourself in. he challenges us to reject the status quo at times, and to have the courage to say no to what is expected of us. anarchy, no, individualism, absolutely.
I like keeping the thought of legacy in mind, and I offer that you might plant that in the back (or front) of your mind as well, and let it help guide us to always becoming the next best version of ourselves.
by susan | Aug 21, 2013 | what I'm reading
two great loves of my life are writing and riding . . . writing whatever it is my heart tells me to, and riding my bicycle.
I am fairly new to cycling, having not become a regular until about 7 years ago. as an adult I’d had a mountain bike, but was usually too busy working or parenting or both to get out on it much. living high on a hillside was another deterrent: no matter where I went, I’d have to climb back up to my house when I was done. I rode seldom to never.
then my bike got stolen, my children grew up a bit, and I suddenly decided it was time to ride. I bought a new mountain bike and started riding, but mainly on roads. after nine months of that I finally bought my first road bike. took an indoor winter cycling class, met some friends, started riding outside when the weather cleared . . . and now I figure I have ridden close to 40,000 miles on my road bike. well, bikes, as I’m now on my third.
I’ve learned a lot along the way, and I’ve had a few spills and cracked a few helmets. but the thrill of riding my bike is immeasurable and almost inexplicable. I love it. love it.
and then ten days ago I crashed, a more severe crash than others I’ve had. this one broke my scapula, separated my shoulder, and broke 5 ribs. thankfully I am recovering, and each day brings me a bit more mobility and energy and soon, hopefully, more lung capacity. but during these past five or six days–once I got off the narcotic-type drugs and onto the simpler over-the-counter types–I’ve had lots of time to sit and read. read books. finish ones I’d been working on, and start new ones. it’s been the perfect time for some lightweight, no-brainer fiction.
this genre has its place. it helps me disengage from what might be bothering me or causing anxiety, and it helps pass the time. it moves quickly and superficially enough that I don’t have to think too much. I can skim paragraphs that are of no interest without losing the storyline. it’s entertaining in a way that demands little from me. which, when you’re recovering from an accident, is just about perfect.
I’m also working my way through a few serious non-fiction books, and I find I can only read so much at a time before I have to take a break. (my excuse for this and other forgetfullnesses and silly comments is “I hit my head.”) back to the no-brainer during the pause, skimming and filling time and caring just enough about it to keep going.
I have no desire to create no-brainer fiction. nor do I want to write dense tomes that take enormous effort to read and understand. I want my readers to think, but I also want them to be transported, to be enlightened, to be validated and encouraged and empowered.
some days I want to be challenged by what I read. I always want to be encouraged and empowered. I like to learn, I like to be entertained. and some days I want to think as little as possible–like these current days–and am immensely grateful for those who write fiction that I lovingly call no-brainer.
by susan | Jun 18, 2013 | Uncategorized, what I'm reading
I have read very few books written in the year 1900. having just finished reading sister carrie, by theodore dreiser, though, I am astounded by how very little we’ve changed in these past 112 years. we have more tools and toys and engines, but remain plagued by many of the same insecurities, social challenges, and inequities. emotionally and philosophically I don’t think we, as a society, are much better off.
I came to select this book after reading a ny times book review by rachel shteir, from which I quote:
Her [rachel’s] favorite novel about Chicago is “Sister Carrie,” by Theodore Dreiser, in which a small-town girl moves to the big city in search of her fortune. “Dreiser captures everything that is important in modern life,” Shteir explained: “struggles between classes, between men and women; the struggle to exceed what you’ve come from and to become something else, and the price you pay for that, especially if you’re a woman.”
mr. dreiser took well over 400 pages to tell the story of about 6 years of carrie’s life, and from the beginning I was intrigued and never disappointed. he does wax philosophical more than a time or two, but as much in that arena remains today as it did when he put pen to paper, I found it interesting and often thought-provoking. amazing–disheartening, shocking–what little difference 110 years can make.
now I’ve moved on to another turn-of-that-century book, the awakening by kate chopin. writing styles have changed, but internal and interpersonal experiences are little different from those of the late 1900s. perhaps they are similar to those of the late 1800s. and further back, and further beyond that.
perhaps human nature is truly human nature.
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