by susan | May 23, 2013 | what I'm reading
a key component of the first big writing conference I attended was a message about place. a few of the conference presenters were contributors to a newly-released book called When We Say We’re Home: A Quartet of Place and Memory, and “place” was a theme in more than a few workshops and seminars presented. having never before attended a significant conference like this (Writers@Work, held at Westminster College in salt lake city), I paid attention to everything and took it all in, assuming that everyone there knew more than me so I should listen up.
place is powerful. the good writer can take us there with him/her, and if the writer does the job well, we can experience settings we’ve never known, never heard of or seen, or even envisioned. I learned to visualize Oz long before seeing the movie, and to this day there are many places authors have taken me that I don’t want to ruin by seeing a filmed version of someone else’s concept of said place.
it’s said that our sense of smell–better than any other sense–triggers memories, especially those with some emotional content. and it was while reading of someone else’s smell-driven memories of place that I remembered that I had my own, triggered by the exact same scent: sagebrush.
charles wilkinson is an attorney and professor, but more importantly, an advocate for conservation and for the rights of native americans and our environment, especially those of the colorado plateau. in Fire on the Plateau, published in 1999, he shares his love of the fragrance of sagebrush and how it connects him to this land, the colorado plateau. in this passage he describes setting off, the morning after a rainy night, on a backpacking adventure with his son:
I tear a bushy sprig, then another, off a tall sagebrush, stuff them in my left shirt pocket with the leaves just inches from my nose, and suggest to Philip that he do the same. He does. We pull on our packs and we’re fully ready to hike, fortified by these pale, blue-green leaves. Like Kokopelli, they play out some of the Plateau’s best music, a symphony for the nostrils. (p.261)
it’s been raining here, off and on, the past week or so, and the sagebrush on the canyon hillsides is wildly sprouting, sending its fragrance out on the morning breezes. there is a particular spot where the smell encompasses me, and I am immediately back in junior high, back to the rural landscape I’d recently become acquainted with when my parents moved us to utah. we had an acre or so of land, and what wasn’t covered by house and a small back lawn was covered with rock, wildflowers, scrubby brush and oak, and sagebrush. as the summer air heated up, the scent of sage intensified, and I will always and forever connect sagebrush with the land of my adolescence.
wilkinson took me to my morning rides in the canyon, and to my former home, simply by describing the sage smell that he loves. I knew it, I felt it, it connected me with places within that knew of places without. had he not delved into his own connection with sagebrush, I might not have dredged up my own. but by his doing so, I was enabled to access a wonderful place, a place of memory, and a place in reality.
Fire on the Plateau is a wonderfully personal, factually detailed account of the history of the colorado plateau and its peoples. it brings the landscape to life through description and hand-drawn maps, through stories and moments of wonder. it speaks of our social and political overreaching errors, and what we–thankfully–avoided. as an attorney who worked with native populations, wilkinson has significant insight into why events occurred as they did, and what we can learn from our mistakes, oversights, and aggression. one can read this book for history, for geography, for lessons on conservation, for appreciation of our natural world, and for guidance on how to be a thoughtful human on this earth.
by susan | Apr 28, 2013 | what I'm reading
I believe in a higher power, and I typically call it “God.” I am quite amenable to anyone calling him/it/her by whatever name or title he or she chooses, and I am supportive and compassionate to those who have decided to not believe in such an entity, as well. but I write this today from inside my own belief system, in which a higher power has created a (benevolent) universe in which we are subtly guided and supported along our journeys, especially when we’re headed in the “right” way.
clarity, you ask? and, what does this have to do with what I’m reading? simply this: if one pays attention, one is gifted with the recognition of myriad little clues, guides, synchronicities along the way toward achieving one’s goals. paying attention is key, being aware. some of these will jump out at you, but some will rest, casually, along the edge of the road, where you may or may not ever see them. you must learn to be aware of what’s around you, you must learn to look. and allow yourself to listen to and be guided by your impulses.
still didn’t help? okay, here’s the connection. I was in the library last week, looking for a dvd I’d been told of. on the way out I perused the “new in fiction” section, instantly discounting most by title or cover, until a small, hardbound book with an unusual sketch on the cover caught my eye. ways of going home. hmm, interesting title, let’s see what it says on the inside flap. Alejandro Zambra’s Ways of Going Home begins with an earthquake, seen through the eyes of an unnamed nine-year-old boy who lives in an undistinguished middle-class housing development in a suburb of Santiago, Chile . . . okay, good enough, I’ll check it out.
the dvd I’d gone to the library for is about wolves: I’m researching wolves in preparation for a project I’ve committed to working on. I’ve been reading scholarly and scientific and romantic and lightweight articles, books and treatises on wolves, and my head is literally swimming in wolf facts and lore. I need fiction breaks, and this small book set in chile sounded perfect. a few days after bringing it home I opened it, flipping through the first few pages–title page, copyright info, dedication, also by–and then reached a fore-page with two quotes on it, the second of which was this:
instead of howling, I write books. ~r. gary
now, if you don’t make the connection, then you probably won’t need to read any more of my posts or writings, ever. if you do, you might possibly understand the little tickle that ran through my system. of all the books I could have possibly picked up at the library that morning–how many thousands and thousands do they stock–I was somehow guided to choose Zambra’s book with Romain Gary’s quote. which I love. because I believe he exquisitely captures my need to write: because I’m unable to (for societal and cultural and evolutionary reasons) howl to express myself, I must write. and apparently the universe is reinforcing my decision to write about wolves.
one could say the two things have nothing to do with each other; one could throw “random” and “coincidence” at my story. and I will let one. but I know the truth, my truth. which is that the universe is willingly supporting my journey, and will continue to gift me with small synchronicities and occurrences that–if I’m paying attention–will perform like tiny lights along my way, guiding and reinforcing, helping me find my own unique way to howl.
by susan | Apr 10, 2013 | what I'm reading
a while back I was browsing the new york times book review when my eyes landed on an advertisement for a non-fiction book that I’d recently read. the book had been given to me by a friend–who had read it and loved it–and was about people living in a country half a world away, most of them in abject poverty. (let me be clear: the following comments have little to do with the book or its author, as the book is well-written and engaging and the author is evidently talented and committed to her work.)
splashed across the advertisement were blurbs recommending the book, everything from “must read,” “as vivid as fiction,” “exquisite in every detail,” “an astonishing book,” to “comparison to Dickens is not unwarranted,” “a jaw-dropping achievement, an instant classic of narrative nonfiction,” “riveting,” and “a mind-blowing read.”
I repeat: this is a good book. however, my jaw did not drop while reading it, nor was my mind blown. and not once did I think (nor do I still) about comparing her writing to that of Charles Dickens. I wasn’t even riveted.
blurbs have become the thing to do. the publishing world has decided that these one- to fifty-word statements from reviewers, celebrities, people-in-the-know, and other authors are the way to sell a book. some books’ front pages are filled with them, and most back covers are adorned with them. it seems you can’t buy a book that hasn’t been read, loved, and blurbed about by somebody who’s somebody.
I find it tiresome. I find it doesn’t matter if a book receives a good review (and even in an overall negative review there are often a few good words that can be culled into a positive blurb), or is on the bestseller list, or is praised by another author. I may or may not like it, and it may or may not be well-written, have a compelling story line, or be witty and informative. it doesn’t matter to me at all what those blurbs say, because I know it’s all a game. and it seems to be the predominant game in today’s publishing world. I feel patronized: do publishers really think we can’t see through their ploy? don’t they understand that the blurb business has become bloated to the point where we readers can no longer trust a word of it? every book I pick up has been blurbed and praised, and much of what gets passed along is meaningless. “stellar,” “exquisite, clever, and tenderly recounted,” “extraordinary.” let me read the first chapter and then I’ll decide. for myself.
the book review is still a beautiful (though a subjective and highly personal) thing, especially when the reviewer is more interested in conveying his or her thoughts and reactions than impressing anyone with his or her use of language. what I find fault with is the current system of dissecting legitimate reviews and soliciting celebrities’ comments simply to plant meaningless “blurbs” on and inside published books. I am openly stating to the publishing world that the almighty blurb has lost its punch. the blurb has burgeoned into worthlessness.
last week’s new york times book review closed with an essay on literary prizes, written by amanda foreman. in it she states that goodreads.com lists over 6,000 prizes on its web site. nobels and pulitzers are still undeniably king, but what about those other 5998+? most of us like to win prizes, to have our work awarded an honor. recognition is a vital part of creation, as much as we often wish it weren’t. but like the blurb, the literary prize is slowly losing its meaning as the number given proliferates. I am not impressed to read that a book received a prize I’ve never heard of, given by an association I’m unfamiliar with; I’m simply aware that someone (likely an agent or publisher) submitted a manuscript to a committee in hopes of adding credentials to the book’s name. (I think it quite likely that most prize-winning books have numerous blurbs.)
I like to assess books by what I read between the first word of the prologue and the last of the epilogue, between the first word of chapter one and the final word before the end. I don’t care too much what anyone else has said about it, or if it has been on the bestseller list, or if it’s won a prize. the best books can stand in their own, old clothes, all by themselves. those of us who truly love books and truly love to read can see right through every single blurb and prize to the truth of a manuscript, and like the child in hans christian andersen’s tale, can tell when the “new clothes” are nothing but air.
by susan | Mar 12, 2013 | what I'm reading
most books I read never make it to my bookshelf.
only books I love make it to my bookshelf.
it’s partially a financial decision (I read so many books a month I’d have to sacrifice eating or something equally painful to pay for them all), partially a space decision (I’d have to begin building furniture out of books), and most importantly, a decision made because I wish to be surrounded only by things I love. I mostly buy books only after I’ve read them (borrowing from the library or from friends), making the decision to purchase because I want to treasure them, own them, have them around me, let them speak to me from the shelves, remind me of them as I pass by and glance at the bookcase.
not many of the books I read fall into this category. many I appreciate, many I learn from. many I find interesting or gripping, but the ones that capture my heart and soul are few and far between. which is not a terrible thing. I don’t need to fall in love with every book I read: some I need for pure escapism; some I need for advice, validation, education. the most glorious of all are those from which I expect little, that grow wings and blossom with each turn of a page, and become more than I dared hope for. surprises. gifts. unexpected pleasures found.
a while back I was trying to find books on my shelf that might interest my 15-year-old stepson who has not yet learned to love books. (I fear I gave him nothing at all that piqued his interest, but I tried.) what I loved, though, during this process, was to run my eyes along the titles, letting images and memories, scenes, stories, characters flit through my mind, oh yes, I loved christopher, oh, and that time he told the story of the bears, and oh, the congo, how terrifying the fighting was . . . tales and pieces and names came flowing in and out as I moved from shelf to shelf.
woe is he who doesn’t read. whose imagination and memories aren’t filled with richly remembered stories and moments. television and movies can’t give the same gift as words on pages to which we must add our own imaginative wanderings.
I love my books on my bookshelves. they tell the story of me, from years of education and introspection and growth to those of joy, escapism, curiosity. I am my bookshelf, wide and varied and deep and filled with a thousand stories and dreams and realities.
in stating all of this, I do not mean to slight the rest of the books I read and return, for they, too, have had a hand in my becoming who I am. but unless a book–or a beloved author’s book–resonates deeply with some part of me, it’s unlikely that I will bring it home to rest with all the others who have slowly and certainly become a part of who I am.
by susan | Feb 26, 2013 | what I'm reading
john receives the big, fat new york times, delivered to our doorstep bright and early each sunday. six or seven weeks ago he handed the book review section to me, suggesting I might want to read a review written by an author whose work I like. I perused it quickly, then filed the section away to be looked at when I had more time. and interest.
I am not much of a newspaper reader, nor am I one who enjoys reading reviews. I’m impatient with (and critical of) most journalists, and often find reviewers to be looking for and concerned about things I don’t usually find myself looking for or concerned about. so the book review section, folded in half, rested on my desk between folders filled with project information and my weekly calendar, waiting for me, patiently, for weeks.
another sunday rolled around and john handed me the book review section again, here, there might be something in here you find interesting. I dug into it, and read a review. then another. and then I decided to re-read the older section that’d been waiting for me. I read them both. and then the next week’s.
one of my first thoughts–this while reading a review of Vampires in the Lemon Grove–was this: I am not a new york times kind-of writer. I am not quirky enough, I don’t possess a mfa. I am not outre, I am not a wunderkind, I don’t live in soho and I haven’t attended the iowa writer’s workshop. I am just dedicated, committed, determined, and–since I’ve been gathering work for the past 15 years–in possession of a lot of as-yet-to-be-discovered work. I may never be an author who has a book reviewed in the new york times.
or I might.
I’ve been reading more reviews. I’ve been gaining a sense of the literary world according to the times. I’ve been paying attention to more author’s names, and I’ve requested a few books to read (I’ve just begun reading raised from the ground by jose saramago). I’m working to see where I–my beliefs and sensibilities–fit into the world I seem to want to join and has as of yet not answered my knocks and pleas for admittance. I don’t know that I fit there, but what I also believe–after reading these review sections–is that no one truly fits there.
last sunday the times was delivered and I asked john for the book review section. I read this review and skimmed that, and skipped over everything that didn’t call to me. I find myself in places; I am unequivocally absent in others. and this I know: I am my own unique being. I will never write short stories about female werewolves. I will not become an essayist, nor a poet. I can’t ever imagine writing a review of someone else’s written work. it’s unlikely I’ll ever write a political novel, nor an expose of someone’s life. or something so controversial or original or heartbreakingly staggering that the entire world stands up and takes notice. I will write what I have to write, and keep plugging away at it. the new york times book review may one day notice me, or it may not. either way, it will be what it decides to be, and I will continue to find within it gems and clay.
this isn’t a review of the review. it’s simply my reaction to it. I’m warming to it; I’m hoping it will become a better acquaintance, perhaps even someday a friend. I respect it; I acknowledge that I don’t have to love it. it’s a way to learn about the world of writers and written works. and maybe, along the way, a few more things about myself.
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.
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